The bartender pulled the tap handle to fill the pint glass with
Leinenkugel’s. He passed the beer over to Hank, and then filled
two glasses with ice. Captain Morgan rum poured over the cubes
melted them slightly, and they collapsed on themselves. The
bartender filled the glasses the rest of the way with eggnog and
pushed them over to Hank in exchange for his money.
This was Hank’s third beer and his wife’s third seasonal drink.
The more she drank the more he needed to. She grew flirtatious.
He grew resentful.
It was bad enough when she started laughing with their coworkers
at the bar on paydays. Or when she let her fingers linger on a
waiter’s arm when she pulled him aside to ask for more water, or
a fork, or a dessert menu. It was all harmless enough, right? She
was pushing it with this old guy, though.
Lisa sat so close she was practically in the guy’s lap. She
complained about the cold but she wore that short dress anyway.
Now her legs in their dark stockings were crossed in such a way
that they might as well be draped over the old guy’s thighs. She
replaced her empty drink with the fresh one Hank brought.
“You’re welcome, Lisa,” he said sarcastically.
“Thanks, Hank,” she said. Lisa whispered something in the guy’s
ear.
He chuckled, then offered a sheepish look to Hank. Not my fault,
pal, he seemed to want to say. Hank believed him. This was all
Lisa. It was her style, even if she was carrying it a little far
tonight.
Lisa gave him a look, too. Hank knew it. Eyes narrowed slightly,
showing slivers of her flecked green irises. Lips parted to an
even smaller degree, one corner turned up arrogantly. Daring him.
Daring him to dare her.
When they first started going out Hank parked cars as a valet at
a country club on the weekends. Lisa visited him once and hung
outside smoking while he worked. She wanted to know if he wanted
to do it with her in one of the cars.
“I’ll get fired!” he said. But he thought about it all night.
Lisa had gotten in his head.
Then whenever someone pulled up in a hot car, Lisa flashed him
that look. Wanna?
He didn’t. He met every look of hers with a stony one of his own.
Parked like the horse’s ass that night, though. Dinged three
doors because he didn’t leave enough room on the driver’s side.
Getting into his car at the end of the night, they went right at
each other. Hank came almost before he entered her. When they got
to her apartment that night he tore off her clothes and fucked
her like an absolute animal.
Tonight she snugged up against a white haired guy with a bald
spot the size of a baseball cap. That look was the same as that
night years before. And in his defense he gave her that stony
impassive look. It held the threat of indifference.
They made small talk. Those two drank eggnog and smoked
cigarettes. His smelled odd, like Christmas ham, or spiced
cookies. He wore a pin in his lapel shaped like a snowman. If
this was the ghost of Christmas present messing with him we
wasn’t too sure he wanted to see what the ghost of Christmas
future was going to treat him to.
“If you’ll excuse me,” the old guy said. He stood and headed to
the rest room.
Hank nursed his beer, stoic expression in place. Lisa looked
amused. “He’s a cute little guy, isn’t he?” she asked.
“If you say so,” Hank said. “I notice he hasn’t offered to pick
up a round of drinks yet.”
“Oh, Hank. He’s probably on social security.”
“I pay for that, too,” Hank said.
Lisa’a amusement only grew. She pecked him on the cheek. “I think
I’ll go freshen up, too,” she said.
Hank watched her go. That dress was definitely too short for this
weather. Looked awfully good, though. As he sat and worked on his
Leinie’s, he thought about his pretty young wife and that daring
look of hers. Wanna? The only thing he wanted right then was to
leave. He finished the beer. The ice had all but melted in Lisa’s
drink. What was taking so long in there? And where was the old
guy?
Dread. The next feeling he has was dread. Not resentment, or
jealousy, or impatience to leave, but outright dread. The
impassive look he wore as he strode to the restrooms did not show
it, however.
Gently, Hank knocked on the ladies’ room door. “Lisa!” He rapped
again, louder. “Lisa!” Slowly he opened the door.
“I think you’re in the wrong room,” said a woman at the sink.
Hank ignored her and called for his wife. There was no reply.
His stomach tightened and shrank to the size of a chestnut as he
left and walked into the men’s room. No one at the sink. No one
standing at the urinals. He made his way down the short line of
stalls hunched over, looking for shoes. At the end of the row he
found them. Two pairs. Black loafers behind a black pumps.
Hank swallowed but his mouth was to dry for it to be anything but
reflex. Quietly he pressed his palm flat against the door. He
pushed. She hadn’t even closed the latch.
Lisa’s dress was gathered around her neck like a scarf. Wrinkled
hands fondled her tits and her stockinged legs parted to show her
trim bush. She rocked her hips back and forth and for small
fractions of time Hank could see her pink pussy lips wrapped
around a swollen white sausage.
Her expression went beyond the daring look. It was more “Now
what?” than “Wanna?” Hank struggled with his mask of
indifference. His mouth gaped, speechless. Lisa smiled.
She stopped rocking and instead lifted herself and dropped onto
the cock beneath her. She used her fingers and spread herself
open to show off the dick inside her. Higher and higher she
lifted with each time, until the dick flopped out and she waved
it in the air before stuffing it back inside her.
Lisa watched him intently the whole time. He may have been angry
but he was doing and saying nothing. Hank certainly wasn’t going
anywhere. “Take off your pants,” she said.
Hank still didn’t move. The old guy did. He leaned right to see
the husband of the woman he was fucking. He hadn’t even known the
man was there. He wasn’t sure what would happen now that he was,
but his dick was still firmly inside the man’s spouse.
Hank stood tight. Lisa leaned forward to unfasten his pants. The
old guy gave Hank the same gesture as in the bar. Sorry, pal,
this was all her. At last, Hank felt the need to respond.
“My wife’s a slut,” Hank said quietly.
The other man’s face changed from apologetic to sympathetic. “She
likes it,” he said. “You might as well enjoy it.”
Lisa had his belt undone and was onto the zipper. She stood and
took his dick into her mouth. Her ass was right in Ron’s face. He
leaned forward and licked her. The man pressed in so close all
Hank saw was the smooth part of the top of Lisa’s ass and the
smooth dome of Ron’s bald pate.
Lisa moaned on Hank’s rod. She pulled off with a loud popping
sound. “Oooh. Ron knows how to treat a slut, don’t you Ron?” Hank
watched as Lisa actually reached back with her hand and slapped
her own ass, like some cheap stripper. Ron took her ass in both
hands and brought her back down to his lap.
Lisa held Hank’s prick firmly in her hand as she sat back on Ron.
As she sank down she let out a loud groan. Her mouth contorted to
show clenched teeth and she tightened her grip on Hank’s stiff
rod.
Hank looked down at his wife’s tits. Her nipples stood out hard
as little stones. A line in her skin cleaved her belly as she
rocked on Ron’s shaft. She moved a hand down to her crotch and
used two fingers to spread the lips of her twat again. This time
Hank saw only glistening pink.
“Goddamn,” Hank muttered. Ron was in her ass.
“Urrh,” she said through clenched teeth. “He knows what sluts
like.”
Hank was going to come. She was not even stroking his meat, just
gripping it and yet he knew he was going to burst through that
grip no matter how tight it was. He swallowed again, dry as the
last time. “Do sluts like it on the face?” he asked as he turned
his hips.
Lisa had no time to respond. His prick erupted and a great rope
of gooey whiteness leaped from its head and splashed down on her
chin. She leaned in and stuck out her tongue to catch the next
spurt and it landed on the bridge of her nose.
Ron triggered, too, pumping a smaller stream of spirit into
Lisa’s tight ass. All motion stopped save for gasps for air.
The three cleaned up. Lisa gave Ron a kiss and thanked him. “My
pleasure,” Ron replied. “That was fun. You’re adventurous. Both
of you.”
Hank didn’t know what to say to the man that just diddled his
wife in the ass, leaving with an awkward goodbye. He took Lisa
home and the two screwed through the night and into the next
morning.
ONE
“You want me to go to Duluth in December?” asked an incredulous
Heather Stanton.
“Sure,” said Maytag, “Didn’t you read the article?” Gerry Maytag
pointed to the folded-over newspaper he had dropped on his
partner’s desk when he first came in that morning.
“Yes, I read the article,” said Stanton, “I just don’t see why we
would need to go out there now.”
“We’ll be back before Christmas, if that’s what you’re worried
about.”
“I should hope so. But actually, I was hoping to avoid seeing
winter from the perspective of Duluth, Minnesota. Or, more
importantly, feeling winter from that perspective.”
“Pack warm clothes. This looks interesting,” he said, once again
gesturing towards the newspaper.
The article in question was a human interest story in the
national section titled “Romeo Adds Heat to Minnesota Winter”,
and focused on a retired engineer living in Duluth. Apparently,
Ronald Gustafson, 56, had taken up the role of ‘kept man.’ Only
it seemed he was being kept by many of the single women in town,
and rumor had it by some of the married ones as well.
Women from out of town had been making trips in order to meet the
man locals were calling, “Ron Juan.” He lived next to a downtown
casino, and spent most of his time gambling, drinking, and
dining, usually at the ladies’ expense.
“Ron Juan, huh?” Stanton asked.
“Silly name, I know. Pedestrian, too. I like Duluthario better.
Get it? Duluth and Lothario.”
“No one would get that,” Stanton said. “Ron Juan may sound
pedestrian, but pedestrians buy newspapers.”
“You have to admit Duluthario sounds more serious. For a case
file, I mean.”
“Ha! You could call him Lee Harvey Oswald and it would not make
this a serious case.”
“You’re wrong, Stanton. Something funny is going on there.”
“Maytag, it looks like a cute middle aged man who treats women to
some romance in exchange for quarters to feed the slot machines.”
“I don’t think so, Stanton. Did you really read the article?” he
asked as he lifted the paper from the desk, and ran his fingers
over the columns. “Jennifer Olson,” he read, “age 35, calls him,
‘a real thrill, maybe the best lover I’ve had.’ Mary Johnson,
twenty-eight, a waitress at the casino admitted to being charmed
by the local legend and labeled him ‘a real lady killer’.”
Maytag looked up from the paper as Heather took a sip from her
coffee and said, “Stanton, these aren’t seventy year old widows
that he’s whispering sweet-nothings to, these are young women.”
“You sound jealous, Maytag. Maybe you should just go by yourself
in an unofficial capacity and pick up some pointers.”
“Very funny,” replied Maytag, “But you’re too late. I’ve got the
case approved and the flight booked. We leave at three in the
afternoon.”
Stanton’s jaw dropped towards the floor, and the same thing
almost happened to her coffee mug. “You did what? That’s great.
If this is what goes on when I get into the office a little late,
I’m going to have to stop jogging in the morning and just get
here before you do.”
Maytag and Stanton arrived at Ronald Reagan airport at 2:00.
Their flight, scheduled to leave at 3: 00 did not depart until
6:00. A snowstorm had closed the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport
where they had a connecting flight. Stanton was not amused by
Maytag’s whistling rendition of “White Christmas.”
By the time they arrived at Duluth International, it was 10:00
local time. There was nothing to do other than check into the
hotel and turn in for the night. After brushing the snow off
their rental car, they made the drive into downtown Duluth. Few
other cars were on the road. They drove in silence through snow
covered evergreens and other bare-limbed trees.
Colored lights strung on houses left small pools of color on snow
covered lawns. They passed one strip where large candy cane
stripes adorned street lamps. Another where small white lights
decorated a string of trees along the sidewalk. It looked like
Christmas, but the pair made no comments as they drove to the
hotel.
TWO
Maytag had scheduled a morning meeting with Lieutenant Breyer of
the Duluth police. They arrived at his office after a quick
breakfast, during which Stanton remained humorless.
“Come in, come in,” said Breyer, as he shook the agents’ hands
outside his office, “It isn’t every day we have the FBI up here
in Duluth, especially in the winter.”
“I can’t imagine why,” said Stanton as she looked around the
office. Around the wood paneled walls of the office were photos
of Breyer holding fish and rowing in canoes. Stanton’s attention
had focused on a rather large fish mounted and hung on the wall
behind Breyer’s desk.
“That’s a prize winning walleye, Agent Stanton. Best day I ever
had fishing.”
“Impressive,” said Maytag gleefully.
“You betcha. You two oughtta come up here in the summer. See the
boundary waters and all. That’s God’s country, you know.”
“Actually I wasn’t aware of that,” said Stanton as she sat down.
Despite having an extra pair of socks on, she could feel dampness
on the sides of her feet where the snow was melting off her
boots.
“Yeah, that’s right. So what can I do for you two? Is there
something going on in town that I should know about?”
“Actually,” said Maytag, “We’re kind of on a fishing trip right
now ourselves.”
More like a wild goose chase, Stanton thought to herself.
“We read an article on Ron Gustafson in the paper yesterday, and
we were wondering if his association with the women of Duluth was
completely legitimate.”
“What do you mean?” asked Breyer.
“I just have a feeling that all is not as it seems with Mr.
Gustafson. That maybe his dealings with these women are not
wholly romantic in nature.”
Lt. Breyer leaned forward in his chair and said, “The FBI sent
you two out here to investigate Ron Juan? Exactly what do you
think these evil dealings might be, Agent Maytag?” He seemed
offended.
Stanton had wanted to know that herself for the past twenty-four
hours, and took delight in facing him and showing him her own
perturbed expression.
Maytag remained cool and responded, “Maybe something as simple as
prostitution, maybe as complicated as blackmail.”
“Blackmail?” repeated Breyer, “Don’t you people do any research
before flying half-way across the country? I went to high school
with Ron, and I missed him when he went to the Twin Cities to
work for that chemical company and they sent him all over the
damned country for thirty years. I’m glad he came back here after
retirement. He’s a good friend, and I resent what you just said.”
Stanton lowered her head to hide the smirk that had involuntarily
grown on her face. Maytag continued unhindered, however. “I’m
sorry, Lieutenant, but, you must admit, it does seem somewhat odd
that this man has become such a charmer.”
“It isn’t that strange,” Breyer said, “Ron is a decent man who
knows how to treat a lady. Besides, there’s no accounting for
taste. I have no idea why people like rap music, but they do. Why
don’t you investigate that, Agent Maytag?”
“As a matter of fact,” began Maytag. Mercifully, Stanton
interrupted him.
“We’re sorry to have wasted your time, Lieutenant,” she said,
“obviously we made a misinterpretation of Mr. Gustafson’s
activities. We’ll try to be out of here as soon as possible.”
Stanton stood, and Maytag followed, adding, “I apologize,
Lieutenant. I didn’t know that you two were so close.”
“We are. I wish you Good Day.”
Once they were outside his office, Stanton turned to Maytag and
said, “Nice going, Maytag, we looked like overzealous gossip
columnists in there. Can we go home, now?”
“What?” asked Maytag, “Didn’t that just smell of cover-up to
you?”
“Not really. It seemed like what he said: poor research on our
part.”
“I disagree, and if we want to do any research, I think we can
forget about going to the police.”
“So you don’t want to leave?”