The root or my discouragement? The fact that I had this book about three- quarters done, and couldn't get anybody outside of my friends to read it. I tried all the "advised methods" of contacting publishers and agents, but do you think one of them would give me the time of day? Hardly. All I wanted was somebody who knew what they were looking at to tell me if I had something or not. I'm the first to admit that Grants Pass, Oregon is not the publishing capital of the world, but you'd think at least one of the narrow minded pundits who dictate what we buy and read would at least give me a look. If not a look, a response - even if it was a form letter.
That said, I am (in what will ultimately be another waste of time) now taking my last shot at representation. There has to be one computer literate publisher or agent out there who is willing to take ten minutes of their "precious" time to look at something NOT written by Tom Clancy. If not one of those peoples, maybe someone who likes the ramdom chapters included here would like to "sponsor" its completion and publication. I also realize the work needs the touch of a professional editor. So, if you are an editor looking to do some pro bono tweeking, contact me.
Below you will find six (of 34) random chapters from my book. They are in no particular order, so don't look for a plot. If you are offended by graphic language, violence, sex and humor - stop here. This book is raw with no likeable characters to speak of. They talk the way these people talk. Don't look for a lot of morals, role models or valuable life lessons. DO look for a great story about some off-the-wall characters we can all relate to (but probably don't want to). If you like what you read, please contact me at my E-mail address at end.
"Fuck you!". She had used these words a lot in her twenty-seven years. They were now the last syllables Suzi Morgan would utter in her wasted and miserable life.
As the 9mm hollow-point slug penetrated her head behind the left ear, blood, bone and grey matter spewed across the squalid room she'd called home. Her body followed what was left of her head as she ended in a heap next to the sloven bed on which she'd done her work. The instant deceased was a useless human being by most anybodies' standards. A prostitute, thief and hard core drug addict since the age of fifteen, she had no ethics, no morals and no regrets. Nobody would miss her.
Standing over her, her killer had absolutely no remorse. In fact, he was quite amused at the sight before him. It was the first time in the four years he had known her that she was quiet. God, how he hated her sass mouth and negative attitude. However, these were not the reasons for her current condition. She had just burnt him for more than a grand. "No. Fuck you!" He screamed at the corpse.
From the dawn of time there have been good guys and bad guys. History has proven the two are often confused. 1998 is no exception. The twisted mind set of modern society, usually divided among ethnic lines, has left me without an absolute identity. Am I a good guy, or am I a bad guy? Actually that's a very valid question since I'm collecting a pay check from the Los Angles Police Department, and have been for the last nineteen years.
Half the population will tell you I, as a cop, am the scum of the earth. The same half will tell you O.J. Simpson is a highly respected member of the African-American community whom every branch of the system tried to frame for a double murder. Frame, my ass! Shit, looking back, maybe I killed Nicole and that Ron guy because I lost a big bet on the Bills seventeen years ago when "The Juice" couldn't score. Or, picture this, maybe they partook in a bizarre suicide pact. If you ever believed Simpson was innocent then you can believe that. I know. The dog did it. Fuck. Every sane person on planet Earth knew the asshole was guilty except the brain dead, ultra racist, pig fuck jury that let the murdering prick walk. That brings up one of my favorite axioms. There's no justice and life's not fair ... now what? Unlike that stupid rock singer, I hate L.A.!
That vented, good guy or bad, my name is Algernon Zambrodski. At the tender age of 46 I feel like the total personification of every burnt out, cynical cop Joseph Wambaugh ever wrote about. As a rule I despise my job, ex-wives, siblings and neighbors. Thank God I never had any kids. More so, my years on the force have not endeared me to any race of color. Fact is, my only true friend in the world is Henry, my loyal but mentally challenged Basset Hound. If there is a God, He'll let me make it through my last eleven months of this miserable existence so I can retire to anywhere there's a neighborhood bar filled with white people all speaking English.
Most cops with nineteen in are Sergeants or better. Me, I'm still in a black and white with one measly stripe. I can't honestly say my failure to advance is not warranted. Hell, Internal Affairs has a separate file cabinet just for me. Several attitude adjustments, reprimands, suspensions and fines have done little to curb my individual style of enforcing, or not enforcing, the law. To be honest, I can't believe they still let me carry a gun.
Even so, the end result is I have to do the same thing now I did eighteen years ago, put my ass on the line every night in the worst parts of town. No desk for me. It's a lousy car with a lousy partner. Partners. I go through them like underwear which is not a bad thing because I end up riding alone for days at a time. That is a good thing. Did I forget to mention I don't have much love for other cops either? As luck and politics would have it, I've been assigned another tour in South Central; Beirut of the civilized world. Compared with this section of the city, Alice's looking-glass world is a place of incontestable logic. It was my usual lot in life to be here in the middle of the ‘92 riots and believe me, any semblance of faith I may of had in humanity expired that week. Never more had I wanted full licence to use an AK-47 assault rifle indiscriminately. There were, and still are, more wild animals in this section of L.A. than any jungle in Africa. My blood pressure goes up forty points just thinking about it. Working here is more dangerous than body fluids in a whore house. Christ, I must have the I.Q. of a rodeo clown.
Anyway, my latest partner is only four months out of the Academy, and a college shit to boot. One of the latest breed of law enforcement specialists (why can't we just be cops?) who only wears a badge as a stepping stone to the California Bar Association. Oh boy, there's another thing, lawyers. I really hate lawyers. Lawyers above all else. There should be an open season on those slimy fucks one week of every month. Shit, the only time I ever go close to one of those snakes is when I want to feel morally superior to someone. Anyone.
More about lawyers later, but now it's back to Biff (that's really his name) Silkwood (sounds like a faggot logger) who has been sitting beside me for a total of eight painful nights. On this particular Monday night, his main topic of conversation is the "new techniques" of police work which translates into "suspect/prisoner friendly," or "politically correct enforcement attitudes." Fuck that. In the so-called good old days, we didn't take shit from anybody. To my mind, the only problem with the "Taming of Rodney" is the cops were stupid enough to get taped. Now, after that debacle, I'm surprised they don't send us out here with squirt guns and candy.
Further more, he has this compulsion to rag me about my driving, smoking, diet, drinking and especially my so-called negative outlook on life. Goddamn it, if I wanted a fuckin' shrink I'd hire one! Somewhere down the line this little shit overdosed on reruns of "The Brady Bunch" and I'm paying for it.
Monday's are usually quiet until late, especially during football season. Tonight the Giants are at Minnesota and I've got fifty down that says the Vikings will kick ass. Aside from the Rams and Cowboys, I do love the sport and hate working while Dan, Frank and Al keep the fans glued to ABC. It's times like this that I wish I was in enough favor to get a day beat. Never happen. Shit, there's a lot of those pricks who wished I had no beat. Thus, I'm in a particularly foul state as we cruise Slauson in search of bad guys.
At 7:30, which would have been about half-time, we get a call to check out an apartment on Allen St. It seems an anonymous male caller was quite upset over the fact his "date" was not responding to his knocks on her door. Judging from the address, I figured she was out working the streets or with another john and didn't want to answer her door. Nonetheless, it was our first call of the night and should ultimately buy us enough time to get some coffee and a donut at a place with a TV.
The building, like most in the area, was in major disrepair. We had to double park and then climb three flights of stairs to reach the apartment. I don't like stairs, but elevators are a rare commodity in this neck of the woods. With a little effort on my part, we reached 3H and knocked. After several attempts, we assessed nobody was home. There were no sign of foul play so it was off to Winchels. Wrong. As we descended to the second floor a large black woman, a huge woman, blocked our retreat. Literally.
With sweat dripping off her bulldog face, she pointed back up the stairs and declared, "Sho' nough there sompin' wrong in tha' ho's room." Since I speak, thus understand jive I assumed she was referring to the door we just left.
"What makes you think that, Ma'am?" I asked in my best Jack Webb demeanor.
"She ain't been out sin' mornin', an her always out by now. ‘Sides, girls pimp went up real mad this mornin' n' he lef' in a big hurry."
"What time was that?" Asked Biff.
"‘Bout twelve thirty or so." Replied Orca.
That in itself is not probable cause. However, there was little doubt in my mind we were getting past this whale without checking the room using the key she was dangling in Biff's face. U-turn, key in hand, open door, step into a pile of shit. Even with the limited light I knew this whore was never going to answer her door again.
Murder scenes are not my favorite thing. They are usually messy and always smell bad. In this small room the stench was overwhelming. Biff barfed. For times like this I always carry a cigar. I lit it fast. Whale woman shrieked and nearly took out Biff and the banister getting away. Her howls filled the rickety building and several doors cracked open revealing nothing but bloodshot eyes. Back to your base pipes, kiddies.
Although they are usually first on the scene, beat cops do not have jurisdiction over murder cases. Homicide gets the call on these babies, and that's just what I did. Actually I had Biff call from the car. He was a lovely shade of some god awful color, and I figured the fresh air wouldn't hurt him in the least.
There was little in the way of visible evidence. No gun, no suicide note, no blue knit cap and no bloody glove. Apparently somebody had simply blown this sluts brains out. All this left me totally ambivalent. That's because her I.D. was on the table, and I knew her. I had dealt with this one when she was still breathing. During my one stint in Vice, Suzi Morgan was a regular customer. Major stupid, this broad. Bet she's been busted over thirty times and in every instance the arresting officer was sorely tempted to slap her silly. Mouth like a truck driver, this one. A song came to mind. "Dust in the Wind."
There was little for Al and Biff to do while they waited to hand this mess off to the detectives. Considering the nature and location of this particular homicide, their wait could be as long as two hours. Dead hookers were not a priority to anyone. If and when they apprehended the killer or killers, there were no fears of ending up on national television in Judge Ito's courtroom. With that comforting thought in mind, Al started to mentally prepare the report they would have to write before the night was over. This report would be fairly simple and straight forward. Once done it would pretty much mark the end of their involvement in this case. Or so Al thought.
To Al's utter amazement, the detectives arrived a mere thirty-five minutes after Biff placed the call. Must be a real slow night. He knew Chuck Pratt and Grover Thomas well. On the street they were known as "salt and pepper" for obvious reasons. Pratt, a tall thirty-two year old buff blond was an almost laughable contrast to the fortyish Thomas, who was barely five-nine and more than a little overweight. They had been a team in South Central for three years, which is a record in itself. Ludicrous sight or not, they were known to get the job done, and done well.
Chuck entered first with Grover panting in the rear. With his normal flippancy he looked at Al and said, "Your Vikings are getting their asses kicked. How's tricks?"
Al just moaned and replied, "I got your trick. She's on the floor."
"Well, her cocksucking days are over." Wheezed Grover as he surveyed the room.
Shaking his head, Al looked at Grover. "Does the word diet ring a bell? How the hell do you keep from getting suspended? If I weighed half as much as you the brass would have my ass off at some fat farm in Kansas. Hey, I got an idea. I can hook you up with that beast downstairs and you could both play fuck a wrinkle, any wrinkle."
Finally catching his breath, Grover smiled and said, "The word diet isn't in this brothers vocabulary. And further more, I've got naked pictures of the Captain with a Dalmatian and a twelve-year-old boy. So there. Besides, some piece of shit gang-banger will probably kill me before my cholesterol can."
By now Chuck had taken a closer look at the body and come to the obvious conclusion. Looking back at Al, "Did you clowns see and evidence or get any statements?
Al replied, "No gun if that's what you mean. We did get some info from the aforementioned beast downstairs, who, by the way, makes Grover looks like Jerry Rice. She, it, whatever, saw the guy who will probably prove to be the shooter leaving here in a big hurry shortly after noon. She recognized him as the victims pimp. So, I guess she could I.D. him for ya."
Chuck smiled. "This could be a nobrainer, my faves. One witness is all we need, pal. Where can we find this talkative soul?"
"She's probably laying around, all around, her lair on the second floor. That's if she didn't have a coronary. When we opened this door, she almost turned white and damn near killed Biff getting down the stairs." Al turned to the door and said, "And on that note, Biffy boy and moi are off like a cheap prom dress."
Grover, breathing normally now, replied, "Put your report in our box as soon as you can ... tonight. We'll find the perp in twenty-four, guaranteed, and that'll be that."
Turning to Chuck, he said, "Get the M.E. over here and I'll go see this, whatever it is, downstairs. If she's got a name on this guy, we gotta' slam dunk."
As Chuck pulled out his celphone to call the coroner, Grover headed down the stairs to God knows what. He found the object of Al's abuse in 2C, and sure enough, she was a big one.
Once inside, Grover started with all the standard questions. Since he was not only black, but overweight as well, Maude Adams was most cooperative. He confirmed the name of the victim and learned her so-called pimp was named Carl. No last name. After getting a fairly good description, Grover asked for her phone number and left post haste. After her big adventure, Mrs. Adams smelled almost as bad as Suzi Morgan. Grover was already getting tired of bad smells this night.
Rather than going back upstairs, he yelled at Chuck to meet him out front. He desperately needed some air and a smoke. Smoking was probably the last thing Grover needed to do, but he was convinced it helped keep his weight down. Chuck caught up with his partner before he reached the first floor, and hit the front door ten feet in front of him. Once outside, Winston's lit, they shared the information Grover had gotten from Maude.
"Grove, ol' buddy, nothing is this easy. One thing I've learned workin' here the last three years is the Trojan Horse theory is alive and well in South Central. The handwriting on the wall may be a forgery, and all that shit. Fuckit. I'm just thinking out loud. But I do have a bad feeling on this one."
"Now that was one confusing little speech, my man." Said Grover. "I think this is gonna' be as routine as they come. And unless this Carl guy is crazier than a shithouse rat, we'll have his ass in twenty-four. But still, your gut is one weird motherfucker, and I know better than to ignore it completely."
Just then the meatwagon pulled up. Two pasty white guys, who probably flunked lunch in high school, got out and asked where's the beef. Chuck told them and with yellow tape in hand followed the two back up, sparing Grover the trip. They still had to seal the crime scene so the lab guys could do their thing later tonight. This was not procedure, but there a lot of things not done by the book in this part of the city.
My priorities had changed. No longer hungry, I was now very thirsty. As I sped north on the Hollywood Freeway, all I could taste was a cold beer and a warm shot. It would be at the Lizard Lounge. It's damn near always at the Lizard Lounge. Making the transition onto the Ventura Freeway West, I recalled, not for the first time, how my favorite saloon got its name.
Once upon a time in what we'll call The Polyester Age, it was called "Joey's Place." Typical of many cocktail lounges in the suck 70's, it had the obligatory horse shoe shaped piano bar. Said piano always featured a guy who was the quintessential model for Bill Murray's character on "Saturday Night Live". They never had an original song, or thought for that matter. All these jerks were fashion challenged to the max, had greasy hair, and were as abrasive as "The Nanny." They played those noxious songs composed for those who found elevator music too complex and intellectually taxing. You remember.
Lou McBride walked in one night wearing Levi's and a tee-shirt. He felt like a pair of brown loafers in a roomful of tuxedos. Not embarrassed, just out of place. The bar was littered with older men and women trying to look hep in their lime green leisure suits, white belts and twelve-inch bell-bottoms. It took him about five seconds to turn to his girlfriend and say, "We're in lounge lizard hell." She laughed, and in spite of the fucked up crowd, they stayed and got totally hammered.
During the course of the night, the bartender told Lou the place was for sale. The more he drank, the more he remodeled it in his mind. Lose the piano bar, change the name, for sure change the music and build a whole new customer base that knew how to dress. Folks that appreciate oldies. Endless possibilities.
Two weeks later it went into escrow. In Less than three months the liquor licence was in Lou's name and the piano was history. In remembrance of his first night there, and as a jab to all the old customers, he installed a huge neon sign over Joey's Place that read, The Lizard Lounge. That was nearly nineteen years ago. But now is now, and I'm here.
I like the Lizard for several reasons. It's not a "cop bar," the crowd is mostly middle class, basically white, and if they don't speak English, Lou has a way of losing them fast. Besides, there's just enough of the cerebrally bankrupt and show business types to make things interesting. However, I guess the main reason is I can walk home from here. There was a time when cops were immune to DUI's but those days are gone with the wind. I speak from experience.
Three years ago I was on auto-pilot coming home from a tavern in Burbank when this puke CHP nailed me. No professional courtesy from this prick. My T-Bird was on the hook, and I was in the slammer. When the smoke cleared I was busted down a stripe (again), and quite broke. I may be a slow study on some levels, but not this one. Now I only drive when I'm too drunk to walk.
For this hour on a Monday night the place was jumpin'. Musta' had a good football crowd. Paul Anka's "Diana" was playing on the CD box. Lou was behind the bar. Lou's always behind the bar. To my mind he want's to keep every dime he can for himself. He has Tina and Pam working days, but like Count Dracula, he does the night. Speaking of the night, I had but one hour to make something out of this one. Since I hadn't eaten, four beers and two shots should do it.
Before I got to the end of the bar there was a cold Bud in front of "my" stool. Lou took care of his regulars. I like that. As I sat down, he asked, "How are things on the other side of the hill?"
The "hill" was what separates the San Fernando Valley from the rest of L.A. To those who live here, it doesn't separate it enough.
"Busy night." I said. "Two dead ones in a four-hour span."
"Accidents?" Lou asked.
"No, these were hardly accidents. It was open season on hookers and pimps."
Lou turned and as he walked to the other end of the bar, he yelled, "Just another day in paradise."
Chugging my first beer, I surveyed the room. There was the village slut Diane hitting on Mel. I didn't need any of her spaced out shit. Harvey and Joanne were ensconced in their regular seats, drunker than dogs, playing with each other. Mike and Ted were arguing about sports, as usual. But I wasn't looking for any of them, I was in search of a woman. Not just any women, that ain't my style. Tonight I really wanted to find Holly. She was one of my two squeezes, and by far the favorite. However, if she wasn't here by now, she probably wouldn't be. Bummer. I really need some lovin'.
Lou brought me another Bud and a shot of Jack. He knew my drinking habits better than I did. "Seen Holly?" I asked.
"She was in earlier ... said she might be back." He replied.
Maybe all is not lost. I decided to page her. Just as I hit the send button on my celphone there was a tap on my back. How the hell did she come in without me seeing her?
"Hi, darlin'." She said in her husky voice. "Been here long?"
"Two beers and a Jack." I said.
As she sat on the stool next to me, I smelled her and got an instant hard-on. Holly is fifty and fine. Very fine. Bias as I am, I think she's one of the sexiest women I've ever known. A natural blond who looks a great forty and thinks thirty. However, both her body and mind have the experience of a fifty-year-old and that's what counts. At five-foot-eight and 160 pounds she's a lot of woman who really wears it well. Added assets: she's smart, funny, and very open minded.
As Lou set a scotch and soda in front of her, she touched my leg and asked, "Did my Al have a good day or a bad day?"
At this point I didn't want to recap the night again, so I just said, "Al had a typical day." She knows me well enough to understand that was the end of my shop talk.
"How'd things go at Dipfuck and Dildo?" I asked. She works as a paralegal for two Johnny Cochran wannabes in Encino. She knows how I feel about lawyers, but I owe her the respect of seeming to care about her job.
"Harvey chipped his front tooth on the tail pipe of an ambulance. Seems it stopped faster than he did." She said with a straight face. "Georgeie pooh was swimming with his fellow sharks at the Van Nuys Court all day." She did what she did because of the money, not for love of the law.
"Sounds like an average day in Scumville." I replied. "Now, what about us?"
She took a drink and asked, "Us?"
"Ya,us. As in you and me. Do you have an early day tomorrow?"
"As a matter of fact, I don't." She replied.
It was a game we played a lot. It was more fun than just saying "your place or mine?" Holly lives on the so-called good side of Ventura Boulevard in a huge house she once shared with Brian, her now out-of-the closet ex-husband. How anybody could be married to this woman and go gay is way beyond me. But he did and long ago moved on to leather and lace in West Hollywood, land of K-Y and butt plugs. She laughs about it now, but I guess it was a real bummer at the time.
My condo is on the other side of the boulevard, the flatland. It doesn't have a panoramic view of the valley, but it's nice and works for Henry and I. Henry. He was the only problem when we went to her place. Although my neighbor (for a fee) babysits him when I'm at work, she's not wild about having him sleep over. But since she's one of these broads that reads until all hours, I can usually call at 2:00 a.m. without waking her up and convince her to keep him until the next day.
"Well, in that case, let's do the house on the hill." I said. "Let me call Hazel with another bullshit story of why Henry has to drool on her carpet all night."
"Good idea, Starsky." She replied.
That settled that. It would be her place. For what I had in mind for tonight, it almost had to be her place. Her place. With its sixteen rooms and secluded yard containing a large heated pool, eight person hot tub and comfy gas sauna. It was a virtual launching pad for sexual fantasies. In the four years I've known her, Holly and I have blasted off on missions that would embarrass Larry Flint. We've gone where no couple has gone before. At least we like to think that.
As I was lying to Hazel on my celphone, I hear Holly moan. Glancing over I saw Harry stumbling up the bar in our direction. Harry Gilford's an idiot. Everybody suffers him because he's basically harmless, but what a pain in the ass. As I hung up, Holly whispered, "Every time I see that guy I hear the shower music from "Psycho."
I tucked my phone away, killed another shot of Jack, took a long pull on my Bud, and turned toward Harry. Before he could say anything I asked, "How are things in your world, Harry?" It was better to put him on defense right from the start.
"Uh, okay, I guess." He muttered. He was facing me but his eyes were looking down Holly's blouse. "How you guys doin'?" He asked.
"Are you talking to us or Holly's tits?" I asked.
His eyes snapped back as he looked like I'd just asked him to explain the theory of quantum physics. Harry was not a handsome man to begin with. His face looked like a detailed map of the moon and he dressed like a bum. When he got drunk, which was every day, it all got worse. He'd take on the persona of ... Holly's right, somebody like Anthony Perkins in "Psycho." Creepy, that was it. You couldn't read this guy with a magnifying glass, and I don't like people I can't read.
"Holly's tits?" He finally asked and continued with, "No, I wasn't talkin' to them. I was talkin' to you. What the fuck do they know?" He was rocking back and forth.
"A hellava' lot more than you, Harry." I said. Glancing at Holly, I could see she was a bit nervous, which wasn't her style. I wasn't in the mood to humor this fuck so I asked, "So, exactly what is it you want?"
"Just a friend." He replied.
"Then go to the bathroom and jack-off." I said a bit too loudly. He stopped rocking, looked at the ceiling, and without a word headed to the restrooms.
"Lou's gotta' do something about that congenital idiot."
"Forget Lou. I'll do somethin' if he ever eye fucks your boobs again." I replied.
Holly put her drink down and started laughing. "You're jealous." She said. "You're jealous of some anomalous drunk who couldn't get laid in a whore house. Now that's funny."
I hate being stupid. Getting mad at Harry for looking at the best chest on planet Earth was ludicrous. Christ, any guy who didn't get an eyeful was either gay or blind.
"Sorry." I said as I finished my fourth beer. "Let's get out of here before another freak of nature corners us."
With that we said our goodbyes and left to the great do-whop sound of Dion and the Belmonts singing, "A Teenager In Love." All oldies, all the time.
Once outside we fondled our way to the cars. "I'll follow you." I said. As an after thought I asked, "Do we need anything?"
"Just your hard-on." She replied.
"Perfect." I replied.
Troy Winfield was slowly regaining consciousness. His first sensation was smell. The pungent odor of incense. As he struggled to tell his brain to open his eyes, he began to register a flickering through the membrane of his lids. He was in a fire. That revelation supplied the adrenalin he needed to open and look. What he saw was a ceiling. The fire was candles, dozens of candles, everywhere within his limited vision.
Reality two. He was in a bed, on his back. He tried to lift his right hand to rub his eyes. He could not. His hands and his feet were not going anywhere.
Troy Winfield was naked, spread eagle and hand cuffed to metal rings on each corner of the bed. He began coming around rapidly now. He looked at the walls. On them were anchored all kinds of weird devises made of metal or wood. There were lots of chains and ropes dangling from them. One was a cross, a real cross, for God's sake! There were no windows. His heart started racing, he could not breathe. No, he could breathe, but not through his mouth. With the tip of his tongue he felt something sticky over his lips. Tape? Where in the name of heaven was he? Better yet, how had he gotten here?
Troy is 28 years old, married and the father of two small children. He lives in San Diego where he is a West Coast sales rep for a large Japanese electronics company. He is a good husband and father. He had advanced in his field at a rapid pace. He attended church on Sunday. By all accounts, he is a good person. So, what is he doing here?
That was the question Troy asked himself as he lay exposed, on a bed, in a room that looked like some set from a really bad horror movie. He was remembering. This was his biweekly trip to L.A. Yes, he was in Los Angeles. That does not mean he is still here, but at last memory he was.
It was Monday night and he had gone down to the bar at the Airport Holiday Inn. He liked a cocktail or two when he was on the road to relax him. He had one more meeting in the morning and was scheduled to fly home at noon. Sitting by himself, he was approached by a woman who asked if she could join him. Normally, he would politely explain that he was married and preferred to be alone to enjoy his drink. But, for whatever reason, he said yes.
What happened next? He was pressing. His mind was a maelstrom of confusion. Think, damnit! She was a slender brunette wearing a conservative dark suit. Yes, he was sure of that part. What else? It was on the dark side, but he registered the fact she was not an attractive woman. Nor was she ugly. Her voice. There was something about her voice. She had ordered a drink, can't remember what, and paid cash for it. Said she was in town on business, something to do with computers. He had offered his reason for being there and talked about his wife and kids. Mundane dialogue. Nothing to indicate it was anything more than two people sharing a table and drinks. Two ships passing in the night. Did she tell him her name? Blank.
Wait. There was one thing. He had gotten up to use the restroom and when he returned she had taken the liberty of buying him another drink. He had not wanted another, but out of politeness accepted it. He drank slowly while she did most of the talking. She talked about nothing. That's it. No matter how hard he tried, any further memories of last night, was it last night? Were gone. He could not even remember finishing the drink.
Troy closed his eyes. Oh, God, who did this and why? Evaluating the situation, scenarios ran through his frantic mind. None of them were good. This was not a practical joke. Someone had gone to great lengths to get him here, wherever here was. The woman had to be involved somehow. He was at a total loss. Trying to attach any reason to this was like doing finite mathematics on an abacus. Fear of the unknown attacks the bravest of men, and Troy was far from brave. He is scared to death.
As his mind begged for answers, he began to hear music. Softly at first then louder and louder until it seemed to fill the room. Eerie music, like chants, but not chants. Stomach churning, eyes tightly closed, Troy prayed he was caught in a phantasm even though he knew he was not.
All he heard was a loud swish instantly followed by a firecracker snap. What he felt was pain. No, it was much more than pain. Troy passed out. The whip had cut directly across his belly, leaving an almost surgical slash that was now bleeding. The person wielding this instrument of torture was, indeed, the woman he had met the night before.
Suzanne Uribe, now known as Mistress Sophia, was as twisted as they come. Since venturing into the wild and wacky world of S&M some six years ago she had taken pain, inflicted on men, to an art form. Only men. They, the entire male population, represented the husband who had physically abused her, taken their three children and left her penniless seven years ago.
Finally settling in the Palms section of West L.A., she had initially taken up this imperious line of work for the money - lots of money. Soon though, she found the pleasure it brought far more rewarding than the financial gains. Her clientele is, of course, all men, most rich, all sickos. Until two nights ago she had been grudgingly content to run her little dungeon and abuse her slaves to any degree they would let her. However, Monday was another anniversary of her divorce and she simply snapped.
Suzanne did not run down to the local Burger King with an assault rifle and kill sixteen innocent people. She did not go screaming wildly into the streets, throwing herself in front of a bus. Suicide was never an option. What she did do was set into motion an insidious plan that had been brewing in her treacherous brain for a very long time. It had worked perfectly and tonight it was culminating. Troy Winfield was a total stranger who just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. His only mistake? He was born a male. The woman once known as Suzanne stood over Troy and seethed. How dare this man have what he claims. How could he sit there and tell her how happy "they" were? Fuck happy in the ass. She went to a stand in the corner and dipped a washcloth into a bowl of water. This asshole wasn't going to pass out on her. No fucking way.
Troy began to come too again. There was something cold and wet on his face. He began shaking his head side to side, trying not only to see but to clear his mind. "Welcome to my office, Mr. Winfield." Sophia said in a controlled voice. Though raging inside, she knew exactly how she wanted to play this game, and for now she had to calm him down. She removed the cloth and stood back. Troy's eyes could not believe the tragicomic sight before him. This was not a dream. It was a world class nightmare!
Hands on her hips, Sophia stood about eight feet to Troy's right where he could see her completely. Her dark hair in a severe bun, she was wearing what looked like a one piece bathing suit made of leather and covered with silver studs. There were two round holes cut in the front from which her small pointed breasts protruded. There was some sort of clamp on each nipple with a silver chain connecting them. Looking down, it was crotch less. The pubic area was shaved clean revealing the slash of her vagina. Black leather boots and arm bands completed her look. She was not a K-Mart shopper.
Troy was hyperventilating again. He tried to tell her with his eyes to remove the tape. "Calm down my precious." She said. "If Sophia takes that off, will you not talk? Not say one word?" Although her physical appearance had been greatly altered, he now recognized the voice. He nodded in compliance. She slowly, thus painfully, removed the tape. He gasped for air.
His face stung, but it was the pain on his belly that now got his attention. It was throbbing. He had so many questions, but dare not speak. She did. "We had such a nice talk last night that I was sure you wanted to know me better. Now, if you just do exactly what I say we can have some real fun and then you can go home to your wife and kiddies. Would you like that, Troy? Just nod." He did.
"But first there's a little matter about last night. You see, I wasn't completely honest with you. I don't really deal in computers. Are you upset?" All Troy could do was think about Jessica Walter in "Play Misty for Me." He shook his head. "Good. Now, you just lay there and relax while Sophia makes you feel better." Like he could feel worse.
As she bent down to lick the semi-coagulated blood off his belly, Troy allowed himself to feel hope. There was no doubt this woman was certifiable, a total psychotic, but that did not mean she was a murderer. If he could just keep his cool, she may ultimately do as she says. His thoughts moved back to his belly. The long lapping strokes of her tongue actually felt good. The pain was subsiding.
She lied about being in computers. No shit. Computers. As ones brain often does, Troy's, at this incomprehensible point in time, jumped its track and went to computers. He remembered where he had seen "people" like Mistress Sophia, or whatever her name was. On the Internet.
Like most people, especially men, who "surf the net", Troy had wandered into the adult sites. This was, of course, done late at night with the family in bed, but done nonetheless. Without even trying he had found pictures so hardcore, so bizarre, that he could not believe anybody would even pose for them. On the other hand, much of what he found turned him on and further, opened his mind to sexual fantasies previously unimaginable. He had actually fantasized about having his wife tie him up, much like this, and do all kinds of crazy things to his body. But it was nothing more than a fantasy, as he would never suggest it and she would never hear it. Then an old saying popped into his head. Be careful what you wish for, you might get it.
"Do you eat pussy?" Sophia had stopped licking and was wiping her mouth with the washcloth. The question came from left field and caught Troy dumbfounded. "Do you eat pussy?" She asked again. His wife likes that a lot. Of course he does. He nodded. She swung around facing his feet and straddled his head. Sat right down on his mouth she did. "Eat." She said. He obeyed.
Troy had never had a woman who shaved, and oddly enough his first thought was how good it felt on his face. As his tongue began to work her clit, his second thought was how good she tasted. Strawberry? She tasted like strawberries.
This is insane. Through all the fear, all the pain, he was getting aroused. He actually struggled to get his arms loose so he could touch her. He wanted to feel her naked thighs, grab her breasts. He was conscious of all this. Damn, he thought. When it comes to sex we really are like wild animals. Here he was, without a clue of his fate, eating some crazy woman's pussy, and sporting a full erection. Oh, Dorothy, I'm a very long way from Kansas.
As she did small rotations on his face, Sophia found herself enjoying this. It was not part of the plan, but a little deviation was allowed. Too bad she couldn't keep him - like a pet. No, she committed fully when she drugged this guy and convinced some dumb bus boy to help her get her drunk husband into the car. She knew exactly how it would end. There could be no deviation there.
As Troy licked and sucked, she started bending forward, caressing his torso as her head moved toward his crotch. She took him in her mouth. Troy thought, how could she do this and not let me go? She was great! His wife gave oral sex like she was eating a hot dog. God, he was going to come! She stopped dead.
In one fluid motion, Sophia was standing next to the bed. "I don't want you to cum yet, and you will always do what I want." She was not even breathing heavy. Troy was panting like a dog. "Do you know why you are here?" Finally, he thought. He shook his head. "I'm going to kill you." Troy's heart stopped as did his erection. "Just kidding." She said as she turned and walked out of the room.
Reality check. Troy was scared again. Real scared. He was being played like a saloon piano. A yo-yo for a yo-yo. Trapped in a netherworld, the prisoner of some mental case with all the permissiveness of an IRS agent. Jeez, who said humanity's worst suffering is self-inflicted. They should be here. His thoughts were back to not what he will do when she lets him go, but to will she let him go period. She left the tape off. Should he scream for help? He knew in his heart that would be like throwing a drowning man a rubber duck. He had to play it out.
This time he saw her come in. She was holding something behind her back. As she approached the bed, her left hand came forward revealing a tube of something. Whatever was in the other right hand was placed between Troy's legs, he could not see it. Sophia sat on the edge of the bed and began putting lotion from the tube on her hands. She reached over and began masturbating Troy. Again, without a conscious thought, he got hard. Her hand moved all over his penis and balls. A finger went into his ass. Like her mouth, her hands had all the right moves. Troy's brain was abysmal. He was losing it. Again, she got him right to the brink and stopped.
Wiping her hands on the now well used washcloth, Sophia looked directly into Troy's eyes and asked, "Do you believe in God?" He nodded. "Good." She replied. And with that she straddled him again, this time sliding his cock into her. It was the first time Troy had been fucked by a woman facing backwards. Fuck him she did. Up and down, never missing a beat, all the while her fingers were kneading his balls. He could not hold it and she did not make him. He came.
As Troy was lost in that special feeling only a climax can bring, Sophia picked up the scalpel from between his legs and cut his scrotum wide open. In a heart beat she reached in and literally ripped his balls out. She spun around and waved them in his face. For Troy, it all happened so fast that nothing registered. His brain was, for the instant, on hold. Sophia was screaming insanely, "You miserable fucking piece of dog shit! Divorce me, will ya! Well, fuckface, how much of a man are ya now?"
Troy still didn't have a clue what the bloody mess in her hand was. He did know that all the memory of his climax was gone and a new sensation was overwhelming him. It was pain. Oh, God, more pain.
"I'm going to send you back to your whore wife and little fucklings in a bag, you cocksucking bastard." Her voice was piercing. In sheer terror, Troy screamed, "Why?"
"I told you not to talk!" She shoved his balls into his mouth. He gagged. She cut his throat from ear to ear.
After the initial fiasco our night had been fairly routine. There are a lot of units in this area so sometimes it works that way. One burglary, two stolen car reports and a disturbance call. It was looking like I'd have no problem getting in an hour fortyfive at the Lizard when the shit hit the fan - again.
We were cruising Manchester, minding our own business, when this big Lincoln Towncar limo goes past us about sixty. I'm thinkin' the driver must be Stevie Wonder. Granted, somebody had cannibalized the light bar off this wreck, but its still black and white and has big numbers n' shit all over it. Biff looks at me, I look ahead at the limo's tail lights, it swerves, we're fucked. "Sickum', Danno."
Biff floored it and I almost hit my head on the dash. Shit, the last time this fucker had a tuneup Merv Griffin was still in the closet. It spit and sputtered, wheezed and coughed, finally picking up speed as the limo was a good mile ahead of us.
"Let's bail out." Biff said. "Call for another unit or the bird."
"Fuck that." I said, getting more pissed by the second. "You catch that jack-off or I'll have your head on a platter."
My temper was no longer in check. One unit trashed by some dweeb slug drunk, forced to ride in this miserable piece of shit, I wasn't going to let some rich cocksucker blow me off the road.
At least this idiot was stopping for lights. Running on at least six of eight cylinders, we were gaining ground.
"How are we going to pull him over with no lights?" Biff asked. That was the least of my worries and besides, maybe the siren works.
"Just drive." I yelled.
Within striking distance, I see a head of flowing blond hair come from the moonroof. A hand comes up releasing a piece of white material. It lands in the street in front of us. It's a bra, a fucking bra. Now there's two bare feet sticking up on either side of the blonds head. We're not a hundred yards behind them and although they've slowed down to fifty between lights, there is no indication they know we're back here.
"Damn." Said Biff. Like a jack-in-the-box, up pops this big titted red head, visible from the waist up, and she's naked. Another piece of clothing flies from the roof.
"Oh, my aching genitals. What have we here?" I said to no one.
This was a first, even for me. Should we pull them over before somebody gets killed, or wait to see where this traveling road show is going to end up?
"Should I try the siren?" Asked Biff. At least he finally remembered it may have one.
"Not yet." I replied. "But run the plate." He did.
While waiting for a response I told him, why I don't know, "Remember, when bating a mouse trap, always leave room for the mouse. I can see us getting a whole heard of meece's here." I was still plenty pissed, but curiosity had been added to the equation.
The naked red head was back in the car and now a shirtless black guy was poking through the hole with a bottle in his hand. A long white leg was also visible. Report on the plate came back no wants or warrants. I saw a car in the oncoming lane swerve. Other motorists were paying more attention to the limo than their driving. Game over. I flipped the switch for the siren and whatta' know, it worked.
At first the limo did not slow. There could be two reasons for that. One being the driver doesn't believe we're real cops or two, they were getting things in order. My guess is the latter. These folks were not on their way to a revival meeting. We know there's several people, at least one a naked lady, and an open bottle of alcohol in there. God knows what else. A real mixed bag of tricks. The driver began to slow and ease over to the right curb. He stopped in front of a bowling alley. A limo in front of a bowling alley. Ah, the Nuevo-rich.
We stopped behind them. Normally the cop driving would approach the driver of the suspect vehicle and the partner would take the right flank position. I'm not normal.
"Cover me." I said. "I'm takin' the front."
We already had all the probable cause we needed to unload this cattle barge right into the street. I hadn't decided to do that yet. Gun at ready I approached from the left rear. The moonroof had been closed and the windows were too dark to see into. I saw the drivers window was down and I could see part of his face in the rear view mirror. All I could tell was that he was white. I glanced back at Biff who was like a coiled snake. Better than being asleep I guess.
I didn't have to ask. His drivers licence was in his left hand ready to hand to me. Ignoring it, I shined my light into the car and saw nothing threatening.
"Sir, could you get out of the car please?" I'm thinking, fuck with me asshole so those will be the last nice words I'll have to say to you. He didn't disappoint me.
He sat there and said. "Look, officer, here's my licence. Give me my ticket and let's be on our way."
"Put both hands on the top of the wheel and freeze asshole!" I yelled. At that Biff's gun was no longer pointing down, but at the back of the car. "Call for back up." I yelled. Too busy with this fuck to see if he did.
The driver responded, but not fast enough for me. "Okay, now unlock the back doors and open this one with your left hand. Then get the fuck out!"
Looking straight ahead, the driver said slowly, "All I was doing was speeding. Since when is that cause for you to get rough with me? I'm only doing my job." This prick was stalling me.
Here I go. "You ain't seen rough yet." In one motion I moved my gun to my left hand and reached in the window with my right. Clasping Mr. Cool by the back of the neck I drug him half out the car, his belly across the window frame. Things were starting to happen real fast. He took a swipe at me with his right hand. I'll let the A.C.L.U. sort this one out. I responded with the butt of my gun on the back of his head. After a loud moan, he hung like a rag doll.
Two steps to the back door. It was locked. I got away from the window and yelled, "Open this fuckin' door and get out now!"
From inside I heard, "Bitch, don't open that!" Probably the nigger with the bottle. Too late. The sound of the electric door locks was all I needed.
Using the jamb for some protection, I ripped open the left rear door and yelled again, "Everybody freeze!" My adrenalin level was through the roof. Years of experience and bad surprises were flashing thought my mind. My curiosity may have bit me in the ass this time.
"Whoa, officer. Don't shoot." Came from the darkness of the rear seat.
"Do you have any weapons?" I shouted. My voice was already getting hoarse. There was a pause.
"Just a knife, officer." Just a knife I thought.
"Throw it out, now." A big switch blade clanged onto the street. All the while I'm glancing back at the unconscious driver because I can't leave this to cuff his ass.
"How many people in there?" I yelled, not quite so loudly.
"Uh, nine." Was the reply. Nine?
"Okay. Nice and slow. Open the other door and everybody get out one at a time."
You've seen those cars at the circus where the clowns keep piling out and you wonder how they all got in there. Well, we had our own variation of that act right here on beautiful Manchester Boulevard in front of the Bali High Bowl. What we also had was a diverse crowd forming from within the building. I really don't like crowds, especially ones that bowl.
"Silkwood. You call for back up?" I finally remembered to ask.
"Yea." He yelled.
"Okay, these jerks are comin' out your side. There's nine of ‘um. Line the whole bunch on the wall over there." I told him. Pointing to the front wall of the building. "I gotta' cuff the driver."
Carefully I moved passed the open door and observed that the bodies within appeared to be in evacuation mode. I also smelled pot. My gun still drawn in my right hand, I cuffed asshole to the door handle with my left. That freed me up to go around the front of the car to the curb side where our clowns were, for the most part, stumbling out onto the sidewalk.
Clowns indeed. One half-dressed white broad with horrid orange hair was already facing the wall. A chubby black woman with huge saggy tits was half way there. Exiting the car with effort was the blond who's head we'd seen out the top. Her clothes were a mess, but at least she was covered. Not bad if you cleaned her up, I thought. She's probably with the ring master. I walked back to the open door. Should have called for back up sooner, I thought. Another fine mess I've gotten myself into.
Once I was in position, Biff holstered his gun and was instructing our prisoners on what to do at the wall. The fat black bitch had tripped and was on one knee. Somebody from the crowd yelled at us to help her up. Great. A bunch of inbred, pick-up driving bowlers who've probably consumed an average of twelve beers each are going to start shit. Where the fucks my back up? "Silkwood, help the lady to the wall."
Following the blond we see our first male. Young, white, skinny, shirtless and fucked-up. He came out like somebody pushed him. Tripping over his own feet, he sprawled face first on the cement not five feet from the car. He rolled onto his back and started laughing. Had the gravity of the situation not been what it was, I would have laughed too.
"Get over to the wall." I told him. He looked at me and started laughing harder. What next, a clapping seal?
Behind laughing boy was a black guy different than our drinker. He was even more rumpled than the blond. Ugly silk shirt unbuttoned, one shoe on the other nowhere in sight. And, his fly's open. Not quite as fucked-up as the white guy, he stabilized himself before aiming at the wall. Ten tortured steps and he was there assuming the position. No virgin, this one. The crowd clapped like Jordan had just scored in Chicago. At least they weren't throwing anything yet. There was a plaintive cry from the other side of the car.
"Somebody help me!" The driver had come too. Fuck him.
One of the bowlers had wandered around the car and was looking at Ronald Lipowitz. (That was the name on the licence he dropped in the street when I invited him out) He started yelling at us, "Hey, dude, this guy's head's all fucked up." He turned to the crowd. "Cops beat the shit outta' the driver. Call an ambulance."
I could hear Ronnie egging him on, but I couldn't make out what he was saying. The crowd started to rumble. I've heard that crescendo build before and it's not circus music. Too much happening. I need another set of eyes.
Just when I was sure the bowlers were going bad on me a miracle happened. In a heartbeat the mood changed from maniacal too lecherous. Contestant number six was exiting the car and it was the big titted red head who'd flashed everyone from the roof. Up close she was dynamic. She was also naked. Ronnie can eat shit and die. The crowds allegiance to him was gone like a can of corn. There were the wolf whistles and cat calls you'd expect from a group that probably worships Beavis and Butthead. Let ‘um be fools. All I knew was unless they had the worlds largest gang rape in mind, the situation was stabilized for the moment.
Not even shoes. This darlin' was just how I like my women, only not on a sidewalk in front of fifty degenerates. She was none too sober either, but managed to step over the now passed out laughing boy and slowly sway her ass to the wall. She knew exactly what she was doing. Biff was stunned. He watched her like a cat sizing up a canary. I wondered quickly if he'd ever even seen a naked woman. So much I don't know about that boy. Probably because I don't care.
Every guy in the crowd was salivating like a rabid dog. For once I agreed with them. I looked into the car. Now I could kinda' see who's left. Another blond and two more black guys.
"Next one out bring something to cover little red riding hood." I told them. I pointed at what looked like our public drinker. "You, out." He looked at the other two, they said nothing.
"Can I finish gettin' dressed, officer?" He asked.
"I don't give a fuck if your dicks caught in your zipper. Get the fuck out." I yelled over the crowd noise. "And you two, don't bother hidin' anymore of your shit ‘cause we're gonna' tear this fucker down to its frame." You'd thought I'd just told them both their parents were killed in a plane crash.
There was a blanket look of resignation to the fact they were busted. They will either surrender to it or do something stupid. I was ready for either. I gave Biff a quick glance. He was still looking back and forth from the bowlers to the red head. She was still naked, butt hanging out, tits hanging down, as she leaned forward on the wall. I wanted to take her home.
These idiot rednecks weren't going to stay spectators forever. Damn, it's only been seven minutes since we pulled this boat over. Seems like an eternity. The drinker, sobered a little by his situation, opted to grab a coat and weave over to Miss Nude Manchester.
Draping the trench coat over her back was not popular with Billy Joe Bob and his friends. They started booing and making neandrithal noises. As the other black guy got out I was sure this had to be a Candid Camera thing. I couldn't see it in the darkened limo, but he was trying for all he was worth to look like Dennis Rodman. Three tone hair, nose ring, huge lips, Carl's Jr. taboo, the works.
I said to him, "I can't wait to see what kind of drugs we find in here." He too staggered toward the wall.
The up side of this one was another diversion for the hicks. They were all over him like a cheap suit. A siren. Two sirens. We're gonna' get out of this debacle in one piece!
"Okay, Miss Monroe, your red carpet awaits you." I said to the last remaining soul in this rolling rave party. She was another not too shabby blond. Her clothes were all back on, albeit the blouse was backwards. Without ado she, like those before her, swayed to the wall.
Just as I was about to pick up laughing boy, the first cruiser squealed in behind ours. Two officers jumped out and started to run towards us. I can only imagine what this looked like to someone just coming on the scene.
"Jesus Christ, Al. Are you filming a movie here, or what?" Asked Tommy Sanoppoli, another old timer who's stuck with a rookie as he surveyed the wall. The wall. Yep, it looked every bit the line up for a freak show.
Looking down at the faggot, I said, "Help me get this fuck over with the rest." We each took a shoulder and drug him over.
I pointed to the crowd. "Get your partner to heard that bunch of morons back to their balls. Oh, Glad to see ya' Tommy."
"So this isn't a movie, huh?" He asked.
"Could be." I answered. "I'll register my report with SAG."
As Tommy's partner slowly got everybody back in the alley, Biff was putting the plastic ties on our private little zoo. Four pair of cuffs is hardly enough for this menagerie.
"How'd all this happen so fast?" Asked Tommy.
"Between you and me, I was just a tad late callin' it in." I answered.
"What's the red head look like without her cape?" Queried Tommy, who always asks a lot of questions.
"You'd eat her right here." I told him. He wandered closer to the wall.
The second back up stopped in front of the limo and two more kids I didn't know got out. "Tommy. Could you give them something to do while I collect what's left of my thoughts?"
What a fuckin' mess. I walked over to the limo praying to find anything that would allow me to turn this over to narcotics. Me smelling pot is not enough to get those prima donna pricks involved. My point being, if we had to see this all the way through it could be morning before I got home.
"What's up with this guy cuffed to the door?" It was one of the officers I didn't know.
"Forgot all about him." I answered. "The fuck took a swing at me so I had to defend myself. Cut him down and put him over with the rest."
The interior of the car was trashed. David Copperfield couldn't have made all this shit disappear. Fuck all the booze. Unless the drivers drunk, it's not illegal to drink in the back of a limo. I needed something white or green and I'm not talking Christmas ornaments. Without disturbing much, I rummaged thought the rubble until I saw something stuffed down in a high heeled shoe. Hello Lizard! Nine people couldn't get this fucked up and not make mistakes. But this was ridiculous. I pulled out a baggie with a good half ounce of white powder in it. Open, dip the finder, taste. Eureka! Things do go better with coke.
I put the baggie back in the shoe where it was very visible and got out feeling much better about things. I called Tommy over. "This here vehicle contains at least one controlled substance and probably a lot more." I told him.
"No shit." He replied. "Then I guess there's no doubt our friends over there are going to need lawyers."
"Yep. Those are clients lawyers deserve. Same ilk." I said quite seriously.
Tommy laughed. "You really hate them fuckers, don't you?"
"You don't have a clue." I answered.
I called for a tow truck to take the limo to impound. I called for a van to transport our strange catch. In my mind I already had Biff writing the report. I kept looking at the red head thinkin' I'd fuck her brains out. Looking at my watch, it was only 10:41. I can taste the Bud already.
Grants Pass, OR