I’ve decided to post as I write the not-yet-final draft of my novel The Scapegoat Suicides, the first book in The Sublime Detectives series. I believe (for better or for worse) that posting for the world (or my three followers) to read will limit my usual desire to change things over and over and over again so that I can move ever forward.
On the morning of his death, Frank DeBoar had a spring in his step, a whistle on his lips, and traces of lipstick on his dick. Life is good, he thought. Damned good. He slammed the door of his brand new ’72 DeVille, ran his fingers along the chrome of her palomino withers, and winked into her side-view mirror. We look good, he thought. Damned good. Frank shot his cuffs, tugged the hem of his polyester sports coat, then ran thumb and forefinger along and down the lengths of his moustache before he strode across the warm asphalt of the dealership, flashed a grin at a less fortunate man, and silently thanked whatever deity had deigned to bless him with such outrageous fortune.
“Mornin’, Frank,” a woman drawled when he entered the glass-walled showroom.
“Good morning, Beverly,” he replied, in lieu of fuck off. “You look quite fetching today.” Even the woman who liked to introduce him as Frank DeWhore in situations where introductions were not necessary could not ruin his good mood.
“Speaking of fetch.” She smirked. “Coffee’s crap this morning. Be a good boy. Trot over to the diner and bring me back something decent.”
“Speaking of crap.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys to his new ride. He spun the silver ring around his forefinger three times before catching them in the palm of his hand. “I don’t have to take yours any more.”
She rolled her eyes and flipped him one long-fingered bird, the red-lacquered talon at the tip an implicit threat. She did not, however, press the matter. Later, when speaking to the cop on the scene, she would imply that her coworker’s good mood had been related to the apparent method of his demise. It’s almost like he’d made the decision to do it before he got here, she would soon tell the handsome homicide detective. It was like he was happy because he knew that he was going to die and that his miserable life would soon be over. She would then try to work her expression into something mournful, without actually frowning, and ask the detective if he thought that her rejection of Frank’s romantic overtures had, perhaps, pushed him over the edge.
“Yeah, that’s right, Beverly,” Frank said. “You’re looking at Numero Uno.” He indicated his own sharp-dressed self with both hands. “And, baby, this ain’t no mirror.”
Beverly laughed then and the sound pleased Frank. Her amusement was genuine and seemed to be in response to his clever retort. He almost added ‘who’s the useless dimwit now?’ but decided not to press his luck and turned left by way of a four-hundred and fifty degree spin on the toe of his slick-soled shoes, a sweet move that he’d learned on the dance floor of The Last Call; the night club that had introduced him to the woman of his dreams three weeks before this day.
As he sauntered towards the coffee maker, he realized how hard it would be to get through the day—another whole day—before he could see her again. He’d left her on her knees, deep in the shag of his living room carpet, begging him to stay. She just couldn’t help herself, she’d said. She needed him one more time and begged to suck his dick before he left. She took him so deep into her throat that he could feel the pulse in her neck along his length. His knees weakened at the memory and he slopped coffee onto his hand as he poured. Even the burn couldn’t dampen his mood. He sucked the web between his thumb and forefinger and then blew across the skin to cool it. He gazed over the back of his hand and through the glass wall to scan the sales lot.
No customers as of yet. It was Tuesday. Sometimes things got started later in the morning. He decided to take a piss. With his luck, some Sugar Momma would come onto the lot and get snatched up by Beverly before he had a chance to shake off his wang…
Wait. No. He realized something.
His luck was good now.
For weeks now, everything had been coming up candy, cocaine, and Cadillacs.
The realization struck his heart like a slender arrow shot from Cupid’s bow and strung by Venus herself.
He was in love.
He wanted nothing more than to serve this woman for the rest of his natural life. And since a woman of her talent was so very powerful, his love for her brought him great fortune. Sure, he was one of several men but she had room enough in her heart for many and the numbers would only increase her power.
Wow, he thought as over three decades of insecurity and angst lifted from his soul. I finally understand all that exponential reciprocity bullshit people have been spouting off about for ages.
Now, he really had to piss. He set his coffee down and walked through the employees’ lounge to the bathroom.
Soon thereafter, Frank DeBoar was found dead on the cool linoleum floor, one hand clutching his dick, the other straining towards the knob on the door.