Chapter 8
J.B's SCHEME
After I finish puttin' the blocks to Shirley, I clean her up a little. There ain't no blood, so I know she ain't hurt too bad. But, I gotta leave her like she is, so's she don't tip off the mob, and I don't want some horny cop motherfucker to walk in and find her opened up like she's a Christmas package.
I put her panties back on, then find a pair of long PJ bottoms. She looks up at me sorta thankful like. Dames! Like I said, they're ah Daffy as hell. Sighing, I patted her on the tit, kissed her a quick one, and headed for the phone. She'd be lucky. Since she told me everything, she'd go free. Of course, I wouldn't tell under what circumstances she spilled the frijoles, and told her so. She looked at me the way a dog looks at its master. Whata ya gonna do, man? Huh? No one's ever found any better fuckin', so I guess we're just stuck. I hear that sheep deal up in Montana ain't what it was cracked up to be. Turned out to be propaganda put out by a guy from Brooklyn. Figures.
I called Holly. He wasn't in. The guy on the phone said they had a hot lead on the guy who'd let his dog shit on the Mayor's sidewalk, an' all the cops were out running him down. It figured.
I left a message for Holly. Told him where to find Shirley, and gave the address Shirley'd given me. Then I went out and started that all day sucker game again. Tryin' to find a hack in the friggin' city. I got lucky again. Got one in less than an hour. Guess I just must be living right. What with running around guarding and protecting everyone's moral fiber like I been doing. See! It does pay off.
While the cab snaked its way uptown, I thought about the rest of the things the guy at the station house had told me. It seems that at first reports it was thought the hound was a Chihuahua. But the lab boys did their tricks, and it turned out the culprit was a Wire Haired Poodle, with aggressive tendencies.
When they had thought it was a Chihuahua, His, Honor had decided to lead the hunt. But when the later reports came through, he'd decided to coordinate the attack from a central command post, from atop the Empire State building. After all, His Honor was too important a personage to take chances. His aides confirmed that.
The TV boys were probably there too. Shit. If I had any fucking sense, that's where I'd be too. After all, that was news, and all this running around, guarding and protecting the public moral fiber was just so much horseshit. His Honor confirmed that. But, I was stoically determined to do my duty. Besides, I wanted to get a look at them dirty pictures J.B. and Karl had taken.
Now don't get me wrong. It was all in the interest of guarding and protecting your moral fiber. After all, we wouldn't want any of them falling into the hands of you poor, innocent, uninformed, idiot members of the public, would we? Spiro Who? And Dicky-boy, too. Forbid. Ah well. All in a days work.
At last, and after circling Central Park three times, my friendly, courteous New York Taxi Driver pulled up in front of the address I'd given him. It was a couple of doors away from where Shirley had told me J.B. had set up.
"Dat'll be Nineteen-ninety-five, and don' forget de tip, bub," my Brooklynese cabbie sneered. So, I gave him his Nineteen-ninety-five, plus the customary one hundred and fifty percent tip. Then I began stalking my quary. I was hot on the trail, and dedicated in my mission to guard and protect the moral ... Awww! Fuck that shit. I jus' wanted to get a look at them duty pictures.
As I walked into the camera shop, a ninety-nine-year-old degenerate walked up to me. I was suspicious of him right off. I can tell a degenerate son-of-a-bitch two subway stops off.
"May I help you?" said the degenerate.
"Yea," I parted, thinking fast. "I'd like to see that." I pointed to something behind him. When the degenerate mother turned around to see what it was, I neatly Judo chopped him. As he sagged to the floor, trying to throw me off guard by mumbling something about being robbed, I whacked him another one. He was quiet.
Dragging him behind a counter, I headed for the back. Sure enough, just as Shirley had said, behind a curtained off doorway, I found a projector, screen, and several cans of film. A quick inspection revealed that there was no one else in the place. I threaded the machine, flipped it on, and watched the depraved drama unfold before me. Just as I had suspected. It was a trimmed, carefully edited version of one of the crapper busts. This particular one I didn't recognize. But I was shocked to find that everything that had happened to him had been expertly filmed.
The cameraman-editor-printer combination was a man of high skill. In fact, he was nothing short of expert. I had a new respect for this Karl guy. I figured he must have been the one I saw at J.B.'s degenerate party. Yea, the guy really knew what he was doing all right.
The face, body, and assorted parts of the victim stood out in bold relief, indelibly inscribed in living color. However, the facial features of his attackers had been adroitly faded out so that the viewer saw only a vague blur. It would make identification absolutely impossible. I had already figured that out too. But, of course, where the lips played a part in the action, they had been carefully preserved. Diabolically clever. Fiendish in its simplicity, and devastating in its effect.
No matter what else I might think of J.B., he was one hell of a shrewd bastard. Tricky too. After watching through the first reel, and in the interest of gathering evidence, I put on another reel. This time I recognized the star as none other than our Mr. Purdy. But, from what I saw on the film, it looked nothing like he had described it. By the time Karl had finished editing the damned thing, it almost looked like Mr. Purdy was cooperating, not struggling.
If his wife ever got a look at that flick, you goddamn well can bet she'd never believe his story about gettin' raped in the men's crapper. Of course, that's what it was all about in the first place. Mr. Purdy and the others weren't to be the victims. Just the Guinea pigs. But the same principle would apply to the intended victims. Devilishly clever. Definitely the product of a depraved, degenerate mind.
By the time I'd finished looking at five other reels, all in the interest of gathering evidence for the police of course, I began to get bored. Too bad that hadn't happened earlier.
"All right motherfucker! Lift 'em high."
At once I recognized the hard, cold voice of Eddie. He and Vito had snuck in while I'd been busy gathering evidence. The little old ninety-nine-year-old degenerate was standing beside them, rubbing the back of his neck. He glared at me.
"That's him. He's the one. Came in here, tricked me and while my back was turned, he clipped me," accused the angry little man, pointing a finger at me. Not only was he a degenerate, but he was also a fink.
"Think yer pretty smart, eh?" chortled Eddie. Beside him, also holding a mean looking gun, Vito sneered at me. "Well smart guy, it ain't gonna do ya no fuckin' good. We got ways of dealin' with people like you. Vito here. He likes takin' care of wise asses that don't know enough to mind dere own business. Don' 'cha Vito?" Vito's sneer broadened, and he took a step toward me.
"Yea. dats righ' Eddie. I likes tak'n care o' wise asses like dis fuckin' ree-porta' Fac', I knows jus' de place for his scrawny ass. Won' fin' him fo' two, maybe free years," Vito snarled.
"Hear dat, big shot reporter? Hear what Vito here wants ta do wi't ya? Huh? Ya like dat, ya wise cocksucker, ya?" Eddie was gettin' himself pretty worked up. He hadn't forgotten, I could see that.
"Now look you guys," I chimed in quickly. I hadda stall for time. No tellin' how long Holly might be tied up with his other caper. Even when he got back, if d take time before he got my "Urgent! Notify at Once" message. Maybe two, three hours. If they got it to him in a hurry. If not, he might not even get it 'til tomorrow. I was really in a fix.
"Shaddup, punk!" intoned Eddie, taking a threatening step in my direction. "When I wan' somethin' outa you, I'll slap it out. Unnderstan'?"
Eddie had thrust his face up against mine. His garlic flavored breath almost knocked me over, and as I fought for breath, I was unable to scold him for addressing a dedicated guardian and protector of the public moral fiber, in such a disrespectful manner. In short, I was almost ready to puke. These silly mothers would as soon kill my happy ass as look at it. Remembering what I'd pulled on him at the party, I realized that Eddie would do it sooner.
"Now, punk," Eddie spat at me. "How'd ya fin' dis place? Huh? C'me on, talk, or I'll wrap dis fuckin' jack 'round her fuckin wise ass head." With that, Eddie produced one of the meanest, biggest looking blackjacks I'd ever seen.
Deciding that my best bet would be to stall, and at the same time try to throw him off the track, I said, "Shirley told me."
"All right. Everyone freeze. Anyone even quivers in the wrong direction, and I'll blow his fucking brains all over the East River."
It was Holly. The son-of-a-bitch had made it after all. He was standing behind Eddie and Vito, his own gun pointed right at their backs. Man, let me tell you. I was never so glad to see anyone in my whole damned life. I coulda kissed the ugly bastard.
Eddie took one look behind him, spotted the two other cops, also with drawn guns, and dropped his own-on my toe. The bastard. Vito, also glomming the scene, followed Eddie's example and dropped his gun-also on my toe. Man, like I been tellin' you. It ain't easy bein' a dedicated guardian and protector of the public moral fiber. Shit. I hadn't even had a chance to cop one of those reels of dirty pictures before the cops showed up.
"All right. Suppose some one tells me what the hell's going on here," said Holly, his voice indicating complete bafflement.
"Like I tol' ya in my message Holly. This is the setup for the Crapper Caper. Everythings here. All the evidence." I indicated the projector, screen, and rolls of film with a sweeping gesture.
"What message," Holly asked, genuinely puzzled. Then with a pained expression he added, "You ain't been smoking that stuff again have ya, Johnny?"
"Ya mean ya didn't get my message?" I asked, equally puzzled.
"Nope," answered Holly, shaking his head.
"Then what the hell ya doin' here, not that it really matters. You probably just saved my life, that's all."
"Well, we was comin' back from the Great Dog Shit caper, when His Honor spots that car out there parked by a fire hydrant. He ordered us to tow it off, and I just came in here to use the phone. Some punk kids swiped the radio outa the car."
"Jeez!" I wheezed, feeling my knees getting weak. Actually I shouldn't have been too surprised. After all, once a depraved, degenerate, disspoiler of the public moral fiber, these arch fiends always move on to more serious crimes ... like parkin' in front of fire hydrants.
"O.K., O.K., so what's the pitch. Tell me what happened," Holly insisted. At the same time, he indicated for the other two policemen to take Eddie and Vito out to the car. I was glad to see them go. I hoped they'd get six months.
"Well, Holly, while I was sitting in on your briefing for the Great Dog Shit Caper it hit me. All those crimes we've been investigating have been nothing but practice runs. Gettin' ready for the pay-off. The real clue came when I realized where I'd seen the crescent shaped scar before." I lit a cigarette with trembling hands and went on with my explanation, which, of course, you have already figured out.
"Remember that night you called me, and said Tina, out in Queens had something to tell us?" Holly nodded.
"Well, just shortly before that, I'd been discussing something with a co-worker, and while we were talking I'd noticed that she had a slight crescent shaped scar on her ankle. Also, she'd made me a little suspicious by something she'd said."
"What'd she say? No?" Holly asked snidely. If it hadn't been for the fact that he'd just saved my life, I'd have left him up in the air. Instead, I pretended not to hear him.
"Anyway, later it all came back to me. Also, I got the last clue today at the office. It was a notice that there was gonna be a Baptist Preachers of the Western Hemisphere Convention in town tomorrow. That tied in perfectly with what Tina had told us. Also, I knew it was something that would appeal to J.B. It was perfect, and the Crapper Caper's tied in too."
"How," Holly inquired enigmatically.
"Simple, flatfoot. At the convention there would be over a thousand of the top Baptist preachers on this side of the globe. And, they would each have at least a hundred or more smaller churches under their direct supervision. Beginning to get the picture?"
Holly just shook his head, and leaning forward, sniffed at my breath, then said, "Ya sure you ain't been smokin' that stuff again?"
I hurried on. Holly was beginning to bug me.
"Well, flatfoot, a little simple arithmetic will tell you, even you, I might add, that one thou, times a big 'C is a hundred thou. Dig? I mean, ya even gettin a sniff of the caper yet?"
Disgusted, I hurried on again. I was getting pretty damned tired of this kinda bullshit. "Well, from the reels in those cans, you can see that what J.B. planned was to frame all them preachers. Yea. All of 'em. The whole friggin thou. He'd got himself an organization of 'bout thirty cuz, and they was all well trained. That's why we was gettin' so many complaints lately. They was really practicing up.
"Anyway, he was gonna take the flicks of them, doctor 'em up, or rather, have Karl do it, so that it would look like the preacher boys was having a little fun onna side."
"Then, with the phony photographic evidence to back him up, J.B. was gonna put the squeeze on the padres. Can ya figure it man? If he only demanded a lousy ten quid a week from each one of them, that amounts to over a cool million, baby. A cool, fuckin' million. Dig it now? Huh? And, let's face it. J.B. wasn't no lousy ten quid a week piker. Hell no. Why, the way he probably had it figured, this shake down racket was good for five, ten, maybe even fifteen mil a week. That, buddy boy is real dough. Right?"
At last Holly began nodding his head. I was finally getting through to him. Scratching the back of his head, he let out a low, long, whistle.
"It all sounds pretty good, Johnny. There's just one thing. What's to keep these preachers from squawking to us about this shake down? Huh? What happens if they blow the whistle?"
I shook my head in disgust. And, all along I'd thought Holly was a pretty sharp cop. No wonder J.B. was almost getting away with this caper.
"Holly, baby," I said patiently. "Can ya picture this for a minute, baby. I mean, ya gotta think of who yer talking about. Ya ain't talking about no ordinary mortals. Yer talking about big, bad, Baptist preachers, man."
"I mean, keeping in mind how uptight these cats are, can you just feature one of 'em going home, then standing up before his flock and saying; Friends! A funny thing happened to me while I was in the wicked City. I went back to my room, and these three beautiful cuz's flung me to the floor, unzipped me, and...."
Well friends, Holly finally got another car, took Eddie and Vito to jail, and confiscated the evidence at the camera shop. Eddie and Vito? They got thirty days apiece ... for parking beside a fire hydrant. The rest of the charges were dropped due to lack of evidence.
J.B. skipped the country before we could get to him. I figure he'll lay low for a couple of months, until the heat's off then one day I'll pick up the paper and read where he's throwing another degenerate shindig, to which incidentally, I won't be invited.
Karl? He's teaching a class in creative filmmaking at one of the bigger colleges on a government grant. Actually I'm kinda glad it worked out that way. Ya just gotta admire a guy that's aces in what he does. Even if it's making dirty pictures. Right?
Purdy, the others, and the Baptist preachers all had a
"Come on, Holly. Think! Can ya really picture something like that. An' don' forget. This uptight preacher cat has got his even more uptight ol' lady to contend with. Tell me, Holly, baby. If you was in his shoes, what would you do? Huh?"
At last the logic of it began to filter through. Actually, ya can't be too hard on Holly. I mean, he ain't like been around like me. What with guarding and protecting the public moral fiber, I have got to see a lot of the country. Poor ol' Holly ain't got the same kinda opportunities.
Just then the two cops returned, their prisoners in tow. "I thought I tol' ya to put them creeps inna car," Holly said.
"We can't, Sarge," the big one said. "O.K. I'll bite. Why can't ya?"
"'Cause someone stole it," the smaller replied miserably. good time in the city, then went home and told their friends what a wicked, depraved, sinful town we have here. But they made sure to reserve a room again for next year before they left.
Collins and Tina? Well they finally got together, and Collins decided he'd start writing some good stuff. He called me, and said Tina was going to help him with it. The first day they worked like hell, but found they hadda stop several times to relieve themselves. At the end of the day, in the tradition of all the terrific fuck book writers, Collins put a fresh sheet in his typewriter, then headed it up, all ready to start work the next day. It said, "-page 2-."
Dom and Dr. Rubin. Well Dom passed his examinations, and is now on the staff at the hospital. Dr. Rubin decided that he would specialize in Nymphomanics, and last I heard was busily searching for some to cure.
And what about Wanda, Mona, and the rest of the girls? Well let me tell you about that. You see, after a long hard day of guarding and protecting the public moral fiber, and gathering evidence, I swung back to my pad for a little rest before picking my bird-that's Wanda-up at the club. Seems she always gets squirrelly as hell if I'm late.
Anyway, I goes into the pad, and just as I turned on the lights, Wham! I was flung to the floor and before I knew what had happened, my hands were tied behind my back. Stunned, I managed to turn over and saw that Sue Ann, the Gyrating Gyne from Georgia; Ellen, the tool-teasing redhead from J.B.'s party; and a petite little brunette I recognized as the girl on the stage, were all standing there staring at me. Also, Shirley, was with them, a cruel look on her face.
"Hey!" I shouted indignantly. "Whazza big fuckin' idea?"
"Well big shot reporter," began Ellen looking at me sexily as she swayed above me, "since you queered our deal with J.B. we figure you owe us something."
"Yea," chimed in Shirley. "Remember what you did to my cunt? Huh? Do ya, big daddy? Well, we decided to pay ya a little visit. Kinda even up the score."
I gulped hard. I was sure they were gonna castrate me. I knew that whatever they had in mind, it wouldn't do me much good. But it wasn't castration they had in mind. No! Something far more devilish. Meaner, even.
Kneeling beside me, and beginning to unbuckle and unzip me, Sue Ann said, purringly, "Since you like to use this thing so much. We decided that we'd just let you use it all you can ... maybe even a little more than you can."
"Whatcha mean?" I gasped.
"In short, lover boy," Ellen said, pulling her dress over her head. "We plan on giving you nothing but straight, nonstop, fucking from now until morning."
That didn't exactly sound like a fate worse than death to me, until Shirley explained it.
"After about fifteen times lover, you're gonna start gettin' kinda tender. After about twenty-five, down right sore. And, by the time we get around to fifty, you ain't gonna be able to use that pole of yours for at least a month afterwards. Get the picture?"
And so it was. What a terrible fate to befall on so dedicated a guardian and protector of the public moral fiber. They were right, too. By the time they had reached fifty, my pecker screamed every time it even heard the word pussy.
Of course, there ain't no man alive that can fuck fifty times in one night. But they had thought of that. Since there were four of them, two would hold my joint upright, while the third slid her pussy up and down over the head of my dick. It don' take too much of that kinda action to blow your mind, jack. And, the head is the action piece, daddy, and the rest is just along for the ride. By doing it that way, they could keep it up all night, and they did too. In fact they kept it up until almost noon the next day.
I thought about yelling, but they had thought about that too. While three of them worked my poker over, time and time and time and time and time and time and time again, the fourth one kept me from crying out. How? By making a Brooklynite outa me. Tha's right. For the whole fuckin night, and half the next day. Disgraceful ain't it.
While all this was going on, they informed me that they were going to keep on making the rounds of the crappers. Seems most of 'em had gotten some expense money from J.B. so none of them was really out anything. Even more important, they, and several of the others, had discovered that they got a terrific boot outa busting some poor, innocent guy in the men's crapper. Really turned them on, they said. Degenerates. All of 'em.
So take warning, the next time ya gotta go in the City. You never can tell when three of them will be laying for you. And if it happens, you can't say I didn't warn you.
While they were getting their revenge, the phone rang several times. I knew it would be Wanda. There was no chance she'd come over and rescue me. No. She'd just sit there by the phone getting madder and madder and more suspicious. That's the way it is with dames. They just naturally don't trust a guy.
But how pissed off ya think she's gonna be when she sees me with my dingus all wrapped up in vaseline and gauze, and I gotta tell her I can't use it for about a month? Ya think she's gonna believe what happened? Ya think she's gonna believe me when I say, "There was these three cuz, ya see, and they threw me down and...."