Authors: MAYNARD SIMS
He
had learned a great deal about his daughter in those two short years that he
found distasteful, and his opinion of his son-in-law, never very high, was now
at ground zero. He’d watched and listened to the conversations in the library
with growing interest. But he was already aware of Caroline and Martin’s
objections to what he was doing so there were no real surprises.
“Ah,
Ray,” he said softly to himself, as he watched his son sitting alone in the
library getting slowly drunk. Randolph Stock felt an acute sadness in the fact
that his son and daughter despised him, but life had taught him many hard
lessons, and he’d survived them all. Despite their shortcomings he loved them
both, although he was never able to express that love, and if they felt they
had no affection to offer him then it was tough. Life was tough. That was one
of the first lessons he’d ever learnt.
He
turned his attention to the screen showing the entrance hall and front door,
and watched Phil
Ryker
walk across to the internal
phone and pick it up. A few seconds later the white telephone on the desk
started to ring. He flipped a switch on the arm of his wheelchair and a panel
slid down from the ceiling with a hiss, hiding the video screens from plain
sight. When it was fully down, the panel blended with the surrounding woodwork
so well it was unnoticeable. He flicked another switch and the wheelchair
started to move across the thick piled black carpet towards the desk.
He
picked up the phone and said, “Yes?”
“Phil
Ryker
here, sir.
Downstairs at the front door.
You have a visitor, sir,
name’s Brother Simon. You want I should let him in? It’s gone midnight, sir.”
“I
know what time it is, Phil. Call Edwards and have him show Brother Simon up to
the study. Oh, and Phil, how much longer is that god-awful party going on for?
I can hear the din from here.”
Ryker’s
voice crackled over a bad connection on the line.
“It shows no sign of dying down, sir. I was speaking to a member of the band
during their last break, the guitar player. He says they’re booked until two.”
“Ah
well, there go my plans for an early night,” Stock said with a chuckle. “Okay,
thanks, Phil.”
“I’ll
attend to your guest, sir. Goodnight.”
Stock
put the phone down. He liked Phil
Ryker
, always had.
Ryker
was the type of man you could rely upon.
Hard as a diamond and as honest as a Puritan.
He was the
only man Randolph Stock trusted.
The
desk at which he sat was as large as a billiard table and made from solid
mahogany. Dark and richly grained it shone in the subdued lighting of the study
in a way that made Stock think of old leather. The desk was uncluttered. A
simple blotter, a desk tidy containing only three pens and a few paper clips, a
brass goose-necked reading lamp, three telephones, and in pride of place to the
left of the blotter, a plain silver frame containing two photographs.
The first, a black and white shot of his wife, Marlene, taken
thirty years ago, showing her in a swimsuit, reclining against the aft rail of
the Heracles, the yacht they’d rented that summer.
The second was a
color
photograph of a young man wearing the cap and gown of
a graduation student. A handsome young man with clear blue eyes, bright with
the hopes of a successful future; the square chin up-tilted, almost defiantly,
challengingly, ready to meet the world head on and cope with whatever it set
against him. The graduation student was Stock’s first-born son, his beloved
Frank. Randolph Stock reached out a hand that was unmarked by the passage of
time and touched the silver frame with a long carefully manicured index finger,
stroking it lightly along its length.
For a moment tears
glistened in his faded blue eyes but he blinked them away impatiently.
Hopefully his visitor tonight would be bringing him news.
News
that would ease the searing agony of his son’s untimely death forever.
He
made himself comfortable in the wheelchair and opened a drawer in the desk. The
drawer contained a bottle of whisky, two crystal tumblers, a box of Havana
cigars and a Colt Python .357 revolver with a four inch barrel and an engraved
mother of pearl grip. He opened the cigar box and withdrew a hand rolled
Havana, took a small gold penknife from the pocket of his vest and clipped off
the end. There was a polite tap at the door. Randolph Stock lit the cigar and
let the smoke roll over his tongue, finally blowing it out through his lips in
a thin stream that eddied upwards to the ceiling. “Come in,” he said loudly.
In the pool house Paula
Devereaux
was giving Dean
Rulski
his first lesson in
lovemaking. Normally she wouldn’t have bothered with anyone as young as Dean;
she preferred her men older, men like her college tutor for example, or the
salesman at the car rental place she used a month ago. But tonight she was
feeling horny and there was no one else at the party who even vaguely
interested her. Typical of her mother really, to throw a party for her
daughter’s eighteenth birthday and to then go and invite her own adult friends
to it. Paula’s friends had enjoyed a poolside brunch earlier in the day, under
the careful supervision of at least three sets of watchful parents. So here she
was now, bored with the party, sharing the quiet seclusion of the pool house
with Dean
Rulski
, son of Senator John
Rulski
of Arizona. Dean
Rulski
, a
sixteen year old kid who got a hard on if anyone mentioned the word brassiere.
Still
he was kind of cute in a paedophilic sort of way. He had short blond hair with
the sides gelled into place, quite a nice body,
lean
and suntanned, and retainers on his teeth…well, a girl couldn’t have
everything!
Paula
was lying on a cane sun
lounger
and he was sitting at
her side, blushing fiercely as he stroked her leg through the midnight blue satin
of her ball gown.
“Christ,
Dean! I’m not a pet spaniel. You’re going to stroke me to death at this rate.”
Dean
pulled his hand away sharply. “Sorry,” he stammered. “It’s just that…well I
guess
I…
I’m kind…”
“Inexperienced?”
she offered helpfully.
“I
guess.” He lowered his head and his eyes searched the floor seeking the hole he
hoped would open up and swallow him.
“Christ,
don’t kids do this kind of thing in Arizona?” she snapped impatiently.
“Sure
they do. It’s just that…well, what if we get caught?”
“Oh,
they’ll hang us up from the nearest tree and pull our toenails out with
engineer’s pliers. Jesus, Dean, no one’s going to come down here! They’re all
having too good a time getting drunk on my old man’s champagne. Besides I’ve
locked the door. Here.” She lifted his hand and laid it down on her left
breast.
“Oh
shit,” Dean said breathlessly.
“Thanks
a bunch!”
“No,
I didn’t mean…oh shit!”
Paula
sighed and closed her eyes. “This isn’t working, is it?”
“I
guess not. Maybe we should go back to the house.”
Paula
was silent, lying there, breathing deeply, and trying not to lose her temper.
She’d never had this much trouble getting laid before. It was a new experience
for her. Any day she could go down to Archie’s, the coffee bar on Frazier Avenue,
and guys would be fighting each other just for the privilege of sitting at the
table next to hers. She knew she wasn’t beautiful, she’d never win Miss
America, but what she had she knew how to package expertly enough to make most
men have the
hots
for her.
She
was five feet five, with a slender body, hips that were too big and legs that
were too short. In her opinion her best features were her breasts, her hair and
her face in that order. Her mouth was too small and lips too thin for her face
to be called beautiful or even pretty, but her large brown eyes, helped out
with subtle shading, made hers a face that stood out in a crowd. And she’d
learned early in her teens how to disguise her shortcomings in the mouth
department with the careful application of lipstick and gloss. Her hair was
raven black and hung halfway down her back, teased and tousled, a wild
unfettered mane that belied the hours she spent with mousse and curling tongs,
getting it to hang just so. On hot California days when she went without a bra,
her breasts could stop the traffic on San Diego freeway.
She
opened her eyes and raised herself up on one elbow, reaching out with the other
hand and stroking the back of Dean’s neck. “I like you, Dean, I really do.”
“You’re
just saying that,” he said sulkily.
“Would
I have brought you down here if I didn’t?”
He
said nothing.
She tugged gently at the
hair growing at the nape of his neck. “Look, if you just want to kiss, that’s
fine. We don’t have to go any further, not if you don’t want to. Come on.” She
lifted herself up higher and pulled his head around until their faces were
inches apart. She could see fine beads of sweat on his top lip, and he was
trembling ever so slightly. A thought popped into her head from nowhere and it
excited her.
I’m going to make my first virgin!
And she felt herself
grow moist.
Suddenly he was kissing her.
He’d come at her so hard the metal of his retainers clashed painfully against
her teeth, and she had to fight the urge to pull away. Gradually she relaxed
into the kiss, slid her tongue into his mouth and probed for his. His mouth
tasted slightly coppery. She felt the tension leave him as she put her arm
around the back of his neck and drew him on top of her. His hand reached up
and, this time of its own volition, grasped her breast, fingers kneading, and
she felt her nipple stiffen and prod against his palm.
They broke for breath and
she said, “Undress me.”
Dean
nodded dumbly. Suddenly he didn’t seem so young and innocent any more. He
looked at her with eyes that craved her body.
He’s got nice eyes for a kid,
she thought, as his hand curled around her back, found the zipper and eased it
down. The satin ball gown slid from her shoulders and she raised her body so he
could peel it off. For a moment, seeing her in just a black lace bra and
panties, Dean grew flustered again, but, patiently, she coaxed him back, deftly
removing his bow tie with one hand while the other worked on the buttons of his
shirt.
The sun
lounger
creaked with the weight of their bodies, and the cane work was making patterns
on her naked back, but she was oblivious to the discomfort. She opened his fly
and eased out his stiffened penis. Gripping it lightly she moved her hand up
and down its length, almost bringing him to the point of climax before releasing
her hold. She moved around until finally she was on top of him. She traced a
line down his body with the tip of her tongue, stopping at the bush of fair,
down-soft pubic hair.
He shuddered underneath her.
“That feels
so
good,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.
Outside the pool house two
white robed figures stood at the window, watching Paula and Dean’s lovemaking
dispassionately. They exchanged looks and smiled. It was almost
time
.
The atmosphere in the study was becoming electric.
Randolph Stock leaned forward in his wheelchair and stabbed at the air in front
of him with his cigar. “Are you saying it
can
be done?”
Brother Simon shifted his
bulk on a chair that was too small for him. One of the robed figures stood
behind him, the other was standing at the door. “That it could be done was
never in doubt, Mr. Stock, at least not in my mind, nor in the mind of the holy
father, Dr
Romodon
. The doubt was only in your own.”
“Yes,
yes, but you can now give me certain guarantees, right?”
“This
is so.” Brother Simon’s face was serene as he watched the older man. Randolph
Stock was close to tears. He set his chair in motion and spun it around so that
his back was towards the fat man. If he was going to cry then he wasn’t going
to let anybody witness it.
“I
find all this very hard to believe,” he said, the words catching in his throat
and threatening to choke him.