Chapter 5

"I.D., please," said the uniformed security guard at the door.

Mike Kramer reached into his coat pocket for his badge case, showed the badge to the doorman. "Vice squad," he said.

"Right," said the doorman. He grinned at Mike. "Come to check it out?"

"Strictly on my own time. I'm here for pleasure, not business." In a way this was true--Mike had come to this convention on his own time, but he was there for anything but pleasure This was a convention of night club owners from all over the United States and Canada, and Mike hoped that if he played his cards right he would be able to get close to Jay Snyder, close enough to accumulate some evidence that could be used to build a case against him. Since the convention was in Los Angeles, and since conventions of this sort were always attended by wild partying and paid sex, Mike figured that Snyder would have the sex concession.

Mike thought about Lisa. If he could only convince her, he thought, if he could only make her see that this was the important part of his job, nailing crooks like Snyder, and that it didn't matter what rank he held on the force just so long as he could be effective. The higher up you went, Mike knew, the less effective you became. Hell, the guys who really did the work were the patrolmen; even lieutenants spent too much time behind a desk, shuffling papers. If he could just make her see.

"Jackson's the name," boomed a loud voice at Mike's side. "Own a topless joint in Dubuque, Iowa."

Mike turned to see a short, fat, bald man of about fifty. He had a patch over one eye, and a huge gap where his front teeth should have been. Protruding from that gap was the biggest, blackest, stinkiest cigar Mike had ever seen. Mike had met hundreds of men like this in his work, sleazy little bastards who thought about nothing but money and women, who preyed equally on their customers and on the girls who worked for them. Generally they weren't worth the time of day, but tonight Mike was playing all possible angles.

"Hi," he said. "Mike Kramer. I'm from town here."

"That so?" said Jackson. "What kind of joint you running?"

"Discotheque," said Mike.

The fat man eyed him. "Discotheque, huh?" he said. "I tried one of those. Didn't go over so big in Dubuque. Now in Chicago, or New York...

"Or Los Angeles," interrupted Mike.

"Right," the fat man said, grinning and nodding his head. "Here in L.A. you guys got a good thing going. In Dubuque I got to work my ass off all the time."

I'll bet you do, Mike thought to himself. Then out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Steve Paul, Jay Snyder's right-hand man. Paul was moving slowly across the convention floor, smiling and shaking hands with every second person he saw. Christ, Mike thought, it looks like he's running for President. But Paul was hardly presidential timbre. He ran all Snyder's collections and all his legitimate businesses, helped him maintain his front as a respectable entrepreneur. More than that, he was also his boss's aide and confidante, the only man Snyder trusted. This was a big fish indeed.

"Excuse me," Mike said. He walked abruptly away from Jackson, left him chewing his cigar and wondering. Paul was moving toward the opposite door, and for a moment Mike thought he might slip away. He hurried on, pushing and elbowing his way through the crowd. "Hey, buddy," said one of them, "take it easy. There's no rush."

"Sorry," said Mike, and he pushed on.

Steve Paul was almost to the door when Mike finally caught up to him. "Hey!" he called out.

Paul turned around, regarded Mike with a cold stare. "Yes?" he said.

"Aren't you Steve Paul?"

"That's me."

Mike was panting with exertion. "Hold it a minute," he said. "Let me catch my breath." Luckily, Paul waited for him.

Mike used the interlude to think up an approach. "Don't you own a joint on the Strip?"

"Several. To which joint were you referring?" Snyder's henchman liked to project an image of educated erudition, as if he was at least one cut above everyone around him, but Mike knew better.

"The Gay Paree, up near Fairfax. Isn't that one yours?"

"As a matter of fact, it is. You know the place?" His eyes began to show a spark of interest, a spark which Mike did not fail to notice. Now I've got him, thought Mike. Now I've got the egomaniac bastard.

"Know it?" Mike said. "I practically live there. Every time I get a chance, whenever I can trust someone else to run my little place, I'm at the Gay Paree. Quite a joint, that is. Quite a joint."

"Well," Paul said, obviously flattered, "thank you. Thank you very much." He looked at Mike closely, studied his face, frowned. "Funny, though, I can't remember ever having seen you."

Uh-oh, Mike thought. Suspicious. No wonder Snyder likes him so much. "It's no wonder," he said. "I always stay in the back where it's dark. I don't like to be noticed, if you know what I mean."

"I do know what you mean, I do indeed." He smiled at the cop. "What are you doing with the rest of your evening?" he said.

Mike's heart beat a little faster. He'd hooked him! "No plans," he said, keeping his voice calm.

"Well, we're having a little get together at my place, private, you know, in my home." He emphasized the last word so that the honor of the invitation would not be lost on Mike. "Why don't you come along?"

"Great. Love to." Would he ever! If he was lucky, he might run into Jay Snyder himself. "Fine," Paul said. He scribbled something on the back of a matchbook, handed the matchbook to Mike. "Here's the address. It starts in an hour." The gangster turned to go, then stopped and turned back to face Mike. "By the way he said, "I didn't catch your name."

"Johnson, Gus Johnson."

In exactly one hour a yellow cab pulled up to the curb in front of an exclusive apartment building. Mike stepped out of the cab, craned his neck to look up the side of the building, toward the penthouse suite. From the top of the building lights blazed, and loud music leaked out onto the street below. Mike straightened his tie, walked into the building, took the elevator to the top floor. Well, he thought as he rang the doorbell, here goes nothing.

The door opened a tiny crack, revealed one eye and a nose. "What is it?"

"I'm Gus Johnson. Mr. Paul invited me."

"Just a minute," said the voice. The door closed, then opened wide a few seconds later, framing an elegant butler dressed in full tuxedo. Whew, Mike thought, a fancy dress ball. This guy does know how to give a party. "Come in, won't you?" said the butler.

Mike walked in. The room was brightly lit and crowded with people. Through the smoke he could see Steve Paul standing near the bar, chatting pleasantly with a dazzling blonde. The music was very loud. Someone thrust a drink in his hand.

Suddenly the music stopped. Everyone sat down on the floor, as if in answer to an unseen signal from their host. The bright lights were dimmed, a soft blue light replacing them. The music started again, a slow, bluesy tune. Heads and bodies began to sway.

Somewhere a door opened, and out stepped the most incredible woman Mike bad ever seen. She was tall, almost six feet, slender without being skinny, with bright red wavy hair. Her eyes seemed to smoke. She was wearing a belly dancer's costume, a thin gauzy dress with a burnoose and a long veil that covered her breasts. Even in the dim light, Mike could see she was beautiful.

The girl began to move her body, slowly rocking her hips back and forth in time with the music, her dress making a swishing sound as she swayed. Mike couldn't take his eyes off her. Lisa, his wife, was pretty enough, in fact some people thought her beautiful, but this girl was from another planet. Mike had never seen anything like her. And despite his faithfulness to Lisa, his prick had a mind of its own; even though he tried hard not to be enticed by this lovely woman, he felt his prick begin to twitch against his pants.

The tempo of the music increased; the girl rocked more violently, pacing herself against the music, building slowly. A woman standing next to Mike put her hand down her partner's pants. Mike imagined the dancer's hand crawling down his stomach, reaching for his rising cock. Christ, he thought, if Lisa could only be like that. He wanted that girl in a way he had never wanted Lisa, passionately, in a frenzy of rich, voluptuous sex. He continued to stare at her and fantasize, picturing the red hairs of her pussy wet and shiny with her come that he, Mike, had called forth from within her. No, he thought, no. I can't think this way. Lisa is my wife and I am her husband and we are true to each other--not particularly hot for each other, but true nevertheless.

The redhead's dancing seemed to mock Mike's faithfulness, seemed to say "really, now, wouldn't you like a taste of something different? Wouldn't you like a taste of me?"

Now the girl began to strip. She unhooked the veil from the burnoose, used it like a shoe-shine rag across her breasts. Mike could imagine her nipples beginning to harden from the gentle brushing of the material, could imagine those same nipples rising under his own fingers. The man next to him responded to the girl's dancing by massaging the breasts of his woman, who still had her hand down the front of his pants. Mike glanced around the room--everywhere were couples locked in one form or another of sexual embrace. Steve Paul stood at the bar, seemingly aloof from the scene around him, but Mike could see that his eyes were shining. Saving himself, Mike thought, saving himself for later. Then it hit him: was Steve Paul saving himself for this dancer? No, it couldn't be! That girl had to be his, he couldn't stand the idea of her opening her luscious body to that crook.

The dancer let her veil drop to the floor, revealing a set of the most perfect breasts Mike had ever seen. They stood far out from her chest, wiggling and shaking as she danced, without a hint of sag or droop; and the nipples pointed up. The red head ran her hands along the underside of those breasts, squeezing them, playing with them, making them stand out even more. With every bounce of her breasts, every movement of her rolling hips, the thought of Lisa and his faithfulness receded further and further from Mike's mind. He could think of nothing but his desire for this girl, this paragon of sex.

"Don't look too hard," said a voice at Mike's side. It was the butler. "She belongs to Mr. Paul."

Mike's worst fears were realized. That incredible woman, the sexiest woman in the world, reserving her charms for a gangster like Steve Paul! It was too much to take. "Is she for sale?" said Mike in a hoarse whisper.

"Generally," said the butler, "no. But under certain circumstances, on certain unusual occasions, Mr. Paul can be persuaded to part with her for an hour or so. Very unusual circumstances," said the butler, "if you know what I mean."

Money. He would pay anything to have this girl, even if just for an hour. He had a cache of a few hundred dollars, the existence of which he kept secret from everyone, including Lisa; it was for "emergencies." And if this was an emergency--Mike's rigid cock was sending out a call for rescue, and he knew that tonight only this girl could save him. "How much?"

"That depends on Mr. Paul's mood," said the butler. "Wait right here; I'll ask him."

Mike reluctantly took his eyes from the girl, who was now caressing her nipples with her tongue, followed the butler as he walked across the room to the bar where Steve Paul stood watching the dance. Mike saw the butler whisper something in Paul's ear, saw Paul shake his head, no. The butler whispered again, then both men turned and looked at Mike. Mike nodded in return. Paul whispered something to the butler, who immediately turned and came across the room to Mike's side.

He said, "Mr. Paul is very reluctant to part with the young lady--he mentioned something about an anniversary. However, for a fee of two hundred dollars, he says, you might be allowed an hour alone with her."

Two hundred dollars This was all Mike had in his secret emergency fund. And for only one hour! What Mike wanted to do with this girl would take much longer than an hour--he could fuck her all night long, all week long, all the rest... No, he thought. It was too much money for too little reward. Besides, there were other things to think about: Lisa for example, and his job. He was here he reminded himself, to nail Jay Snyder, not to go off amusing himself with one of his whores.

Mike turned to the butler. "No," he said, "it's too much."

"Are you sure?" said the butler. "Look." He nodded in the direction of the girl.

She was standing still now, moving her pelvis in and out, thrusting her cunt, it seemed, directly into Mike's face. Her hand reached for the clasp on her hip, undid it, and the thin skirt joined the veil on the floor. She was completely naked, and far more beautiful that way than she had been when fully clothed, or even half-clothed. Mike's longing for her returned in a flash, causing his prick to beat madly against his pants.

The redhead ran her fingers slowly along her smooth, glorious thighs, beckoning Mike to do the same. She had caught his eye, was looking straight at him now, asking him, enticing him, begging him to fuck her as she'd never been fucked before. Her eyes paralyzed him, seemed to strip him of everything except his desire for her, his awareness of this throbbing prick.

Now she did a backbend, arching her trembling body so that her head and her feet touched the floor. Her cunt was pointed directly at Mike; it seemed to vibrate, driven by a power all its own. Her crawling fingers moved further and further up her thighs until they finally came in contact with her beautiful pussy. Then she spread the red pubic hairs, spread her cunt-lips wide to reveal the rigid little mound of her clitoris. Slowly she began to finger herself, treating herself gently, manipulating her hardened clitoris with the gentlest of touches--all over the room her movements were echoed by fingers, by tongues, by exposed cocks and pussies.

Mike could hardly stand it. Now there was no Lisa, no emergency fund, no cop and no vice squad, no Jay Snyder--there was only the burning in his body, the lustful squirmings of his prick, the tingling in his balls. He had to have her; there was no longer any doubt. If he never did another thing in his life, he had to have this incredible woman.

He turned to the butler. "All right," he said. "Sold."

"Fine," said the butler: "Now if you'll just wait a few minutes, I'll make the necessary arrangements."

Mike nodded, turned back to watch the girl as the butler disappeared from his side. She was reaching the climax of her dance, the climax of her body; shaking and moaning as she rubbed her clitoris faster and faster, harder and harder. Finally she screamed: "Ahhhhhh! Oh, Jesus. OHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" and collapsed on the floor, exhausted and sweating.

That's right, thought Mike as he rubbed his aching cock, rest. Rest your body, because I'm going to make that orgasm you just had seem like a popgun against a hydrogen bomb. Rest, he thought, just rest. I'll be with you soon.

"Hi," she said, smiling at him. "My name's Cindy."

"Gus," said Mike. "Gus Johnson. Can we get out of here? He was anxious to leave the crowd in the penthouse, anxious particularly to get away from Steve Paul, who was watching them like a hawk.

"Got something on your mind?" she said, laughing. "I saw you while I was dancing. Yeah, I'd say you definitely had something on your mind."

"Let's just go," said Mike. "I don't want to stand around here talking all night."

She looked at Mike, saw the desire in his eyes, felt her own passion returning. "Where would you like to go?" she said softly.

"Your place," Mike said.

"That'll cost you more," she said.

"OK, OK." Money meant nothing now--he could always get a loan from his mother. "Let's just get out of here, quick."

Cindy had a small house, high in the Hollywood Hills, overlooking the San Fernando Valley. The lights of downtown Burbank winked up at them as they sat on the sofa, smiling at one another. Since they had arrived at the house, Cindy's whole manner had changed: she had dropped her tough-girl front, had become coy and even a little shy, and somehow this pleased Mike almost as much as her wild, orgiastic dancing. At least, he thought, she's a person, a woman, and not just a whore. That makes it better.

"How old are you?" Mike asked, suddenly curious.

Her eyes narrowed a bit. "You wouldn't be a cop, would you?"

At the mention of the word "cop," Mike's heart skipped a beat. Did she know, or was this just a guess, just a suspicion? He couldn't afford to have her know--she might tell Snyder and then his whole gambit would be ruined; his effectiveness as a whole might even be undermined. He laughed. "Hardly," he said.