The Next (32 page)

Being a natural son-of-bitch, Marzoli did neither.

He placed his gun on my desk with a solid thud.

“I can’t take this with me if I’m going to be naked,” he stated flatly. “You’re going to have to watch closely and text me if you see anything I need to be aware of. Anything.”

And he stepped speedily out the window into the snow, leaving me uncertain what he was feeling about my fuckup, and to what extent he was feeling it.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Marzoli left black footprints on the snow-covered metal steps as he carefully padded his way down the fire escape, circled the second floor platform, then descended the next flight to the brick wall.

Mr. Perfect kept his eye on the prize. No turning back now.

A four-inch pad of untouched white snow now covered the foot-wide wall. He placed one foot tentatively on the wall, then, after assessing the feasibility, alighted from the fire escape onto the wall completely. He extended his thick arms to secure more balance, and negotiated the distance of the wall, foot after foot, kicking sheets of snow off to either side.

The image of this beautiful specimen performing this high wire act for only two sets of eyes was exquisite. His broad shoulders narrowed to his hips and down to his delicately placed feet, balancing as laced flakes of snow dropped down in white streaks from the sky to the courtyard ground. I was mesmerized by his performance—competent but dangerous, illicit but noble, delicate but strong, determined but conflicted, heated but icy. In an odd way, Mr. Perfect and I were now linked by watching the slow real-time progression of this walker on the wall.

He finally reached the fire escape on the opposite wall.

Marzoli was now on the enemy’s side of the war zone. He was about to encounter a hairy, chiseled, pumped physique of unquestionable allure. Any illusion I might have had that I somehow offered something that appealed to Marzoli was about to be pitted against Mr. Perfect’s
many
somethings. If Mr. Perfect was, in fact,
not
guilty of murder, as I was now beginning to suspect, then I was sending the best thing I’d encountered in decades across the courtyard and up Mount Olympus to diddle Zeus. After Zeus, why would he care to return to this lump of clay?

The dark descending whirlpool in my brain was starting to rotate again.

One way or another, he’s going to leave me.

Marzoli’s ascent up the opposite fire escape was swift, for there was less snow directly falling on that side of the courtyard due to the direction of the wind. The Princess was no longer in her bedroom, having disappeared into her bathroom to finish cutting her hair, so Marzoli bypassed her window without risk. This time, however, I wished the Princess had been there to prevent his progress.

Mr. Layworth hovered at the bedroom window until Marzoli arrived. He swung the window open. Marzoli slid over the windowsill and stood upright in the bedroom. Marzoli had now become one of the puppets I observed across the courtyard. The moment was stunning and surreal, twisting the distant and the intimate, the personal and the impersonal.

My heart fluttered as fast as a hummingbird’s.

Marzoli stuck his hand out formally. Mr. Layworth shook it, grinning.

Layworth gripped the handshake tighter and pulled Marzoli in. Their lips crushed together. Their chests crushed together. Then their crotches crushed together. I saw their tongues enter each other’s mouths forcefully. Marzoli ground his pelvis into Layworth’s, who returned the favor. Marzoli grabbed Layworth’s muscular back and pulled him in closer, then padded down to the rock solid lobes of his ass and squeezed tight. Layworth groaned and lifted his head to the ceiling. Marzoli opened his jaw and wrapped his mouth around Layworth’s throat. He darted his tongue out and lapped up the salt as his teeth lightly cut through the stubble.

Layworth’s dick pushed forward. Marzoli sank to his knees and engulfed the thickness in his mouth. Layworth shoved in and out, his hips wildly angling to feel the sensation of Marzoli’s mouth from all directions.

I couldn’t fucking stand it. I stood up, clenched my fists, sat back down, then repeated this perfectly useless act. On one hand, watching the man I cared so much for suck face and blow the man he believed to be a killer was ethically grotesque. On the other hand, one couldn’t ask for two actors more suited for a porn flick.

How the fuck could I compete with that?

Layworth finally dug his dick all the way in, holding the back of Marzoli’s head tightly, gagging him. Marzoli clamped tightly, choking, and then finally strained his bulbous triceps as he pushed it out of his mouth. Marzoli’s stomach appeared to lurch as he spit up clear bile onto the bottom of Layworth’s testicles. He proceeded to smear the bile deep underneath onto the lips of Layworth’s hole, lubing it. Layworth groaned in pleasure, gasping for air.

Marzoli returned to his feet and pushed Layworth to the bed face down.

This act relieved me somewhat. Marzoli knew his disfigurement limited any further contact to only one possible position—with Layworth facing away. Marzoli had to leave no question as to who would top. I felt better knowing Marzoli’s brain was still fixed on the investigation.

Marzoli gripped Layworth’s dick and bent him over the bed, forcing Layworth to prop himself on the mattress with his arms locked straight down, holding his torso horizontally and his legs vertically, leaving his hole at the absolute perfect height for Marzoli to grind into his white, muscular naked plump cheeks, just as Ruben had only a couple nights before.

Marzoli unbuttoned his fly completely. His plumpness sprung out of his underwear. Layworth tried to look behind, but Marzoli gripped his pelvis on either side tightly with his massive forearms to prevent any view of his acid-scarring. Marzoli’s soldier hovered at the entrance of Layworths hole and prodded gently. It put its foot in the door, then wedged it open all the way. With a thrust, Marzoli entered.

I heard a raspy “Oh, Fuck!” echo across the courtyard.

This exclamation triggered the flash of watching Ruben fuck the shit out of Layworth…so eerily the same….but no…something was different. Something was subtly different.

What was it?

Layworth’s striated beefy back was perfectly perpendicular to Marzoli’s upright torso and glistened as he rocked to and fro. The pocket in the small of his back pooled with sweat, which Marzoli used to smear around his body and then slide his fist down over Layworth’s full engorgement. Layworth’s eyes were shut tight in ecstasy, panting like an overheated dog.

Suddenly I saw what was different. All at once I knew the purpose of the wire cutters. All at once I knew how the Layworths intended to remove Ruben’s body. All at once I knew why the children entered and exited the closet without seeing any body, although it most definitely was there…

With Ruben, Layworth laid his stomach flat on the mattress with his ass at the perfect height for being plunged into. With Marzoli, Layworth’s torso was still perfectly horizontal and his ass was still at the perfect height, but he had to hold his torso up on locked arms straight down to the mattress.

I picked up my phone and typed:

Ruben is INSIDE the box spring, which was moved to the closet!

With my fingers shaking, I sent the text. If Marzoli’s phone was on vibrate, as I knew it would be, he’d feel the vibration and reach into his pocket.

He did not.

The fucking was too frenetic to feel any vibration.

Suddenly movement underneath them caught my eye.

The Princess had emerged from the bathroom with her hair fully cropped to answer the doorbell. She opened the door.

Through the door stepped Mrs. Layworth!

Mrs. Layworth looked tired from a fucked day at work, yet dazzled in a bright white fur-lined open trench coat over a bright white A-Dress. The Princess greeted her with compliments, then withdrew four dresses from her closet and handed them to Mrs. Layworth. But of course! That’s how the Princess could afford to wear all that designer couture; they were free from the fashion designer neighbor upstairs! And now she was returning them.

My blood was racing as I texted:
Mrs. Layworth is returning! Get out!

Again, Marzoli did not reach into his pocket. They were both sweating feverishly and approaching the final stretch. The thrusting into Layworth’s ass had become so violent that you could almost hear the slapping of skin.

C’mon! Look at your phone, you Puerto Rican Sicilian mofo!

Finally, with one strong upward thrust, Marzoli battery-rammed his victim to the point of no return. Layworth spun over onto his back, rotating like a spit-skewered pig over a fire. He gripped his cock with both hands and wrenched his first long white band of cum onto the fur of his chest.

Mr. Layworth moaned loudly, “Oh, god!”

Mrs. Layworth’s eyes shot up to the ceiling.

I grabbed my phone and dialed Marzoli’s phone.

With another spasm, Layworth striped himself again.

Answer the fucking phone!

Mrs. Layworth’s urgency ratcheted up, and her expression transformed into a seething, silent rage. She sharply flicked open the Princess’ window.

Marzoli withdrew his reddened dick, engorged like a whale, and came into his hand, causing his whole body to convulse. He gobbed a white lake into his palm, spurt after spurt just as Layworth’s spasms twitched to a halt.

Mrs. Layworth stepped out onto the fire escape, her trench coat elegantly sliding over the snow as her eyes fixed furiously on the target above her. She stepped up the first step.

Goddamn it! Answer it!

She cautiously stepped up another step, navigating the slippery snow under her pumps.

As Marzoli spurted a final time, he reached into his pocket with his free hand and withdrew his phone. He quickly skimmed all the texts before answering. His body went rigid.

He answered the phone in a whisper. “Where is she?”

“Climbing up the fire escape!” I exclaimed.

He looked at the window in alarm.

Layworth saw this sudden shift in Marzoli’s disposition.

I heard Layworth ask in the background, “Where is who?”

Mrs. Layworth had taken several more steps up the fire escape.

Marzoli smeared his cum on the towel and stuffed his still plump cock back into his pants, buttoning up. Layworth bounded to his feet in all his nakedness, striped in cum, and blocked Marzoli’s exit.

“Where are you going?” he demanded at full volume.

Mrs. Layworth rushed the final steps to the top of the fire escape and peered into the window. Both men looked back in horror. They were caught.

Be smart, Marzoli!

Marzoli rushed to the closet, opened the door, and disappeared.

Yes, he could have fought his way out, but Mr. Perfect matched him muscle for muscle. If he was going to get into a fight, running into the closet made strategic sense. Since the game was up, he had nothing to lose and everything to gain by confirming that Ruben’s body was, in fact, there. He was fulfilling a narrative he could now tell an investigator. He’d been invited over to fiddle with the master of the house and then ran into the closet to hide when the mistress of the house returned only to find the body of a dead man.

Layworth followed Marzoli into the closet while Mrs. Layworth darted through the window, through the bedroom, out the door, and into the kitchen. She pulled a large knife out of a drawer.

Oh Christ! What can I do from here?

Even from across the courtyard, I could hear the slamming of solid men into the walls of the closet, followed by the splintering of wood and the crashing of wire hangers everywhere. These were not little chicks wrestling. These were fully developed, bulky, muscular males who matched each other in weight and strength.

Red with rage, Mrs. Layworth reentered the bedroom holding the knife.

God damn it!

Mr. Layworth wrestled Marzoli out of the closet in a tight headlock, dragging his victim forcefully. Marzoli thrashed his legs to the sides, turning over lamps and coffee tables. One of his legs brushed near Mrs. Perfect, and the bitch sank her knife into Marzoli’s thigh and withdrew it.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Blood spurt sharply from his punctured pants.

I picked up Marzoli’s gun.

Mrs. Layworth pounced on Marzoli and raised her knife to plunge into a more effective area of his body.

The metal of the gun melted into my palm. Instantly the training my Grandfather had provided me as a kid jolted back into my muscle memory. I’d no time to open the window.

Click
– safety off.

Swish
– slicing the gun through the air with a precise aim.

Crack
– the bullet smashed through the window.

Mrs. Layworth turned her head toward the sound of the firing.

The Princess below screamed.

The window shattered and fell through the fire escape grate, glass tinkling through metal steps below. I also saw that the Layworths’ window had shattered as well, but the bullet went nowhere and had not hit its target. Fuck it. I now had a clean shot. Without even thinking, I automatically re-cocked the gun, aimed directly for Mrs. Layworth’s heart, dehumanized her by not looking into her eyes, and pulled the trigger.