Buzzard Bay (16 page)

On the floor next to him was a pile of money; Grundman was amazed at the amount. “Greta’s taking them on that she can take all of his cock,” Cindy explained. Grundman looked at the size of the man’s cock and then the size of Greta; he wondered how she was going to pay all the money back.

“There it is. That as big as it gets?” Greta asked, still licking on the end of the man’s phallus.

“Yeah, that’s about it,” the man answered, picking Greta up by the ass and then still standing, tried to impel her on it. She put her legs up and dug her heels into his hips. She hung on to his shoulders and pushed against him, but he was unable to enter her, so she reached down with her right hand and held herself open, guiding him until the head disappeared. Then she grabbed back onto his shoulders as he slowly pushed his cock into her.

“You take as much as you want,” the man told her, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Greta began working it into herself; little by little, she eased up his shaft burying it deeper and deeper. An older woman, apparently either the man’s wife or girlfriend, was giving a blow-by-blow account of Greta’s progress. Everyone’s eyes were on her as Greta stuffed the huge member down inside her.

“Two inches to go, Greta,” the woman shouted excitedly as if it was her in Greta’s place. The man easily held Greta’s slight body in position as she eased herself up and down the man’s shaft slowly working her way to its end.

“There’s still an inch left, Greta,” the older woman said to her, but Greta seemed stuck; she had worked her way down that far but could not seem to get any farther.

Then without warning, Greta wrapped her legs around the man’s ass, pulled herself back almost to the tip of his cock, and then rammed herself toward him. The man almost lost his balance from the impact. Grundman had never seen any expression on Greta’s face when he fucked her, but he did now. She had a pained look of pure pleasure; her mouth was open, and she let out a scream.

“She did it,” the woman yelled. “She took it all.”

The man whom Greta was impaled on was sure he’d hurt her. He made a move to pull her off, but Greta wasn’t done with him yet. She began sliding up and down his huge cock with big lunges burying it inside her again and again. The man had trouble holding Greta.

His woman yelled at him not to go off in her and tried to pull her off her man, but Greta was stuck like glue. Greta sounded like an animal in heat, screaming with every lunge. The man’s body bucked and jerked, and then his knees began to give out; it was obvious he’d blown his load under her onslaught. Greta gave one last scream; her body convulsed, and then her body lay still, glistening in sweat. The man slowly dropped to the floor taking Greta gently with him, and then he decoupled himself from her.

“You bitch. You were supposed to use his cock, not make him come in you,” the man’s woman told her. “Now I’m horny, and how am I supposed to get that up.”

he grabbed his limp dick and showed it to Greta. Greta stretched and smiled then began rolling in her money. Everyone laughed and began to fondle one another. Greta had turned everyone on including Grundman and Cindy. Grundman had been so busy watching Greta get fucked that he hadn’t noticed that the girl on top of him had passed out. She sat on him still impaled on his prick, her head lying on her chest fast asleep.

“I think it’s time I had a little of that,” Cindy whispered in his ear.

he raised her leg, cocked it, and kicked the girl off Grundman’s prick. The girl tumbled over the front of the recliner and disappeared out of sight. Cindy stood up, took the bottle of wine, and poured it over Grundman’s dick. She ran her mouth up and down it a couple of times until it passed her inspection and then guided herself on to it. She rode for a minute and then leaned forward, her nipples brushing along his chest.

He looked across the room behind Cindy and saw some guy with a big dork pocking some woman from behind. She was half laid out on the couch with her ass raised over the armrest, her legs dangling over the edge. The thought came to his mind that it looked like Mona on the couch, but a man and woman came toward him blocking his view.

The man stood right behind Cindy. Suddenly, she gave a gasp and a look of pain crossed her face. This excited Grundman; her face was inches above his. He watched her face, his groin moving as he began to stroke into her, feeling his power as her face contorted and she asked for more.

“Please,” Cindy moaned, “give it to me harder, please.”

Grundman beat his hips upward against her, his passion rising. He heard the man behind her grunt, and Cindy made a crying sound; he felt her body shiver and knew she was coming. What he didn’t realize was the pained expression on Cindy’s face was caused by the man behind her stroking up her ass.

A woman had been standing there watching the man fuck Cindy. Now that he had blown his wad, she came around the chair, straddled it, and placed herself on Grundman’s face. This only intensified Grundman’s thrusts; he hung on to the woman on his face and thrust into Cindy with all his might. He could feel the juice bursting from his balls but still he thrust on, feeling Cindy’s juices burst with his. The woman on his face came just watching the two of them fuck. Totally spent, he felt satisfied as he’d never felt before, and then he passed out.

When Grundman woke, everyone was gone. Except for the mess in his apartment, his slight headache, and a sore dick, it could all have been a dream, he thought. He went in to have a shower; Mona was lying naked across the bed. His mind searched vaguely remembering a woman getting screwed on the couch last night that might have been Mona. He dismissed it from his mind; there had been a lot of things going on last night, most of them very confusing. He decided he’d feel better after a shower.

Grundman’s neighbors were not pleased and tried to have him evicted, but again Lawyer Krugman came to his rescue. People were scared of the motorcycle gangs and Krugman let it be known they wouldn’t take kindly to any harassment toward Grundman, so they backed off. In turn he had to do some favors for Krugman, but that was a small price to pay.

A week went by and Greta had not come around.

“The bitch doesn’t need my money,” he thought, remembering her rolling around in a pile of money.

His mouth watered as his thoughts ran back to the party. He had to get some of Cindy’s drugs and then he’d make her squeal, and he knew she’d be back when she ran out of money, but deep down he missed her badly. She was the only one who could give him what he needed, and he was desperate to be serviced.

He cleaned up the apartment after the party himself, scared about what the maid might find. Next to his recliner, he found a cigarette box with a phone number written on the flap. Grundman hoped the number was Cindy’s. He decided to phone her. “I can’t wait for Greta any longer,” he thought. He was disappointed when a man answered. They talked for a moment and when Grundman told him who he was, the man told him his name was Ginter.

“We talked a bit at the ‘little shaker’ you had the other night,” Ginter told him. Grundman told him he didn’t remember.

“I’m not surprised,” Ginter laughed, “you were a little preoccupied at the time.” Ginter then told him what he had in mind. He gave Grundman a brief résumé, saying he’d trained in the German army then went to Libya and retrained as a mercenary. After that, he’d fought in small wars halfway around the world.

“I’m interested in doing some contract work,” he told Grundman. “That’s where the action is, but I need contacts. I guarantee my work, and I have the right people, I just need to get in touch with people who are willing to pay for my services.”

“What makes you think I have the right contacts?” Grundman asked him.

“I don’t,” Ginter answered, “I’m just following a hunch. The bunch that was at your place the other night would not have been there if you didn’t have connections.” A thought flashed through Grundman’s mind; he didn’t have anything for Ginter, but he might know who did.

“I might have something for you, Ginter. I will phone you next week.”

Grundman took this information to the one person who he felt just might have the need of such a man. Lawyer Krugman represented people who worked the shady side of the street; the only difference between Grundman and Krugman was that Krugman was reliable and respected. Lawyer Krugman did seem interested but skeptical as was everyone associated with Grundman.

He took all of the information Grundman had on Ginter and said he’d get back. Krugman had the ability to find out anyone’s past, and to his surprise Grundman may have hit on something good. He knew there was an informant in Milan right now, whom the Colombian cartel would dearly like to do away with. The trouble was everyone knew they’d like to get rid of him, but how to do it without certain people becoming involved seemed impossible.

The informant apparently had pictures and documented proof that people very well placed were involved in activities that left their hands dirty. The Americans were spearheading the investigation, and the informant was being guarded by a crack Italian unit. The situation was very bleak indeed.

The cartel and Krugman decided they had nothing to lose; Grundman would be the intermediary, so if something went wrong he was expendable, and there’d be no trail. It was a long shot, but desperate men do desperate things. Krugman gave all the information to Grundman and told him to get Ginter to start as soon as possible. Krugman floated a price, and Grundman quoted Ginter half the amount. Ginter came back with a price that staggered Grundman, but to his amazement it was accepted by Krugman.

“You got your price,” Grundman told him. “If you fuck up, my head’s on the line, as well as yours.”

“I know you stand to make good money on this job as do I, Grundman, with this goes the risk. You will not hear from me for at least three weeks. By then the job will be complete, or I will be dead,” then the phone went dead. Grundman stood looking into the receiver.

“What the fuck have I done,” he thought, as he felt the fear run down his spine. Grundman didn’t sleep well for the next couple of weeks. His mind was preoccupied.

When Greta did finally show up, even she could not take his mind off what the consequences would be if Ginter failed. By the third week, Grundman was a wreck; Greta couldn’t even get him up. Usually, Grundman didn’t let these things bother him, but this time he was sure of the outcome and knew the Colombians would kill him. By the time Ginter was to call, Grundman had already gathered up some money and was ready to run. The phone rang; Grundman’s hand shook as he picked up the receiver.

“It’s done,” was all the voice said and hung up.

Grundman collapsed in his chair; he hoped Greta would come around tonight, he needed sex. For a while, Grundman thought Ginter had lied to him. There was no news of a killing; in fact, there was no news at all. It took a week before cracks began showing in the Milan situation. First, the trial date was set back, and then rumors began to appear in the papers about problems with the prosecution’s case. When Grundman had first contacted Krugman, he seemed skeptical and asked for proof. All Grundman could tell him was what he had been told. On talking to Ginter again, he asked for proof, but all Ginter would tell him was that it would soon be evident what had happened; however, he’d wait for his money until the client was satisfied. It soon became evident that the case against the cartel was unraveling.

The newspaper began reporting that the informant was unstable, that records had become available showing that he had even been in a mental institution. Even the evidence he alleged to have of photographs and documents were now in doubt. In other words, the case was dead in the water and repercussions would be felt in Washington. Heads would roll. The U.S. government did not like to be embarrassed.

At first the cartel would not believe that Grundman’s contractor was responsible for all this, but Ginter had been very thorough. He was able to prove how by getting to the right people; he had persuaded the informant to suddenly become incapacitated. The cartel found this information to be true, and both Grundman and Ginter received a bonus which was unheard of.

The cartel liked to make money; they didn’t like parting with it. They did admire talent, and Grundman’s stock rose considerably. He and Ginter were to have a very successful relationship. Ginter proved to be intelligent, ruthless, and thorough. He handled a lot of jobs over the years making both himself and Grundman a lot of money. Things were going pretty good for Grundman.

In fact so good that Mona told him there was only so much she could do with the books; he needed to find some legitimate business. This was what he suspected she was calling about as he picked up the phone. Instead she told him Herr Krugman was flying down to see him.

All kinds of scenarios started to go through his head, and the first thing he asked Herr Krugman after they shook hands was, “Is it good news or bad?”

Herr Krugman laughed. “Yes, I know this is unusual, but do you remember a man by the name of Tom Newton?”

“Yes,” Grundman had to think back, “he submitted a project in the Bahamas to be funded, must be six or seven months ago now. Why, has he gone to the police?”

“No,” Herr Krugman answered, “his project has been funded.”

“What—who in hell in their right mind would finance that scheme?” Grundman laughed.

“The Colombian cartel.” That answer took the smile off Grundman’s face. “He wanted twenty-two million.” How much is he going to get?” he asked as he mentally tried to figure out his cut.

“Five million,” was Krugman’s answer.

Grundman’s heart sank. “What’s in it for me?”

“An all-expenses paid trip to the Bahamas and then on to Cuba.” Krugman pulled a check out of his suitcase.

“The five million is to be delivered to this account number at this bank in the Bahamas. After that, you’re to arrange a meeting with the cartel’s man there, Manly Waddell. You and Waddell are to fly to Cuba for a meeting with El Presidente himself. If Waddell refuses to go, contact me immediately for instructions,” Krugman told him.

Grundman didn’t like the sound of that. “I’m not a delivery boy.”