Cock of Ages Ch. 12

Tampa, Florida

March 7th, 1963

I awoke to the unpleasant sound of hysterical shrieking.

It wasn't the first time, of course. There have been plenty of women who freak out when they arise in the rosy glow of dawn and realize that they've just been had -- or their husband is in the driveway, home early -- or their sister discovers them in flagrante delicto -- or they just plain feel violated. This wasn't that kind of scream. This was the basic female 'intruder alert!' scream. I instinctively bolted out of bed, the dishwater blonde -- Lori? Lori -- holding the sheets up to her chin, staring wide-eyed at a very startled Cromwell. He was, in point of fact, looking pretty menacing. The shoulder holster didn't help.

"Calm the fuck down," I said, crossly. "Lori, Cromwell, Cromwell, Lori. Cromwell is my . . . bodyguard. Lori is my new temporary assistant."

"Charmed," Cromwell grunted, after some thought. "I'll be out on the veranda with breakfast, Boss. When you're ready."

"Yeah, yeah, be there in a minute," I said, waving him off.

"Why the hell do you need a bodyguard?" Lori asked, wide-eyed.

"What did I tell you about questions? I need to talk to him. Why don't you jump in the bath for a while. You smell like stale cum."

She got up without a word, and modestly wrapped the sheet around her while I looked around for my casually discarded boxer shorts.

"Why the hell do you need an assistant?" Cromwell asked, pointedly, when I came outside. He had gotten a tray of danish and coffee from down stairs. "I thought I was your assistant?"

"Well, she's prettier and she'll suck my dick on command."

"You make a fair point," he laughed. "But is that wise?"

"Probably not. But I don't see the harm. She's going to line up more local talent for me. Probably a lot of choice left-overs hanging around." Put to him like that, Cromwell could appreciate my decision a little more.

"Anyways, I just got news from down stream. Nothin' going on here 'cept us. That covers all temporal projects. They did caution me that that didn't mean that future projects wouldn't be using here-and-now, but they didn't know anything current."

"That stands to reason," I agreed, parsing it. "We only know what we did . . . will do . . . up to . . . when we left . . . I think. Fuck! Time travel is confusing!"

"If the Project decides to send someone back here again, sometime in the future -- the future, future, that is -- then we wouldn't know . . ." he trailed off as his brain tried to follow the logic. "Yeah, I see what you mean," he said with a grin.

"So how should I treat this?" I asked. "I mean, isn't there a code word? Protocol of some sort?"

"That makes some awfully big assumptions," Cromwell said, uneasily. "I mean, you'd think so, but . . ."

"Never mind," I dismissed. "Probably is someone from further downstream. Research trip, or something."

"Why here, though?" he asked, biting a donut cleanly in half. "I mean, Tampa isn't particularly important. Not for years, yet. Dallas, sure. Especially with . . . y'know."

"Yeah, that is an interesting question. Look, see what you can find out about Miss Teresa McKenna, will you? See if there's anything on her, specifically."

"Will do," he said, noting the name in a pad he carried in his shirt pocket. "Uh, you gonna be using the Caddy today?"

"No, I'll take a cab, if I need to. It's all yours. And you're on vacation, remember?" I pointed out. "I'm going to spend the day on the beach, I think. See what I can come up with."

"Got it," he agreed. "What about the slit. . . Lori? What do I do with her?"

"She's on retainer. I'll have her lounge around here, mostly. Maybe run some errands. Keep my bed warm. So keep in character around her, but I've already cautioned her against asking any nosy questions."

"Good. We don't need no undue attention, especially after what you -- we -- did to that accountant's wife." He sounded like he felt guilty.

"Her? Least of my problems," I said, dismissively. "She won't say a fucking word, I guarantee it. Too scared to."

"Yeah, whatever you say," he said, sounding unconvinced. He left after that, and I was pouring my second cup of coffee when Lori came out in one of the hotel's luxurious robes, toweling her hair dry.

"He seems . . . nice," she offered hesitantly, taking a seat uninvited.

"I hope not," I said, making a sour face. "He's not paid to be nice."

"Well then you got your money's worth. Is that coffee?"

"Have some," I encouraged. "Jamaican. It's incredible."

"So this is how rich people live," she said appreciatively, looking out over the waves.

"Same ocean view for poor people," I countered.

"Yeah, I guess. But the coffee is better. So when do I start finding you sluts?"

"As soon as possible. You can start after you run home and pick up a few clothes -- you'll be here for a few days. Oh, and I want to send flowers to someone, you take care of that, too. You can start after you blow me."

"You do get an early start on the day!" she said with a smile. Lori rose. "I'll be inside waiting!"

"No, you'll drop to your knees and do it right here," I said, firmly. "While I can enjoy the morning breeze."

"But . . . but people will see!" she protested. "We're outside! We'll get arrested!"

"Bullshit," I sneered. "Rich people don't get arrested. Not at the rates I'm paying for this room. At most we'd get a quiet and politely-worded warning about discretion. But I don't think even that is likely. So get to it, Lori. Earn your salary."

Still unsure of herself, she took a couple of glances around and then slid guiltily to her knees. As she burrowed her curly blonde head under my robe to find my stiffening penis, I leaned back and sighed. Coffee wasn't the only thing that was better when you were rich.

***

After I sent Lori on her way, stopping by the front desk to introduce her to the manager, I turned my attention to some business I wanted to do. I needed to find a bookie.

It took me three inquiries to find one that was considered trustworthy: Milo Holmes. I knew Milo was trustworthy because when I looked him up in the Wealth of Nations (the hardback book that concealed a clever computer display -- swanky 21st century tech) I saw that he would end up doing time intermittently between 1966 and 1972, then he retired to Miami to become a "made" guy.

Tampa was full of Mafiosi, of course, both the Italian and Cuban varieties, so I knew he'd be reliable. Milo would end up face down in the manicotti at "a local Miami Italian eatery" a dozen years later, in 1984, but right now he was just young and hungry. And that's just what I wanted.

He hung out at a bar downtown, Mike's or Pat's or something Irish, non-descript and smoky. I sidled up to him and bought a warm beer.

"Lookin' for Milo," I told the bartender as I paid him.

"That's his hand on your thigh," the unshaven slab of Irishman said, nodding to the young guy next to me reading the racing form. He turned an eye towards me.

"I'm Milo," he said, softly. "You a cop?"

"Nope," I said. "I got a friend who says you're good with numbers."

"Could be," he said cautiously. "Who's your friend, and what kinda numbers?"

"My friend is Lawrence, doorman at the Palms. Numbers I'm lookin' for are number seven to win in the fifth."

Milo scanned the paper in front of him and whistled. "That's a toughie, champ. Seventeen to one? You sure?"

"It's my mother's name," I said, off the top of my head.

He glanced back at the paper, then back at me. "Your mom's name is Rhubarb Pie?"

"I learned how to fight early," I said, defensively. "Look, you want my money or not?"

"At seventeen to one? Hell yes. How much do you want to lose?"

"Three large," I said, putting an envelope casually at his elbow. He took a surreptitious glance around and slid it under his racing form.

"You got a tip or something?"

"Just a lucky feeling," I admitted.

"Got to love those. And I'm always happy to have another player around. Where shall I bring by your winnings, in the unlikely event every other goddamn horse in the race breaks a leg?" I gave him my name and my hotel address, paid for his beer, and left after another few sips.

Three grand, at seventeen to one, yields just over fifty grand. That's fifty grand the Project didn't know about. And if I played this right, by the time I left I'd have two or three similar lucky strikes before I departed scenic Tampa . . . all of which would accrue interest nicely until I retrieved it, some time in the future.

Now, the perks of the job were enough -- but I had to plan for my retirement, didn't I? The Project did monitor my actions, mostly through Cromwell, and I had gotten him used to my ways to the point where I could slip away and do some business like this. I mean, what's the point of time travel if you couldn't use your knowledge for personal gain? I wasn't messing with the stock market or anything -- yet -- just placing a few low-level bets with a local bookie. The proceeds would go into one of my accounts, and no one would be the wiser. Eventually I'd have enough off-books cash to retire someplace, sometime, and remember the days when I worked hard.

I did spend most of the rest of the day at the beach. It was still just a little too cool to swim, but that didn't keep the snowbirds who were just discovering Florida from peeling down and laying on the beach like pale and flabby whales. Those, I expected. The large number of young women in bathing suits that had seemed to arrive overnight -- it took a moment for me to realize what was happening.

"I love Spring Break!" one winsome young lass said, big goofy sunglasses on her face and a large drink in her hand, as I passed by a spread out towel.

Spring Break -- young college girls getting seriously drunk in a strange place. It would be years before the party reached legendary proportions, with Ft. Lauderdale gaining the first great rep as a Spring Break destination, but Tampa did pull plenty of tourist business from regional universities. Schools all over the South were letting out for Break, and the well-heeled and the lucky managed to make it as far as here.

I walked around a while and listened in to the conversations and eventually found the perfect mark for a mid-morning mattress mambo: a sweet young thing, crying her eyes out behind the drink stand, drunk off of her ass and freshly dumped.

Rebound pickups are almost too easy. A woman gets rejected, for whatever reason, and her first instinct is to re-affirm her desirability. This usually leads her to making stupid choices about men, which was good news for millions of nerds who wouldn't have gotten laid otherwise. It was also good news for me.

Her name was Cindy, and she was a Home Ec major at the University of Georgia. Her boyfriend, Joe, had brought her all the way down here to the beach for a romantic weekend. She had come to his room this morning to discover some evil slut whore from Alabama all over him like white on rice. Distraught, she had taken solace in a bottle of cheap rum and was now wandering around asking everyone if she was pretty.

Oh yes, Cindy. You are very pretty.

I produced a hanky, asked her her name and what was wrong, and then for the next twenty minutes I didn't say another blessed word as she poured out her life story. That twenty minutes meant I was "easy to talk to", the first step towards the redemption of men in her eyes. The second was the three weak jokes she laughed uproariously at, and when I invited her to lunch to discuss things, she was all mine. I walked her to one of the outdoor cafes all the trendy hotels were sporting, brightly striped umbrellas and all, and bought her a chicken salad and a rum-and-coke -- complete with a do-me-now! aphrodisiac tab.

By the time we had finished lunch she had transformed from a pathetic drunk college chick on the rebound into a sophisticated, intelligent, and worldly drunk college chick. Using a subtle combination of gentle teasing and serious innuendo I made it clear that her best course of action was to do unto Joe what he had done unto her. My suggestions left no questions about with whom she should do this, and a flash of my bankroll and my Harvard ring (which was so hot it might have glowed in the dark -- fertility time for Cindy!) combined with the dose of hot-pants in her drink made her lead the way.

We went back to her shitty cinderblock motel, into the mildewed room she shared with three other girls, and I fucked her silly. I mean completely insensible. She had never had an orgasm before, so I gave her as many as I could in forty-five minutes, leaving two loads and a thoroughly incoherent Cindy behind.

Three hours, from start to finish. Two dollars and sixty-cents for lunch. For a sweet, near-virginal nineteen-year-old pussy, knocked-up to order. You've got to love that.

I was walking back towards the main strip when I saw it: a faded poster on a painted but peeling wooden sign advertising fresh oranges. I don't know what made me stop and look -- maybe the crudely drawn figure at the top of the poster.

It was an angel. I read further down.

Get The Spirit Of The Lord In Your Life!

SISTER SHELLY MONTGOMERY'S ALL-GOSPEL NON-DENOMINATIONAL HOUSE OF ANGELIC PRAYER!

SUNDAY SERVICES: 9:30 and 11:00

PRAYER MEETINGS: MON., WED., FRI. 7:30 PM SALVATION AVAILABLE ANY TIME!

There were directions to a storefront church about two miles away. The whole thing looked decidedly low-budget, the very cheapest of print jobs. It all came back to me -- Baltimore, sweet-assed little Shelly, the angel suit, the farmhouse . . . and my command to go to Tampa. It looked like she had listened. A devilish grin crossed my face as I decided to see if good little Shelly had truly kept faith.

Time for sinful Mikey Winslow to go to church.

* * *

Lori was back in the room by the time I returned, about three o'clock. She had changed into something a little less flashy and more businesslike -- but still thoroughly middle-class. She also wore glasses, which got me aroused immediately.

"Welcome back, Mr. Winslow," she said, courteously. "Or is it Winthrop, today? Can I fix you a drink?"

"No, I'm good," I said with a sigh. "Remind me to send you shopping. Can't have you looking like that every day."

She looked down at her dress and started to protest, then realized I was offering to buy her clothes. She shut up. Smart girl.

"I ordered those flowers, and an hour ago this was delivered from the front desk," she said, handing me an envelope with an elegant female script on the front. I took it and whiffed perfume. It was from Teresa. Grinning despite myself, I yanked it open and quickly read the note -- written on hotel stationary.

My darling Michael,

I adored our evening out, last night, but this morning has brought some news from my family, and now I must go back home for a while. It shouldn't take more than a few days, at most, and then I shall return. I hope you will consider another fun evening when I get back -- I truly enjoyed your company.

Sincerely, Teresa

"Isn't that interesting?" I asked myself. Lori overheard me and cocked her head curiously. "Nothing," I muttered when I noticed her. "Just an oddity. Still, she was an outstanding fuck. She's the one that you licked off of me, last night."

"The Ivy League Pussy?" she asked, eyebrows raised.

"As a matter of fact, yeah," I agreed. "Wasn't it tasty?"

She made a face. "Oh, yeah, best Ivy League Pussy I've ever had," she said, sarcastically.

"Wanna try some University of Georgia?" I asked, unzipping my fly.

"What?"

"Time to suck dick again, sweetheart. And I just dipped it in some first-rate freshman cooze. Be nice if it was all tidied up for later."

"You . . . want it again?" she asked, mystified. "And you just fucked someone? Didn't I just take care of you this morning?"

"I'm sorry, you have something else to do?" I asked, pointedly.

She saw my point, and scooted between my knees in record time. She still didn't seem very enthusiastic about it, but she started licking the freshman's juices daintily off of my shaft while I considered my options.

"Oh, while I'm thinking about it," she said, between sucks, "keep your calendar open tonight. I arranged . . . some fresh pussy for you. She'll be here when you get in."

"That was fast," I said, appreciatively.

"I know a lot of people," she said, simply, and went back to work.

I stopped her before I came, then bent her over, hiked her dress -- no panties -- and slipped into her from behind. She didn't quite cum as I fucked her, frenetically squirting my juice up in her as fast as possible, but that was fine. That would probably keep her hot for later, after I got back from the Tiki Club. But before then, I wanted to make another stop.

An hour and a shower later I got out of a cab in front of the storefront church. I was well-dressed, in a light-weight brown cotton suit, a dapper and slightly anachronistic white fedora, and a small attaché in my hand: all the tools of my art ready to deploy. The church was sandwiched between a decrepit laundry and a long-abandoned radio repair shop. It had a green door and a crudely painted angel on the window. The sign said OPEN.

When I went in, a cheap set of brass chimes rattled, and the smell of stale cigarette smoke and human sweat mingled with incense and coffee. There were five lines of ten wooden chairs that had seen better days, and a small stage at the front of the room. A vivid-looking cross was painted on the back wall, and a beat-up old piano stood next to the door to the back. No microphone. No air conditioning. Indeed, the only thing that indicated the shop had electric power at all was the dangerous-looking chandelier of light bulbs that was suspended from the ceiling. A big plywood box painted white with black letters that read LOVE OFFERING stood on the wall near the door, the size a symbol of optimism.

I didn't see anyone, but I stood, head bowed reverently, as I waited. I heard her before she entered the room.

"Blessed day, brother!" the feminine tenor sang melodiously as the door opened. "What can I do for you on God's day?" She came in briskly, in a faded checkered dress of black and white with a white knitted shawl over her shoulders. Her large boobs were decently hidden beneath, but only just. The years had treated her well -- she was still a beauty, but the shine of youth had been replaced by the luster of maturity. There were a few wrinkles, maybe, and a certain worldliness in her eyes. But her hair was the same golden shower of silk I remembered.

"Are . . . are you Sister Shelly?" I asked, cautiously.

"I am, Brother," she agreed, pleasantly. "What might I do for you in the service of the Lord?"

"I . . . I need you to heal my pain," I said, softly, giving her an intense and meaningful stare at the same time. I watched her carefully. There was a sudden intake of breath as the phrase lit up in her mind, and then an even bigger gasp as she recognized my face under the hat. She swallowed nervously, and nodded once.

"Right this way," she said, quietly. She paused only long enough to turn the bolt on the door and flip the sign over, and then she led me through the door into the back of the church. She moved cautiously, like her feet weren't really touching the floor, but Shelly took control of herself and led me to a battered over-stuffed chair near a metal Army Surplus desk. I took a seat, as she took my hat.

"Sister Shelly has a mandate from the Lord to heal all who ask it," she said, carefully. "Would you care to confess your sins in prayer before we begin?"

I studied her in the dim light. "Not really," I admitted. "There's just too many to go into, right now."

She nodded, as if understanding. "Right. Confess in your own time, in your own manner, my brother. Let us pray. Dear Father, who sent thy only—"