TRAGIC CITY
Excerpt of
A Derrick Olin Novel
Stellen Qxz
Copyright © 2023 by Stellen Qxz
3rd Man Publications
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any form or by any
means without the prior written consent of the Publisher. This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s
imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, or institutions or events, is entirely coincidental. (And you just try to prove
otherwise!)
CHAPTER 1
BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA
Josephine Taylor’s first mistake was being born. Her third mistake was not putting a
gun into her mouth and blowing out her own brains. That being said, however, the
second mistake she made was the real doozy. And the one that ultimately cost her
everything, including her miserable fucking life!
Following the takedown of Malik Oldham a few years ago, law enforcement
throughout Birmingham and Jefferson County made it their mission to ensure that no
one would ever again rise to the top of the crime world in the Magic City. In fact, they
did all they could to make sure there was no crime world in the Magic City, pouring in
resources and personnel to work around-the-clock to accomplish this goal. And with
the assistance of local prosecutors and some legislators in Montgomery, tougher and
lengthier prison sentences were put in place for any of the perpetrators unlucky
enough to be caught and convicted.
Of course, they weren’t naive, they knew that crime and vice would likely never
be completely stamped out, but they could try very hard to limit and contain it at
minimal and disorganized levels, never allowing anyone to consolidate criminal power
as Innes Redbone had done twenty years ago, and to a lesser extent, Malik Oldham had
done after knocking off Innes. But there were those who tried, and some of them were
a lot worse than either Redbone or Oldham had ever been, if you could believe that.
About a year ago, Jo-Jo Taylor decided that it was high time Birmingham had
a Godmother of Crime, and a white one at that, so she started taking over as much
territory and operations from other gangs as she could, smaller outfits at first, but soon
she was going after the bigger fish, and kicking them to the curb, too, oftentimes via
extremely violent means. And despite their best efforts, local LEOs1 just couldn’t seem
to stop her.
1
But then about seven months ago, Madam Taylor ran afoul of Triple-D2
because the girlfriend of one of her lieutenants went to a domestic abuse shelter to get
away from him, only to have the lieutenant in question and some of his boys bust into
the shelter and drag her out, destroying property and injuring the security guard on
duty in the process. The shelter was run by a friend of Reese Tamblyn's, and when
Reese heard about this, she called Ollie. Ollie was standing in my office at the time of
that call, and shortly thereafter, Mr. Oliver and I were out hunting.
Within a couple of days, thanks in part to a bit of assistance from a
bail-bonding agent who had paper on Taylor, we managed to locate and detain the
wannabe Nasty Godmother of the Magic City, and then turn her over to the Shelby
County cops. At that point, Birmingham cops went to work on her fledgling criminal
empire. Triple-D was out of it and I was hopeful that the cops would be able to deal
with Taylor and her associates through conventional legal means. Unfortunately, the
judicial system is not all it's cracked up to be sometimes. Or, to quote Ollie, “It fucking
sucks, man!”. About sums it up.
Taylor cut a deal with the feds, gave up some major drug players in Atlanta
that she had information on, and in exchange, they had all local charges in
Birmingham quashed, meaning she was back on the streets with the thanks of a
grateful Department of Justice and told to keep her nose clean. Yeah, sure, that
worked all right. Not even two weeks before she was back at it, and once again rising
to the top of the thug game, assembling a crew and going after the territory she had
lost, and staking out claims to new areas that she had intended to take before her brief
incarceration.
In the meantime, Reese Tamblyn had put together a group of investors with
the goal of assisting Birmingham with its efforts to revitalize the most desperate and
crime-ridden neighborhoods in the city. She was still general manager at Dex’s Place
in Five Points West and a vice president at EAD Enterprises, but thanks to several
smart investments over the past few years, Reese had amassed a decent sum of money
of her own and decided she wanted to do more to help those out there who needed it.
She had a good life, a husband, a son, a nice house, a great job and friends, but there
were so many people out there who had none of that. And Reese wanted to do
2
2
something substantial to help, hence the formation of the Birmingham Neighborhoods
Project, of which Ms. Tamblyn was the Executive Director.
Gate City was the first area chosen for BNP to invest in, and given the
reputation of the place, it was a tall order, but Reese and her friends were not deterred,
there were a lot of good people in Gate City who needed help and they couldn’t wait for
the municipal government to get around to doing the job, so in the meantime, the
private sector would have to step in and shoulder some of the responsibility.
Lamentably, Jo-Jo Taylor had set her sights on Gate City as well, and she was
packing a lot more than a heart full of love and a pocket full of cash. Also, as Ollie and
I could personally attest to, she was one mean bitch. Marvin Daniels, Sandra Lopez,
and Reese Tamblyn were all gunned down while talking to a gathering of residents in
the parking lot of an apartment complex on 66th Street North that BNP had just
purchased with the aim of kicking out the drug dealers (once they hired Triple-D) and
then completely remodeling the place, with no increase in rent to the tenants. They
were discussing additional plans for the neighborhood when three beat up old Chevys
rolled onto the scene, several bangers climbing out with machine pistols.
Lopez died on the way to the hospital. Daniels did not survive surgery. Reese
and six others never left that parking lot alive.
As it happened, Ollie was in my office again when the call came in from a
friend of mine with BPD Robbery-Homicide. My reaction was shocked disbelief. Ollie
damn near destroyed half the office before I and the rest of the team managed to calm
him down, after physically restraining him. But that calm would not last long, I knew
that. And honestly, I didn’t really want it to. I don’t like a whole lot of people on this
planet. I had liked Reese Tamblyn. I did not like the fact that she was dead. People
were going to pay for that.
Oh, and in case you were confused, yes, Josephine Taylor’s second and worst
mistake was killing Reese Tamblyn, because as of that moment, she was the only
mission Triple-D had, and none of us would stop until that mission was accomplished.
By whatever violent and bloody means necessary.
3
CHAPTER 2
Reese’s family wanted a private service up in Clanton where she was born, about fifty
miles north of Birmingham, with just the immediate family in attendance to say
goodbye to their beloved girl. Everyone in Birmingham understood that and respected
the family's wishes, however, Reese's many friends in the Magic City needed to grieve
and say goodbye, too. Therefore, two weeks after she was laid to rest in Clanton, Dex's
Place was shut down all day Saturday and friends and acquaintances, customers, and
people who barely knew Reese all came to celebrate the just shy of forty-four year life
of a very good person, someone cut down in the prime of that life, and who would be
greatly missed by many. Unlike the pieces of shit who killed her, or the gigantic pile of
excrement who ordered her murder.
All the members of Triple-D made it to the formal memorial service that began
at six that evening, but it was a close-run thing because just that morning we wrapped
up with Ms. Taylor and the last remnants of her criminal organization. Permanently.
And naturally, there were questions to be answered for the police, and no doubt in the
not too distant future, lawyers from the DA’s Office. But they could all wait. The only
thing that mattered right now was Reese. Saying goodbye to her.
Ollie was a mess, the only things keeping him in check for the moment were
his daughter Rosa and her mother Meeka, the only person he had ever truly loved,
before Rosa was born, and they were barely enough. Despite their ages only being
separated by thirteen years, and the occasional lustful thoughts regarding Reese’s
bodacious form, in many ways Ollie looked on her as a daughter, too. I don’t think I
realized this until after she died, and maybe Ollie didn’t either, which might explain
the reason he was reacting the way he was now. He was no stranger to violence and
death, none of us were, and I wasn’t sure, but it was possible that Ollie had never lost
anyone close to him before, likely in fact, because with few exceptions, there was no
one really close to him. Another thing he and I had in common. Perhaps if it were not
for his relationship with Meeka, which produced Rosa, Ollie would not have developed
the emotions that had been triggered by Reese’s murder, and would now be the cold
bastard I was used to, the man I had thought I’d known for the past forty years.
Accounting for his actions now, I sincerely hoped he died before either Meeka or Rosa,
and that neither died by violence, because if they did, I dare say that the 82nd Airborne
Rangers would have to be called in to put an end to his rampage at that point; with
Delta Force on standby for backup. I asked Sheila and Frankie to keep an eye on him
and give Meeka any help she required should things deteriorate.
Frankly, I wasn’t doing too well either, kind of wishing that I could go back in
time and resuscitate Jo-Jo Taylor’s corpse, and this time kill her myself instead of
watching as Bert popped her twice in the forehead from twelve feet away just as she
finished reloading her Ruger. Satisfying, but not nearly as satisfying as it would have
been had the two .45 caliber Hydra Shoks come from my Glock instead of his. Ah
well…
Monique Otis, the current principal at Jackson-West High School, had grown
fond of Dex’s Place after I introduced her to it about two years ago, and because Five
Points West wasn’t all that far away from the school, occasionally she and her vice
principal and other teachers would go there for lunch when time permitted. And she
even managed to get her husband Eldon to take her there for dinner sometimes, which
he also seemed to enjoy. I had introduced her to Reese and the two women got along
well, and I understood from Niqe that because of her association with me, Reese
always made sure she had the best table and the best service when she dined without
me. So I wasn’t very surprised to see her at the memorial service, along with Eldon,
who was in town more these days now that he had become a supervisor at the trucking
company for which he worked.
A part of me wished she was not here, though, and definitely not here with her
husband. The service was informal and most people had on casual clothes. I was
wearing dark slacks, a long sleeve blue button-down shirt, and a black blazer. Many
were in blue jeans. Monique Otis and her husband were two of them, but I didn’t give
a shit about Eldon Otis in blue jeans, he couldn’t compare to his wife. Niqe had a phat
ass made for denim, Eldon had a fat ass made for a circus tent.
Okay, that was a little mean. No less accurate, though. Just then he reached
behind his wife as she was talking to someone else and gave her butt a squeeze, which
Niqe ignored as she continued her conversation. Pig!
5
I asked the tender at the back bar for cranberry juice. He knew me and knew I
didn’t drink alcohol (much) so there was no expression of surprise in his eyes upon
hearing my order. I thanked him while accepting the highball glass, taking a deep sip,
sighing, staring down at the highly polished bar surface for several long minutes as the
buzz of activity continued around me. As previously stated, I was not feeling
particularly well. The past few weeks had been difficult, not to mention bloody, and I
wasn’t sure I had the stomach for that kind of thing anymore. But maybe that wasn’t
it.
Maybe I was just sad about Reese. That was probably it. Fuck!
Suddenly my nostrils filled with a familiar scent and I nearly stopped
breathing. I stood perfectly still, my glass in the middle of the bar, my hands on either
side of it. A voice to my right ordered two mixed drinks and the bartender nodded,
reaching for glasses under the bar and beginning to make the drinks. I took a deep
breath, but didn’t turn.
“Hubby seems to admire your booty about as much as every other man with a
pulse,” I said in a low tone.
There was a snicker to my right, an arm bumped against mine. “He’s gonna
pay for that later on,” she whispered back. “Believe me. That’s as close as he’s gonna
get to it all weekend. He really didn’t want to come here today, there was a ballgame
on that he wanted to watch, but I told him how important it was to me and he
eventually gave in. But he’s in a playful mood, probably thinks I owe him something
now that he’s had to sacrifice his plans. He’s certainly wrong, and will come to realize
that in due course.”
I still didn’t turn, picked up my glass and had another sip. The bartender
finished with one of the drinks she’d asked for and was now working on the second.
She took the glass and lifted it to her lips.
“You look tired,” she said after another few seconds. “Exhausted, really. I can
imagine this has been a trying time for you and a lot of people who knew Reese.
Derrick, I cannot tell you how sorry I am about what happened. She really was a good
person, I liked her very much, and to have her die in such a senseless manner…
God-awful. I hope whoever was responsible will be caught and face justice as quickly
as possible.”
6
The bartender finished the second drink and put it on the bar. I finished my
juice, took another deep breath, turned to stare at Monique Otis, knowing the
expression on my face was not a pleasant one.
“Already done, luv,” I said quietly.
She turned all the way in my direction, staring fixedly into my eyes, hers full of
concern, and likely just a tiny bit of fear. She took another swallow of her drink, then
reached for the one that was for her husband.
“I need to go back to Eldon before he misses me,” she said, her eyes still
unblinking. “But I want to talk to you later. He’ll be wrapped up in another game or
something once we get home. I should be able to stay in the bedroom undisturbed for
a while. I’ll call you and we can talk.”
She paused and I said nothing, didn’t blink either. She glanced around, saw
her husband talking to a couple of people she didn’t know, and neither did I. She
turned back to me, a small smile at the corners of her mouth.
“And maybe we can plan a get-together really soon. If you want?”
I was so cold on the inside right now. Cold as fire. But the thought of seeing
Monique Otis naked in the near future did things to my lower anatomy that could not
be denied. Of course she could call me, and if she asked nicely, I’d be more than happy
to sneak into her bedroom this evening while hubby was watching his games and do a
whole lot more than just grab that perfect round backside of hers…
She turned with the drinks in each hand and headed back to Eldon. I stood
and stared at her ass the whole time, not caring if anyone saw me, least of all her
husband.
A few minutes later, my mind still lost in Niqe’s magnificent derriere, a
commotion brought me around and I turned to find Ollie shouting at a waiter near the
front bar, Meeka moving in from one side, Sheila from the other.
“Fuck!” I swore softly, setting my empty glass on the back bar, then started
shoving my way through the crowd to get to Ollie before he killed somebody.
7
CHAPTER 3
After learning of Reese’s murder, and sufficiently calming Ollie down to the point
where he wouldn’t strap on all his irons and go out shooting every gangbanger in
town—and maybe some who only looked like bangers—Triple-D’s business became
very slow, at least as it pertained to business that actually paid us. On the pro-bono
front, we were busier than ever, especially Jordana Kauffman, at least in the opening
days because, after all, now she was Triple-D’s chief investigator, and she had a lot of
investigating to do.
My sources within BPD’s Criminal Intelligence Section and Robbery-Homicide
Division said they had solid information that Taylor was behind the hit in Gate City,
but so far at that point they were having a hard time locating and laying hands on her.
They also added that doing so was police work and that I should respect that and let
them do their jobs. A lot of cops throughout the metro and the state know me, which is
why the friendly warning, and it also explained why very shortly I received a call from
Anita Epstein, Birmingham’s current Top Cop.
She offered sincere condolences, told me that her officers and detectives were
doing everything they could to bring justice to the victims and their families, and, of
course, warned me off the case.
“Derrick, I know Ms. Tamblyn was a friend of yours. I know what she meant
to a lot of people in this city, especially those on the west side of town. From
everything I’ve read, she was a very good person and it angers me too that these pieces
of crap killed her and the others like they were nothing. Apprehending those pieces of
crap is a top priority for my department and every other law enforcement agency in the
metro. Let us handle this, Derrick. We’ll get them. I promise you that. And, of
course, it is our job, not yours.”
I told the Chief I heard and understood her, wished her people luck in their
efforts, then hung up the phone just as Jordana Kauffman came into my office with
Sheila on her heels.
“Got something, Chief,” said the ex-cop who just couldn’t quite help herself
when it came to using my first name on a regular basis, opting instead for an honorific
from her previous profession.
“As I’ve told you repeatedly, Detective, if you’re going to keep that up, I prefer
Commissioner. Makes me sound more sophisticated and worldly.”
Both Sheila and Jordana smiled as they stopped in front of my desk, the latter
leaning forward and putting several sheets of paper down in the middle.
“What’s this?” I inquired, briefly pausing to consider reaching for my reading
glasses in the top drawer before allowing vanity to make me her bitch and choosing
instead to pick up the papers and squint at them. Jordana leaned back up to her full
five feet, eleven inches, adjusting her glasses, and I wasn’t sure, but it seemed to me
that she might be giving me an expression of disapproval, too. I really did wish she'd
just give me the middle finger salute like the rest of the team.
“The end result of a lot of ass-busting on the part of your dedicated staff,”
Jordana said with a haughty smirk. “Particularly Sheila here, and Frankie, too.”
I glanced up at her. “And I suppose you’ve just been goofing off all this time.
What am I looking at?”
She explained, and occasionally Sheila would add a word or two while I
hunched over my desk and scanned the pages Jordana had put there.
“So, using the data your friend in BPD Intel unofficially provided us, and
collating it with what Sheila and Frankie got from their contacts, I was able to put
together a fairly accurate predictive model of Taylor’s past behavior which I believe will
tell us how she will react now, including where she’s likely to go to ground, and the
people she feels she can get support from.”
I nodded, glancing up.
“Okay, but won’t the cops do that, too?”
“Of course, and BPD has some very good detectives and analysts on their staff,
however, none of them is as connected to the street element as some of the members of
Triple-D’s staff.”
Sheila grinned.
“She mean ex-thugs, ‘specially me and Frankie.”
Jordana turned to look down at the much shorter woman.
9
“I think you and Frankie are just great,” she said sincerely, paused, then
grinned. “But if I had run into either of you while I was still a cop and you were still on
the other side, I’d have happily busted both your butts.”
Sheila glanced back up at the other woman for a long moment, both suddenly
humorless. For just an uncomfortable second there I thought something unpleasant
might be about to happen, but then Sheila grinned and punched Jordana in the right
arm. Jordana wrapped that arm around Sheila and gave her a squeeze, then they both
turned back to me.
“Bet Derrick there thought we was about to throw down or somethin’ right
here in his office,” Sheila said.
“And he wasn’t sure who to root for,” Jordana added. "Or to sell tickets."
I sighed, leaned back in my chair. “I do appreciate the brief sojourn into comic
relief, ladies, really. Believe me, I know how difficult all of this has been for everyone.
But please tell me about this predictive model and how we’re going to use it to find
Josephine Taylor.”
I left out the and kill the bitch dead part because as far as everyone at Triple-D
was concerned, that was a foregone conclusion.
Jordana nodded, glanced briefly at Sheila, adjusted her glasses once more,
then told me.
It took me about two minutes to make a decision when she was finished, but I
told Jordana and Sheila to excuse me for a little while before I told them what it was. I
sat for another three minutes, going back and forth on another decision, then said fuck
it and reached for my mobile phone. I had promised to keep him in the loop and
assured him that when there was something that looked promising, he’d get a call. I
am far from a boy scout and have told my share of lies in my time, but I owed Ollie
better than that right now. Hopefully, I wouldn’t regret this call in the very near
future.
Sighing, I unlocked my phone and pulled up the speed-dial menu.
10
CHAPTER 4
Some long dead war strategist—probably Clausewitz or Sun Tzu—once said that the
best way to draw your enemy out was to burn his house to the ground, or something to
that effect. So this is precisely what Triple-D did, set fire (literally in some cases) to
everything Jo-Jo Taylor held dear, a lot of things that the cops did not know about,
particularly her money and gun stashes. According to the information that Sheila and
Frankie’s
wrong-side-of-the-tracks
contacts
provided,
Jordana
Kauffman’s
assessment was that the banger leader had a tidy sum of ready cash stashed away that
totaled just under three hundred grand. She also had a lot of firepower, some of it fully
automatic. And we knew exactly where all of it was hidden.
We broke up into three teams, Jordana insistent that she was not going to sit
this one out behind a desk. I reminded her of her background in law enforcement and
the possibility that she might one day return to that career, but she was adamant that
she was going to help, adding that while she had not known Reese as well as the rest of
us, she had liked her, too, and was just as pissed about her murder, and the others.
I said okay, then decided that since Sheila and she got on so well, they could be
one team. Frankie and Bert were another. The only way I was letting Ollie out into the
field on this was if he was with me every step of the way. I had promised Meeka that I
would keep him from going too far off the deep end and getting himself in trouble that
no one would be able to get him out of. A tall order, but hey, I am Derrick The
Magnificent Olin. At least in my mind some days.
Within forty hours, excepting what she had in her pockets wherever she was,
Jo-Jo Taylor now qualified for welfare and Supplemental Nutritional Assistance
because she was flat-busted-broke, and seven of her top enforcers and two lieutenants
were either under medical care or behind bars.
Next we went after her weapons and drug stashes, again, the ones the cops
didn’t know about. This netted us more bad guys, all of them swearing they didn’t
know where their boss was and pleading to be taken to jail so they wouldn’t feel her
murderous wrath once she found out they had failed to protect her shit. BPD and
Jefferson County were only too happy to lay hands on these individuals, most of them
having serious felony warrants outstanding, however, they were not happy with the
fact that I had apparently not heeded their warnings about steering clear of this case. I
explained that my people and I just happened to be in the area when we noticed
suspicious activity and took action as all good citizens are encouraged to do.
“See something, do something!”
Chief Epstein and Assistant Sheriff Toms were not pleased with this response
in the least, and the latter pointed out that it’s “See something, say something!”
“Oh,” I said innocently. “My mistake.”
And we continued undeterred, as they knew full well we would, but lodging
official protests with witnesses to back them up provided them with some level of
deniability should we do something really bad and innocent people were hurt.
Otherwise, it was wink and nod time.
TAYLOR SURFACED THE FRIDAY BEFORE REESE’S memorial at Dex’s Place. In of
all places, Gate Goddamn City. She killed two former bangers there because they
wouldn’t agree to shelter her, then stole what little money they had and fled in one of
their beat up old jalopies. BPD responded and when Taylor was identified as the
perpetrator, an updated BOLO3 was issued, additional city and county units deployed.
I received a call from my source in BPD Criminal Intelligence about an hour
after the incident in Gate City, lying on the sofa in my living room cuddling the naked
and still quivering body of Laurel Simmons as she lay on top of me. I thanked my
source, dropped the phone on the floor, slipped both my hands down to the
delightfully firm ass of the fifty-five year old blonde hottie in my arms, squeezed.
“You ever play sink the submarine with Dr. Dave?” I said absently.
Laurel grinned, her blue eyes shimmering as she rested her chin on her folded
arms across my chest.
“Not even to periscope depth,” she teased, still grinning, her large white teeth
on full display. “Which is why I have you around, skipper.”
3
12
I grinned, squeezed her butt again, then pressed my lips to hers.
This was a bit of a celebration, Laurel had just received some unexpected news,
but it was supposed to be kept under wraps until the official announcement was made
next week. However, she was bursting to tell someone, and who better than the man
she already shared a significant secret with? Yours truly.
So she called, asked if she could come over, and then did. She told me her
news, I congratulated her, then stripped off her pants and underwear and ate her until
she came several times. Then I made us a snack while she called to make sure that her
two teenage sons had made it to their respective after school sporting practices,
checking in with her cosmetic surgeon husband to find out if anything had changed
with his work schedule. It hadn’t, he would not be home until some time around
eight. Her sons wouldn’t be home until around seven. Perfect.
She hung up the phone and turned to where I stood at the counter finishing
up. “Everything’s good,” she told me, that perfect mouth full of sparkling white teeth
again on marvelous display. “I can stay and play a little while longer.”
Good, I thought, my cock stiffening as I glanced over and admired her
nakedness, returning her grin.
After receiving the call about Jo-Jo, and a little time playing with Laurel’s
magnificent MILFy body, I retrieved my phone from the floor and typed out a text
message, sending it to Jordana. She replied a few minutes later and then I dropped the
phone back where it had been. It was only five-fifty now. Still a little time.
Laurel recognized the expression in my eyes, felt the increased intensity of my
hands on her ass.
“Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?” she said with a lazy smile, her
pelvis pressing into mine, her pussy soaking me.
“Well if you’re thinking that I’m thinking about using my tongue to play
submariner with your booty, then I am. And a whole lot more…”
She pressed her lips to mine, slipped her arms around my neck, nearly
smothering the breath from my lungs.
“No more talk then, Ahab,” she said breathlessly, pulling back and staring
directly into my eyes. “First I’m gonna help you hoist your flag. Then we’ll see just
how deep you can plant it.”
13
I smiled, sighed happily, then pushed up from the sofa and took Laurel with
me.
14
CHAPTER 5
Early Saturday morning around three o’clock Jo-Jo Taylor and her last three loyal foot
soldiers went to ground in a dilapidated house in the center of the Fountain Heights
neighborhood that had definitely seen better days. The house and the neighborhood. I
had actually been in the house once a long time ago, back when it was owned by the
late Innes Redbone, though I had not been an invited guest4. No, Innes and I never
had that kind of relationship, but I like to believe that we became much closer on that
one occasion, approximately the barrel length of a .45 caliber 1911 pistol from my palm
to his several chins. The good old days.
I didn’t know who owned the house now, if anybody. If somebody did own it
then they were sure doing a piss poor job with the upkeep. Innes must be rolling over
in his grave, which should be easy for him now given all the years of not eating since he
bit the dust. Ah well…
The tip from my friend at BPD placed Jo-Jo in this area, and the text I sent
was to let Jordana know this so she could concentrate her investigative efforts there.
To that end, she called on the redoubtable Sheila and Frankie and it wasn’t long before
networks of informers and people who were really scared of them spotted Taylor and
her cohorts breaking into the former home of one of Birmingham’s truly unpleasant
citizens. By the time this information was reported to me, Laurel Simmons had been
long gone from my place, no doubt sleeping in the loving arms of her husband by now.
She’d probably sleep well, it being the weekend, and the fact that I had done everything
in my considerable carnal power to exhaust her while she was with me this afternoon.
But thoughts like that were not helpful at the moment, there was work to do. Hard
work. Yeah, not as hard as my cock became when thinking about Mrs. Simmons bent
over my kitchen counter, but still…
4
FOR FORM’S SAKE, ONCE CONFIRMATION HAD been achieved, Jordana asked if I
wanted to call the police and tell them where to find Taylor and the gang, what little
there was left of it. I actually considered what she said for about ten seconds, then told
her no, but reiterated that she didn't have to come along. Strictly speaking, the
investigative part of the job was now over. She told me she understood that, and was
coming along if the rest of us were. And we were.
Frankie and Sheila had been watching the place since before dawn and
confirmed four people in the house, one of them fitting the description of Josephine
Taylor. They also reported seeing lots of guns. Ollie nodded grimly, pushing shells
into the breach of a Benelli self-loading shotgun.
“Good,” he said coldly. “The more the fuckin’ merrier.”
Yep, he and I were partners again and I was seriously thinking about asking
him to leave the shotgun in the van, knowing that his response would not be pleasant,
so I simply shook my head and sighed.
“Look like they got two on watch,” Sheila was briefing us. “One in the front
room just to the left of that big window up there, the second one in the back, second
floor, peeping out a little window that Frankie say is a bathroom.”
Frankie nodded.
“Been a long time since I was in there,” he said. “Innes didn’t socialize with
the troops much, even his top guys. I was there maybe four times over the years, and
not for long. One time, Nestor was taking so long in the downstairs guest bathroom
that Mya told me I could use the one upstairs in back. The window in there gave a
pretty good view of the backyard and the neighbor’s house to the right. But like I said,
that was a long time ago, and both those houses been empty for a while.”
I nodded, let Sheila continue. It was now seven after seven on an overcast
morning, no sun visible yet. Other than the dead of night, probably the best time to
make our move. The watchers would be sleepy, Taylor and the others probably still
asleep. No need for a whole lot of sophistication, after all, these people were vicious,
but they were not trained. My team was (trained and vicious). That being said, we
would still proceed with caution.
I pulled Ollie to the side and had a quick whispered conversation. I could tell
that he was barely holding it together and impressed upon him the fact that if he went
into that house in a blind rage, he could be endangering the lives of everyone else on
16
the team, adding that if he did that, I would kick his ass myself. Threatening George
Oliver is never a smart thing to do, and believe me, I know this very well, however, it’s
not such a good idea to get on my bad side either. Just ask Malik Oldham. Well, you
can’t because he’s dead, which kind of makes my point.
After a full two minutes of hard staring, the rest of the team sitting
uncomfortably in the background waiting for the explosion, Ollie sighed and nodded,
whispering that he understood. I actually believed him, too.
Ten minutes later we were inside the house. The downstairs watcher had
fallen asleep with a Beretta pistol on his lap. He was so startled by Sheila and
Jordana’s bursting through the front door that by the time he knew what was
happening, Sheila had secured his weapon and Jordana had him down on the floor,
her knee in the middle of his back, and flex-cuffs tightening around his wrists.
Upstairs, watcher number two was awake, had a shotgun of his own. Bert and
Frankie both shot the man before he could make it all the way out of the bathroom, his
finger never making it to his weapon’s trigger.
Jo-Jo’s third man was actually a woman, and she burst out of a first floor
bedroom, naked as the day she was born, a Tech-9 machine pistol in her left hand. She
was spraying up the hallway as Ollie and I made our way into the kitchen, trying to be
as careful as we could so as not to trip over all the garbage and other shit in our way.
God what slobs they were!
I made it to the hallway first, the shooter’s back to me. Her ass, too, and you
would not be wrong if you suspected that I took a second to admire her rearview. You
would be wrong if you thought this would distract me or keep me from doing my job.
However, Ollie beat me to it, stepping past just as the woman turned, his
Benelli already raised to his right shoulder. Being an auto-loader, there was no racking
required after every pull of the trigger. I must admit I was a little surprised when Ollie
only pulled the trigger twice. It was enough though.
Everyone reported in, and by my count, there was only one left. The woman in
question herself. The wannabe (now never will be) Godmother of Crime. Ollie and I
quickly searched the first level while Sheila covered the front door and Jordana
watched their prisoner. There was no sign of another living being down there and Ollie
glanced at me, moving toward the stairs. Bert and Frankie were holding in the upstairs
17
hallway, as per instructions. I let them know we were on the way up, moving quickly to
catch up with Ollie.
He was two steps from the upper landing and I was three steps behind him
when a barrage of gunfire sounded, accompanied by a guttural scream of rage. Having
once had the pleasure of making Ms. Taylor’s acquaintance, I knew that scream. I also
knew she couldn’t shoot worth a damn, which is why she opted for weapons with large
capacity magazines.
The shooting and the screaming stopped, but there were shouts, the same
angry female voice. I heard Bert yell “Drop the fucking piece, lady!” and the response
“Go fuck yourself, spic nigger!” The distinctive sound of a semiautomatic pistol’s slide
slamming into place and the chamber being loaded. I arrived just in time to see Bert
put two .45 caliber Hydra Shok rounds into the middle of Josephine Taylor’s pasty,
bumpy forehead, thus effectively avenging the death of our friend Reese Tamblyn.
Of course, this was not nearly good enough for Ollie and the next guttural
scream of rage came from him. It took everything Bert, Frankie, and I had to pull him
away from Taylor’s corpse and get him downstairs where Sheila stepped in and took
his face in her hands, pulling his forehead against hers, holding him until the
struggling stopped. Then, to my everlasting astonishment, my friend, likely the coldest
motherfucker I have ever known, actually started crying.
Shit.
Next came the cops.
Shit, again.
Both Chief Epstein and Deputy Chief Marlin, head of BPD’s Investigative
Operations (Detectives) Bureau, were in Fountain Heights by nine-thirty a.m., and
neither looked happy. I must say that I was surprised we were actually finished with
our interviews in time to make it to Reese’s memorial at six, and given what I had
witnessed regarding Ollie’s reaction that morning, his further breakdown in the
evening was not so much of a surprise.
Still, Triple-D was in for some rough days ahead, and I was not looking
forward to them.
We got Ollie to his vehicle, Meeka behind the wheel, Rosa and Sheila on either
side of him in the backseat, Frankie riding shotgun. They were taking him home, he
needed rest, and time. He’d get as much of that as he required, I would see to that.
18
Bert and Jordana came up to me as I walked back into the restaurant, concern
on their faces. I glanced to the right and caught Earl’s eye. I knew he wasn’t doing well
either. Reese was a very close friend and protégé of his. I needed to speak to him in a
bit, too.
Bert and Jordana stood on either side of me, slipping their arms around my
back and walking me off to find some place we could talk. I would have preferred
being alone but knew now was not the time for my less charming dissocial tendencies
to surface.
So I put my arms around them and did the human thing. Briefly, I caught
sight of Monique Otis and her husband and they appeared to be heading out. I didn’t
stare too long, but did make a mental reminder to expect a call later in the night, and
make plans for the future.
At the back bar again, Bert and Jordana ordered mixed drinks, I had another
cranberry juice. We turned and faced one another, held up our glasses, and I made a
brief toast.
“To Reese Makayla Tamblyn Cunningham, friend, wife, mother, gone too soon,
and there will never be another like her.”
“To Reese!”
We drank, but it didn’t make any of us feel even a little bit better.
19
CHAPTER 6
On a Tuesday morning a few weeks later I was still at my condo downtown when I got a
call from Benita Bender, ace legal eagle at the Milner Law Firm. She said that she had
a client who would be in need of high quality protection services in the near future, and
since all the high quality outfits she knew of were currently busy, wondered if Triple-D
might be interested in the contract. I laughed, leaning back on my papasan chair and
thinking about the very tall, very thin, and very white (as in highly sun-deprived)
thirty-five year old former Jefferson County prosecutor who was young enough to be
my daughter, but thankfully wasn’t my daughter, and had a most incredible little
backside in her own right. I was also thinking about spanking said backside for that
remark. And just because it would likely be a great thing to do.
“You know, there’s a substantial surcharge for smartasses,” I quipped, hearing
Nita snicker down the line.
“Well it’s not like that’ll come out of my pocket,” she retorted. “Which is a
good thing, too, because little boys are rather expensive to take care of.”
I chuckled.
“And how is the other Mr. Jacobson in your life?”
“Short, cranky, still poops in his pants, but he is the absolute light of my life,”
said a very proud mama. “Aaron and I couldn’t be happier. Even talking about having
another one in another year or so.”
“Good for you,” I said. “I’m happy for you, although that still isn’t going to
stop me from billing you mercilessly for your insults regarding my company just a little
while ago.”
She snickered again.
“Now, Derrick, you know I was just playing around. Everybody at Milner
knows there is only one name in professional security in this town. Hell, Ashley would
kick me to the curb, from the sixth floor, if I even suggested going anywhere else for
security services. Even to Master-Plan.”
“Uh-huh,” I said stiffly. “Now you wanna play nice. So tell me about your
client and how soon you were looking at starting. We’re a little short-staffed at
Triple-D right now, and about to be even more so, but I’ll see what we can do.”
A pause for maybe thirty seconds, then Nita responded.
“Actually, Derrick, this is a little sensitive and I was hoping to speak with you
in person. Could you come by the office tomorrow afternoon? I could have lunch
catered in.”
Now it was my turn to pause, mentally reviewing my schedule for tomorrow.
“If we could make it one-thirty, that would work for me,” I told her. “Got
something on for in the morning that might run a little long, and is up in Gardendale.”
“Sure,” she said. “That works for me. I’ve got a deposition in the morning but
that should be over by eleven. I can cool my heels for a couple hours while waiting for
you to grace me with your awesome presence.”
“And the rates just went up again, smartass,” I told her, then laughed.
She laughed, too, then told me she’d see me tomorrow afternoon.
I set my phone down on my thigh and spent a few moments considering the
very long-legged brunette I’d just been bantering with, in particular, a picture from her
honeymoon in Mexico a few years back that featured her on a lounger under a large
beach umbrella wearing a black one-piece, dark shades, and a big floppy hat. Then it
was time for me to get up and go to work, something I was not doing as eagerly these
days as once I had.
On the plus side, I had an afternoon meeting today that would likely raise my
spirits, not to mention my blood pressure and galvanic skin response levels.
And now I was smiling, among other physical reactions.
21
CHAPTER 7
Jordana Kauffman was leaving us, and while I was not surprised, I was very
disappointed. Actually, I was surprised that she had lasted two years with us. Not for
any negative reasons, on the contrary, her work was first-rate and she got on well with
everyone at Triple-D, making herself indispensable in a very short period of time. And
as a result, another great loss to us.
Jordana had been a cop up in Morgan County for more than a dozen years and
lost her job because of politics. She was a friend of my former BPD friend, Paige
Palmer, and Paige knew I was looking to hire someone to run the office, once we had
an office, that is. She suggested Jordana, told me the story about Morgan County, said
she knew what I had to offer wasn’t exactly what Jordana was looking for, but a job
was a job, which the late thirties redhead needed at that time. So with that ringing
endorsement, I agreed to meet former Detective Kauffman. Good thing I did, too,
because I immediately agreed with Paige that she was capable of doing the job, but the
question was whether she wanted to do it. Jordana answered me honestly, telling me
that she really didn’t, but that she could and would if I hired her. Her heart was in law
enforcement, however, for the moment that door was closed to her in the state of
Alabama, thanks, again, to dirty politics.
Well I love hard luck stories just as much as the next potential employer, and
decided to take a chance, hiring her the next day. And true to her word, she did the
job, better than advertised, which is why pretty soon she was assigned much more to
do than office work, eventually becoming our chief investigator as well. But now that
was over.
Jordana’s husband is a Marine officer and was recently promoted to lieutenant
colonel. Two months ago he informed Jordana that he was being transferred back
stateside on a permanent tour, at least for the next three years, taking an assignment at
Camp Pendleton in Southern California. This meant that for the first time in quite a
few years, they would be able to live together in the same place and be a real married
couple. That is, if Jordana agreed to move.
Of course she agreed, and thanks to two friends of mine, one an FBI Executive
Assistant Director who used to run the Bureau’s LA Division, the other ex-FBI, too,
and previous head of the LA Division as well, now the Director of Investigations for the
California Department of Justice, the Chief of the San Diego Police Department
received two most excellent recommendations regarding former Detective Kauffman,
encouraging her to hire Jordana before someone else beat San Diego to the punch.
Jordana flew out for interviews four weeks ago. Last week she received a call
from the head of personnel at SDPD. She was in, and the Chief extended her personal
congratulations to the newest detective with San Diego’s Burglary Division. So, like I
said at the outset, Jordana was leaving us.
This was her last week. Actually, Thursday was her last day. Just two more
days.
I WAS SITTING IN MY OFFICE READING A threat assessment that Sheila had
written for a new client, and while my mind wasn’t completely into it, I must admit to
being somewhat impressed. In a reasonably short period of time, Sheila had come a
long way in the writing department. In the beginning, while being far from illiterate,
she had not been the most articulate member of the team, and had a tough time
expressing herself with the written word. Truthfully, with the exception of Bert, none
of the others had had much experience with writing official reports and
communicating in any manner other than physically, and usually violently. But Sheila
was by far the toughest case, the biggest trial. However, now it appeared that the case
had been cracked and she was becoming quite the report writer, making good use of
that thesaurus program I introduced her to. Also, I suspected that she’d been getting
help from Jordana as the two women had become closer. Yet another reason I was
unhappy to see Ms. Kauffman go.
I put the Android tablet down, removed my reading glasses as I glanced up at
the tall redhead in front of my desk.
23
“If I could convince the Marines to open a major base in the heart of
Birmingham and then get Anita Epstein to make you Chief of Detectives, would that
convince you to stay?”
Jordana smiled down at me, briefly glanced behind her, pulled the single client
chair up to the front of my desk, and then sat her lanky frame down, crossing her long
legs left over right. She had a black folder in her hands, now resting it on her lap.
“Well if I became Chief of Detectives, that would hardly leave me time to be
your chief investigator,” she quipped. “Or to be much of a wife to Jared, something
I’ve missed quite a lot over the past few years as he’s been on constant overseas
deployment. And as much as Birmingham has grown on me over the past few years,
Derrick, Southern California is really nice, as I know you know.”
“I do,” I sighed, sitting up and leaning my arms on the desk. “Especially San
Diego. I know you and Jared will love the place, and you'll get to be together more,
too. I know how much you’ve been missing him and am happy for the two of you. And
you’re gonna get to do the job I know you really love, what could be grander? Again,
congratulations. I know you’ll go far out there, and probably make Chief of Detectives
one day, too.”
We were both silent for a time, tears threatening to spill from her large green
eyes, and, admittedly, I felt some stinging in mine as well. After a minute, Jordana
reached up with her left hand and rubbed her eyes. I glanced away and stifled a sniffle.
“Damn,” she swore a short time later. “I promised myself I wasn’t going to do
that.”
I took a deep breath, sighed, then refocused on my soon-to-be ex-operations
manager/chief investigator. My mobile phone beeped before I could come up with
something to say that didn’t sound completely stupid. I held up a finger then pulled
my phone out of the holder on my belt. My expression remained stoic as I read the text
message, but on the inside, I was quite warm. I returned the phone to the holder and
glanced up again.
“So as I was about to say, Mrs. Kauffman, although your work here has been
somewhat satisfactory, I’m afraid I’m going to have to let you go because you simply
have exceeded our extremely low standards here at Triple-D, thus making the rest of us
look bad.”
24
Jordana snickered, wiping her eyes again. She was about to say something,
paused as she thought, then grinned wider, uncrossing her legs as she leaned forward,
her left hand rising from her lap, her long middle finger springing upward in as fine a
middle finger salute as I have ever viewed being directed toward me.
At last!, I thought triumphantly, leaning back and grinning widely.
“About damn time,” I chided playfully, tipping my imaginary hat in her
direction. “You will definitely be missed, Jordana. By everyone. The place won’t be
the same without you.” I paused, cleared my throat, then indicated the file in her lap.
“So what was it you wanted to see me about, and does it have something to do with
that?”
Jordana took a deep breath, nodded as she picked up the folder.
“It does,” she said, placing the folder on the front edge of my desk. “In here
are the three most qualified candidates, in my estimation, to replace me. It’s
something that we should have discussed before now, but you’ve been dragging your
feet, and I know why. But we need to at least talk about it before I go, and maybe we
might even be able to get them to come to the office for interviews tomorrow while I’m
still here.”
I stared at her and knew she was right, about so many things, but a part of me
was still resistant, and I wasn’t sure why. Or maybe I was. Didn’t really matter
though, as I said, Jordana was right.
I nodded, reached for the folder and opened the cover, beginning to leaf
through the contents and pretending that what I was doing now was the most
interesting and fun thing in the world, knowing that in just a few short hours I would
actually be engaging in the most fun and interesting thing in the world, at least to me.
Again, I had to suppress the smile that threatened to misappropriate my face
and reveal to Jordana that my mind at this moment was far away from this office and
considering many things that had nothing to do with hiring her replacement.
Not that anyone ever could…
25
CHAPTER 8
Monique “Niqe” Otis will be fifty years old later this year. And maybe then her
insatiable sex drive will finally abate, but somehow I doubt this development will come
to pass anytime soon. Honestly, though, I’m pretty sure I don’t want that to happen
anyway. Actually, I know I don’t.
Circumstances had prevented Niqe and me from getting together for the past
several weeks, much to our mutual disappointment, but this Tuesday mid-afternoon
we managed to rectify that unfortunate result. Niqe left work early for a doctor’s
appointment and came directly to my condo. When she told me the excuse she used
for her early departure from J-W, I grinned and pulled her close, telling her that it
wasn’t a complete lie she had told her vice principal and staff. While I was not a
licensed physician, I felt more than capable and qualified to give her body a thorough
examination and… good going over. This made Niqe grin wickedly and press her lips
to mine.
Smiling and feeling a surge of pent up and burning lust throughout my body, I
took her hands in mine and led her into the bedroom…
NIQE WAS ON HER RIGHT SIDE, LEFT LEG raised across my shoulder and back, her
body quivering uncontrollably as she panted and moaned, occasionally shrieking at the
top of her lungs. Despite this, I did not halt what I was doing. In fact, this caused my
actions to intensify, my tongue and the fingers on my left hand sinking deeper into her
dripping wetness, between her folds, into the center of her female essence. Yes, her
pussy! The other white meat? Well actually in her case it would be light brown meat
because she’s black, but I suppose it really doesn’t… Yeah, I’m getting off track, and
right now I really should be concentrating on what I’m doing because unless I’m
mistaken, Mrs. Otis is about to reach the point of no return and… Yep, right on cue.
Now she was screaming her head off, her body shaking wildly, and her pussy…
Well I’m sure you get the picture.
While she lay trying to recover her breath, her body bathed in perspiration, I
rose to my knees and smiled down at my handiwork. One of my truly favorite things in
the world is pleasing a woman sexually, getting her off, as it were. And I especially love
it when she loves it, as Monique Otis surely did. This explained the gigantic erection I
had right now, not to mention the lustful glint in my eyes. I sighed deeply, then leaned
down and rolled her all the way over onto her stomach, scooting down and taking hold
of her ankles, pulling her legs apart.
Niqe managed to raise her head and glance back over her left shoulder, brown
eyes wide.
“Oh shit,” she managed to breathe.
“Yeah,” I said impishly, aligning my body with hers, leaning down and kissing
the middle of her slick back, the impression of the black lace bra that she no longer
wore still visible on her skin. A quick glance down at that magnificent brown booty,
then I started lowering my body onto hers until the head of my cock was pressing into
the entrance of her pussy. God she was so wet, something to which my sheets could no
doubt attest.
“Ready?” I teased her, moving ever so slightly.
Niqe quivered and moaned, then nodded her head.
I sighed again, then grinned, pressing forward and not stopping until every
millimeter of me was filling every millimeter of her…
“HOW’VE YOU BEEN SINCE LAST I SAW you?” Niqe asked as we stood at my kitchen
counter an hour later drinking juice and eating from a fruit and veggie platter that I
had prepared. “I know you’re the strong silent type, Derrick, a modern-day John
Wayne or Clint Eastwood or something, but I could also tell how upset you were about
what happened to Reese, which is normal for anyone. Tough guys included.”
I glanced at her over my glass before setting it down and picking up a plum,
taking a bite. It was cold and very sweet. Wet, too, but I’d keep that to myself.
“Always been more partial to Mr. Eastwood,” I told her as I finished the plum
and discarded the pit in the trashcan under the counter. “But to answer your question,
27
I’m fine, as well as can be expected. I knew Reese for about fifteen years, and I liked
her. She was a good person, worked hard at being a good person. I’m not going to
betray any confidences, but I’ll just say she had a rough early life, went down a bad
path and made some pretty bad choices, but eventually she was able to right herself
and become better than she was. And she didn’t let her past haunt her, she was honest
about it, made no excuses, accepted what she had been and let it fuel her present and
future. I’m sorry for her family, her husband, and especially her son because he’s not
going to get to finish growing up with Reese as his mother. That’s just too much
because Reese really doted on the boy, loved him unconditionally. He’s devastated, so
is his father. And I understand that her mother up in Clanton is still under a doctor's
care.”
I paused then, feeling a wave of disgust rising in my gut. Niqe reached out her
right hand and rested it on my left forearm, saying nothing, just lending support. I
took a deep breath, reached for my juice glass with my right hand.
“I’ll be fine, Niqe,” I told her after finishing the glass. “It’s Ollie I’m worried
about. I was hoping that once we dealt with the people who killed Reese and the
others, he’d snap back, be something close to what he was before, but that doesn’t
seem to be the case. According to Meeka, he seems to have deteriorated even more.
Mopes around the house all day, doesn’t shave, barely talks, sits and watches game
shows or soap operas or whatever is on television. On the plus side, he isn’t flying into
rages anymore and she’s not so worried that he’ll grab his guns and go out and start
shooting random bad guys. She took the keys to his gun safe, by the way, and after a
day or so of raging around, he stopped demanding she give them back. For a while she
thought about asking Sheila to come and take all of them away someplace more secure,
but now she doesn’t think it’s necessary. Of course, she knows like I do that access to
guns has never been a problem for Ollie, and if he really wanted to get his hands on
some hard hardware, it would be no sweat.”
“Have you talked to him?” she asked, stepping closer.
I stared down at her breasts for a few moments, suddenly remembering that
we were both naked, wondering how the hell that was possible. The not remembering
part.
“Not since the memorial service,” I said. “I’ve called a few times but Meeka
says he doesn’t want to talk to me. She doesn’t like me, really, but I don’t think she’d
28
lie about this. Sheila goes over and visits and he won’t talk to her either, but Sheila is
Sheila and she goes anyway. She’s worried, too, and Frankie. Hell, we all are. The
business is going to take a hit soon if he doesn’t come back, especially with Jordana
leaving in two days, but I’m not really worried about that right now, which should
actually worry me.”
I paused again, reached for her hand on my arm, held it in both my palms,
staring deeply into her eyes.
“When your husband groped your ass at the memorial Saturday before last, I
felt a surge of jealousy,” I said to her. “Wanted to go right over and punch his lights
out.”
Niqe snickered.
“I’m glad you didn’t. It would have put me in an awkward position, having to
decide between cheering for you or showing concern for Eldon. He pissed me off doing
that, too. It wasn’t the right time or place and he was just showing out. Like I told you
then, he would pay for that, and he has.” She snickered again. “Besides, he has no clue
when it comes to how to handle my ass. Unlike you.”
We stared deeply into one another’s eyes for several long moments, the heat
rising between us. I was rock hard again and burning with lust.
“I think it’s time to complete the rest of your physical examination, Principal
Otis,” I said in a lust heavy voice.”
“Really, Doctor,” she said in a coquettish tone, stepping back from me, striking
a pose, right hand going to shapely right hip. “I thought we were finished, you
appeared to be quite thorough before. I can’t imagine what on earth could be left for
you to do.”
My cock was throbbing now and I took a step toward her.
“Well, for one thing, I need to verify your temperature readings from earlier,
make sure the numbers are correct. And in order to ensure complete accuracy, I’m
going to have to use my specially prepared rectal thermometer.”
Niqe snickered and did a quick Wonder Woman-like5 spin around, facing me
once more, this time with both hands on her thick hips.
5
29
“You could have just said that you wanted to slide your big meat pole into my
big booty,” she teased. “We’re all friends here, no need for subterfuge. I know that
you’re a butt bandit, and, apparently, so am I.”
Another long stare, lust continuing to build.
I stepped even closer, took her face into my hands, pressing my lips to hers.
She was breathless a few minutes later when I put my mouth to her left ear and
whispered something.
She squealed and stepped back, pushing against my solid chest.
“God you’re fucking disgusting,” she said, then grinned widely. “And I fucking
love it!”
Taking me by the hand, Niqe led me back to the master bedroom, and for this
entire brief journey, my eyes never left that big bouncy booty of hers...
30
CHAPTER 9
Benita Bender has been with the Milner Law Firm for about three years now, following
six years with the Jefferson County District Attorney’s Office where she had been a
rising star until office politics came into play and some of her actions were judged to be
inappropriate by the current leadership. So, rather than take an unwarranted (in her
opinion, and mine) demotion, Benita opted to take Ashley Milner up on her offer of a
junior partnership. Today she was a full partner and the assistant head criminal
litigator for the firm, and a rising star of Ashley’s. Truth be told, I believe that Ashley is
planning on grooming Benita to be her successor when she goes. Ashley is nearly
eighty, and while she’s still going strong for the most part, she isn’t going to be around
forever, but the firm that bears her name probably will. In my estimation, and likely
Ashley’s as well, Ms. Bender is an ideal choice to take over the Big Chair someday,
maybe when she hits forty or thereabouts. Now all that remains is to convince her of
that. Not my job, though, so no worries for me on that front.
Wednesday afternoon Benita and I ate lunch in the small conference room
attached to her new corner office on the sixth floor of the Harbert Plaza building
downtown on 6th Avenue North and 20th Street, the headquarters of the Milner Law
Firm. She had an iPad set up, and while we ate, it displayed the latest photos of her
son, some by himself, some with him and his parents, everyone smiling, laughing, and
happy. I nodded in the right places, mumbled something pleasant here and there, and
did all the things that I imagined normal people did during times like this. I also kept
to myself my thoughts regarding some of the outfits Benita was wearing in some of
those shots, given that she was posing with her infant son. The blue bathing suit, the
snug black yoga pants, and the khaki thigh-high shorts were just a few of my favorites.
At the conclusion of lunch, and after quick bathroom breaks for both of us, we
went back to her office and sat in the two comfortable leather client chairs in front of
her large black desk. She had on a skirt today (thank the universe and all the false gods
and all the king’s horses and all the tea in China), and as is usually the case with her
lanky, six-feet plus frame, the garment rides several inches above her delectable knees
when she crosses her legs and leans back in the chair after handing me a blue file
folder. Being the properly bred southern gentleman that I am, of course, I take no
notice of her creamy white thighs. At least not any notice that she notices. I hope.
“That file contains everything I know about the client I want to hire you to look
after,” she said without further delay. “And I’ll warn you up front, he's not a pleasant
fellow, not that it likely matters to the professional side of you, as in my case. On a
personal level, I’d personally like to put both my designer pumps up his ass. With my
feet still in them.”
“Well with that cheery endorsement,” I said with a grin, undoing the clasp and
opening the folder. “I can’t wait to find out who this is.”
I was wrong, I could have waited, likely forever.
“Fuck!” I swore a few seconds later, glancing up from the file and into the cool
dark eyes of the litigator across from me.
“Yeah,” she said with a deep sigh. “There are rare times these days that I miss
being a prosecutor. This is one of those times.”
I glanced down at the file contents once more, shook my head.
“And this is one of those times that I regret they did away with the post of
public executioner,” I said dryly, sighing heavily, leaning back in my chair, and
beginning to read in-depth.
32
CHAPTER 10
Kennedy Claypool is a thirty-seven year old crook who managed to help con a lot of
stupid rich people out of their money for several years before they became suspicious
and the feds came on the scene to shut Claypool and his associates down. And, being
the sniveling little puke that he is, not long after the cuffs went on his wrists, Claypool
was spilling his guts to federal prosecutors with the hope of cutting the best deal
possible to keep himself out of prison. And most unfortunately for the City of
Birmingham, the bastard was a native son and had run his part of the operation from
an office park in Hoover. Some of the people he fingered were also residents of the
metro, at least part time in some cases, and the feds decided to go for a major RICO6
indictment spearheaded by the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Birmingham, with Ken
Claypool as their star witness. Only one problem, first they had to get him a lawyer,
and not just any lawyer, someone good, someone smart, and someone who knew the
ins and outs of the criminal justice system.
The current U.S. Attorney for the Northern District of Alabama (based in
Birmingham) is a former protégé of Ashley Milner’s, herself the former U.S. Attorney
for the State of Colorado, and he turned to Ashley for assistance. Ashley had smiled
and said she had the perfect person for the job.
“And I thought Ashley liked you,” I said after finishing the highlights of the
Claypool file and listening to Benita’s briefing.
She snorted. “I said the same thing to her and she grinned and said that as a
parent she was always a believer in tough love. I responded by telling her that I better
be prominently featured in her will then, after this grand screwing.”
If my supposition was correct, Ashley had far greater plans for this young
woman’s future than a simple bequest in her will, but again, I kept that to myself;
along with thoughts of precisely the kind of grand screwing… never mind.
6
“So you’re representing Claypool’s interests, and I can fully understand why
this fuckhead needs protection, but what I don’t understand is why the feds aren’t
providing it. I mean, he is a federal witness and that’s something the U.S. Marshals are
known to be rather good at.”
Benita shifted on her chair, nodding.
“My first thought as well,” she admitted. “And that’s when I received a briefing
on new DOJ guidelines regarding witness protection.”
The frown on her face made me frown and I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what
she had to say next, but I listened anyway. I was right, I didn’t want to hear it.
Shaking my head, I turned and tossed the folder onto her desk.
“I have never for one day regretted my decision to leave Uncle Sam’s stable
after ten years. But it is somewhat of a comfort to know that bureaucratic and political
stupidity can still surprise me. They can’t provide marshals’ protection but they can
pay for private contractors, as long as it’s done through a third party. Give me a
fucking break.”
Benita shook her head, uncrossing and recrossing her long legs. And, again,
being a gentleman, she did not catch me observing. I hope.
“Stupid, I know, Derrick, but there you have it. And by the way, I asked if
there was a cap on service fees for the contractors and was told that was something
that had not been discussed when the new rules were put into effect. So in essence I
guess that means you can bill whatever the hell you like. Yeah, this policy really ought
to save the taxpayers some serious dough, don’t you think?”
Her sardonic expression matched the way I felt and we both shook our heads.
“When does this need to start, Nita?” I said, pulling out my mobile phone and
accessing the calendar.
“Trial starts next Wednesday and is expected to last a month. Claypool is
presently in Atlanta and in the custody of federal marshals. He needs to be in
Birmingham before Monday. You’ll have to go and get him from the marshals’ facility
over there and bring him here to Birmingham. They’ve arranged a hotel where he can
be kept.”
“They can forget about that,” I said, glancing up from my phone. “If Triple-D
is going to accept responsibility for this creep’s safety, then we’re going to handle all
34
arrangements for his protection once we take charge of custody. Meaning, they don’t
pick safehouses, we do.”
Benita stared at me for nearly a minute before her near flawless face cracked
into a huge grin.
“Hard bastard!” she said. “Exactly why I want you on my side. Run it however
you have to, Derrick. It’s your show, you’re the expert. If the marshals wanted to be
able to dictate terms, they should have picked up the protection detail themselves.
They bitch, I’ll tell them to go pound sand.”
I smiled, my mind slightly behind as it still mulled over that comment she
made about wanting me on her side. Yeah, the nineteen year age difference
notwithstanding, I wouldn’t mind being on her side, too, not to mention up her…
Yeah, let’s not go there.
“We’ve got some things wrapping up over the next couple of days, including
Jordana’s farewell dinner at Dex’s Place tomorrow evening, but I think we can be ready
to take on Mr. Claypool by Sunday. I’ll need the particulars and contact information
for whoever is in charge in Atlanta.”
Benita nodded.
“I’ll email you everything by no later than noon tomorrow. There’s some prep
work that has to be done with the prosecutors next week before the trial begins. My
understanding is that Ken is going to be the third witness they call, which means he
might testify as early as next Wednesday, certainly no later than Thursday. And
because of his star witness status, he’ll be subject to recall. Likely the defense will want
to call him back during their case-in-chief, too, even if they do a thorough cross during
the prosecution’s presentation. And it’s highly likely that the prosecution will call him
on rebuttal in order to explain or dispel things that were brought up during the
defense’s case. This is why I’m estimating a month. Maybe less, could be more,
though.”
I nodded, tapping away at my phone. After a minute I looked up.
“Okay, I’ll work out the logistics, figure out how much this is going to cost the
taxpayers, and when I get your email, I’ll likely have additional questions. By the way,
are you aware of any specific threats directed toward Claypool? I mean, given that he
swindled a lot of people out of millions of dollars, I know plenty of people want to kill
him. Especially when you add in the folks he’s betrayed by agreeing to testify.”
35
“Nothing specific,” she said, uncrossing her legs, putting her feet flat on the
floor and pressing her knees together as she leaned forward. “But I’ll make sure to get
whatever the marshals have and include it in the email tomorrow. Is there anything
else you need right now, Derrick?”
“So many things, luv,” I said with a deep sigh.
She stared at me for a long time after that comment, saying nothing. Finally
she leaned forward even more and put her right hand on my left knee, squeezing. She
still said nothing, and neither did I. Another twenty seconds went by and she finally
stood, smoothing out her skirt (which I now noticed was rather snug in the seat area)
before moving behind her desk. I watched her until she reached her chair, then
refocused my attention on my phone, careful not to let her see me taking deep, uneasy
breaths.
Christ!
36
CHAPTER 11
I shun hotels as safehouses. Too many things out of my control for my liking, and even
if management agrees to take the rooms off the hotel master key system, they can still
get in if they want to. After all, they’re the ones that control the locking system in the
first place, among lots of other things. Therefore, I prefer using safehouses that are
under my absolute dominion. Yeah, I’m kind of a control freak, but thus far, I had
never lost a client under my protection, and despite my personal feelings toward our
current client, I did not intend to let him be the first.
Sheila, Bert, and I made the trip to the federal detention facility in Atlanta to
collect our charge. Thanks to my close personal relationship with the current Chief
Deputy U.S. Marshal for the Northern District of Georgia, Jeff Porter, the transfer went
much smoother than it might have otherwise. We brought him back to Birmingham
via one of the most convoluted routes my sneaky mind could come up with, then
installed him in our Homewood safehouse where Frankie was already waiting, and he
had the night shift that day.
The next couple of days we spent transporting him to his lawyer’s office where
he met with Benita Bender and two people from the U.S. Attorney’s Office, then back
to the safehouse. While he was at the safehouse, one of the troops kept him company
while I and whoever else wasn’t on duty handled other business. We were still a bit
slow and that wasn’t a bad thing because we were down two people. Jordana was on
her way to San Diego—and so far I had not replaced her—, and Ollie was on indefinite
leave, possibly terminal leave, meaning the team might be down to a permanent four.
I could hire someone to run the office, not that finding someone as good as Jordana
would be easy, although it would be easier than finding someone good enough to take
Ollie’s place on the team. And although the people Jordana and I had interviewed on
her last full day the previous week seemed competent and capable, I really wasn’t sold
on either of them, likely meaning I would not be calling any of them back for a second
interview. Honestly, my mind and heart weren’t in it. Maybe that was even true about
Triple-D, too.
Claypool was not called to the stand until Friday, and spent the entire day
testifying. The judge finally called a recess just after five p.m., saying that the
prosecution could resume direct examination of their witness on Monday, court was
adjourned for the weekend. Back at the safehouse, I set the weekend schedule for
twelve hour shifts both days, Sheila and me on Saturday, Bert and Frankie on Sunday,
then on Monday and for the rest of the week it would be back to the previous routine
until the next weekend or the job was done.
On Sunday afternoon I received a call from Nadya Shaba, founder of the Magic
City Dreams Foundation, and as was always the case when we spoke on the phone or in
person, the flirting was outrageous, mostly coming from her direction. Hard to believe
in all the time that I’ve known this woman and all the time she’s spent making me
blush (kind of), that she and I have never danced the Naked Tango. Perhaps it was
time to do something about that. After all, I wasn’t getting any younger. Nadya, on the
other hand, despite turning seventy last year, seemed to be doing nothing but aging
backwards.
“I hope you aren’t busy with anything Tuesday night, Derrick,” she said in a
mirthful tone, her accent and husky voice really doing a number on my groin as I
sprawled on my living room sofa. “Because I want you to be my escort for the evening.
And not my bodyguard, rather my arm candy.”
“Am I going to have to wear leather chaps?” I teased.
She purred down the line.
“Now that would be a sight,” she rejoined playfully. “I always did think you
would look great in crotchless pants, too.”
We both laughed, and after a while Nadya told me what was going to happen
Tuesday, although, thanks to another intimate relationship, I already knew. I told her
that I should be free Tuesday night, but there was a possibility that something might
come up. Nonetheless, I would do my level best to be in position to be the most
charming escort she’d ever had.
38
This brought forth a snicker and she said, “Well I’ve never paid for it in my life,
Mister, but I suppose if I were going to start, my RocMan7 would be the perfect
choice.”
We laughed again, then chitchatted for a while longer before hanging up. By
this time the shorts I was wearing revealed quite a noticeable bulge in the crotch
region. Who knows, maybe this coming Tuesday night would be far more interesting
than Nadya thought. And maybe end with a bang!
I checked in with the shift at the safehouse in Homewood, then went to make
some food. I had planned on an old movie double feature this evening, and once I
finished in the kitchen, I’d plop back down on the sofa and watch Casablanca from
1942 and 13 Rue Madeleine from 1946. The exciting life and times of an off duty
professional bodyguard.
I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to contain the excitement.
7
39
CHAPTER 12
Tuesday morning the defense got their first crack at Kennedy Claypool, and it was
another very long day, ending just after four-thirty. Sheila and I got him back to the
safehouse by six and Bert took charge. I told Sheila I’d see her in the morning, then
made haste to get back to my condo downtown. A quick shower followed, a fresh shave
for my face and head as well, then I dressed in the one and only tuxedo that I have ever
owned, casually observing my appearance in the hallway mirror as I made my way
toward the front door. No telltale bulge of the subcompact Glock .45 concealed under
my jacket. Chances were good that I wouldn’t need the weapon tonight, the only
danger I’d be in is of my face cracking from all the fake smiling I was about to do.
However, there are still quite a number of folks out there who are not fans of mine
(shocking, I know!), and prudence and common sense demand that precautions be
taken. Also, the reason I now own a tux is because I got tired of having to buy them
from the rental companies after they were ruined when somebody did try to kill me
while I was wearing one.8 Thus far, since I bought this monkey suit, it has remained
unscathed. Fingers crossed.
The Magic City Dreams Foundation is located on the thirty-first floor of the
Harbert Plaza Building, the same building that houses the Milner Law Firm down on
six. On the top floor, the thirty-second, is the Harbert Club, one of the most exclusive
dining establishments in the city, with membership being required for dining, or you
have to be invited by a senior member in good standing, like Nadya Shaba. She’s
actually on the Harbert Board, so needless to say, getting a reservation is never a
problem for her, and neither is renting the place out for an evening for an exclusive
event.
Nadya was already in the building when I arrived, in her spacious office talking
with a couple of associates. She was wearing a stunning dark green sequined evening
gown that would leave a lesser man a quivering mass of Jello, but not Derrick Olin, no
8
sir, no ma’am! Although I must admit that my throat was a little dry when she walked
over to me and the slit up the left leg of the long gown opened to reveal a still quite
remarkable pair of sexy gams. And then there was the plunging neckline. Yeah, this
was going to be an interesting evening.
She stopped in front of me, grinning and taking both my hands in hers. I
stared down into the deep black pools that were her eyes, smiled as well, leaning down
and kissing her cheek.
“I’m sure you already know this,” I whispered next to her ear, “but I’ll say it
anyway. You look absolutely amazing, luv.”
Nadya beamed, squeezing my hands.
“Well now that you’ve said it, I know it’s true,” she said, planting a light kiss on
my lips. Then she introduced me to the others in her office.
By eight-ten we were in the club having drinks, in my case nonalcoholic, and as
I hovered near Nadya, I glanced around and saw a lot of people I knew, although many
of them not personally because they and I usually moved in different circles, unless
they required my specialized services, which a number of them had over the years, and
on Nadya’s recommendation.
Approximately twenty feet away I caught sight of someone I had been looking
for ever since stepping off the elevator, and truthfully, it wasn’t her that I spotted first,
it was her husband, Dr. David “Dr. Dave” Simmons, UAB’s premiere cosmetic
reconstructive surgeon. And there she was in front of him wearing a stunning red
dress with a plunging neckline of its own. When Dave turned to his right, I was able to
see her in profile, and I smiled, thinking about just how familiar I was with Laurel
Simmons’ profile, not to mention her cleavage, and other bits and pieces, too.
Food was served buffet style, despite the formal attire, and after about an hour,
once everyone was fed and liquored and happy, Nadya moved to the center of the room
and got everyone’s attention. When the noise level dropped to almost nothing, she
began to speak for the next ten minutes, giving a brief account of how and why she
came to found Magic City Dreams, what it meant to her personally, and how grateful
she was to everyone in this room for all the support they had given her over the years.
Then she talked about recent events, and the difficulties that were facing every charity
around the world today, especially those that sought to help the forgotten and less
fortunate. She pledged to continue the fight for those people with her last breath, with
41
her last ounce of strength, and with her last dollar, declaring that the hopes and
dreams of everyone for a better life for themselves and their kids was worth everything
she had and would never give up as long as she was alive.
Then she made the announcement that shocked a lot of people, but not all, not
me, not Laurel Simmons, either. A year earlier Nadya had hired an executive director
to run the day-to-day operations of the foundation so she could concentrate more on
fundraising and media. That executive director had recently taken a job in New York
and Nadya had stepped back in to take on most of the responsibility she had before,
although realizing at the outset that this had to be temporary. And to that end, she had
spent the last two months searching for the right person to become the foundation's
new President and Chief Executive Officer. Tonight she was announcing that the
board had unanimously chosen Laurel Simmons for that post.
Judging by his reaction, I don’t think Dr. Dave was aware of this ahead of
time. He was all smiles as he took his wife in his large arms and squeezed her to him.
Laurel was beaming as she accepted the well wishes of everyone as they applauded
her. For just a brief moment, our eyes met in the distance, my mind recalling her
sharing this news with me a few weeks back, right before she rode me on the sofa in my
living room, her soft C-cups in the palms of my hands. Oh wait, actually I believe I
tongue-fucked her first, then… Not really important right now.
I nodded and she turned without acknowledgement, walking over to Nadya
and the two women embraced warmly. Laurel spoke for ten minutes and I actually
listened to every word, her deep Georgia accent more prominent than ever among the
sea of Alabama ones. I glanced over and saw that Dr. Dave appeared to be genuinely
moved and happy for his wife, and this made me smile. Of course, thinking about
some of the things his wife and I have done naked over the past couple of years makes
me smile, too, but I’m not thinking about any of those things now.
The event broke up a little after ten-thirty and I escorted Nadya down in the
elevator. A towncar and driver were waiting out front of the building and I opened the
door for her and she slipped inside, smoothing the bottom part of her dress
underneath her backside and letting the slit open again. I admired her legs once more,
leaned in and kissed her cheek.
Nadya grinned playfully, slipped her arms around my neck and pressed her
lips against mine. I did not resist, and after a few seconds more, thought screw it, and
42
slipped my arms around her, returning the kiss in full. We stopped short of her
offering me a ride, but right before I shut the back door, I could see an open invitation
any time I liked. Emphasis on open. I closed the door and tapped on the roof of the
car. A second later, and not a moment too soon, the driver pulled off.
Most everyone else, me included, was parked in the Regions deck across the
street. By the time I got there, the level I was parked on was nearly empty. I got into
my Equinox and drove home. Since I live six blocks away, it was not a long drive.
I stepped into my condo just after eleven, into the long hallway that leads from
the entrance all the way to the living room, exactly twenty-two feet. A space I
sometimes jokingly referred to as my fatal funnel because if someone breached via the
front entrance there was nowhere for them to go but forward, no place to hide or seek
cover. And believe me, anybody dumb enough to breach my place would definitely
need cover. And then a body bag. Followed by a coroner.
I popped on the entry light as I resecured the door, deadbolt and latch
included. My alarm was beeping, and as I stepped over to the panel a few feet away,
the countdown clock informed me that I had fourteen seconds left to enter my disarm
code before an alarm would be sent to the monitoring control room at Master-Plan
Security. I entered it with nine seconds to go.
I yawned, turning for the living room and about to flip the switch for the lights
in there and remove my jacket. Suddenly I froze, sensing another presence that did
not belong.
Fuck! I swore in my head, instantly drawing the Glock and kicking off my
shoes. A quick breath, then I dropped low and sprinted forward at top speed, the .45
leading the way.
The lights were off in the living room, just as I had left them, but the night
light under the microwave in the kitchen was still on. Also, just as I had left it. It cast
some illumination into the front room, enough for me to make out shapes, see the
furniture because my night vision is still pretty good. It did not take long for me to
spot the human form sprawled back on my papasan chair, long legs crossed. Even in
the darkness I recognized that profile, too.
Shaking my head in exasperation as my heart rate began to normalize, I stood
all the way up, lowering the Glock to my right side, stepping fully into the living room
and telling my Google Assistant to turn on the fucking lights!
43
“That’s no way to talk to a lady, Derrick," said Shelbee Roberts as she sat up on
my chair and turned to face me, grinning. The programmed voice of my Assistant is
that of a posh British female.
I shook my head again, glanced down at the pistol in my hand, then back at the
master covert operations spook who had once again violated my personal space and
security. And was still alive. At least for the moment.
“Yeah,” she said, her face and voice still jovial and friendly. “If you shot me
now it would be justified. After all, I am an intruder in your home and this is the
South, Stand Your Ground and all. But if you did that, you’d never find out my reason
for being here in the first place.”
I sighed again, thinking that maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing, but then I put
my weapon away and took a few more steps into the living room.
“Shelbee, one of these days, I am going to shoot you, just for the personal
satisfaction of it. And who knows, maybe today will be that day. Am I going to have to
spend all night searching for bugs and cameras and stuff after you leave?”
“Not on my account,” she said. “And that’s not a problem right now because of
the anti-surveillance tech currently running on my phone. No one can eavesdrop.”
“Except for you,” I replied sourly. She smiled again.
Shaking my head, I now succeeded in removing my jacket, reaching up and
undoing the bowtie. “I need to go to the bathroom first. We’ll talk when I get back, but
I have to warn you, I don’t have a lot of time. I’m on duty early tomorrow and it’s
gonna be another long day. So I need as much sleep as I can get.”
She nodded, her expression now businesslike. I stared at her for a few more
moments before my bladder told me to get a move on. So move on I did. I was curious
as hell, though. Shelbee Roberts did not just drop by, not ever, and while our last
meeting had ended in a most pleasurable twist,9 something told me that she was not
here tonight for a return engagement.
A part of me was sad about that, but mostly I was thinking about checking
every inch of my place for bugs and bombs after she was gone…
9
44