- of being the first King of America, and people will think you’re some kind of radical. Guy’s a rapist, a mauler, violently tempered and a plain ol’ jerk. People know it, yet they don’t want to hear it.”
I could see her grappling to control herself. For a moment I thought she might bite the rim off her cup. Finally, she said, “That is so right on.” Again that silky laugh.
Red was most likely the person I’d been hired to ferret out by the store manager, Mr. William Parker Dooley. Or as he called himself, “W. P. Dooley.” Came off my lips as ‘Wimpy Dooley’. Made him blink when I said it.
Dooley had hired me because someone was suspected of seducing customers in his store and then rolling them. I thought his idea silly. But he’d offered me all the books I could read in a year for free. As a P.I., I do a lot of sitting around when on surveillance. That equals a lot of reading. A lot of free books.
I still thought Dooley’s idea was as silly as his name.
So for the past month on my free time I’d come into the store and read. What I started I took home with me. Flash the gold V.I.P. card and it was mine, all mine.
But finally, someone had hit on me. After a month of not being hit on, I had to suspect Red right off. I mean, just hitting on me said something.
“What else do you like to read?” she wondered.
“Anything but romance and books about adultery,” I said.
Again she bit into her cup. I watched her jaw muscles flex like Schwarzenegger’s biceps. Was she tensed by the ‘romance’ or ‘adultery’ jibe.
“Yes, that stuff is so trite. Me, I like anything and everything about the movies. Magazines, books, biographies…all that stuff. I don’t know if I’m suppressing an actor’s ego or just some kind of goofy fan that doesn’t have a life.”
My bet she wasn’t suppressing the ‘actor’ in her. Her act was as smooth as they came. The book in her lap was the Titanic script with pictures and the ‘making-of’ story.
“I was in a movie, once,” I bragged. “Did a little stunt work.”
“Really?!” That perked her up. I told her a little about it.
“So you’re a bodyguard? That’s what you do for a living?”
“When I’m not throwing newspapers,” I lied.
Red was not all that pretty. ‘Cute’ would the be the right term, I guess. A body that would be called plump nowadays, but was actually voluptuous by old standards. Kind of short. The ‘red’ in her hair was suspect, as were the brown eyes. Maybe colored contacts.
That silky laugh was real, though. Women can seduce and fake sex naturally. But her lust was genuine.
I suddenly realized I didn’t know her name. I was used to putting on an act in my job, but I’d never really had to seduce, or allow myself to be seduced before. Gave me a creepy feeling.
But it was a job and somebody had to do it.
“I’m Clyde Klick,” I said, setting the book down and extending a meaty hand across the coffee table intruding between us.
Her handshake was delicate, like a woman’s should be. But I felt the muscle and strength in her hand that she held back.
“I’m Jerri,” she said. “Jerri Fullenpeiter.” She paused, waiting for the retort she’d probably heard since first grade. But I said nothing. With a last name like Klick, I had heard a fair share of distortions of my last name. Kind of funny that I’d ended up a private eye, a ‘Dick’.
“Klick? I kind of like it.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Kind of cool, I always thought.”
We silently shared our little ‘something in common’ in silence, the unusual last names.
“I have a room at the Worthington,” she said. “Would you like to come over and watch Tin Cup with me?”
“One of my favorite flicks,” I said. “Sure.”
Well, she certainly didn’t waste any time. This could be interesting….
SPANK ME
On the way out I picked up the latest Spenser novel by Robert B. Parker, Hush Money. I’d sampled the first few chapters, alternating between it and Testament. I could’ve taken it home earlier in the week. I’d picked up a couple of other jobs recently besides trolling for suspects at the bookstore, though, jobs that were more active than just surveillance.
Hush Money was bouncing back and forth between a couple of plots. Usually an indication the writer is just filling pages. Parker’s last Spenser novel - Spenser is a Boston P.I. that has become the character all other P.I. novels are judged by, mainly ‘cause of the writing, but also that Parker emulates Raymond Chandler’s style…and Spenser is one tough cookie, too - had used this technique. But the subplot was more about Spenser’s relationship with his longtime girlfriend Susan.
The subplot in Money was of particular interest to me. It smacked of a recent case in my own life. A man falsely accused of assaulting his wife had been set up and shot by crooked police officers (Klick and the Black Bitch). The real life villainess was much like KC in Money. An amoral woman with more than one kink in her head, sociopathic perhaps, certainly off-kilter by a board or two. Parker had written a paragraph that was the definition of Lucy Mcguilicuddy. I bought the book to finish it. But I also wanted to write down that paragraph that defined Lucy so well, although it made no judgment about evil. If there was one fault in Spenser’s world, it was that there seemed to be no acknowledgement of evil. Everything was psychological.
I beg to differ. I’d seen evil up close and breathing. A bent mind had nothing to do with heinous acts that had made me puke. It was only an excuse.
A young lass behind the counter took my gold VIP card and scanned it. I’d been flirting with her at every chance. She was freaky-deaky in appearance, something that is common in bookstores everywhere these days. College kids with painted hair, black nails (even on the male employees), long skirts that hid the legs that would certainly be ogled by the average hetero male but could not hide the taught cheeks at the top of those legs, tight blouses with no allowance for cleavage, which itself was hidden by oversized nylon vests that looked like night-robes.
But she had an easy, honest, open smile. I am a sucker for a woman with an easy smile, who doesn’t seem to have a mean bone in her body.
Speaking of, Red really didn’t have a smile. It was a practiced flip, like a light switch. An empty laugh.
But she reeked of sex.
Seeing us flirt, Red hooked her arm in mine, gave a look of ice at the clerk. Even though that glare wasn’t aimed at me, I felt a chill run down from spine to my heels.
The young lady looked down and didn’t even say so much as a thanks. “Next.”
* * *
It was a slight stroll to the Worthington Hotel, a block and a half. Inside, the foyer consumes two floors of empty space above and seems a football field long. Fancy smancy. I knew Chan had suite here so he’d be close to his office on long nights, but had never been over.
There were gloved doormen on duty, and a consignor lurking about. A restaurant on the second floor spans Houston Street. I made a note to dine there one night, maybe take Vicki.
In the elevator Red, Jerri, snuggled close to me, brushing my pecs with her breasts. I looked down just as she looked up. Our lips met.
I meant it to be a casual kiss, but Jerri jabbed her tongue through my lips. It was like a shark attack. I had to respond.
Jerri clung to me, insinuating her body onto me like a snake writhing around its prey. The aroma of sex flooded the elevator.