Revenge Should Have No Bounds 006

[If you have not already done so, you must
read the Introduction
before proceeding.]

 

Revenge Should Have No Bounds  006

001     002     001-002     003     004     005     003-005

Chapter 2 (1 of 1): The Dick

Fat, fetid, florid.

Fabian.

Fabian Darling.

(“Fab to my friends,” he had once said to me with a smug smirk.  “To you I’m always Officer Darling.  Got that, you nickel-and-dime whore?”)

“Why, officer,” I said coldly.  “How unpleasant!”

Shifting his hulking bulk he looked to high heaven as if for help against this impudence and rolled his drizzly eyes.  “Always the comedian, ain’t you?”  Although he was dressed in summer uniform, the wet August heat made the sweat course down his face in unappetizing rivulets.  He mopped at them with the back of a hairy hand.

As you may imagine, Fab and I had a history, and it was far from fab.

If you can get your intellect around the concept, imagine for a minute a Platonic form of disgust, and fabulous Fab would be its perfect instantiation in this phenomenological vale of tears we must all perforce traverse.  A gut pouring like a skewed parabola out over his belt, the buttons on his stained shirt straining, the shoes scuffed and the sheen on his pants straight out of a Goodwill mercy bin.   A six-foot heap of pallid lard piled on pale lard with a psoriatic nose and lids sagging over eyes the veined color of a Rand-McNally roadmap that would make a blepharoplast drool.  Add the snowstorm of dandruff and cloacal effluvia from between teeth tinted like an aged Roquefort and you’re starting to get a generic picture of the human horror I was facing.

But, by all means, support your local police.

“I oughta run you in on general principles,” he snarled as people streamed around us like a river split by a sandbar.

“Why don’t you just do that, officer,” I suggested.  “Maybe walking this nice beat on hotel row and over by the university isn’t all that exciting anymore.  I hear there are a lot more thrills down by the docks.”

He was steaming, but he did control himself.  I’ll give him that much.

He started to turn.  “Don’t you forget it, lady, but I’m keeping my …”

I swung around as rudely and abruptly as I could and stalked off.

“… eyes on you.”

I’d first run into Fab about five years ago.  At that time I’d already been engaged several years for contract work by Aspasia’s, one of the premier outcall services in the city.  Michelle had been managing it for silent backers since the early eighties, and although administrations (laissez-faire) came and administrations (we’re-gonna-clean-this-town-up-once-and-for-all) went, Aspasia’s endured unmolested.  It had long roots planted deep in the fertile corruption of city hall and the juice makers.  They needed a place like Aspasia’s more than Aspasia’s needed them.  After all, these weren’t the kinds of guys … – pols, councilmen, visiting firemen, judges, lawyers, doctors, professors, high-end entrepreneurs and upper-echelon cops — … weren’t the kinds who were about to do their extra-curricular trolling among the low-rent pimps and the down-town street cooze over on River Drive.  No, this was a strictly up-town crowd. That’s where they do not publish the names and pictures of the johns and do not show them on TV.

You think the top dogs want that kind of publicity?  Have you noticed that in the cities where, like here, they do print that sort of celebrity-making celebration, about ninety percent of the published johns are either black or Hispanic.  Huge surprise, huh?  Rich white guys don’t have these needs, I suppose.

Anyway, at Aspasia’s they were guaranteed cleanliness, discretion, privacy.  I never enquired too deeply into its inner workings, but I knew which side of the morning the sun comes up on.  In the close to ten years I’d been working for Michelle I’d never had any real trouble with a client.  They were pretty much a self-selecting group, themselves: clean, discreet, private.  The few times some john had gotten out of control I’d let Michelle know.  And the organ grinders pulling the strings on this monkey that was Aspasia’s always managed to get the right word out, one way or another, to the offending party, who offended no more.

About eighty pounds ago Fab had been one of the anointed.  He’d been up there in the hierarchy of the city’s busy homicide squad, and once he got to thinking he was pretty big stuff things started to go to his tiny head.  He’d been on the squad since the late eighties, having won a desirable slot on the basis of exams — he wasn’t exactly intelligent the way I define intelligence, but he had a certain practical cunning — and two tours in Korea in the military police

Then somebody introduced him to Aspasia’s – and to me.  Everybody knew the rules up front.  You knew what each girl would and would not do, and the hefty price of admissions entailed that tacit understanding.  But Fab wanted the rules not to apply to him.

Schmuck!

He wasn’t my type, but at the time he was fairly clean and the body hadn’t quite gone to seed. In fact, he’d been kind of good looking, in a thuggish sort of way.  He’d had long wavy hair at the time, which was now reduced to a buzz cut he probably trimmed three times a month.  Although I could refuse any client, I took him on.  After we’d gotten along fine for about two years, a nasty streak emerged.  I’ll play along up to a point, but he passed it.  He wanted me to take him up the ass, but I reminded him I didn’t do it that way.  He got upset, and he offered me an extra five-hundred over and above his fee to Aspasia’s.  “Not for all the cupped condoms in Columbia,” I told him.

Now he was starting to get seriously pissed off.

“How about regular, but unprotected?” he whined.  Give me all the ribbed rubbers in Russia and I wouldn’t go there!

He made some personal comments about me that were not very nice.  Then he made a fatal mistake.

“I oughta beat some gratitude into you,” he said and raised his hand.

I rolled out from under, got dressed in a hurry, and left him holding it hard in his hand.  Even the mere threat of violence was a clincher that all bets were off and the ante was forfeit to the house.  I cabbed it home, quite upset.  Then I got angry, really angry.  Who did this prince of pricks think he was?  I took a couple of shots of chilled Stoli when I got back to my place, and then called Michelle.  She was appalled.  “Don’t you worry, honey,” she soothed me, “I’ll take care of his problem.  Real good!  Believe me, he’ll never fuck in this town again.”

I have no doubt she passed the word to the enforcement bureau, stat, and a week later old Fab was walking a beat, and had been for the last three years.  No wonder he wished me no good.  I should be the one keeping my eyes on him.  No telling what kind of trouble he could cook up for me if he set his sly mind to it.

TO BE CONTINUED

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