Resurrection Dreams (16 page)

“You sure took care of him. He acted like he was scared of you.”

“That’s ‘cause he knows what I’m capable of.”

“I oughta kill him. Stuff he said to Vicki.”

“Well, if you kill Pollock, don’t try and jump-start him. Just let him rot.”

“Yeah.”

“I want to leave,” Vicki told them.

“Come on, we’ve got to get another pitcher.”

“You stay if you want, I’m going home.”

“Do you have to?” Melvin asked, looking disappointed.

“Yeah. I’ve had enough fun for one night.”

Ace filled the pockets of her shorts with peanuts.

Vicki, Ace and Melvin left the Riverfront Bar together. On the sidewalk outside, Melvin said, “I’m sure sorry he came along and ruined our time. But it was real nice, anyway. Maybe we can do it again, only I’ll pay.”

“We’ll see,” Vicki said. “Goodnight.”

Dexter stuffed his damp trousers and boxer shorts into the dirty clothes hamper.

That damn bitch, she had no business dumping the beer on me. She’s as crazy as her lunatic friends.

I was still chief, I’d run her in for it. See how she likes a night in the lock-up.

Dexter could have still been chief of the Ellsworth Police Department. That’s what made it so galling. It was his own stupid fault. Nobody forced him out. He’d put in his thirty years and retired at age fifty-two, figuring there was no point in hanging onto a job when he didn’t have to. Retirement had looked good. No responsibilities. No Minnie around anymore to nag him. Plenty of income, what with the pension and the property. He’d have all the time in the world to do whatever he wanted: fish, play golf, drink, chase the women.

By the time he realized his mistake, it was too late.

He was used to folks turning nervous when he showed up. Watch out, here comes Pollock. Don’t fuck with him. Step out of line, he’ll bust your ass. They feared him. They respected him.

No two-bit slut would’ve dared dump a beer on his crotch.

Doctor Chandler.

Reaching into the closet, he unhooked a hanger and took out one of his uniforms. It was still inside a filmy plastic bag from the cleaners in Blayton.

Dexter always took his uniforms to Blayton or Cedar Junction to have them cleaned. If he had them done here in town, people might start to wonder.

He removed the plastic bag and stuffed it into the wastebasket. Then he got dressed: dark blue trousers; light blue shirt with its chief’s shield and name plate on the chest, department patch on the shoulder; black socks and spit-shined shoes. He strapped his gun belt around his waist. He slid his nightstick into its ring on the belt, his .38 caliber Chief’s Special into the holster. Last, he put on his police hat.

He swung the closet door shut, and stared at himself in the full-length mirror.

Damn, he looked fine.

And felt fine, too.

He’d been in his blues at the Riverfront, no way Chandler would’ve pulled any shit. Or Asshole, either. Five bucks for a new pitcher of beer.

And I gave it to her.

Not me, that other Pollock. She’d asked me for five bucks, she’d be one sorry bitch.

Dexter drew his nightstick. He raised its blunt head toward the mirror.

“Five bucks, huh?” he asked. “How’d you like this shoved up your ass, Ass?”

Oh yeah?

“Yeah!” Club in both hands, he lunged and imagined himself ramming it into Ace’s belly, saw her double over, fall to her knees. “Still feeling tough?” he asked. He saw himself step behind her. With the end of his club, he flicked her skirt up. Her ass was bare. Of course it was. That’s ‘cause she mailed her fucking panties to Minnie. “See how you like this,” he said, and shoved the nightstick into her anus.

In the mirror, he watched himself crouching, thrusting with the club. He could almost see it going in and out, almost hear Ace squealing.

He stood up straight. “That takes care of you, I guess,” he told the area in front of his feet. He twirled the stick a few times by its leather thong, then slid it into the belt ring.

He spread his feet and planted his fists on his hips. He glanced at the mirror image of his jutting trousers, and smirked. “See that, Doctor? It gets that way when someone pours beer on it.” He unzipped his fly and freed himself. “How about licking it clean for me? Huh? You’ll like that, won’t you?” He slid his fingers around the engorged shaft.

The doorbell rang.

Dexter saw his face go red, his hands quickly trying to force his penis back inside the trousers. Wouldn’t go. Heart slamming, he gave up and threw open the closet door. He snatched his robe off the hook and put it on. He tossed his police hat onto the shelf.

He shut the door. In the mirror, he saw that the robe hardly concealed the fact that he was wearing his uniform.

So, there’s no law I’ve gotta open the door.

He glanced at the clock. Almost eleven. Who’d be ringing the doorbell at this hour?

Maybe one of the tenants.

It rang again.

Heart thundering, he hurried from his room. The leather of his gunbelt creaked as he walked. He fumbled inside the robe, got his shrunken penis back inside his pants and closed the fly.

At the door, he squinted through the peephole.

For just a moment, he thought that the young woman standing in the hallway was Vicki Chandler. Then, he realized she was a stranger. Blond hair like Vicki, but not quite as pretty. She wore a white dress. What was she, a nurse?

The main thing, I don’t know her, she doesn’t know me.

She rang the bell again.

Dexter slipped his robe off and tossed it over the back of a nearby chair. He opened the door. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“Oh, you’re a police officer?” She looked glad about that.

“Chief Pollock, ma’am. Is there some kind of trouble?”

“Well, not exactly, no.” She smiled, shook her head, and fingered the hair over her ear. The name tag over her left breast read Patricia Gordon, R.N. Her white dress had a zipper down the front. It was open enough to reveal a long V of bare skin that ended between her breasts. “My car broke down,” she explained. “I was hoping to find someone with a phone, so I could call and have my girlfriend pick me up. Do you have a phone I could use?”

“Sure do. Come on in, Patricia.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind.”

He backed away from the door. She entered, and he swung it shut.

“Would you like me to take a look at your car?” he offered. “What seems to be the trouble with it?”

“Oh, it just died on me.”

“I’d be happy to take a look at it.”

“No, that’s all right. I’ll worry about it tomorrow. If I can just use your phone.”

Dexter pointed at the telephone on the end table. Thanking him, Patricia sat down on the couch. Her white skirt slid partway up her thighs. She wore no stockings. Her legs looked very bare. She lifted the telephone onto her lap, picked up the handset, and dialed. Dexter took the nightstick out of his belt, placed it on the floor beside his easy chair, and sat down. He tried not to look at her legs.

Sighing, she shook her head slightly. “Answering machine,” she said. She waited a few moments, then spoke into the phone. “It’s me, Patricia. The damn car broke down again. Call me as soon as you get back.” She checked the plate in the center of the dial, and read off Dexter’s number. Then she hung up. She placed the phone back onto the table. “Do you mind if I wait?” she asked. “I’m sure Sue will be back in just a couple of minutes. She probably just went out to buy some cigarettes. She does that all the time. Smokes like a fiend.”

“You’re welcome to stay,” Dexter assured her. “Could I get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you. But you go on ahead. Did you just now get off duty?”

Dexter felt heat rush to his face. He told himself there was no reason to be embarrassed—Patricia had no way of knowing anything. “Just got back about five minutes before you showed up,” he explained.

“Neat uniform,” she said.

“Thanks. You look good in yours, too. So, you’re a nurse. I haven’t seen you around these parts.”

“I’m new in town.” Her gaze lowered. Dexter tried to remember if he’d zipped his pants. “Have you ever shot anyone with that?”

He realized that her gaze was on the revolver.

“Sure. A few times.” He’d fired it many times while on duty over the years, but never at anyone. Mostly just in order to scare people shitless. Like drunks, teenagers making out.

“Have you killed anyone?”

“Just four times,” he said.

Patricia pursed her lips and blew softly, almost whistling. “With that gun?” she asked.

Nodding, he patted the holster.

“Let me see it,” she said, patting the cushion beside her.

Holy Toledo, Dexter thought. Got us a live one, here.

He stood up, popped open the snap of the leather guard strap, and drew his revolver. He smiled at Patricia. “Safety first,” he told her. He broke open the cylinder, dropped the cartridges into his palm, and snapped the cylinder back into place. Stepping toward her, he dumped the ammunition into a front pocket of his trousers.

He sat down on the couch and handed the revolver to Patricia. “Ooh, it’s so heavy.” Her fingertips caressed the six-inch barrel. She curled her fingers around it, slid them up and down the length of it.

Dexter felt himself getting hard as he watched her.

Moaning, she stroked her cheek with the side of the barrel. Her eyes were half-shut. She eased herself backward against the cushion, and kept rubbing the revolver on her face.

Dexter shook his head. This was one strange gal. Comes in to use the phone and starts getting cozy with his sidearm.

Like some kind of hot dream.

She slid the muzzle into her mouth, way in, and started working her lips as if she were milking it.

“Jeee-zus,” Dexter murmured.

She slid the barrel out of her mouth. It came out wet. She turned her face toward him and made a lazy smile.

“Are you…all right?” he asked.

“Fine.” A mere whisper.

“Guess you sure like that revolver.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe you ought to get one of your own.”

She smiled. She slid the barrel inside the top of her dress. Dexter saw its bulge moving under the fabric as she ran the barrel over her breast. “It’s so long and hard,” she whispered.

So am I, he thought. God, so am I.

Her other hand lowered the zipper a few inches. With the gun muzzle, she nudged the cloth aside, baring her breast. Her nipple was standing erect. She slid the barrel over it. The steel pressed it flat, then let it spring up again.

“I don’t believe this,” Dexter muttered.

Slowly, she swung the revolver toward him. She touched the muzzle to his lips. “Open up,” she said.

This is nuts.

He opened his mouth and felt the barrel glide in over his lips.

Her thumb drew back the hammer.

Jesus, he thought. Good thing I unloaded it.

I did unload it, didn’t I?

Sure.

Still, having the thing in his mouth like that made the skin go tight on the back of his neck.

Patricia said nothing. Holding the gun in his mouth with one hand, she used her other to unbutton the shirt of his uniform. She tugged at it, and he felt the tails pull up out of his trousers.

She unbuckled his gunbelt.

She unbuckled the belt of his trousers, opened the waist button, and drew the zipper down. He felt himself spring out. Then he felt her fingers.

Man alive, what a gal!

Then the gun was no longer in his mouth. Patricia tossed it. It landed on the coffee table, skidded across a couple of magazines and dropped to the floor.

She went down on him.

Holy fucking Toledo! Dexter threw back his head and spread out his arms and held onto the back of the couch.

She comes in to use the phone.

She takes my gun in her mouth.

She takes me in her mouth.

God what did I do to deserve this?

He moaned and writhed as Patricia’s mouth slid up and down, as she sucked.

He’d had head before.

Never like this.

“Oh babe,” he moaned. “Oh babe!”

Then, he shrieked.

“At the top of the local news, retired Ellsworth Police Chief Dexter Pollock was brutally slain last night in his Fourth Street apartment.”

Vicki lurched rigid. Coffee sloshed from her mug and splashed the floor between her feet. She stared at the radio.

“A tenant residing in the building, Perry Watts, discovered the grisly scene when he returned from a party shortly after midnight, and noticed that the victim’s door was ajar. Mr. Watts immediately notified the authorities. Responding officers found the retired chief dead at the scene, the apparent victim of multiple wounds. The nature of the murder weapon has not been disclosed.

“Patricia Gordon, a registered nurse in the employ of Blayton Community Hospital, is being sought for questioning in connection with the murder. Miss Gordon, herself previously thought to have been a victim of foul play, had last been seen when she left the hospital at the end of her shift Thursday night. Her abandoned car was found Friday on Harker Road, three miles east of Cedar Junction. An extensive search failed to reveal any clue as to her whereabouts.

“According to Chief Ralph Raines, who assumed the position of Ellsworth Police Chief following Pollock’s retirement, ‘We have substantial evidence that the missing nurse, Patricia Gordon, was present in the victim’s apartment at the time of the murder. Anyone with knowledge of Miss Gordon’s whereabouts should contact the authorities immediately. She may be armed, and should be considered extremely dangerous.’”

“The WBBR news team will keep you informed on all further developments in this shocking and tragic situation. In Ellsworth, today, the Antique Fair continues…”

Vicki wiped the coffee off the floor, and left the kitchen. She walked down the hallway to Ace’s room. Ace was sprawled on the bed, her face sideways on the pillow, the top sheet down around her feet, her nightshirt halfway up her back. The skin of her legs and back was pink from yesterday’s long exposure to the sun. The skimpy seat of her bikini had left a stark white triangle on her rump. Vicki lifted the sheet and covered her.