Lloyd's Angel Ch. 03

Lloyd's Angel: Defusing a Problem

November 2010

I was nursing a drink downstairs in the lounge, watching the crowd, when the detective came in. The lounge provided space for the bar, and a small dance floor. It looked like a typical (and law-abiding) club offering adult entertainment, if you didn't stop to wonder how much of the building it didn't occupy. It catered to heavy drinkers, those too clueless or too timid to make it to the suites upstairs, and to our friends in the law enforcement community.

I'd been grinning over my beer at the dazed expressions on the frat boys coming down the stairs; by my watch, these would be Angel's first party. The change in the eddy of the crowd by the door caught my attention. I don't know what it was about the police types; no matter what they wore, they seemed to exude a buzz-kill aura that tipped off even those much less observant than myself.

What I should have done, and had done countless times before, was have the hostess bring the guy over, spot him a drink and a seat for the floor show, and leave him positively convinced that nothing illegal was happening here, even if the place was littered with Danny's stupidly clever allusions to the contrary.

But, like I mentioned, I was in a bad place. What I did do was buzz the hostess on the comm, tell her to stall the cop for ten minutes, and bring him up to the red suite. Then I ghosted up the back stairs to find Angel. She was alone in the gold suite, which reeked of sex, but looking remarkably composed as she combed out her lustrous hair. Her panties were gone and her swollen slit was oozing cum, but with a little lipstick she'd be as presentable as she had been at the beginning of the night. What a slut; my cock gave an involuntary twitch at the thought.

"Hey, Boss," she said, noticing me. "What's up?"

"Change of plan," I told her. "We have a visitor downstairs, probably a cop. How'd you like to drop by the red suite and pretend to be Danny for a while?"

"I can do that," she answered, her face so intent that she reminded me of Angela and my conscience twinged again. "How do you want me to play him?"

"Find out why he's here. Compromise him, if you can; just be sure he makes the first move." The red suite was right next to my office and outfitted with video and audio pickups -- perfect for catching people red-handed, and thus the name. I shrugged. "Go with your instincts."

The little vixen grinned widely. "I love a challenge! How long do I have?"

"About five minutes now," I replied, looking at my watch.

"I'll be ready!" she rose and swept out of the room, moving quickly without looking like she was working at it.

I sauntered back to my office, riffed through a set of placards until I found one reading, "Staff Supervisor," and another labeled, "Ms. Jones." Stepping back outside, I popped the "Red Suite" sign off the magnetic mount on the door and positioned the two replacements in its place. I pushed open the door and took a quick look at the room, confirming it was presentable and could reasonably pass for an ostentatious, but not extravagant, office.

Angel brushed past me, making sure I felt the curve of a breast through our clothing. She'd put up her hair in a quick twist, traded in her slut shoes for more modest three-inch pumps, and exchanged the gloves for a corporate grey pinstripe skirt and blazer. I doubted she looked very modest beneath it, but that wasn't the point. After a quick look in the wall mirror (which incidentally concealed the main camera) she wiped away the remains of her lipstick with a tissue and quickly but neatly retouched her lips with a more muted shade.

We traded thumbs-up, and I closed the door behind me before returning to my own office. Once there, I started the video and confirmed I had a good image; Angel was seated behind "her" desk typing at the PC there. I buzzed the host station with a go-ahead, and sat back to finish organizing my thoughts.

A knock sounded through the speaker a moment later. "Ms. Jones? There's a Detective Snowden here to see you." Angel nodded and beckoned.

With a grimace, I noticed she was surfing a pornography site. The face of the display wasn't visible from the visitor chair in front of the desk, but I hoped we wouldn't need that secondary view later.

An obviously disgruntled middle-aged man entered the picture and stared at Angel for a long moment before settling into the chair. I heard the door close behind him.

"You're the manager of this place?" he asked in evident disbelief. Is this your idea of a joke? Where's Sullivan?" That was Danny.

Angel arched one delicate eyebrow. "Yes, I'm the manager. No, I am not joking. Mr. Sullivan has better things to do with his time than fill out personnel reports and cater to unannounced visits from sexist troglodytes." She considered, and added, "Not that it's your business, but the girls prefer a manager who can sympathize with their viewpoint."

"This makes it my business," he snarled, slamming his badge on the desk. Yep, there was a lot of anger there. "And we both know 'your girls' spend far more time on their backs in these rooms than they do on that sham of a stage you have downstairs!"

"I beg to differ," Angel responded calmly. "What we both know is that we provide changing rooms for the comfort and convenience of our featured entertainers, and that multiple previous investigations -- official ones -- have uncovered no evidence that would substantiate your wild, and frankly slanderous, accusations."

What an earful. Maybe it was somehow bleeding over, but it sure sounded like Angel was making good use of Angela's unorthodox MBA coursework.

"Perhaps you would care to explain this?" Snowden asked, suddenly ice cool, as he flicked a small trinket onto the desk with apparent indifference.

"A lapel pin, it appears," she commented, not impressed. "Your point?"

It took me a moment longer to recognize it; the video quality was good but not great. I wanted to beat my head against my desk. Danny couldn't resist being clever, especially when he thought he had me to bail him out. It looked like I was going to be doing some bailing tonight.

"A lapel pin I confiscated from my son," the detective grated. Just great; I just shook my head. "You will please not insult my intelligence by pretending it is a coincidence that it is shaped like your 'Home Run' logo, or that by coincidence that same logo appears on the plaque at the head of the stairs, which by further striking coincidence bears my son's name, among others."

I was already pulling up the roster on the computer; there was a Darren Snowden added in the spring. That explained the detective's interest, and suggested this was an off-the-books probe, but why the intensity?

"Yes," Angel admitted blandly, "we do award the Home Run pin to some of our best customers."

"My son is 16 years old!" he erupted.

Snowden and the office computer had a critically important five-year difference of opinion regarding Darren's age. If, as seemed likely, the elder Snowden had a heart attack next door, I couldn't decide if I would be happy or sad.

Angel managed a nicely calibrated expression of pained surprise and sympathy. "I assure you, Detective Snowden, we do not knowingly admit minors to this establishment and we are extremely vigilant about checking identification. I am profoundly sorry this situation has arisen, but you cannot reasonably hold us accountable for it."

He waved her off, "oh I know, of course he has fake identification! But you are the peddlers of smut that actively encourage this moral decay! Peddling sex -- no, women -- like they were pieces of meat. A Home Run pin -- to my son!"

The cop was literally pounding on the edge of her desk. I knew what was coming, but what remained to be seen was how Angel would respond.

"Best customers!" he shouted. "You know how you get a Home Run pin?" It was obviously a rhetorical question, and Snowden raced on as soon as he drew a ragged breath. "You tit-fuck one of your 'performers' -- and then she blows you, and then you fuck her, and then you're not done, oh no, you sodomize her. Then you give him a fucking pin so he can boast to his friends and corrupt them too!"

Technically, the guy had to ejaculate all four times. Originally, the only restriction was that they had to occur on the same visit, but some high rollers weren't beyond forking out to engage a girl all night; now, Danny had a one-hour limit on it. Pin holders had their names engraved on the wall of fame and received preferential booking and discounts on their future visits. There was no doubt Snowden had the basics down; it was one of Danny's wildly idiotic brainstorms that had proven to be wildly successful. If you ignored fallout like this.

"You must be very proud of your son," Angel told him.

The detective was literally shocked silent, and I might have thought he'd suffered that promised heart attack if it weren't for the continued sparkle of his consciousness.

"What?" he choked out, apparently unable to believe his ears. I couldn't blame him.

"It sounds like your son is a real man," Angel purred. "Think about it. Imagine trapping your cock between a woman's breasts, and spraying your essence on her body." She leaned forward intently, bracing her forearms on the desk.

I didn't for a second think the way her upper arms compressed her breasts, exposing more of them and emphasizing her cleavage, was accidental. Nodding with appreciation, I focused on Snowden and pushed. Lust. Envy. It was surprising how little resistance I found.

"Teasing her with his scent," she continued, "until she just has to taste him." Perfect lips formed an open "O" as she paused to reflect a moment.

Snowden stirred but said nothing.

"If he's still hard, why, what woman wouldn't want a tool like that inside her?" Angel jerked minutely, and both of us realized her hands were no longer resting on the desk.

"Slut!" Snowden screamed, standing. His erection was obvious, at least on the secondary camera; I had a feeling we wouldn't need it after another minute or two. Two long strides took him around the desk. "Fucking slut! Is this what you want? Is it?"

He slapped her and Angel went over backwards. I wouldn't have put it past her to have taken a pratfall; the blow hadn't really looked that hard. The detective's eyes bulged as he took in the view I had on the overhead camera; somehow Angel's jacket had come unbuttoned and fallen open, exposing a bustier and her heaving tits. With one of her long legs still propped on the fallen chair, the front of her skirt had ridden up to her waist, providing a classic beaver shot of her creaming gash framed between the tops of her stockings.

Best of all, none of it showed on the main video, which didn't extend down to the floor. All I could see was the one calf and a foot atop the overturned chair, and a man who, after a moment of stunned inaction, began frantically unfastening his trousers.

Pay dirt. We wouldn't have to worry about Detective Snowden again.

I took a deep breath, and stood up to go back downstairs; Angel could take care of herself now. On reflection, I double-checked to make sure the time of day was visible in the corner of the monitor. If I knew my Angel, Snowden was going to join his son in the Home Run club tonight or die trying.