"I never dreamed it could be so complete an experience," she said as we dressed. "I really believed I would feel cheap for having given myself to you, and yet I feel better for it, not worse."
"That's because your husband has been neglecting you," I pointed out.
"Perhaps it's because I refused to indulge in fellatio that he abandoned me and started going out with other girls."
"Girls? I thought there was only one other girl."
"I just figured if I'd seen him with one, he may very well be fooling around with more than one."
"Do you still want to go through with this?"
"You'd better believe it. I didn't let you take me… now that it was over she couldn't bring herself to use the word "fuck" anymore… "just so you could let me see how good it all was, and then forget him. Hell, I think I was pretty good, wasn't I?"
"You. were great," I acknowledged.
"Then why the heck is he running to all these other women? I mean, with a little patience I'd have learned to fellate him as well. I want to be rid of him, and I want to be rid of him without having to pay for it."
"Pay for it?" I asked.
"As you guessed when I first came in here, I'm fairly well-to-do. I know you think I have money, because my friend, who recommended you, had almost no money, and all you took was fifty dollars over and above expenses, though I'll bet she paid part of the same price I paid."
"I never discuss one client with another," I answered, though Judy had been right. There was only one woman I had charged a straight fifty dollars plus expenses, and I had balled her backwards, forwards, and upside do… literally.
"Anyway," Judy went on, "I admit I have lots of money. You can revise your charges on me if you wish."
"I set the price. I'll stick by it," I told her. "You've already paid part of it."
"You're really a man of your word," she said, smiling, and that smile all but turned me on again. "As I said, I have money. I told Cy I wanted a divorce, but he refused to give it to me. Or I should say he swore he would contest it. I know if I offered him enough money he'd be willing to split. But I don't think I owe him a damn cent. So I want to be rid of him as quickly as you can get the pictorial evidence."
"Okay," I agreed. "Have you any idea when he has his next rendezvous?"
"No. But I do know he always takes her to the Elton."
Why that fleabag? I wondered. Hell, that suited me fine. I had a deal with both the day and night managers of the Elton. Both were bribable men, and both would let me set up the proper equipment in one of their rooms, and then steer the guy I wanted to catch to that room.
Judy gave me a hundred dollars advance, and then left.
I kept a second videotape recorder and camera packed in a suitcase, and said suitcase I kept stashed in my closet. The recorder already had fresh tape on it, I always load the damn thing up after I've finished using it. Never can tell when it'll be needed instantly.
Hauling the suitcase out of the closet, I set it on the floor near my desk and opened it. Everything inside was in perfect working order. I took my .38 caliber automatic from my desk drawer, checked the fifteen round clip, stashed it in my belt holster on my right side where my left hind could reach it easily enough, but where it couldn't be seen when I left my jacket unbuttoned.
Shutting the suitcase, I toted it downstairs to my car parked directly in front of the Stone Building. There was a busted parking meter there that always read a half hour of time. My old, out-of-date, maroon Ford Falcon was there. I don't keep the car out of necessity. I could've afforded a Continental Mark IV or a Mercedes. But a maroon Ford Falcon is a very inconspicuous car. No one looks twice at it unless it's parked wrong.
Putting the suitcase into the car, I got in and drove the fifteen blocks to the Elton. Once there, I went inside, smelling the dust, and through the dust the oldness of the place.
Ronnie "Seagull" Byrd was on duty at the desk. He was young, not even twenty, and had the job because no one else could be found to take it. He had brown, afro-styled hair though he was as bigoted a white man as ever existed. And he talked with a faint lisp, which sometimes made one wonder which way he swung. The chicks frequenting the lobby let me know Byrd was straight. He'd let them ply their trade in the hotel (charging the John they'd picked up for the use of the room) in return for a fuck whenever one of them was free and he felt like it. He and his buddy, the night clerk Kenny Astoria, had a regular thing going with the chippies.
"Hey, Ira babe;" he smiled, when I came in. "What's the deal?"
I asked him about Cy Roberts, showing him a photo Judy had furnished, and he nodded, admitting he knew the guy, though the guy registered regularly as John Smith. He always brought the same broad in. Tall, stringy, almost no tits, with a big nose and brown straight hair cut short. She was really nothing to look at, but the guy apparently dug her. According to Ronnie Byrd there was no accounting for taste.
"Guy comes in regular, Monday Wednesday, and Fridays," Byrd went on.
"Today being Friday, he's either already here or soon will be," I pointed out.
"Comes in about three thirty," Byrd told me. "Y'got better'n an hour to kill."
"He use any special room?" I asked.
"Whatever's handy."
"Good. Set him up in 211."
"Oho! Ira-babe, you really latched onto a goody this time. Go set up your stuff."
"Thanks," I nodded, slipping him two twenties.
And twenty minutes later, the hidden videotape camera was set. I had the monitor set up in the next room, which eliminated the need for peepholes. The camera had been hidden behind a painting, and the lens of the camera seemed to blend right into said painting (that painting had cost me a small fortune when I'd first picked it up). Unless one knew what he was looking for, the lens would never be spotted.
I had time for a quick afternoon lunch and decided to take advantage of it. I walked across the street to the luncheonette and ordered a hamburger and coke. That was when Debbie came up to me. I never had found out her last name in all the years I'd known her. She was about five feet four inches tall, with long, brown curly hair, gray eyes, a short, petite nose, and thin lips, all put together to make a pretty face. Her bust was at least thirtyeight, with a pair of B cups, and her narrow waist looked as if a whalebone corset was holding it in, but from previous experiences I knew she was naturally narrow. Not so her hips, which flared wide, even under the tight miniskirt she wore. It was a black skirt to match the panties she had on underneath. Debbie had to wear panties with her skirt or be arrested for indecent exposure. The light green blouse she wore was opaque, because Debbie didn't like wearing a bra, and the way her tits jiggled, you knew it.
"You must be working," she said, sliding into the booth next to me. "Otherwise you wouldn't be caught dead eating in this neighborhood."
"Yeah," I nodded.
"Need me?" she asked.
Debbie was one of the "working girls" I used to sucker some poor slob into giving me pictorial evidence needed for divorce cases.
"Not today," I told her, finishing my food.
"Who'd you line up?" she asked.
"This guy's got his own ass," I explained.
"Can I watch?" she wanted to know.
"It'll cost," I told her.
"How much?"
"Same price you'd charge me for balling you afterward."
"Deal."
"How's business?" I asked, as we left the luncheonette.
"Pretty good," she admitted. "That's why I can afford to accept your terms. I just came back from the doctor. He's assured me I'm still clean and pure, at least where VD is concerned."
"Very good," I told her as we entered the hotel and went up to room