A Sticky End (13 page)

“Mmmm.”

“Knows how to make money, and knows how to spend it, of course. Expensive tastes, he has.” Again, I was making wild guesses, hoping to elicit something from Tippett about Bartlett's personal circumstances.

“Ah,” he said. “He told you, then.”

“Wha—oh, yes. You mean about the…” I rolled my eyes and tried to look knowing. “He didn't tell me in so many words, but I guessed.” I didn't have a clue what I was
supposed to guess, but it seemed that Tippett was eager to tell me. Perhaps being out of the office made him reckless—or was it the whiskey? Or the treats to come (which I was pressing into a gap between the struts of the chair back)?

“I hope it's all cleared up now,” said Tippett. “We so wanted to avoid getting the police involved, and of course Mr. Bartlett didn't want Mr. Ross to know anything. I was happy to help in any way I could.”

This sounded murky, so I made encouraging noises. “Right. I mean that sort of thing—the police never really understand, do they?”

“They understand, all right,” said Tippett, sounding suddenly bitter. “All too well, most of the time. We're completely unprotected. Some type wants to extort money with threats—a gentleman like Mr. Bartlett is a sitting duck.” His voice sounded shaky, as if he were about to cry.

“So I was right,” I said. “He was being blackmailed.”

Tippett glanced around the room like a frightened rabbit.

“It's okay, Arthur. No one can hear us. You must have had a hell of a time keeping a lid on this. Why don't you tell me about it?”

“I can't—”

“You can.” I sat beside him on the bed; the mattress did its work, sagging so much that I was leaning against him. “You'll feel better if you do. Don't worry. I'm not going to tell anyone. We're all in the same boat, aren't we?”

“Are we?”

I put an arm around his shoulders. “You bet we are.”

He sighed, sagging forward. “Oh, thank God. I wondered, when you walked into the office, if you…you might… understand.”

“I understand, all right, Arthur.” I rubbed his neck. “Go ahead.”

He turned to face me, and I thought for a moment that we were going to fuck first, talk later. I didn't object to that
order of play—I was hard in my pants, and I wanted to get up his ass. But instead of leaning in for a kiss, he took a deep breath and began.

“It's been so hard,” he said, with no trace of a double meaning. “Keeping Mr. Bartlett's affairs under control. Making sure that Mr. Ross doesn't suspect anything. Dealing with certain undesirable…customers. You know what I mean.”

“No, Arthur, I'm not sure that I do. You're going to have to spell it out.”

“You were right,” he said at length. “Mr. Bartlett was being blackmailed.”

“Who by?”

“I never knew the person's real name. He operated through intermediaries, people who delivered letters and collected money.”

“At the office?”

“Yes. Messengers are in and out all the time. That's one of the reasons why I go in at weekends—it's the only way I can get any peace and quiet. During the week, it's nonstop comings and goings. It could have been anybody.”

“When did this start?”

“About a year ago, maybe a bit more. I'd have to look in the ledgers.”

“You mean you kept a record of everything?”

“Yes. At Mr. Bartlett's orders. Of course, all the payments were put down as legitimate business expenses, but he was most insistent that I should keep a record. I suppose he was thinking of going to the police.”

“And did he?”

“Not as far as I know. At least, the demands kept coming in, and the money kept going out. Sometimes he started to speak to me about it—I suppose he needed to confide in somebody. But then he'd just stop. Poor man—he must be going through hell.”

Well, he was at peace now—but I didn't tell Tippett that.
“Did you get any idea of the nature of the blackmail?”

“I was never certain—but there are some things that you can work out for yourself. If it had been a legal matter, Mr. Bartlett would have stood up to it. I honestly can't think of a more honest, upright man. If he had done something wrong in his professional life, it would have been a mistake, and he'd have been the first person to own up to it. So we can rule that out.”

“He wouldn't have taken bribes, or fixed a case?”

“Definitely not. I know what you're thinking, and one hears of these things all the time, but not Mr. Bartlett.”

“Fair enough. Go on.”

“Then I wondered if there was some financial problem—whether, perhaps, he'd been obliged to borrow money from the company which he was unable to pay back. It's possible that someone at the bank might have found out about it, I suppose.”

The bank? Morgan?

“And maybe if they were covering up for Mr. Bartlett,” continued Tippett, “or somehow creaming off a percentage for themselves, then that might explain it.”

“What made you think that Bartlett might have gotten into financial difficulty?”

“He's been investing heavily in property, and I think he ended up spending more than he intended.”

Morgan's house…

“And then there was the matter of his will.”

“What about it?”

“He made a new will just a few days ago. I don't know the exact details, I've not seen it—but just before he made it, he moved a great deal of money across from the business account to his private account. If Mr. Bartlett was a family man, I'd think that he was putting money into trust for his children. But as he and Mrs. Bartlett have no children—well, it just seemed strange.”

“Did he say anything about it to you? For instance, why he chose to rewrite his will just at this time? Had his circumstances changed?”

“No. Nothing that I know of. But then, I'm only a clerk. I'm not party to the private affairs of my superiors.”

“But you have ways of finding out, I guess.”

“Well, one hears things.”

“And?”

“There was talk of some kind of trouble at home.”

“With his wife?”

“Quite.”

“An affair?”

“Perhaps.”

“Who?” Morgan thought they had been so discreet—but of course word was out.

“I couldn't say. But that's what made me wonder about the third possibility. That this wasn't a professional matter, or a financial matter, but blackmail of a much more basic and brutal sort.”

“You mean Bartlett had been doing something else that's illegal.”

“Precisely.”

“Fucking another man.”

Tippett flinched and looked at the floor. “Yes. If you must put it so crudely.”

“How would you put it, Arthur?”

“It's none of my business what Mr. Bartlett does in his private life, and it's nobody else's business either. Why must people be so quick to judge? How could it possibly affect his standing as a lawyer if he chooses to…fall in love with someone of the same…”

“Sex?”

“Yes. It's so unfair.”

“Indeed it is, Arthur. But you know that already. Life isn't fair for people like us, is it?”

“No. But we try. Mr. Bartlett is very happily married.”

“To all appearances, yes. And you, Arthur Tippett? What about you?”

“I live with my mother.”

“Yes. And what about…”

“I am a devoted son and a dutiful employee. I don't have time for…”

“Fun?”

“Quite.”

“You don't have time, or you don't have the guts?”

“Both, perhaps. I certainly don't have the money to pay off blackmailers.”

“So you keep to yourself, because you're too scared of what would happen if you got caught.”

Tippett stood up; I'd gone too far. Vince tells me off for bullying people, and I suppose that's just what I was doing to Tippett.

“If I may say so, sir,”—I was “sir” again now, not “Mitch”—“you and I come from very different backgrounds with very different expectations. I don't know what it's like in America, but I imagine in the social circles to which you belong, such things can be easily arranged. But for those of us who have to work for a living, who are dependent on the good opinion of our neighbors and employers, I'm afraid discretion is necessary.”

“I wonder if that's what you'll say on your deathbed, Arthur? ‘I didn't have any love in my life, but at least I was discreet.' ”

“Perhaps I will. Love is a luxury I can ill afford.”

“Love is free, Arthur.” I lay back on the bed, opening my legs—I certainly wasn't planning to charge for it. “You just have to reach out and take it.”

“Playing with fire…” he murmured, half turning to face me.

“So? Get burned.” I reached down and pressed into my
groin with the heel of my hand. It certainly felt hot down there.

“I can't…”

“When did you last suck a cock, Arthur?”

“I…”

“Come on. What's stopping you?”

“I'm…”

Afraid. He's afraid.

I unbuttoned the waistband of my pants, the top two buttons of my fly. “Come here.”

“No, I mustn't…”

The poor guy was shaking. Under such circumstances, I would have to remove the possibility of choice. The nervous need to feel that they have no control over what happens to them, that they have been seduced, that it is someone else's fault. I clicked my fingers, pointed to the floor beneath my feet. “Get down on your knees, Tippett.”

He stepped forward; this was better.

“Now!” I raised my voice, and he obeyed, dropping to the ground like a poleaxed ox. I undid two more buttons. A bulging mountain of stretched white cotton filled the
V
-shaped gap at my fly. Tippett knelt and stared, his hands fussing together, each trying to stop the other from reaching out and taking what it wanted.

I sat up, grabbed his wrist and placed a hand on my groin. “Take it. It's yours.”

He made a strange, half-sobbed “Oh” as his hand cupped my stuffed package; even now he might spring to his feet and run. I caressed the back of his neck, drawing him inward. Finally his resistance evaporated, and with a look of resignation, almost regret, he buried his face in my crotch. I pressed him down, relishing the warmth, bucking my hips up, mashing his nose and mouth with my cock.

I don't know what it was—the heat of the moment, the scent that Tippett was inhaling with every lungful, the
caressing pressure of my hands on his neck and head—but, suddenly, something in him changed, as if a switch had been flicked. Where before there had been a timid clerk, suddenly there was a wildcat. He looked up, eyes wet and shining, cheeks flushed, his hair, normally so carefully parted and combed back, falling into his eyes. One hand grasped the elastic of my underwear and yanked. My cock sprang out, bounced once in the air and then fell back onto my belly with a smack. Tippett gripped it and started licking and slurping like a dog with a bone; I guess it really was a long time since he had a cock to play with other than his own, and he was determined to make the most of it. I lay back and enjoyed the ride—and when his lips opened and admitted the head into his mouth, I knew I was in for a good time. Tippett may not have had much practice, but he took to cocksucking like a duck to water. After a few false starts, some choking and gagging, he took me into his throat and started sucking like a pro.

He came up for air, his lips swollen, his chin wet with spit. I like to kiss a man when he's been sucking me, so I pulled Tippett onto the bed beside me and thrust my tongue between his lips. With Tippett reclining beside me, I could let my hands run over his body, admiring its leanness and grace. I wanted to see him naked, to feel his flesh against mine, but for now I was content with a clothed embrace, my exposed cock making a mess on his pants leg. He surrendered absolutely to the moment—a far cry from the nervous, shaking young man of a few minutes ago. His hands ran up and down my back, clutching my ass and pulling me into him; it didn't take too much intuition to guess what he wanted.

“Strip,” I said.

“Really?”

“Yes. I want to see you.”

He stood up, pulled off his sweater, unbuttoned his shirt. His torso, when it was revealed, was beautiful—pale and
smooth, graceful rather than strong, the body of a dancer or a gymnast rather than a football player.

“Now the rest.”

He turned around, either out of embarrassment or because he wanted to present me with my ultimate goal, a very shapely ass that would not have been out of place in the sculpture galleries of the British Museum.

“Very nice, Arthur,” I said. “I bet a lot of men have wanted to get into that.”

He was struggling with his shoelaces and socks, and I was getting impatient. As he bent over, I came up behind him and pressed my rigid dick between his buttocks. He almost pitched over onto the floor, and braced himself on his fingertips, like a runner on his marks, keeping his ass as high as possible. I pushed my pants and underpants down and pulled my shirt over my head. The position was too good to waste. Grabbing Tippett by the hips, I pulled him back against me, pressing my cockhead against his hole. His face, what I could see of it, was red, a thick vein standing out in his neck, his eyes shut tight. Perhaps he had never been fucked before. Perhaps this was going to be difficult. Was that going to stop me?

I pressed harder; Tippett moaned, and pushed back. If he could have taken me dry, I think he would have—the pain would not have spoiled his pleasure, might even have enhanced it. I've often found that men who habitually deny themselves enjoyment welcome a bit of discomfort, in the same way that simpler mortals enjoy mustard with a sausage. I'm a doctor of the body, not of the mind, so I make no great claims to understanding, but Tippett was definitely of this type. I knew exactly how to treat him.