Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1) (2 page)

June 14
, 2007

Thursday

6:22 PM

2

Every Thursday evening, like clockwork, George Madden chauffeured Edna into Charleston for her weekly prayer meeting. They left early, while it was still light out because George suffered from terrible night blindness. He’d been to the doctor. But, what could the freakin’ doctor do for night blindness? Edna complained. She hated driving. She hated just about anything having to do with an automobile. Then again, Edna complained pretty much about everything. Twenty-two years of marriage.
Martial
bliss, George called it. Oh well, he’d adjusted, or so he kept telling himself. Anyway, about his night blindness. George took the usual precautions. He turned down the rearview mirror to stop the oncoming glare, drove on well-lit roads, and tried using streets with those sparkle-bumps on the divider. What else? Oh yeah, he wore glasses. He damn well better. His vision wasn’t so good any more.

It was a stupid saying, but Edna said it anyway. “George, ya’ got Coke bottles for glasses.” They kind of snickered, not because it was funny or anything, but because she’d been telling him that for some time now. Kind of nostalgic. Even with all the precautions in place that night, nothing was gonna prepare George’s old eyes for the sight they were about to behold.

Edna and George lived about twenty miles outside Charleston in a little community known as Goose Creek. It was a quiet place. Lots of sprawling, two-level rental complexes equipped with tennis courts, swimming pools and nicely manicured lawns. The developers wanted the tenants to feel like they were getting something for their money. They enjoyed it all right. Anyway, they were driving into the City, passing by the usual scenery – strip malls, movie theaters and restaurants. George remembered Edna saying something about wanting to try a new fast food joint that just recently popped up. A movie star had opened up a whole slew of them. Edna sure enjoyed her movie stars. She read all about them in one of those supermarket gossip magazines.
The Globe. The Enquirer.
George remembered saying something like, “Yeah, yeah,” because Edna also loved eating. Out. She used to be one hell of a cook back when the kids were home. Now those pots and pans just hung above the stove and collected dust. Money flew right out the window on a account of them eating out every night.

George dropped Edna off at the church located on Meeting Street, not far from the University. He pecked at her cheek and watched her skedaddle across the concrete pavement to the entrance of The Circular Congregation Church. Her big ass created tidal waves underneath her flowery, floor-length skirt. It looked more like a tent to George.

Oh Edna, when did you get to be so… big?

George was proud to mention, perhaps even brag a bit, that he’d maintained
his
same weight since being discharged from the military back in the late sixties.

Seeing Edna’s large ass wiggle like a Jell-O mold got George’s blood going.

George, why don’t you treat yourself tonight and go out to that Pussy Place out on Old Towne Road?

Entrance was dirt cheap. Besides, why not? Won’t be long before George’s ass was seated in a booth at some chain restaurant watching Edna stuff her fat face anyway.

Oh, hell yeah, that’s what I’ll do!

Before George could count to three, that old Buick Regal seemed to have a mind all its own and was steering itself right over Memorial Bridge. Yep, tonight George was going in search of a little action.

On the radio, George was listening to that song…
“If I can’t have you, I don’t want nobody baby, if I can’t have you…”
… just singing along as he drove, having himself one hell of a good time. It was getting darker though and Old Towne Road had a stretch of highway up ahead that was pretty isolated. Hell, somebody could get lost out here if they weren’t paying attention. There weren’t a lot of street lights either. Darkness was landing on George faster than a Boeing 747. He started getting a little jumpy. He sat upright in his seat and adjusted his glasses. He flicked down the rearview mirror and prayed for a speck of white, a dot of relief. Some kind of light. Pink neon sure would be nice. What was the name of that place? “Pink Pussy?” Or maybe “Pussy Palace?” Hell, he knew it had
pussy
in it. Off the record, George didn’t want anybody getting the wrong idea. He didn’t do this a lot. Not every day, anyway. Sometimes, he even missed a week or two.
Sometimes.

A neon sign came blasting into view right in the nick of time. A blessing. The place was called “Silk Stockings.” If he hadn’t come upon it soon, he was about ready to do a u-turn and head right straight back to Edna. Mother. Guilt. He hated it. But forget about all that now. He was here! Soon he’d be lost in a lush oasis of luscious smelling booty before he could count to ten.

He parked the Buick in the rear, next to a reeking dipsey-dumpster. Smelled like shit, but he preferred it. He didn’t like flashing his dirty laundry around. Besides, it wasn’t nobody’s damn business anyway. He had yet to witness somebody
he
knew out here.
Strange, huh?
And, if he did, what would they have on him? Nothing! So fuck ‘em! That’s what he would say.
Whooo hooo!
George was in a mood tonight! Watch out “Pussy Palace,” or whatever the hell the name was.

He paid his money at the door and strolled into the place like he owned it. In the background, the DJ Herb was talking shit, as usual.

“For your credit card, you can have a private lap dance with Candy Cane in the Champagne Lounge…”

George liked Candy. She was nice and all, but for a hundred bucks he wanted something more than a lap dance. Besides, he played it safe. He left all his credit cards at home. Just in case the urge fell upon him. He got into trouble once with that. Never again. Instead, he moseyed up to the bar.

The bartender swiveled a napkin in front of him. “How’s it goin’ George?”

A lot of really nice people worked here. Sonny was one of them. “Can’t complain, can’t complain.”

“Usual?”

“Damn, you’re good. For somebody who don’t come in here a whole hell of a lot, you sure do have a good memory.”

Sonny twisted open a miniature bottle of some panther-piss vodka. He poured it into a tall glass. George didn’t pay for premium. Why waste money on advertising? Sonny passed George a vodka and tonic. No fruit.

“It’s my business, George.” Sonny turned and headed to the other end of the bar. It was a big bar, too, the size of a football field. George turned his attention to the stage. He sure didn’t want to stare at Sonny’s big ass. He saw enough of that at home.

Edna…

Linda was performing at the moment. All the girls working the place were stacked. George whistled. He gave a holler. He wanted to let the girls know he was here. That he was coming. He’d bet one of his monthly social security checks that every last one of  ‘em could go to New York City and dance on Broadway if they wanted to. If the right person were to come in and discover them. He took a slurp of his drink. The tonic tickled the straggly hairs in his nose. Sonny poured a good, strong one. That was important to George. It took the edge off.

“Hi, Georgie.” Sandra passed by. She brushed his crotch. She was wearing a pink thong that slid all the way up her naked ass.

“Whoa’ down there horsey.” He gave her a flick with his finger. Sometimes the girls got a bit too forward. George didn’t like that. He wanted to be the one in charge. In control. Let Georgie make the decisions for a change. At least for tonight. “All right, Sandra?” She paid him no mind. She went right on about her business, stopping every so often at a table to deposit a beer or sit on somebody’s lap.

George called out for Sonny and asked for some change. Leaving a fifty cent tip on the bar, George hightailed it toward the runway. “Thanks, Sonny.” He threw the change into an empty champagne bucket. It jingled a lonely death as George moved to his favorite spot, right up close to the stage. All the girls knew George, knew he was a good tipper. “Preferred customer,” they called him. They all possessed a sixth sense about those who carried the cash, the money, the green.

Linda was moving like water. Not one ripple of fat on her. So smooth the way she undulated in and out. Sweet motion. He took out a single bill and folded it neatly in half. Linda got a whiff. She played all seductive in front of him, pursing her lips, touching her pussy, rubbing her nipples. George’s pecker went petrified. Glad to know it still existed.
No shit!
Linda bent over backwards for that blasted one dollar bill
.
George passed her an extra buck for
that
move. She took the bill

and
stuck it in her lacy garter, way up high on the inside of her leg. That beautiful tan thigh. Then, she pivoted on spiked heels and took off after another sniff of green.

George checked out the competition. Some jerk started smoking next to him. George hated smoke, the smell of it, the stench, the way it stunk up his clothes. He picked up his drink and ambled back to the bar. He could have one more cocktail. That was his limit. It was bad enough he had to brush his teeth, spray Chloraseptic into his mouth and eat a pack of Tic-Tacs before picking up the beloved Edna. It was worth it. George hid it under the front seat of the car. In all the years Edna and he had been married, Edna had not once caught on. Not once.
Can you believe it?

By the time George reached the bar, Sonny had already poured him another. They exchanged a few more pleasantries. George passed over his empty glass, and this time, handed Sonny a dollar tip. Sonny smiled. Everybody here worked for the green. The booze was rushing fast to his head. He was feeling a little hot, so he loosened up his collar. He spotted Sandra making her way toward him. Now, he was ready.

“Ready, Freddie?”

Sandra knew his name was George. She slayed him the way she called him that, all cutesy and all. As always, he followed her. She walked down a tiny, dim hallway to the back of the Club. It got darker as they progressed. George took off his glasses. No night blindness here! He tagged along down some stairs, all the while watching Sandra’s ass shimmy. She had long red hair that fell down over her shoulders, all the way to her tiny butt. And for some damn reason, she always wore pink. Pink everything. Always. Never had George ever seen Sandra dressed in any other color. Pink, pink, pink.

Personally, George’s favorite color was blue.

Sandra opened a door. Inside was another entrance with a sign that read: DO NOT ENTER.

They entered into a cramped room with a single bed made up in cheap white sheets. A wooden bedside table sat next to it. It reminded George of Okinawa. When he was in the Army. The only light came from a red globe floating around in a lava lamp. It oozed up and down as George sat on the cot. The mattress squeaked with his weight. He knew the sounds of this bed. He’d memorized the sounds of Sandra.

She pulled a tiny embroidered square cushion out from under the mattress and positioned it between George’s legs. His woody was begging for a little “Sandra attention” about now. Unbuckling his belt she pulled at his zipper exposing George’s boxer shorts.

“I like your undies, Freddie,” she whimpered.

That was George’s cue. He leaned back. He watched the fan move in slow motion on the ceiling. He felt the warmth of Sandra’s mouth. He swallowed hard and stretched his arms back as far as they could go.

Oh, Dear Lord, forgive me my trespasses, as I forgive those…

“Relax, Georgie. You know I love giving you head.”

He fingered her soft hair. Thousands upon thousands of baby fine threads flowed down her naked back. Sweet, sweet movement. She shifted her mouth and allowed her hands to move in tandem, up and down. George got a little embarrassed. He’d like to think his pecker was hung as good as the next guy, but honestly, it wasn’t. Sandra made him feel like it was though. She sure must have one hell of an incredible imagination. That’s all George could think. Sometimes, George fell in love with Sandra. Really. And often, more times than he cared to admit, he fantasized Sandra actually fell in love with him.