Tropes, Relationships, Kinks, and Fetishes

Extra-spicy polyamorous, kinky, bisexual romance.
Camp politically charged suspense mystery: repentant ex-cop sex worker infiltrates police department to save missing activist.
Gen X GILF next door in a May-December relationship with virgin Millennial.
Love at first sight/love at first fuck/whirlwind romance.
Multiple later in life romances (FFFFFF and MMF, all over 30).
Soulmates (complicated by past romantic trauma and fear of commitment).
Hurt and comfort.
Spankings and kisses.
Unprotected anonymous sex.
Lesbian sex party/gangbang (FFFFF on F).
Cunnilingus (on cis women—trans mascs to follow in future installments).
Fellatio (on both cis men and trans women).
Penetration (by trans woman, cis woman with strap-on, cis man).
Office romances (multiple).
Sexual quid pro quo.
Switch FMC engaging in dominance, submission, and competition.
Consensual ‘non-consent’ roleplay (with ongoing and enthusiastic consent, including safewords).
Ownership kink.
Degradation/humiliation kink.
Pet play.
Bondage fantasy.
Public sex and exhibitionism.
Masturbation and fingering.
Body scent fetish.
Cum fetish (creampies, swallowing, snowballing).
Pregnancy/impregnation fetish.
Biological clock running out.
Ugly duckling.
Love for gender non-conformity and androgyny.
Love for trans women’s bodies.
Love for fat women’s bodies.
Love for muscular women’s bodies.
Love for short women’s bodies.
Love for tall women’s bodies.
Height difference (11 inches).
Money fetish.
Millionaire partner.
Enthusiastic sex work (not sex trafficking).
Antifascist and sex worker activism and direct action.
Exploration of the concepts and praxis of justice, righteousness (tzedek), repentance (t'shuva), and reproductive rights beyond a Christofascist lens.

Content Warnings

While this story’s tone can be described as generally lighthearted, it deals with numerous topics demanding varying degrees of sobriety. The sensitive content in the following book includes but is not limited to:

Danger and Violence

A nearly lethal strangulation.
A death threat.
A dead bird.
A bloodless mass arrest.
Discussions of Christofascism.

Reproductive Rights

Sexual extortion.
Sexual harassment.
Whorephobia/slutphobia.
Chemsex (sex while under the influence of recreational drugs).

Mental Health and Substance Abuse

PTSD flashbacks.
Complex grief.
Mood disorders.
Fear of abandonment.
Impulsive and reckless sexual behavior.
Alcohol use disorder, relapse, and binge drinking.
Polydrug use (alcohol and MDMA).
Chemsex.
Seeing, hearing, and feeling things that are not there.
Body dysmorphia.
Internalized sanism.

~*~

Act 1: Carnal Entrepreneur

From the ashes of a parking Nazi emerges an antifascist hero. A very horny hero.

~*~

Chapter 1: You Know I Like My Girls a Little Bit Older

Friday, July 12th, 2024

Content Warnings: Depressive Episode; Internalized Fatphobia; Body Dysmorphia

Despite its lowest-bidder manufacturing and fascist symbolism, that shield-shaped hunk of brass had long propped up my last hope that I might find happiness. As I departed Chief Plaut’s office without it, I found myself lost. And as I approached the welcome mat of my own home, I still had no idea where my heart was.

An hour before my shift would have ended, I fumbled my key into the cheap lock with poorer hand-eye coordination than I’d have after a fifth of a fifth. I dreaded what I must do next to survive. I turned the key, pushed open the flimsy hollow core door, and edged the steel-reinforced toes of my boots into my dingy studio apartment.

I surveyed its unimpressive contents: an aughts-era plasma TV (with the Martian Marine main menu burned into the screen), an outdated PlayBox U game console (which had started having issues reading discs 8 months prior), plain wooden box containing the plastic-wrapped bricks of my mother’s ashes (which I had no idea where to spread), and my most prized luxury: my king-size bed (which I had cleared of clutter just the night before because the mess had accumulated to the point there was no longer enough room for me to lie down).

I considered the value of each of my possessions and tried to plan out which I could sell to stretch my funds. “(Couch…)” I mumbled, “(…20 bucks tops on DansForum; TV… might be able to sell it as an antique—let’s say 30; console… auction on Awkshion.stuff for parts, same for the laptop…)”

“How much do you think you could get for the ashes?” asked Shosh as she sidled up next to me. She had haunted me since I identified her cadaver.

“I am not selling those.”

“They take up space.”

“They’re the only thing I have left of my mother.”

“You got Banana Shark.”

“Fine, they’re the only thing I have left that fits in my apartment.” She pinched me. “Ah!”

“There’s me.”

“You aren’t always around for me to talk to. The ashes are there for whenever I need to… um…”

“Hold the door open? Fill a sandbox? Start a Zen garden? Replace the kitty litter?”

“Ugh.”

“Relax, I was joshin’ ya. Mostly.”

“I know. Please try to be serious and constructive right now.”

“Have you ever known me to be serious?”

“When you told me never to trust men and to always use a condom.”

“Those lessons are more important than deciding what to do with the ashes.”

“I don’t feel that way.”

“If you come across someone who collects strangers’ ashes, you could probably get at least 10 bucks for them.”

“They’re in my custody, not yours, I decide what to do with them.”

“Excuse me? Those are mine, Esti.”

I ignored her. “When I have the money… I’ll buy a nice urn.”

“Save your money. Spread them at ground zero,” she suggested in an accent cultivated in Brooklyn.

“I don’t think the City of New York would let me do that. And I would expect you to have a little more respect for the worst tragedy to hit your city.”

“Not ground zero of 9/11, ground zero of the place the accident happened.”

“In the middle of the street?”

“Exactly.”

“California Health and Safety Code Section 7116 specifies that scattered remains may not be ‘distinguishable to the public’—and a street is about as public as it gets.”

“Then pay your grandparents a visit and give the ashes to them.”

“I don’t have the patience for flippant suggestions right now.”

“I’m being perfectly serious. Let them decide what to do with the ashes.”

“No, you aren’t being serious. I don’t even know where they live.”

“I’ll tell you where they live if you promise to give them the ashes.”

I shook my head. “I thought the whole point of the cremation was to give them the middle finger and scare them away from us forever. And now you want me to hunt them down and rub salt in their wounds?”

“You could piss them off even more by using your dear old Mamaleh’s ashes as kitty litter.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and groaned. “You are needlessly cruel sometimes, you know that?”

“Do you love me anyways?”

“In life and in death.”

“You swear?”

I raised my hand in oath. “I swear that I will love you until the end of time and since the beginning of time.” And then she left me standing in the doorway, half-in and half-out of my apartment. Here my mind wandered for several minutes as I tried to accept my new life without my livelihood and lifelong dream, tried to make plans for it… but the more I planned for my future, the more surreal my situation became.

I was lost, and there wasn’t anybody around to give me directions. I hadn’t had a tangible person to guide me since that Cadillac deprived me of the only one I loved.

After a few minutes of numb contemplation, I decided to kick off my shoes and lie down; the couch was the closest comfortable spot for that, so I chose it to flop onto. A few seconds later, the surreality of my situation came crashing down on me—and with it, doubt, self-hatred, and a complete absence of hope.

I became glued to the couch, immobile, for uncountable hours. I wasted away, the breeze from the air conditioner slowly eroding me one atom at a time, like wind chipping away at a mountain. At this rate I would be reduced to ash, just like her, in a few million years. I set my sights on joining my mother that way—but eventually my body begged me to get up and move around. I focused on wiggling my toes, first, then bunching my fingers into fists, then squeezing my core muscles in a halfhearted crunch; eventually, I was able to rub my eyes, twist my spine in a half push-up, and right myself onto my fat ass.

I was alone, and the longing for companionship I had felt in my now-leaking soul throughout the last twelve years and eleven months was no longer a dull ache but a searing agony. For the first time since Shosh died, I could not quell my need for interaction with another human being, a friend with a heartbeat. The psychologist who had evaluated my fitness-for-duty had forced me to realize that I needed friends, even a single pal to spend a little time with every other month, if I had any desire to ‘survive another year’ of my ‘self-destructive maladaptations’.

Bars overflow with people looking for friends but are radioactive for someone with my particular curse. Going back to college would be a great idea—except for the whole business of me paying tuition while I was on a fixed income, as well as the risk of developing a reputation as that 34-year-old square who’s awkwardly (or creepily) trying to befriend youths only a few years past half her age. That left me with… what? “How the hell do I make friends at 34?”

“You never played much with the other kids,” she reminded me. “When the two of us weren’t wreaking havoc, your eyes were glued to the tube, either a game or a movie or a show.”

“You know how much they hated me. You’ve been through the same shit I have.”

“Well… I actually haven’t. You were the only redhead at all of your schools. You stuck out like a smashed thumb. Me, though, I went to school with other redheads. I was ‘normal’ back home.”

“You were an atheist with a religious family in a religious community.”

“Yeah, but I kept that a secret, so no one picked on me or excluded me. I made lots of friends. You need to make some yourself.”

“I know I do, I can feel it. I just don’t know how.”

“Start with your hobbies.”

“I don’t have any.”

“You play games.”

“I play two games.”

“Can you play either of them with others?”

“I don’t know any others to play with.”

“Is there any way to find other people to play with?”

This question, my friend, was—if you have not already guessed—the moment my miserable life took a turn for the better. “Yes, actually. There’s a matchmaking system that will pair me up with strangers who like Martian Marine as much as I do.”

“Then get to it, Esti! I’ll step out and let you do your thing.” And then she was gone again.

So, I booted up my ancient PlayBox U, started Martian Marine, and entered the cooperative matchmaking lobby. Fifteen seconds later, the servers offered me a partner with zero ping, which I accepted without hesitation. HalenBunny entered my lobby, and I donned my headset (which was good for its microphone but no longer produced sound through the earphones, forcing me to pass game and voice audio through the TV).

“Which level are we playing, Lou Peckinpaw?” asked the sultry contralto of a woman much older than myself. “By the way, that’s an interesting gamersign.”

I was not expecting a fellow woman, let alone someone who had been around the sun at least 10 times more than I had. “Thanks. Hmm… ‘Terran Interloper’.”

“That happens to be my favorite. Difficulty?”

“Hmm. Can you handle nightmare?”

“That’s my setting of choice. And while you’re configuring the game… turn on all the skulls.”

I smirked. “Sure. I can chew a chili pepper without breaking a sweat.” I enabled all of the challenge modifiers—known colloquially as “skulls”—adding several unpredictable, frustrating, and perennially humorous tweaks to the game’s normal mechanics, such as grenades flying like bullets and ricocheting off walls like Superballs, enemies’ corpses exploding 3 seconds after death, vehicles always driving like they’re on ice, and so on.

“Very good. Let’s snuff out some Heavenly Lights.”

We launched into the middle of an orbital ambush on our scouting party by the luminous legions of the Heavenly Lights Alliance, a coalition of photon-based lifeforms religiously hell-bent on eradicating all matter-based life in the universe. Despite piling on a dozen challenge-multiplying game modifiers, we mowed them down left and right, above and below. We had each other’s sixes, we traded with each other for our favorite weapons, we carefully rationed ammunition and power ups… we were immortal, and we were in all respects a compatible and deadly pair of cybernetic space soldiers.

“You’ve been playing this game a long time,” she observed.

“I can tell you’re experienced, too.”

“I picked this game up a few summers back, but I can tell that you have much more than that under your belt—you’re practically carrying the game.”

“Well… I wouldn’t say that I’m ‘carrying the game’, though I have been playing since launch day.”

“That was about… 2000, or 2001, so assuming you came out of the womb with your fingers wrapped around a controller, you’d be at least 23 or 24 by now. But… you’re comfortable playing a game with someone older than yourself, so I’m guessing you’ve got quite a few more years than that, maybe… 35.”

“Close, 34. How old are you?”

“Guess.”

“Hm. 45.”

“Think ‘AARP member’.”

“You’re 55?”

“57, as of the last day of last month.”

‹She’s older than me,› I realized. ‹She… is a mature woman. Old enough to be a grandmother. Not old enough to be my grandmother, alas.› “Happy birthday, Bunny. Mine was today.”

“Happy birthday to you, too! It’s pretty rare for someone under 50 to make their gamersign a furry-flavored reference to a detective comedy from 1978.”

“What about it is ‘furry-flavored’?”

She chuckled. “Are you kidding me? ‘Peckinpaw’, substituting P-A-W instead of P-A-U-G-H?”

“Oh—well, I needed to shorten the name to fit the 12-character maximum, I never intended to make it ‘furry’.” Not consciously, anyway.

“I see… So you aren’t a furry.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I might be.”

“Then I must presume that you are a furry.”

“Are you cool with that?”

“I’m cool. Fursuits, forums, art, cons, porn, whatever—have fun, explore your identity, express yourself wherever, however you want.”

“And how about… yiffing?” She stretched the word mischievously.

“Um… I don’t know how it works, but as long as it’s consensual and everybody is enjoying themselves, I’m happy for them.”

“I’m glad you see furrydom that way. You mentioned furry porn.”

“I’ve never seen it,” I lied as unhastily as I could. “I don’t look at it.”

“Never?”

“I’m not interested in anthro— I’m into human women. Exclusively.”

“Women only? Well, I just happen to be bisexual. Sooo…”

She didn’t finish her sentence, but I knew where she was going. “This is a very interesting direction you’re taking our conversation. You’re over one-and-a-half times my age.”

“I agree. It is interesting. So.”

“So…” I pondered to myself, ‹She’s 57. I’m 34. We’re both mature adults, we can cyber if we want to. Assuming I can figure out how it works.› “Bah,” I scoffed. “Age doesn’t bother me, and…” ‹57 divided by 2 plus 7 is… 35½.› I voiced my conclusion: “…I’m only a year-and-a-half under according to the half-plus-seven rule—close enough for hand grenades—we can lie about our birthdays if anyone starts asking questions.”

“I’m glad you’re so open-minded. I’m into some things, things that might be a little weird to some people—so if you’d prefer being the one who sets the pace, you can share your own kinks and we can explore those first.”

“Kinks? I don’t have any. I guess I’m… boring.”

“My girl, you are 34, and you’re telling me you haven’t done any kind of exploration? Are you still a virgin?”

I bit my lip and confessed, “Yes.”

“Would you like to ameliorate that?”

My rapidly mending heart decided to improvise a spirited drum and bass tune titled ‘Ameliorating Your Virginity’. I could only mumble, “(I-I-I… don’t… know if I…)”

“If we live close enough to each other… we could maybe meet somewhere in the middle.”

“Why are you so… interested in me, when we’ve just met?”

“Because you’re a girl gamer, and a very skilled one. I find that attractive. Hell, you’ve been playing video games for decades and you could probably stomp me in deathmatch. And that’s fucking sexy.”

“Wow. You… um… know how to flatter a girl.” I allowed myself to smile at the first compliment I’d ever consciously accepted as sincere flirtation.

Not that I accepted it wholeheartedly. I got up, approached my closet’s sliding door, carefully peeled away the Martian Marine and L.A. Noire posters which I had taped over the full-length mirror, and assessed my appearance for the first time in many years.

Red, frizzy, shoulder-length hair drawn up into a bun that met the bare-minimum criteria for professionalism—I pulled out my hair tie and let it down, admired it as soft, incandescent lighting played along my tight copper curls, combed my fingers through it to appreciate its texture and bounce. It needed a trim and some conditioner… but it was still pretty. Contrasting it were green eyes that alluded to something other than pure Ashkenazi, vibrant hints towards the ancestry of the man who my mother refused to talk about. Beneath those, freckles generously dusted my nose and cheeks—a nice bit of texture to break up the shocking paleness of my skin.

The shape of my face though… I shook my head. Shosh, despite having a nearly identical face… I had no idea how she could be so pretty.

Descending further, I examined my breasts; they were not at all flattered by my no-nonsense police uniform, so I undid a couple buttons to get a better look at my cleavage—and it became apparent that my breasts were more generous in proportion than the average pair found on a 5′2″ frame that modern medicine would consider obese. ‹Too big,› I thought to myself. They bounced flamboyantly when I ran, and at times I had to shield my cleavage to avoid distracting people. Shosh said they were better than hers, but I disagreed.

Even beneath my uniform, my hips and buttocks were visibly on the more expansive side, and after factoring in the generous fluff in all the wrong places, I had to avert my eyes because, I thought to myself, ‹That is the reflection of a hideous bag of lard and bones.›

Shosh had taken every opportunity to reassure me that I was ‘cute’, yet my clinical depression and general lack of self-love compelled me to believe otherwise. ‹Who could possibly find me attractive?› I thought. ‹She’ll be turned off when we finally meet. This is hopeless—but… I need a friend. I can be ugly and still be her friend.›

“Lou? Are you there?”

“Huh? Yeah. I’m… still here.”

“You weren’t responding, I was beginning to wonder if the connection dropped.”

“(Oh. Sorry,)” I mumbled. “(I was… looking at… reading a pop-up on the screen. Um.) Call me ‘Andrea’.”

“Nice to meet you, Andrea, I’m Judith. Would you be interested in meeting up?”

“I… guess. Sure. Definitely. But if meeting in the middle’s more than a day trip, I’m gonna hafta do some serious budgeting first.”

“I’m not opposed to working something out. How far are you from Santa Virginia?”

“Ah—Are you screwing with me?”

“No. What makes you think that?”

“I live in Santa Virginia.”

“That’s quite a coincidence… but it isn’t that strange. It’s a big city, and it makes sense when you consider the fact that our pings are zero.”

“True. Okay, what part of town do you live in?” I countered.

“I’m in Hillside.”

‹Okay… this is a little weird,› I thought to myself; to her I pointed out, “I’m in Hillside.”

“Um. Do you know where… Matteo’s Apartments are?”

‹And now it’s gotten plain spooky,› I wondered. “Yes. I rent… a room… here.”

There was a moment of silence as we both processed the cosmic coincidence, which she broke. “What’s your room number?”

“Two-oh-one.”

“Two… oh-one?” she asked incredulously.

“You heard me correctly.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” I heard her headset clacking on a hard surface through my television—then heard the thump of a door being shut in the next apartment over and, simultaneously, the same sound through the TV’s speakers. Three seconds after that, somebody knocked on my door.

“(No way,)” I murmured. “(No fucking way.)”

With my mind clouded by wonder at such a coincidence, I answered the door and was greeted by a handsomely beautiful and (at 6′1″) very tall blonde with sharp amber eyes framed by defined-yet-soft and somewhat time-worn features; in agreement with her pinot-supple face were the gently-etched muscles visible on the parts of her body not covered by her Black Sabbath T-shirt, green boxer shorts, and Crocs painted to look like half-submerged sharks.

And then a quiet fragrance, carried to

me on a subtle current to my nose,

bashed in my skull with its intensity

of character. It sang of coffee, dark-

roasted and freshly ground, squeezed through French press

and poured while hot to be consumed as jet—

and I for once enjoyed my mug without

the cream or sugar to adulterate.

‹It would seem,› I realized, ‹that I have what people refer to as a ‘type’.›

“You’re that redhead cop from next door,” inferred my new friend with a disdainful tone and a sharp glare.

“(Not… anymore.)” I continued to look her up and down. ‹I’m not intimidated by your height,› I thought. ‹I’m inspired.›

“You quit?” Her distrust was not going anywhere.

“(Let go. Unfit for duty,)” I muttered as I admired her shape and fantasized, {I climb you like a tree and get lost in your foliage…}

“You’ve heard of ACAB, right?”

The all-too-familiar acronym pulled me out of my reverie and caused me to kick into coping-with-humor mode. I nodded and chuckled. “Sure have! I’m a bastard who beats and extorts and kills—bloodthirsty, crooked, and heartless by nature. And I’ve always been this way, since the day I was born. A bad seed, evil by nature. People fear and hate me for being what I am, and they fear and hate me even more for being a vicious PEO. As they should.”

Her harsh expression softened into bewilderment. “I don’t see what’s so funny. And I hafta ask, PEO as in…?”

“Parking Enforcement Officer. It’s a more dignified title than ‘meter maid’. Not that we have any dignity.”

“Hm. Yeah, the most pathetic of all the swine, though hardly the most loathsome—that title goes to Vice.”

“Vice? The most loathsome? No, the most loathsome is definitely Parking. We’re the real bastards who work forces. We hold weekly cross burnings and write hate speech on the back of our parking tickets and choke people to death for parking 14 feet and 11 inches from a fire hydrant.”

“Do you think making light of your sins will absolve you of them?”

My smile dropped, my gaze dropped, my heart dropped. “Dogs go to Heaven. Bastards don’t. There is no absolution for the spawn of Satan.”

“You aren’t a cop anymore, which means you aren’t a bastard anymore.” Then she smiled at me.

I considered her kindness silently. ‹You… you gave me your smile. Even though I am… was a cop.› My eyes rose to meet hers, and I dreamed within them. {You sweep me off my feet, hold me up by my fat ass so that I can wrap my legs around your waist and cling to you and kiss you…} I replied, “That’s… the most reassuring thing I’ve heard in over a decade. Maybe I’m not a horrible person for having once been complicit in a corrupt and hateful institution. Just kind of… worthless.”

That precious smile disappeared— ‹Left me, abandoned me.› —to be replaced with her pitying stare. “You have some real self-esteem issues, don’t you?”

“Is knowing that I’m objectively lazy and incompetent a ‘self-esteem issue’, or am I simply being honest with myself?”

She rested a hand on my shoulder and gave it a couple pats. “It may take some time… but I’ll fix you up.” She took a seat on my couch.

“I don’t need or even deserve—‍” ‹Be her friend,› I commanded myself. ‹Doctor Huygen’s orders. Don’t question her kindness. I have no friends, I need a friend, she wants to be my friend, just be her God damn friend.› I corrected my response: “—I mean, I don’t need a lot of help, but—I’ll accept it—and I appreciate your kindness.”

“Oh, but you do need a lot of help. You’re an ex-cop—you need to be rehabilitated, and you need a new career, and you’re never gonna get a new job as long as you’re convinced that you’re good for nothing. This isn’t going to be easy, you understand?”

I joined her on the couch. “I guess you’re right. Thanks. But this is a lot to promise someone you met a few hours ago through a video game.”

“With a computer server as our matchmaker, yes—but you should know that I’ve been around the sun my fair share of times and I’ve learned to be an efficient judge of character. There’s something about you that I really like, and I want to figure out what it is. And now that we know we’re next-door neighbors, we can be friends!”

“‘Friends’…” I slipped into thought. ‹I did it. Now all I have to do is not drive her away with my pathetic personality and my hideous face and my grotesque body.› I asked her, “What would you like to do as… friends?” My imagination ran wild. {Like maybe draping your mass over me like a weighted blanket while kissing my entire face, my chest, my belly, my…} It was a good thing she couldn’t experience my fantasies.

“Depends on how far you want to take it. I have quite a few friends already, but I’m not super close to any of them, but (you…)” She smiled slyly. “I’d like to get really close to you—if you know what I mean.”

“Right. You expressed a certain interest in me.”

Her response was to spread her mischievous smile into a devilish grin.

“Well,” I explained, “I have no experience, unless you count having my ass groped by college girls in the showers after cross country…”

“Was it consensual?”

“It gave me funny feelings, but… I… liked it. The same thing happens at work all the time.” The echo of the sentence rang painfully loudly, so I quickly added, “But I don’t like it at work.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, but you didn’t answer my question. Have you ever consented to having your ass touched?”

“(No. Um—well… I guess… in a way…)” I muttered.

“If consent isn’t communicated enthusiastically, it isn’t actually consent.”

The episode in the showers played out in my head; I avoided thinking about the episodes at work. “It’s more complicated than that, and only just now did I start processing my feelings about being touched back then. It didn’t bother me at the time, though, and still doesn’t.”

“If you say you don’t mind, then I guess we can say that no harm was done—but it still doesn’t count towards your experience. So… would you be interested in an arrangement?”

I considered her offer silently. ‹This is happening so… fast. But… I am curious. I want to know what it’s like to actually be with a real woman. In many diverse ways.› Timidly (yet eagerly), I responded, “I would like to… try.”

“That didn’t sound very enthusiastic.”

“Do you want me to beg?”

“No. I just don’t want to hear any hesitation in your voice.”

I groaned. “Fine. I enthusiastically want an arrangement. I want you to make me into a real woman. Is that enthusiastic enough for you?”

“Much better.”

“Good. Now, tell me about this arrangement.”

“We’d be fuckbuddies.”

My head reeled. ‹But,› I wanted to point out, ‹I’m ugly as sin…› Instead I softly muttered, “(Fuckbuddies…)”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of a ‘fuckbuddy’, pal.”

“Oh, I know what they are… It’s just that… all of a sudden, I have someone in my life who I’m going to regularly… engage in… sex with.”

“Deal?” She offered her hand.

‹You have a nice face,› I observed silently, ‹and rich eyes, and there’s an alluring heft to the muscles in your arms, and you… smell good, and I like how freaking small I feel next to you—I want to sit in your lap, or be picked up by you and cradled in your arms like a bride on her way to consummating her marriage. I should have fun while I still have a few years of youth left—and you’ve got the experience to help me make the best of them. Yeah, fuck it, I’m in.› I accepted her hand and gave her a healthy shake and a hearty “Deal.”

“Would you like me to take the lead?”

“For reasons I shouldn’t have to explain… yes, I would appreciate that.”

“You got it.” She leaned in; I closed my eyes and parted my lips, expecting hers to meet mine.

Instead of a kiss on the mouth, though, I felt a wet pressure on the side of my neck, and then a vibration in my throat, and I thanked God that I was seated because my legs instantly turned to jelly.

Chapter 2: Best Fuckbuddies Forever

She pulled her lips away, but I remained gelatinous. “(That was such a cute noise you made,)” she whispered.

“(What… noise?)” I squeaked.

“Kind of a whimper-slash-moan.” She kissed my neck again, and this time I heard it. She moved to my throat, which caused me to make the same sound and feel even weaker.

“(Right there,)” I whispered as my chest began to heave. She kissed my throat once more, and I whimpered again. She kissed my chin, which was not arousing in and of itself, but made clear to me she was heading for my mouth, thus stirring my anticipation.

And then she really kissed me. I grunted between our lips and my instincts took over. I wrapped my arms around her neck, kissed her back for a while, then gave into the urge to shove my tongue into her mouth. She giggled, then cruelly pried her mouth an eighth of an inch away from mine.

“(Why—hah—did you stop?)” I whimpered while trying to catch my breath.

“I just wanted to point out that you’re a natural.” To my relief, she resumed kissing me.

Over the course of the next few eternal minutes of her touch, a need within me grew, a need for more which I was compelled to satisfy. With simultaneous reluctance and eagerness, I pulled away and told her, “If you don’t mind, Judith… I’d like to invoke the ‘fuck’ part of our fuckbuddy agreement. Right now.”

“I think we should take it slow, since this is your first time.”

“I’m ready.”

“You aren’t.”

My clitoris, vagina, cervix, uterus, fallopian tubes, and ovaries began conspiring to overthrow my brain. “You can’t know that. Only I can know whether I’m ready.”

“I’ve had a lot of partners. I’m pretty good at telling when people are ready.”

My reproductive organs began their assault, but with all my strength I was able to maintain control and force myself to reply, “Alright. Fine. You’re older but wiser—‍” She snorted. “What?”

“Nothing. There’s a song in a musical—never mind.”

“Alright… If not sex, what do we do next?”

“Foreplay.” She began unbuttoning my shirt—I took that as my cue to pull her tee up to her armpits; she took the hint and raised her arms, allowing me to pull it off and expose her toned-but-not-chiseled abs and her bare and surprisingly youthful breasts. While she resumed unbuttoning my shirt, I marveled at them, imagined touching them and feeling how soft they were. I spread my fingers out and held them inches from them, coiled tight and ready to spring forward and latch on. She giggled. “Damn, you’re eager.” I wanted to grab them, and I wanted her to grab mine and do things with them.

I grunted, and as she untucked my uniform shirt I hastily ‘unbuttoned’ (popped off) the last button and cast it away without care for where it landed before ripping open my tank top and disposing of it likewise. She pulled my sports bra up and over my head, letting my ironically more mature breasts bounce, and as soon as my hands were free, I grabbed her tits and brushed my thumbs across her nipples, causing her to gasp. I devoured her tender chest as she squeezed mine; she pinched my nips, forcing from me a yelp of pleasure. I wanted to rub my tits against hers but couldn’t quite get them to meet because of our height difference, so I leaned against her chest until she got the hint to lie down. Once she was on her back, I climbed on top of her and rubbed myself against her.

By chance I breathed in through my nose and caught a full blast of her scent—

Fresh ground

French roast

Hot pressed

Steamed milk

Go juice

Fuck her

All night

A dial inside my head turned from 9 to 10. “Fuck.” I hastily dismounted her, unbuckled, and undid my fly.

“Andrea, I don’t know if you’re ready…”

“I’m extremely ready, damn it.” She had been compelling before, but now she was irresistible.

I peeled off my pants, then tried to pull her boxers off while she was seated, but she gently curled her long fingers around my hands and told me, “I’m not ready, okay?”

My heart was beating faster than a hummingbird’s and my body was driving me forward at a mile a second and she was asking me to take a leisurely stroll like it was a balmy July afternoon— (And while it was July 12th in sunny Southern California, we were only a few miles from the chilly Pacific and the sun had set hours ago, so it was starting to cool off outside.) —whereas I was in the mood for a cross country sprint. On the brink of devastation, I stared. I gently, quietly, breathlessly explained, “(You… You said we were fuckbuddies. Fuckbuddies, they, you know… they fuck.)”

“I did say that. But right now I’m telling you I’m not ready to go all the way.”

I groaned and plopped down next to her. “I feel a need.”

“Horny?”

I caught my mouth before I could respond as I realized, ‹Wait. You know I’m a virgin, but you might be under the misconception that I’m one of those innocent virgins, rather than one of the pathetic femcel variety… and innocent is sexy.› As naïvely as I could, I asked, “This is what being horny is like? I’ve never felt this way before. It’s like… a… a strange kind of tension, almost like… anxiety, but different because… it has this extra physical aspect to it. My body is telling me, ‘Do something with your genitals,’ but I don’t know what it is I’m supposed to do until I’ve already started doing it. Is this what ‘horniness’ is?”

“Yep. And you’re not always going to have someone to help you resolve it, so you need to learn how to take care of it yourself.”

“Are you saying… I need to…” I dropped to a loud, scandalized whisper. “(…touch… touch myself?!)”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Alright, if I gotta solo this one… I gotta solo this one.” (Gently put, I had extensive experience in the subject. Bluntly put, I averaged about 3 hours and 30 orgasms per night to help me fall asleep.) I realized there may yet be a way to persuade her to touch me. “So… how exactly do I… do… (‘it’)?” I asked in feigned ignorance.

“You… did take sex ed, didn’t you?”

“They never talked about masturbation.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not comfortable with going any further with someone who didn’t receive a well-rounded education in sex.”

“I know how sex works! But only straight sex. I know all the things, I know how to put a condom on a penis, I know about STIs, I’m not completely uneducated! I just don’t know about masturbation because—because I wasn’t paying attention during that part because I thought it didn’t apply to me.”

One of her eyebrows cocked up. “And why wouldn’t it apply to you?”

“Because… I wasn’t interested in masturbating. Um. I wanted to save myself for marriage.”

“Yet you aren’t saving yourself for marriage anymore.”

“Yeah, uh, no, um… but… when Peter died, I knew there was no way I’d ever get married. So I decided not to save myself anymore. But I didn’t—don’t know how to masturbate, so I’ve never tried.”

“Never tried…”

I nodded.

She stared me in the eye, stared through me like I was made of glass. For a moment I thought she could read my mind. Then she shrugged and smiled. “Alright. I’ll teach you how to masturbate, because despite knowing for decades that you had a clitoris, you somehow never managed to figure out how to use it.”

“Thanks. What do I need to get started?”

“You need either your hands, a dildo, or a vibrator.”

“The things lesbians use because they don’t have penises?”

I narrowly picked up on the mild annoyance she took care to hide behind a tutor’s encouraging smile, though it was hard to tell why my question bothered her. “Yes. Very good guess for someone who has no idea how masturbation works. Lesbians also use their mouths.”

“Okay. Out of those, all I have are hands and a mouth.”

“And while I would love to see you use your mouth…” she began; I suppressed a perverted smirk as I thought to myself, ‹Oh, who among us doesn’t find the concept of autocunnilingus extremely hot?› She continued, “…I’m not holding my breath that you’re one of the lucky few who are that flexible (assuming they exist), so hands it is. First, you want short nails—yours are already chewed smooth, so that step is taken care of. Second, you should wash your hands before you touch anything.”

I usually skipped the second step out of laziness, but figured following her advice would make her happy, so I washed in my bathroom then pretend-bashfully strolled up to her in nothing but my socks and panties.

“Now you’re gonna wanna get comfy.”

“Okay. My bed is the most comfortable spot in my apartment.” To myself I added, ‹And also the closest to being worthy of the adjective ‘romantic’.›

“Let’s go.”

I led her by the hand past my kitchenette to the area I called my ‘bedroom’… my apartment being a studio, it wasn’t so much a room as it was an area partially separated by my closet to give me a shred of privacy while I was jerking myself to sleep. I reclined on my flank so that she would have a good view of the show, and just close enough to the edge that she would be right next to me when she joined me. “Won’t you lie down? So that you can use your fingers… to point where I should put mine?” She shrugged, kicked off her crocs and took up that narrow space, her body inches from mine. “What now, teacher? Will you guide your student?” To myself I hoped, ‹Fingers crossed you’re into teacher-student fantasies…›

Sure enough, her eyebrow raised, piqued. “‘Teacher and student’, right… I’m assuming you don’t mind me seeing your pussy.”

“You need to see my… (p-pussy?) I… guess it can’t be avoided.” With less hesitation than would have been ideal, I yanked off my panties and handed them to her. “Can you toss those in the hamper?”

She sighed as she tossed them in the basket.

“Thank you. I’m ready for the next step.”

“You can figure out what to do from here.”

“No! I can’t!”

“It isn’t hard. Try experimenting.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

“Just do what comes naturally.”

“This is all very unnatural.”

“Then… maybe masturbation isn’t right for you. Maybe sex isn’t right for you. Maybe we’ll never be fuckbuddies. Oh, well…”

“No! I just need to give it a try! Teach me!”

She sighed. “Alright. I’ll ‘teach’ you. Start by inserting your finger.”

“(All… right…)” I had never bothered to experiment internally because I had read somewhere that clitoral stimulation was the only thing capable of bringing a woman to orgasm; nevertheless, I had to go with the flow. I considered asking her to take my hand and guide it… but decided that might be a little too bold. “Alright.” I placed my forefinger at the entrance of the place where only tampons had ever ventured before, then slowly slipped it into what turned out to be a very slick hole. “(Oh!)” The sensation was surprisingly pleasant, with a sudden and powerful rush as I crossed the threshold, as electrically stimulating as having my nipples abused. “(I like that.)” I repeated the motion while she watched, intrigued. “(Mm…)” I even uttered for her enjoyment the sounds people make in porn—it was my hope that she’d get off on my noises and maybe give into her horniness. “(Ah… Oh… Yes…)”

“Wow, um… So, you’re probably not gonna cum from just that, most women have to play with their clits. Pull out your finger.” I mentally cursed, ‹Well, shit.›

I removed it reluctantly, and a string of a substance resembling raw egg white stretched from my vagina to my finger, the stuff that would frequently overflow and soak my panties throughout the week following a bleed. “Can you grab me a tissue? I need to wipe off my finger.”

“Why? It’s lubricant, you need that—unless you have a bottle of lube lying around.” I shook my head in spite of the pint of Maude Shine I kept hidden inside my nightstand next to my Magic Wand. (It was just about empty, so I wasn’t being entirely dishonest.)

“I didn’t know this stuff was lubricant.”

“Okay… Andrea? You can drop the innocent ‘I don’t know how to masturbate’ act. I checked your drawer, you have a Magic Wand, as well as a bottle of Maude Shine, which I know you use because it’s empty.”

I grunted exasperatedly. “Okay, fine, I lied, but I really haven’t ever used this… stuff… on my clit. I’ve never stuck my fingers inside my vagina because I was perfectly happy just touching my clit.”

“So… you weren’t acting when you hesitantly inserted your finger and started making those noises?”

I nodded.

“Whew… Alrighty then. Get the other fingers on that hand wet.” One-by-one I moistened the fingers on my right hand, navigating each as far as it would go up the rainy season Nile between my legs and savoring the sensation of being spread each time. As I pulled out my pinky finger, I was overcome by curiosity—and an idea for how to turn her on.

I placed my pinky finger in my mouth and sucked it off.

The flavor was pleasant, albeit hard to describe beyond the notes of vinegar and olive, and there was something about consuming my own juices that appealed to my pervy brain, so much so that I found myself moaning as I slowly withdrew my moistened finger from my mouth.

Judith muttered, “(Christ.)”

“What’s wrong?” I think I managed to hide my satisfaction that my performance had the intended effect.

“Nothing. Well… The sound you just made… The look on your face when you did that… Are you sure you’ve never put your fingers in your pussy?”

I had seen many other women suck on pussy juice-slick fingers on camera, but I was being perfectly, sincerely honest when I replied, “Only tampons and speculums have gone in there before now.”

She shrugged. “If you say so. Try touching your clitoris.”

I hovered my finger over my clit, stopping an inch short. “(I’m… kind of afraid to do this, Judith,)” I pretend-whimpered, quite eager to ‘do this’.

She sighed. “You’ve already confessed to playing with your clitoris.”

“Can we just…. please pretend that I’ve never done this before, that I’m innocent and you’re gently corrupting me? If you won’t actually fuck me the way a fuckbuddy is supposed to, will you at least let me have my fantasy of being taught how my body works by an older, wiser woman?”

She blinked. “Um. If that’s… fun for you, I suppose… I don’t see why not. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done something like this. Let’s pretend.”

“Alright. Thank you. Where was I?”

“You’re scared to touch your clitoris.”

“Right, right. I don’t know what’s going to happen when I touch it!”

“You’ll be fine.”

“Maybe if you… took my hand… and guided it?”

“You don’t need my help. You can do it.”

‹It was worth a shot,› I thought with a sigh before replying, “Alright. Here goes.” I spread my lips with my left hand and touched my clitoris with my right, exactly as I had 10 to 30 times every day since puberty. I felt a familiar, gentle spark shoot up my stomach. I pulled my hand back and gasped in feigned surprise. “Wow!”

“Try rubbing it.”

“Okay.” I touched it again, causing a shower of sparks to carve its way outward from my crotch and throughout my pelvis, then made a little circle with it—the sparks grew hotter and attacked me more fiercely. “(Holy—fuck,)” I gasped between machine gun breaths as I found myself overwhelmed by the pleasure, my habitual compulsion mindlessly accelerating my motions, jiggling my clit with my whole wrist, arm, and shoulder until every nerve in my body gently toasted beside the flames of excitement. I moaned continuously—until my mouth was smothered by someone else’s. I kissed Judith back as I thrust my crotch into my hand, eager, so incredibly eager to release that carnal energy that ever called to me from within—and even more eager to get her to do it for me. That energy grew and grew with each stroke, I felt my desire inflate, I grabbed Judith’s tit with my left hand and squeezed; I dragged my thumb across her hard nipple, causing her to shudder and moan into my mouth.

Then, unable to bear the thought of my first orgasm with a sex partner being at my own hand, I abandoned my clitoris, wrapped my fingers around her wrist, removed her hand from my cheek, guided it towards my crotch, and released it as I meekly whispered, “(Please.)”

So her fingers invaded my country and I surrendered to her every maneuver as she politely conquered me. She performed magnificently, vigorously ruling over my clit with a firm hand, and I let her know I was hers with my moaning and whining until time bled over into space, until I felt—

A fuse within me catches flame.

It burns and fizzes, throws its sparks.

As it grows shorter, closes in

To detonate my heart and mind

And spread my shrapnel ’cross the world,

Which folks make into effigies

To bury with their kin and pets.

I lived these lovely decades few

And died a million lives and am

Remembered by a billion more.

I rest, immortal as the earth

In which forever I’m entombed.

In my remains I plant a seed;

I germinate, extend my roots,

Foundation for self-masterpiece.

I sprout my stem into a trunk,

Proportions of which beggar awe.

My leaves spring forth

from branches high

And spread to eat the sun and moon.

My waist grows tall to reach the sky

Throughout a thousand years of life.

My cones will wait decades or more

To split and birth my progeny.

I am majestic, great and old,

I am Sequoia, Queen of Woods.

You laze within my shade, my child,

And marvel at my majesty;

So gaze upon this wondrous tree,

And know I am your Goddess.

My explosive death and gradual rebirth caught me completely off guard as it forced my back to arch, my legs to stiffen, and my toes to curl. Pleasure rained down like El Niño, flooding my mind with a euphoria that outdid tequila by a wide margin before slowly easing off, then dissipating, leaving me drenched but thriving beside a tranquil pond fit for dreaming, with a pleasant buzz permeating my body not unlike a very intense marijuana high. I sighed, perfectly content without alcohol for the first time in my post-pubescent life.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

I smiled lazily and brushed her cheek. “All I can say is… I’ve been missing out half my life. I wish we’d met before I became a cop. Maybe you could’ve stopped me.” I softly dragged a fingertip up and down her cleavage as butterflies waltzed upon my skin. “Thank you, Judith.”

“You’re welcome, Andrea. Is this a queen? It feels bigger than mine.”

“King. I take up the whole bed when I sleep.”

“The size might come in handy.”

“For what?”

“I dunno, it just… might.”

A moment passed as I tried to figure out what she had in mind for the bed, but my mind wandered until I got to thinking about what my newfound sexuality meant, and how my frustration had been so easily released after a decade and a half of silent physiological readiness. But then, despite having so recently declared myself queen of my newly formed forest cult of bliss, I began to worry. Quietly, almost hoping that she wouldn’t hear me, I asked, “(Am I a… a slut?)” At that point in time, I still thought that sluttiness—like fatness—must be a trait undesirable to anyone and everyone who might get to know me.

“Not even 6 hours into our friendship you literally popped a button and ripped your shirt off in anticipation of having sex; when I refused that sex, you started vigorously jerking off in front of me… then grabbed me by the hand and begged me—with the saddest pair of eyes I’ve ever seen—begged me to finish you off. But you also have a very recent history of being a ‘chaste virgin’, so what happened now might’ve simply been a fluke. I would say your slut status is… debatable.”

“When you say it’s ‘debatable’, are you just being diplomatic, or is that your honest answer?”

She shrugged. “It’s my honest—‍”

I sat up and leaned over her. “Keeping in mind I was dead set on skipping the masturbation and just fucking you on the couch.”

“Good point. The evidence strongly favors you being a slut.”

I worried to myself, ‹I’m a slut. The rumors in school were true—it just took a couple decades for real evidence to surface.› Lightheadedness mixed with euphoria, yielding a short-lived anxiety. I wanted to tell her that I didn’t like the idea of being a slut.

My worries eased. ‹I asked for your honest opinion, and the verdict was ‘maybe’. But when you said the word…›

“Are you worried about being a slut?”

All the bullshit my classmates put me through in middle and high school floated in and out of my head before deflating and dropping to the floor, flaccid and impotent. I shrugged. “Eh. I’ll be fine, I guess.”

With concern she observed, “Based on how long it took you to answer that question… you don’t sound fine.”

‹In fact, your words hurt so little…› I realized silently, then concluded out loud, “Coming from you, it doesn’t bother me. I…” And so I asked myself, ‹Dare I say it?› then decided to admit to her, “I guess you’re just what I needed.” {‘Just what I needed…’}

“Is it the perfume that I wear?”

I grinned. “No, and ‘It’s not the ribbons in your hair.’”

She snorted and nodded with an appreciative smile, then sang, “Do you mind me coming here?”

I shook my head. “I don’t. And in case you’re worried about wasting all my time… my time has never been so well spent. You came along when I needed you most—‍”

Three words tickled my throat, three words that needed to hold their fucking horses… three words that would have better gone unspoken until much later in any other seemingly healthy relationship.

And in the case of our relationship, I could have avoided pushing Judith to run away—to abandon what we had made together, to leave me all alone with only tears for company—if only I had left those three small words unspoken till the end of time. If only—after those few days together, too beautiful to last and too brief to deserve import—I had held my tongue. If only—when her eyes caught fire, burning with fear—I had held back my emotions and refrained from speaking to her those cursèd words over and over and over again, driving her to flee from the woman I knew damn well she loved more than anything. If only—when she told me repeatedly that I was wrong about what kind of relationship we were in—I had closed my mouth and heeded her warnings, I could have saved myself from the greatest fear I had ever felt, which would also be the greatest despair I had ever suffered.

I hurt her when I finally said those words. I wish that I had found another sentence to tell her how I felt. Having in hindsight just an inkling of what she had gone through before me, I wish I hadn’t hurt her.

But the most horrible moment in our ephemeral romance did not yet come that night—a few fleeting days of bliss would pass before she threw open the door and took that single step without me.

“—though I wish you could’ve come to me sooner,” I said instead.

“Aw. That’s so sweet,” she said dearly, and… with… what I almost swore to myself was pity… and… sorrow… and… regret. “You’re… a very… sweet woman. I’m glad… I’m glad I came into your life at the moment I did, too.” She was silent, pensive for a few seconds, but then she looked like she had some kind of revelation and cleared her throat softly. “You know, I don’t even know your last name. Isn’t that crazy?”

“Bachman.”

“Lucas. So, it feels a little weird to be talking like we’ve known each other for months—and yet…” Even as she admitted this, she relaxed. She didn’t look or sound weirded out. The pity, the sorrow, the regret—all gone, replaced with the same sympathetic confidence she had maintained since the beginning. She seemed perfectly comfortable as we lay next to each other, our tits facing each other, my pussy out, one of my arms slung over her waist, the chewed-nail fingers on that hand gently ‘scratching’ her back, and the other five running through her hair, coating it with my juices; one of her hands cupping my face, thumb brushing my face cheek, the other hand squeezing my ass cheek—fingers feeling me, massaging me. Life had never been this good. I never would have imagined losing my job would bring me such pure and genuine joy. I never imagined losing her, nor the terror that would follow.

I kissed her for half a minute, then explained, “The shrink who told my bosses I was too disabled to work told me I needed friends and ordered me to befriend the next person I met… and that ended up being you.”

She stared into my eyes with a pale smile. We rested our lips for a moment, with only the jet-engine whir of my gaming console’s dust-clogged CPU fan to cut the silence. Then she hugged me tightly and sighed loudly. “I think that doctor was right. I think they were spot-on.”

Her embrace brought me comfort, of which I had both a cornucopia and a famine. “Definitely.”

She released me. “You need sleep. What time do you get up?”

I shrugged. “I don’t have a job anymore. What’s the point in having a schedule?”

“Schedules are good for your mental health. Do you take any medications?”

“Yes. Adderall.”

“Medicines like that work best when you take them at the same time every day. Having a schedule is imperative for you in particular.”

“Okay. I guess… 9 o’clock. I can get away with just a few hours of sleep, for a couple days at a time. One of the few things I had going for me in my quest to become a homicide detective.”

“A homicide detective?” Her face had changed. I asked myself, ‹Is that a twinkle in your eye?› It was. Excitement, curiosity, eureka—in her eye a puzzle piece slipped into place and completed a picture—a picture obscured from me. “Or any kind of detective?” she continued. “Might you solve… kidnappings?”

“Yes. I would prefer homicides specifically, just like Lieutenant Columbo, but he rescues his nephew’s wife from her kidnapper in No Time to Die. Not my favorite episode, but it’s fun to watch the lieutenant pull out all the stops and work at a breakneck pace and just be a hero in a way he can’t be if the victim is already dead. And… I really like seeing him in a tuxedo. Very handsome.”

“You really like Peter Falk. You got a crush on him or something?”

“He’s the only man I’ve ever had a crush on,” I told her, lying more to myself than to her.

She might have interpreted this as a joke, because she chuckled. “You think he’s sexy?”

“He was at his sexiest as Grandpa in The Princess Bride.”

At this fact she laughed with extra gusto, mirthful surprise pinching her cheeks. “Yeah, he was pretty sexy with gray hair! And in his trench coat I consider him a rare exception to ACAB. If you had become a detective… maybe I would have considered you an exception, too. Though I can’t say that any antifascist who takes themself seriously would agree with such an unorthodox attitude.”

“Well—I’m not a cop anymore, so it doesn’t matter what they would think about me hypothetically being a detective.”

“Well…” She curled a lock of my hair around her finger. “…you may find that a lot of people won’t agree with me that you’re not a bastard anymore, either. A significant minority might be of the attitude that ‘once you’re a cop, you’re always a cop’. But, in my humble opinion, that’s unfair. Nobody’s born perfect. People change.”

“I guess.”

She checked her phone. “That was a blast, but… it’s midnight-oh-six, and I set my alarm for bright-and-early-thirty.”

“Are you sure you can’t stay a little longer? We could maybe go for a quickie.”

She shook her head. “I’m still not ready. I don’t fuck until I know someone’s favorite song, movie, and book.”

“My ass you don’t! You just fingered me a few minutes ago.”

“I had a moment of weakness. The face you made was so… pathetically needy, I felt compelled to finish you off. I’m not letting that happen again—no more sex until you dish.”

“Favorite song: ‘Just What I Needed’ by The Cars; favorite movies: The Cheap Detective, The Princess Bride, and A Friend in Deed from Columbo (if you count feature-length television episodes as movies); and my dearest, most favorite book: Just One More Thing by Peter Falk.”

“‘Movie-s’? I said ‘mov-ie’, singular.”

“I like all three.”

“Singular.”

“Well, I like all three.”

A cruel smile danced across her mouth. “I guess we’ll just have to spend a little more time getting to know each other—and ourselves—before we take things to the next level. I’m going to bed.” She got off the bed and grabbed her shirt.

“Wait!”

“Gotta sleep.” She started putting her shirt on as she took a few steps towards the door.

“Give me a minute to think about it!”

“This is something you should know off the top of your head.” She took the last few strides to my front door.

“No, it isn’t! Movie lovers never have just one favorite!” She opened it and crossed the threshold, and I felt my compass begin to spin.

She asked over her shoulder, “But are you a movie lover?”

“I like a few movies, yes.”

“If you just like ‘a few’ movies, you’re just a casual viewer. And if you’re a casual viewer, you don’t have an excuse for not knowing your favorite. Bye!” She shut the door behind her.

I sprinted from the bed and flung open the door. She turned around and her eyes spread wide. “Coffee!”

“Uh-huh. You do realize that we’re on the balcony—and that you’re only wearing socks, don’t you?”

“Shit!” I ran back inside, wrapped a once-upon-a-time-white polyester-cotton blend Hallmart bed sheet I bought on clearance around myself like a cloak, and ran back out. “Well?”

“You’re getting up at 9, so… how about Holden’s Café at 10?”

“Works for me. Goodnight, Judith.” I waved with simultaneous unease and eagerness.

She shook her head and stepped most of the way into her apartment—but popped her head out and returned my “Goodnight!” before disappearing entirely.

I had been lost, but now was found—a firstborn wretch redeemed by a Providence that had been indwelling so close to me. For the first time in my life, I could see my path.

Chapter 3: Coffee and a Caper

Saturday, July 13th, 2024

Content Warnings: Internalized Fatphobia; Depression

As I woke and stretched, I decided I wanted to be prettier than I’d ever been in my entire life—a bar I estimated so low, given how homely I thought I was, that it should be trivial to clear.

I showered—and conditioned (for the first time in 9 months; I had to unclog the 6-year-old bottle’s nozzle with a floss pick)—I brushed and detangled my hair; I put on what I estimated to be a reasonable amount of makeup, including a bit of low-coverage foundation, rose eyeshadow, rouge, and my blood-red lipstick; I blasted myself with the (miraculously still-potent) perfume my mother bought me for my 21st birthday; I moisturized… I never moisturized, as evidenced by the hitherto factory-sealed container. There I was, incapable of working, yet preening myself like I was getting ready for the job interview of a lifetime, aiming to give my best possible impression. Because every impression I gave that woman mattered more than all its predecessors put together.

As ready as I was in body and in mind, my wardrobe was not. I hadn’t done my laundry in a month because I’d been in the midst of a moderate (verging-on-severe) depressive episode during which I worked, played Martian Marine, occasionally ate, and jerked myself off to sleep—and not a damn thing else.

Now that there was someone in my life whose opinion of my outward presentation I actually cared about, depression was no longer a valid excuse for skipping laundry. I needed all of my clothes to be freshly laundered from there on out. I smelled everything in my closet, and nearly all of it had a… let’s just say it had a detectable hint of sweat—except for the dress my mother had given me for my 21st birthday, the one I had worn only twice: first, on said birthday, when we both went to a bar and got plastered and remained plastered from noon to noon; and last, to her funeral a month later, because even back then it was the closest thing to a ‘formal’ outfit I had in my wardrobe. (In hindsight, I really ought to have bought something more appropriate for such a solemn occasion, but in my defense I was mentally disabled by my grief.) And since I hadn’t worn it since I last had it dry-cleaned a week after the funeral, it still smelled more-or-less freshly laundered. It was an off-the-shoulder knee-length black satin dress with a slit down the side that exposed my plus-size left thigh, and a plunging lace-up neckline that brought further unwanted attention to my already excessive cleavage. I dreaded all the eyes that would be wandering over my body, ogling all the fat stubbornly clinging to my skeleton, but I had no other options. I either wore the dress, or I wore my natural perfume.

What I did not anticipate was the opinion that it might have… somehow… actually… looked… good on me?

“Look at you! Ready for the show, Elvira!” Judith expressed her approval as she approached the booth I’d claimed for us, loudly enough for the entire café to hear.

“Um… ‘the show’?”

She sustained the unmasked part of her grin in the corner of her eyes as she took her seat on the opposing bench. “That’s a pretty fancy dress you got on, and it’s awfully flattering to your cleavage.”

I grimaced severely enough that it likely escaped my own mask. “I’m overdressed, aren’t I?”

She ignored her phone as it sounded, ‘(Hoot hoot hoot!)’ “I’m wearing my 1979 CaliFFornia World Music Festival tee, riddled with holes…”

Her shirt was so worn out and patched up that it was hard to tell that it had once upon a time been a concert tee—I was able to make out a crinkled blue orb covered in illegible cursive surrounded by four blobs of color that had once, long ago, been images of I-knew-not-what.

“…and the pants that I was wearing when I caught a mild case of bicycle-induced road rash 20 years ago…”

The knees of her subtly-flaring brown corduroy bell-bottoms had seen better days.

“…and a pair of Chucks held together by Shoe Goo and embroidery floss.”

Last of all, her faded red canvas high-top All-Stars looked cobbled together from multiple donor shoes.

(Her floral deodorant caught my nose, overpowering but pleasant—though I could still smell that espresso musk beneath it—and I would much rather sniff a big cup of Ethiopian blend medium roast than some sissy flowers.)

She looked and smelled magnificent in spite of how incredibly casual and beat-up her outfit was.

“So, with these duds, would you say I’m underdressed?”

“If you’d known today was Band T-shirt Day,” suggested Shosh, “you could’ve worn your Mötley Crüe tee, too.” I glanced over and saw that she was indeed wearing her own 2005 Carnival of Sins tour shirt.

I sighed. “I would have liked something a little more casual…”

Judith chuckled. “I can’t imagine being any more casual than I already am!”

“I suppose I can’t either. Me, on the other hand… I wish casual was an option, but all my T-shirts are dirty. This was the only clean thing in my closet. Everything else… smells like…” I finished the sentence with a shamed whisper: “(B.O.)”

“Did you forget to do your laundry?” asked Judith.

“Neglected to. Depression. Laziness.”

“Sounds about right.” Her phone hooted again. “Except your so-called laziness—don’t insult yourself.”

Our waiter arrived wearing jeans with gently torn knees and a T-shirt depicting a cartoonish (yet, nevertheless, revolting) The Human Centipede-inspired take on The Very Hungry Caterpillar, captioned ‘The Very Human Caterpillar’—further highlighting how overdressed I was. “Good morning, ladies, can I start you off with anything to drink?”

“Four shots of espresso in a coffee mug,” said my new ‘fuckbuddy’ who had fucked me but whom I had yet to fuck, “and… the senior biscuits and gravy.”

I was struck by the realization that ‹Christ, she’s a senior. I’m hanging out with an older woman. Most people would probably think I’m weird. But why should I agree? She’s pretty, she’s nice, I like her, and knowing that she’s more than two decades my senior doesn’t make me uncomfortable. I’m happy to spend time with her. Her age, if anything, means she probably has a personality that has aged like a bottle of The Last Drop No. 29 scotch, and lots of experience to share. Including sex experience. Sexperience.›

Shosh caught me admiring my new friend, then asked, “Is she your… type?”

I nodded. “An appetizing and satisfying dish.”

Our waiter examined Judith skeptically. “You’re 57?”

“She could be your age,” I couldn’t help quipping to Shosh.

The server raised an eyebrow.

“Ha!” Judith laughed and replied in amusement, “Nice compliment.” She showed our server her driver’s license.

“She’s youthful, yeah,” replied Shosh, “but I dunno about looking 40. Maybe halfway between that and her actual age.”

He looked at her license, nodded, and smiled politely. “A belated ‘happy birthday’ to you, Ma’am. And you, Miss?” He waited for me.

“Um…” I obsessed over his choice of words. ‹She’s a ‘Ma’am’ to him, I’m a ‘Miss’…›

“Bring me one-a everything,” joked Shosh.

I rolled my eyes. “Good luck eating all that. Hmm… Just a sec, almost there…”

“Nah, I’m kidding, I ain’t paying for that. I’ll take the Gouda omelet, French toast with strawberry sauce, maple sausage links and… I’m watching my carbs, so I’ll take a fruit bowl instead of the home fries.”

“Their Gouda omelet actually sounds pretty good, but I’m… thinking… a flat white, and… a short stack of pancakes. That’s all.”

Shosh quickly injected, “I changed my mind, I’ll have what she’s having.”

“You got it, boss.” He took our menus and left, and Judith’s phone tried again, futilely, to get her attention.

“What’s a ‘flat white’?” asked Shosh.

“Espresso with steamed milk.”

“Which I’m sure is delectable,” said Judith, “but I prefer my espresso unadulterated.”

My grin escaped my mask through my eyes. “I suppose avoiding adulteration is a safe policy. Though I’m not one to tell people what kinds of forbidden mixtures they may partake of when nobody’s looking.”

She nodded and her eyes grinned back. “Yes, very safe. But… I will admit to indulging in forbidden mixtures from time to time.”

I giggled. Shosh rolled her eyes.

Even though I was okay—if not pleased—with Judith being so much older, the age gap still seemed a little… ‘novel’ is a gentle word to describe it, albeit a misleading choice given the frequency with which the word ‘mature’ appeared in my search history and my browser homepage being set to www.NubileGILFs.vidz. I leaned towards her and smiled playfully. “Judith… I’m kind of reeling from the fact that I’m… special friends with someone mature enough to order off the senior menu.”

“I’ve had the right to order old people food for 2 years, now. I thought that wouldn’t bother you. Is the age difference suddenly a deal-breaker?” Her eyes and tone of voice were not playful, as mine had been—rather, they made it clear that I was welcome to say ‘yes’, and in that case, she would rectify the inconvenience of her presence by leaving me with the bill and the displeasure of never seeing her again.

I chuckled just a little nervously. “No, absolutely not! I was just saying that I find the age difference… amusing. I’ve been around the sun enough times to be with someone old enough to be my mother. I like you. You’re sexy. And you’ve done a lot for me in the few hours we’ve known each other.” I descended into thought. ‹I wonder if you realize just how alive you make me feel, if you realize that you’ve cured my depression, that you’ve brought out something that I never thought I had inside me. You probably have no idea. And I’m not sure I should tell you.›

“And I can do even more. I can help you with your laundry, if you’d like.” Another three hoots from her phone, quickly followed by more.

My insides tied themselves into one big knot. “You’d do that?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“We’re friends.”

“Yes, we are indeed friends…” ‹I wonder if things might be even better if we were more than friends…›

“Friends help each other out. And I’m guessing you’re feeling overwhelmed by how much needs to be washed.” ‘(Look at me!)’ cried her phone in owlish.

I nodded. “On the bright side, I don’t need to clean my uniforms, I can just burn ’em.”

‘(Read your hoots!)’ “No way! I’ll punk ’em up and wear ’em. Or buy a badge—or steal one—and impersonate a cop.”

Shosh cackled.

“The first idea sounds fun, the second sounds very, very poorly advised.”

“It isn’t ‘poorly advised’, it’s fucking hilarious!” opined Shosh.

“I could put on lots of makeup to hide my identity,” suggested Judith. “Who doesn’t find a clown dressed like a jackboot amusing?”

“It isn’t ‘hilarious’, it’s dangerous.”

“I’m joking,” said Judith.

I rolled my eyes. “Please promise me you won’t do it.”

‘(Hoo-hoo-hoot hoot hoot!)’ “Seriously?”

“Yes. Promise me.”

“Alright, I promise.” ‘(Hoot-hoot-hoot! Very urgent!)’ “Okay, my phone is driving me nuts.” She glanced at the lock screen. “I’ve gotten 67 hoots since last night. Gonna silence it.”

“I don’t mind you checking them.”

“We’re having a conversation.”

“About what?”

“Impersonating cops.”

“Which you’ve promised not to do, so the discussion is over. What else do you want to talk about?”

“Uhm… Well, everything that’s coming to mind is NC-17 or higher, but we’re in public.”

“I’d be delighted to talk about naughty things when we have some privacy, so hold onto them for later. If you’re getting bombarded with so many hoots, it could be something important.”

She shrugged and checked Hootr. “Buncha quote hoots tagging me.” Her eyes grew. “(Christ.) Andy, listen to this!”

I really liked her calling me ‘Andy’. “I’m listening.”

“This is coming from your ex-employer’s Public Information account. ‘Missing person, Santa Virginia: Alexander Brookvale was reported missing Wednesday when he failed to return home that evening.’ Holy cow! Can ya believe it?”

“Oh. Him.”

“So you’ve heard of him.”

“My coworkers never shut up about how much they hate his guts.”

She eyed me with what felt like an unfair amount of suspicion. “Do you feel the same way?”

“Nah, I hope he turns up alive and unscathed. I’m just sick of overhearing them badmouthing him. They think he’s the spawn of Satan, but to me his ideas seem perfectly reasonable, and his leadership and charisma is sort of… inspiring. I even follow him on Hootr.”

“Really? Would you consider yourself an antifascist?”

“I… guess… if I was allowed to call myself one? I’ve been thinking about going to rallies or marches, but I either don’t have the energy—or ‘the spoons’, I could say—or I’m anxious about the crowds. And when neither of those things is a problem, I remember that I’m a cop, and that if I’m found out I’ll be excluded from society the way anti-vaxxers ought to be.”

She shook her head. “How the hell does a decent woman like you become a pig?”

“Don’t call her a ‘pig’,” demanded Shosh. “Yeah, there are a few bad cops, but you know she was one of the good ones.”

We paused our conversation while the server doled out our coffee and food, then took off our masks once he was gone.

I blew on my flat white as he left, then explained, “We all know there are no good cops. I simply had delusions of heroism.” I took a sip…

…just as Judith put her espresso down. “And that’s your story?”

“The same as every other would-be good cop. Some of us want to do good, but we don’t know how. Or when we do realize we’re in the wrong profession to be doing good, we’re afraid to sacrifice something even more important than our incomes.”

“And what’s that?”

“The one thing more important than anything else, more than love or money or sex or drugs or sleep.” I nodded at her phone. “Is there anything else after the hoot?”

“Is there something you’re hiding, Andy?”

“Yes, but it’s nothing you shouldn’t have figured out by now. Let’s hear more about this disappearance.”

“Na-na-na, finish explaining yourself. What’s this thing that’s ‘more important than anything else’ you’re not talking about?”

“Our capital-I Identity.”

“Ego?”

I nodded.

“It’s that ingrained?”

“I wanted, more than anything, to be a real-life hero. Validation of our heroism is what we ‘good cops’ all crave. And even a lot of the rotten ones see themselves as heroes.”

“‘Wanted’, past tense—you don’t want it anymore?”

“I’m trying to change my Identity so that it doesn’t rely on being a cop.” She nodded. “That said, yes, my identity will be ‘cop’ for a while, until I’ve fully come to accept that I no longer have a badge and accept that I will never wear one again. As for wanting to be a hero… I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to let go of that, even if moving on is the only way to keep my sanity.”

“You have a rough road ahead of you—but you don’t have to give up being a hero. The fact that cops can’t actually be heroes doesn’t mean that heroes don’t exist at all. You just need to tweak your definition of ‘hero’ to include other possible careers.”

“She’s right,” said Shosh with a sigh. “Just because you don’t wanna be a police officer anymore doesn’t mean you can’t do great things.”

I shrugged dismissively. “Maybe y’all’re right. Judith, what else does the rest of the thread say?”

She (hmm)ed with a hint of dissatisfaction, but continued, “‘Brookvale was last seen Wednesday morning by his wife, Geraldine Pasteur, as he left their apartment in Sunnyvale to meet with an unidentified social justice group.’ Here ‘social justice’ is in skepticism quotes, of course. Today’s Saturday. The report was filed 3 days ago, and it’s just coming to the public’s attention this morning? That’s negligent.”

“That is extremely unusual. The first 72 hours of a disappearance are the most critical in finding a missing person alive and unharmed. SOP for these cases is to get the word out ASAP, in the news and on social media within minutes of the report being filed. Maybe the timestamp on the post is wrong, or there could’ve been some kind of computer glitch or human error to explain the delay. Let’s check for updates.”

We ate and drank as we scrolled through the SVPD’s news feed and social media accounts, looking for updates on Brookvale’s disappearance, but in the crucial 60 or so hours since the report was originally filed with the department, nothing else had been shared with the public.

“Alex hasn’t been seen for two-and-a-half days,” I pointed out. “His disappearance was announced as the survival window is hours away from closing, and there haven’t been any updates since then… This situation is very strange.”

Judith stroked her chin curiously as she hummed. “Hmm… Hey, Andrea…”

“Yes?”

“You like solving mysteries, don’t you?” she asked with a knowing glimmer in her eye.

“I’ve never had the opportunity to solve a real one, but I like to think I do.”

“Well, Sherlock… here’s your ‘real one’.”

An invisible tail, puffed up like a bottle brush, sprouted from my ass and swished side-to-side; my ears, like a sheep hound’s, swiveled the better to hear her; my pupils dilated in anticipation of the words that would give me an opportunity to earn me a bone—as I replied, not the least bit convincingly, “(This?) Oh, no, definitely not, I don’t want to interfere with an official investigation…” I sipped my flat white to force myself not to grin.

“What investigation?”

“Yeah, alright, that’s true, the cops aren’t doing jack squat.” I caught myself falling for the temptation. “But that doesn’t mean his disappearance will go unnoticed. SVPD probably just… hasn’t had a chance to… do anything… about it. Too busy with other cases. Inundated.” Alexander Brookvale was the very last person any law enforcement agency was going to put any effort into saving.

“Do you really believe that?” Obviously, to you, and probably to her, I didn’t, but I manufactured a naïve shrug anyway. “You are aware that Alex wants to defund the SVPD,” she informed the ex-cop who had an intimate familiarity with the culture of that very agency including its passionate and absolutely thorough loathing for our missing man because of his efforts to curb the department’s power and resources. “They do not want to save him from danger—we both know that they would actually prefer to leave him to his fate.”

I asked myself, ‹Should I be delicate?› I leaned forwards and explained in a low voice (with bated giddiness), “(You may be right. There are a few who might make the best of an opportunity to harm him… and they have made their presence known before. Last time I was doing my pistol quals, someone replaced all the paper targets with Brookvale’s mug shot. I had to schedule a make-up exam because—not only was I unable to pull the trigger, I couldn’t even point my gun in his general direction.)”

“Christ, they really did that?”

With a Girl Scout salute, I assured her, “I would never say anything about the SVPD that I didn’t know for certain to be true.”

She rolled her eyes. “Cops are fucking insane. Did anyone get in trouble?”

“Everyone except my old captain—Peter Hobarth—found it hilarious. I was the one who snitched to him, told him that it was disrespectful and unprofessional and that if the public caught wind of it, we’d have a PR nightmare. The targets were incinerated in 5 minutes flat, but the whole incident was swept under the rug.”

“The bastard didn’t get anybody in trouble.”

“Ehh… If he tried to get anybody in trouble, he probably would have faced retaliation. As for being a ‘bastard’, he was… kind to me. I struggled to meet expectations for 9 years, and doing my best for the next 2 burned me out for the last leg of my career. But he tried his damnedest to accommodate me the whole time.”

“Correction: considerate bastard.”

I shrugged. “I think he cares. If Hobarth was captain of the Crimes Against Persons Squad—they’re the ones who handle missing person cases, as well as criminal threats, assaults, sex crimes, homicides, harassment, stalking, and DV—I think our man would have been found by now. There aren’t any good cops, but there are a few with good intentions.”

Her eyebrows questioned my assertion momentarily, but she quickly shrugged her doubt away. “So he’s a good little piggy… Maybe they should fire him so he can stop being a bastard.”

I rolled my eyes. “If only he weren’t so damn good at his job, they might. He’s the reason I was able to hang from the department’s leg like a leech for so long.”

“Hmm. I’m loath to suggest that you continue associating with any cops, but this one shiny apple in the spoiled bunch… might be helpful. But back to Alex’s case; whadaya say? Our gone guy is hopeless without a citizen detective coming to his rescue.”

“(Citizen detective…)” I whispered, and the possibilities flashed through my mind:

‹Andrea Bachman, Citizen Detective—

‹Andrea Bachman, Investigative Journalist—

‹Andrea Bachman, Private Investigator—

‹Ah… Maybe something a little shorter, a little snappier… Even if it’s obvious:

‹Bachman, P.I.›

My diaphragm shuddered. “I dunno…”

‹If I take this path, my ego will inflate to outclass the Hindenburg.

‹But I want it. And if I want it, I must do it.

‹Yet… I want it for the same reasons I became a cop.› “(I’d be doing it for myself,)” I muttered.

Shosh nudged my shoulder and asked, “If you aren’t for yourself, who is for you?”

I replied, audibly only to Shosh, “(Judith…)”

“She’s a big help, but she isn’t gonna do everything for you. Who is for you?”

I quietly admitted to her, “(It must be me.)”

“Correct. When you are for yourself, what are you?”

I shook my head and mumbled, “(I don’t know.)”

“What do you feel you must do?”

I admitted, “(Someone needs to find him. But…)”

“If not now, when?”

I shook my head again. “(I don’t know…)”

“His life could be in danger. If not now, when?”

I cursed almost silently, “(Shit…)”

“How much time does he have, Esti? A lot, a little?”

I explained under my breath, “(Probably… days, hours, none. Every second counts in a missing person case.)”

“I’ll ask you again: If not now, when?”

The answers to her questions crystallized, and I could see the path I must follow. ‹Unless somebody else has already put in the effort to organize an investigation, I’m his only hope. My heart is telling me that finding him is what I was placed on God’s Earth to do. I cannot continue denying what I must become—what I am:

‹I’m a God damn detective.›

I feigned reluctance as I replied, “Oh, fine. I’ll do it, Judith. I’m really not qualified, and I’m still recovering emotionally from being fired. I’ll get started after I finish my pancakes.” I stifled my giddiness as I forced myself to take a bite—not too greedily, not too hastily, though a little too tremulously—and resolved to wait until the meal was over to get started on my new job.

“You’re not fooling me,” said Judith. “I know you want to do this more than anything else.”

“No, this mystery is really inconvenient. My detective days were over before they could even begin.” My heart vibrated in anticipation.

She shook her head and smiled. “Bullshit.”

“I’m supposed to be retiring, not chasing dreams. I’m not a hero.”

Visions from God smashed into my head, one after another after another. {The subject proves elusive as I tail them, taking circuitous routes and unexpected turns on the way to wherever it is they’re going—they lose me. But all is not hopeless. I skulk down a damp and dark alley to meet a self-proclaimed friend of the subject to find out where they go after work. They earn themselves a Benjamin for their trouble—a business expense the client will be covering when it’s time to pay the bill. I venture into the Blind Owl—a seedy dive bar on the East Side—where the subject orders a Boilermaker with a maraschino cherry on top. A ‘stranger’, already seated a couple stools over, abandons their drink, joins the subject, and orders the same bizarre cocktail—then almost at once departs for the back of the bar. Exactly 30 seconds later, the subject follows. I tiptoe towards the back door and crack it. It’s dark outside, and I don’t hear any people sounds. As I sneak around the corner, the subject and drinking buddy are quietly discussing prices. Once the deal has been settled, the subject hands over an envelope in exchange for a hundred stack. The two begin to go their separate ways. “Not so fast,” I tell them. They stop dead in their tracks. “I have some questions—for both of you.”

{The IP trace brings me to a Garlic router endpoint, which would normally be the end of the road for me—but one of my underground contacts owes me a favor, and I’m willing to spend it for the sake of such a lucrative case. Once they’ve cracked the entry point and given me the IP address of the client who tunneled through it, I’m able to trace it to an Internet service provider on the East Side. A little ‘gentle persuasion’ with the ISP—they wouldn’t enjoy a bunch of feds rifling through their records if I had to ask the FBI to investigate a breach of the CFAA—yields the physical address of the customer to whom they assigned the IP. I knock on the perp’s door and introduce myself: “Good evening, I’m a representative of one of your ‘customers’. My employers are willing to refrain from pressing charges against you if you hand over all your blackmail material.”

{“I’m afraid they don’t love me anymore. They spend all their time on business trips, they decline dates, we haven’t had a vacation together since our honeymoon. I’m afraid… I’m afraid they might be cheating on me.” “You just relax while I get to the bottom of this,” I tell them. I tail one half of the pair of suspected adulterers to their rendezvous place in a hotel. A Benny slid across the front desk earns me their room number. From a building across the street I snap lurid photographs of the lovers in media res through a telephoto lens, capturing every square millimeter of their passion. Careless, I think to myself, making love with the drapes open. I follow the other lover home, where I convince them to divulge their name with my census-taker impersonation. “I’m sorry,” I tell my client as I hand over the dossier. I rest one comforting hand on the shoulder of the crying spouse as the other hand greedily accepts my pay…}

I was ready to go off like fireworks dropped in a bonfire.

“Retirement is when people chase their dreams,” she pointed out.

I couldn’t keep up the façade any longer and my eager words tumbled from my mouth as one long word: “Good point we need to get to it right away work and eat at the same time we need to trace his footsteps from the moment he was last seen do we have any idea where he was going that morning?”

She blinked. “Can you repeat that?”

“We… need… to… retrace… his steps,” I explained at as moderate a pace as I could. “Do we have any specific idea where he was going that morning?”

“Ah. All we know is he went to a ‘social justice group’ meeting.”

“And the hoot said ‘unidentified’. Which group could it be?”

“No clue, there are like a million groups with a presence in this city.”

“And from what I’ve seen of his hoots over the years… our man has his finger in damn near everyone’s pie.” I mentally savored my situation: ‹Yes… This tangled tale is gonna take street smarts and elbow grease to unravel. Of which I must admit I don’t have much, but I can get some real quick if I put my nose to the grindstone.›

“He sure does, and people listen to him. He is, without a doubt, the most influential man living in this city.”

I spoke through a bite of syrup-drenched pancake. “Now I’m wondering about the fact that he has so many friends—and still nobody’s spotted him the whole time he’s been missing. Hmm.”

“Could have something to do with the fact he has just as many enemies.”

‹I shoulda thought of that,› I thought to myself; to her I observed, “With a résumé like his… I shouldn’t be surprised. We’re looking for a man who has a lot of anti-antifa anti-fans—I should just say ‘reactionary haters’—a man who said goodbye to his family then simply vanished without a trace. It smells like a kidnapping to me.” I kept my pessimism to myself, though. ‹Best case scenario. Worst case… we don’t think about worst cases until they’re staring us straight in the eye without blinking… even if those are more exciting and dramatic.›

“Crap. That’s what I was afraid of.”

“But we won’t know what happened until we dig a little bit deeper. And the most obvious place to dig is the spouse. 99 percent of the time, the spouse knows something that’ll change the rules of the game—if you can persuade them to cough it up.” I mused to myself, ‹I’m willing to bet it’ll be easy enough to find and get some kind of story out of them, but getting them to give up the real gems can often be a challenge.› “I imagine doing that might take a little bit of effort, though.”

She checked her watch. “10:40. Come on.” She got up. “Let’s get to it.”

I stood, plenty eager to get started, but before we departed I needed to know, “Where are we going?”

“To see Geraldine Pasteur.”

“We don’t know their address.”

“Sunnyvale.”

“There are thousands of houses in Sunnyvale, though.”

“She doesn’t live in ‘a house’.”

“Right, the PIU hoot mentioned an apartment. Good catch. Well, there still hafta be at least… Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever seen any apartment complexes in Sunnyvale.”

“There’s exactly one: Ingram Suites.”

“That narrows it down. I suppose if it’s small enough, we’ll be able to canvass the entire building in a few hours.”

“Exactly.”

“No time to waste.” I dropped a few twenties on the table to cover the meal and tip.

“I can pay for my own food.”

“You can pay for lunch,” I suggested.

“That works. You take the bus?” she asked me as we exited the cafe.

“No, I have a car.”

“Great! That’ll be way faster.” We made our way to Matteo’s parking structure and then my car. “What… is that?”

“She’s my car.”

“It’s ancient.”

“Older than me. Younger than you—by over two decades.”

Shosh bursted into laughter and I grinned as I unlocked Judith’s door.

Judith narrowed her eyes. “Ha. Ha. It’s obviously from the ’80s. I see from the trunk ornament that it’s a BMW… but what kind of BMW is it?” She appraised the immaculate cream interior as she took her seat.

“She’s a 1988 M6 with all factory parts—except the banana-yellow paint job…” I got behind the wheel and took a moment to appreciate her luxurious hand-stitched Nappa leather upholstery. “…for which she was dubbed ‘Banana Shark’.”

“How can you afford the payments for the massive loan you needed to buy this monstrosity—on a meter maid’s salary? You couldn’a been making very much.”

“She was my mother’s.” I twisted the key in her ignition and her Bavarian Mountain Hound 3.5 liter inline-6—as quietly, nimbly, gayly as a butterfly—growled to life. “She likes older cars. She saw the M6 in someone’s driveway one day, wanted to buy her, asked the owner, and he decided he didn’t want her anymore. He sold her to my mother at half the market value—which was way less than what these very rare beauties are worth nowadays—and hooked her up with a paint shop who gave her a deal on the… questionable coat of yellow.”

“‘Questionable’? What color would you have painted it?” asked an offended Shosh.

“I’d’ve left it black.”

“Black always looks good,” opined Judith.

“Black is boring,” insisted Shosh.

“Black is classy,” I insisted back.

“Exactly,” said Judith.

“It looks better in yellow.”

“The yellow is just fine, but I prefer black.”

“Yeah, it isn’t ugly, but it wouldn’t be my first choice,” said Judith.

“I’ll admit the particular shade of yellow your old lady went with wasn’t the best choice,” said Shosh.

“I never mentioned my feelings on the banana yellow in the past, that it might not be the most stylish shade, because I do think it has character, and while I would’ve preferred to keep the color the way it was, I’ve never given any thought to repainting her.”

“You promise not to?”

“I assure you, if the paint gets scratched, the new job will match what it is now as closely as the shop can get it. Anyways, Judith, back to her history… All of this happened a few weeks before I graduated high school, by which time the car was already 20 years old. My mother claimed that if she took good enough care of her, Banana Shark would outlive her.”

“And she… gave you the car as a graduation gift?” asked Judith.

“I inherited Banana Shark when she passed. 2011.”

With appropriate solemnity, she observed, “You were young. So was she.”

I backed out of my spot. “August 12th, precisely 2 months shy of the big four-oh. I remember receiving the news like it was yesterday.” I noticed Shosh sitting in the back seat in discomforted silence, doing her best to keep her mouth shut to avoid saying anything that might upset me. I was in a surprisingly good mood, so I smiled at her through my rearview mirror and told her, “It was a long time ago, you don’t need to be so serious about it. We can even joke about it, to lighten the mood. There’s no reason for you to be carrying my grief on your back.”

“Um. I don’t know if I’m comfortable…” replied Judith.

“Okay,” Shosh ventured cautiously. “Why did your ma cross the road?”

It took a little bit of thought for the punchline to burst from my mouth amid laughter. “To get to the other side!”

“Are you alright, Andy?” asked Judith, her voice thick with a mixture of confusion and concern.

“I’m just fine. She was killed crossing the street, so… ‘Why did my mother cross the road?’”

“I’ll bite. Why did she cross the road?”

“‘To get to the other side!’” I grinned.

“I don’t get it.”

“Here ‘the other side’ is referring either to the other side of the street, literally, or to the afterlife, metaphorically.”

“O—kay… The punchline is there, but my laughter isn’t.”

“Yeah—I—it’s a tough subject for me and I don’t want to be a downer about it, so—we’re trying to lighten the mood for once.” I shifted into first gear and departed the parking structure for a new topic before I could return to feeling morose about the death that had completely obliterated the remaining shards of my already recently shattered life, or guilty for laughing at Shosh’s joke about the most soul-crushing loss a human being had ever survived (or so it was in my opinion). “Let’s stop—‍” Two words into switching gears, I was already feeling like an asshole. “—let’s stop talking about it, let’s move onto something… not… something that isn’t making light of losing her. I got it. What do you do for work?” At that precise moment, we just happened to pass a Kismet Kush dispensary. “Oh! Lemme guess: a dispensary.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“In what ‘manner of speaking’?”

“I’m an ‘independent’ dealer.”

“So… unlicensed.”

“Breakin’ the law, breakin’ the law!” she growled rhythmically.

“Having someone next door I can buy stuff from should be handy. Discount?”

“For you… free.” Quickly, while raising a finger with a caveat wrapped around it, she added, “Within reason.”

“Nice! I won’t be greedy. Just flower, or do you have pre-rolls and edibles? I’ve always wanted to get into edibles, but I want to try homemade brownies, not the factory-made candy crap they sell at dispensaries. They all taste like shit, and I want the classic ‘special brownie’ experience.”

“A cop who starts smoking pot as soon as she loses her badge? I shouldn’t be surprised.” I had started as soon as I lost the last of my self-respect, the day I was reassigned to Parking Enforcement, having flunked out of Patrol and Reconnaissance after 6 months of underperformance. “Well, you’re in luck. My supplier gives me exclusive access to strains stronger than anything on the market—some of them make Godfather OG taste like parsley—I roll joints and blunts to order, I make my own bubble hash and cannabutter, and I bake brownies from scratch—not from a box—and mix them to order, so if you like blondies—my favorite—or chocolate chips or butterscotch or walnuts or M&Ms or espresso powder or anything else added in, or if you have a specific strain in mind, just ask.”

“Would you cook with LSD?”

“Are you asking about using the cannabis strain named after LSD in your baked goods, or are you asking whether I would bake while becoming one with alien gods, or are you saying you want to meet the alien gods yourself?”

“Well, I was thinking of the strain, but now that you ask…”

She huffed in amusement. “I can procure a sheet for you—if you’re feeling super adventurous—but you don’t strike me as the hallucinogen type.”

We passed a Jack for the fourth time that ride, reassuring me I had not unintentionally left Southern California. I leaned towards her and loudly whispered, “For the past month, I’ve been microdosing shrooms.”

“Really? While you were still a cop?”

“Yep. I read they can help with depression.”

“Are they working?”

I shrugged. “I really can’t tell whether they’re making a difference. But, ever since my cubensis fruited, I’ve been tempted to… eat a whole mushroom, just to see where it takes me.”

“I’ll be damned. You’re full of surprises, Andy. If you ever need a trip sitter for your psychonautical voyages, I’ll gladly keep you entertained and safe from bad trips.”

“I appreciate that, and I do plan on taking you up on your offer, once I finally work up the courage to completely and irreversibly fuck up my central nervous system.”

“You’re welcome, and take your time. I suggest you wait until you’re at least my age to rearrange your brain cells. Keep driving past Orange, take a left onto Olive.”

I followed her directions, passing the third Del Taco of our journey, and we arrived at a 5-story building that ‘towered’ above the surrounding 1- and 2-story homes. “How come I’ve never seen this place before?” I asked as we got out of the car.

“Maybe you don’t explore the city enough.”

“Hm. Maybe. That’ll have to change if I’m gonna be a P.I.” The front door was sturdy enough to withstand the scratched and painted vandalism consisting of the usual racist, queerphobic, anti-Arab, and anti-Jewish symbols and remarks. “Based on all the colorful swastikas decorating the entrance, I believe we have found the residence of the city’s leading antifascist.”

“And this mess is fresh,” she observed.

“How would you know that?”

“I was here Wednesday morning, and the door was spotless then.”

“Delivery?”

“An astute deduction, Miss Bachman,” she said in a semi-convincing old boy English accent.

“Thanks! Well, from the looks of it, we aren’t the first to figure out where they live.” I checked the tenant call panel for either ‘Brookvale’ or ‘Pasteur’ and found both on the same label, next to a number. “Room 302.”

“Good work,” she complimented me.

“Not really, just looking in the obvious places first.”

“You’re on your first case. When you’re learning to walk, you need to give yourself credit every time you take a step, no matter how short the stride, no matter how easy it was, whether forwards or even backwards—you’ll keep yourself motivated that way. When you’re learning to run, then you stop rewarding yourself for the little things. Hmm…” She pondered the vandalism. “Based on the horrid abuse this door has suffered, I’m guessing Geraldine isn’t gonna be answering the door for strangers.” She selected one of the other call buttons instead… “So we’ll need somebody else’s help.” …and pressed it. “Hopefully my inside man is home.”

It rang 11 times before a sleepy voice answered. “Hullo?”

“Hey, Chance, it’s Lola. I have another client in the building, but he isn’t answering his intercom. Let me in?”

The door clicked and buzzed, and we made our way in and up to the third floor. Judith rang the doorbell to 302, and a minute later we heard the sounds of locks clacking and clicking before the door slowly swung inwards, stopping before the chain protecting the apartment’s inhabitant could be pulled taut.

“I’m not interested in joining your cult,” said a very shaky feminine tenor. “The sign says, ‘No solicitors’…” Indeed, it did. “…and that includes Mormons, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Scientologists, Amway, and Hare Krishnas.”

‹Could this be my femme fatale?› I tried to find the right words to introduce myself, strong words that would establish that I was serious and wouldn’t accept dishonesty or intentional omission or attempts to seduce or betray me or any other funny business, unless it was narratively compelling or the product of a deliciously devious intellect willing to engage me in a battle of the minds, clever fox against persistent hound… but I was too excited to think straight.

I choked.

Chapter 4: Well-Read Means Well-Worn

“Judith Lucas and Andrea Bachman, Private Investigators,” replied Judith, before I could find words to say or the composure to say them. It pleased me that she was calling herself my colleague.

“I didn’t call for you,” murmured a voice as exhausted as it was anxious.

At that very moment I observed that a private investigator’s reliance on government agencies for job-critical resources creates a major conflict of interest in a case where the missing man is hated by one of the agencies that provide those resources—so I asked, “Did you call for any P.I.s?”

She shut the door.

“We aren’t cops!” I shouted through the thick wood. “And we know better than to work with them!” A truth that—against our ethical judgment—did not survive the weekend.

The chain clinked and clattered, then the door opened all the way. Beyond it stood a woman midway in height between me and Judith, around 5′7″, hair shaved to fuzz, soft features fit for celluloid marred only by a hint of despair’s shadow along her jaw and upper lip, and a robe with red and orange flowers—straight out of the blessed ’70s—cinched tight around her waist. She might have been the victim’s tortured wife in a how-catch-em; she could be an innocent witness… or, just as easily, the devious guest star. Her thumbnail-chewing implied an excess of anxiety, and from her tense, pointed posture I inferred that she was no less prepared to slam the door on us and scream for help. If she was acting, she was very good at it. Most Columbo villains could fool the average viewer who missed the first half-hour during which the who, why, and how of the crime had been revealed. She couldn’t fool me, though. I’d seen every episode a hundred times, I knew every trick in the murderer’s handbook. I was an expert.

Of course… There was still the possibility that this had not been a murder, so all the investigative skills I had learned by observing the master sleuth’s work might well be useless.

Even so, I decided to treat her as an innocent witness for the time being. “None of the private investigators would work for you, would they, ma’am?” I asked.

Her feet shifted, opening her posture to us a little. With profound disappointment and excruciating despair she told us, “I asked for help… and they hung up on me as soon as I mentioned his name. Every detective agency in the state.”

“They didn’t want to risk the PD retaliating by withholding future assistance or interfering with their work. Your husband’s disappearance is a hot potato and we’re the only ones with the pain tolerance to handle it.”

“Smooth,” remarked Shosh.

Geraldine stopped biting her thumb, which was reassuring. After looking each of us in the eye for a solid 3 seconds apiece, she solemnly bid us, “Come in.”

And just like that, I had planted the seed of trust, the first factor in encouraging any witness to cooperate.

Or so I thought.

She gestured towards a vintage couch with modern upholstery and sat in an even older and even more anachronistic arm chair across from us. Her eyes danced between me and Judith, each saccade driven by the cruel spurs of hope.

I turned my memo pad to the first blank page, noted the date and time—10:54 on Saturday, July 13th, 2024—as well as the interviewee’s name, and initiated the questioning. “Around what time did he leave that morning?”

Before she could answer, a husky voice called out from elsewhere in the apartment, “Geraldine?”

“Yes?”

A person—about 5′6″, with short black hair and wearing jeans and a button-up cowboy shirt—came in from another room. “Ah. I see we have visitors. Goody…”

“Yes. Judith, Andrina, this is Harris, my cousin.”

“Harriet,” corrected the cousin. “Nice to meet you, Andrina and Judith. Are you friends of Geraldine’s?”

“Private investigators,” said Judith.

“Dicks.”

“You could call us that,” I admitted. “Though P.I. is a little more dignified, if you don’t mind.”

“I like ‘dicks’,” said Judith.

I raised an eyebrow at her. “I’ve known that for almost as long as I’ve known you.”

Her cheeks grinned past her mask.

Harriet rolled their eyes. “And what are you here to investigate?”

“Xander’s disappearance,” replied Judith.

Harriet nodded. “Alright. Please avoid upsetting her. She’s… delicate.”

“You got it, dude,” I acknowledged with an upbeat tone and a thumb’s up.

“Please don’t call me ‘dude’, friend.” They took a seat in the chair next to Geraldine’s. “Proceed.”

“Alright,” I said. “Um…”

“You were asking when he left,” Shosh reminded me.

“Oh, right. Thanks. As I was asking before the introductions: Geraldine, what time did your husband leave the apartment that morning?”

“Which morning?” she asked back lethargically.

“I should have specified ‘the morning he disappeared’—my apologies, ma’am.”

“Oh… That morning. That dreadful morning. The weather was actually nice, but—‍” She choked down tears. “—he left. He left and he didn’t come back!”

“He’ll come back. What time did he leave?”

“What does it matter?”

“She’s hiding something,” suggested Shosh.

I accepted her suggestion, and asked, “Geraldine, is there something you’re having a hard time telling us?”

Her eyes narrowed, and she inserted a dramatic delay before calmly growling, “Are you accusing me of withholding information from you? Of harboring secrets like a villain?” Calmly at first, but increasingly irate. “Do you take me for some half-rate wife who would sooner have him declared dead so that I can collect the insurance money than see his face again? Is that what you think I am?”

“No—not at all—but—could you please focus on the interview and tell me what time he left?”

“‘Focus!’ How can I focus when my other half is missing?!”

Their voice thick with suspicion, Harriet asked, “Do you two have licenses?”

“Probationary,” suggested Shosh.

“Probationary,” I repeated.

“‘Probationary’?” echoed the cousin skeptically.

I nodded as I insisted, “Probationary.”

“Could I have your business cards?”

“(Uh…)”

Shosh came to my rescue. “There was a typo, so you had to get them reprinted.”

“There was a typo, so we sent them back,” I quickly explained.

“Right,” muttered Harriet. “How inconvenient.”

“Geraldine, would you please tell us when he left?”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s gone!”

“Geri,” said Judith, “I know you’re strong. I know you’re able to gather yourself up to answer a few questions. You can do it.”

Geraldine sighed and calmly replied, “8:37.”

“Is that down to the minute?” I asked.

“‘Is that down to the minute—’ I gave you the minute, do you think I made up the last digit for spits and giggles? Of course it’s down to the minute!”

“Oh-kay, uh. You must have an impressive memory.”

“I remember numbers.”

“You remember things, too,” Shosh reminded me. “You could bond with her over that.”

I decided that was an excellent idea. “Wow! Me, too! And license plates and car models and lotsa other things. We could start a club.”

“A club. You want to start a club. A club for people who remember trivial details. What are we gonna do all day, see who can memorize the most digits of pi? Play card-matching games competitively?”

“(If… that’s what you want to do.)”

“I would never waste my time with a group of circle-jerking elitists who think they’re better than everyone else because they have an advantage in pointless parlor games, and I would prefer that you stop wasting my time by proposing such asinine concepts.”

Judith discreetly whispered to me, “You’re off topic.”

“(Right. Um… ) What was he wearing when he left?”

“I don’t see how his fashion choices are relevant.”

“It’s for identification. Clothes are easier to describe to potential witnesses.”

“‘Witnesses’?” she asked frantically. “Was there a crime?”

“We don’t—know—what happened—yet.”

“Please stop agitating her,” said Harriet.

“I’m sorry! She’s just so damn…” I groaned.

“This queen needs to suck it up,” said Shosh.

“I wish she would. Geraldine, would you please cooperate?”

“I am cooperating!”

Judith nudged me and whispered, loudly, “(Go easy on her.)”

“(I am going easy!)” I hissed quietly.

“(Relax, take it easy, go easy.)”

I huffed. “Geraldine… People who have seen him since he left the apartment might have an easier time identifying him by his clothing than by his face.”

“Is that it? You should have explained that earlier, we could have avoided a great deal of discord. You have a lot to learn about communication. You need to explain things before you go charging in with questions. Do you understand how important it is to get your point across?”

I took a deep breath to ease the stress of interacting with this woman. “Yes. I understand. I was a very solitary child, so I am aware my interpersonal skills are not… exactly… impressive. Would you please—‍”

“Your barren childhood isn’t an excuse for being socially inept. You need to get better, by interacting with people, by practicing, by reading.” She took in a breath.

“Her childhood wasn’t ‘barren’, and she isn’t ‘socially inept’,” growled Shosh.

Geraldine exhaled. “How old are you, Miss Bachman?”

“I just turned 34. But—‍”

“Thirty-four? You are thirty-four and you proudly admit to having the manners of somebody one-third your age? You should be ashamed.”

I concentrated on breathing, deeply, slowly, evenly. I managed to hold onto my sanity.

“I can’t believe this woman,” muttered Shosh.

“Geraldine,” interjected Judith calmly, “we’ve veered off-topic. We need to know what your husband was wearing at the time you last saw him so that we can ask people if they’ve noticed anybody matching his description.”

Geraldine glanced at me critically. “Is that what you were trying to ask?”

“Yes.”

“You have some serious communication issues. Did your mother neglect you?”

“Her mother did her best under the circumstances!” snapped Shosh.

“My mother taught me to be kind to others,” I told Geraldine. “I wish you could have been my sister.”

Geraldine scoffed. “I can’t say I would have had a very pleasant childhood with you microagressing against me at every turn.”

“What the hell is ‘microagressing’?” asked a very confused and extremely irritated Shosh.

“Geraldine… Could you explain what you mean by the word ‘microaggress’?”

“Merriam Webster defines a microaggression as ‘a comment or action that subtly and often unconsciously or unintentionally expresses a prejudiced attitude toward a member of a marginalized group.’”

“Thank you. Does knowing that clarify the comment about pleasant childhoods?”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t think my meaning would be clear.”

“Nope,” admitted Shosh. “Sounds like mumbo-jumbo to me.”

I nodded. “It isn’t mumbo-jumbo… but I still don’t understand the intended message.”

Geraldine groaned irritatedly. “Like I said, you need to practice communicating, and the most important component of effective communication is listening to others. But it is not my job to teach you or tell you how to go about improving yourself. Besides, your underdeveloped social skills have driven us completely off topic.”

I nodded my numb head.

“But I will help you this one time. All you need to tell me is what you want to know. No details, no explanations, no qualifiers, just tell me what it is you want to know in the simplest language possible.”

“(I… don’t know if I… know how… to…)” I gulped.

“Esti, you know how to word the question. Just ask it.”

I began shaking. I opened my mouth. I choked.

“We’d like to know what he was wearing,” said Judith, to my rescue.

“Oh, what a simple question! I don’t understand why you have insisted on unnecessarily complicating this interview, Miss Bachman! He was wearing his Smash the Piggy Bank T-shirt, his new blue jeans, and his tan sustainable vegan sneakers.” Her face scrunched in agony. “And his vintage Casio watch that I bought for him at the thrift shop back when we were still dating—it’s an ‘old-fashioned’ digital timepiece with a metal band—a work of art, he’s very fond of it. It’s as valuable to him as his wedding ring. He proposed the next day. And now… Oh God…!”

“Geraldine, we’ll find him,” I said.

“He’s gone forever!” she cried out. “Him and his watch!”

“We’ll find him and his watch,” Judith assured her.

She calmed down instantly. “(Thank you,)” she murmured weakly. “(I’m feeling… better now. Thank you, Miss Lucas.)”

“(What the fuck is going on?)” whispered Shosh.

“(I need to work on my people skills, I guess,)” I mumbled. I had seen the shirts advertised in fundraisers on Hootr, so I already knew the color of the fabric (plain white) as well as the print (a cartoon piggy bank dressed in a police uniform being smashed by a hammer). I put on a strained smile and, in the happiest, most grateful voice, told Geraldine, “These are some great details that you’re giving us, ma’am. Where did he go?”

She sighed. “To ‘a meeting’.”

“A meeting with whom?”

“He didn’t say. He never says. Because he doesn’t want me telling anyone who has ‘no need to know’ where he is, especially if they try to ‘legally compel’ me.”

“You married a very smart man, although he’s making our job a little more difficult than I’d like it to be.”

“‘Smart’?” she yelled, suddenly hysterical again. “On a good day I worry about where he would be if something happened to him! Wednesday ended up not being one of those ‘good days’, and now he’s missing and I don’t know where he is because he never tells me where he’s going!” She choked back a sob.

“Ah…”

“If you continue to upset her,” warned Harriet, “I might have to ask you to leave.”

I blanched.

“(Sympathize,)” whispered Judith.

I thought his secrecy was perfectly reasonable given his relationship with the authorities, but I was not inclined to contradict a wife scared shitless and on the verge of what would be one in a long series of breakdowns while her cousin was threatening to kick us out. “Yeah, um. Good point. Effective OPSEC…” (short for Operations Security) “…can be inconvenient.”

‘On the verge’ of a breakdown one second, stepping into it the next. Her face scrunched up in despair and her tear ducts threatened to strangle me. “You come into my home and insult my husband!” Harriet gave me a death stare. “You insinuate that he is so inconsiderate as to inconvenience his loved ones for the sake of… arbitrary principles! Do you have no respect for pragmatism?”

My jaw fell. I froze. I didn’t know what to say. Even if I knew what, I didn’t know how to say it. And even if I knew how, I wasn’t sure whether trying to say anything would help the situation.

“Esti?” asked Shosh. “Esti, snap out of it.” She shook my shoulder. I remained frozen.

“She didn’t mean to imply that he’s trying to make your life difficult,” Judith interjected after several seconds of silence from me. “He’s trying to protect himself and protect you. But you can explain your feelings about his secrecy to him once he’s safe and sound at home.”

Geraldine nodded, apparently reassured, and calmly stated, “Yes. That is exactly why he does it. It’s a necessary sacrifice, not some unnecessary inconvenience. We’ll have a chat once you’ve brought him safely home.”

I decided I was no longer in trouble, and thus defrosted. The cousin, on the other hand, was scrutinizing my actions ever more closely, as though I was the one making scene after scene.

“The cousin looks close to calling it off,” said Shosh, “but she wouldn’t dare to kill this queen’s only hope of getting her husband back.”

Emboldened, I continued, “Missus Pasteur, I need you to buck up and take this investigation seriously. Did your husband say anything else before leaving your apartment?”

Bumbling thus, I pushed her towards the edge once again, undoing Judith’s careful diplomacy. The now very upset wife shouted at me, “All he told me was, ‘Geri, I’m going to a meeting, I don’t know exactly how long I’ll be out, but I should be back before seven!’ And of course he didn’t say where he was going! All this secrecy drives me crazy! I’m always worried about him when he goes out, but now…” And then she started to shake herself to pieces. “…this time, this time it’s finally happened! And I don’t know what it is, I don’t have even a tiny clue, he might have gotten lost, he might have been kidnapped, he might have—might have been kill—‍”

We didn’t want this woman falling back into the bottomless pit of despair she’d been trapped in before our arrival, and we also didn’t want to be kicked out, but I did nothing to catch her—my avoidance of human contact beyond Shosh had robbed me of all opportunity to learn the art of comforting strangers, so I had none of the confidence necessary to handle her reaction, and no clue how besides. Judith elbowed me, spurring me to… do something, anything, to leap the treacherous expanse separating me from this woman beset by terror and hopelessness, where I took her hand, squeezed it, and said the first thing that came to mind… “He’s still alive, Geri. He’s gonna be alright.” …with zero evidence to back my claim. “I swear, he’ll be back.”

“How can you know that?” Her eyes pleaded for me to give her a reason to believe…

…which I gave her… “If he were dead, we would know by now.”

“How could we possibly know that?”

“If someone went after him, an important public figure, they wouldn’t be keeping it a secret, they would have made a public example of him. And they would have done it by now.” …in the form of a big steaming pile of bullshit. “But that hasn’t happened, which means he’s alive, probably… I mean, probably stranded… maybe… without bus fare… or… he took the wrong bus… and got stuck… in the desert.” ‹Or buried in the desert.› I waved away the thought. “A town in the desert… and nobody will give him the bus fare he needs to get home. They’re too poor to afford to give it to him. Or they’re conservatives who hate him. But not enough to hurt him. Peaceful conservatives.”

“You gotta be kidding me…” muttered Harriet.

And yet… my convoluted lie seemed to peel a thin layer away from Geraldine’s anxiety. Her eyes dwelled on Judith, even as her head was pointed at me. I glanced at Harriet, who seemed to be one tiny infraction away from pulling the plug.

“Where were we…?” I puzzled.

“He said he was going to a meeting and would be back by 7,” resumed Judith.

“Ah. Can you recall his exact words, Geri?”

“Those were his exact words.”

“You’re telling me that he said, quote, ‘He was going to a meeting and would be back by 7’, end quote.”

“Yes,” she replied with a weak nod, clearly exhausted from her worrying and outbursting. “His words. Verbatim.”

I blinked several times in frustration, but decided not to explain to her that it would be very strange for him to speak in the third person past progressive tense. “You have an excellent memory,” I told her delicately, “and it’s been a big help, and it’ll continue to be a big help.” This seemed to encourage her a little. “Does he have his phone’s location history enabled?”

“No, we both keep it off. And also the GPS itself, which means half the apps on our phones are useless. And he turns his phone off when he goes to activist functions anyway, because the cell towers can track his location. ‘Can’t trust the cops not to hack into our data.’ More paranoia…”

I exhaled. ‹Shit. We only just started and we’ve already hit our first dead end.› “Do you know how he was getting to the meeting? Bus, trolley, car, foot, bicycle?”

“He either walks or takes the bus or trolley. I can’t tell you which it was this time.”

“Does he change up his routes,” asked Judith smartly, “or does he always take the same ones?”

“I haven’t a clue. I’ve never gone with him to a meeting or a protest. He keeps me out of his business. He wants me safe at home in case something bad happens at an event.”

“Of course,” I said. “If the bus or trolley was running late or was at capacity, would he have taken a Ridr or a taxi?”

“Neither. He boycotts cars. He would simply wait for the next bus with space for him.”

“Interesting, and very useful information, thank you. Does your husband have any enemies that you know of?”

She eyed me suspiciously.

“She’s pissed,” said Shosh. “You said something wrong. Not sure what, your question was straight from the textbook.”

Cautiously, I asked, “Please pardon me, ma’am… Did I say something to offend you?”

With no small measure of agitation she asked, “What kind of person asks me or my husband, ‘Do you have any enemies?’”

“Alright, yes, I realize it sounds like a stupid question, but I still need to ask it. Specifically, I need to know who comes to mind first.”

“They all come to mind first!” I had, once again, upset her. “Everybody hates us!”

“Of course, but it would be very helpful to us if you were to share your gut feeling.”

“I don’t have a gut feeling, I’m paying you to have gut feelings for me!”

“Yes, that is our job, I’m just trying to gather enough information to figure out what exactly my gut is currently trying to tell me. Have you received any threats recently?”

“I’ve already told you, Alex and I are the most hated people in the city,” she pointed out exasperatedly. “We get threats every day!”

My patience was at last wearing thin. “Could you please tell me whether you know who sent them?”

She shook her head and gave me an incredulous stare. “How many times do I have to tell you? Everybody’s got a bone to pick with us! Why do you keep asking me about this over and over again?”

I suppressed an irritated growl. “Can’t you just—‍”

Harriet opened their mouth, no doubt to declare the interview over, but before they could speak a word Judith interrupted diplomatically, “Geri, dear, we’re just trying to build a more nuanced picture, and that means asking questions that may sound very similar to each other which nonetheless have subtle but critical differences.”

“‘Subtle differences’?” Geraldine echoed calmly. “Alright. Nuance away.”

A relieved sigh forced its way through my throat. I gathered myself back into one piece and asked, “Alright. Any threats in the 24 hours before you last saw him?”

Her ire returned as quickly as it had left. “Did I not just tell you that we get threats ‘every day’?”

I used the pain from biting my tongue to distract myself from my frustration. “(Alright…) Were any of them unusual?”

“They’re all the same. They’re all the same! There’s nothing setting any of them apart from the rest. They. Are. Identical.”

“She’s a dense motherfucker,” opined Shosh.

“No comment. Geraldine, I get that most of the threats you receive are similar and nonspecific. I need to know if any of the threats you’ve received in the past have been specific about what they claimed they were going to do. Specific. Like, they have instructions, details, places, methods, etcetera. Can you tell me if any of them have been specific?”

“No,” she whined, “just ‘you’re going to pay’ and ‘watch your back’, that sort of thing. Like I already said: ‘They’re all the same.’”

“(Butter her up,)” whispered Judith.

I nodded. “I’m sure it must be difficult talking about these things, ma’am, thank you for pushing through this painful questioning. All of this is very helpful information.” Judith had a point: persuading a despairing witness—even an irritable one—into believing that they’re being the most helpful witness ever might be enough to pull them out of a rut. The perception that they can make a difference gives them hope, and hope motivates them to give up every piece of information they have, and some of those pieces are bound to be useful, thus proving that they can make a difference. Tell them that they’re the MVP you want them to be, and they will strive to become it. “Hm. You know what would be even more helpful to know? Whether he took anything with him. The things he brought along to the meeting could give us clues as to where he was headed. If you could tell us what he had on his person when he left, you’d be doing us a huge favor.”

And, sure enough, she perked up and eagerly yielded her investigative fruit to me. “Well, I can tell you that! His phone, his keys, and his backpack.”

“Did he pack his backpack himself?”

“No, I did.”

I did my best to contain my excitement to a level that wouldn’t put her or Judith off. “That’s very good to hear, ma’am, thank you! What did you put in it?”

“He gave me a list.”

“And…?”

“‘And’ what?”

“And what was on the list?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t bother memorizing a list. I don’t remember such trivial, ephemeral things as what my husband wants in his backpack.”

My heart fell a few inches. “And I wouldn’t expect anybody to memorize every list they come across, that’s humanly impossible. Do you still have it?”

“No,” she replied matter-of-factly.

I began very rapidly losing my cool. “What did you do with it?”

“I disposed of it,” she said, calmly.

I withstood a wave of anger before being walloped by a tsunami of depression.

“Why do you ask? I can’t see how an insignificant slip of paper could be important. It was trash. Trash belongs in the trash basket.”

Being a complete rookie, I had not yet mastered the art of tempering my expectations, which I had built up to metropolitan proportions. “And… you took out the trash, and the trash truck came and took it away forever.” Dismayed by my purely reason-based deduction that was not at all an aggressive leap in logic spiraling into a spiky pit of pessimism, I buried my face in my hands and resisted the impulse to cry.

“Well, there’s no need to get so worked up, Little Miss Drama, I haven’t emptied the basket yet!”

I lifted my head and, barely containing my irritation, exclaimed, “Then you do still have it! Why didn’t you say so?”

“I forgot because I’m not used to taking out the rubbish! Xander is responsible for it because I don’t like dirtying my hands. I’ve been hoping against hope for him to come home soon so that he can take care of it before I’m—God forbid—before I’m forced to do it myself!” Her voice cracked. Her soul shattered. Her hope evaporated. She wailed and moaned. “If my Aly doesn’t come back soon, I’ll have to touch trash!” I sat still, beyond words and beyond action.

Harriet stood, walked to the door, and opened it. “Please leave.”

But Judith rushed up to Geraldine and whispered gentle reassurances, giving me an expectant look and jerking her head towards the despairing woman.

I shook my head. ‹What do you want me to do? It’s over. My dream, like any other, will be forgotten by morning.› I got up to leave. “Come on, Judith. We aren’t welcome anymore.”

“Geri, could you please tell Andrea where you keep the can you tossed it in?”

“Ladies do not lackadaisically ‘toss’, we deliberately place,” the woman retorted. “You wouldn’t understand what it’s like to be caricatured as some clumsy oaf with delusions of being a real woman of sophistication and beauty!”

“Geri Berry, I’ve never wanted to be a lady… but I have carried, since I discovered my womanhood, the same burden that you have carried since you discovered your own. And you’ve carried that burden with you a great distance throughout a grand journey of deliberate, self-directed metamorphosis. In spite of society’s doubts and jeers, Geri… your body and your personality are beautiful.”

“I’m a mess!”

“You’re in rough shape because you’re going through rough circumstances. You just need a little self-care to shine again.”

“That sounds like a great idea, but there’s one little problem—I don’t know how to self-care.”

“Have you had your E?”

She cupped her eyes and groaned. “Oh, Lord. He was supposed to jab me Wednesday when he got home.”

“Maybe you should take it now.”

Geraldine sighed. “I suppose you’re right. I just… hate doing it myself. I can’t stand looking at the needle.”

She continued limply sinking into her chair until Judith interrupted her emotional decline by offering, “Want me to do it for you?”

She considered Judith’s offer briefly before nodding and replying, “I would appreciate that.” She stood. “Thank you, Miss Lucas.”

“Alright,” said Harriet. “Tall lady, you know how to calm her down. You can stay. Shorty, you make things worse. Leave.”

I wilted, but before all my hopes could desert me, Judith explained, “We’re a duo, a package deal. If she leaves, I leave.”

The cousin groaned. “Fine. I can’t stand needles, which means you have all the leverage.” They gently closed the door, and my dismay began giving way to triumph. “Make yourselves at home, but don’t rummage through the fridge—I just organized it.”

Cousin Harriet returned to the kitchen and Geraldine led Judith away. Without my hosts to show me where they disposed of paper waste, I searched the house for trash receptacles until I found a sheet metal can without a liner by their computer desk, nearly overflowing with dead trees, all crushed and crumpled to varying degrees. I peered inside with mounting eagerness, and discovered to my relief that, of what I could see from above, none of it was food waste or used tissues.

My mind was already fully aroused as my fingers were halfway inside—

My grin betrayed my swelling desire as I thrust my hands in and out and in and out, fondling and unfolding everything they touched—

Passion pumped my heart as I chucked aside the cardboard box for an LED light bulb sitting between me and the object of my desire—

My anticipation was as tense as the atmosphere between a buxom model and the novice artists sketching her nude form as I flipped over an envelope to inspect the other side for ink or graphite—

My breathing trembled with a passion that threatened to suffocate me as I checked the back of a receipt for writing—

My hopes ascended to their peak, pushing me to the edge of satisfaction as I uncrumpled a ball of printer paper with a speech rendered in toner on one side and on the other side penciled—

A list, such beauty I have never seen;

The recipe for a delicious dish,

Necessities to pack before a trip,

Or—breadcrumbs left for us

By our missing man.

I felt a rush of adrenaline, a surge in cardiac overactivity, and a flood of endorphins as the sustained stroking of my ego came to its climax in the wake of the delayed gratification of a quarter of a century of pent-up yearning. “(Holy shit,)” I whispered under my breath, struggling to keep my respiration slow and quiet, fighting the instinct to vocalize the sublime plateau of my satisfaction, with a wish in the back of my head that Judith and Geraldine hadn’t entered the room just as I entered my ecstatic fugue.

My shame didn’t matter, though. Not when I had found it.

‹My First Clue.›

I checked to see if the others were paying attention; to my relief, Judith was keeping herself and Geraldine—hair newly sprouted on her scalp and an absence of it on her face—distracted with her recollections and impressions of Alexander’s heroic exploits. I rubbed My First Clue between my thumb and forefinger and savored the sensation of the paper against my skin, then discreetly pulled down my mask and held her to my nose and breathed, admitted scent through my nostrils to let the volatile molecules circulate throughout my olfactory chambers, and etched within my hippocampus what would be an unforgettable fragrance—

Arborvitae pulped and bleached

Soft perfume of pear and peach

Sour balsamic vinegar

Earthy tannins, prize terroir

Brings to mind my well-worn tome

Just One More Thing, I read at home

Pages torn, spine cracked, ink worn

Words from which my dreams are born

I waited—for the high to wear off, for my muscles to relax, for my stupid euphoric grin to erode into a non-stupid euphoric grin—I waited to let them know, as I trembled under the influence of fading adrenaline—

“Ladies… I have found it.”

Chapter 5: Breadcrumbs

“Yay!” cheered Judith at my exhilarating discovery.

I placed My First Clue on the coffee table with excessive delicacy and smoothed her out as best as I could without smudging the pencil. “‘2 extra N95s, 2 PBJ sandwiches, water bottle, flashlight, sunscreen, pepper spray, 1 jug eyewash, goggles, tracker.’” My eyes snapped to Geraldine. “What’s this about a ‘tracker’?”

“Oh, that?” she asked with a most blasé delivery. “He has me pack it every time he goes anywhere. I don’t know why.”

“What does it do, exactly?”

“I don’t imagine that it does very much. It doesn’t have a screen or any buttons, just a USB port. There’s nothing on it to do anything. It’s a Klondike bar that tastes like plastic and breaks your teeth when you take a bite. I shouldn’t have to tell you not to eat it, but I’m giving you that advice in case you need it to be explained.”

“Miss Pasteur… I’m not stupid. I know better than—‍”

“Did I use the word ‘stupid’?”

“No, but you implied—‍”

“Do not put words in my mouth, Missy, do not project your insecurities onto others. It’s very rude, not to mention manipulative. Tantamount to gaslighting.” I bristled.

“You have got to be kidding me,” growled Shosh.

“She was trying to say,” interjected Judith, “that she appreciates your advice.”

Geraldine scoffed. “Once again, the investigator’s poor communication skills lead to a misunderstanding. You are welcome for the advice, Miss Buckman.”

Shosh rolled her eyes.

“Gee… Thanks,” I replied sarcastically. “Anyways, I suppose a device without any physical features isn’t going to look very useful, my very learnèd and observant friend—but if this thing is what I think it is, it would actually be very useful for our purposes.”

“What sort of ‘useful’ gadget could you possibly think it could be?”

“A GPS tracker, a device that records its coordinates at regular intervals and stores them for later retrieval. Some models even upload those coordinates to their manufacturers’ websites with a cellular data plan.”

“Oh. That does sound useful,” she replied with a hint of curiosity. “Are you saying this thing can actually tell us where he’s been?” For once… she seemed impressed by my investigative skills.

“Yes! That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Why,” asked Judith skeptically, “would he go to all the trouble of turning off his location on his phone, only to carry around a device that collects and uploads the same data to the cloud?”

“Oh. Um… Let me think… Hm…” Half a minute of thinking later I explained, “I think, and don’t quote me, that if the tracker is on a prepaid data plan, there won’t be any records from the cellular carrier tying his identity to the tracker, so the police should have no idea he even has this thing and therefore no way of subpoenaing the manufacturers for the coordinates it’s uploading… unless they find it on him and from there figure out who owns the web server—and depending on the device’s design, that could be very difficult to extract.”

“I see.”

“Would you happen to know the brand of the tracker, Geraldine?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t, it’s just a featureless black box. He would know. But he isn’t here… He’s gone… Maybe… possibly… (forever.)” She began to slip back into despair as she reminded herself that her husband was no longer with her.

“This list could make a huge difference, ma’am, a very big difference. Thank you for helping me dig it up. For helping us rescue him.” Thus I attempted to bring her back into the world of smiles and hugs and possibly hope.

“Oh. You’re welcome.”

I drummed my fingers nervously on my thigh, anxious to learn what the tracker might have recorded—if only we could access the data.

“The website could be in his bookmarks,” suggested Judith.

“Yes! Geraldine, do you know his computer password?”

“My memory isn’t that good—I don’t even remember my own password because he made me make it so long. I had to write it down.”

This time, just before driving into the deep end of catastrophization, I lassoed my despair, flanked it, tied its legs, and calmly asked her, “Would you happen to have his password written down, too?”

“Of course. He couldn’t remember his, either.”

“Can you get it for me?”

“You want me to give you his password?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind.”

“With all due respect,” she seethed, “I am not giving a stranger—who showed up at my door unsolicited mere minutes ago, who has repeatedly insulted me and my beloved, who has caused me great distress and worry—my husband’s computer password.”

“Ma’am… we are your only hope.”

“Yes, but—‍”

“If you want to type in the password for us, that would work just as well as you handing it over.”

“You would still have access to all his data.”

“Access we need if we’re to have any chance of finding him. Every footprint he has left behind is critical to our investigation, which means we need unfettered access to all of his data.”

“I dunno…” ‹She’s bending! She’s finally yielding to logic!›

“Ma’am… We have reached a fork in the road. If you want our help, you must let us access his account. If you do not help us, we will find ourselves coming to a dead-end, in which case we must take our business elsewhere. Do you understand what I’m saying, or do you require clarification?”

“There must be a better way. I refuse to accept that this is necessary.”

I sighed. ‹I gotta do what I gotta do.› “Missus Pasteur… your husband’s life is in danger. I want you to ask yourself, ‘Which is more important to me: his privacy, or his life?’”

She hesitated, glanced at Judith, paused, nodded reluctantly, departed, returned, and relinquished unto me a sticky note folded into quarters. (I did not question why it was folded into such a small square.)

“Thank you.” I memorized his irrationally long password as I logged him in, because I cannot stop numbers and letters from chiseling themselves into my gray matter. (License plates are the worst offenders.) “What browser does he use?”

“We use Garlic Browser.”

I rolled my eyes and, without thinking about what I was about to say, muttered, “Of course he uses the criminal browser.”

“‘Criminal’! You call his principles on the right to privacy ‘criminal’!”

‹Ah, fuck…› “I didn’t mean to say… I’m sorry, I misspoke. Please forgive me.”

“I forgive you.”

“Now that you’re a P.I. making friends in the seedy underworld, Andy, you’ll be using Garlic, too.”

“(Shit,)” I muttered. ‹It’s not enough that I put my nose to the ground and sniff with all my lung capacity—I’m going to have to change the way I think entirely. I need to be even more paranoid than I was as a cop.› I opened up Garlic Browser, and, with the others watching over my shoulders, browsed his bookmark list (disabled by default to protect the user’s security and left that way by truly security-conscious users) until—

—until I found it: Amphibipos GPS Portal. My mind raced so quickly I wondered briefly whether I’d accidentally doubled my Adderall that morning. I opened the link and was greeted with a login screen which the password manager (also disabled by default to protect the user’s security, and also never enabled by truly security-conscious users) automatically populated with his username and password. “Yes!” I shouted victoriously. Tapping ‘enter’ revealed to us a map centered on the end of the long wood-and-concrete walkway projecting into Santa Virginia Bay. I zoomed in. “Big Pier,” was all I could think to say. “Big Pier…”

“Looks like he’s waiting at the end of the Big Pier,” observed Judith.

“The error circle extends out over the water…”

Judith whispered, “You think he took a dip, Andy?” Her voice, close to my ear and extra quiet because Geraldine was right next to us, did that buzzing thing to my scalp.

“(Hah…)” Once I had recovered from the extra-breathtaking blast of sensation, I said, “Geraldine, we’re going to need to spend some time on this, it’s probably best if you don’t worry yourself about our work. Let us do our job so that you can do yours.”

“Okay.” She waited beside us.

“You’re kind of distracting us.”

“Oh I’m sorry, am I breathing too loudly? I have terrible asthma, my exercise regimen has been an absolute catastrophe, inhalers make me break out in hives. It’s genetic, or so I’ve been told. The reaction, not the asthma. The asthma is actually a result of—‍”

With the last of my patience I told her, “Geraldine, please go somewhere else so we can concentrate on our work.”

“Oh. Alright. If you feel so strongly about it that you believe it necessary to interrupt me. I’ll be waiting in the living room, trying not to cry.”

“(Don’t worry, we’ll find him,)” I flaccidly reminded her on her way out. I stared at the web app’s interface, wondering what to do—then saw a button that looked like a constellation or a connect-the-dots, an articulated zig-zag that screamed, ‘Click me!’ I hovered over it and a tooltip popped up with the word ‘History’, injecting a surge of anticipation into my nervous system. “Oh, wow. I think I found something useful.” I clicked the button… and was rewarded for my curiosity as the tracker’s every step was plotted out before us, dots connected by lines forming a trail from the Brookvale-Pasteur home to Old Town to the Bay. “Hot damn. Digital breadcrumbs.”

“Oh, hell yes. Good find, Friday.” Her commendation harmonized with the vibrations haunting my scalp.

I noticed a ‘play’ button and, tamping down my excitement, clicked it. I was very pleased with the resulting playback, at 10-times speed, of the journey the tracker took beginning a week ago. I scrubbed forward to Wednesday morning, and we watched the tracker leave the apartment, speed up slightly as it headed in the direction of Old Town with several stops along the way, slow down at Lemon Street, round the corner onto Adams Avenue, proceed down a quarter of the block before turning tail at double speed, about face again, and drag its feet a little ways before coming to a stop on Adams—in the heart of the Red-Light District.

“What’s he doing now?” asked Judith, puzzled.

“I’m still forming a picture in my head. Let’s give it a minute.”

At the end of that minute, she asked, “Is it glitched?”

“Maybe he abandoned or forgot his backpack?”

“Maybe.”

After 3 more minutes of motionlessness, the tracker suddenly picked up and accelerated, zooming over streets, stopping and going… “He took the bus, then had some back and forth and a rest, and then he went for a car ride,” I theorized.

“That’s a car, alright, no doubt about it—check out the speedometer in the corner of the screen.”

“45 down Ashland? That’s a 25 zone!”

“Taxi.”

“No, not even a taxi’s gonna go that fast, they’d be pulled over for reckless driving in a heartbeat and then it’s bye-bye license. We’re dealing with someone crazier than your average taxi driver. Someone who isn’t scared of being pulled over. Someone who isn’t scared of law enforcement.”

“They’d have to be a nutcase.”

“Assuming you don’t consider yourself a ‘nutcase’, are you admitting you’re scared of the fuzz?”

When she didn’t respond, I turned my head to see her face—plastered with a dour frown. “I’m not a pussy.”

“If I still had a badge… would you be intimidated by me?”

“No.”

I watched her face for any signs that she was lying, but saw none. So I doubled down. “How would you feel if I handcuffed you?”

Her expression softened into something inscrutable. “I was planning on asking you the same question someday.”

‹What?› “Why would you do that?”

“If you want to find out, just answer the question. How would you feel if I handcuffed you?”

“Well… I’d feel vulnerable, I think. Powerless. I’d be at your mercy.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What kind of mindset would those feelings put you in?”

“I don’t know what kind of mindset it would put me in, but the mindset I’d need to already be in to let you put them on me would involve a lot of trust.”

“What would you be trusting me to do?”

“I wouldn’t be able to do anything for myself, so, if I was restrained for more than a few hours, I’d be trusting you to take care of my needs.”

“Like how you had me ‘take care of your needs’ last night?”

I blushed. “Ohh, that’s where you were going with this.”

“You’d have to rely on me to do everything for you. All you’d be able to do is suggest what I should do next… and beg me to keep going.”

I nodded nervously.

“Is this conversation turning you on?” she whispered straight into my ear…

…causing me to shudder pleasantly. “Hah…!” ‹If this goes on in any more detail, I’m gonna need a fresh pad to keep my panties dry.› “Um. We’re working on a case where a man may have drowned, so…”

“Good point. I’ll stop distracting you.”

“Thank you.” The tracker continued zooming around. ‹Shit, my pad’s soaked through and my panties are already wet.› I sighed and admitted, “But, yes, that idea turned me on.”

“Good. We might give it a try sometime.” My face turned red as a pomegranate seed. The tracker suddenly slowed down to only 2 miles per hour when it hit the parking lot by the pier. “He’s on foot again.” Before long the tracker was at the ocean end of the pier, at which point the web app informed us the signal had been lost. “Well, Andy? Whatcha thinkin’?”

“I’m thinking, on the surface, it’s supposed to look like he drowned himself.”

“But if we dig deeper…”

“It’s someone trying to pull the wool over our eyes… and that wool has a lotta big holes in it.”

“What gave it away?”

“For one thing, what’s up with the crazy car ride? Alex Brookvale is anti-car, and even if he broke his vow of celibacy, no Ridr or licensed taxi driver would go that fast down a residential street—except at gunpoint.”

“Excellent logic. I hope you don’t mind me asking stupid questions, I just wanted to make sure you’re thinking things through and not just jumping to the most obvious conclusions. It is fishy.”

“They aren’t stupid questions. I appreciate you keeping me on my toes.” I rewound the tracker’s playback to the timestamp where it didn’t move for 40 real-time minutes. “That’s where they took it off of him. That’s when he really disappeared. On Adams.”

“Adams Avenue. My old turf.”

I stared at her. “(You mean… you were a prostitute?)”

She stared back. “‘Sex worker’. Do you have a problem with that?”

Shosh appeared out of nowhere, startling me. Her wide-spread eyes darted between me and Judith. “Esti… this is weird. I’m not sure I’m comfortable with you being around this woman anymore.”

“Um. It’s… I’ll admit it’s… a bit of a shock. And I wasn’t really prepared for it…”

Judith was very clearly dissatisfied with my response.

“But I stand by my new friend. My past is my past, her past is her past. She doesn’t judge me, I don’t judge her.”

This did not pacify her completely, but her stare softened enough that I could tell that my ass was no longer in direct contact with the hot seat. Shosh just shook her head.

As casually as I could, I asked, “Judith… why’d you quit?”

“Because… as much as I liked my job—I really did, it was fun and emotionally satisfying and empowering—making money off of sex kind of took over doing it for fun. Any time I tried to just do stuff with partners who weren’t offering me money in exchange, I found myself reflexively tallying up how much I should charge them. I had to stop myself from giving them their bill afterwards, and I couldn’t help but feel like I’d been stiffed when they didn’t pay me. And I focused so much on satisfying my partners’ desires that I would forget to satisfy my own, to seek pleasure for myself. I have a strong attraction to profit, so I can’t let money get involved with anything I enjoy, or the money takes precedence over the pleasure. I don’t regret that part of my professional career, but I’m glad I retired before my hunger for the hustle turned sex in its entirety into a means to acquire wealth, and nothing more.”

“Wow. Does that happen to all prost—sex workers?”

“I dunno. Nobody I’ve talked to has ever mentioned having this problem. It could be rare, or it could be common. But I suspect it’s a me thing—like I said, I’m motivated by money to a pathological extreme.”

“Well… I’m glad you enjoyed it for as long as it was your job, but I’m also glad you moved on before it became too much.”

She smiled. “Are you curious?”

“About…?” I asked… fully aware of the answer.

{I’m standing on Adams, waiting for somebody. Nobody in particular, but a particular kind of nobody. A limo pulls up. A man seated in the back offers me a crisp Hamilton in exchange for something quick. Though I have no taste for men, this one’s different from the average fellow I might meet on the street… he has lots of money. I curl my fingers demandingly—I’m worth more than that. He pulls out another tenner. I snatch the bills with a greedy hand and shove them between my tits. He’s the wrong gender to speak to my love, but he speaks the ‘love language’ needed to convince me to make an exception. He opens the door and makes room for me, and I take my seat next to him. With restrained eagerness I gingerly unbutton his pants and—}

“Andy?”

I snapped out of the daydream. “Huh? What?”

“You are curious, aren’t you? You wanna give it a try.”

I felt that damn wet heat between my thighs. “You mean… (walking the streets?)” Shosh evaporated with a discomforted, apprehensive stare.

“Oh, hell no. The streets suck—unless, like, maybe you really enjoy being your own boss as a fille insoumise.”

{I burn the midnight oil for as long as I feel like working, making half a dozen new friends each night; free to make my own decisions as an independent worker, deciding my own hours, choosing my own workplace, handpicking my own clients, setting my own prices—I head home early to kick back with my girlfriend once I’m satisfied with my nightly take…}

“Other than that, the streets are the worst. Definitely not my bag. Anyways, I’m talking about being an escort. You can go the independent route if you want to keep all your earnings and are willing to manage your own business—in which case I can help you get started—or you can go the agency route and focus on the rest of the job—in which case I’ll help you find an agency that won’t bleed you dry with fees.”

I blushed. “No. Thank you, but—no. I’m satisfied with being a humble private investigator.” The mental image of me {carefully unbuttoning then slowly, sensually unzipping this stranger’s fly, pulling his pants down an inch, bringing my head down to bury my face in his lap—taking a moment to acquaint myself with his novel scent—before reverently retrieving his cock from his boxers and dutifully sucking it while savoring the sounds of his enjoyment and the taste of his sweat—the whole time anticipating the moolah, the dough, the riches I’m gonna rake in from all these attention-starved fellas—} was doing all it could to grab me and pull me back in.

“Think of sucking dick as a backup career, in case being a dick doesn’t pan out. Or a side hustle for when your caseload has a dry spell.”

‹No, thank you. It’s a really dangerous career. I shouldn’t—even if—›

{The stranger tips me an extra five for every time I made him cum, and one more for keeping anything from getting on his pants or matting his pubes. Another flawless, artful performance. Which comes as no surprise—everyone knows I’m the best damn cocksucker in the city. I count my latest paycheck—soft cotton paper lovingly tickling my fingertips—before I shove the wad into my cleavage. Another car pulls up to my curb. Time to blow another cock to blow another mind.

{I smirk as I realize something: earning a living was never this easy—nor was it ever so satisfying. Being a cop, being a P.I.… frustrating wastes of time. This was my true calling all along. I’ve finally found my happily-ever-after.}

I shook away the fantasy and the stupid dreamy smile on my face before I could change my mind and take her up on her offer to become an escort—or abandon the case in favor of the curb. “I’ll… take a rain check.”

She patted me on the shoulder. “It’s a huge career shift. Nerves are natural. Take your time.”

“(I just… need… to think about it, okay?)” I scrubbed back and forth through the GPS timeline, then noticed a tiny burst of speed as Alex reversed direction a third of the way down Adams, reaching an average of 12 miles per hour for about 2 seconds—over such a brief interval that the tracker barely had the chance to record it—before suddenly coming to a standstill. “Hm. That’s about sprinting speed. This is a strange place and time to be exercising. Given our kidnapping hypothesis, I’m presuming he was running from his would-be captors. Then he comes to a standstill as they grab him, and reverses direction as they drag him a little way back; his captors wait around for roughly 40 minutes doing who-knows-what… then they take his tracker and drive off to toss it in the bay.”

“Excellent deduction.”

“Thanks. The question that’s pestering me now is ‘Who was chasing him?’”

“We could make a list of all his enemies, but that would take all day—maybe longer.”

“Unfortunately, we may have to do exactly that. But not now. Let’s think about our other questions, in particular the big question: what happened to him after they separated him from his tracker?”

“Hmm.” Judith stroked her chin. “There are only a coupla ways for us to find out: one, eyewitnesses; and two, camera footage.”

I nodded. “And since it happened in the Red-Light District…”

“…no one in their right mind would have recorded anything, because they know damn well that they could end up incriminating themselves or their peers.”

“Of course. So that leaves us with eyewitnesses.”

“This all happened in the morning, so…” She sighed, and under her breath cursed, “(Shit.)”

I scrubbed through the tracker’s path to the last stop before his walk down Adams. “His bus stopped at Grover Cleveland Avenue and Lemon Street by 9:05, and he reached the corner of John Adams and Lemon by 9:10.”

“There wouldn’t have been anybody on the street in the morning. On summer weekdays, most street workers don’t start until 7 in the evening, and even on weekends the earliest birds don’t get their worms till noon—and never a second sooner.”

“In other words, we’re screwed.” I sighed.

“No footage, no eyewitnesses.”

“(Tsk.) You know what? Who knows. I’m not giving up. We’ll go there at night, and maybe we’ll get lucky and one of the working girls was there that morning. Which means asking every single one of them if they were there that morning. How many are there?”

“Do I look like a census-taker?”

“I figured it was worth asking you, seeing that you used to work there.”

“That’s reasonable, I guess, except I only walked the streets for a few weeks before escorting for the rest of my career. I only got to know a handful of streetwalkers while I was on Adams. And that was decades ago.”

“Oh. Well. However many there are, we gotta interview all of them.”

“You really wanna ask all of them a bunch of questions?”

“That’s what a responsible investigator would do.”

Her cheeks swelled as she puffed between puckered lips. “(Pffff…) Looks like we got our work cut out for us.”

“Yep. Alright, let’s escort this to a file so we can take it with us.” Sic.

She smirked. “Let’s what this to a file?”

“Escort.” She snickered. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t see what’s funny. ‘Let’s escort this—’” My cheeks turned red.

She slapped her knee and cackled.

I found the export button and emailed myself the file. “Alright, if we need to review it later, we can do it at my apartment. Let’s go and… do something else while we wait for the night shift on Adams.”

“If that’s your plan. Where you go, I will go.”

We notified Geraldine that we had tracked her husband to Adams and claimed that we had a plan that would tell us where to go next, which seemed to soften her mood to the point of tolerability—but as we departed, some questions popped into my head. “Geraldine, I have a few more loose ends to tie.”

“Could you hurry? It’s time for my nap.”

“Of course. Does your husband gamble?”

“No.” My question had irritated her slightly.

“Do either of you have any debts?”

“Student loans. No credit cards, no mortgage.”

“Are the student loans being paid on time?”

“Yes.”

“Any litigation, past or pending?”

“Plenty.”

“And who’s suing who?”

“We have a few cases against the police department, the police union, and several individual police officers. False imprisonment, death threats, police brutality, unlawful search and seizure, illegal wiretapping, First Amendment violations, attempts to coerce confessions. You know… the usual. As for him being the defendant, he’s on trial for assaulting an officer—but that one’s poppycock, he’s sworn himself to nonviolence.”

“Right,” I concluded nervously. “Thank you.”

“Keep your hopes up, Geri,” added Judith. “We have a strong lead. Take care of yourself.”

“Thank you,” replied Geraldine warmly, calmly. “I will.”

We headed back to my apartment and sat down on my couch, demoralized by the fact that Adams would have been a ghost town while the disappearance was going down. I felt lost.

This time, though, I had somebody to be lost with.

Chapter 6: Dry Laundry, Dry Humping

I had no idea what to do next. In the absence of inspiration, my eyes, stuffed nearly to bursting with dejection, grazed adrift over the worthless stuff scattered throughout my room. Judith broke the silence just as my mood hit its nadir. “We’ll figure something out, Andy.”

“Yeah.” With her encouragement, I renewed my efforts and asked myself whether we had found and covered every lead we could. After the better part of an hour of retracing and re-retracing our steps forwards to our future trip to Adams and in reverse all the way back to the moment we met Geraldine; and doing so with rapidly increasing frustration, I rewound past the moment I became a P.I. and arrived at the true inception of our case, the Public Information Unit hoot—and then I had an epiphany. “Judith.”

“Hm?”

“We checked the department’s social media for info, but we didn’t do a search for posts from the public mentioning our missing man.”

“Dude!” She whipped out her phone and started tapping away; I followed her lead, opened Hootr, and immediately came upon results—thousands of them, too many to comb through. “There’s a lot here, Andy… but it’s all people wondering the same thing, where he went. No info.”

I nodded. “Yeah…” Spurred by impatience, I rewound to Wednesday’s hoots. “Wait. I found the first one. Quote: ‘No meeting and no Brookvale. Today’s gone from bad to worse.’”

“‘Meeting’!” she exclaimed with a smile. “That’s the one word we wanted to hear most. Who posted it?”

“@FluffyFresh.”

“What’s in their bio?”

“‘Erica, he/they, pan. Bodypos. My body, my choice. Fighting the patriarchy since 2012.’”

“What are ‘body paws’? I know everything about being a furry and I’ve never heard of those.”

“Short for ‘body positive’.”

“Ah, but I know what that is. Did FluffyFresh say anything else interesting?”

“Yes. They added, ‘Fascists rounded us up for trespassing when we were minding our own business. #CashBailIsClassism’”

“Five-oh made a mass arrest, so the meeting was canceled. Maybe that wasn’t a coincidence… When did they post that?”

“Wednesday afternoon, 2:25.”

“Send them a message. We need to know more about this meeting.”

I felt a tiny bit threatened that she was the one issuing orders, but I decided to make light of my own insecurity with a healthy chuckle and a sarcastic “Good idea, boss.” I sent them a direct message asking for the name of the meeting’s sponsoring organization and the reason for its cancellation. “Done.”

“Now we wait.”

After 5 seconds of waiting, I pointed out, “I really hope we get a response, but… witnesses don’t always play along. This person might not respond. They’ll probably just react to a rando sliding into their DMs by blocking me on sight, without reading my message.”

“Even if they give us silence, now we know there were people in the area that morning, going to the same meeting Alex was supposed to be at, and at least one person knew he was attending. Response or no response, we’re going with your plan: visiting Adams and interviewing every one of its carnal entrepreneurs.”

“‘Carnal entrepreneurs’. That’s an interesting job title. If you ever did somehow convince me to try prost—sex work, that’s how I would identify.”

She beamed. “Thank you, and you’re welcome.”

“Let’s skim for more intel.” We scrolled through screen after screen of search results for ‘Brookvale’, but after combing through several hundred posts I concluded that there was nothing else to be found there. “I think we’ve exhausted Hootr. How’s your Headblog search going?”

“Helluva lotta nuttin’. Somebody started a Search for Alex page asking for tips, but it’s been flooded with so many thoughts and prayers that I don’t know if there are any actual tips to point us in the right direction. I also tried to check HiBall, but all of the chatter is just mutual aid stuff. I’m afraid Fluffy is our only online lead.”

“This sucks. I thought the Internet would have more to offer than two vague hoots and an army of thoughtful headless chickens. I guess we’ll just have to hope one of the folks on Adams saw something.”

“I sent a few texts to the escort agencies I’ve worked with in the past, but it’s been… a while since I was active, so some of them might not remember who I was.”

“It’s still worth a try. Okay, it’s 3:20. You said streetwalkers don’t start till 7 on Saturdays. We have 4 hours to burn.”

“We could pass the time with a little sex.”

‹S-E-X sex. I’d be hearing her groans, too, not just mine.› My heart rate spiked and my crotch jubilantly chanted, «Fuck her fuck her fuck her fuck her fuck her!» “Are you… saying… that—that you’re ready?”

She nodded. “Since I laid eyes on you in that dress… almost. All you need to do now is tell me your favorite movie and I’ll rip your bodice asunder and conquer your flesh.”

«Oh, God, yes,

please tear my only dress to shreds and ravish me,

then bite my soul and chew it up and spit it out!»

‹Though—I don’t know if I can repeat

my first performance of last night;

it could have simply been a fluke.

Perhaps you may be attempting

to boost my confidence when you

tell me that I’m a natural—

I know what you have planned for me,

you only tell me nice things so

I won’t feel bad about myself;

you’re kind and more experienced

than me. Oh, God, I suck at sex.

I just can’t do it well enough for you.›

In summary, depression kicked in out of nowhere, as it often did, I broke down, and I bailed. “I—need to do my laundry.”

“That’s right! Very responsible of you to put chores before sex; that takes a lot of discipline. 4 hours is plenty of time for a couple loads. Let’s get to it.”

She yanked me along to my closet and grabbed a shirt—then paused, held it up to her face, breathed deep through her nose and exhaled with… what sounded like approval. “Strange…”

“You don’t have to make a big deal about how smelly they are.”

“No, I just—I’m sorry, for some reason I couldn’t help myself—it actually smells… kinda good.”

“Oh. Still, that was… kinda weird.”

“Yes, it was, I realize that, but—I got just a little whiff of something—and I really needed to smell it. My sense of smell’s been kinda fucked up for a while, so it’s kinda weird that this new scent caught my attention. It must be very strong for me to be able to notice it.” I cringed. “What deodorant do you wear?” She sniffed it again. Very deeply, and very loudly, with the kind of whispered sigh one lets out after a satisfying swallow of a delicious, bubbly, cold beverage.

On one level her insistence on sniffing my smelly clothes disturbed me, but on another it was… satisfying. And in light of her admission that she liked my sweaty smell, the satisfaction was, to my bewilderment, more intense than the discomfort—and yet I felt obligated to entertain the discomfort. “Old Spice.”

“Oh. It doesn’t smell like Old Spice, so I don’t think it’s your deodorant. Oh well, let’s just call it an unsolved mystery.” She started piling clothes into my baskets, inhaling deeply the scent sticking to each garment—dwelling a little longer on my underwear—before tossing it in, then helped me carry them to the conveniently empty laundry room and start the wash on 3 machines at once.

“You know, Andrea… there’s nobody else in here.”

“Yes. And I prefer it that way.”

“We could make out.”

I swallowed. ‹God, yes.› That response alone would have been perfectly fine, but I went ahead and let my low self-esteem throw in some bullshit. ‹I may suck at kissing, but me being bad at kissing is nowhere near as unpleasant for you as me being bad at sex.› Fortunately, the bullshit wasn’t bad enough to completely dissuade me. “I suppose… we… could.”

“Or you could sit on the washing machine while I play with your tits and suck on your nipples.”

‹Christ, yes, but—it sounds foolish.› “You—co—uld—but—what if—someone came in while we were—were…?”

“Then we get caught. And depending on what kind of person they are, we might gain an audience member.”

“I don’t want to get caught. Or have someone watching me and judging my… skills, or the noises I make.”

{My stage partner is seated comfortably in an armless chair, his right side facing the audience. “Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome to the stage: Andrea Bachman, Queen of Cocksuckers!” The crowd claps and cheers.

{I enter stage left and bow, then ask my adoring fans, “Have all of you had the pleasure of meeting my dear friend Quincy Queef?”

{“Yes!”

{“Really? How well do you know him?”

{“Intimately!”

{“Then show him some love!” They do so, applauding him and calling out his name. I tease them, “Are you ready, my little perverts?” More cheers. “Then let’s get this show on the road!” My partner lifts his legs and I yank off his breakaway pants. The crowd goes wild. I slowly peel his ruby-sequined speedos down and off his legs, then swing them in circles over my head and sling them to the audience like little King David, inspiring a greedy frenzy over the shiny underwear. I kneel between his legs and lower my head—}

“I figured you weren’t ready for public stuff yet…” I snapped out of my newest fantasy. “I was just curious about how close you were to opening up to the possibility. Don’t worry your pretty little curls about it, it’ll happen in due time.”

I exhaled relief. “(Okay-thank-God.)”

She winked, then grabbed me by the plunging neckline of my dress. “So what would you say to a simple make out sesh?”

I couldn’t say ‘no’ to this woman while every organ inside me was screaming, ‹Acceptable risk!› “(Oh—okay.)” My heart pounded in my chest, driven one percent by fear, the rest by a need to become one with her.

She grinned as she deftly picked me up and plopped me down on one of the washing machines, then launched herself onto the one next to it. She pulled me in close, causing me to blush, and brought me in with coffee and—

More

subtle than the coffee

are the notes of cannabis,

no stems, all flow’r reduced to

resin, sticky webbing catching

flies — I am her prey, tangled

within her scent. It makes

me want to puff and pass a

blunt, so fat and dank, but in a

way somehow involving touching, meeting

genitals— to mount her, ride her, give

her pleasure, dive into the Styx

and have our honeymoon where

she can bite my neck

and suck my guts out

through my veins.

She was gentle at first, taking it slower than our first time, too slow in my opinion, pecking my lips, comforting me, luring me even further into lust than her perfume of coffee and cannabis already had; worked her way up to softly biting my lip, sending sparks throughout my mind, forcing a moan from my chest, giving me ideas about being nibbled elsewhere; grabbed my breast and tempted my surrender to the warmth flooding my panties; then finally snuck her tongue into my mouth and played with mine, kissed me dirty—

The machines stopped and buzzed in quick succession. She removed her tongue from my mouth and said, “Time to dry.”

Yet I was quite content with being wet. I groaned in frustration; I had been milliseconds away from ripping off her clothes and going down on her. I got off the machine after failing to get off on the machine and followed her lead in loading my damp laundry into the dryers. She clambered onto a dryer and helped me up into her lap, and when she brought her mouth towards mine, I eagerly bridged the gap with my lips and grabbed her hand and planted it on my chest. I caught a whiff of her and savored the scent violently breaking through her deodorant. I thrust my tongue into her mouth and moaned. I leaned against her, and she let me recline her until she was on her back and I was on top of her, straddling her waist. I grabbed her bra through her shirt and squeezed and massaged; she hummed and giggled as I lost control of myself and growled through the gaps between our lips… I was so overpowered by my desire that I began grinding my pelvis against her body, rubbing my crotch against her belly, harder and harder, moaning and moving my hips without conscious effort to bring me closer to what I needed, and closer, and closer, moaning louder and higher and louder and higher… until I felt a buzz like a—

Fluffy towel, soft and warm,

Soughs against my flesh as I

Dry my skin and swathe myself.

Jersey T-shirt, soft and warm,

Drapes upon my soft, dry skin,

Covers me, reveals my nips.

Cotton panties, soft and warm,

Hug my vadge, a treasure chest

For my love to plunder deep.

I cried out into her mouth as my mind convulsed. The waves arrived, brushing up against my nerves, and left to give me refuge from the next as it came in and touched me, then left, then came, then went, subsiding a little each time we met, until it was not so strong that my mind was gone, until I was fully aware of what I had done. I removed my mouth from hers and whisper-asked, “(What the fuck did I just do?)” I would have blushed in shame were I not already flush from my recent climax.

“Dry humped me to orgasm.”

I brought a hand to my temple. “(Oh, God…)”

“We didn’t get caught, so you have nothing to worry about.”

Right then, the doorknob turned and a young man in his late teens or early twenties came in with a basket full of laundry. I watched in terror as he did his laundry. He shoveled clothes into the machine, added detergent, and started the wash cycle—with just one hand, his eyes never once parting from his phone in the other—then leaned against the machine and waited. ‹Is he pretending he didn’t hear me moaning out of courtesy or embarrassment, or is he really so buried in cyberspace that he’s cut off from the real world?› I quietly dismounted her and took my seat next to her.

“See? Nothing to worry about.”

I gave her a pathetic frown.

“You didn’t get caught. That’s what matters, Andy.”

“(I lost control,)” I hissed.

She pulled my ear to her mouth. “(And I like that.)” I shivered at the soft rasp of the throaty voice that not only made my eyes roll back and my scalp buzz as usual but, unusually, made my cunt throb and beg for more of her. “(You’re an animal who wants to fuck. You get sexier and sexier every day.)” She released me and patted me on the back. I whined wordlessly. “I thought you weren’t ready for public stuff, but you proved me wrong.”

“I just… want to get out of here, Judith.”

At some point during my animalistic humping my dryers had all buzzed to signal that their 45-minute cycles were finished; it was anybody’s guess how long I had been grinding on her after that.

We returned to my apartment with my laundry and stowed all my clothes in my closet and drawers; as Judith hung up the last shirt, she remarked, “You look so confident in that dress, Miss Bachman.”

“Confident or not, it isn’t the most appropriate for investigation. I’d stick out like a sore thumb if I wore this on a case.”

“Au contraire, you’ll blend right in with that! You’re practically wearing the uniform of the drive-thru sex worker.”

“Oh. Uh. So, I… uh… like… look like… a… sex worker?”

“The spitting image.”

My eyes lost focus. I sighed quietly. I nodded slowly.

“Andy?”

“I guess… blending in could be advantageous…”

“That’s the spirit!”

‹On the bright side, my cleavage might distract people from my face. But on the off chance they look up from my chest, did I do a good job covering up my less-than-attractive countenance?› “Judith… would you look at me and describe what you see? Be honest.”

She eyed me carefully. “Well, the first thing that pops out are them eyes. Deeper and more vivid than the most flawless of emeralds. Then comes your nose, which is a cute little thing.” She kissed the tip, and a smile snuck out through my surprise. “You have nice, full lips, and soft cheeks, and a dainty chin. You’re a very conventionally pretty girl.”

“Real—ly?”

“Really. I’m surprised strangers aren’t coming up to you out of nowhere to ask for your number.”

“I actually get that a lot at work. I mean, got. It annoyed me. Tommy…”

{“Hey, Red! Fancy seeing you around here.” You dismount your trike and stroll up to me like we’re the bestest of besties.

{I tense up. You’re close. I could touch you—not that I want to touch you. “Of course I’m here, Tommy—Tom. This is my beat.”

{“Do you like it?”

{I shrug.

{“Just a shrug?”

{“It’s okay.”

{“You do like it?”

{“No-one else likes it, so I’m happy to take it.”

{“Why settle for an old rundown neighborhood when you can be working in luxury?”

{“Because if I settle for something nobody’s gonna fight for, I don’t have to bargain and argue with people to get my way.”

{“You could have Balboa nights, Sweetheart. Very romantic.”

{“I don’t want romance. I mean—I like romance, but I don’t… want…” My voice trails off. I pray you don’t pick apart my words.

{“We could team up and tackle all those meters together. Hundreds of one-hour-parking spot, loading zones from horizon to horizon, more handicapped spots than there are handicapped people in the city… My turf’s a gold mine.”

{“I’m not after your gold, though, I’m after your—I mean, I don’t want—anything you have to offer.”

{You tip my chin up and bend your spine until your nose touches mine. I can smell… just a hint of booze, sweet and floral, but it isn’t on your breath. You aren’t an alcoholic, I know so from personal experience with addiction. It’s so… soothing—and exciting, at the same time. It must be your deodorant. I resist the temptation to plant my nose in your bouquet and breathe a little deeper. I want to know your brand, so I can buy a stick and sniff it whenever I’m feeling lonely. Whenever I want to think of you. “Not even with your Tommy?”

{I freeze. My uterus wrings itself like a towel embarrassed by its dampness. Just like every other time we touch. “Not even with… I mean—especially not with you.”

{“You can’t help but break my heart, Red.”

{I fight the increasingly violent expansion and contraction of my chest. “G—get used to it… Tom—Sergeant Forrester.”

{“I already am used to it. I have a million more hearts to give you. Keep on breaking them. Feel free to keep one for yourself when you figure out your feelings for me.”

{My heart pounds. My mouth is open, my chest is heaving, your eyes look into my soul, your soft lips wait inches from mine. Don’t you dare bring them closer. Don’t you dare embrace me with your strong arms. Don’t you dare kiss me passionately. Don’t you dare catch me when I swoon. And once you haven’t done any of that, don’t you dare take me home and let me make wild love to you.}

I shook the memory away. “Um… Tom… Forrester was the worst. He never left me alone. He was a—a—a despicable… vile, wretched pest. His touch always made me feel…”

{Your touch… your hand in the small of my back, slipping down, down, down, just short of my ass, while we stare into each other’s eyes, waiting for something to happen. Me, waiting for you to cross the line I’ve drawn in the sand. You, waiting for me to give you permission to make your move.

{You’re so close to your destination, Tommy—won’t you take this step?}

I shivered.

“I’m sorry about that.”

I shrugged and smiled palely. “C’est la vie. You… aren’t the first to tell me I have a pretty face, but—you’re the first I’ve ever liked to hear say it.”

“Your face isn’t your only pretty part, though.”

“Oh? What other nice things are you going to tell me?”

“You have beautiful tits. I haven’t seen very many racks as impressive as yours, even in porn, and none as nice in person.”

“They aren’t too big?”

“Breast size is an extremely subjective preference. But I like yours, big enough to really squeeze, but also small enough that my hands aren’t completely overwhelmed. I’ve never touched a pair of boobs quite this perfect for me.”

“So… d’you think they look good in my dress?”

“Calling you ‘Elvira’ wasn’t a joke, it was a compliment. Your tits look amazing in that dress. I hope we find lots of occasions for you to wear it.”

“Wow. I’m… honestly, having a hard time believing you, I’v never seen myself as attractive. Even if what you’re saying about my breasts is true, I’m still fat.”

“You have a lot to love. Curves more elegant than a statue of Aphrodite herself—and certainly softer.”

“‘Curves’ is just a euphemism for ‘fat rolls’.”

She regarded me warily. “‘Curves’ is my way of saying I like the way your body looks and feels. Whether anyone would think to call you ‘fat’ is irrelevant. If you’re concerned about your weight for health reasons, by all means enlist the help of a dietician—but beauty does not care about a person’s weight, it only cares about the desire burning inside the eye beholding it. Take a look in the mirror and examine why you think your weight is a problem. Challenge your existing opinions. Go ahead.”

I hesitated—I don’t know why—before approaching my closet mirror.

‹Red hair.›

{“I heard Redhead fucked the entire AV club, made them film the whole thing with their camcorder… then she hid the tape somewhere in the library!”

{“You remember how the marching band wasn’t in the stands during the first half of last year’s homecoming game? Well, Titty Curls lured them under the bleachers and let all 76 of the horn players take turns with her mouth! She licked all of their ‘tromboners’ for good luck…”

{“You know how Baby-Got-Bachman always wears long sleeves and high collars? That’s because every Saturday night she goes to a frat party at SVSU, and lets the guys pass her around, drawing their dicks on her body in Sharpie after they’re finished with her. The outfit’s to cover up their John Hancocks.”}

‹Kids called me a slut in high school just because I have red hair. But… I don’t really care about that anymore. They were right, I’m a slut.

‹But is it anybody’s business what I do with my body? It’s my choice. Besides, Judith is okay with it. I’m happy to be with her. I’ll be a slut with her as much as I want, and I will only allow being a slut around her to make me happy. Being a slut is—

‹Being a slut… is… a good thing.›

“(Well?)” whisper-asked Judith, gently breaking me out of my meditation.

“(Being a slut is… okay,)” I replied under my breath.

She smiled widely. “Okay, maybe even great. How about your fluff?”

“Hm.” ‹I have a lot of fat on my body. I’m obese, according to the doctor’s infallible equation. Do I really care about the health implications, though? My liver and arteries are the least of my concerns right now, because I’ll never be able to stick to a diet if I don’t do something drastic about my mental health. So I guess… those labels— ‘overweight’, ‘obese’ —are moot. My organs are a low priority, my BMI is irrelevant, my weight simply does not matter as long as my physical health remains beyond my control.

‹So that leaves aesthetics. Short and fat. The worst shape to be as a woman. Short and fat with tits that are just a little bit too big for my body.› “My boobs are way too big for my tiny body.”

She shrugged. “Personally, I think they’re magnificent. Big, but not snap-your-spine-like-a-toothpick big—still, maybe some back support might be nice to have. I like big titties, though I don’t like it when they cause my partners pain. Yours are actually on the smaller end of my inclinations.”

I glanced at her skeptically. “‘The smaller end’. My boobs are on ‘the smaller end of your inclinations’.”

“Yes. I like honkers, huge swinging bazongas. Yours barely qualify as ‘big’, in my book.”

“So… my E cup breasts… aren’t enormous?”

“Far from. If you really don’t like them, though, you could get a reduction.”

“A reduction… Hm. I’ll give it some thought. But they’re only kinda big?”

“That’s just my opinion, and my preferences usually skew a little larger than what you have. But yours are still my favorite pair, out of all the titties I’ve touched.”

I turned to the side and inspected how my bust projected. ‹I’ve been blessed with an unusual lack of boob-induced back pain. They don’t stick out nearly as much as they usually do. Are they… smaller than I’ve always thought they were?› I cupped them and gave them a jiggle. ‹They aren’t… massive, I guess, just… kinda big. Hm…› I gave them a squeeze. ‹If anything, they could actually stand to be a bit bigger.›

My eyes grew a few sizes. ‹They could be… bigger. I would… be… okay… with them… being… bigger?› I jiggled them again. ‹I’ve seen porn stars and hentai women with bigger, bouncier tits than mine, and enjoyed what I saw. Why do I feel like mine are too big?› I felt their curves with my hands. ‹My tits… are normal. Bigger than average, sure, but normal.› I stroked a finger between my cleavage. ‹I have cleavage. People like cleavage. I like cleavage. And my cleavage… is the kind of cleavage I like to see on other people, ink or pixel or flesh. The tops of my tits have pleasant curves. The other parts of them…› I removed my dress. ‹They’re actually… kind of perky?› I lifted them and let them drop. ‹That’s actually a nice bounce.› I squeezed them again. ‹Not too firm, not too soft. Areolas are big, but… little nipples never really did much for me. I imagine big ones are easier to suck on, too.› I stroked them with my fingertips, electrifying my bust until they were fully erect. ‹They’re kind of… interesting. I wish I could… Maybe I can try to…› I lifted my breasts up to my face and wrapped my mouth around my nipples and aggressively teethed them, sending a whip-crack from my chest down to my cunt and forcing a moan from my mouth.

“Wow. That’s hot,” said Judith with a grin. “I wish mine were big enough to do that, I’d never stop sucking them.”

‹That… was sexy. My… My breasts… are… sexy? And I’m only noticing now? After two decades of hating these fuckers, I’m just now figuring out that they’re worthy of my esteem? That I have nice tits?› “My boobs are hot,” I concluded.

“Very.”

“I… love my tits. They’re sexy. They’re pleasing to look at, pleasing to touch, pleasing to jiggle and suck… I have beautiful tits.”

She patted me on the back. “I’m happy you’ve finally accepted that indisputable fact. Now you know that when I’m playing with them, I’m having a very good time.”

“I want… to show them off. I want people to gaze upon them longingly. Be enchanted by them… enchanted into doing my bidding. And I want them to want to touch them. But I won’t let them—look, don’t touch.” I shrugged. “Okay, fine, everyone can touch them; what’s the fun in having perfectly squeezable tits if nobody actually gets to squeeze them? My tits are fit for a goddess. They ought to be worshipped as such. Like a statue of Aphrodite, tourists from around the world visit me to touch my breasts.”

“Yes! I love worshiping beautiful, confident bodies.”

“I’m talking about just a pair of beautiful tits, not a whole beautiful body.”

“I’ve already told you, you have a nice body.”

I ran my hands down my sides, bust to waist to hips to thighs. “I’m stout.”

“I like feeling so damn big next to you. I’m blessed to be as tall as I am. And I’m blessed that you’re as tiny as you are.”

“I’ll admit that I like being smaller than you—almost a foot, that’s a lot. I suppose… if I was taller, you wouldn’t be as impressive to me.”

“Would you also admit that you like being small for the sake of being small?”

‹From a purely practical standpoint, I’ve never been seriously bothered by my stature. Stools and step ladders exist for a reason. I can jump pretty high, I can reach the top shelf with ease. From an aesthetic standpoint—well, tall is sexier than short. Supermodels are proof of that.› I shook my head. “Short is… not attractive.”

“I beg to differ. Your shortness makes your boobs look all the more luscious and your curves all the more intimidating.”

“You’re just telling me I’m your ideal to make me feel better.”

“My ideal height for a partner is actually four-foot-eleven, and you’re a few inches taller than that—and yet you’re perfect as you are.”

‹I like me being a lot shorter than her. She likes it, too. Neither of these preferences change the fact that I’m wider than I am tall.

‹I have nice tits. Big deal.› I sighed and put on my dress.

“What kind of sigh was that?”

“Frustrated.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re telling me nice things, things that I’m not seeing.”

“You finally like your tits.”

‹Well…› “I don’t know if… why… how I…. for so many years thought—that my tits were too big. It turns out they’ve been beautiful all along. But the rest of my body isn’t.”

Her lips turned down in dismay and she shook her head. “Maybe someday you’ll learn to love yourself, body and mind.”

I scoffed. “That’s a lost cause.”

She winked… “And I don’t know when to quit.” …and patted me on the back. “I’m sure we’ll find an excuse for you to take that dress off again, later.” I pursed my lips in an attempt to hide a smile. “Witnessing you fall in love with your breasts was a wonderful experience.” The attempt was in vain. “Besides, I’m sure you’re happy to be wearing something that is about as far from a uniform as your current wardrobe can take you.”

“Yeah, it’s nice to distance myself from looking like a cop, but… even without wearing blue, I’m certain the sex workers are gonna know I used to be one on-sight. I’m certain they will.”

“Not only are they gonna know, you’re gonna tell them yourself. But you’re gonna lie your ass off about why you left.”

“And what exactly are you suggesting I tell them?”

“That you witnessed some real shit, but when you tried to speak up, they fired you.”

“I will not claim that I was fighting the system when I didn’t actually witness anything unethical from my angle. And not only did I not catch anyone doing anything truly awful—except the sexual harassment, I got to experience plenty of that—they were actually very accommodating of my disabilities. Possibly to a fault: my depression caused me to be extremely disruptive throughout every one of my twelve-and-a-half years on the force.”

Judith narrowed her eyes. “And what’s wrong with disrupting police operations? That’s praxis.”

“Well… yeah, it was a good thing, and you could make the case that it was praxis. But I wasn’t doing a bad job intentionally, I was just depressed and I’m not very good at anything when I’m in that state.”

“But you were aware at the time that you were impacting the department’s operations, and you fought tooth and nail to keep your job in spite of the damage you knew you were causing.”

“I guess you’re… kind of right… from a very forced and misleading perspective.”

“You know right from wrong, and you want to do the right thing. You’ve got a good heart, kid—even if you were by definition a bastard.”

“Oh. Thank you.” I hated myself a little less. “Coming from you… that means… a lot.”

“You’d’ve been a better person if you’d deliberately caused trouble for all the other pigs, but sabotage can still be helpful even if it’s unintentional.”

My soul drooped. “I think you’re right. If I had really cared, I would have done more to muck up the works.”

“No-no, you have me all wrong. Don’t be so harsh on yourself. Your career was complicated. You were too depressed to actively orchestrate anything, and you did your best not to cause harm to the public. Forget all that though, focus on the present. Starting with this case.”

“If you say so.”

She sighed. “It’s 5 o’clock, we still have a coupla hours till the employees open up shop. What would you like to do to pass the time?”

“I dunno. I feel kinda lost.”

“Then let’s get grounded, chill on the couch with me.” So we sat. “Have you decided on a favorite movie?”

No longer under pressure to answer her right away, I was finally able to come up with an answer. “The Princess Bride.”

“Because it has Peter Falk?”

I nodded.

“Are you, like… a super fan or something?”

‹Where do I begin?› “I would have liked to be his friend. Maybe more.”

“How much more?”

“He’s the only man I’ve ever found attractive.” A half-truth, at best. “Until I met you, I thought he was the only person I could ever be with. The word ‘fan’ fails to communicate my feelings for him.”

“So…” She was silent for a few seconds, the way Shosh sometimes fell silent when I regaled her with my fantasies of having dinner with him or going on walks with him or watching his favorite movies with him or bringing him flowers after a stage performance or having his children. And just like Shosh always did, she changed the subject. “Now that you’ve told me your favorite movie, I can officially finger you and make you cum a few times in a row.”

The mere mention of sex prompted my vagina to ready itself for anything she might have in mind; and yet, as physiologically horny as I was for her touch, after discussing my lack of leftist praxis I was no longer there emotionally. “Uhhh-hhhmmm… I need to… Um… I still haven’t filled out my retirement paperwork.”

She looked at me critically. “You haven’t done that yet? Get to it! Go!”

I quickly dressed and logged into the SVPD Human Resources Retirement and Workers’ Compensation site, uploaded a picture of my social security card, and clicked submit—not for the picture, but for the whole retirement application. I still felt emotionally unprepared for sex by the time I was completely finished with the single step I needed to complete to secure my retirement income, 7 minutes after starting the process.

To be clear, this was a fantastically low investment of time and effort for even the simplest of government applications, because HR had kindly filled out most of the forms and uploaded all the necessary documents for me, most likely because they wanted me out the door and onto the street, never to come back again to ask the department for just one more thing. I took some pride in the realization that I must have been a real nuisance if they had gone out of their way to streamline my exit, though it wasn’t enough to quell my self-resentment.

“How close are you to being finished, Andy?”

“This is going to—um—take a couple hours.”

“Are you gonna be able to finish before we need to leave, or can you save your progress and pick it up again later? We should get to interviewing the workers before business picks up and they start receiving solicitations.”

“It’ll be done—I’ll be finished by then.”

I stared at the screen, obsessing over my failure to single-handedly dismantle the department down to the molecular level and replace it with… whatever it is antifascists plan to render police obsolete with—universal basic incomes, free healthcare, decriminalization of narcotics and sex work, more accessible and higher quality behavioral health services—and some kind of apparatus for catching the remaining few unapologetically bad people then persuading them to be good people, because I understood that in the future there weren’t supposed to be prisons to keep bad people from doing bad things. (I had only a limp grasp on how criminal justice reform was supposed to work, partly because any solution to antisocial behavior that didn’t employ physical coercion as well as punishment in the form of incarceration had been rendered counterintuitive to my demented cop brain by nearly 13 years of overt indoctrination as a law enforcement officer as well as two-and-a-half decades of covert indoctrination as a fan of the [notoriously fascistic] genre of police procedurals. Nonetheless… I had faith that some combination of non-punitive measures such as these—and, perhaps more importantly, the overhaul or abolishment of a wide array of other oppressive institutions—had to be better than the prevailing system of corruption and cruelty I had from childhood till my antifascist awakening worshiped as my destiny.)

‹I could have talked to people about what I could do to make a difference, I could have investigated public complaints that were never addressed, I could have worked my way into IA to pick out the parasites with a fine-tooth comb and cull the predators with every weapon in my investigative arsenal. Instead, I wallowed in self-hatred and accomplished zilch.› I sighed in dismay.

“Everything okay over there?”

“Yes.”

“A lot of reading?”

“No. What?”

“I noticed you aren’t clicking your mouse or typing.”

“Oh, I, uh…” ‹Shit.› “Yes, it’s a lot of reading.”

“Interesting. You’ve been ‘reading’ the same screen for an hour.”

“I’ve been…” ‹She’s already figured it out.›

“What’ve you been doing for the past hour, Andy?”

“Hating myself.”

“Still thinking about not doing enough damage to the Man from the inside?”

“Yes.”

“Listen… Nobody is perfect. Plenty of leftists start off as libertarians or even fucking neocons—until they have a come-to-Jesus moment when they figure out that their principles are falling short of their consciences, until they examine their own beliefs and find that they’re pointing in every direction that their moral compass isn’t, until they realize the harsh truth that they aren’t the good people they think they are.

“So they start their journey with a big leap of faith in what they hope is the right direction, then they make little changes, they take little steps, they get better gradually. Nobody’s born perfect, and nobody gets better overnight—and no matter how diligently and incessantly they may toil to become a better person, nobody dies with a pure heart. It takes time and experience just to become a decent person. I didn’t actually get my shit into gear until I was about your age, and even after 2 decades I’m still far from enlightenment, despite having a head start in the form of being raised by a pair of hippies who spent more time reading theory than they did high on reefer or acid. You’re doing better right now than I was at your age, and you’re not only willingly and actively trying to improve yourself but also trying to help the community rescue one of its own in the process. Do you understand the significance of that?”

“Oh.” ‹So… it doesn’t really matter anymore that I wasn’t actively trying to do good until this morning. What matters is that I’ve finally started my journey of self-improvement. I’ll get better. I’m getting better.› I nodded and allowed the corners of my mouth to turn up just a little. “Thank you, Judith.”

“You’re welcome. Are you finished with that yet?”

“Yes, it took me like 10 minutes. The hardest part was taking a picture of my social security card that didn’t come out blurry.”

“Want to play some Martian Marine to pass the time?”

I was feeling better, and I was still… well, intimately lubricated. “Actually, my mood has improved since you offered to finger me.”

She smiled. “You want to go ahead and do that?”

“I don’t know if—maybe—just—I think we could make out. I like the idea, I’m feeling better, but I’m not quite ready for more sex.”

“Then come on over to the couch.”

As soon as I was sitting next to her on the couch, she grabbed my chin and brought me in for a gentle kiss. I kissed her back, and she snaked her hands through the deep neckline of my dress and cupped my tits.

I placed my hand on her chest and squeezed through her shirt and bra; she did the same to my bare flesh, drawing a moan out of me as her fingertips brushed against my nipples. I caught a whiff of her coffee-weed musk and suddenly found myself wanting to fuck her.

“(Pinch them,)” I whispered between kisses.

She squeezed my nipples between her fingertips and I whined between her lips at the tension they injected into my body. Warmth built up down below, until thinking became so difficult that my actions became automatic.

I hastily removed my dress, then grabbed her hand and forced it up a leg of my panties.

She got the ‘hint’ and began gently playing with my clitoris. I moaned quietly as I bit her lip and squeezed her tits. This continued for several minutes, until I noticed that I wasn’t entirely satisfied with what she was doing.

“Put your finger inside me,” I demanded. She inserted just the tip of her middle and stretched me just a little, amplifying my libido. “(Ahhh…) Like that.”

I rocked my hips as she fingered me, at first gently teasing the first inch, then reaching further inside and pressing against something, a magic button whose effect was subtler than rubbing my clitoris but no less satisfying, a button that also made me jerk and groan. “Ohhh…! Right there. That, yes. Fuck yes.”

She continued stimulating that spot, and my body was compelled to synchronize with her movements. I wrapped my arms around her neck and pulled her in closer so that I could kiss her even harder.

I wanted to tell her that she was doing everything exactly right, but I had forgotten how to talk. “Are you enjoying this, Andy?” she asked. All I could do was grunt and kiss. “Are you going to cum for me?” I grunted again. She placed her other hand up the other leg of my panties and gently tweaked my clitoris. I gave into her touch and cried out quietly into her mouth, and my moans grew louder still. I kissed her ravenously. “We only have 5 minutes till we gotta leave.” I ignored her words. “We’ve been at this for a whole hour. If you don’t cum soon, we’re going to have to stop and pick this up later.”

I was dimly cognizant of the meaning of her words, and managed to say, between kisses, “Please—don’t—stop…”

“Are you close?”

I definitely felt the pressure of orgasm building within me. “(So close!)” I whined. “(Keep going!)” Static built up inside me, charging me, and I sighed as she pushed that charge to the breaking point of the air separating me and Earth— “(Ah-h-h-h-h…!)” I hugged her tight as my body became—

Electrified

Black clouds above

The arid desert

Shoot tendrils down

To massage the sand

Into glass.

They bring

With them

A precious

Gift which

Falls to earth

Turns the dust

To mud, fills

The gullies

And floods

The valleys,

Brings greenth

To the parched

Creosote and

Ocotillo.

And you

Bring

Me to

Life

The euphoria flowed in pulses, a rhythm that seemed to last an eternity as my pubic nerves tortured my mind. I surfed the waves of pleasure, one then another, crest after trough after crest, excitement and relaxation in series gradually subsiding…

Alas, all orgasms eventually come to an end.

“Just in time,” she declared.

Relaxed and exhausted in the wake of overwhelming pleasure, I cuddled against her and through the haze of afterglow asked, “‘Just in time’… for what?”

She breathed in through her nose. “Hm. To go down to Adams.”

“Oh. Right. The case.” ‹Fuck, talking to them is gonna be awkward.›

She continued sniffing, waiting for me to catch my breath before remarking, “You are soaked.”

“You just fucked me. Of course I’m soaked.”

“I sure did.”

“That’s two fucks in one day,” I observed.

“Yep. And tonight I’m gonna eat you out.”

I felt like blushing, but I was already red. “I’m… looking forward to it. And now it’s the only thing I can think about. You’ve turned me into a sex-obsessed pervert.”

She grinned. “Can’t say I’m sorry, nympho.”

I gave her a dour look. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? You’re a sex maniac.”

“They called me ‘the nympho’ in high school.”

Her face screwed up with regret. “Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“And ever since we started having sex it’s been an elephant in my mental living room, waiting silently for me to think about it, but I’ve been doing everything I can to keep my mind off the fact I’m an example where the stereotype about redheads’ libidos is true, and that’s made even worse because, based on how quickly we hooked up, we can infer that I’m promiscuous, to boot.”

“First of all, there’s nothing wrong with having a libido. Second, I feel the need to remind you that you yourself said there was nothing wrong with being a slut. You are not the villain for being who you want to be and doing what you want to do. The people mocking you and picking on you for being someone they don’t like or doing something they don’t like are the villains. If being a slut makes you happy, you should embrace it.”

‹It’s not that simple…› “People mock me and insult me for having hair of an uncommon color. They form these beliefs about what I am before they’ve even met me, and they think less of me because of those beliefs. That’s not the kind of thing you ‘embrace’.”

“Fuck those people. Fuck what they believe, fuck what they say. Follow your heart, not theirs, define yourself and don’t let them define you. Those bastards can go to hell.”

‹Does what she’s saying make sense? Sometimes they’re cruel, sometimes they’re inconsiderate, sometimes they’re merely rude—and sometimes they just… don’t know any better, because they’ve heard the same lies their entire lives, or were never taught how to be civil.› “Not all of them are trying to be mean. Some of them are just ignorant.”

“The ignorant ones are a different problem, but whether they mean to be cruel or not, they’re still doing harm, so they’re still in the wrong. I’m talking about the assholes who don’t actually care what the truth is or about how you feel. The rest, the ‘nice’ ones… if you don’t feel like telling them to fuck off, you can give educating them a try. But that’s a heavy burden to shoulder, and I honestly don’t think it’s fair to you or worth your time or your effort.”

“I don’t know if… if someone who’s willing to improve themself isn’t worth helping. I think people deserve second chances.”

She nodded. “For example… you. That’s something everyone has to decide for herself. In your case, I chose to give you that second chance.”

“And I’m glad you did. I’ll keep that in mind next time someone calls me a—‍” I nearly locked up—I was contending with a lot of trauma. “Like I said… If I want to be a slut, there’s nothing wrong with that.” I breathed deeply. “I’m a slut. And that’s valid.” Admitting this was still a little painful, but at the same time… every time I said it, I felt a little more liberated. Being proud of my sluttiness was counterintuitive, difficult to swallow, and frightening… but liberating. And once I had tasted the skin of liberation, I craved the whole fruit.

She smiled warmly and rubbed my back. “I’m glad you’ve been able to work through that bullshit to reclaim this part of yourself. How’re ya feelin’?”

I realized I had been shedding tears throughout the entire conversation and was relieved that I had chosen to skip the mascara that morning. “Um. Just a sec, my face is drenched.” I went and grabbed a tissue from my nightstand to dab my eyes and cheeks. “I think I need time to process; this new way of thinking feels unnatural, and getting used to it is gonna involve scraping away the old thoughts and old emotions, like chewing gum from the sole of my shoe.”

“Sounds like there might be some trauma.”

“Plenty, but… I’m not in pain anymore. The trauma’s still there but it isn’t crushing me. I feel okay for the first time in decades. I feel better about being a redhead, and about being one who enjoys sex. I’m a slut who wants to fuck, and… I’m… proud of it.”

“Good!”

“But I could maybe use a distraction while my ‘metamorphosis’ incubates.”

“Then let’s get back on the case.” She checked her phone. “It’s past time to leave. It’s 64 outside, so people might wonder why you’re covered in sweat.”

I sighed. “Shit. No one’s gonna want to be near me while I’m sopping wet.”

“You might be amused to learn that I find your post-sex sweat sexy.”

“Oh? Well, I’m always happy to be sexy to you, so you can make me sweat whenever you’re in the mood. Fortunately for you, we don’t have time for me to rinse off.”

She grinned. “Alright, Perspira, let’s get a move-on.”

Chapter 7: Queen of Vice

We picked up ‘some’ cash (1,500 dollars) at the ATM next to the cafe, which I hoped would be sufficient encouragement for all the shy informants I expected to encounter. It was my idea—in some movies, the protagonist has no choice but to buy their informants’ testimony. In line with being the private investigator’s most coveted commodity (followed distantly by cigarettes and booze), information was scarce and therefore invaluable, and sharing or even being suspected of possessing it can be associated with degrees of risk ranging from social embarrassment to economic ruination to incarceration to certain death—so it ought to be obvious to even the least astute of lay people that it is only fair to compensate informants proportionately to the efforts they invest and the risks they shoulder in acquiring it.

“You really do have good instincts,” said Judith after I explained what I figured was a fair price to pay for interviewing the people on Adams. “And, yes, they will appreciate being compensated.”

I was nervous about parking Banana Shark anywhere near Adams—being, out of all the city’s streets, the one with the seediest reputation—but Judith assured me, “The workers prefer that their johns’ cars aren’t damaged or stolen while they’re rendering services. It’s bad for business. Your fancy car is safer here than it is at your old police station. Or home, for that matter.”

I decided to trust her in spite of my doubts. Traffic was bustling like any other night, yet the parking that was usually at full utilization was, to my continuing bewilderment, in use by only a couple of cars, so I was able to find a spot right in front of the Old Torrey Pines Hotel, which towered over all the other buildings at the block’s midpoint. I put 15 minutes into the meter to begin with (I had no desire to be there any longer than necessary and planned to fill the meter in the smallest possible increments until we were finished); and as I fed the machine, Judith observed (with mild amusement), “Ex-meter maid pays for parking.”

“That’s how it goes.” I pulled a leaf out from under her windshield wipers, gave her roof a gentle pat, and prayed to any god who may be listening for her safety.

“Have you ever spent any time here?”

The near absence of parked cars had unnerved me from the moment I rolled onto the street at the beginning of the night shift on Wednesday, and it was even more disconcerting now to see the curbs so empty on a Saturday evening. “I was assigned to this neighborhood July 5th, 2023, which means it was my beat for… a little more than a year.”

Her eyes widened with surprise. “No way…”

“Yes way. No one else wanted it, and no one wanted me, so I got stuck with it.”

“So you do know these people.”

“I know where all the metered spots, handicapped spots, fire hydrants, driveways, yellow curbs and red curbs are—and that’s it. As long as I didn’t have to leave my three-wheeler, I kept my plump ass planted in my seat.”

“Everybody on this street is gonna recognize your hair.”

“Which was what I was worrying about earlier, but you said I was going to be forthright about being—‍” I heard a familiar ‘rattle-clink’ and reflexively turned around to find the source of the sound. A woman in a pink mini dress with straight blonde hair—5′6″ or 5′7″ without her heels, mid 40s, athletic build, artfully shaped eyebrows, walnut brown eyes, delicate chin and cheekbones—had just fed a quarter (from the sound of it) into the next meter over. Her eyes, defiant and resentful, bored into mine, daring me to react to what she had just done in my presence. I froze like a deer that had just been licked by a wolf. “Judith…” I whispered, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Start making friends. I’ll introduce you.”

“Oh… kay.” I hesitated before approaching the woman—with the caution one might exercise while approaching a rabid dog (as opposed to a civil if admittedly oppositional fellow human being who had yet to give me any reason to fear for my physical safety)—and Judith followed.

The woman gave us each a suspicious look, and also gave my friend an equally suspicious “Evening… Judith,” then switched her stare to Judith’s eyes alone, ignoring me.

Judith took her cold greeting in stride. “Good evening, Yesenia. How ya doin’?”

“Well,” replied the woman who apparently knew Judith… coldly. “I’m definitely not breaking any laws.” And then to me, “This meter was fed by the person who parked here, Officer. I totally did not feed it any quarters without the driver’s written consent.”

“I strongly suggest,” I meekly suggested, “that you refrain from violating Santa Virginia Municipal Code Section 74.0382 in view of the new Parking Enforcement Officer assigned to this beat. They’re gonna be a lot less lenient than I was.”

She seemed to have missed my advice, because she focused on the “‘New’? ‘Was’? Is that to say that you’ve been reassigned?” She didn’t sound excited by this news—if anything, she sounded concerned.

“If you count being fired as a ‘reassignment’.”

She chuckled. “Serves ya right, copper.” But her satisfaction rang hollow—I could tell that she wasn’t happy to hear that I would no longer be patrolling the street—though I had no clue why.

But I left that observation alone. “I didn’t like fining people, and I’m glad it wasn’t my job to arrest anyone here.”

“Boo-hoo, you weren’t personally owed the blame for making our lives difficult.” Her remark would have pierced me lethally if she had stabbed me with the pointed end of her voice. “J, you with this pig for reals?”

“Ex-pig,” I reminded her…

…and my head fell as she spoke the words I feared most: “As the ancient adage teaches us: ‘Once a pig, always a pig.’”

“Well, fuck you, too, whore!” growled Shosh.

“Please don’t be confrontational,” I mumbled.

“I am not being confrontational,” replied Yesenia. “I merely speak the truth to pigs who live in ignorance.”

“Ugh… You’re right,” I moped. “I’m still a pig.”

“(Hey. What’s going on?)” whisper-asked Judith. “(Why’re you falling apart?)”

“Nothing…” ‹I’m hopelessly irredeemable.›

“I can’t help you if you don’t open up.”

“I’m a cop…” ‹No decent person will ever trust me. Because cops can’t be trusted, no matter how sincere their guilt may sound. Our apologies are all as empty as the space beyond the universe.›

“You’re trying to escape that.”

“I don’t know if I can.” ‹New acronym, ECIFAB: Every Cop Is Forever A Bastard.›

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know if I can get on their good side when I feel…” My lips puckered in self-resentment. “Please don’t judge me.”

“I won’t. What do you feel?”

‹I don’t want to tell her, I don’t want to hear myself confess it… But I must clear the fog around what has me so bothered.› “This place makes me feel… dirty… like being around… these people is enough to become tainted. It’s why I confined myself to my three-wheeler whenever I was on patrol. Just talking to her makes me want to run home and take a shower.” Yes, I admitted that to a sex worker, right to her face. Yes, I feel bad for having said it. But one must articulate one’s flaws before they can be corrected. An ailment cannot be cured without first diagnosing it.

She processed my confession carefully, patiently—and calmly, gently she replied, “Okay. Well. As a veteran sex worker, I find that offensive and dehumanizing.”

“No—no, you’re not like them.”

“How am I not like other sex workers? And how would me being ‘not like them’ even matter?”

“You’re…” I didn’t know how she was different. “Because…” And I didn’t know how being different would have made a difference.

“Alright, I’m going to be nice and help you instead of getting angry. You’ve been indoctrinated by police culture and our Christofascist society as a whole into hating sex workers.”

“I wouldn’t use the word ‘hate’…”

“What other word would you use?” she asked a little impatiently.

“I don’t know but—I’m just… a little… grossed… out.”

She sighed. “The distinction between hatred and disgust is not one worth making when it comes to viewing others as human, in my experience as someone who has been on the receiving end of both for just about my entire life.”

I grimaced. “If you say so…”

“I do say so. Inside your head there’s a tangled-up mass of bullshit tied up over the course of your lifetime, and you’re going to have to untangle it knot by knot, strand by strand. It’s gonna take a long time, it’s gonna require a lot of reflection and self-criticism, it’s gonna require a bunch of research and work. It’s gonna suck. But that’s the price of being a good person.”

“Ah. Okay. Well… fuck. My brain is messed up.”

“Put simply. And you are the only person who can fix it.”

I sighed. “No rest for the wicked until they’ve put back together their own shattered minds.”

“Part of becoming a good person is accepting that you’re imperfect.”

“I’ve already accepted that fact. ACAB. I’m bad. I’ve hurt people, maybe not directly, but indirectly, by being a part of the oppressor class. I want to be good. But the distance between here and my destination feels like infinity.”

“(Lord, forgive me,)” she muttered to herself as she glanced over at Yesenia in the distance, “for having parents who taught me about systems of oppression so I didn’t have to figure them out on my own… Alright. You know you’re bad. Let’s start unknotting your biases. You need to get to know these folks so that you can see them as human beings. Spend lots of time with the people who make you uncomfortable, be polite, follow their rules, internalize their values and let them reshape yours as you witness their humanity first-hand.”

“So I need to surround myself with prost—sex workers.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay. That sounds like it might help. But I will fuck it up somehow.”

“Do you know how to apologize?”

“I spent ten-and-a-half years screwing up at my job, and my bosses always seemed satisfied with my apologies.”

“Well, your bosses aren’t members of a marginalized group, and your fuckups probably didn’t hurt your bosses substantially, so knowing that you can soothe the porcine leadership doesn’t do much to bolster my confidence. That said, no-one learns how to fly without falling from the nest. Flap those wings, Andy.”

“And nosedive into the concrete.” We caught up with Yesenia, who had left us long ago and was trying to flag down cars by posing alluringly. “Do you think anybody here would mind if I hang out on Adams and get to know them better?”

She shook her head in disappointment while at the same time smirking in amusement. “You wanna use us for your exposure therapy?”

“Please, Seni,” interjected Judith. “She hated her job, and she hates herself for being a cop. Give her a chance.”

Incredulous that Judith would make such a perverse request, the woman laughed. “You’re asking me to give a cop—a bastard, one of our sworn enemies—a chance to earn my trust?”

“Yes. A second chance.”

“How do you fit those huge balls up inside your inguinal canals?”

“I use a sledgehammer. And I’m proud of them. I’m glad you’ve taken that fact to heart.”

“You’re welcome. Get this bastard out of here, and if you wish to remain friends with me, don’t let me see you with her again, here or anywhere else.”

“Well, fuck you, too!” snarled Shosh. “Like you’re some kind of morally upright—‍”

“What if,” I interrupted, “I did something to prove that you can trust me?”

“What could you possibly do to convince the people here that you deserve their trust?”

“Well…”

“Well?”

“Um…”

“Esti, you’ve got a plan somewhere in that noggin. Just relax and let it come to you.”

“You know what?” asked Yesenia. “You think about that for a long time. Maybe I’ll trust you someday, perhaps enough to talk about the weather. Not tonight, though. Please excuse me, Officer, I need to get back to my job.” With that she turned away and went back to posing pretty for the passing cars.

“I say again,” repeated Shosh, “‘Fuck you.’”

“We’ll figure out something, Andy.”

“It’s hopeless. The case is cold without the eyes and ears of the people on this street.”

“Well…” I could hear the hope draining from her voice. “If it ends up cold… I still think you could do sex work—though you should probably avoid Adams.”

“Don’t you think there’s a chance I’d maybe hate it?” I hoped beneath a veneer of skepticism.

“It isn’t a bad job—‍”

“It’s a terrible job,” countered Shosh with authority.

“—well, escort work isn’t, anyway—once you’ve learned how to manage a business, launder your income, and juggle flaky johns. Which sounds a little bit tedious, but these skills can be learned, and as I told you before, I thought it was fulfilling. So… I think taking a whack at it wouldn’t hurt. You can give it a single try and decide from there whether you want to try it again—and you don’t have to commit for life, you can quit whenever you like.”

My anxiety grew as she went on and on in a misled attempt to ease what she assumed to be my reservations. As she finished, I simply couldn’t bear to hear another word. “Damn it, Judith,” I whined. “I’m afraid that if I try it once I’m gonna wanna do it again and again and again—‍”

“What!” blurted Shosh, eyes wide.

“—so that I settle on being a dirty hooker instead of a great detective!”

“Woah, woah. Ignoring the ‘dirty hooker’ remark—why… are you nervous about that?” Then Judith noticed just how anxious I was. “Okay. Let’s suppose you did become a ‘dirty hooker’ because you decided you liked it even more than detective work. How would that be such a bad thing? If you want to do it and it makes you happy, what’s wrong with pursuing a career you never considered until now? If you like it enough, could you maybe just let it be your new dream job?”

“I don’t think—‍” I groaned exasperatedly. “When we were talking about sex work—earlier, when you were talking about why you quit—I had a fantasy. Multiple, actually.”

“Bye,” said Shosh as the breeze blew her mist away.

“Were they enjoyable fantasies?”

“In the first one, I was… (performing fellatio) for a man, for a chunk of change generous enough to… temporarily change my sexual orientation. And I was eager to please him, I enjoyed it because of the money, I got turned on by the thought of being paid for sex. Especially since it was with someone I didn’t find attractive.”

She chuckled, which hurt. “A straight-for-pay fetish. I’ll be damned. I hope you make the best of it.”

“I really hope I don’t, I’m already addicted to sex with you, I don’t need to be addicted to sex with men I don’t know.”

It was her turn to be hurt. “Surely wanting to have sex with me isn’t so… burdensome that you wish… that… we’d never met?”

“What? No!” I took her hands in mine. “I l-like you, Judith Lucas, I like being around you and doing things with you, and I have no regrets about spending time with you anyway we decide to. I’m just overwhelmed that I feel compelled by my lust every time you kiss me to mate with you like some kind of beast in heat, driven mad by its drive to reproduce.”

She blushed as she sucked a puff of air through her teeth and whisper-echoed, “‘Like a beast in heat, driven mad by its drive to reproduce.’ Hoo-boy. Is it really that bad?”

“I’m dry humping you in public places. Yes, it’s ‘that bad’.”

Silence followed while something circled the inside of her skull a few times, changing with each revolution, until out of somewhere she pulled out the words, “You’re beautiful. You know that, right?”

“You’re welcome to believe that.”

“And confident—maybe not at this very moment, but when it counts—which only adds to your charm.”

I blushed, and for just a moment her compliments stole the spotlight from my anxiety. “Well… I have on occasion felt confident, but… you saying that… still kind of comes off as… flattery…”

“Your passion and sincerity, even as you explore things you find unfamiliar or intimidating, makes you even sexier.”

Her praise, however, didn’t sit right for very long. “You’re only telling me these things to make me feel better.”

“What do I have to gain?”

“A lot of things, I imagine, or you wouldn’t be doing it.”

She frowned. “Gee, thanks for trusting me to be sincere. I helped you with your laundry, and with finding this case and encouraging you to take it on, and with untangling your internalized bullshit, for fuck’s sake.”

“(Ohh-whh…)” I lamented.

‹Something is wrong with me. One of many things. I’m pushing her away. Why? Why don’t I want to hear her say nice things? Why don’t I want to believe her? Do I think she’s full of lies? I have no reason to distrust her. I’m afraid. Afraid of something, I don’t know what. Everything. I’m all anxiety and fear and distrust. Paranoid. Like a cop. A depressed cop. Who wants to love but is afraid to say it. That needs to change.›

“I’m… sorry I was dismissive, Judith. You’re trying to make me feel better with the sincerest of intentions, and I’m letting my fucked-up brain get in the way. From now on, I won’t assume you’re motivated by anything other than my well-being.”

She smiled innocently. “Thank you. You are good at apologies.” It was a thoroughly sincere attempt, so I was certainly hoping she would be satisfied.

We returned to Yesenia. “So, Yesenia…” I asked, “Is there anything you’re willing to tell me? About you, about your job?”

She sighed. “Christ, fuck me. Fine. I’ll talk about my job, but nothing biographical.”

“Okay. Um…” On the off-chance I caved to Judith’s advice and decided to give it just one little (teensy-weensy maybe-waybe) try, I wanted to minimize the probability that I would enjoy working in the ‘service industry’—or at least the degree to which I enjoyed it. “Supposing I became a sex worker… hypothetically… how would I go about attracting only women, not men?”

A knowing glance passed back and forth between her and Judith; she explained, “It’s your right to pass on anyone for any reason, whether they want to do things that you don’t want to do, or you don’t find them attractive, or you aren’t in the mood… but if you want to make real money, you’re gonna need to acclimate to dirty-talk and touching skin and sucking dick with anyone who offers you the right money.”

I blanched, though a ‘sick’ part of me was relieved that having sex with men was more or less in the job requirements. “Right. Umm… How much should—would I charge?”

“Hm… Tell me: How much do you think you’re worth?”

“Um… 20… 30 an hour?”

Her laughter carried subtly the air of her experienced authority. “Oh, honey, you are selling yourself way short, and besides, the guild decided on a price floor of 50 bucks an hour for chaste company as well as whatever you decide to charge for any add-ons—BJs, penetration, and the like. You are very pretty, plus your fair skin and red hair will fetch a premium on top of that. Though you are inexperienced, you might begin at 60, 70 an hour—or more.”

‹‘Very pretty’? This woman hates my guts and yet she can tell me with a straight face that I’m ‘very pretty’?!› To my chagrin, I felt my ego swell with pride. “So I could be… the premium pussy.”

“I bet you could get away with a hundred,” said Judith. “You’re responsive if not aggressive, you’re a naturally talented kisser… and you have very nice tits.”

‹I do have nice tits… And Yesenia thinks I’m pretty… And I’m a great kisser… And I know how to fuck.›

The worker shrugged. “J knows what sex is worth, Ex-Cop, even after decades of retirement, so I would give her guidance weight. However much you charge initially, with a soft, curvaceous figure like yours, you could someday be as desirable as anyone—if we assume you stick with this long term…”

‹I undercharged the man in my daydream. My body is a valuable commodity. I should only lend it to wealthy patrons…› {and perhaps one of them, ooh, yes, the mysterious one who always wears a mask, who—

{Of course! Who, when I ask him to take it off, growls back that I am the last person he wants to see his face… and if I ever ask again, he’ll cease to love my body… He loves my body every day, 365 times straight, and then… he proposes!

{He proposes to me on the anniversary of the first night he used my body to pleasure himself…! And… and… oh my God, I accept! The wedding is beautiful, 10,000 kowtowing guests pooling their savings to shower us with lavish gifts, wishing us many happy years, arum lilies wall-to-wall, a cake the size of a car… but even as I marry him, even after we’ve said, “I do,” and kissed, he still insists on hiding something shameful behind that damned mask.

{He carries me from the wedding to and over the threshold of my new home—a massive castle with towers and turrets and tapestries, and maids and butlers waiting on us hand-and-foot—where we eat fancy foods and drink fine wine…

{After we’ve had our fill—it’s a light meal, and we have ‘physical activity’ planned right after—he carries me in his strong arms again, this time into our bed chambers, where he rips off my clothes and plunders my flesh’s every treasure with his rough hands and his long and girthy cock…

{But he’s still wearing the mask I loathe more than anything, the thing that keeps us from being truly together. I must see his face.}

I shivered in shameful delight and anticipation.

{As the sweat beads up on our bodies, our muscles grow sore but our passion only intensifies… as does my curiosity. He said I couldn’t ask him to take it off. He didn’t say that I couldn’t just take it off myself—

{I snatch the mask from his face and am shocked by what is underneath. This is not the face of a man.}

I gasped. I was shocked by what I saw, I was stunned by what I discovered, I was scandalized by the lie that had brought us together.

{This… is the face… of a beautiful woman.}

My fantasy concluded satisfyingly, and my attention returned (from the most flawless dream ever to have diverted my attention from the present) to Yesenia mid-lecture. “…been paying attention, you’ll remember, but it bears repeating: if your john has something hanging between their legs…?” She waited for me to…

“Then… um…”

“Almighty Lord, you had your head shoved up the ass of a cloud. Christ fuck me hard for trying to impart wisdom to a fool.”

“I’m sorry,” I whined.

“You pestered me until I acquiesced to sharing my wisdom with you and you’re not listening.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m just so distracted by—‍”

“Please, just…” She took a couple of seconds to cool off. “If you ever choose to pursue this line of work… please, use a condom. I want you to know that, as of two years ago, SB 233 took away the pigs’ ability to use possession of a condom as evidence of engaging in prostitution, so you can carry as many as you like without fear of being arrested. And if your john does something you don’t want them to, you have the right to tell them to stop, no ifs or ands or buts or whys.”

“And if they… don’t stop?”

“The answer to that question has two parts. The first: what they pay you up-front is yours to keep, whether you rendered all or none of the services requested.”

“That isn’t really what I was—‍”

“The second part… is a work in progress.”

“I mean if—I needed… (help…)”

“The guild has therapists on call 24/7 to help you through anything unpleasant that may happen to you. There are websites where you can report problem johns. If you want to press charges, California law says you can do so without worrying about being prosecuted, but we’ll hook you up with legal assistance just in case the pigs try anything funny.”

“Um. I know some self-defense moves from work…”

“We all do, thanks to training offered by the guild. I hope you never have to use them. —God, that was the most naïve thing I have ever told someone eyeing this career…”

A soft, droning growl languidly displaced the painful silence, eventually growing just loud enough for the back of my mind to identify it as the purr of a V8, somewhere around 4 liters. Judith’s face betrayed a crippling indecision as to whether she should say something to follow-up and what it should be—but the lull in conversation was no comfort to me at all.

I half-suspect Yesenia was not expecting a reply, because she was silent for a while—until the droning sound was close enough that I’d have recognized the license plate had my eyes been pointed its way—before she grumbled, “Ah, a shithead cometh. One more helpful piece of wisdom, sister: wealthy types prefer to employ sugar babies, trophy wives, and expensive escorts. Rich folk don’t drive down our street. So when they come to see the most despised and vulnerable…” She put extra weight on ‘vulnerable’ and threw in a pause for dramatic effect. “…of sex workers for something illegal, you gotta ask yourself, ‘what kind of illegal acts do they intend to commit with a body no-one’s gonna miss?’”

I nodded. “I catch your drift. But I think I would go the escort route if possible, in which case I wouldn’t need to avoid the wealthy ones.”

I turned away from her just in time to witness the flawless dark blue Mercedes Benz S580 coming to a luxurious stop alongside us, its oversized engine now very audible. The midnight-tinted passenger window rolled down and a sophisticated voice that defied the concepts of gender and dialect commanded, “Redhead.”

I froze. ‹Are they… soliciting… me?› I glanced at Yesenia for advice but received only a blank stare. Judith was too shocked to provide me with wisdom or encouragement. Deprived of guidance from my elders, I pictured a man with a deep wallet hoping for a moment of companionship… and stepped up to the plate.

I approached the Mercedes—hardly noticing the previously flush door handle popping out as I came within arm’s reach—and asked so innocently, so timidly, so naïvely, “So—(umh)—do you— Are you looking for something special tonight?”

“Do you render services to women?” I couldn’t see any of their face north of their razor-sharp jaw.

I tried to be confident. I reminded myself that I was worth money, that I was pretty, and curvaceous, and had nice tits… so they should be intimidated by me. “If—if you’re willing to pay extra.”

“I am willing to pay for quality. What are your rates?” I ducked down to get a better look at their face. It was a very memorable face—angular and authoritative, a suitable match for the voice. Indeed, it was so memorable that her name and vocation immediately popped into my head:

Captain Diane Somers,

SVPD First Precinct,

Vice Squad.

Chapter 8: Butch Fatale

Captain Somers, despite being only 5′10″, would have towered over me even more imposingly than Judith did. She was somewhere in her mid-40s, so, being a late Gen Xer, it would not have surprised the average person very much to meet somebody of her age maintaining a cherry red pixie undercut—assuming they were unaware of her workplace’s dress code. She also had an intriguing preference for well-fitted men’s outfits, and tonight’s jacket (though too dark for me to discern its exact hue within the indigo shadows of her car’s interior) was no exception. For a police captain, her hair and mode of dress were rather shocking to encounter at work, while her facial features, unique and strikingly polygonal, nevertheless managed to be more shocking still.

We locked eyes, and I could sense in hers that my own appearance was just as memorable.

I did a surprisingly good job of remaining calm and told myself, ‹Maybe she hasn’t noticed that I recognize her.› She breathed deeply in through her nose, and with eyes hungry as a wolf’s and a ‘come hither’ curl of her finger she demanded, “Closer, girl,” so—driven by some previously hidden inclination towards obedience—I leaned over the window’s threshold and into the cabin. She examined my bone structure, freckles, and eyes. Her nostrils flared as she took another deep breath, and she sighed in satisfaction and smirked—no less intimidatingly for having kept her teeth safely behind her lips. “Are you not that green-eyed redhead from Parking Enforcement?”

“Don’t do this, Esti,” begged Shosh.

‹The first precinct Vice captain is soliciting me. This situation is fucked up on more levels than I feel like counting—I oughta get myself the hell out of here.› “You have me mixed up with another redhead, Capt—‍” I said this as coolly as I could but winced and quietly groaned as the word ‘Captain’ half-slipped out.

“You are!” She flashed her teeth in predatory amusement. “Why are you patrolling Adams on the other side of the law? Was your pay raise not generous enough this year? Did you write too few citations to earn your bonus?”

My mind was busy searching for a polite way to escape while my mouth hung open, waiting for my mind to give it something to say.

“Would you prefer not to reveal your reasons for waiting on the curb instead of driving your little three-wheeler from meter to meter?”

“I… was… let go. Ma’am.” ‹I could just start running. Any second now, just run. Run. Like, now. Go. Fly away. Sprint to safety. For God’s sake, get moving!› I remained frozen. Like… vanilla ice cream… I waited, inanimate, to be gobbled down. I smelled vanilla, actually—the aroma held me fast, and with each sweet breath I was held faster still.

She nodded with more sympathy than someone with a base salary in excess of 7 times mine should have been capable of showing. “You were caught working your side hustle… or was it something else?”

“Something else, ma’am.”

She did not wait for the elaboration I was not prepared to give. “Tell me.”

‹I can tell her to leave me be. I don’t have to explain myself.› I explained myself. “The brass decided I was unfit for duty.”

“Tell me their rationale.”

“They couldn’t accommodate my disabilities.” ‹I’m sure the other two will agree that this is not a good situation to put myself in, and won’t blame me for sprinting away, screaming that a rich pig is trying to lure me into her car with money so she can abduct and murder me.›

“That is unfortunate. But I would be overjoyed to give my business to a former fellow LEO down on her luck. I find helping my own people quite satisfying, especially the ones who have fallen on hard times. What would you say to… 500 dollars for an hour of honest labor? All-inclusive, if that would be alright with you.”

That was half of a month’s rent earned in a single hour, over 20 times my hourly wage as a cop, 6 or 7 times the base rate for streetwalking, and 5 times what Judith said I could get away with charging. I knew damn well this woman was giving me a suspiciously generous deal, but…

‹Maybe… as long as she doesn’t make me piss in her mouth or eat her shit or anything gross or dangerous like that… I will satisfy every desire she has the guts to share with me.› Carefully I asked, “Are you into anything… interesting?”

“I am into things that would frighten, shock, and disgust you, but I would only ask you to indulge the very tamest of my predilections on our first outing.”

“That works for me, ma’am.”

“Do not call me ‘ma’am’ Get in.”

I grabbed the door handle, but before I pulled it I looked back one last time at Judith and Yesenia and Shosh. Yesenia and Judith looked like they were emerging from the wreckage after being T-boned by a fully-loaded clown car, while Shosh’s face was twisted by horror.

I pulled the handle… ‹Is this another fantasy?› …discreetly pinched myself… ‹Assuming the pinch test actually works, this is real.› …swung the door open… ‹How did I get here?› …climbed into the Mercedes… ‹I was propositioned, I accepted her offer, I got in her car, and now we’re going somewhere private.› …closed the door… ‹I’m gonna fuck her for money.› …buckled up… ‹I don’t know whether I ought to be scared shitless or jumping out of my dress from the excitement.› …and the captain drove us away. ‹Fear is good. Focus on the fear. Think of ways this could go wrong. Catastrophize. Invent the worst of all worst-case scenarios. Let my imagination run wild. Positively terrify myself.›

The luxurious all-leather femme-fatale’s-lipstick-red interior was illuminated by a violet band of light girding the doors and dashboard, and the cabin smelled of patchouli. (You may find it amusing to learn that the patchouli, in its sensual assertiveness, brought to my mind the imagined experience of strolling into a brothel.) I smelled something else, though, besides the patchouli and the vanilla. It was too subtle to describe, but that wispy cloud descended on my mind and gently fogged my thoughts—and changed me in some way beyond my understanding.

We rode in silence—apart from me reluctantly giving her my name when she asked for it—eventually arriving at the valet kiosk of the swanky Blue Agave Hotel. While my attempts to scare myself did not bear fruit, the whole drive had my nerves tight as suspension bridge cables for every conceivable reason, and as soon as we came to a stop I finally found myself silently panicking; she got out, but I stayed put, frozen by vague, confused thoughts about what we were about to do and the forces driving me to do it, mollified only minimally by her reassurance that we would be performing ‘the tamest’ of her ‘predilections’.

Then the car door opened—she was on the curb—the full ensemble of her sharp midnight-black three-piece suit, rich crimson shirt, and whimsical yet professional black necktie now visible under the hotel’s exterior lighting—waiting for me with a lethally sexy air reminiscent of a mafia hitman, offering her hand to me, ripping me away from my worries and stealing my breath. Calmly I extended my hand; she helped me disembark, then tossed her valet key to the person manning the kiosk.

“Notwithstanding the aggressive neckline, you are more ‘formally’ dressed than the other workers,” she observed as we approached the front desk, arm-in-arm. “That is a very nice cocktail dress for a job that involves a lot of stains.”

“My mother bought it for me for my 21st birthday,” I remarked absentmindedly, befuddled by my enchantment.

“It’s not too late to run,” suggested Shosh, startling me. “You have cash for a taxi.” I silently shushed her; she shook her head, said, “You’re on your own, Esti,” and took a disappointed seat at the bar.

“Your outfit is nice, too,” I continued. “Very dapper. Is that a vest?”

“‘Dapper’! That is precisely what I aim for. Yes, this is indeed a three-piece suit, complete with vest.”

“I have to say… I’m a little surprised to find a—a butch woman attractive,” I confessed with a giddy smile.

She chuckled. “I am not one for labels, especially since they never stick to me for very long.” She gave the front desk clerk a name, ‘Kate Fortune,’ and in exchange he handed her a pair of room cards with a warm if not knowing wish that we would enjoy our stay. “How would your mother feel about you doing the kind of work you are wearing that dress for?”

My mother had never in life explicitly voiced an opinion on sex work. However, in my youth she had insisted that I avoid Adams Avenue, especially at night, and if I absolutely must walk down that street that I cover every inch of skin in the least flattering clothes I had, and ‘for goodness’s sake, hide your hair’; she also said the people there were ‘unclean’, and I should give them a little money to distract them while I made my escape.

I glanced over at Shosh, who sucked down her double rum and coke as she judged me—then shook her head in controlled disbelief like a terrified, overprotective parent forced to keep her distance and trying her best to stay calm amid the worst crisis her child has ever wrought upon herself. ‹She isn’t acting like my best friend—she’s acting like a judgmental, nosy pain in the ass, like a controlling mother. As far as I can tell, she’s about as repulsed by sex workers as one can be while still seeing them as human.

‹Is that what I believe?

‹I’ve met sex workers. One of them is my best friend. They aren’t repulsive.

‹My peers, the media, and especially police culture, on the other hand, have painted in stark relief the prost—sex workers of Adams as unsalvageable lowlife scum selling their crack-addicted bodies to the lowest bidder and allowing johns to defile their sacred God-given flesh until their souls corrupt to the point of putrefaction, rendering them into husks missing some or all of their humanity—

‹Is that what I believe?

‹Even though I don’t believe in any God to give me flesh, this narrative has for years rooted itself in my skull and warped my mind without me noticing. Even Shosh—who told me everything I needed to know about sex (the penis-in-vagina variety, anyway) before I even had the chance to menstruate for the first time—isn’t immune to the fears forced upon her throughout childhood as well as the prejudices subtly introduced into her mind over the course of her entire life, as evidenced by the anger and despair and disappointment and shame on her face and in her body language and in her choice of a drink with a sweet mixer with a straw rather than neat liquor sipped from a rocks glass.

‹Can I disagree with my precious Shosh?

‹It wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe they have nuance, maybe sex workers aren’t disgusting, dirty, diseased leeches. Maybe they’re hard-working, productive members of society, laboring diligently to give others what they need in exchange for money. Just like any other worker. Compared to police, who abuse marginalized people and enforce property laws to the advantage of the rich… maybe… maybe sex workers aren’t just harmless—maybe they make the world a better place.›

The puzzle pieces were sorted into their general areas based on color and shape—so I was ready to put the picture together. “She… would not agree with me saying that it’s just another job that contributes to the economy and the happiness of the public.”

“That she would not approve of your new vocation does not surprise me,” said the captain, “so I promise I will not tell her.” She winked.

We were in the very nicely decorated room 502 in an instant, furnished with a table with a vase of red orchids and a king-size 4-poster bed, and as soon as the door was shut behind us she got to disrobing, shoes and jacket and vest first—as her jacket came off, she informed me with steely authority, “If I do anything you want me to stop doing, you need only say ‘red’, do you understand?” I nodded. “Say it.”

“Red.”

She smiled warmly. “Good. As pretty as that dress is, it needs to come off if we are to get anywhere within the next—‍” She checked her Rolex. “—50 minutes.”

I blushed. “Oh. Right.”

So I hastily removed my dress; by the time I had it off, she had shed everything except her lacy bra and dapper pants. “No bra…” she observed. “Very sexy. Leave your panties on, though. I want to take those off myself.” She claimed one side of the bed.

“If that’s what you want.” I waited.

“You could get into bed instead of standing awkwardly like a sexless mannequin.” I claimed my half of the bed, and she wrapped the curtains around us. We were enclosed, cut off from the world. It was just the two of us, confined within a space designated expressly for intimacy. Fear tickled the base of my brain, while lust tickled everything else. She scooted close and stared into me. “You have such lovely green eyes.” I reveled in her flattery, her words excited me and—

A whiff of incense

strikes my consciousness

with hints of almonds, whole

or sliced or meal or flour blanched,

unsalted, salted, baked into sweet

macaroons — and painted marzipan!

So fragrant, luring me to snack on

replicas of colorful and cute and

artistic shapes of fruit… I want

to fuck the source of this

confectious perfume. I want

to kiss you madly. I want

to get on top of you. I

want to ride your

cock—If only

you had

one.

I stared into her as I struggled to restrain my instincts.

“They always caught mine,” she continued, “whenever I saw you patrolling Adams at night. I wondered whether you might be the one to catch me engaging in my forbidden pleasures.” She chuckled. “And sure enough, you were.” She brushed a curl behind my ear; her touch made me shiver— ‹She’s going to defile my sacred flesh—but…› “But not until after they took away your badge. And your cuffs, which is a pity, because I find cuffs very entertaining.” She laid her hands on my shoulders and kissed me, and I responded pretty much the way I expected to respond—by immediately wrapping my arms around her and reciprocating with such aggression that I just about took the lead from her. Not far into our kissing, she asked, “What was it like, having it taken away?”

I did my best to concentrate on the conversation. “It was—(mwa)—the worst thing to ever—(mwa)—happen to me.” But I removed my lips only long enough to answer, then it was straight back to tongue fencing and fighting the urge to tear off her pants and ravish every square inch of her body. ‹She’s going to defile my sacred flesh—but ‘sacred’ according to who? It’s my flesh, not God’s, I have a right to do whatever the hell I want with it. Tattoos, drugs, prostitution—it’s mine to ‘defile’ in whichever fashions tickle me, whether planned or on impulse, be it for profit or pleasure or love.›

She moved her hand to my waist, brushing my tit on the way down; I wanted her to squeeze them both and bite my nipples. “‘The worst’? So you’ve never lost a friend or family member?”

“I lost my mother when I was 21, right after Peter Falk,” I said absentmindedly, preoccupied with her lips and hands and body; my knee-jerk moralistic thoughts on sex work screamed silently beneath all this, buried and suffocating beneath a majestic mountain of lust that made Everest look like a dung hill that had been smooshed flat under someone’s boot.

She pulled her head away to get a look at me, frustrating my desire. Curiosity twinkled in her eyes. “And losing your badge was worse than losing your mother?”

And then I realized how perversely skewed my priorities were. ‹She was everything to me. Or… was… she?› I ceased kissing Captain Somers as my brain seized like the Tin Man after an acid rain. “(Um.)” I would have been mortified had my mother been in the room to overhear this revelation. (Among other reasons.)

“Oh, my God. You are being serious. Was she not a loving mother?” Morbid curiosity and a hint of not-quite-judgment crept into her voice and face.

I was so overwhelmed by this self-revelation and my reproductive urges that I couldn’t think of a lie. All I could speak was the truth, and only with great effort. “Being… a homicide detective… was my lifelong dream.”

“Was your dream more important to you than friends or family?”

“I haven’t had either for the past decade,” I informed her. ‹Please stop asking humiliating questions and get back to passionately kissing me. Or fucking me. Preferably fucking.›

“I see. After you lost your mother, your job was the only thing you had left. After you lost that, you had nothing left at all. Is that an accurate summary?”

“Um. Yeah,” I admitted with token shame, rather less than she might have expected. It’s hard to feel shame when the only thought your brain is allowing you to think is ‘rail me hard and fast with your giant cock’ despite your sexual partner being a woman.

“So here you are, with absolutely nothing, no friends or family, no dream job, no reason to live—but living nonetheless, living a miserable, meaningless existence.” There was no pity or disgust or contempt in her voice or face, though neither was there much of anything else I could read, except a hint, a spark of intrigue within her eyes.

‹I have Judith, I’m not a meter maid anymore, I’ve started a career almost as desirable as my dream job, I’ve never been happier than I am now—by a wide margin.› But I took notice of the gently glowing coals of excitement I had somehow kindled within her eyes. I had a hunch, and without explaining itself that hunch took control of my voice. “I’ve…” I began timidly, before finding some melodramatic vigor, “I’ve never been more miserable than I am right now. And I’m terrified that it’ll only get worse. I’m doomed to be the most laughably pathetic person alive, a lonely virgin too incompetent to do the easiest job in the world, too poor to… drink or drug or whore away my sorrows.” ‹‘Virgin’… there’s no way she’s actually gonna believe that claim after I kissed her like that.›

A sharp-fanged smile slowly took over her face as she gently rolled me onto my back, mounted my stomach, grabbed my breasts, and squeezed them together. “You are desperate for money.”

I rested my hands on her hips, dared to stroke them. “I want… money.”

“Lots of money.”

I gently pulled her face down to mine. “Acquiring every penny within reach is all I can think about.” Kiss. “I crave the money that you’re dangling above my head just like a dog treat on my snout.” Her breathing quickened. “I need it so, so badly.” Kiss. “Not to spend. To have. To accumulate. To hoard, compulsively, like a feral dragon.” Kiss. “I want it.” Kiss. “More than anything.” Kiss. “I want your money so badly, I’ll do anything to persuade you to give me some of it.” She was panting like a rutting hound. “Getting paid is the only thing that matters anymore.” One more kiss, and I let go of her head.

“You would have let me fuck you for a Jackson.” She dismounted me and aggressively pulled off my panties.

“I’d service you sexually 24/7 for a month straight—a 31-day month, no union breaks, taking bites of my meals between sucks of your clit—in exchange for the smaller, worthless half of a torn Lincoln.” ‹Oh, but I’m getting a hell of a lot more than that when I’m finished with you.›

She took off her bra with crazed haste, then eagerly returned to my side and took my hands and placed them on her breasts; I gave them a squeeze and her nipples a rub, and she grunted in satisfaction. “You’d do it for the change under my couch cushions.”

“Oh, I’m worth a lot less than that. I’ll let you do whatever you want with my body, for a whole year, if you merely lend me, at a billion percent interest compounded by the second, an IOU for a one percent share in the ownership of a penny that’s been mutilated by one of those theme park souvenir machines.” ‹I’ll let you shove your coins between my cleavage, as long as I get to keep them.›

She pinched my nipples, causing me to gasp. “You’d do it for crumbs.”

“I’d do it for free, for the rest of my life, if I thought you could get me my boring, menial, despicable, demeaning, terrible…” I was running out of adjectives. “…horrible old job back.”

She kissed me deeply, then whispered, “I could never send such a beautiful girl back to Parking.” She reached down and stroked my clit, forcing my pelvis to thrust into her hand to increase the friction; I moaned between kisses. ‹Oh, I can’t wait to hold all that cash in my hands.› “Pretty people belong in Vice. Would you like to work there?”

“I couldn’t…” I whispered as I dug my fingers into her ass cheeks and humped her hand, wishing her to go faster, rougher, and to pay me in singles so that the stack of cash she handed over would be absurdly thick. ‹She might need a briefcase. That would be hot.› My humping sped up. ‹Fuck! Or a duffel bag so full it bursts when she zips it closed.› I moaned like the whore I was at the thought of a big bag, bursting at the seams, huge gobs of money spilling out of it and onto the bed and getting all over the sheets. ‹Stuff it in my bank account and overflow my purse!›

She stopped stroking me. “Why not?”

The unexpected suspension of stimulation left me momentarily disoriented. “What?”

“Why wouldn’t you like to work for me?”

I was still so caught up in unraveling my prejudices towards sex workers that I voiced my honest thoughts.

My honest thoughts.

On police/sex worker relations.

To the Vice Captain.

Sure, I was still experiencing very strong emotions over my increasingly complex metamorphosis into a decent human being, but I thoughtlessly spoke my mind rather than make up something that would satisfy a pig.

“Because… it doesn’t feel right to go after these people. Sex is the best way to make a living that these people have been able to find—which I kind of relate to, even if reluctantly writing parking tickets was nowhere near as challenging as pursuing a line of work where… where everyone… thinks you’re disgusting and immoral and a threat to society. Add in the fuzz prosecuting them or constantly shaking them down for free blowjobs and bribes—‍”

It was at that moment that I finally realized I was maybe saying a little too much.

“—Not that your squad is— I mean, it’s the Patrol Officers, not Vice Detectives, who do that stuff, Vice is fine, it’s a fine place to work, I’m not saying— They do good work— I mean, I am saying they do good work, when I said ‘I’m not saying’ I was about to say something else but changed my mind— Vice are good people, they do good work. Now that I think about it, I would maybe work there. I would definitely work for you, and I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t feel bad at all about—‍”

She placed a finger on my lips. “You are concerned about the unfortunate reality that sex workers often face persecution and maltreatment at the hands of the so-called ‘justice system’, and you wish to avoid inflicting upon them further harm. Your rationale for rejecting my hypothetical offer is compassionate, well-considered, and based in reality. I have no desire to offer you a counter-argument—because there are none that any well-informed person with a functioning moral compass would find persuasive or compassionate.”

‹On the one hand, maybe being frank to a paying customer about my reasons for not wanting to work in her unit was idiotic. But having been frank, she has thrown me for a loop by surrendering to my assertions.› “So… you… agree.”

“Your political beliefs would be at odds with those of your co-workers, possibly leading to hostility or retaliation; and working your assignments would cause you too much cognitive dissonance. You would be trapped in an unhealthy working environment, and you would suffer even more than you did while in Parking.”

Gingerly, I replied, “Um. Yes.”

“You really are one of u-them already.” I noticed but thought little of the half-spoken word she replaced with ‘them’. On the other hand, I noticed and thought very much of the lack of disdain in her tone, the lilt of wonder in her words, and the curl of curiosity in her smile. Alas, for all my thinking, I couldn’t make a lick of sense of her reaction.

“You lost all respect for the badge over the course of your time as an officer of the law. Do not regret your shame. Understand it. Appreciate it. Heed it.”

‹What the fuck?› She kissed me. Hard, harder than before, so hard that I became lost within the sensations overpowering the nerves of my lips and tongue, pulled from my confusion straight back into the action. And then she (gently) pulled on my clit, causing me to whimper and arch my back in appreciation. ‹Finally, back to doing my job. You didn’t hire me to talk politics.›

She interrupted the kiss to whisper, casually and without malice, “(You are pathetic. Your dream of being a detective has turned to vapor. You have no ambition. You have no self-worth. You are empty inside. You are a husk. You… are nothing.)” By the time she had finished and resumed kissing me, my lips were aching for hers.

My hunch had fully ripened by the time she said these words. I concluded that the very obvious motive behind her insults, which would have made me absolutely perfect for her in the few hours between being fired and meeting Judith: she enjoyed demeaning her partners. I had Judith, who brought me more happiness than anything or anybody ever had, so Somers’s game was laughable and not the least bit painful—but this woman was paying me half of a thousand dollars for a good time, so I had to pretend that I wasn’t the happiest woman in the world. Not convincingly, but with conviction.

I parted our lips just enough to speak. “All I have left,” I whispered as melodramatically as my feelings would allow while greedily massaging her ass cheeks through her pants, “is the fleeting satisfaction of pleasing my customers with my body, and the bliss of earning a wrinkled, coke-stained buck for my dangerous, backbreaking, underappreciated, unfairly demonized work.” ‘As melodramatically as my feelings would allow’ is to say that my act came out a little more sincerely than I had intended. ‹If I keep telling her such masterful lines, she might give me a tip…›

She kissed me, then grabbed my fingers and pinched them onto both of her nipples. I took her ‘subtle’ hint and with infinite eagerness did my best to please her. “It’s too bad that after so many—(ahh)—years at that job you hated, your—(hah)—eyes still have so much life in them. But it won’t—st-stay that way forever. I give you one—(hmm)—one more month at yet another job you h-(aaate) that doesn’t pay enough—(fffuck)—that gives you no opportunities to sate your lust for mystery-(eee)—until those eyes are dull and emp—ty.”

“I think you’re being optimistic,” I said with all the sensuality I could muster. “I give myself the weekend until I accept the fact that this is the only job I’ll ever be qualified for.” What I intended to be sensual ended up sounding more matter of fact than anything.

“Yes! And once you’ve arrived at the conclusion that sex for money is your only option, I’ll—(mhh)—hire you to be my sex slave.”

“I’ve already come to that conclusion, so if it means making more money, I’ll agree to your job offer without bothering to read the contract. I will gladly sell my body to you in exchange for a guaranteed source of money, the only thing I care about anymore.” I had ceased using my mind to gratify her, having switched to telling her what my heart told me to share, and my very satisfying reward for my effortless play was her ecstatic giggling. “Maybe I’ll do it in exchange for the scraps from your table and a place to sleep, sharing the doghouse with the dog. And to sweeten the deal and drive home just how desperate I am for the crumbs on your dining room floor, I would throw in my soul…” I licked her neck, causing her to gasp. “…if only I could figure out how to rip that out and put it on a silver platter with the nuanced presentation of a Michelin star chef.” These lines were particularly exciting to her—inspiring her to kiss me more aggressively and pant and grunt and dig her long nails into my back—and came very naturally to me.

I continued playing with her nips and kissing her mouth until she wrapped one leg around me. “Kiss my neck again,” she commanded.

I followed her order with gusto and she whimpered in delight, then I rolled her onto her back and laid my weight on top of her. “I would worship you, because I am nothing, and nothing desires beauty more than anything.” I gave her neck another lick and gave her nips a less-than-gentle twist.

“(Oh—fuck—)” Her legs wrapped around mine and she gasped to the rhythm of her bliss, “(Ha—ha—ha—ha…)” I continued playing with her nipples and kissing her neck to extend her orgasm when suddenly she… grabbed my head and shoulder.

Then bit the soft part of my neck.

Hard.

It hurt.

I tensed briefly, then relaxed. I let her do it. At first I thought it was the money that was encouraging me to accept her bite, but I eventually realized that it was doing something for me, deep down. It was calming… yet, somehow, at the same time, exciting. Intimate. I relaxed within the grip of her teeth, and my thoughts evaporated, leaving my mind blank except for my awareness of the pleasantness of the pressure.

Before I could be fully satisfied by the sensation of her teeth in my flesh, though, she pulled me away and exclaimed, “Oh, God! I am so sorry!”

“I enjoyed it.”

“Nonetheless, I… ought to have asked.”

“Really, I don’t mind. It was nice, actually. I wish you had kept going a little longer.”

“That does not change the fact that you did not consent.”

“Consider my consent retroactive.”

“Consent does not work that way.”

I shrugged. “All I can think to say is, ‘No harm, no foul.’ But I can’t stop you from beating yourself up.”

She sighed. “I knew this was an eventuality. From the moment I saw you in that dress…”

“Well, I’m glad you took the risk, because now I know that I’m into being bitten.”

“That does not matter. What matters is that—‍”

“I forgive you, okay? I don’t think that forgiving you should be necessary, but I’ll tell you it’s alright anyways; you made a little, tiny mistake, I wasn’t permanently injured, and it felt good. Very good. Don’t punish yourself. Just… let it go, and enjoy yourself. Can you do that?”

She nodded.

“Now, could you get back to biting me?”

“I would rather not.”

“Okay. That’s too bad. Are you at least enjoying yourself?”

“Yes,” she said with more sobriety than I liked. “More than I have in a very long time.”

“What’s so enjoyable?”

“You are cute and sexy. I find myself… wishing that you were being serious when you said that you would…” She sighed. “…sell your soul to me.”

‹Yep—I’m saving it for someone else. Unless…

‹If my body has a price, who’s to say I can’t put a price on my—my…

‹Well, that’s something to ponder when I’m not on the clock, maybe while I’m on the curb waiting for my next john to pull up.›

We laid there amid a pleasant silence that was interrupted only by the sounds of me kissing her face and neck and breasts and body and feeling her up and gasping in anticipation for the return of her libido and the eventual retrieval of her wallet from her pocket, wanting nothing more than to make her climax repeatedly, to witness her pleasure with my eyes and ears and hands, to tell awful lies about myself for her sexual gratification until her hour was up and it was finally time to receive my reward for all my hard work. Ten or so minutes of such kissing in anticipation of inflicting another petit mort upon her passed by the time she asked, “Why do you want to be a homicide detective?”

Kiss. “Justice.” Kiss.

“Even if it paid less than Parking did?”

Kiss. “I’d live out of a tent in the park and sponge bathe in the drinking fountain if it paid nothing and I was somehow unable to supplement my income with sex work.” Kiss.

“A vivid hyperbole.” She did not yet know me well enough to recognize when I was being hyperbolic—as opposed to when I was being perfectly bolic. “Would you also search for missing persons?”

Kiss. “Yes. And I think that everyone would agree that saving lives who still have a chance—‍” Kiss. “—is more important than avenging lives whose chances are gone.” Kiss. “So I would take that part of the job just as seriously.” Kiss.

“Would you rescue someone controversial, such as… and this is just off the top of my head… Alexander Brookvale?”

I couldn’t stop my muscles from tensing at the mention of his name, but I was able to relax and resume kissing her quickly enough that I figured she wouldn’t have noticed. “Yes.” Kiss. “Even somebody who would show me gratitude for saving his life by spitting in my eye then informing me, ‘All dogs go to heaven. All pigs go to hell.’” Kiss. “And then I would give him my smile and offer my hand for a shake as I replied, ‘Amen, brother, don’t you forget it.’” Kiss.

After a pause long enough to make me second-guess admitting that I would help a man who she—as a pig—had every reason to hate, she informed me, “Lovely. Assuming that working in Crimes Against Persons is still your dream… I can get you in.”

My heart skipped a beat. I stopped kissing her. I forgot what money was. I forgot what sex was. I remembered what my dream was.

“Detective. And if you are even halfway competent, I can have you promoted to Detective Sergeant early, six months in rank. Detective Lieutenant after six more.”

‹Lieutenant Bachman, SVPD Homicide.

‹Just like Lieutenant Columbo.›

My lips threatened to reveal my happy teeth. “And… what… will you… be getting… from me?” I asked while trying, and failing, not to let my eagerness show.

The vulnerable sweet side she had shown post-nut dissolved, replaced by her erstwhile superiority. She played with a curl of my hair as she told me, “You are a very pretty girl. And you are gifted with a nearly insatiable libido. I will have you whenever the mood strikes me, and you will have your dream job the rest of the time. When I summon you, you will bring your tiny, deliciously plump body to me, for me to utilize towards whatever ends I desire.”

‹She actually wants me to literally sell her my actual body… in exchange for my dream coming true.›

{Detective Bachman, on the scene of a murder picking out clues that CSI overlooked, gleaning motives and discrepancies in testimony from interviews with friends and coworkers and neighbors, building a case against the man she has a hunch is attempting to frame his stepson for the murder of his wife…

{A body turns up in the bay, waterlogged and next-to-impossible to identify. This wedding ring, though… a little research reveals that it isn’t a wedding ring—it’s the ring of a member of a secret society. Detective Bachman tracks them down to their meeting place and interviews the other members, and deduces that not one of them killed the vic… but every one of them did, Roman Senate style.

{A fatal car collision takes four lives. One of the deceased drivers is found to be at fault for the deaths in the other car… but a follow-up with their psychiatrist reveals that their newest medication has a few rare but debilitating side effects, including narcolepsy. They had been taking it without issue for the past month, but it looks like this one symptom snuck up on them at exactly the wrong moment. Though the dead cannot be exonerated, knowing the truth nonetheless eases the consciences of their loved ones, whom the scrupulous detective reassures there was no negligence or malice behind the crash; this blemish on the deceased’s reputation is wiped clean.

{And between each case she performs her other duty of touching her, kissing her, pleasuring her, fulfilling her every desire, with unparalleled expertise and overflowing passion…}

The hair on my arms and neck stood up, my face burned, and my clitoris throbbed painfully, but amid the storm of fantasies assaulting my mind I failed to notice what the thought of belonging to her was doing to my body.

4 words and a half eagerly burst from my mouth. “We’ve got ourselves a dea—‍” Then the tiny voice repeating that four-letter acronym finally broke through to remind me that the police were not the good guys. If I accepted her offer, I’d be back to square one in the lifelong process of redeeming myself as a former law enforcement officer, falling off the wagon for the first time in a way I hadn’t been expecting. On the other hand, I didn’t want to risk being uncivil by rejecting her non-hypothetical offer outright. I forced myself to tell her, “I—will—have—to—think—ab—out—it.” Or obsess. An obsession is nothing more than a thought taken a little more seriously than normal, when you think about it.

“I ought to clarify that I would not expect you to submit yourself unwillingly,” she explained, not at all offended by my diplomatic rejection, but rather intrigued. “If at any point in time you find our arrangement not to your liking, you may end it verbally or in writing—though in doing so you will forfeit my gift to you. Is that not a fair deal?”

The salient truth was that, despite her offering me both my dream job as well as a guaranteed stream of regular and pleasurable sex, I had just enough of my wits in working order not to trust a cop (and one I barely knew at that) to actually give me all these wonderful things.

But I didn’t tell her the salient truth—instead, I gave her an unrelated truth. “They let me go for a reason. I have depression and as a result I couldn’t handle the easiest job at the department. How am I going to be able to handle one of the most grueling?”

“The answer to that question is favoritism, and it comes with a few perks, including the expectation that you may, at your pleasure, sit in your chair all day—playing Sweet Smasher on your phone, or driving around affluent neighborhoods in a black and white smashing mailboxes, or hiring sex workers to eat you out from under your desk, or pursuing any other whim that might please you at the moment—without a single soul asking you to so much as lift a finger to do your job. But if you are convinced your sails cannot handle such a gentle breeze, if you truly believe that such a cushy take on the career you desire above all else is not ‘accessible’ to someone with your disability…”

My pride, resurrected from its decade of slumber by something, perhaps the same strange force from within that had transformed me from a hopelessly asocial masturbation-addicted virgin into a sexually aggressive womanizer over the course of a few hours with Judith, got the better of me. “I can do it—I’m smart, I’m persistent, I’m charming…” ‹Damn it, I’m persuading myself.› And, thanks to the rapid rise in pressure of my self-esteem, I was coming dangerously close to explosively succeeding.

She held my cheek and reassured me, “Then you are perfect for the job.”

“Well, um, see…” I figured it unwise to try to half-lie again, so I gave her something that wasn’t really false… so much as it was misleading. “I’d like to get on sex workers’ and other marginalized people’s good sides, and all of them sort of—y’know—don’t like law enforcement.”

Her face darkened. “Yes. I am aware. That is why I do not allow any of them to know that I am a pi—police captain.” She was acting a little strangely; the confidence and authority in her voice and face had deflated slightly. “ACAB. You cannot argue with such a compelling four-letter acronym, nor with the people who swear by them.”

“I convinced one of them to talk to me.” She perked up. “Guide me, even.” I couldn’t figure out why my words affected her so.

“Really?” she asked in surprise.

“Really.”

“I will be damned.” Her face became pensive for several seconds, then grew a bittersweet smile. “You know what? I present my offer without deadline; and though I do hope that you accept it, I will not be crestfallen should you ultimately reject it. Good luck to you, whether you find greener pastures in sex work or have a change of heart and decide to give your dream another shot.”

“Thank you.” She reached into my lap and began rubbing me. “Ah!” I exclaimed, immediately locked in, moaning, humping her fingers in pursuit of that vital orgasm, second in importance only to one thing. I figured she was doing this because she wanted to watch me cum, so for the sake of giving her that performance all the sooner I thrust my middle finger up my pussy, feeling around for the spot Judith had tickled… and knew that I had found it when, pressing upwards and forwards, I felt the tingling throughout the lower half of my body double. My muscles contracted semi-voluntarily and I groaned; I stretched myself a little further with two fingers, then three. I grabbed a nipple with my other hand and tweaked it, forcing a gasp down my throat; she did the same with the other nipple, unleashing yet another stream of throaty sounds from me. I continued massaging my insides and tweaking my nipple as the captain played with my clitoris and the other nipple, the two of us ascending from the sandy valley to the stony mountain, higher, higher, towards the clouds; until my legs turned stiff as granite, muscles of my cunt contracted greedily around my fingers, and with one last stroke of my—

Brush from side to side we cleave

The sky and Earth in twain

With a pale horizon crenellated by distant mountains

Made of cobalt-zinc

The perfect threshold between

Viridian growing

From the Naples sand

And heaven cerulean with its

Scattered scumbled clouds of zinc

Fragrant linseed

Fills the air

With earthy perfume

We leave it out to dry

Hang it in a gallery

Admire our creation

Convince some sucker

With too much money

To pay out the nose

For amateur work

The deed having been done, she removed her hand from my clit and scratched my back, sending pleasant chills down my spine. By the time I had recovered from my temporary departure from reality, my desire to confess romantic feelings had grown strong, but I knew that doing so, however sincerely, would be objectively dishonest and would make both of us uncomfortable—I was being manipulated by the afterglow of physical intimacy. “You are cute when you climax. You make an adorable little sound, and you have such a lewd face.”

On top of the sex flush, I blushed. “Thank you. Did you… derive any satisfaction from my orgasm?”

“I relished it.”

“Good.” I gave her a passionate thank-you kiss.

“Alas, my hour is up, and as much as I wish to extend our time together, I have some… matters… to contemplate. It is time for me to return you to your new beat.” She abandoned me and got to redressing.

I caught a frown by its corners and kept them from hanging too far down. “Oh. Right. Fun’s over.” The prospect of money added an additional, intriguing appeal to sex, something pleasurable beyond touching and kissing and orgasming, yet I nevertheless felt the need to lie there and savor the post-sex high until it was over, to be with her, to appreciate her, to kiss her, to love her, to have her inside me…

“500 is a lot for just an hour of my time.”

“It is, but the service was well-worth the money. I am beyond satisfied.”

“But was your mind blown?”

She bobbed her head side to side. “It was… excellent.”

“But I didn’t blow your mind.”

“You came close.”

“‘Close’ isn’t good enough. Give me another—I’ll give you another hour to make sure you get your money’s worth.”

She nodded slowly. “One piece of advice, Andrea: unless you are able to blow your partners’ minds regularly and consistently, save the very best of your performances for the people who are not paying customers. Only the ones you truly care about are worth your best. As for free service… that is bad business unless you are attempting to build customer loyalty—which is self-defeating when you have no established regulars.”

‹She’s right. My wallet being my newest erogenous zone comes with an important caveat: under no circumstances can I allow myself to set a precedent of giving out free time to johns—not half an eye blink of complimentary service, not even if I’m having the time of my life or feeling a deep and treasurable emotional connection.

‹To cheapen my services is to cheapen my pleasure.›

With my reluctance to wrap up the night overcome by the imperative of not screwing up my business model, I pulled on my panties and slipped back into my dress.

“Whether or not my mind remains intact, you performed admirably.” She pulled her wallet from her jacket pocket and quietly counted out some cash: “(1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.)” She held out the thick wad of bills, folded in half, and after a brief hesitation I delicately plucked them from her fingers. ‹She’s giving me ten…› Even though I had witnessed her count them, I unfolded them and double-checked… and there were indeed 10 virgin hundred-dollar bills, sequential. I ran my thumbs across the surface of a bill, smooth paper with subtly bumpy lines of ink. My head tingled, my skin buzzed, endorphins leaked out of my skull through my eyes and ears, and my clit swelled and throbbed. I looked up, incredulous as to her generosity. Sure, I had more than this in my bank account, 15 times over, but I’d only ever handled thousand-dollar transactions with checks and cards and electronic bill pay. Never before had I reason to hold so much raw cash in my hands.

“This is… a thousand. We agreed on…” It felt like a small fortune between my fingers. I wanted to hide it somewhere no-one else could find it—maybe inside a shoebox under my bed, or behind a loose brick in the wall of an unsuspecting neighbor’s house, or within a hollowed out book, or in a squirrel hole in a tree in the park. I wanted to kiss it and lick it and rub it against my skin and nipples and clit.

“I am feeling generous.” A manic grin slowly escaped on my lips, eliciting a matching grin from her. “You appear quite pleased to be compensated.”

“Yeah… I feel… good. Really good.” I knew that I had done a good job. ‹Maybe, just maybe, I’m competent at sex work… Ah, who am I kidding? I’m a God damn prodigy of pleasure. And at the rate I’m going, I’m gonna be filthy rich.› I refolded the bills and stuck them between my tits, which were being squished together tightly by my dress. I couldn’t wait to return to the street and hook someone else and show them a good time… and get paid again for being good at it.

“Maybe you are right about not becoming a detective. Perhaps you are truly a sex worker at heart.”

“Maybe.” ‹And a damn good one at that. And I’m gonna get better at it, I’m gonna be the best fucking—

‹Damn it. I can’t switch careers. Solving mysteries in the service of Justice has been my dream since I was a little girl. I can’t throw that away. I won’t feel complete until I solve my first case, and even then only for a short time… not long after that I’ll feel the need to solve a second, and so on, like chaining cigarettes. If I stick with sex work… that itch will tickle-torture me until the day I die, spreading and spreading until my entire mind is on fire.

‹I can’t be a sex worker… not full-time, anyway.

‹But I can’t be a cop, either. Never again.›

Yet the captain’s offer screamed for me to trust her and accept it.

‹N—Not ev—Not even an honest-to-God CAP Detective, saving people from danger and avenging the ones who couldn’t be saved.›

“Let us return to your new workplace.”

She drove us back to Adams and parked in the exact spot from which she had contracted my services. “Andrea, I want you to know that what we shared over the past hour was the most fun I have had with a stranger in years.” She reached for my hand, then stopped herself and withdrew. “So… I have another offer for you. Wait for me on Saturday nights, on this exact spot, between 8:30 and 9. I will always come for you. 500 for one hour… unless you make me feel especially good. You already know how generous I can be.”

I had already decided that sex work wasn’t the right profession for me, even if I took immense pleasure in the craft, even if I had a sweet deal that could pay my rent in a single hour, even if this was honest work that was addressing a real need that others have and thus felt like a positive contribution to society, even if spending time with and among sex workers would help me overcome the prejudices that our Christofascist society had coerced me into internalizing as deeply as my instinct to breathe, even if my first time was effortless yet physically and emotionally fulfilling…

‹And yet… assuming I can convince her to blab about the department’s secrets—getting into bed with a police captain on a frequent basis could present an endless stream of invaluable opportunities to gather intel.

‹And yet… she’s Vice, so she won’t have much reason, if any, to know about the goings-on in CAP, unless I can convince her to snoop around for me—a fairly absurd prospect.

‹And yet… as unlikely as it’ll be for the captain of the anti-hooker cop squad to start spying for the hooker detective, I still want to keep all possibilities, however remote, on the table.

‹And yet…

‹Actually, that’s where the whole line of thinking concludes. She’s an asset, both as a source of money and as a source of intel—at least from her own unit, but potentially from others. The correct choice is obvious.›

I smiled and told her, with sincere enthusiasm, “I’ll be right here, on this curb, waiting for you. I’m looking forward to our Saturday nights. And I want you to know that your offer is and will be at the forefront of my thoughts. I would never deny the fact that you are extremely generous.” I winked.

She smiled back slyly. “I am pleased to hear it. Enjoy your new job, Sweetie. But should you decide to give into temptation, you may give my assistant a call at any time to communicate your acceptance of my proposal.” She waited for a few seconds, then struggled to say, “I will see you in too long, Drea.” Once I had closed the door, she put her car in drive, hesitated, swallowed, and departed. As her ridiculously luxurious car cruised away breathing its own self-indulgent air of opulence to turn into posh carbon dioxide and sumptuous soot at 16 decadent miles to the exorbitant gallon in-city and 25 lavish miles on-highway, I thought to myself:

‹Damn. What a woman.›

Chapter 9: Seagull

Shosh must have been waiting for me; out of nowhere, she asked, “Well? Scale of 10 to 10, how much do you regret that?”

I smirked, because I knew that I was about to blow her mind. “The lady I slept with is the Vice Captain at my old precinct.” Her eyes spread wide. “And she offered to make me into a Crimes Against Persons Detective.”

Her jaw dropped.

“Well?”

“Holy shit. Holy shit.” Her face looked like she’d just seen a unicorn piloting a flying saucer made of Lucky Charms marshmallows glued together with spaghetti sauce through a triple rainbow. “You took her up, right? You said ‘yes’?”

“It would be in exchange for her owning my body.”

Her excitement melted into disgust. “Well, fuck that.”

“I figured you’d react along those lines.”

“This is all kindsa wrong.”

“Yeah. It’s better if we don’t talk about it.”

“And that I forget you even mentioned it, if possible.”

I was not thinking about the bite mark on my neck, but it was on my left side, and she was standing to my right, so no controversy ensued.

Yesenia and Judith approached us—on their way back from Rene’s Liquor no doubt—with Pepino Limón Gatorade and Fuego Takis in hand. “So, Sex Cop,” asked the former, making no attempt to hide her amusement, “did you… get paid?”

“Don’t call her ‘Sex Cop’,” growled Shosh.

I ignored her and put on the most enigmatically straight face I could find in my wardrobe; once I had them wondering what kind of surprise I had for them, I removed the money from between my tits and fanned the stack.

While Judith stared in disbelief, Yesenia (for reasons beyond me) broke out into a hearty laughing fit.

“Seni. I know that’s… a lot,” admitted Judith. “But I hafta know… what do you find so funny about it?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing. She gave her a whole thousand is all I find amusing.”

“‘She’?” I asked. “How could you tell she was a woman from where you were standing?”

“I can’t say ‘woman’ is the right word to describe her, but I can tell you that I once counted her among my regulars.”

“Oh. So you knew what she was going to ask me to do with her.”

“Whatever my relationship with her had been, I knew for certain that she would do something different with you, my dear.”

“Okay. Is whatever weird shit she did with you the reason she stopped being your regular?”

She sucked spicy, blood-red dust from her pointer finger and thumb. “She did something to piss me off.”

“Was it something I should worry about her doing to me?”

“Hm. Maybe. Probably. Hell, maybe she’s already done it,” she grumbled, as she crumpled up her empty chip bag. “Reduced the output of your greatest passions—which through trouble, toil, and tongue of dog you’ve built from all the dregs and castoffs of your small, abysmal world—to naught.” ‹Oh, sounds like you did not take to the sexually charged shaming as gracefully as I did. I won’t pry.› She tossed the empty bag into the trash. “I might tell you about it, someday, if you earn my trust—when cops learn how to fly.” She snickered. “First, though, I must highlight your true mystery: ‘Why did she pay you so much for what you did?’”

“Well… I wish I could say it was because I ecstatically indulged her weird desire to treat me like a pathetic loser with no hope for a future and played her nipples like a virtuoso…”

“I’m outta here,” said Shosh, disappearing in a puff of smoke.

“…but she also told me she wanted to help an ex-LEO. Even if my willingness to do freaky psychological things with her was the primary factor, there was certainly significant preferential treatment.”

She snorted in amusement. “Yeah. All these years… she was a pig-fucker.”

I made the deliberate decision not to inform her that my client had been not just any pig-fucker but a pig-fucking pig captain; she didn’t have a need-to-know—in my naïve newcomer opinion—and I didn’t want the sex workers to have a reason to find a way to ban Somers from the street. I knew that an entanglement with her could be extremely useful to me—and maybe, if I played my cards right, beneficial to the sex workers. ‹Perhaps I could get her to go a little easier on the people working this street, or blackmail her into spying on the other squads for me… assuming she doesn’t have IA in her back pocket.› “Yeah.”

“If you’re willing to fuck pig-fuckers, I’ll let you have her as your regular. She’s dead to me. C’mon. Let’s pay your dues.”

“Andy,” interrupted Judith. “Is that a… bite mark on your neck?”

“Oh, yeah. But I don’t mind.”

“Did she ask?”

“No, but she wouldn’t stop apologizing. Almost ruined the mood. I liked it. Don’t worry about me. In fact… I’d like to try it in the privacy of my bedroom. Later.”

“If you say so…”

We walked down the street, passing the hotel, where Yesenia greeted a woman around her age. “Sex Cop, meet Gillian, Guild Treasurer; and Gillian, our new member, Sex Cop.”

Shosh reappeared and hissed, “(I said not to call her that.)”

Gillian—5′5″, blue bob cut, soft features, blue midi skirt and matching blue shirt, a gold hoop earring in each ear and two twisted gold bracelets on each wrist—looked less than pleased to meet me. I offered my hand, but she ignored it. “Good evening, I’m Andrea Bachman. I’m here to pay my dues.” I held onto the confidence instilled in me by my hour of ‘hard work’, and kept my back straight, letting only my neglected hand fall.

“Don’t use your real name, Sweetheart.”

“Oh. Um. Lou Peck—Lou—isa. Louisa.”

“We’ve already got a Louisa.”

“Peckin—Pequeña?”

“Taken.”

“Paugh—Pauline.”

“Also taken.”

“Shit. Hmm… Columb—ia?” Head shake. “Pet—ra… Fal—Falcon?” Another head shake. I tried several not related to my favorite people, eventually coming upon “Serena…”

“Try again, Freckles.”

“(Agh…)” I decided to stop trying actual names and move onto ‘things with positive connotations’, and having just said ‘Serena’, I was primed to find a word that started with the same first five letters: “Serendipity!”

She finally smiled and nodded.

Yesenia, with a delighted smirk, explained to Gillian, “Our Dippity’s a former cop.”

“Is she, now?” asked Gillian with pretend incredulity.

“Tell her about your career’s tragic ending, Dip.”

“I—I worked for Parking Enf—‍”

“You’re the redhead who drives around in that ridiculous little three-wheeled golf cart thing writing parking tickets.”

“‘Drove’.”

“I don’t believe the guild charter says anything about pigs being allowed in, Seni.”

Yesenia gave her a nod. “But she’s a good, kind-hearted ex-pig, and she’s shown an enthusiasm for plying our much-respected trade. Go ahead, show her the bread.”

I presented my folded-up wad.

“Bullshit,” said Gillian, and Yesenia burst out into laughter. “That’s a stack of ones with a hundred wrapped around it.”

I unfolded and fanned the bills.

“No. You did not make all that in the two hours since the night shift started.”

“I made it in one.”

“Fuck off. Come back when you’ve actually turned a trick, poser.”

“She gave me more than usual because I’m an ex-cop down on her luck.”

“Nah, I could see a john tossing in an extra twenty or thirty for fulfilling a special request or doubling your rate if you do a bang-up job, but this is grade-F baloney. We don’t make that kind of dominatrix money here on the street, not even from pig-lovers. You got that stack from the bank.”

“I saw her get into the trick’s expensive car,” Yesenia explained. “Ex-regular of mine. A major freak, and loaded. This is a lot of money, I won’t deny it, even for that nut job… but it’s not implausible for someone to be willing to pay extra for a batshit kink request.”

“Did you work the job with her?”

“No. I’ve had no business with her since she betrayed me.”

“Then with all the respect I owe you, Seni, you don’t know shit about what she did or did not do behind closed doors.”

“I really do believe Dip when she says she did as our freaky john requested, because I’m intimately familiar with her kinks, and Dippy wouldn’t have known about this lady’s fucked up love for degrading her partners had she not endured it herself.”

“We’ve all been insulted by johns and none of us charge extra for it.”

“I’m not talking about petty slights, Gill. The kind of shit she put her through would have made you refuse even a stack like that—this john gets off on psychologically vivisecting people to find their weaknesses and insecurities before she speaks to them the cruelest words you could ever imagine. Plus, her john’s a biter. Sex Cop is a special kind of hooker—‍”

“Don’t call her a ‘hooker’ and stop calling her ‘Sex Cop’!” shouted Shosh.

“—if she can bounce back from that hell with the shit-eating grin she was wearing on her face when she showed us what she earned from enduring it.” ‹I am… a super whore.› My head, by that point already fit to pop, grew a size or two more.

Gillian sighed. “If you’re gonna vouch for her… fine. If she ends up being a mole, you’re responsible for the damage she causes us and that means your reputation is on the line. Alright, Dippy Duck, monthly dues for those who wish to join the guild are 7 percent of gross earnings. I’m assuming you only dipped your toes in the danger canal for the membership and don’t intend to do any more work till the end of time, so you can just pay it now and be done with it forever. 70 dollars.”

“Can you make change for a hundred?”

“I could. But I don’t feel like it.”

“Andy, sidebar?” requested Judith, pulling me aside.

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I think you should consider donating your new fortune to the guild.”

“I earned this,” I whined. “It’s my achievement. It’s special to me. I can’t just… give it away. I worked hard for it.”

“Which makes giving it away all the more meaningful.”

‹Are you fucking serious?› “I’m on a fixed income, Judith. My pension is only gonna give me 800 a month, that’s 200 short of my rent, and I don’t know if I have the cojones to ask Geraldine to pay me for doing what the police should be doing for free. I need 3 years of investigative experience to get a private investigator’s license, and despite more than a decade of policing experience, none of it counts towards that requirement because none of it was investigative. I could go to jail for operating without a license, convincing people to hire me is going to be a bitch, and whatever work I can find is going to be under-the-table, which means the IRS might show up on my door one day and then I’ll be up shit creek. I can’t afford my rent without sex work. I need this money. I need it if I’m going to keep a roof over my head.”

“Andy, I…” She struggled. “I feel for you, and I’m not gonna… like, take it away from you. I wouldn’t say that you actually ‘worked hard for it’… but you did work for it, period. The only reason you got so much, though, was because you used to be a cop. It isn’t fair to everyone who’s been working their asses off and risking life and limb on this street for years and will never see that kind of money even after they’ve worked for years more, and if you go around bragging to everyone about how much you made in your first hour of work without any prior experience, you’re going to be even less popular than you already are, capisce?”

“I—I don’t know how I’m going to afford even the most basic necessities if I’m just gonna give the guild everything I make on this street.”

“Not ‘everything you make’. Just… the extra money you’re able to earn thanks to your privilege. Just what you can spare.”

I stared down at my shoes sullenly. “I’m white, so I get paid more than most people here, and I’m less likely to be assaulted. I’m an ex-cop, so the Law is gonna go easy on me, if not help and protect me. I have a desirable body and enjoy sex with strangers. I’m blessed with privilege.” I sighed. “You’re right—I can’t in good conscience keep this. Thank you for pointing this out. Ugh, I hate this…” I returned to Gillian. “Gillian,” I said with a reluctant (if not resentful) sigh, “I have decided to donate all of my earnings from tonight.”

“Wonderful. Are you trying to buy just my trust, or that of all the other sex workers, too?”

“I’m not—I’m not trying to buy anything.”

“You’re trying to wow everyone with your magnanimity,” she said with mock surprise, “and that isn’t just a barefaced attempt to buy popularity?” Deadpan, she added, “Of course it isn’t just a bribe.”

“Judith,” I growled in exasperation. “This was your idea.”

Judith nodded and meekly conceded, “The advice I gave you was solid… solid shit. I apologize.”

“(Thank you,)” I grumbled through clenched teeth.

“Money for followers was J’s idea?” asked Gillian with a sudden lack of condescension.

“If by ‘money for followers’ you mean ‘doing the fair thing—as an interloper who stole a generous john from a more-deserving sex worker to turn a ludicrous profit thanks to being a sister of the blue brotherhood—by relinquishing my earnings for the prosperity of people I was complicit in oppressing at my old job…’ then yes, it was her idea.”

She bit her lip. “Hm. If this was J’s suggestion… sure, your money is welcome in our coffers.” I forced myself to fork over my precious stack of hundreds and she stuffed it into a wallet she pulled from her purse. “Thank you. That leaves us with the matter of your dues.”

I stared. “What are you talking about? I just paid my dues.”

“You made a thousand-dollar donation.”

“Yes. A donation in lieu of dues.”

“Neither of us said the words ‘in lieu of dues’.”

“You want me to pay…”

“70 dollars.”

“…because we didn’t explicitly agree to my dues being included as part of the donation.”

“Precisely.”

“And you’re being serious?”

“I may be wearing makeup, but it is clearly not clown makeup.”

I groaned and rolled my eyes. “(Ah, shit…)” I searched my purse—which was a disorganized mess of multiple tubes of SPF 30 lip balm used down to the nub, the keys to my childhood home that I should have thrown away a decade ago, an empty bottle of sunscreen, a full bottle of sunscreen, pesos from the last time Shosh and I went to Tijuana, hair ties with strands of hair knotted onto them, and banknotes of various denominations including a two dollar bill I’d held onto because I’d drawn a perfectly curled handlebar mustache on the third president of the United States with an extra-fine point felt-tip marker the last time I’d had a good drink or 4—and managed to find a loose pair of emancipators, to which I added 3 irredeemable assholes from the ‘informant compensation fund’ for a total of 70 dollars. “Here.”

She stowed the bills in her wallet and pulled out a card. “It looks like a calling card for a social worker agency—‍” She studied the front, then handed it to me. “—but the phone number is actually your guild ID number.” I accepted it. “Don’t try to call the number, you’ll just get a random person or business. You don’t need your card to do work, but you will need it for benefits and functions—after your background check clears and you’ve survived your three-month probation.”

‹’Santa Virginia Social Workers Group, Membership services: 611-411-0579’, plus a red umbrella in the background.› With a brief glance I had the number stored in my head; the card itself went into my purse and became lost among the flotsam almost as soon as I had received it. “Got it.”

“Welcome to the guild,” she said. I smiled in relief that I had finally proven myself to them and earned their trust. “But don’t you get it into your head that everyone is just gonna trust you just because you turned your first trick.” I stopped smiling. “All of us know the police are allowed to break the law in the course of an investigation…” She leaned forwards. “…and we are damn good at sniffing out sting operations.”

“Do you trust me?”

“About as much as I trust any other pig… maybe less.”

“Why less?”

She shrugged. “I’m slow to trust. So slow that I trust in reverse.” Yesenia stifled a snicker.

“Well… What can I do to get you to trust me?”

“The harder you try to get on my good side, the more deeply you burrow yourself into the rocky soil of my bad side.”

I sighed frustratedly. “So you’ll never trust me.” I shrugged. “Well. Shit. Do you need to trust me to at least tell me whether you saw Alexander Brookvale the morning he disappeared?”

It was not suspicion that altered her face—rather, it was an intense confusion that knit her brow and narrowed her eyes and turned her stare sidelong. “Why… do you want to know?”

“I’m trying to find him. The police aren’t doing anything, so I’m doing it for them.”

“You’re trying to find him?” she asked skeptically. I had (as far as I could tell) surprised her. I nodded. Gillian pondered for a few seconds, then softly asked, “Wednesday?”

I nodded.

“I didn’t see him. But…” She glanced at Yesenia—who, eyes and teeth shining with satisfaction, winked back at her—then, with just a little curl of one corner of her lips, cautiously continued, “…he was supposed to be a guest speaker at the meeting.”

“So there was a Sex Workers Guild meeting on this street?”

“Yes. 9 o’clock.”

“Which explains why he was here around that time of day, and—‍” With superb professionalism I contained my excitement… “—it also means there should have been lots of people around when he arrived!” …or at least tempered that excitement a little.

She glanced back and forth between Judith and Yesenia. “A reasonable supposition, Sherlock,” said Gillian, the other corner of her lips threatening to join its sibling.

“How come nobody in the guild told his wife where he was going at the time of his disappearance?” I asked

Gillian’s eyebrow grew half an inch taller. “She… didn’t know where he was?”

“No. He didn’t tell her.”

Yesenia cleared her throat and very innocently asked, “And why, pray tell us, didn’t he tell his wife?”

“He never told her where he was going because he didn’t want the authorities to be able to legally compel her to divulge where he was.”

“‘Told’? ‘Didn’t’? ‘Was’?” I had used the past tense and therefore Yesenia was, at present, tense.

‹Well, I don’t actually know he’s dead, even if all signs point to him being murdered and his body discreetly disposed of.› “I mean—that’s just to say that he’ll probably keep her apprised from now on. Once we rescue him.”

She nodded skeptically. “Of course that wasn’t just a slip of the tongue.”

“I assure you, I believe he’s alive.”

She replied dryly, “I am assured.”

“He’s alive. I’ll rescue him, okay? It’ll be hard since he kept Missus Pasteur in the dark with regards to his operations, but I’ll find him.”

“I didn’t know he was so secretive,” Yesenia said, shrugging resignedly, “If I’d known she didn’t know, I would’ve told her then.”

“That would have saved us a lot of trouble, though the GPS data we uncovered in the process of addressing that trouble is going to be far more useful than just knowing which meeting he was attending. Where was it being held?”

“Gee. I dunno. Maybe it was held at the Torrey Pines. Can you think of anywhere else on this street suitable for a meeting of hundreds of people?”

“Ah. No, I have to admit that I can’t. It was hard to tell without labels for the buildings on the map, but based on his GPS tracker’s history, his last known position appears to be on the curb in front of what I think is the hotel’s entrance—which means somebody at or on their way to the meeting could have seen him. Yesenia, did you see him at all?”

“I would’ve told you by now if I had.”

“Crap. I need to ask everyone here to be sure.”

“Yeah, that would be a good next step to take. You may be helped by the knowledge that there was a raid at fifteen past nine.”

I nodded. “Ah. He might have gotten lost in the shuffle. But the timing… Hm.”

“Let’s think about it once we have more evidence,” suggested Judith. “Thanks, Seni. Let’s get to it, Andy.”

“Good luck, sleuths,” Gillian bid us with a shocking lack of sarcasm and a surprising amount of amusement.

“Let us know if there’s anything we can do to help,” Yesenia said. “Also, you’d’ve saved yourself a lot of pain by simply telling me upfront about why you came here. I’d’ve given you a lot less grief.” She kept her tongue in her cheek as she said this, and the other two covered their snickers.

I blushed, nodded, and tried not to think about how the four of us could have started our night off with a little less friction if only—if only, if only—I had started it by getting down to business and explaining I was looking for Alex Brookvale rather than flopping around hopelessly like a fish on land hoping to convince the seagulls to be nice to her.

Except… as a cop, I would be the seagull, and the sex workers would be the fishes. So… I was more like a seagull trying to convince a school of fishes to give her a chance to prove she was an ally who meant them no harm. But instead (surprise-surprise) a butch cop-witch turned me into a fish and I got to swimming with them.

It turned out that being able to breathe in the vast and fathomless ocean of the oldest career was exactly what I needed—and wanted—all along.

Chapter 10: 410 Gone

We started with the next closest sex worker. “Good evening, I’m Andrea Bachman—Serendipity when I’m turning tricks—and I’m a private investigator looking for a missing person.”

I received from them a polite and well-advised “No thanks, I don’t talk to the authorities without a lawyer.”

‹Well. Shit. Being a sex worker isn’t enough to gain their trust.› “That’s—well, that’s a very good policy. And I hope you never have to talk to the cops. But I’m not a cop anymore.”

“And why should I believe you?”

Shosh helpfully suggested, “Tell her we’ll turn her in for being complicit in the kidnapping after the fact unless she becomes a believer in the next few seconds.”

“Um. So—if you don’t believe me, you should… consider… that I could…” I stuttered and trailed off. ‹Is intimidation really the right technique?›

Judith, on the other hand, pointed out with a whisper, “(Now’s the time to apologize for being a cop.)”

“(—Uh)—You should consider that—I could—that if you don’t believe me, then you—then, well, that’s fine, that’s your right, and you have—you don’t have any reason to trust me, so that makes sense, you’d be crazy to trust me. All I can say is… I regret that decade of being a… pig. The department is abusive and hateful. I would—never go back there, even if—if I—even if I wanted to. And I don’t—want to. Nothing could ever make me go back there. I’m done with being a cop. Never should have joined the force in the first place. Bad people, bad institution. I’m trying to make up for my organization’s abusive behavior—that maybe I didn’t participate in, but I failed to fight. I’m trying to save Alexander Brookvale to prove to everyone that—that I regret what I did do and what I didn’t do, and to prove that I’m not a bad person—anymore. Well, I’m trying to stop being a bad person. But I can’t do the good things I want to do unless I have your testimony. Please. I need your help. I… can’t prove… that I’m a decent person… without it. At this point, all I can do is beg, and that’ll probably just annoy you, or make things awkward, or make you despise me even more. So… um… yeah. I’m—gonna shut up, now. Th-thank you… for listening.”

They considered me for a moment, first with pity, then with a more skeptical eye, then with beneficent acquiescence.

A red F-150 circa 2015 pulled up. “How much?” called out the driver.

“I’m busy,” replied my interviewee.

“Are you shitting me?”

“We’re having an important conversation, please wait.”

“I don’t have all night, whore.”

“5 minutes.”

“It’s now or never, lady.”

“5 minutes or no deal,” they replied firmly.

“Fuck you, bitch,” replied the would-be john as they shifted into drive and moved on.

The sex worker sighed. “Alright. I’ll tell you what I can.”

“Thank you. You didn’t have to turn down business for me.”

“I turned it down for Alex.”

I smiled. “He’ll appreciate your sacrifice.” They gave me everything they could—which was just about nothing—but I had their trust, and that’s what mattered in the long term. I asked for their name, and they reluctantly told me, “Lisa… Harris.”

From the moment the next sex worker stepped out of their john’s white 2021-ish Honda Civic and asked me suspectfully how they could be of assistance to me, the next interview went rather more smoothly—I opened with an apology for having been a cop and not doing anything to fight the system, and they agreed to hear me out. “Did you see Alex the morning of Wednesday the 10th?” I asked them.

“No.”

I sighed. “Another ‘no’. Alright. That’s all. Thank you for your help.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”

“He was kinda worthless,” remarked Shosh.

I nodded solemnly. “They can’t all be winners.”

“Andy, can’t you think of anything else to ask him? Any way he can help us?”

“No. But—well, people not seeing Alex tells us he might possibly have been hidden somewhere nearby before the meeting was interrupted. If everyone else has the same answer, we can safely assume that was the case. So… Thank you, friend. You may feel like you didn’t help, but you did. In fact, you made a valuable contribution to our investigation.”

“She’s right,” added Judith. “Any honest answer, even an ‘I don’t know’, is another piece of the puzzle.”

“Oh, come on,” groaned Shosh. “He didn’t tell you shit.”

“Judith’s right. ‘I don’t know’ still tells us something worth knowing.” I concluded the interview with, “Thank you. Seriously,” along with a smile pale with disappointment and germinating resignation. “I guess… if I can think of anything else to ask you… could I have your name?”

“Well, I already have an arrest record, and if you were Vice you’d already know everything there is to know about me anyway, so there’s no point in not sharing. Paulo. Paulo Rodriguez.”

“Thank you, Paulo.” I offered my hand.

They hesitated but accepted my handshake. “Anything for Alex.”

I nodded and smiled warmly. “That’s the spirit, Paulo. Have a profitable and peaceful night.”

The next several interviews—with Frederica, Joaquin, Lola, Sandra, Antonia, and Charlotte—proceeded with much the same results. However… as my desperation—climbing slowly, step by step—approached its unbearable peak, I finally—with smothered exasperation—clarified to one of the workers that Alexander Brookvale would have shown up between about 9:10 and 9:51—and I was reminded, “There was a raid on the hotel.” They then helpfully explained, in vivid and intricate detail, “I didn’t see him amidst the chaos.”

In that moment, as I approached my breaking point, my desperation and frustration planted within my brain a pseudo-epiphany. “He might have been on his way, tried to run from the raid… only to get lost in the chaos… and then was taken!”

“Okay, so, like… that’s a possibility,” said Judith doubtfully. “But remember: he froze about 5 minutes before the raid started, and the GPS was never inside the building. He was definitely outside the hotel when he was kidnapped, and I think he would have seen the raid coming and would have run if he was able to.”

“Yeah. Hm. And he sprinted and stopped 5 minutes before they arrived on the scene, which means he could have—for reasons I can’t imagine—could have abandoned his backpack and gone into the hotel before the raid.”

Her sidelong glance made her concern clear. “And… we both remember that… y’know… nobody at the meeting saw him. So we know that was not the case.”

“Ye—es. Right. Of course. I knew that. Him going inside definitely makes no sense. He had to be outside during the raid. Obviously.” ‹How do I make it sound like my dumbass thought was actually me being smart…?› “I was just… exploring our mystery… (um…) via the Socratic method.” I had read the phrase Socratic method mentioned in online discussions about Columbo, so I figured that—whatever it was—it was something that smart detectives used.

She nodded and smiled. “Oh, of course that’s what you were doing, obviously! That was a textbook example of the Socratic method if I’ve ever seen one. Very smart of you to use that investigatory technique. Very smart. Anyways… if he was outside—and free—in the minutes leading up to the raid, he must have fled into a nearby building before they could catch him.”

“Maybe… maybe. That might be when he was abducted. ‘Which building?’ is the next question.”

“How much time would he have had to react?”

“So—the police would have been out of their vans and inside the building without delay as soon as their wheels had stopped spinning—to make the best of the element of surprise—in 60 seconds or less. So the very earliest they would have arrived would have been 9:14. He would’ve seen them coming, though there would have been only about 5, maybe 10 seconds from the moment the police vehicles turned the corner to the moment their doors flew open, and the raid cops probably would have grabbed him as soon as the first boots hit the ground, so…”

She looked up and down the street, from property to property, which were for the most part vacant. “COVID wiped out a lot of businesses in the neighborhood—I don’t think there’s anywhere safe he could have made it to in just 10 seconds. Unless he was already hanging out inside the Sunrise-to-Sunrise convenience store all the way at the end of the block for coffee and a donut—but that’s doubtful.”

I huffed. “Good point; taking a detour for a coffee break when he was already running late to the meeting would be a little odd. Hm. Then there’s the question of what they would have done with him after grabbing him—theoretically, he would have ended up in one of the same paddy wagons they were loading the sex workers into before ending up in a cell, making his phone call, posting bail, and going home. And nobody saw him in any of those places.”

“Square one.”

“Yep.”

We resumed going up and down the block interviewing sex workers—this batch being Ximena, Eduardo, Felicia, Carmen, Olivia, Maria, Gilda, Elena, and Isabella. To our established routine Judith added, “Did you see anybody who resembled Alex?”

“No.” “Nope.” “Nobody who looked anything like him.” Interview after interview, no one had spotted even his doppelgänger.

Until—

“I saw a man in the back of a car who might, might have been him, right in front of the steps of the hotel.” I did my best to remain calm as they spilled sentence after sentence of beautiful information. “I barely got a look at the person’s face, the tint on the windows was almost black.”

“Could you pinpoint the time?”

“In the beginning I tried to hide in the broom closet, but the jackboots found me in just a few minutes. I think I musta been the last person they pulled outta the hotel—9:20-ish, maybe 9:25.”

“Did you see what happened to him after that?”

“Nah, I barely saw whoever it was for a second or two. They rushed me down the sidewalk past the car and threw me in a van.” My excitement leveled off.

“Alright. Were there any other occupants in the car?”

“I could just barely make out a driver and front passenger.”

‹Yes…!› “Did you get a good look at them?”

“Like I said, the windows were tinted. I’m not even sure the person in the back seat was actually Alex.”

“But you think it was probably him.”

“Maybe.”

“Would you say ‘more likely than not’?”

“Flip a quarter and cross your fingers it lands on its edge.”

“Oh.” ‹Well. Fuck me.›

While I moped in defeat, Judith asked them, “Do you remember any part of the license plate?”

“Well, I caught the last four numbers when I broke loose for a moment, halfway to the van: 8801. I was so far away I could barely read it, and I couldn’t tell you the state.”

I smiled wide as I was lifted high once again by a gust of good fortune, and the little hairs on my back and forearms prickled pleasantly. I logged the string of digits inside my mental automobile database. ‹All I need is someone willing to do a plate search, and this case will be half-solved.› “Just to be clear, was it a car-car, or an SUV, a truck, something else?”

“Car-car.”

“Do you remember the make, model, and color?”

“It was blue.”

“And the model?”

“Cars all look the same to me.”

“Manufacturer, at least?”

“Like I said, they all look the same.”

“They… don’t all look the same, though. They all look unique.”

“They all look the same to me.”

“She has no taste for automobiles,” scoffed Shosh. “Probably couldn’t tell a tailpipe from her own asshole.”

I sighed. “Yeah. And it’s annoying and it’s making my job harder. Friend, could you describe the car?”

They rolled their eyes. “It had windows and wheels. Like I said, they all look the same.”

I grunted. “Can you give me any details? The hubcaps or the grille emblem or hood ornament?”

They stared.

“Do you… know what I’m talking about?”

“No. You yourself admitted that cars all look the same and that it’s making your job harder.”

Hoping to vindicate my frustration, I looked to Judith for reassurance.

“What’s up?”

“Did I really say that cars all look the same?”

“You agreed with her to that effect and even admitted, ‘It’s making my job harder.’”

I groaned. “No, I was talking to—‍” I caught myself, hesitated, and course-corrected. “Ugh. Never mind. This investigation is a God damn disast—‍”

“(Shhh…)” Before my tirade could turn any sourer she shushed me and pulled me aside. “What’s bothering you?”

I explained, quietly. “We have gathered next to nothing from interviewing these people, and I am at my wits’ end… At this rate, we’re never gonna find him.”

She gently reminded me, “Being a detective is hard work, Andy. You gotta keep going, even when it feels like your wheels are spinning in the mud. Keep asking questions, leave no stone unturned. Don’t stop until you’ve accounted for every possibility. As the Master Sleuth himself once said, ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ So, go on, eliminate the impossible.”

“Columbo never said that.”

“(Ah. Ummm…) I wasn’t… quoting… Columbo. I was quoting Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh. Different ‘master sleuth’,” I replied with disdain. “That’s why I didn’t recognize it.”

She had no words.

“Judith?”

“Just out of curiosity… What’s your favorite Sherlock story?”

“I don’t have one—I’m not a fan, to put it gently.”

“Okay. Uh. When’s the last time you read Doyle?”

“Who’s Doyle?”

She cocked her head. “Sir Arthur… Conan… Doyle?”

“Okay, but who is that?”

She stared for a moment before replying, “The man who created Sherlock. Poe pioneered the mystery, Doyle perfected it. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is the biggest name in the genre. You hafta be familiar with some of his work.”

“Oh. Well, yeah, I gave Cumberbatch and Freeman’s genius performance a go, but I gave up after a whole season of their queerbaiting tango led us to nothing; I would hardly call the main character a ‘master sleuth’. It wasn’t very good in my opinion—don’t tell the Superwholockians I said that—so I never understood why people make such a big deal about the books.”

“You haven’t read any Sherlock Holmes stories… because you didn’t like the shitty BBC show or its interpretation of Holmes and Watson.”

“Yes. The way Doyle wrote that show…” I shook my head. “It was more about action and flashy visual effects and nonsensical melodrama and trying to make Sherlock look smart with cheesy mind palace animations and by withholding information from the viewer until the parlor room reveal to give the illusion of a mystery, rather than about actually presenting evidence to the viewer, to challenge them to solve the crimes—with their own theories and logic—alongside the hero, so that they feel like a junior detective shadowing an intelligent and complex protagonist instead of watching from a distance as some self-important know-it-all stumbles around the crime scene insulting people with half-baked attempts at wit. The audience’s participation in the mystery and anticipation of how the lieutenant is going to solve the mystery is what makes Columbo such a great show. Doyle could have learned a lot from Levinson and Link, and even more from studying Peter’s additions to the character.”

Her eyes detached their focus from the world and wandered lost as she retreated into thought.

“Is something wrong?”

“(…Didn’t like the BBC show…)”

“Judith?”

“(…So she’s never read the original books…)”

“Judith, are you okay?”

“(…She’s never read any Doyle…)”

“Why do you sound so worried?”

“(…A detective who hasn’t read Sherlock Holmes…)”

“Judith, please talk to me.”

“(…Thinks Doyle created the show, never heard of his books…)”

“Judith!”

She snapped out of it and—after a second of staring at me with a face that, aside from the pinch of horror in her brow, was blank as a fresh ream of copier paper—a smile broke across it. “The books and short stories are better than the 2010s BBC show. Way better than the BBC adaptation. You should read them.”

“I’m not much of a reader.”

“That can be fixed, just like everything else. We can read together. We can go to the library sometime. Call it a date.”

I shrugged. “Just One More Thing was romantic, why can’t detective books be romantic, too?”

“Good point. We’ll find you some mystery romances.”

“Raunchy ones?”

“Only the most tastelessly filthy.”

“Then I’ll give reading a try!”

After a few seconds of awkward silence, she asked, “Would you like to resume our investigation?”

Inspired by the logical wisdom imparted by my best friend and excited by our date plans, we tracked down our interviewee and I got back to our investigation by asking them, “Where were we? Ah! How many doors did the car have?”

“Four.”

‹Excellent.› “Do you recall what particular shade of blue it was?”

“Deep, kind of royal blue.”

“Great, great. Did you see it leave the scene?”

“No, I was in the van and on the way to the station before it left.”

“Could I get your name?”

“Uh.” They hesitated.

“You don’t have to tell me. Your testimony would be useful, but whether you make a statement now or testify later is entirely up to you.”

They gave my request some thought, then said, “If it puts the bastards in jail, I’ll show my face in court. Yoly Jimenez. Y-O-L-Y.”

I smiled warmly. “Thank you, Yoly. Your information is going to make a huge difference. I’ll try to find another way to sneak everything you’ve told me into the record so that you can stay out of it.”

“Thank God.”

“Wait, I just remembered—‍” I dug through my purse and pulled out 5 Jacksons and handed them over. “Ah, found ’em! Here.”

They accepted the money with some hesitation… and I felt a rush. I had to stifle a pleased gasp. “What’s this for?”

“For…” I said, struggling to catch my breath. “For providing information. Compensation for your efforts.”

They looked at me like I was a freak.

“You’ve really helped out my investigation, I want you to have it.” Really wanted them to have it.

“I can’t… accept this,” they said, handing it back. “It’s too weird. I’m already talking to a cop, I can’t accept a bribe from a cop.”

Frantically, I extended my palms in refusal. “Please, take it, you deserve a reward for your invaluable contributions to finding Alex. And you really have no reason to trust me with anything personal. This is the only way I can think of to express my gratitude for that trust, and to extend an olive branch to assure you I won’t stab you in the back. Please. You earned this. I want you to have it.”

“Alright… If you insist.” Pleasured that they had accepted my offering, I suppressed a sigh of satisfaction. They pocketed the money, and we parted ways.

Following Yoly’s critical testimony I asked the remainder about the royal blue car—Erin, Celia, Miranda, Valeria, Julia, Lucía, Alicia, Desiree, and Carlos—with only a handful remembering so much as spotting it in the corners of their eyes while being hauled to the paddy wagons or trying to escape, and fewer still having managed to seek refuge in Rene’s Liquor to notice it abiding amid the chaos, a sentinel impassively witnessing the mayhem of a one-sided but miraculously bloodless street brawl; even these had returned to their homes immediately following the conclusion of the raid, as soon as the last van departed and was out of sight, a few minutes before 9:30—and still the blue car remained as they left, immobile to the point of near-invisibility, impenetrable to the eyes, immune to analysis. In two words: an enigma. (That sentence would have sounded far more dramatic if only I could have said, ‘in one word’, but I couldn’t think of a way to word the answer so that it was just ‘enigma’.)

For the sake of thoroughness, I went back and asked each of them, ‘Was the meeting reconvened later?’

We received many variations on ‘no’. Judith suggested that I refrain from asking that question from then on but I insisted that there was a possibility that at least one of these people might have a new story to tell. After she tried to convince me (several times) that receiving contradictory testimony was extremely unlikely, I asked her not to tell me how to do my job. She nodded slowly and replied, “Whatever you say, boss.”

Next I would ask, ‘Could you tell me why not?’

Numerous answers along the lines of ‘We were locked out afterwards.’

‘Do you know why the hotel was locked?’

The answer was ‘no idea’ every time—until a single heavenly interviewee speculated, “My guess? New owners.”

I perked up at this new answer. “Oh? Is there a particular business or individual you suspect?”

“No fuckin’ clue, but I just can’t see another explanation.”

‹Pursuing this lead is probably a waste of time… but my gut says to keep going.› “Alright. So we’re looking at the possibility that someone bought a profitable business and just… shut it down without warning?”

“Right under our noses.”

‹Who would buy that dump and be foolish enough to turn away the few regular customers willing to rent out rooms at probably inflated rates? This is pure speculation, so for the time being this rumor ought to take a back seat to the facts… but it’s interesting enough that I need to hear more.› “When do you think they would have bought it?”

“I bet it was during the week, because all the hotel staff got termination letters telling them their last day was Wednesday. Hm. I think they got the letters the day before everything went to shit, so it might have been as late as when they sent the letters, unless they sent them before they made the purchase, knowing they’d own the place by the time they arrived.”

“That’s some very good reasoning. How did you find out about the letters?”

“I found out about the layoffs only after we tried to get back in, when I ran into Jodi—she was one of the staff who got swept up in the raid—and I asked her why it was locked, and she didn’t know anything ’cept that the owners had let everyone go.”

‹Hmm. This theory might have something to it.› “Do you know if anyone’s attempted to contact these possible new owners?”

“Nope. Like I said, I don’t know for certain who bought it—or even if that’s what actually went down. It really is just a hunch.”

“A hunch I will certainly look into. This could be big, so thank you for sharing your thoughts.” With bated anticipation I pulled out another hundred and presented it.

“Uh…”

“A reward. For helping me find Alex.”

“Okay…” They accepted the money; their reluctance did nothing to dampen the rush of paying an informant.

“Could I get your name? It isn’t mandatory, and I’ll do my best to avoid involving you in any trial that may come of this.”

“Ronnie Hernandez.”

“Thank you Ronnie.” I gave them a grateful smile as we departed.

“You’re doing great, Andy,” said Judith with a worried smile.

“Good work, Esti,” Shosh said, her discomfort still audible in her shaky voice and still visible in her awkward posture.

“Thank you,” I said in a bright, totally-not-sarcastic tone. “Your support has kept me going and all-in-all you’ve been a huge help.”

Shosh frowned, but kept her feelings to herself.

Judith, on the other hand, gave my hair an affectionate muss and pointed out, “You did most of the interviewing. And you did a great job. Very… thorough with the questioning.”

We wandered back to Yesenia and summarized our findings in hopes she might be able to fill in any gaps. “I think we might actually have enough to find him… assuming I can find somebody willing to run a license plate search for me.”

“You’re serious about this disappearance.” She sounded and looked genuinely mystified.

“Should I put on big shoes and white face makeup and a red rubber nose? It’s a missing person case, of course I’m taking it seriously.”

“A cop investing this much effort to find Alex would be… odd. You either sincerely mean to leave that life behind you, or you’re real damn good at undercover work.”

“As much as the idea of undercover work excites me, SOP for choosing operatives is to pick anybody besides the one redhead who every member of the organization being targeted for infiltration is going to recognize as a cop on-sight.”

“If by ‘SOP’ you mean common sense, I agree. My heart’s telling me not to trust you, and I must say my heart’s a pretty solid judge of character.” She shook her head. “But I’ve been following you at a distance, and you’ve been upfront with everyone, you’ve only asked for information relevant to your investigation, you haven’t tried to pry into their private or business lives, you haven’t attempted to coerce them into giving up anything sensitive about the guild or the meeting, you’ve left people alone if they told you they’re still not talking even after you’ve explained that you’re trying to find Alex—you have been respectful. And you aren’t breaking a sweat. A real pig would have struggled to sustain that level of civility for so long on this street.”

Hope filled my lungs, along with a healthy dose of disbelief. “So you’re saying I’m… not a cop?”

“You might not be. You don’t really act like one.”

I held back tears and the urge to wrap my arms around her as I asked, “Would you mind if I hugged you?”

She stared but said, “Um… Knock yourself out.”

I squeezed her tight-but-not-too-tight and tried not to cry as I asked, “Do you think I can be a good person?”

She gave my question thought, then said, “Perhaps?”

“‘Perhaps’ is good. It’s all I can ask for. Thank you.” I peeled myself off of her.

“And now that that is over… I’ve a bit of member-only info nobody’s supposed to share with you, because you’re still probationary. Do not speak of this to anyone who isn’t in the guild, you understand?” I nodded. “We had plans to purchase the Torrey Pines, then fix it up to run it as a co-op providing rooms free-of-charge to paying guild members. The closing was agreed upon at Wednesday’s meeting before the police raid interrupted the proceedings, but when we approached the real estate lawyer we’d retained to tell him to close the purchase, he told us that he was no longer representing us. The same thing happened with the bank we borrow from, and then the seller’s real estate agent straight up ignored us when we tried to get ahold of him. I don’t know whether our lawyer learned that the business we established for the purchase is a front for sex workers and got cold feet, or if he was aware and was planning to betray us all along.”

“Oh. Wow. That sucks. This really, really sucks. I imagine owning the hotel would have been a big help to the streetwalkers.”

“It would have been, and to nearly everybody else, as well. The hotel co-op project has been overwhelmingly popular among the escorts, webcam models, doms, pornographers, and streetwalkers—so that the final vote was near-unanimous, with just a handful of abstentions. I am certain that the deed would be in our possession had it not been snatched from us while we were putting the purchase to a vote.”

“I have a hunch… that this sniped purchase might be related to Alex’s disappearance—though I have no idea how… yet.”

She nodded, her eyes and brows lending the appearance of intrigue. “Y’know, I never made that connection. Very smart. You should see where that rabbit hole leads you, Miss Serendipity.”

“I certainly will. Anyways, thanks, Yesenia. You and your—‍” I smiled bashfully. “—our fellow sex workers have been a major help.”

While thanking her I thought she might correct my use of the word ‘our’, but she just said, “You’re… welcome, Sister Serendipity.”

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

She puffed her nose and considered her response carefully. “Ask, but bear in mind that I may not give you a satisfactory answer, or any answer at all.”

“If streetwalking is such a hard job, why do you do it?”

“It may surprise you to learn that there are advantages to working here. I have no boss, no agency to take a cut (just guild dues); I don’t need to confine my work to a brothel or follow the rules of a madam or an agency; I don’t need to give away my home address to johns; I have a hive of friends prepared to tail my ride to make sure I stay safe; I don’t need an escort agency to kick a new client my way when I lose a regular—there’s a constant flux of johns out here, as you can see by the hustle and bustle of our thoroughfare, most of them seeking nothing deeper than a blow job or some verbal intercourse to soothe the ache of loneliness—and… and this street is mine. I own it. We own it, this street belongs to us, whoever may own the Hotel Torrey Pines. The businesses on Adams all rely on us to bring them customers, the parking trolls…” She jabbed my shoulder playfully. “…rely on us to lure their victims across their bridges, the hotel… relied on us to fill its rooms. And when it reopens, it will still need us to stay afloat.”

“Wow. Thanks, that was educational. And I guess—if I do cave and decide to work here full-time—‍”

“I’d say it’s closer to part-time work. The hours are flexible, so I’ve been able to teach courses on the Bard and English Lit at a community college by day.”

“You’re a professor?”

“Yes, though you may be amused to learn that I make more off of streetwalking—I only kept my job as adjunct for the sake of feeding my scholastic passion for the English tongue.”

“Wow. That’s cool. Thank you. Where do you teach?”

“You’re welcome. Santa V Community.”

“I know where to go if I develop a taste for Shakespeare.” I winked and she smiled and shook her head.

“Adriana Valenzuela. I’d be happy to teach you.”

“She’s interested in Doyle,” interjected Judith. “I explained to her how he…” She cleared her throat. “How he wrote a lot of mystery novels and was extremely influential.”

“You… introduced her to Doyle.”

“Yes.”

“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”

“The Mystery Master himself.”

“She, a detective, had never heard of him.”

Judith shook her head, and Yesenia responded by slowly nodding hers. “She’s watched Columbo and the first season of BBC’s Sherlock,” explained Judith.

“I… see. Um. Andrea… How many Agatha Christie books have you read?”

“Who’s Agatha Christie?”

She grimaced. “Grisham?”

“Grish-what?”

“Raymond Chandler? He wrote The Big Sleep and Farewell My Lovely.”

“I’ve watched The Big Sleep, but I’ve never heard of Raymond Chandler. These are some very obscure screenwriters.”

“Have you read any mystery stories?”

“I’ve read the Columbo books.”

The two of them traded blank stares for a few seconds, then—with a smirk and a knowing look at Judith—Yesenia told me, “You will do fine, Andrea. I’m not gonna bother wishing you ‘good luck’ because you simply don’t need it. You are gonna blow this case wide open.” They both chuckled, Judith a little nervously.

“We sure will!” I confidently proclaimed. “Alright, Judith, I have another hunch—let’s check the front door to the hotel, on the off chance somebody unlocked it since the raid. There might be evidence in there.”

She shrugged. “It’s worth a try.”

As we walked up the stairs of the Torrey Pines, Shosh—relaxing now that we were putting a little distance between us and the other sex workers—asked, “You ready to solve a mystery, Esti?”

“I am very ready to solve a mystery.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Judith before Shosh could respond.

“So fuckin’ ready.”

“Me, too!” exclaimed Judith.

“Go find him, Esti!”

The outside of the building looked about the same as always, though this was the closest I had ever been to it: brick and stone that had steadfastly endured a century of architectural progress. Though the paint had seen better decades, underneath the top layer the stone looked like it had been chiseled only yesterday, all but a few bricks still in place, and all the original glass was miraculously well-preserved. If someone scraped away the paint and slapped a new coat on and rid the building of the gaudy neon ‘vacancy’ sign so artlessly bolted to the front, there was nothing preventing that ancient hotel from becoming a lovely place to stay for a weekend… or a night… or an hour.

“Windows aren’t boarded up,” Judith noticed, “and the lights are still on, so it’s not like they’ve decided to condemn it.”

I checked the front door. “Locked.”

“Smash the glass,” suggested Shosh.

‹People breaking the law to eke out a living freaks you out but of course you’re the first to propose breaking and entering… Death hasn’t changed you one iota, Shosh.› “I am not smashing any windows.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I’m not keen on damaging this place, either,” agreed Judith, “I respect it too much. It’s elegant, and has a forgotten prestige. Plus, we don’t know the guild won’t get the chance to buy this place after all. If we break anything, they might have to fix it. And these windows…” She tapped on one a few times, and it made a series of very full, very satisfying clinking noises that massaged my ears and tickled my scalp. “…look like they might’ve been made with some ancient craftsmanship that can’t be duplicated with modern techniques and technology.”

“All the more reason for me to respect the building’s integrity,” I added before tapping on the window several times to appreciate and derive pleasure from this new nerve-stimulating sound. For the first time in my life, I didn’t have to rely on somebody getting close and whispering into my ear to cause the effect. I only needed to come to this hotel and tap on the window whenever I was in the mood to feel it. Eventually the effect plateaued, then began to lose its intensity. I gave up on the tapping and decided to try again later.

“If you aren’t willing to break a few eggs, your omelet is fucked,” concluded Shosh. “On the bright side, we can finally leave and never come back to this cursed hellho— Um, what is she doing?” Judith had retrieved a pair of metal probes from her purse and inserted them into the keyway of the lock.

“(Hey Judith, are you really—?)”

“Picking it.”

“Badass!” exclaimed Shosh.

“Sure, it might be ‘badass’, but… it’s also trespassing, which might get us in trouble.”

“Do you see any cops here?” asked Judith. “Besides yourself.”

“No,” I admitted, “but…”

“You’re a P.I., now, you should learn how to do this yourself. I’ll teach you if you want.”

“I would appreciate that, except… that’s a Horton.”

“It is. Very observant of you. What does it matter?”

“You’re not going to have enough room for your rake while attacking with the tensioner top of keyway. And Hortons usually have enough security pins that a rake isn’t gonna accomplish very much.”

“Oh, so you’re an expert? You’re full of surprises. Wanna give it a shot, show me what you’re made of?”

I shrugged and I took her tools and got to work.

“So. What motivated you to learn the art of lockpicking, Andy?”

“It’s a useful skill for detective work.” ‹False set on four.› “Sometimes you need to break into people’s homes.”

“Just fuggin’ break in? To plant bugs?”

“To execute warrants when nobody’s opening the door and you aren’t in the mood to kick it in.” ‹Three’s good to go.›

“I see. Have you ever needed to pick a lock?”

“This is my first time picking a lock I don’t own.” ‹Five’s good to go.› “I never imagined I’d be breaking into a place without a warrant.” ‹Gah. Three has a spool. I’ll try again later.›

“Where did you learn?”

“Self-taught.” ‹Two is good.› “I pick every lock I buy to check how secure it is.” ‹One is good, now to take care of three.› “How about you?”

“I apprenticed with a locksmith.”

“You wanted to be legit before you decided on a life of crime?”

She grinned. “Nope. Just pretended to.” I lowered the tension a little to reset pin three, then lifted it again; the tensioner turned a quarter of a circle and the latch receded. “I wanted to break into places and steal shit. Good job, that was quick.” I pulled the door open and handed back her tools, and with a few brazen steps forward, we broke the law.

“(Oh, where-oh-where did the sex workers meet?)” I sang quietly as we passed the front desk.

“There’s a wonderful room in this place to hold a meeting.” She led me to a large hall with very nice wooden tables, 8 times as many equally lovely wooden chairs, a medium-ish stage, and a podium, all laid out for a congregation of sex workers. “This is the Torrey Pines Grand Ballroom. The hotel was built in the spring of 1929, and up through October of that year they put on plays, held dances, and hosted gatherings in this hall. You can guess what happened at the end of the month; the property values on Adams tanked like they did everywhere else, giving pimps and drug dealers a haven where police were mostly uninterested in protecting the assets of the wealthy or the morals of the community, because both the wealthy and the community got the hell out of here. This room didn’t see another gathering for nearly a hundred years, but the Sex Workers Guild broke that streak when they began organizing, a month before election day.”

“Great. Welcome to Hooker HQ,” quipped Shosh.

I shushed her. Judith perked her ears up, listened every which way, then whisper-asked, “(Did you hear something?)”

“(No, did you?)” I whispered back.

“(No… but you shushed me, so I figured you did.)”

“Oh. No, it was meant for—‍” ‹Shit, she can’t hear her, remember?› “I mean, I had a sneeze.”

Immediately obvious were the sheets of copy paper scattered across the tables and floor like debris flung to the four winds by a tornado.

“Three guesses what these are,” I said.

We each picked one up. “Agendas.”

“And… just like Yesenia said, ‘co-op initiative’ is the first item.” I left mine where I found it rather than take it home and risk evidence from a potential crime scene being found at my home in a surprise police search, instead opting for securely filing a snapshot in my mental evidence locker. “Let’s check the front desk and office for records, maybe we’ll get lucky and find something.”

“I doubt it.”

“Do you have a better idea of where to go next?”

She shrugged. “Yer the boss.”

Her words nearly stole my breath. ‹I’m the boss. I’m running a detective business, and she’s decided to be my partner—and she’s letting me be the boss.› “I’m… the… boss.” Another reminder of what I was becoming, of the accomplishments I had to look forward to, bringing me close to the edge once more.

We checked the front desk for clues, and the only item of obvious interest was the guest log. “Ryan Ryanson, Jennifer Jenniferson, Sheldon Sheldonson,” I listed off, “I refuse to accept these are real guests.”

“Yeah, they’re quite fake. I knew they would be fake.”

“Why didn’t you warn me?”

“I didn’t want to question your leadership so soon into your career.”

I groaned in frustration. “Next time you know something that will save us from wasting time, please… tell me.”

“I don’t want to discourage you from following your hunches. You’re an ex-cop, and for all their flaws, cops are instilled with razor-sharp instincts.”

“‘Sharp instincts’? Really?”

She guffawed heartily and gave me a jolly slap on the shoulder. “Hell no! Cops have shitty instincts! They’re constantly fingering the wrong suspects, they think everyone is out to get them, they’re paranoid assholes.” She continued giggling.

Shosh was unamused, to say the least. To say more than the least, she was fuming.

“Don’t get worked up, it was just a joke,” I told her. She shook her head, unswayed. “It might have been at my expense, but it wasn’t directed at me.” Shosh continued to hold her tongue even as she continued to be ticked off.

Judith wiped tears from her eyes as she confessed, “You’re right. I’m sorry, Andy, I didn’t mean to insult you personally. Thank you for being a good sport. In the short time I’ve known you, I’ve learned that you’re one of the most trusting and compassionate people I’ve met, and so far I haven’t known you to jump to conclusions without compelling evidence. You’re nothing like other cops. Your hunches are actually useful.”

“Oh. Thank—thank you. It’s all in good fun.” I smiled and Shosh relaxed. She was still annoyed, but her protective wrath had melted away. My eyes wandered absent-mindedly as the compliment continued softly stroking my ego, before alighting upon an anomaly. “Judith, we need to check room 410.”

“We need to check all of the rooms.”

“The key for 410 is missing from its hook.”

“Oh. Shit. That was a smart observation. You… are good at this detective business.” My heart picked up the pace, I shivered as her compliment touched me in exactly the right spot.

Shosh smiled for the first time that evening, and echoed her, “She’s right. All those Columbo episodes are paying off.”

We found room 410 in a hurried instant. As we approached the door, cracked just an inch with no signs that it had been picked or forced, I smelled just a hint of… something. Something foul. I whispered, “Don’t touch the doorknob—actually, don’t touch any part of the door with your bare hands. Do you have gloves or a rag?”

“I have my handkerchief.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a lacy square of fabric. I noticed an embroidered monogram: ‘J.E.L.’

“That’s your handkerchief?”

“Yes. Why are you so surprised?”

“It’s a lot girlier than I would expect.”

She wrinkled her nose. “It was my aunt’s. Jacqueline Edith Lucas.”

“Well, it’ll do the job. Without touching the knob, open the door, but just enough for us to listen before we go in.”

She nudged the door gingerly, silently widening the crack just half an inch. We listened for any signs of life, but heard none. I smelled something bad, but not enough of the odor was being carried on the draught for me to pinpoint exactly what it was. She pushed the door the rest of the way open, and our noses were assaulted by a weak but nonetheless offensive stench. My stomach turned as I realized what it must be. “What is that… smell?” she asked.

“Gee, what smells like shit and turns up in sketchy hotel rooms?” asked Shosh.

“I think it’s pretty obvious,” I answered.

“I got COVID a year ago,” explained Judith. “Tested positive the day before my vaccine appointment. My sense of smell hasn’t been too good ever since.”

“That sucks, but my nose is functioning exceedingly well at the moment and it’s giving me a very good idea of what the mystery odor is.” And yet, as certain as my nose was… I needed to verify with my eyes. “But we can only confirm it visually. I would rather keep it a mystery, but…”

“Must needs go that the devil drives?”

“Um. I’m just gonna assume those are the words I was searching for. Let’s proceed. Remember, don’t touch anything, and look before you take a step.” We stepped over the threshold and discovered that the room was a honeymoon suite, and that the bed was hidden behind a privacy screen. “Here’s your last chance to not be grossed out.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“It’s gonna be gross.” We crept around the screen, me first, then her. “Yep,” I murmured, my suspicions confirmed as I spotted the pile of clothes on the floor. “That’s… what I figured.”

I checked on Judith; she was staring in disgust at the abandoned shoes, soiled underwear, and stained jeans scattered on the pale Berber carpet.

The mystery of where Alex Brookvale had been at the time of his abduction was solved, and the rush of triumph being injected straight into my ego filled my head with fuzzy fantasies of future mysteries and left my skin softly glowing.

And the best part about the mystery I was solving? The missing person case had turned into an honest-to-goodness kidnapping… if not a thrilling murder.

Chapter 11: Forensics

Content Warnings: Dried Blood; Mention of Torture; PTSD Flashback; Cadaver Identification

I rested a hand on Judith’s shoulder. “You okay?”

“(Is that… his?)” she whisper-asked.

I was able to get a ‘good’ enough whiff of the lump of denim on the floor without getting any closer. “Almost certainly.” I pointed at the pile of white fabric next to it. “This looks like his ‘piggy bank’ tee.” I got as close as I could without touching it and was able to make out cuts on the sleeves (which I theorized were made to remove it while he was restrained or bound) and, with a lot of squinting, the shirt’s print: the words ‘Smash The Piggy Bank’ surrounding a piggy bank dressed in police blues suffering a blow from a hammer. “Yep. This is the shirt he was wearing. He was here, alright.”

“Damn. Whatever happened here, it was bad enough that he shat his pants.”

I examined a brownish-red patch on the carpet, mostly hidden under the pants. “Blood, at least a couple days old. They hurt him. That and the underwear are strong evidence of torture.”

She gasped in horror. “No! Don’t say that, it’s an awful image!”

“You have to be able to imagine horrible things if you’re gonna be a detective.”

“(Ugh. I don’t like this.)”

“It could be worse. We could have found something more exciting than some shit-stained pants. Such as a three-day-old decomposing carcass, which we would then have to get up close to inspect. And that would smell way worse than half-dried human shit.”

“You’re awful for suggesting that could have been a possibility.”

“Realistic, not awful. It still is a possibility. We have no idea if his captors have killed him. The next evidence we find could very well be his cadaver.”

“I’m not enjoying looking at evidence of a good man suffering inhumane treatment, and I’m enjoying speculating about his death even less.”

“She’s being a little bitch,” opined Shosh.

I gave her a dirty look. “There’s nothing wrong with being upset by human suffering.” I turned to Judith. “But, Judith, you’re gonna have to get used to this and worse if you want to be my partner in solving crime.”

“I don’t want to ‘get used to this and worse’. The day I see a dead body and don’t feel the urge to puke is the day I lose my humanity. Do you want to get used to that shit?”

{I touch my mother’s face, even paler than normal, as pale as the sheet the medical examiner has pulled back. As caked in blood as she is, I can still recognize her nose, broken, just as small and round as mine—she’d gotten it from her mother, according to her, and I from mine. Her hair has the same red curls, but it’s much longer—she swore she’d never cover or cut it above her waist. And her eyes, the only features unscathed by the hit-and-run—not green like mine, but a shade paler than sapphires, the stuff day skies are made of. Our eyes and our speech were the only ways anyone knew how to tell us apart. Even our freckles looked identical, but as I look down on her now… hers aren’t easy to make out among the lacerations and abrasions.

{“It’s her,” I tell the medical examiner coldly.

{“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says as he covers her back up.

{“You can’t imagine my loss,” I whisper, too quietly for him to hear. “Even if you lost me, you wouldn’t understand.”

{“I hope you never lose your daughter,” she replies, voice muffled beneath the sheet.

{“I could kill myself.”

{“You still have something to live for.”

{“What else but you?”

{“Your first homicide case, Esti. Which, yeah, happens to be none other than me.”

{The medical examiner puts her away and bids me, “Fare well,” and the detective who brought me here—the detective with my dream job—lets me out.

{The next time I see the woman who was my entire world, she comes to me in a box too small to hold even a bag of sugar.}

“I’m already used to it,” I informed my single and most important living friend.

“What do you mean?”

“When I identified my… my mother’s body in the morgue, that was enough for me. If getting used to seeing death means losing my humanity… then I lost mine thirteen years ago.” Shosh looked like she wanted to tell me something—something she had told me countless times, and desperately pleaded with me over just as many—but chose to keep her mouth shut. And I was relieved she did.

“When I said ‘lose my humanity’, I didn’t mean it literally.”

“Sometimes people mistook us for twins, and sometimes that’s exactly what it felt like we were. My twin was dead, so I was dead, too. Death, as much as life, became meaningless.”

“I’m sorry. I regret what I said.”

“Her parents, aunts, uncles, nephews, nieces, cousins—none of them came to her memorial service, none of them took any of her ashes home with them. I was all the family she had, and she was all the family—all the everything I had. When I fully accepted that I had lost her, I lost my humanity.”

“I’m so sorry you feel that way, but please don’t take what I said to heart,” she pleaded.

“That’s impossible. It’s simply the Truth, and a detective can never ignore the Truth or she ceases to be its agent.”

Judith’s face contorted in dismay, but she said nothing more.

“That isn’t the Truth,” murmured Shosh. “But I’m tired of arguing with you.”

“I don’t feel like beating a dead horse, either. We all need to look for more clues, however small. Just try your hardest not to touch or step on anything.”

“You got it, boss,” replied Judith, perhaps eager to move onto any topic besides my confession.

We poured over every nook and cranny of the room and adjacent bathroom for anything potentially valuable; we found a single half-inch-long blond hair in the sink, fingerprints on the sort of rocks glass typically found in hotel rooms, and a black backpack with all the items on Geraldine’s checklist—except, as we expected, the GPS tracker.

All told, there wasn’t much to go off of; with an “Esti, stop! Look closer!” Shosh concluded our search with the find of a fine, blue, helical, plastic fiber embedded in the carpet—which I had nearly stepped on—no more than a centimeter in length nor more than half a millimeter in diameter. “Rope. Tied up,” she suggested.

I nodded. “Yep. His wrists or arms must’ve been bound at some point.”

“What makes you think that?” asked Judith.

“This plastic fiber in the carpet, of course,” I replied. “Could be from a rope.”

She came over and had a look at Shosh’s find. “Wow. That… is an amazing find, you have excellent eyes. You’re surprisingly good at noticing clues.” Quickly, she added, “—I mean, not ‘surprisingly’, I meant to say ‘impressively’. I expected you to be good, but you’re even better than I expected.” She caught her breath. “Is there anything here that hints at this possibly being police work?” asked Judith.

“I don’t see any reason to…” I had been carefully avoiding this line of thinking. “Hmmm…”

“Be honest, Andy. You won’t be solving any crimes if you lie to yourself about who your suspects are.”

“…mmm— Okay. So, either this would’ve been a black op, off-the-books and out-of-uniform, so that if the operatives were caught the department had plausible deniability that the leadership was involved… or it was a lone wolf or wolves, possibly a police gang.”

“A ‘police gang’?”

“Oh, yeah, some police departments have gangs. They enforce blue solidarity through threats and violence, and they also intimidate marginalized officers into quitting. And sometimes they deal in drugs or gambling or sex trafficking. The officers in the largest of our local gangs call themselves ‘Castle’s Knights’, and the brass have done next to nothing to deal with them.”

“Christ Almighty, the police get worse and worse the more I learn about them.”

I nodded. “I don’t want to admit this, but… we cannot eliminate the police. Especially if they were acting without unofficial sanction from leadership.”

“I never thoughta them as rotten,” remarked Shosh. “Surely they aren’t as bad as she thinks they are?”

“I wouldn’t put kidnapping beyond their capabilities. — We should be photographing these items.” I opened my camera app and got to snapping the evidence we’d found so far.

Shosh summarized, “They grabbed him on the street, bound his hands, and dragged him here, where they did things to him until he crapped his pants, then they took off his clothes—whether they gave him new rags is anybody’s guess. And this all happened sometime between 9:30-ish and 9:51.”

“Yes. That.”

“‘That’?” asked Judith, who I just then remembered could not see or hear Shosh. “What are you talking about?”

“Right, that is, he was tied up somewhere else, brought up here, manhandled, stripped and possibly given new clothes, then taken away.”

“Yet no one witnessed him being brought into the building, just maybe sitting peacefully in the car.”

“Yeah, unfortunately.”

Our thoughts stewed just long enough for Judith to ask, “Are we done? I really want to get out of here. I know he didn’t die in here, but this room still feels haunted as fuck.”

“We need more clues,” pointed out Shosh.

“We do, but I can’t think of anything else to inspect around here.”

Judith gave me a puzzled stare. “Oh… kay, so is that a ‘yes’?”

“Uh—yeah?” We left the door untouched as we exited the room. “If only there were some cameras on this str—‍” And right as we began down the stairs, I had an epiphany that stopped me in my tracks. “Dash cams and body cams!”

Judith’s eyes spread wide. “Of course! But how do we get video evidence from the police?”

“Shit.” I sighed. “The only way I can think of would be through a Right to Know Act request, but we’ll have to prove there was ‘great bodily harm’ involved, and there weren’t any hoots indicating that the raid officers were violent enough to fulfill that requirement.”

“So we’re fucked.”

“Well…”

“Who watches the watchmen?” asked Shosh.

“That may be our only option.”

“What may be our only option?” asked a confused Judith.

“If somebody were to tip off Internal Affairs, then they could—‍”

“The cop-cops? Really, Andy? Those bastards aren’t gonna do shit!”

“They nab officers for taking bribes all the time, they’ll go all-in to solve something exciting for once.”

“What part of ‘All Cops Are Bastards’ do you not understand, Andrea? They aren’t gonna send a fellow cop to prison for that amount of time—they’re gonna sweep it under the rug.”

“Maybe, but—would you at least admit there’s a possibility that if they’re alerted, they’ll actually try to solve the kidnapping?”

“I’m feeling super confident about your idea,” she replied sarcastically. “We’ll just ask Internal Affairs to take over the case and let them do all the hard work for us. How do you know they aren’t in on it?”

“Okay, remember—we don’t know with a hundred percent certainty that the kidnappers were cops, in fact we have no convincing evidence implying that they were involved in the kidnapping in any way at all. I’ll admit I don’t know that IA wouldn’t cover up any hypothetical police involvement, but they would be our only option before we resorted to more extreme measures.”

“I don’t like involving any part of the fuzz, or Andy Griffith, or the Fuckwad Buttholes of Investigation, or Interpol. I say we keep snooping on our own terms and keep them the hell away from this scene.”

“I would want to keep this under wraps, too, but I need you to understand the cops are better equipped to police themselves than we are. Our only choice should we suspect police involvement would be to alert IA that officers might be involved.”

She shook her head. “If we report that room, everything inside it is gonna evaporate.”

“Maybe, maybe not. We can be certain, though, that it must disappear eventually, whether we report it or not. The carpet will be replaced, the clothes will be incinerated, and the room will be scrubbed clean to prepare it for its next inhabitants. We’re going to have to call this into the authorities before that happens.”

“Listen,” insisted Judith. I gave her both of my ears. “You should know by now not to trust cops.”

“The officers who rounded up the sex workers on Wednesday would have been acting on Vice’s orders, so assuming it was the fuzz, my money would be on Vice being the ones who nabbed him. Meanwhile, the people investigating his disappearance are gonna be from Crimes Against Persons.”

“What difference does it make?”

Shosh took this tangent as an opportunity to whisper into my ear, “(And who’s the gumshoe who’s gonna be investigating the crime?)”

“(Well…)”

“(It’s the only way, Esti. The only way to save Alexander Brookvale.)”

“Well?” asked Judith.

“(And solve the next part of this mystery.)”

“Well,” I carefully ventured, “the CAP Detective on the case could be… me.”

“Andy… I think you might want to examine what you just said and ask yourself whether it makes any sense.”

It was a stupid thing to suggest, but Shosh kept whispering my dream into my ear like a bedtime story we’d made up where I was the protagonist—one among a legion of variations—so I kept saying stupid things. “My john from earlier was Captain Diane Somers, First Precinct Vice Squad. And she offered me a job that I almost couldn’t turn down.”

She stared at me, a little shocked… but to a greater extent angry. “You’re kidding. You wouldn’t.”

“In exchange for me being her… ‘sex slave’.”

Her tone simmered. “Vice Captain’s sex slave! Are you seriously considering going back? After building trust with the people on this street, you’d betray them and go back to being a pig?”

“You said Columbo is an exception to ACAB.”

She explained with bated fury, “Columbo is a fictional character, Andy.”

“You also told me, quote, ‘And if you had become a homicide detective, maybe I would have considered you an exception, too.’” It was difficult to access such a low vocal range as I imitated her speech, but I dare say that my impression would have fooled even her closest friends and family no less spectacularly.

But my perfect emulation of her speaking did not persuade her to calm down and see reason—to the contrary, it pissed her off even more. “Are you mocking me?”

“No! I’m just quoting you as accurately as I can.”

“Sure. You should know I wasn’t being serious when I said that. Columbo is a bastard, and you seem to want to become a bastard all over again.”

“Wow. Is it just me, Esti, or did she just transform into a bitch on a dime?”

I wanted to tell Shosh that I needed her to keep her comments to herself because I sensed that I had just planted both of my feet right in the middle of the biggest, smelliest, deepest shit ever taken, and was desperate not to lose my only flesh-and-blood friend. I did the only thing I could do when faced with an impossible situation: delicately, and with as much sincerity as I could muster, accept all blame, regardless of whether I believed that I deserved it.

I chose not to tell her that I hadn’t considered the possibility that her ‘joke’ (if a joke it truly was) had been intended to be humorous. “I’m sorry, Judith. I misrepresented your joke as serious. ACAB has no exceptions, and that includes me. I will endeavor to be more careful in the future in distinguishing humor from sincerity.”

She cooled off a little, so I decided to continue navigating the minefield I had wandered into… but rather than retreat to safety, I decided to keep moving forward. “That said—the only way this investigation gets off the ground is with technology and techniques which we, as civilians, do not have access to. As a Crimes Against Persons bastard I’d be able to pull the video we need without justification, I could look up potential suspects and witnesses on NCIC and the various Person of Interest Databases maintained by the department, I’d have access to—though God forbid there is one—an autopsy before anybody else, I could have the latent prints we found run through IAFIS—that’s the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System, an FBI database that just so happens to contain the prints of every police officer in the country, so if by some twist of fate police were involved and they left behind those fingerprints we found, we are guaranteed to catch them. And if I catch the bastards who did this, I can have them arrested and tried for their crimes. I can’t do any of that as a humble private investigator.”

As I talked, Judith’s expression softened, until all that was left was worry and anxiety.

“I’ll quit as soon as I’m done, Judith.”

“Christ, fuck me, this is insane… You better.” ‹Yes! Yes-yes-yes-yes-yes!› I nearly failed to suppress the grin that attempted to usurp my face. “And we’re not gonna tell a soul that you’re a cop again. You leave your badge on your desk when you go home, you don’t go to cop retirement parties, you don’t talk to cops except to tell them that you don’t talk to them without your lawyer, and when you talk to anybody else, you act like you’re a fellow civilian.”

“So I’m permanently undercover.”

She nodded. “Exactly.”

I sighed. “That’s probably for the best. So you’re okay with me doing this?”

She groaned. “No, I fucking hate it, but you seem to think it’s the only way forward, and I can’t think of a single damned alternative.”

“Alright.” I paused my descent and looked back up the stairwell, in the general direction of room 410. “Once I’m in CAP, I’ll arrange for someone to send in an anonymous tip for a ‘large’ blood pool indicative of a potential assault or homicide—I’ll be fresh aboard with no caseload, so they’ll assign it straight to me, and I’ll have the room scoured from floor to ceiling. I’m hoping those doorknobs and that liquor glass turn up something good. Let’s go.”

We got into Banana Shark and headed back to my apartment in pensive silence—not even Shosh had anything to say throughout the ride.

Thus arrived the next stage of our investigation: sitting on my couch, fretting about my job prospects. “Are you sure this is the only way forward?” asked Judith.

“It’s the only path I can see getting us anywhere but backwards.”

“I’m just happy my Esti’s gonna have her dream job.”

Judith groaned. “I really don’t like this.”

“I know. I don’t like it either. I hate it.”

“Fuckin’ liar,” Shosh scoffed affectionately.

“I’m not lying, I really mean it,” I insisted as my tone of voice and facial expression reached enthusiastically into the forbidden cookie jar and scooped up snacks by the handful in full view of both of my best friends. “I feel good now that I’m no longer a cop—people like me, they trust me, they let me into their worlds and help me when I need it.” That much was true. “I don’t want to give this up. I’d… I’d rather be just a sex worker than a cop again.” And that much was not.

“Really?” asked Judith.

“(No,)” murmured Shosh in disbelief. “(My baby isn’t a hooker. You only did it the one time, and only to gain their trust, and never again.)”

“I would totally do it again. I had fun doing it. I enjoy sex work, it’s been a lucrative and satisfying gig so far, and I could still do private investigation during the day.”

“That’s certainly an option,” said Judith with a dash of relief. “And I would much prefer that. You have my blessing and full support if that’s what you decide to do.”

“Maybe that would be better. Maybe…”

Shosh shook her head. “Mishigas. Stop. Shut up, you’re a police detective.” She had never been like this to me, never told me what to do. And now she was using Yiddish words and acting like the bossy adult she had never been.

And I had no patience for her sudden rash of imperiousness. “I’m not finished. Notwithstanding my eagerness to moonlight as a sex worker… as a private eye without contacts inside the department, I simply don’t have access to the resources that a badge would give me. And I need those resources in order to solve the case. I need the dash cam and body cam and traffic cam footage, the fingerprints, the DNA from the blood, closed-source intel on all the organizations that could have done this, access to search warrants, and possibly the power to detain people. But… we must bear in mind, I’ll be selling my body.”

“Shit. I’m sorry,” said both of them in unison.

“Well—she’s handsome, which is a look that’s growing on me. I’ll survive.”

Judith sighed. “Christ. Just promise me you won’t fall for her.”

Shosh stared at her, then at me, in disapproval. “I can’t believe I forgot about that caveat. Are you gonna enjoy being someone’s concubine, someone’s fucking sex toy?”

“I’ll try not to,” I claimed. Shosh looked down and shook her head, trying but failing to hide what appeared to be mixed feelings. We sat in silence for a while, before I worked up the courage to ask, “Sleepover?”

Judith sighed. “You said you take up the whole bed at night, I don’t want to come between you and your sleep. Especially if you’re going to be working a regular shift again.”

“It’s fine. Sometimes my junk ends up piled up on one side of the bed and I only have half as much room—and I sleep just as well.”

“Nah. I really don’t want to get in the way.”

“Okay, you won’t take the hint, so I’ll spell it out. I’ve never shared a bed with anybody. I wanna know what it’s like to spend the night… close to another body.”

“I’m gonna give you two some privacy,” said Shosh before evaporating.

“Oh? If that’s the case, I can stay,” said Judith. “Let me go get my pie-jammers.” While she did that, I changed into the shirt I used to wear to bed while my mother was still alive. Judith returned wearing plaid flannel pants and an oversized T-shirt printed with Hello Kitty wearing a black bow on her head, black trench coat, ripped fishnets, black spiked collar, cross necklace, chains, and bold black eyeliner.

Judith looked me up and down and smirked softly. “Carnival of Sins. I never would have pegged you for a Crüe Head.”

{Vince Neil is saying something from the stage, but Shosh distracts me with a twisted-up sausage of very thin paper the size of my pinky finger, one end softly burning like the coals of a campfire somebody fed a dead skunk.

{“Shosh, is this…?”

{“Just suck it in your lungs, hold it for a couple of seconds, pass it to the next person, and let it out.” I timidly follow her instructions, and cough so hard I think my throat is going to rupture. “Try not to cough! The more you cough, the more you wanna cough!” I reel in the urge, and eventually regain control of my lungs. “Didja get any?”

{“A little,” I gasp.

{“Take another puff.” I manage to breathe it in, hold it, and release a sizable cloud. “That’s my Esti!”

{“Who do I pass it to?”

{“Me, duh.” She holds out her hand and I pass it back. She takes another lungful herself, then I take mine. The joint goes back and forth until all that remains is a nub of paper. By then I’m well and truly stupid. I don’t understand the music, I just enjoy it as I join Shosh in cheering and hopping up and down.}

“Not really. I got the shirt at a concert,” I informed Judith. “My best friend’s birthday.”

“That’s sweet. You wear that every night?”

“No, I prefer to sleep without clothes.”

“(Ohhh…?) Well… if sleeping over becomes a regular thing for us… don’t feel obligated to change your habits for my comfort. I have zero problems with you sleeping in the buff next to me.”

I smiled as I took it off. “Don’t mind if I do.” We got into bed and made ourselves comfy. I snuggled up with her and felt happy. And as her warmth touched me, as my breasts pressed against her back, as coffee and weed peeked through her deodorant… I wanted to be even happier. So I reached around and grabbed a tit.

“Andy?”

“Yes?”

“My entire brain is stuck worrying about Alex, so I don’t think sex is gonna be able to hold my attention long enough to satisfy you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Any other day I would take you copping a feel as an invitation to start fucking your naughty ass, but tonight… I need to relax and try to empty my mind of my worries about where he is now and whether we’ll find him and the smell in that room and my fears about how horribly he must’ve suffered and how he might still be suffering. And you need to re-establish your professional sleep schedule before you can get back to working for the villains.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Can you take your hand off my boob?”

I removed it. “Oh. Sorry.”

“We can have some sex tomorrow, ’kay? Assuming we don’t see another crime scene implying our guy suffered horribly.”

“Sure. Thank you.” In building up the courage to grab her breast, I had worked myself up to needing stimulation. “Since we’re not doing any sex things tonight, do you mind if I take care of… my…”

“Are you horny?”

“Every second since you gave me my first kiss. But, yes, especially right now.”

“Needs are needs. But be quick about it.”

Having perfected the art of masturbation, it didn’t take me long to speed through the process, and I fell asleep half an hour later, as I came for the seventh time that night.

Chapter 12: Born-Again Bastard

Sunday, July 14th, 2024

A night of sleep revitalized me, and waking up that morning next to somebody who cared for me filled me with even more life. My phone told me it was 7:48 on a Sunday; Captain Somers and her assistant wouldn’t be in for another 23 hours and 12 minutes.

I put on a pot of coffee for us. The drip filled the air with the smell of cheap-but-palatable arabica, and as the brewing slowed down, Judith stirred, stretched, and asked, “How did you sleep, Detective?”

“I’ve never slept this good. I feel like Superman. You?”

“Fine. I started off with a nightmare about Alex being murdered, but I’m a lucid dreamer so I was able to change the subject. I’m glad you slept well. You’re gonna have a hard time once your return to duty starts fucking with your conscience.”

“Hm. Probably. Coffee? Sorry I don’t have an espresso maker or grind the stuff myself.”

“Drip from a can is fine—a fucked sense of smell makes it hard to tell the difference. Black.”

“You got it.” I poured us each a cup and we sat on the couch and sipped.

“So, I didn’t get a look at this captain lady. How much of a looker is she?”

“Well… She’s not a lot older than me, maybe 10 or 15 years, so she still looks kinda youthful to me…”

She smirked and shook her head.

“…which I don’t prefer over maturity…”

Her smirk morphed into a full smile, and her head shake turned into an approving nod. “Smooth recovery, Bachman.”

“…and her features are kind of severe, androgynous even—objectively speaking, she’s very striking, and her strange mixture of beauty and handsomeness has grown on me quickly, even if she’s on the edge of what I find attractive.”

“‘The edge of what I find attractive.’ That’s a mouthful. What’s the core of what you find attractive?”

“Um. Womanly? Nice hair, soft features; and she has lots of life experience, so that she can hold my hand while I learn how… how intimacy works.”

“Do you know anyone who fits that description?” she fished.

‹—If she’s going to feign ignorance, I should consider being coy—

‹—Or downright sarcastic—

‹—And yet I wish so much to be sincere with her—›

The wish won. “You fit my ideal pretty well. And you know it.”

She tried to keep a straight face, but pride oozed out of every corner of her mouth and eyes. “I drive you crazy, don’t I?”

“I’ve already told you, the only thing I’ve been able to think about since we met is having sex with you.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sexy for an old broad, aren’t I?”

I smiled. “(Mm-hm.)”

“You really don’t think I’m too old for you?”

“Your age is a feature, as far as I’m concerned.”

“You are so sickeningly sweet,” she replied with mock disgust.

I winked. As we finished our coffee I pointed out, “The captain won’t be in until tomorrow, so I have a day to burn. How about some Martian Marine? Or… sex?”

“Gotta work.”

“Aww. When does your day start?”

“2 hours ago. Slept in.”

“You start at 6 in the morning?”

“Yes. And you are going to be expected to wake up at even odder hours as a detective. Get used to it.”

“Damn. You’re right.”

She washed her empty cup and said, “I’m taking the long trek home so I can change into my work clothes and grab the packages. If you want, I can give you a tour of my pad.”

“I’d enjoy that.” I put on my Hallmart jeans and a Blade Runner T-shirt, and she led me to the door neighboring mine, which opened into a very well decorated studio—the same layout as mine, but with infinitely more love put into its appearance. As I entered, I admired the neon signage—including a glowing figure of a nude woman reclining in an Adirondack chair and an illuminated Saint Pauli Girl sign—and gawked at several marvelous paintings portraying fantasy and science fiction subjects beyond just Martian Marine.

But what really caught my eye was the guitar nestled on a stand, its body scintillating like tiger’s eye, framed by a dark, amber-tinted edge, connected by a long cable to a series of small boxes and pedals, before terminating in the front panel of a big brown speaker box (which I thought might have been called an ‘amp’).

“Wow. I like your taste.” I took a seat on her couch.

“Thanks!” She reached for her waistband. “Andy… Would you mind averting your eyes? I’m a little shy when it comes to undressing my bottom half in front of others.”

“Of… course.” I turned my attention to the decor, brushing aside thoughts about the why of this double standard about nudity… and let my subconscious get to work figuring out a way to persuade her to «take off your pants and show me that pussy!» “These paintings, were they done by hand?”

“Yes—I commissioned them from breathing human beings, nunna that AI bullshit, and they’re all real paint, acrylic and oil, except for a couple of digital ones.”

One was a moonscape with what looked like a bridge to nowhere; another was a spaceship, a fighter perhaps, flying over a much, much larger ship or space station; and a very wide one had a man in red robes with a pointy hat—a wizard, perhaps—leading a column of various fantastic creatures through the jungle: a unicorn, a giant spider, a phoenix, a harpy, a cockatrice, a sphinx, and many others. “Original works. Very cool.”

“Yes. There’s some inspiration from books and movies, but they’re all bespoke. I’m done with my pants, you can stare at my tits for the two seconds it takes me to put on my bra.” I whipped my head around and caught one nipple in the brief moment between her removing her shirt and putting on her bra. She chuckled as she fastened it, then donned a Soundgarden shirt decorated with a yellow blob among a purple mess on the front, patched up with scraps of T-shirt fabric and embroidery floss of various colors, pairing well with the well-worn skinny black Levi’s she’d donned. “God, you’re funny. How did you remain a virgin this long with that sex drive of yours?” From the side, her butt looked superb in those jeans.

“(Uh… I… Well… Y’see… I, uh…)” Whatever my explanation for being a virgin may be, I also needed to contend with my claim at our meeting that I had never even masturbated. “(I didn’t know… that…)” ‹Ah-ha!› “I never realized that this feeling that’s been constantly gnawing at me since puberty was actually sexual arousal. I thought it was just anxiety—I generally avoided people and… and I never felt attracted to anybody, so I never realized that I was craving sex. If I’d figured it out earlier… I probably would’ve started masturbating compulsively to the neglect of the rest of my life,” said the woman who masturbated compulsively to the neglect of the rest of her life. “I suppose I dodged a bullet.” I chuckled unconvincingly. “Now, maybe, can you… turn around, so I can… ogle your butt from behind?”

“Sure.” She presented her ass.

I drew a breath between my top teeth and lip. “(Ah. Damn… I want to squeeze that.)”

“Knowing you, that would probably turn into sex, and I don’t have time for that. I’ll let you touch it later. — So even if you had known about your libido, you still would’ve stayed a virgin.”

“Without a doubt. Maybe I would have become a compulsive masturbator.”

“Heh. Alright, let me get my things, then I’m kicking you out. You mentioned shrooms, but I don’t fully know your history with cannabis, so I don’t want you to be tempted to sample my goods while I’m away.” She grabbed a spacious yet inconspicuous bag.

“You’re afraid I’m addicted to weed.”

She stopped short of opening a drawer. “N… no, I just…” She sighed. “This is very expensive, rare weed, with a very limited production volume, and I only have in stock the products that my clients have ordered, and not a gram more, so I can’t afford… anything… being… out-of-place. I don’t know if you might be tempted… to…”

“You’re afraid I’ll steal your weed.”

Guilt weighed down her eyes.

I shrugged. “Eh. That’s fair. I’ll chug tequila straight from the bottle if given the chance, so you can be assured that my self-control is far from perfect, and I also have a history of kleptomania… so I can’t deny that pilfering your stock would be uncharacteristic of me.”

“You’re a kl—an alcoholic?”

“Yeah, once upon a time I’d have a few shots before bedtime, every night, but when my shrink put me on welpropion, I started going to bars and drinking extra heavily, then driving home buzzed as a beehive.”

“(That’s… not… good…)” She joined me on the couch.

“It took me two weeks to realize that what I was doing was dangerous. I narrowly escaped getting a DUI by buzzing the officer who pulled me over—”

“‘Buzzing’?”

“Showing them my badge. I told my therapist, and she chewed me out. I also told my psychiatrist, and he said my binge drinking was caused by something else, because welpropion is supposed to discourage drinking by making you nauseous if you have any. I convinced him to take me off of it anyway.”

“When was this?”

“About a year ago. I’d had a couple of good years at work, then the drinking thing kind of ruined me. I never thought I was capable of being so careless, of getting plastered and stumbling into the driver’s seat of my car. I never thought I was capable of abusing my status as a law enforcement officer to get out of trouble. The situation wrecked me—my own actions wrecked me.”

“Do you still drink?”

“Vodka, vodka everywhere and not a drop to drink, for the past year and three days. Celebrated my 31st birthday with a new leash on life…” Sic. “…and some wonderful withdrawal symptoms.”

“(Leash on life…)” she muttered. “You’ve taken the steps to make sure you don’t repeat your mistake, and you’ve kept it up for a while. That’s good. That’s plenty. Don’t be hard on yourself.”

“I try not to be,” I lied through a fake smile. ‹Sometimes I can’t help but feel like I’m nothing but a fuckup. The rest of the time… I’m convinced.› I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed her for comfort, to ease the pain of being a failure, and she gave me exactly what I needed: a squeeze in return, and an olfactory reminder of how much I liked her. “That’s a pretty guitar,” I told her, hoping to distract myself from my self-hatred.

“’59 Gibson Les Paul standard, original issue, all factory parts except for the tremolo bar—and it was a pain in the ass to acquire, involving quite a lot of aggressive deal-making, and it’s technically hot, so given the trouble I went through to get it and the risk I’ve assumed by holding onto it, I hoped you might call it something more than just… pretty.”

“Alright… it’s gorgeous. It’s nice to just look at it. The orange part is very pretty—I mean, beautiful.” She chuckled softly. “What are those boxes on the floor?”

“Effects pedals: wah, fuzz, uni-vibe. They give the guitar a rich, psychedelic rock sound.”

“So you play rock?”

“To pass the time.”

“Can you play me some rock-and-or-roll?”

“I really have to get ready for work.”

“Just a few pretty notes…”

“Too busy.”

I expressed my disappointment in the form of an ugly, scrunched-up pouty face.

“Christ, you’re pathetic. You want a recital?”

“I don’t know about a recital, just… a demonstration. If you’re not willing to do it for me, maybe you could play a little something to show off for your own gratification.”

“(Hmm.)” She shifted in my embrace, so I let her get up. She strolled over to her musical equipment, strapped the guitar over her shoulder, and with her left hand gripped the long part, which had several narrow metal speed bumps spaced at gradually narrower intervals as they approached the body.

“What are all the different parts of a guitar?”

She indicated from top to bottom, “This is the headstock, this long part is the neck and facing you with the metal frets is the fingerboard; these are the pick-ups, bridge, and tremolo or whammy bar.”

“Thanks. A little ditty, if you please?”

She shook her head and muttered, “(A little ditty.)” She flipped a switch on the amp, and a gentle hum gradually built up and emerged. She rested her foot on one of the pedals and plucked one of the strings once with a guitar pick, causing the amp to emit a raspy but pleasant twang-buzz that warbled and wiggled in timbre; then twice, then continuously, tilting the other pedal back and forth with her foot as the buzz of the notes morphed between {bright and dark, a voice talking, singing, crying, laughing…}

A finger hammered another string against the fretboard, creating a softer but higher sound; she repeated this within the rhythm of her plucking, then alternated this with another finger hammering another string, then with a third finger and string, in rapid succession. Suddenly her fingers danced down the fretboard, stepping-leaping one over another, causing the tones to dance back and forth in their descent towards the pick-ups, before her fingers came to the end of the fretboard next to the pickups and dwelled there, rising and falling on the strings, spelling out a maze of sound with the fingers of both hands, a pushing-pulling wa-wa-wa-wa fractured into tiny, homogeneously diced but diversely voiced notes, an engaging and pleasing show of speed and precision and coordination—

Then she hit a high note—stretched the strings and strummed them violently, and pulled her fingers back towards the headstock until they and the strings’ frequencies bottomed out; at which point she slowly rocked the pedal back and forth and back again, causing the sound to smoothly dip and swell in brightness, while aggressively dropping the pitch by flexing the whammy bar, then slowly easing off of it so that the pitch returned… allowing her song to fade into a drawn-out wwwaaawwwaaawwwaaa of fuzz—with a smirk on her face. “Was that the kind of little ditty you were looking for?”

I was rendered speechless for a few seconds. I clapped slowly but firmly. “Wow,” was all I could say in the wake of something the likes of which I had experienced before only at Shosh’s birthday Mötley Crüe concert.

“If you’re impressed by that, you need to listen to better music.”

“That was amazing, though!”

“Trust me, there are musicians way more amazing than me.”

“But they aren’t you. Part of why that was mind-blowing was that it was you who did it, not some famous person I’ll never talk to face-to-face, let alone get to know intimately. Someone I know personally who’s good at something will always be more impressive than a celebrity who’s technically more skilled. Especially since you don’t have the time to practice all day, every day like they do.”

Her smirk morphed into something less cynical. “You get it.” She arranged her fingertips across the strings then plucked them all at once with a circular, easygoing flow, a laid-back chug-a-chug-a-chug-a-chug-a that turned into something bluesy as her hand shifted in a pattern that repeated in 12 sets of 4 beats, alternating between 1 chord for 4 sets of beats, then another for 2 sets, then the first for 2 more, then a third for 1, then the second for another, before finishing with the first chord for the last 2 sets. “I wanted to be a famous guitarist.” She plucked and hammered little flourishes on the higher strings and hummed along to her steam locomotive of a tune until she confessed, “But music doesn’t pay well, and despite my parents’ best efforts to teach me their hippie values, I very much liked money as a young woman. Still do, as a middle-aged woman. I like owning stuff. I like buying stuff. I like having money.”

“You’re a capitalist,” I concluded with disappointment.

She didn’t stop playing but continued onto the middle chord. “Hell no, I ain’t a fucking capitalist! I’m an ancom, through-and-through. But—!” Lower chord. “I appreciate the importance of financial security, and I like having nice things, just like anybody else.” High chord. “Working towards those things doesn’t invalidate my principles…” Middle chord. “…because whether you like it or not, under capitalism you hafta play by the establishment’s rules.” Low chord. “And if I’m forced into that game of theft-as-property, I figure I might as well do everything I can…” She played a little flourish. “…to cut down on the pain of living in this hellscape with a few harmless creature comforts. It isn’t capitalism, it’s survival with a cherry on top. Sure, economic materialism is self-defeating…” Middle chord. “…a downward spiral of dissatisfaction… but this guitar brings me happiness, so I carry on.”

Low chord. “Oh. I guess that… makes sense. It also sounds like bullshit—‍” She guffawed in amusement. “—but reasonable bullshit.”

She played the high chord as her amusement faded into a giggle. “Yes! Thank you. Finally, someone gets it.”

Middle chord. I narrowed one eye. “I get it, that doesn’t mean I think it’s good.”

Low chord. “It isn’t. And it’d be consumerism, which is even worse, if I didn’t insist on only buying second-hand.” She threw in a little ornamentation. “‘Good’ is impossible. You can be kind, you can be considerate, you can be righteous—but you can never be good, not when things are as shitty as they have been since we as a society started buying and selling bodies.”

Middle chord. “That outlook is so… cynical, though,” I observed.

She nodded. Low chord. “My parents went to peace protests when I was barely old enough to read…” High chord. “…and I wouldn’t see them for days…” Middle chord. “…while they waited in jail for their court dates.” Low. “They were idealistic hippies who loved me—‍” She hammered out a mini melody. “—but decided not to teach me how to survive under capitalism, because we lived in an intentional community where capitalism was against the rules.” Middle. “I was unprepared for life outside our little bubble…” Low. “…and it hit me hard when I went off to live on my own.” High. “I had to adapt to a culture that was hostile…” Middle. “…to sympathy, reason, and compassion.” Low. “I grew up during the Cold War, when everyone was afraid of nuclear annihilation and the destruction of the nuclear family.” She strummed a little flourish leading into the low chord. “I was queer and sexually active in the era of President Bonzo and miraculously escaped a certain venereal disease. I watched the Gulf War play out on live television.” Middle. “I witnessed Monica Lewinsky being slut-shamed and vilified as a conniving, slutty homewrecker by the media.” Low. “Those things are over, now, but have they really gone away?” High. “The bullshit’s been scooped up…” Middle. “…but the bull itself is still crapping everywhere.” Her guitar fell silent when there should have been a low chord. “Honey dear, tell me, why aren’t you a cynic, too?” She resumed the cycle of chords.

I sighed. “Okay. Yeah. Things suck.”

Her sour frown broke into sarcasm. “On the bright side, you can be glad you aren’t a cop anymore.”

I feigned displeasure. “Right… I was a decent human being for half a day before deciding to return to being a bastard. Play me another little something virtuoso-y to cheer me up.”

“You got it.” She kept up the bluesy sound as she tapped and plucked to produce a bittersweet melody, here and there bending the strings with her fingers to subtly raise their pitch, humming the notes as she played them, all to my satisfaction. “Like this?”

“Yeah.”

“You know I gotta get to work eventually.”

“Aww. If I let you go, will you play for me later?”

“No doubt.”

“Then you have my permission to stop.”

She chuckled. “Permission!” She finished the progression of chords then concluded the ditty with that classic blues downward march into a low string of notes and sustained the concluding low chord until it had faded into fuzzy obscurity, before turning off the amp and putting her hot guitar back on its stand. “I will play for you whenever you are in the mood to listen. Having an audience is nice.”

“So is being your audience.”

She blushed and smiled. “Okay, I need to pack my deliveries.” I toured her room and admired the decorations as she pulled opaque glass jars and packages wrapped in butcher paper out of drawers and stowed them in her capacious bag. “Alright, that’s everything. You don’t have a search warrant, leave.”

I stuck my tongue out. “Ha, ha. I’m not a cop yet, Judith.”

“Call me ‘J’, A.”

“How about ‘Judy’?”

“Someone… One of my exes called me Jude,” she informed me, ambivalently. “Which is very similar to the name you’re proposing.”

“Uh… Then J it is.”

“Our relationship showed a lot of potential, but her career was sending her to another city, and we both agreed we were too early into it for me to drop everything and commit to a new life with her. Go ahead, Andy. Judy works between you and me. May our friendship last longer than any of my past romances.”

I gave her a smile, and she returned it with one of her own. “Best fuckbuddies forever, Judy. Can I follow you around while you’re delivering?”

“Do you really think that’s a good idea? Think about it for just a couple of seconds.”

“Why wouldn’t it be? I’d learn more about your job, build my network of underworld connections, maybe see a side of town I’ve never seen before.”

“And these ‘underworld connections’ you’ll be making, Honey—my customers, who are for the most part upstanding citizens within their otherwise-crimeless white-collar worlds—will stop trusting me if they find out that the redhead bombshell I allowed to learn about them after having built with them a relationship of confidence and trust… is a cop.”

“How could they find out I’m a cop? We’re keeping it a secret.”

“Well… I know I made a big deal last night about you keeping your new badge a big secret, but I’ve given it some thought and I’ve concluded that working permanently undercover like that is actually impossible. Somebody will eventually catch you ‘buzzing’ your badge to get into a crime scene, and after just a few minutes of a single hoot incubating, the whole town is gonna know about it. It’s not a how question, it’s a when question, and my guess is it’ll happen when a sex worker witnesses you enter the hotel and flash your badge as you duck under the ‘police line do not cross’ tape, which they will see as proof that you’ve become a cop—if they don’t assume you were a cop the whole time, having pulled the wool over their eyes and convinced them they could see just fine.”

I considered her words thoroughly, then hissed, “(Fuck…)”

“Not only that, I had your back and held your hand, which makes me a Dirty Fucking Traitor, so they’ll never trust me again.” Guilt smothered my soul. “But that’s the price of justice, and I’m willing to pay it. The whole thing sucks, yeah, and—‍”

I processed and reprocessed her words, then yelled, “No!”

Once she recovered from her shock, she told me matter-of-factly, “It is what it is, Andy. Sacrifices have to be made.”

“She’s right,” said Shosh. “She’ll deal with the fallout so that you can deal with the kidnapping.”

“That isn’t fair, that’s unjust,” I whined. “I can deal with them hating me and treating me like I’m a traitor—but I can’t stand the thought of my best friend being exiled from the world she’s known since… probably since I was born. That isn’t dealing with the fallout, that’s living at the fucking epicenter when the bomb goes off.”

Judy nodded mournfully. “That’s… probably what it’s gonna feel like. Is there any way to rescue him that doesn’t involve you becoming a detective?” I thought and thought but had nothing by the time she reminded me, “You told me the only person you trust to be a good detective is yourself, and if there be such a thing as a good cop, you might—with a little self-reflection, self-control, and compassion—be one of them. You told me you needed to take this path. Is there any other way?”

“Does it matter?” asked Shosh. “This is everything you’ve wanted since you were a little girl. Who gives a shit what anyone has to sacrifice for your dreams? She wants you to have this, let her give it to you.”

“I want so badly to give into that way of thinking, but… it isn’t fair to put my friend through that, but… (I… can’t…)” I trailed off; I believe that I tried my damnedest to come up with an alternative.

Judy curled her hand around mine. “Can’t what?”

“(…can’t…)”

Then again, I really wanted this.

“Take it,” urged Shosh.

“(…think…)”

But can you blame me?

“Don’t think, just do!”

“(…of…)”

Nearly every book, movie, and television program I had voluntarily consumed from childhood up to that moment had centered on the exploits of one or more detectives—the most glamorous among them being the ones who were public employees with guns and handcuffs and plain clothes and authority and teams of officers under their command scouring their crime scenes for the tiniest clues and canvassing neighborhoods for testimony.

“C’mon, Esti!”

“(…any.)”

“Become a detective to save the day” was the only future I could conceive of… because it was the only future I was fed as a child—and it was the future I continued to cling to as an emotionally stunted adult who shrank at the mere suggestion of abandoning her childish dreams.

Judy waited a little for me to change my mind. “Not even something half-baked?”

“No.” I hung my head. “Nothing. I’m absolutely certain the police dumped this one in the cold case files as soon as the first 72 hours were up. We need somebody inside the department who can thaw the case and direct and supervise the investigation, who can uncover any deviations from proper procedure, who can gather and act on evidence without having to go through someone who will more likely than not refuse to help.” You can’t say that I lacked talent in the art of rationalization, to myself as much as to others, especially when it was to fulfill a desire so deeply ingrained into my capital-I Identity that rejecting said desire would have resulted in a slow ego death more thorough than the kind a pound of shrooms had to offer, and far less pleasant.

“Well. That settles it. You’re becoming a detective—may God have mercy on your soul.”

Shosh sighed in relief, smiled, and gave me a pat on the back. “Be more excited, Esti-Besty. Soon you’ll finally have that badge, and then you’ll be the real deal!”

Meanwhile, I was chewing on the stump of my thumbnail. “(There’s no cause to celebrate, this isn’t a good thing,)” I muttered.

Shosh shrugged dismissively. “Give it a little time, you’ll come to appreciate your choice.”

“Judy… I wanted to keep those connections. Sex workers can spot suspicious goings-on in their neighborhood, and they can gather intel from their johns, and…” ‹My plan, my world, is falling to pieces.›

“Easy there, Andy. The world isn’t falling to pieces.”

“A detective without informants is blind to the happenings around her. If I’m gonna hit the ground running with this case, I need friends on the streets, but after becoming a cop I’m gonna have no-one. This was a terrible idea. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m screwing myself, I’m screwing you, I’m dooming this case to the cold files, if it isn’t already on ice.” Even I couldn’t rationalize myself out of a downward spiral brought on by the realization that ‹the job I want so fiercely is, through Catch-22, going to be impossible to do because the people with all the information I need to do my job as a police detective aren’t gonna trust me because I’m a police detective.›

“Okay, okay, calm down, listen… Maybe my initial prognostication of how this is going to go down was too pessimistic—you might be able to have your cake and eat it, too. Besides, if they’re guaranteed to discover you’re a cop again, you might as well out yourself on your own terms.”

“It was hard enough getting them to trust me even when they knew I wasn’t a cop anymore. When I tell them I’ve become a full-blown police detective, they’re going to take away my membership card—even though I’m a sex worker—they’re gonna take away my guild card—I’m not going to be a sex worker anymore—they’ll never let me work that street ever again—the escort agencies won’t work with me—I’ll be blacklisted from acting in porn…” Hope was dwindling rapidly; I caught myself beginning to hyperventilate; through the torrent of despair I reached blindly for something to keep myself from flying away, exerted my will upon my diaphragm, and wrestled it for control of my lungs.

“You okay?”

“Just… need a… sec… ond…” ‹Slow down. Out four seconds, pause four seconds, in four seconds, pause four seconds, out four seconds…› After a minute of deliberate breathing, I nodded numbly and murmured, “Okay.”

“Andy, listen… There’s a chance they’ll trust you, as long as you’re open and forthright. You’re trying to rescue one of our community leaders, and that counts for a lot. You’ve shown that you respect our work by doing it yourself and acknowledging your complicity and privilege as a former cop. You asked all the right questions, questions that reassured them you’re after justice, and you didn’t ask any of the wrong questions, things that are none of your business. You worked for the trust they’ve given you, and they’re going to remember that when they’re trying to decide what to do about you. Okay?”

As I finished regaining control of my diaphragm, I nodded. “Alright. Okay. I guess that’s what I’ll take care of today.” I checked my phone. “In like half a day. Does anybody work Adams at this hour?” ‹In… pause… out… pause… in…›

“Nope. You’re gonna hafta wait till evening.”

“Damn it, I hate waiting. Fine. I’ll find something else to do.”

“Good. Let’s go, I was behind schedule when we came in here and I’m even further behind after the song and the chat.” She ushered me out and left for the bus stop, which was mercifully close—but as I was about to unlock my door, I had an idea. I caught up with her and tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned around. “Are you stumped about how to find allies, Miss Marple? You could go on Hootr and start friending nosy neighbors.”

“How long does it take for you to finish your route?”

“All fucking day, and as you are fully aware, I am currently way behind schedule. Why do you ask?”

“Would it be quicker if you had a chauffeur?”

She closed her eyes and sighed irritatedly, but when she opened her eyes, she said, “Fine.”

We got into my banana yellow M6 and took off.

“Left up here, down Reagan—” Under her breath she added, “(rest in piss)—keep going for a mile, take a left on Valencia, then stop at the corner of the first one-way street.” I followed her directions, and we arrived in front of a very nice house in one of those gentrified neighborhoods that occasionally metamorphoses from a row of old track homes on the East Side.

“What kind of fancy weed are you delivering?”

“I have a strict client-dealer confidentiality policy.”

“Can you at least tell me whether it’s flower or resin?”

With sobriety that rivaled my year and three days of teetering precariously over the side of the wagon, she told me, “I can tell you what I have to offer you, but I can’t tell you what’s in the packages meant for other customers. For both of our sakes, don’t ask questions about their purchases.” She got out and rang the doorbell. A man answered—to the best of my ability to discern his age from such a distance he was somewhere between 20 and 40, 5′8″, build on the slight side, brown hair cut short, jeans and a red T-shirt, no visible tattoos, and too far away to see if he had any scars smaller than a cigarette burn—and let her into his home.

I looked around the mildly affluent neighborhood while waiting for her to emerge and return to Banana Shark and decided to survey the neighborhood automobiles to pass the time. “Silver Acura Integra.”

“Blue Dodge Charger,” observed Shosh, “red Ram Longhorn; black Audi A4, plates FORTIORI. Sounds Italian.”

“It’s Latin. Probably a lawyer,” I suggested.

“Besides it being Latin, what makes you think the owner’s a lawyer?”

“A fortiori is a principle in argumentation, used by lawyers on a daily basis.”

“Oh. My Esti is so smart.” She tousled my hair. “Silver Lexus RX…”

We finished our census just as Judy got back into Banana Shark, three minutes later. “How’d it go, Scarface?”

She snorted. “I delivered, he paid. Ideally, that’s exactly how it would go every time, but sometimes a new customer will try something funny, which is why I carry a knife.”

“I didn’t see you pack a knife.”

“I shoved it in my pants when I was putting ’em on and you weren’t looking.”

“I wish I could have been looking,” I muttered.

“Get used to me keeping my pants on, buddy.”

I pouted.

“Don’t give me that shit, I have body issues,” she growled. “Don’t you fucking pressure me.”

Her aggression caught me off guard. “Okay…” I responded meekly. “I’m sorry. I’ll avoid exerting improper pressure in the future.”

“Thank you.”

“She’s scary,” observed Shosh. “Just when she was beginning to grow on me, she goes and impresses me even more. I’m gonna level with you, I was a little nervous about this lesbianism thing, but you picked a solid chick. Used to be a hooker, sells drugs, gets into sex-centric relationships with women half her age, carries a knife, and guards the contents of her pants like the Maltese Falcon. Very alluring.” It was among the most caustic of sarcasm I’d ever had to endure from her.

Her acerbity didn’t much matter, though, because I was still recovering from Judy’s outburst, and was only half-paying attention to Shosh’s comment. “(Right. Very…)”

“‘Right’…?” asked Judy, still on edge. “‘Right-very’ what?”

“(Never… mind. What are we…) Where next?”

She gave me directions, I followed them, parked outside an apartment complex, and let her out. She disappeared through the gate. We resumed our automobile survey; this time there were more on the curb: ‹red Honda Pilot, white Honda Accord, white Nissan Armada…› We poked our heads out to see further behind us. ‹Green Nissan Leaf—›

“Esti, didn’t we see a blue Dodge Charger earlier?”

I spotted the one she was pointing at, a couple cars back, then quickly got out to get an angle on the plate: W776BBO1. Not only had we counted a car of the same description just minutes prior, but I had also seen it weeks before that, in the garage down at the station house…

Since we had seen a car matching precisely that description behind us only a little while ago, I developed a suspicion that wouldn’t stop buzzing in my brain until it had been confirmed.

“Shosh… that was a very good catch.”

“What makes you say that? I thought it was just an interesting coincidence.”

“I’ll explain when Judy gets back.”

Judy returned 3 minutes later. “Next one is 2 blocks straight ahead.”

“We’re being followed.”

“Wait—really?”

“That blue Dodge Charger, two cars back, is an unmarked car. I recognize the plates.”

“You’ve seen it before?”

“Yep.”

“Where?”

“A few blocks back a few minutes ago, and a couple months before that in the HQ/First Precinct garage.”

“Do you normally notice random license plates?”

“I’ve been tasked with every semiannual inventory since I was sworn in because I was the only person who actually wanted to do it. I have a knack for remembering things pertaining to cars, so I had every automobile in the garage shared by HQ and First Precinct memorized—color, make, model, license plate, VIN, dents, scratches, aftermarket modifications. HQ and First Precinct together have more vehicles than the rest of the precincts combined, so as a result of being responsible for the chore that nobody else wanted to do, I have most of the department’s fleet stored in my head—as well as their personally-owned vehicles.”

“Wow. That’s… freakish. Alright. Why are they following us?”

“Well, you are a drug dealer.”

“I’m small-time though, and I sell weed, that’s six months or a 500-dollar fine—I’m small potatoes, they have no reason to be investing any resources to catch me. You, on the other hand, slept with a police captain for money. It could be an internal thing.”

“Could be. IA might be investigating Somers, and maybe they’re tailing me because they want to see if I have any seedy connections that extend beyond the sex industry. Or… they’re onto us.”

“Our investigation?”

“Yes.”

“(Shit.) Shit. What do we do?”

“I could… go over and find out why they’re following us.”

“They aren’t going to tell you just because you ask them nicely.”

“I won’t have to ask a single question, and they won’t have to tell me jack. I’ll be able to deduce why they’re after us based on which unit they’re from, and I’m as good at remembering faces and names as I am at remembering models and license plates and paint scratches. I don’t know all of First Precinct, but a good chunk of them.”

“So you’re just going to look through the window and immediately intuit their motive?”

“I’ll try, but they’re usually tinted nearly black on plain cars. I might need to get them to open up.”

“Andy, this sounds like a good idea, but I think it’s actually a bad one. You’d be poking the bear.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“Well… no. Other than pretending they aren’t there.”

“And just let them surveil us?”

“I suppose that’s what willful ignorance would entail.”

“If you don’t have any better ideas, we’re going with mine. Well?”

She shrugged. “I’ve never been tailed before—that I know of—so I guess just spotting them makes you the expert on this stuff.”

“You’re damn right I am.” I got out and calmly strolled up the street to the blue sedan with tinted windows. I couldn’t see its occupants’ faces through the darkened glass, but I could tell that there were people in there. I knocked on the driver’s window and waited. No response.

I knocked again. Nothing.

I knocked again and threw in a friendly wave to sweeten the deal. I could see their heads move, so that I was barely able to make out two individuals—hair short, either shaved or buzzed, probably males. “I see you in there,” I yelled. “I wanted to say ‘hi’ to my fellow police officers.”

They ignored me.

“If you don’t roll down that window I’m going to take a picture of the car, the plates, and the VIN, and post them on Hootr, and you’re going to have to explain to your captain how you blew your cover so badly the vehicle’s status as an unmarked car became public knowledge and now they have to file off the serial numbers and get new ones issued by the manufacturer, as well as new plates and a paint job in a new color.”

If it had been an undercover car, the brass would actually care about me posting the plates and VIN… but unmarked cars are little more than police cruisers without the black and white paint jobs or the push bumpers. They’re even the same damn model as the standard issue cruiser.

The driver must not have known that, though, because he rolled down his window. “Really, Red?” asked Officer Samuel Prince, Parking Enforcement Squad, First Precinct.

Chapter 13: Section 74.0382

Content Warnings: Sanism (both externalized and internalized); Complex Grief

I recognized his voice before his head was fully visible, but I had to duck down to see the other man’s face. ‹Damien Firth.› These men were among the last people I expected to be tailing me. “Really, Sammy,” I told him.

“Shithead. How’s civilian life treating you?” He was chewing on something, and I had a good idea of what it was.

“Not bad. Why are you following me?”

“We ain’t following nobody, Shorty,” he reassured me innocently through a mouth containing something crunchy.

“Then why do I keep seeing you in my rearview mirror?”

He spat a few saliva-logged sunflower shell fragments into a 7-Eleven coffee cup and placed it back in the cup holder. Shosh leaned forward from the middle of the rear seat and through the steel plate of the prisoner partition, picked up the cup, and showed me the contents; as I expected, it was filled about a third of the way with gray mush, and I shuddered at the sight of the chewed-up spit-soaked grossness inside. He dug into a red, white, and blue resealable plastic bag in his lap and popped a fresh handful of sunflower seeds into his mouth and crunched away. “You saw another car that looks like this one. Coincidence.”

Shosh dumped the cup out into his lap. I giggled. “Coincidence. Of course.”

He nodded with a solid poker face.

“Whiskey-seven-seven-six-bravo-bravo-oscar-one.”

“What?”

“W776BBO1. The plates on this car. I’ve seen this car twice today.”

His face remained unchanged, and his mouth remained silent apart from the shells popping between his teeth. Either he was good at keeping his cool even when he was losing or he sincerely believed he still had the upper hand. Which explanation was the more likely seemed obvious to me given that no-one in his squad had a reputation for smarts—bearing in mind I was a veteran of that same inane jackboot troop.

“I might be an incompetent cop, Chewy… but I’m not a stupid one.” He had a nickname which requires no explanation.

“If you’re such an observant smarty, how come you didn’t notice we were following you until today?” he asked smugly.

His question caught me off guard, shattering my composure. “You started following me before this morning?”

A silent, smug smile was all he gave me, but he didn’t have to speak a single word to worsen my unease.

“How long?”

More silence.

“Since last night?”

“Damien and I noticed your friends suddenly refreshing the meters as soon as you showed up on Adams.”

“People topped off the meters last night. Did the sun set at dusk, too?”

“Quarters started plinking the second you showed up.”

“So?”

“‘So’? We’re Parking Enforcement, Bachman. All of us take parking meter Good Samaritans seriously. All of us ’cept you.”

“If people want to help other people, they should be allowed to.”

“Is that so? Municipal Code Section 74.0382 begs to differ.”

“A bullshit reg designed to inflate the number of parking fines generated and intimidate bystanders into abandoning kindness to others.”

“Ya think?”

“Yes. I think.”

“Did you by any chance get yourself canned for failing to enforce that one?”

‹Technically,› “No.” The real answer was a little more complicated, and I didn’t feel like explaining to him that the reason for my expulsion involved frequent tardiness, a “pervasive pattern of unsatisfactory performance”, and an Internal Affairs investigation that could have resulted in me being permanently decertified as a law enforcement officer under Penal Code Section 13510.8(b)(6) thanks to the 16-plus infractions I had allegedly committed while in uniform. (The actual number of infractions committed throughout my last year on the force—consisting of 217 shifts after subtracting holidays and leave—totaled 1,211, an average of about 5.6 per shift, every one a violation of the same Section 74.0382 that I so despised.)

“You sure? Because ever since you left and they stuck me with mids on that dirty, disgusting dump of a street, I’ve noticed some pretty brazen meter loading by the whores who own the place. Organized, based on how efficient they are.” Then in a knowing tone he asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know who’s calling the shots, would you?”

‹‘Organized’? Is this a Guild thing?› “No.”

“You sure? Because we spotted you walking Adams last night, and your buddies started their routine of systemically topping off the meters as soon as you came by. We thought maybe you were the one going up and down the street giving orders to the hookers in your pretty black dress.”

“What? No.” I genuinely wasn’t sure about what to make of the allegation. “They’re doing it on their own.”

“We know you’re one of them,” interjected Officer Firth. “You arrived on the scene wearing that chesty dress and subsequently got into a very fancy Mercedes and came back exactly an hour later. We don’t know how long you’ve been a streetwalker, but based on how nice you were to them over the past year you were patrolling Adams, we can guess that it’s been a long time.”

“No, I’m—‍” I choked on my words as soon as I remembered that, as much as I simultaneously hated to admit it and wanted to shout it from a mountain top, I was quite literally a card-carrying streetwalker. “So what if I’m turning tricks? You gonna arrest me?”

“What?” they both asked amid hearty laughter.

Prince explained, “No. We ain’t Vice or Internal Affairs. We don’t care how you were supplementing your income. We’re only concerned with organized crime interfering with the proper functioning of the meters.”

‹‘Organized crime’? Are they serious?› “I had no idea they were doing this. What makes you think I have anything to do with it?”

“Because we analyzed your statistics and noticed that the meter loading started around the time you were assigned to Adams, early July of last year. And last night, as soon as you left the force, we spotted you walking the streets. Either you let it happen, or you started it. And we’re gonna follow you everywhere you go until we find out which.”

‹Shit, I can’t have police watching my every move, even if they only care about their stupid parking meters not being allowed to expire.›

So I decided to cut their mental masturbation short with a premature climax. With a dramatic fling I reared my head, thrust my fists side-by-side through the window frame, and closed my eyes, as though averting my sight from the hideous countenance of Death herself. “Alright. I organized it. Arrest me. Conspiracy to stuff the parking meters. That’s a felony, right?” I opened my eyes to drill into his pupils.

Prince, with sour lips, drew his citation pad and scribbled something on the top sheet, tore it off with a flourish, and thrust it towards me; I snatched it away defiantly. “Your court date is Thursday, July 18th, at 10 AM.”

The box for other regulation was checked and the line next to it filled out with… Well, it was filled out with something. I struggled to read what it said: “(‘Palxjhg nnctcr raexolccrjhg’)—what the hell does this say?”

“‘Parking meter racketeering’, smartass.”

“‘Parking meter… (racketeering)’?” ‹‘Parking meter racketeering’… I’ve never encountered this combination of words before.› “There’s nothing like that in the Municipal Code. That isn’t a real reg.”

“That’s for the judge to decide. And when he finds out you’ve been disrupting our ecosystem, he’s gonna flip his lid like a fresh tube of Pringles.” He started rolling up his window.

“Are you gonna leave me alone, now?”

His “Yeah” snuck out just as the window closed.

The blue Charger passed me as I returned to my car. “So? What happened?” asked Judy anxiously. “Why were they following us?”

After taking a moment to process the past few minutes, I burst into laughter.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Parking Enforcement thinks there’s a crime ring on Adams—that someone’s organized the sex workers to keep all the parking meters from expiring! They think they’re hot shit, going undercover and trailing me like I’m a mobster!” I cackled.

“So they think… you’ve been running some kind of operation. And they’re taking it very seriously.” Despite my mirth, she was on edge.

“I confessed to ‘parking meter rack—’” I couldn’t stop myself from laughing as I passed her the citation slip.

“‘Parking meter’ what? I can’t read these scribbles.” She was still worried about the trouble in which I had become embroiled.

“I can’t—ha!—either… ‘Parking meter racketeering’! He said that with a straight face!”

“That sounds… (kind of) serious.”

I sighed and started to come down. “Criminal profiteering, California Penal Code Section 186, is a felony per the California Control of Profits of Organized Crime Act.”

“…And yet you don’t seem to be at all concerned.” She started to calm down, but wasn’t entirely soothed.

“There are a total of zero infractions that fall under the definition of ‘criminal profiteering activity’ given in Section 186 Subsection 2. The judge is gonna throw this one out.” I allowed myself a couple more giggles. “Like an empty Pringles can!” I snorted as one final laugh escaped. “Let’s go.”

I pulled away from the sidewalk and proceeded until she told me to park again. She went inside and came out four minutes later, we drove, we parked, she went inside… Shosh and I kept an eye out for pig plates while we repeated this program a couple dozen times, before Judy declared, “Damn. I’m finished, and it’s barely an hour past noon.”

“And I didn’t get to watch any drug deals go down.”

“I sell grass, it barely counts as a drug.”

“Barely drug deals are still drug deals. I wanted to be there.”

“Stop complaining. You will get to witness them. Watching them go down is gonna be part of your job.”

“Only if I transfer to Vice, which I do not plan on doing. Our ‘justice system’ punishes users for having addictions they struggle to—‍”

“Yes, amen—but you’re preaching to the pastor, Andy, you don’t have to express every tangential thought in the form of an extended social justice sermon.”

“Sorry, I learned how to talk about these things on Hootr.”

“Oh, honey, we need to get you some books.”

“That’s probably a good idea.”

“How many followers do you have?”

“Five. My mother is one of them, and she’s, y’know, dead, so… I only really have four followers.”

“Christ. And while we’re at the library you need to make more friends.”

“She’s right,” interjected Shosh. “All because I monopolized your free time, you never had the chance to make any.”

Her candor disarmed me. “Um…” ‹Did she do me a disservice by spending every moment she could with me? We were inseparable, practically conjoined outside of work and school.› “I guess…” ‹She didn’t go to school with me, but she fought the school tooth and nail for the right to bring her Esti chili dogs from Berliner Weiner on Wednesdays, like a cool older sister.› “…maybe…” ‹That was the only time between the hours of eight and three that I ever said anything substantial—anything more than what you might say to a baker (or a barber or a butcher) toiling away the peak business hours—to another human being.› “…spending all my time with…”

As her patience broke a sweat, Judy finally cleared her throat and softly asked, “‘Spending so much time with’… who?”

I shook my head. “Not having time to spend with my ‘peers’ didn’t matter—they all hated me, they were never going to hang out with me in the first place.”

“I’m sorry. But I wasn’t suggesting rekindling old friendships,” explained Judy, “we’re making you some adult friends with new people.”

Shosh admitted something that once again threw me for a loop: “I shoulda admitted this a long time ago, Esti… I’m not everyone you need. I am so much less than that.”

It didn’t take very long for me to figure out she was right. Almost right. “Maybe you can’t be my only friend… but no matter how many friends I gain, you’ll always be worth more than all the rest combined.” Shosh, troubled by my stubbornness, frowned.

Judy took a few seconds to process what I had told Shosh then abruptly wrapped her arms around me and squeezed. “I don’t know the words I need to describe to you how that makes me feel. We met two days ago, but there’s no doubt about it, we have something truly special, something that only happens to a handful of people in the world at a time.”

“I won’t argue with you, Esti. But I’ll promise you that I’ll be here. I’ll always be here, even after the curtain drops. You’ll have endless time to spend with me after that, you don’t have to spend every waking moment in this life with me. Could you maybe stand me stepping outta your life for a day or two, here and there?”

The thought of her being away from me for more than a few hours at a time made me deeply uncomfortable, but I didn’t feel like unpacking that discomfort, so I simply pretended she hadn’t asked for what she had asked for. “Once in a very long time.”

Judy squeezed me tighter. “Maybe even… once in an eternity!”

“For so long a time to pass before we part… that is all I want. Judy… I’m hungry. Let’s get some Jack or something.”

“Let’s, but make it Del, it’s healthier.”

“I can do Del.”

We dined in; Judy ordered one each of the red and green bean burritos, I splurged on a macho combo burrito, and Shosh had a double Del. When Judy handed me money to pay for our food, I declined. “Lunch is on me. I’m going to be making the big bucks.”

“If you say so,” she replied solemnly.

“What’s wrong?”

She didn’t say what it was until we were sitting opposite each other; she leaned forward to explain. “Last night, while you were asleep, I looked up the starting salary for detectives in Santa Virginia.”

“How much is it?”

“64K.”

My face lit up. “That’s great!” She gave me a look. “It isn’t great?”

“64K is almost enough to scrape by in SV, in a much shittier apartment than what you have.”

“I’ve been ‘scraping by’ on just 48.”

“And I have no idea how. What do you eat?”

“Peanut butter and jelly at work, and at home I’ll have beans and rice, tuna noodle casserole, spaghetti and meatballs, cheesy chicken and broccoli, and vegetable stew.”

“Is that your entire repertoire of recipes?”

“Pretty much. When I want a treat, I make beef Stroganoff or have something off the value menu at Del Taco or Taco Bell.”

“You get more variety than the average person with depression, but not by much. You haven’t been living, Honey.”

“I have my PlayBox U.”

“That’s an investment well worth it for the sake of your mental health, but you honestly can’t afford even that. Where do you get your clothes?”

“I don’t remember,” I lied.

“Those cute jeans on you right now that accentuate your nice tush, do you remember when or where those came from?”

I blushed. “Hallmart. I’ve had this pair since—‍” ‹Shit, just be honest with her. She’s trying to help.› “—since… before my mother passed. I was wearing them the day she died, so I’m trying to keep them pristine, in her memory. Up until now I’ve worn my uniform pants off-duty, but… my special jeans are the only other pants in my closet.”

“That’s… very… um…”

“Choose your words carefully, Judith,” warned Shosh. With my eyes I asked her to please avoid making a scene. “What?” I shook my head. “She’s gonna say something judgmental, like you’re holding onto the past or some other armchair therapist bullshit. Although—it’s kinda true that— But I still don’t like that she’s…” She trailed off before she could actually say anything, and I pretended not to know where she had been headed.

Whatever Judy had been about to say, she decided to say something else. “So you musta gone through your navy blues pretty fast if you were wearing them all the time. How much did you spend on those?”

“30 dollars a month, including cleaning. I had an allowance that paid for laundering and replacements, though.”

“So you have no budget for anything.”

“Nope.”

“Do you have any savings?”

“I have about 15K, including the stack of 20s in my purse.”

She shook her head. “Shit, you’re living on a razor’s edge… though at least you have something to carry you through a few months. You deserve a better career than what you had or what you’re getting. Deal weed with me.”

“Hard pass,” said Shosh. “Too risky.”

I was a little nervous about the prospect of breaking the law as a career—sex work notwithstanding—but I was open to anything… because I was very nervous about how little I’d be getting from my pension if I changed my mind again about Captain Somers’s offer. “Maybe once I’m done with the case.”

“Seriously, think about it.”

We ate in silence for a moment; I could tell that something was bothering her, and I suspected she was still thinking about my income. “Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

“You promise not to hate me?”

“Cross my heart,” I said without hesitation.

“Those pants… I’m worried you might be trying too hard to preserve—‍” She cleared her throat. “I’m guilty of this myself—they’re—‍” Shosh had the words ‘I told you so’ tattooed on her forehead in crowded blinking neon, and was gesticulating towards Judy accordingly. “—very plain.” Shosh froze, and the neon went dark.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s nothing wrong with simplicity, but they’re—almost corporate in their utility. Maybe throw in some strategically placed rips and some patches and a little—or a lot—of embroidery to spice things up. The pants you intend to wear on special occasions deserve to be… well. Special. You should make people want to ask questions about them—then you can tell them all about your mother.”

Shosh was nodding her head eagerly, so enraptured that she struggled to tear her eyes away from Judy to tell me, “If you wanna make your mother happy, those jeans you’re wearin’ need to be the most fucked-uppedly beautiful pants anyone’s ever worn on their ass.”

“Alright. If that’s what you want…”

“N—no,” stuttered Judy, “I’m not trying to tell you how to remember her, it’s absolutely not about what I want, what you do with those pants is all between you and her.”

“Of course. I was telling her that if she wants—‍” I glanced at Shosh, who I remembered was not actually there, and realized that I had been talking to her like she was, and only for the millionth time in a decade. “Oh, fuck.”

“What?”

“I am so… fucked in the head…”

“I miscommunicated and implied that you were doing things wrong, I messed up, your head is fine.”

“No, you don’t get it—‍”

Shosh placed a finger on my lips and reminded me, “If you tell anyone about me, they’re going to think you’re insane.”

“Shosh… I am insane.”

“(Um.)” I followed Judy’s voice. “Andy… Do you have… a… friend with you… that I can’t see?”

My heart threatened to burst from my chest.

Chapter 14: Invisible Friend

Content Warnings: Sanism (both externalized and internalized); Discussion of Modus Operandi of: Christian Fundamentalists, Right-Wing Extremists, White Supremacists, Police Black Operations, and Police Gangs

My eyes took turns between my two friends. Shosh, with a finger pressed to her lips, was frantically shushing me, whereas Judy was patiently waiting for an answer. “N—no.”

“I won’t tell a soul about them if you do,” my new friend reassured me.

Shosh violently shushed once more then broke out into, “If she tells anybody, that’s it, they’re pumping you full of drugs and then your head’s gonna be even more fucked up than it already is.”

“I promise, Andy,” added Judy.

I swallowed. My heart buzzed like a hummingbird, and I found myself needing to slow down my breathing, in, out, in, out…

“I’m a drug dealer. Discretion is the foundation of my business.”

I looked to Shosh, who was doing the same breathing exercise I was, and struggling just the same. “Shosh?” I pleaded on an exhale.

“Is Shosh a friend of yours?”

“No—”‍ The word ejected from my mouth with a higher-than-expected velocity. “—I mean, yes, Shosh is my best friend. Was. My mother. But she died 13 years ago.”

“Is your deceased mother here, with you?”

“(I need—need a—)” I gasped; I took a deep breath and held it, released it. “(I need a few seconds to gather myself into one piece.)”

“Take your time, Andy.” I continued trying to do my breathing exercise. “Is this a bad time and place to be asking these questions?”

In. “There has never been—‍” Out, and in. “—and never will be—‍” Out, and in. “—a good time or place.”

“I’m sorry. This subject is your business and no-one else’s. Forget I asked.”

I was finally able to assert total control of my lungs. “Thank you.”

“You know where to find me if you’re ever ready to share.”

I nodded, too horrified by the fact someone caught me talking to my hallucination of my dead mother to thank her for being open and supportive and polite and sensitive as I let my most secret cat out of its highly classified bag.

We returned to eating; as I finished my burrito, I asked, “How much do you make?”

“200.”

“Oh. Wow. Why are you living in such a shitty apartment complex?”

“Because I’m saving up for my retirement. I have a 401K.”

I leaned forward and whispered, “Isn’t the IRS going to catch on?”

“As long as I give them a plausible gross income and proportionate contribution at the end of the tax year, they don’t care.”

“But you don’t get your money from legitimate sources.”

“They don’t care where my money comes from, as long as I give them an honest number and explicitly assert my Fifth Amendment right to avoid self-incrimination by not disclosing the precise nature of my work in line A of the Schedule C that I attach to my 1040. I’m honest enough with them, I give them the records and money I’m legally obligated to give them, and they leave me alone.”

“It’s that simple?”

“Mm-hm. Well, in theory it is. I can only know for certain either way if it turns out it isn’t that simple—in other words, if they audit me.”

“Huh.”

We chatted about nothing the whole way home—a deliberate choice on my part, as I wanted to take advantage of the car ride to clear my mind for a few minutes. As soon as we were seated on my couch, she laid her arm across my back and rested her wrist on my shoulder. I looked into her eyes and wondered, “Do you wear contacts?”

Caught off-guard, she replied, “Y—yeah. Why?”

“Your eyes have such a vivid color.”

“You think they’re fake.”

“I’m not assuming that, I’m just… wondering if maybe they might be… enhanced.”

She spread one pair of eyelids and extracted a lens. The hue was real.

“I’ve never seen that kind of brown before. Your irises look like they’re made of honey.”

“If the color was fake, would you have thought less of me?”

“No. Peter Falk had a whole glass eye, and I think it made him more attractive, if anything. His face had character.”

She smiled and popped the lens back in. “Your attraction to that man in spite of your lesbianism is fascinating.”

“Thank you.” She leaned in and kissed me. We locked lips until an itch began to spread in my brain, at first a quiet little tingle that I tried to ignore as she cupped my breast, gradually growing into a throbbing, torturous ache that grabbed every ounce of my attention when I wanted instead to focus on the hand she was snaking down my jeans— “Judy, I… need…”

“What’s wrong?”

“(I’d… rather not say,)” I muttered, feeling a swelling shame.

“You don’t need to be ashamed. I’m into some sick shit myself. I won’t judge you for what gets you off. Go ahead. Ask.”

“Hmm… Ah, screw it, fine. I can’t do this right now. I’ve been away from the case too long, and it’s bugging me. Driving me nuts.”

She giggled. “You really are a detective if you’d turn down sex with the woman you ‘can’t stop thinking about’.”

“Yes, you’re a regular femme fatale, and I won’t fall for your tricks.” She snorted with all the daintiness of a puppy sneezing, though with a little more bass. “Do you have a pencil and paper?”

“I have a tablet and stylus.”

“I prefer analog.”

“Alright, picky-picky…” She left and came back with what I needed.

The itch was quickly scratched as I started writing down social justice organizations with presences in Santa Virginia, and when I ran out of additions, I tapped into Judy’s mind for more. The list was 36 items long, and included the likes of Our Color Does Not Fade, the Santa Virginia Sex Workers Guild, Abolish Modern Slavery, Santa Virginians for Sane Drug Policy, Palestina Libre, Convicts’ Rights Now, and SVPDefund. The last entry, the Anti-Gentrification League, almost didn’t fit into the first column on the page, so I nearly left it out. “Alright. If there are any others that didn’t come to mind, they were probably too small for him to have substantial involvement.”

“Maybe. What now?”

“The fun part: we write down these guys’ enemies.”

The list I produced included the various white supremacist groups such as the Virgin Saint Purity Militia, racism-skirting fascists like the Loud Loyalists, and fundamentalist groups such as the Family Values Crisis Center.

“You forgot the police.”

“Oh. Right.” I jotted down ‘SVPD’, and, for the sake of thoroughness, included the Police Benevolent Association of the City of Santa Virginia. Counting everyone except potential lone wolves, Alex had 53 different opponents crammed onto the page, in 2 columns. “Is that everyone?”

“As far as I can think.”

“The next question is: out of all of these, which ones have a modus operandi compatible with what we know about the kidnapping?”

“Um. All of them?”

“Not the fundamentalists. They have specific kinds of targets they go after, and Alex doesn’t fall into any of their categories, plus I’ve never heard of them kidnapping anybody, so I’d say they probably aren’t responsible.

“White supremacist terrorists in the past decade or two have evolved towards being lone wolves radicalized online to engage in ‘hard’ or mass-casualty attacks with the intention of garnering media attention and resulting dissemination of their values and manifestos to the general public as well as further radicalization of—and thus further attacks by—other white supremacists. In this day and age they rarely kidnap except to kill, and the ones who do kidnap—the old-fashioned ones—usually leave bodies somewhere out of the way but still public enough that it’ll be discovered, to serve as an example—so we can mark white supremacist terrorists as ‘low likelihood’.

“Loud Loyalists… I could see a rogue Loyalist kidnapping someone, but they typically commit crimes in full view of every pair of eyes and every camera they can catch the attention of—they want to be seen hurting the people they hate, they want to be filmed, and they want that video to be spread all over the Internet, all over the media, everywhere—but at the same time they want to have a certain amount of political legitimacy, so they generally avoid anything worse than aggravated assault or property damage… except when they drive cars into protestors. This is the least doubtful so far, but still… not a strong case. Low-to-moderate likelihood.

“Moving onto the least likely of all, the sworn enemies of the Anti-Gentrification League, real estate developers and landlords…” I shook my head. “I’m not wasting our time analyzing those jackoffs, they aren’t violent, they don’t kidnap people. There’s no chance it was these people.”

Judy snorted.

“Did you find that… funny?”

“No, not at all. I agree a hundred percent, it definitely wasn’t property developers. You’re very educated about our enemies.”

“It takes one to know one—I was one, and I will be one again.”

“Consider yourself an undercover antifascist.”

“I guess…”

I weighed the ‘for’s and ‘against’s of the rest of the opposition groups for a while, but none of those seemed as plausible as what we had discussed thus far.

Then Judy cleared her throat.

“Hmm?”

“Aren’t you forgetting someone?”

“Who?” She tapped a particularly troublesome entry in our list of adversaries. ‹Police.› “Oh… Well, if they wanted to confine him, they woulda just planted some heroin or crack in his backpack and thrown him in jail for a month or so, and bury the body cam footage. They wouldn’t even have to conceal the fact that he was illegally detained.”

“What if they wanted to… kill him?”

“If they wanted to kill him… Well, they could… (Hm.)” ‹Christ, the possibilities are endless.› “Okay, they might accomplish that in any number of ways, and I couldn’t tell you which particular method they would prefer.”

“So you know the modus for all the groups except the police.”

“Um. Yes. They’re a, uh… wildcard.”

“It’s not the police,” insisted Shosh.

“We can’t say that. As much as I hate to say it, we don’t know that it isn’t the police. We can’t eliminate them.”

“Can’t say that… they’re a wild card? Ohhhh. Are you talking to… me?” asked Judy gingerly.

“Um.” ‹Am I always this obvious?› “I plead the Fifth.”

“So you take the defense lawyer’s advice to heart?”

“Yeah, sure. Never talk to the police, never let them into your home, never consent to a search, never discuss your case with anybody besides your lawyer, etcetera.”

She nodded. “And never admit to talking to your invisible friend.”

My face puckered. “Now you’re mocking me.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to. Please, forget what I said.”

I sighed.

“You were saying something about the police doing it?”

“Thank you for changing the subject. Out of all our suspects, the police would have the greatest desire to bury a murder—and the broadest array of means to do so. And if I had to boil down the possibilities, I would say that their modus is simply ‘whatever gets the job done quickest and cleanest, and leaves behind the least evidence possible’. Not because they’re smart enough to realize that simplicity is usually the most pragmatic policy, but because most of them lack the creativity to orchestrate a conspiracy with any real sophistication.”

“Well, considering the crime was simple enough that we were able to pick up their scent within hours of starting the investigation, I think it’s pretty fucking clear who did it.”

A part of me clung to my blue pride, torn and faded as it was, to the SVPD motto of ‘To Honor and Guard the People’, to the idea that Justice can be pursued in an organized and publicly accountable manner, to the belief that the governments of my city, of my state, and of my country were more good than evil. A foolish part of me insisted, “No. We don’t know for certain… yet. First of all, leaving behind blood stains, soiled clothes, and fingerprints in a sex work establishment is messy. Second, this chart is only meant to guide us in allocating our time and resources to various theories, not to determine right off the bat who did it. We need more evidence before we can come to a conclusion.”

“If you say so.”

“One last thing to consider: we might be able to get an idea of the strength of a group’s motive by estimating how consistently he’s been a thorn in their side. Then we can rank them and hopefully get a clearer picture.”

“I couldn’t tell you how long he’s been involved with any of these groups—except maybe the SWG—and I can tell this is the kind of research that takes more time than we have.”

“Ugh. You’re right. I’ll have to scrap or at least postpone the question. But… the kidnapping happened in sex worker territory, so now I’m wondering if there’s a connection.”

“Oh! That’s a very interesting idea, Detective! Please, go on.”

“Alright. Do you know if he’s been involved for very long with the guild?”

“Hmm. It’s only been about a year—yeah, I remember now, it was the fourth of July. He made this big speech about how conservatives say this country was founded on freedom but they’ve imposed their Christofascist beliefs on everybody else and taken away our freedom of bodily autonomy via the justice system, then he laid out a plan for how the SWG would act to fix that. It was pretty inspiring, but my memory of the plan itself is fuzzy. I was distracted that day. I was… hoping to see someone.”

“Thanks, and I hope you get to see this person eventually. I might have the Intel Squad look into his other groups to get a better picture of his involvement.”

“I think it would be better if you kept your Intel Squad out of other people’s business.”

I pursed my lips and nodded. “Yeah. Point taken. I’ll ask around on my own and keep anything I find off the record unless I’m given permission to put it on the record.”

“Good luck with that. I need to head home now. I’ll leave you to it.” She stood up.

“You’re leaving?”

“I need to pack tomorrow’s deliveries.”

“Oh. Alright.”

As the door closed behind her, the chill of loneliness tainted the air.

“Shosh?”

No response. Which was just as well, I was still ashamed of being caught talking to her, twice in one day.

I tried to think of where to go from there, but, having no evidence to establish affiliations, came up with nothing. Just as I was about to give up for the day and pull Helga from my safe for her long-overdue monthly cleaning, there came a knock on the door—and from its distinct rhythm, the same as that fateful night we met, I knew that Judy was back. Before I could tell her that I was glad to see her again, before I had opened the door all the way, she told me, “I realized, while I was packaging products, that you don’t have any clothing befitting a detective.”

I took a good look at my closet. ‹Nothing but uniforms. Detectives wear nice outfits. Except for the clever ones pretending to be buffoons—but who says I have to look frumpy to be underestimated? I’m a tiny woman, I just need to bat my eyelashes and throw a few ‘like’s into my speech and evil-doers will assume I’m vapid and infantile, and lower their guard accordingly.›

“Wanna go shopping?”

‹Perfect. Being image-conscious, and thus ‘vain’, will make my ‘dumb short bitch’ routine all the more effective.› “I would love that.” She flinched, but I thought nothing of it. I grabbed my keys and we gassed away to Rochelle’s Department Store.

We didn’t talk about the case on the drive or while shopping, only about which pants and shirts and jackets were most flattering on my body (Judy fixated somewhat on my hips, to my simultaneous discomfort and satisfaction), and I latched onto one coat in particular, which almost could have been inspired (if I may stretch the meaning of the word ‘inspired’) by the one worn year-round, rain or shine, by Lieutenant Columbo, LAPD Homicide Squad—in its bold lapel; in its massive buttons; and, to a lesser extent, in its voluminous pockets. This one was, however, navy blue, which contrasted nicely with my hair. It was the last one on the rack, and it fit me perfectly; with my new clothes, I no longer looked like a self-loathing slob.

Outside the changing rooms I struck a pose for Judy. She smiled… then—sending a buzz across the surface of my skull—whispered into my ear, “Wanna go in the changing room so I can ruin that beautiful outfit by tearing it off of your beautiful body before making love to you?”

I turned my back on her. ‹‘Beautiful body’! I’m not beaut—› I glanced past the door, up at the mirror inside the changing room. ‹But look at the way my ass curves in the mirror, and the way my E cups are begging to burst out of my shirt, and the way this coat makes my hair shine like fire, and—the way… my face… my cheeks… my nose… my chin… all come together… so… harmoniously…›

“Well?”

‹I’m not beautiful. Every time he sees me he tells me I’m—she’s told me I’m beautiful, but I’m not. But… my reflection…› I approached the mirror, slowly, one step at a time, until I was right before it, and touched the glass. ‹I’m not supposed to be beautiful. But my reflection is so—so hot. I want to caress your cheeks, I want to run my fingers through your hair, I want to brush my lips against yours, I want to tear your clothes off and—

‹Oh. My. God. I’m… hot.›

Judy followed me in, closed the door behind us, and kissed me on the neck, forcing a moan from my chest. “Whadaya say?”

“(Kiss me again,)” I whispered. She obliged, and I made my horny noise. ‹I don’t think we should…› I caught a whiff of her as I turned my face to whisper back, and that lovely scent turned me on a dime. ‹Well, maybe we can try it, but…› I swallowed. “How loud would you say my… moaning… is? Will we be caught?”

“Good point. If we’re gonna do it in the store… with how loud you are, we might as well host an orgy on the sales floor.”

“Ah.” ‹Would people care if we did it in the middle of the racks and shelves and registers? Probably. And we would be kicked out. Probably before we have the chance to finish.›

«But SEX. Sex is GOOD. I WANT sex. I REALLY want sex. I want to FUCK her.»

‹But what good is sex if you’re interrupted before you can be satisfied?› “I would rather not risk our fun coming to a premature end if we’re caught.”

“Another good point.”

I sniffed her armpit. «Columbian Kush.» “There aren’t any rules against kissing in public, though.”

“Well, technically you’re righ—(ah!)”

I stood on my tippy-toes, pulled her head down and licked her neck, and she moaned.

She held me at arm’s length. “Okay, wow, maybe… let’s get a raincheck for that PDA.”

“Aw.”

We brought my new wardrobe to the counter, and the cashier rang me up while I chatted with Judy.

And then… “Cash or credit, Miss?”

I stared in disbelief at the total on the display. ‹2,541 dollars… Why… is… number… big?› “I think there’s been a… a mix-up. I think I grabbed the wrong…” I checked the price tags for every item, ‹30, 43, 35, 72, 140…› “I just need a second.” ‹54, 25, 95…› And then got to the navy coat with the big buttons and the big pockets: ‹1,910 dollars. Christ on the cross. Why the hell is this so expensive?› Then I noticed the designer label. ‹Adrison. No wonder. This coat isn’t meant for poor losers like me. I’m not supposed to buy clothes this nice, upper-class garments that we proletarians are only allowed to admire and pine for from a distance, never to wear ourselves except when trying them on in the store while imagining how lovely life would be if we could afford to pay for nice things.›

I pursed my lips and, still staring at the tag, pictured everyone in the store staring at me, judging me for my poverty and mulling a guilty verdict for the crime of daring to dream…

Even Judy waited in my imagination for me to put my money where my heart was. She liked money and she liked nice things, so it wasn’t hard to picture her shaking her head and leaving behind the pathetic woman unwilling to make a wise investment.

That I was hesitating was bad enough; I was also holding up the line, inconveniencing people who knew damn well I had no right to be patronizing this store with such a pathetic checking balance. Judy had gone through all the trouble of helping me pick out and try on these beautiful clothes, carefully scrutinizing each garment for its ability to match my face, figure, and function; and now I was doubting the purchase, on the verge of throwing away all her hard work.

I couldn’t stand these thoughts, I needed to belong, I needed to deserve these clothes, I needed to reassure Judy her labor wouldn’t go to waste—so I withdrew my emergency credit cards from my purse… and prayed that their spending limits would add up to at least 2,541 bucks.

Chapter 15: Car Sex

Judy whipped out one of her own cards and slipped it into the chip reader. “Yes, it’s a lot to spend on clothes, Andy, but you’re rebuilding your entire wardrobe from scratch, not just buying a garment or two to replace a few you’ve lost to wear and tear. You need this, and now.”

“This is very generous,” I informed her, relieved that my finances had dodged what would have been a very painful bullet, and shocked and overwhelmed that she would do this for me.

“Before you protest, consider this a job-warming gift.”

‹She cares about me. She’s already made that clear, but, damn, this is an extreme amount of money to spend on somebody you’ve only known for a couple days. But if she wants to express how much she likes me by buying me lots of nice things…› “I’m not protesting. I don’t have a lot of pride, so if you want to buy me anything, I’ll gratefully and gleefully accept. Thank you.”

“Really? You insisted on paying for lunch.”

“I wasn’t doing you a favor, I was just flaunting my future ‘riches’. And I hadn’t found out yet that you make quadruple what I was making at my old job. If you want to pay for my meals, too, I will never object. If anything, I strongly encourage it.”

She smiled. “Good. I intend to feed you, and frequently.”

She entered her PIN and handed me the receipt, and suddenly we were off to Matteo’s.

“Are you feeling confident?” she asked once Banana Shark was in motion.

“I’ve never felt more confident. Which isn’t saying much, so I’ll add that I never imagined I could feel like this. Having nice clothes feels so good.”

“I’m happy for you.” ‹Throughout the short time I’ve known you, my happiness seems to have been the one thing you desire most.› But I didn’t tell her that, because it felt reductive, it felt like I was breaking her down into a single dimension—me. So I realized, having felt her kindness and generosity, that despite my self-loathing, I had for a long time only truly cared about one person, as evidenced by my insistence on solitude when people invited me to functions I would rather avoid. Maybe they didn’t care who I was, maybe I was just one more guest to fill the room, but they still wanted me to be there. 5 and 10 and 20 year celebrations, retirement parties, Thanksgiving potlucks, Secret Santa gatherings… I avoided them, I avoided the people who went to them, and if even a shred of me believed that people might enjoy being around me, then maybe by being so avoidant I was doing everybody else a disservice. ‹The other people in my life have no love for me, but they certainly want me to show my face. Maybe they like how I look. Maybe I’m eye candy for the other attendees. Maybe I have something to say that they’ll find interesting. Maybe my presence can be pleasant. Maybe people can like me. Maybe other people will like me, the way Judy does. And she likes me in so many ways!›

I searched for and quickly found another dimension to her happiness. “Knowing that you’re happy to see me happy… makes me feel… worthwhile. You’ve made me feel worthwhile. Made me realize… I am worthwhile.”

“Aww. That makes me feel happy… but sad. Sad that you’ve been suffering for so long, but happy that I’ve been able to do something about it. Bittersweet… but more sweet than bitter.”

This, too, affected me, but I didn’t want to make things awkward. “I would respond with how happy hearing that makes me feel, but that might come across as masturbatory.”

She laughed softly. “Yeah, that’s veering into mutual masturbation. Which I’m not doing, but—we could pull over and give me jerking you off a try.”

“Wait, what?”

“Unless you want me to do it while you’re driving, but that can be a little dangerous…” I glanced at her to see if she was being serious—her mischievous grin led me to think that she might have been bluffing.

“I’d rather not take that risk, thank you.”

“Then pull over.”

I swallowed. “We’re in public, someone will see us…”

“Isn’t the possibility of someone knocking on the car door while my fist is up your pussy exciting?”

My heart skipped a beat, and my vagina clenched her imaginary fist. I eyed her again. “Well…”

“Have you ever imagined it?”

“No… I haven’t considered… it.”

We stopped at a red light. “Humor me.”

“Alright…” I closed my eyes. {You make your move, unbuttoning my shirt and sticking your hand up my bra. I gasp. You undo my pants next—slowly, forcing me to endure my anticipation—and right as you slip that hand down my panties, a man walks up and knocks on the window—I yelp quietly, and you quickly cover my mouth—but you don’t stop twiddling my clit. The lights are off, and we’re parked under a streetlamp—the reflection of the lamp casts a glare, hiding us from bystanders. I pray that he can’t hear me moaning like the whore that I am. He knocks again; if he could see inside, he’d witness my heart leaping out of my chest. You move your hand from my clitoris to my dripping cunt, and my moans become louder. He knocks a third time, and my pulse triples. Then… he tents his hands and holds them up against the window—to block the lamp’s glare—and brings his face up to the glass. I cringe, fearful that we’ve been discovered… but he shakes his head and resumes his walk. You double up your efforts to make me cum and before long I—}

“Andy!” I came-to amid angry honking. “The light’s been green for like five seconds!” I gunned it across the intersection, just in time for the light to turn yellow behind us; I quickly realized I was going 5 over, so I gently nudged the brakes to gradually bring us down to the limit. “You were distracted by something, my girl… Care to share?”

I turned onto Main Street, which had the brightest streetlamps in the city, and parked beneath one.

“Andy… why are we stopped?”

“You haven’t figured it out?” She shook her head. “Because you planted an idea in my head and I need to see it through.”

“What ide—(ohhh.) Oh-ho-ho! Were you actually fantasizing about us fucking in the car just now?”

“I have a very active imagination. And you know which buttons to press to turn it on.”

“Or to turn you on.”

I exhaled. “Both.”

“So what happened in this fantasy?”

“You… unbuttoned my shirt and slipped your—‍” She began unbuttoning my shirt. I felt a rush of heat below. “—and—and—slipped your hand under my bra…” I waited for her to gently pinch my nipple before continuing, “(…hah…) And… then you… undid my… (mhh…) pants…” She unbuttoned and unzipped me. “…and you… you can guess what came next.”

“Say it.” She played with the waistband of my panties.

“You put your hand down my panties… and stuck your finger up my pussy.” She pushed aside the waistband, and I held my breath until she inserted her finger, and moaned as she found the spot. “Ahh… Yeah…”

“Most of the women I’ve met get more out of clitoral stimulation than out of vaginal—‍”

“(Just fuck me so we can get going before someone catches us.)” She doubled her pressure on that sweet spot; I covered my mouth to smother my rather loud moaning.

“What happened next?”

“Just—(ahh)—a second—(hah)—can we just—(ahh)—do this for a—(mmh)—while?”

“Alright.” She continued playing with my insides, gradually driving me crazier and crazier with each stroke; eventually my voice may have grown loud enough to be audible outside the car, at which point she asked, “Tell me what came after that.”

“A man—(mhh)—found the car. And—(hah)—knocked on the window.”

“Oh? Did he see us?”

“I parked us under a—(hmm)—streetlamp for a reason. Oh—God, yes, keep doing that…”

“He couldn’t see past the glare, so he left,” she gathered.

“He—(ah)—knocked again. And again. And—then he—oh God, I’m getting close.” She backed off on the intensity of her fingering. “Don’t—don’t slow down!”

“I want to hear the end of it before I finish you off.”

I rushed through the rest of the story. “He blocked the light with—(mmh)—his hands and looked inside, but he—(ahh)—couldn’t see anything because the engine—(ahm—and all the lights—were off so he left-please-finish-me-off.)”

“Interesting. You had the foresight to turn off the car in your fantasy, but you neglected to do so in reality.”

My eyes grew a couple sizes; I reached for the light switch and ignition only for her to start on my clitoris with her other hand and resume fingering my pussy at full strength. My will faltered, and turning off the engine and lights became my lowest priority. The dome light lured me in with its gentle illumination, and when I arrived I basked lazily in the warmth of her touch and its soft glow.

I was oblivious to onlookers, voyeurs, and audience members. She had imprisoned me in paradise, where I waited contentedly for the rapture that would liberate me, a rapture that came ever closer with each moment, heralding itself with the fanfare of my rising vocalizations, until I was deaf from my own throat sounds and then suddenly my voice was quiet as I cried out and I was torn to shreds by my deliverance into a new reality—

A hundred motors growling harsh

I turn my key, she comes to life

I feel her humming through my seat

A beast of burden made for war

The red light tells me ’twill be soon

Clutch down, release the parking brake

The red light tempts my lust for speed

Foot presses gas down to the floor

Her engine revs beneath my feet

Select first gear, shift right and up

Green light gives me her consent

Clutch up, tires squeal, lift off, GO

Gas and clutch and shift and clutch

Pull ahead before the rest

Passing others on the left

Audience screams with delight

Like a bat from hell she flies

Shooting forward on the straights

Rounding corners, rubber burns

Tires exceed envelope

Yet continue to perform

Engine pushes needle red

Carries us through hordes of cars

Andy Bachman takes the lead

Leaves the others in her dust

Races forward t’wards the line

There’s no other neck to match

Checkered flag waves back and forth

Crowd goes nuts, a sight to see

A gilded cup and champagne bath

SV’s hometown hero wins

Mortal is this girl no more

All will call her from this day:

Greatest driver in the world

My entire body was pulled taut, and my chest vibrated in the wake of the traumatizing exertion of experiencing perfection. Once my orgasm had faded enough for me to engage in critical thought, Judy informed me, “You make the cutest little noise when you cum.”

I exhaled through pursed lips. “Captain Somers agrees.”

She kissed me on the cheek. “Who’s better at sex, me or her?”

“Well obviously it’s—‍”

“Don’t answer that question, it isn’t fair for me to make you compare your sexual partners.”

“I was going to say, you are significantly sweeter, and you know how to press my vagina button.”

“You mean your G-spot?”

“That’s what a G-spot is?” She nodded. “All this time it was right there, I coulda been… Hm. Well, I crave having fingers inside me, it’s… I don’t know how to put it. ‘Intimate’? I feel extra close to you when you finger me like that. So close.”

“You never cease to amaze me with how sweet you are, Andrea Bachman.” She kissed me oh-so-gently, filling me with such passion that I wrapped my arms around her and turned the kiss raunchy. She abruptly peeled her lips away. “Sorry to interrupt, but when I said your first and last name earlier, I got to wondering whether you have a middle.”

“‘Esther’. Like the biblical character.” I kissed her neck.

“Was your mother religious?”

“No. But she grew up in a very religious Orthodox family and community.” Another kiss to the jugular. “She told me she was an atheist ‘from birth’ and that she felt outcast even before she came out to her family.”

‹I’ll nibble your earlobe…›

“Ahh… Orthodox… Greek, or Russian…?”

“Orthodox Jewish. I don’t know much about them, but they were very conservative and very religious. The most Jewish thing my mother did after leaving everyone behind was pick my middle name.”

‹…then suck on it.›

“I see. Mine is ‘Éowyn’.”

“‘Judith Éowyn Lucas’. That sounds made-up.” My amusement distracted me from her earlobe.

She laughed. “Yeah, it totally does. I chose it myself and I might have gotten a little carried away. Yours is a bit more natural.”

“Names are funny things.”

There was a lull, during which I resumed kissing her. Eventually, she pointed out, “Your clothes are in disarray.”

“Of course they are. We’re doing sex.”

“I think one fingering in public should be enough for now.”

“Two.”

“One is all you need.”

Horny entitlement scrunched my face.

“Andy, how many times will be enough for you?”

“I dunno—5?”

“How does 6 sound?”

“Yeah!”

“7?”

“I’m down!”

“8?”

“8 is great!”

“How about we go for 24 hours straight?”

“Yes! Let’s get to it!”

“A week in the car, together, no meal breaks?”

“Absolutely!”

She nodded. “Andy… you are the horniest person I have ever met.”

“Ha. Ha. There are people way hornier than me.”

She shrugged. “Well, it’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but we can’t be parked here forever just so I can finger you nonstop. The longer we’re here, the less likely we are to get away with our public indecency. Part of the fun of public sex is sneaking out before you’re caught.”

I stared at her.

“Andy, I promise I’ll finger you later. We need ta split.”

Disappointment anchored my heart to the floor. “Ugh. Fine.” I buttoned and zipped up. “I suppose… it’s about time I took care of a certain something before I’m officially a cop… all over again.”

“Delivering the news to Adams?”

“Yep. Even though reason dictates it’s gonna be a shit show… I have this weird feeling it’ll come out in the wash, though I don’t know how worn out I’m gonna be from soaking, agitating, rinsing and drying all their feelings.”

Her thoughts turned to something ponderous, then something conclusive, then something satisfied. “Andy… I think you can trust that ‘weird feeling’.”

One of my eyebrows perked up. “Do you put a lot of stock in paranormal cognition?”

“Not normally. But I think you should go with your gut. And if it fails you this time, teach it a lesson so that it gets it right next time.”

I chuckled. “If you say so.”

I pulled away from the curb and returned us to the place of my rebirth.

Chapter 16: You Can’t Trust an Ex-Cop

I drove us down to Adams, piecing together and rehearsing the right things to tell the workers to convince them I was doing the right thing. We parked right in front of the hotel and went to pay the meter only to find that it already had 23 minutes on it, and, with guarded hopes, approached Yesenia.

“What’s up, Dippy? Any luck in finding Alex?”

“Hey, Yesenia, I—‍” My confidence collapsed without warning. “I—‍” I trembled and my mouth ran dry.

Her head flopped sideways. “Oh, no… Please don’t tell me you have bad news.”

“One sec,” interjected Judy as she turned me around, laid her hands on my shoulders and squeezed. “You can do this.”

I shook my head, and kept my gaze away from hers to hide my fear, but she took me by the chin and drew my eyes into her own. “It was just a hunch,” I mumbled. “A hunch is just a thought. A thought without evidence.”

“Even if it goes tits-up, it’ll be worth the attempt. The alternative is guaranteed failure. The best outcome is only possible if you trust your gut and go all-in.”

Her reassurance helped… a little. Not a lot—but enough. I turned around. “Yesenia… I have some news that—well, it’s good news, but it’s also bad news. I’ve deliberated, I’ve discussed it with Judy, I’ve considered the resources available to me… and I’ve determined that I only have one option if I’m going to solve Alex’s kidnapping.”

Her eyes grew several sizes. “Kidnapped?”

“I—forgot that I hadn’t notified anyone here…”

“We hafta spread the news!” She grabbed me by the hand and tugged gently. “Come on!”

“We can’t! We need to keep it under wraps for the time being. I’m going to make the news public as soon as I’m—as soon as I’m in position.”

“And what ‘position’ would that be?” She asked this with an air of naïveté, which made sense considering she should have had no clue that I was planning the most ethically dubious scheme anyone claiming to be an anti-fascist had ever cooked up, and yet… I could swear that she knew, somehow, that I was dead-set on going back to the force. But… but there was no way for her to know our plan—only Judith knew that I was becoming a cop again. The only explanation for my eerie hunch was that she had never given up her suspicion that I had lied about being fired—so if my hunch had any basis in reality, there was no way she was going to trust me once I had spoken so much as half a sentence of my plan. I was about to completely obliterate all of her trust in me, as well as the trust of every sex worker in the city.

My face contorted; I tried to speak but only choking noises came out. I felt a squeeze on my shoulder, reminding me that Judy was with me, then one around my hand—Shosh was there, too. I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to remember what I was going to tell Yesenia, but my plan was a blur. I couldn’t stand in silence all night, though, I had to say something. So I said… something. And I decided that that something would be what she needed to know in order to cut ties with this traitor she had trusted and mentored in spite of her instincts. “I’ve… been… offered… a position… as… a detective…” Her lips turned down and her brow furrowed suspiciously. “…within this precinct’s… Crimes Against Persons Squad.”

Her brow was no longer furrowed in suspicion but in deep disapproval, and her lips slowly bunched up into a scowl. “And you…” She struggled to suppress her ire. “You thought you could just turn a trick to prove that you were one of us, so that you could pump us for info then stab us in the back?”

I shook my head vigorously. “N-n-no, that’s not at all what I’m trying to do!”

My answer failed to improve her mood, but she contained her feelings. “Is this about the dough?”

“The woman who hired me last night offered me 500 dollars every time I gave her an hour, or a thousand if I do a good job, every week, and who knows how much I could be making on top of that from my other johns. I’m going to be receiving retirement money at some point, so with these two income sources combined I would live better than I was as a meter maid or even as I would as a detective, and I’d prefer not to go back to the place that told me I sucked at my job and shat me out the second they realized I wasn’t going to play their games. I know I can do sex work, I know I have the potential to be good at it, and I sincerely enjoy it—unlike being a cop, which always took more of me than I had to give. I couldn’t handle being a meter maid from the beginning and it only became more of a struggle the longer I did it. Being a detective will be a thousand times more taxing than my old job was, so I might crash and burn even harder when I try to solve this mystery from behind a badge.” (Being an amateur sleuth had thus far required only a tiny fraction of the effort sucked out of me by meter maid duty, and it seemed reasonable to expect that being a police detective would be a cinch, too. She did not need to know this.)

My reassurance that it wasn’t a money thing did not sooth her sore throat, nor did it carry her away from the brink of tears. “I’m trying—real hard, cuz I—thought you might actually be a good person, a woman who only used to be a bastard, once upon a time, all water under the bridge—I’m—I’m trying with all my heart to understand your motives, Andrea. But I’m having a hard time. A very hard time.”

“I need the crime scene dusted for prints to find and convict the kidnapper, I need to grab video footage from the dash cams in the vans and the body cams of the jackboots who raided the hotel. I need to find out whether someone bought the hotel and who it was. And… I need to infiltrate the SVPD to find out if anybody there was involved. If I don’t have all of this, I don’t have a case, and Alex stays missing forever.”

My explanation troubled her—which was just what I was aiming for—and as I went on, I saw my argument erode her pain.

“And even if I did manage to gather all of that evidence as a private investigator… the DA isn’t going to file a criminal complaint based on the word of a civilian, they only listen to cops. Justice for Alexander Brookvale is impractical without a trustworthy detective working from within the system—unless you want me to give vigilantism a try.”

With each argument her distress softened; as I told her I wouldn’t have the power to bring charges except as a pig, the last of her disdain evaporated. “Shit. Alright.” I sighed in relief. “The rest of us, though… I doubt you’ll convince them to see things your way.”

“I’ll be lucky if just one of them tells me so much as the time of day after tonight.”

“It’s wise of you to bate your hopes. Come along.” She gathered up our colleagues on the street, warning them, “Sex Cop has bad news, I’m calling an emergency assembly on the steps of the Torrey Pines.” Once everyone was gathered before the steps of the hotel, Yesenia called, “Hear ye, hear ye! The ex-cop known as Serendipity has distressing news.” The workers chattered as she turned to me. “Lead with the kidnapping, then the practical considerations—by which I mean the collection of evidence and bringing of charges—and then tell them what you have planned.” She gave me a dissatisfied smile—that still somehow managed (or so I can’t help but intuit in hindsight) to contradict itself with just a curl of satisfaction. “May God have mercy on your soul.”

I nodded nervously. “My fellow workers,” I called out from the steps of the hotel, “assuming you’re willing to count me as your fellow after I tell you what I have planned. First, you deserve to know the status of my investigation, which I ask all of you to keep under wraps until I make my findings public.”

I breathed for a few seconds as I tried to remember the words I needed to speak.

They didn’t come.

“Esti.” She gave my hand a gentle tug. “‘He was kidnapped on Wednesday.’”

“Al—Alexander Brookvale was abducted on Wednesday—‍” The crowd became overwhelmingly fretful. I waited a few seconds, then pleaded, “I need you to listen, all of you! Please, listen.” They wouldn’t. “I’m trying to tell you something important!” I screamed. A few at a time, they quieted. “He was taken around the time of the Vice raid on Wednesday, probably in the half hour following its conclusion. He was bound with rope and carried into a hotel room, where he was injured. Please don’t go up there, I would prefer to have the crime scene undisturbed until I can arrange for a more thorough investigation.

“Next, my rationale for the decision I’m going to warn you about momentarily. First of all, I need certain kinds of evidence that I don’t currently have the ability or legal authority to gather. I need experts with the right tools to investigate a crime scene, I need to run fingerprints against databases, I need footage from all the police vehicles and body cams from the raid in case they can give me some insight into what happened. I need to pull aside the blue shield and find out when and why Vice planned this raid and whether it may have been a diversion, I need to find out who purchased the Torrey Pines—‍” The crowd whispered to itself in quiet shock.

Yesenia sent tingling waves across my scalp by whispering into my ear, “(That wasn’t common knowledge among the masses, Dippy.)”

“(Hah…) Um. Well, it is now.”

She shrugged. “What’s done is done. Keep going while you still have their attention.”

I continued, “—and—and I also need to investigate any possible connections to the perpetrators, their reasons for closing the hotel, what they intend to do with it—‍”

Then Yesenia gave me yet another piece of news: “I forgot to tell you, there’s a permit to demolish the hotel.”

‹Oh, God, no.› “(What? When is it scheduled?)” I hissed, panic audible in my voice.

“Tomorrow morning—I found out just this afternoon.”

“Christ. Fuck. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get my CSI team in before they level it.”

“Hence why I’m telling you. I’ve been sitting on this news for eight hours trying to think of a way to avert a panic, but… they need to know. I can no longer hold back the flood. Please, inform them.”

I turned back to the crowd, and with sudden doubt about my plan, announced, “The new owners are demolishing the Torrey Pines tomorrow morning.”

The crowd erupted into worried discussion.

“We need to protect that evidence, we need to—‍” My mind worked at a mile a minute. “We need to organize something to stall the demolition until I can start the next phase of my investigation.”

“We can form a human chain,” suggested Lola.

“And we could file a complaint about asbestos,” suggested Paulo.

“Yes! Good ideas! I want all of you to work on more strategies after I’m done telling you what I need to tell you. My job is investigating a kidnapping, your job is saving the hotel.”

“What is it you need to tell us?” asked Eduardo.

“Okay. Second-to-last, I don’t trust anyone but myself and Judy to handle this investigation, and we currently don’t have the resources we need. And I know of only one way to get what we need.” I took a breath, exhaled, and braced myself emotionally for the storm I expected to follow. “I’m about to tell you something you won’t like, but please have open minds and hear me out. I’m… going to become a Crimes Against Persons Detective at the pol—‍”

The crowd broke into an uproar. Voices spoke over each other, all discord and discontent. I decided it would be best to let them hammer things out and come to an agreement—even as I overheard such utterances as ‘Cop doesn’t know shit about how cops work,’ and ‘Is she really this naïve?’ and ‘Does she think we’re naïve?’ I reminded myself that unanimous rejection was the expected outcome, and ordered myself, unsuccessfully, not to be disappointed.

The arguments grew a little louder, and the accusations sharper— ‘backstabber’ and ‘pig all along’ and ‘probably working undercover the whole time’. I accepted them the way someone in stockades might accept rotten vegetables to the face—with eyes shut tight and a prayer that they would stop any second now. Shosh squeezed my hand, and I focused on that to the exclusion of the voices arguing over which indictment of my character was the most succinct. “Don’t listen to them,” said both of my best friends in unison.

Then Yoly emerged from the crowd and, ascending the steps, approached me—followed by Lisa, Paulo, and Ronnie—and reminded me, “You promised you would try to avoid roping me into the legal system.”

“And that’s still the case.”

“I can’t trust a cop.”

I nodded in solemn agreement. “And you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t trust me. There’s nothing preventing me from breaking my promise. I need your trust, but you don’t owe it to me. That’s my reality. All I can do is beg you to help me and hope that you take pity on me. If you can help me in any way that doesn’t give me leverage over you, I will get down on my knees and kiss your feet. I will kiss every foot on this street, no matter how little you have to offer—because every detail is vital to my mission.”

“I don’t want your groveling.”

I averted my eyes. ‹Shit. What can I do? I have her real name, she isn’t happy about that. She’s pissed that I have the ability to screw her over.

‹Wait.› I dug around in my purse and retrieved the two most important cards in my possession. I thrust them towards her. “Here.”

“Is that a… Social Security Card?”

“And my driver’s license.”

“Why are you showing them to us?”

“Take pictures. If I betray you, post them on Trollchan. The villainous scum that inhabit that website will burn my life down.”

She shook her head. “I don’t… want these.”

“I want you to have leverage over me. If I screw you, you screw me. This is insurance against me lying to you or breaking my promises.”

“No.”

“Please. I want you to have a reason to trust me. I want you to be able to punish me. I want you to have the power to ruin my life, so that you can be absolutely certain that I won’t ruin yours.”

“I’m not—‍”

“Yoly. Listen. This is the only way I can think of to assure you that I’m worthy of your trust. I need your trust, I need everyone’s trust. Please. Take pictures of them. Pass them around to everybody here—to every sex worker in this city—so they can, too. If I break any of my promises, if I betray even one of you, every one of you will have the ability to make me regret it.”

“I’m not doing this,” she told me forcefully.

“Me neither,” said Paulo, and Lisa echoed him.

“This isn’t right,” opined Ronnie.

“I don’t want to have control over you,” explained Yoly. “It isn’t the way to gain our trust. Stop trying to give us your personal information. We don’t want it.”

My eyes dropped to my feet. “Alright. I guess you’ll never trust me.” I retrieved my notepad and tore out the page on which I’d recorded her testimony and offered it. “I’ll remember your name and what you shared, but without a written record of it I would have a slightly harder time getting you subpoenaed. That’s the best I can do.”

She shook her head. “Keep it. Maybe I can’t trust you, but I can still… help. Other than becoming a pig again, you haven’t done anything to lead me to believe you actually intend to hurt me. And… you offered me the ability to ruin your life, so maybe—maybe I can afford to give you some leeway.”

I smiled. “Thanks. That’s all I should have asked for in the first place. Excuse me, I have to convince everybody else not to exile me from this street.” I went from sex worker to sex worker, showing them the cards, offering them the opportunity to destroy me, but none accepted. Every time they refused, I asked them, ‘Will you give me another chance?’ Most of them nodded silently, and a few replied, ‘Alright.’ Once they were all sated that I probably meant well, I returned to my team on the steps.

“Serendipity is planning to become a good cop,” announced Yesenia, “and as we all know there are no good cops. But she’s trying to do what’s best for Alex and for all the people who love him or look up to him, and she seems convinced that doing so will require a certain amount of ideological flexibility. I’m willing to consider what she’s trying to say from a pragmatic perspective. I hope she’s proven to all of you that such consideration is worth your while, but in case you’re still undecided, she has a few more words.” She nodded to me.

The sex workers listened as I said my piece. “The prosecutor is only going to charge someone with a crime if the police ask for it. That means the Santa Virginia Sheriff, the FBI, or the SVPD. Neither you nor I trust any of them, but the SVPD are the only ones with jurisdiction anyway, so only a CAP detective from the SVPD can bring justice for Alex—and as far as I can tell, none of the CAP detectives currently on the force give a shit about him. The only person I trust to put an honest effort into the case… is me. Now you get to decide whether you should expect me to go back to being a cop without drinking the blue Kool-Aid this time around.”

Amid quiet discussion I waited for someone to say something directed at me or my moral crookedness—but the only thing louder than the murmur of deliberation was a cough. I watched their expressions evolve through multiple emotions, until I could see that their apprehensive civility had for the most part been replaced with something more complex.

The lack of engagement was killing me, so I told them how to help me violate the Fourth Amendment rights of the hotel owners: “I can’t report the crime scene myself without raising legal questions that could compromise the case. I need one of you to file a report stating that you saw a pool of blood on the carpet in hotel room 410 when you were retrieving things you had left behind during the raid. If you’re worried about trespassing charges, report it anonymously. Can someone volunteer to do that for me?”

Yesenia declared, “We’ll all do it.”

Few-by-few, certainty emerged from doubt, and the crowd nodded and discussed how best to word their anonymous tips.

“Great. Thank you. I have to go home now and get some sleep. Don’t stay up too late.” The assembly got the joke, and a few even found it amusing, and with a tiny amount of levity to boost their spirits after such a stressful dilemma, they returned to their spots with feelings towards me that were clearly mixed but possibly leaning towards renewed acceptance. “Good night, stay safe, get laid, get paid.”

I watched them return to their spots in little clumps, still discussing strategies for saving the hotel. I turned around to ask Judy if she thought it went well and, based on her beaming smile, inferred that she was enthused and hopeful. She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed. “Andy, I think your hunch might have come true!”

“Maybe, partially… this time. I’m bound to have a bad one eventually.”

“Yes, and I’ll be there to cheer you up and remind you that it was merely an exception to the rule.”

I desperately wanted to kiss her, but not in front of the parting crowd. She must have seen it in my eyes, though, because she suddenly hunched over and planted one on my mouth. I swooned, and after the kiss was over, I had a fairly strong urge to rip off her clothes and go down on her—but I restrained myself.

“I’ll be damned.” Yesenia scoffed and shook her head. “From forth the fatal loins of vice and law / a pair of star-crossed whores seek Brookvale lost. / I should have known the two of them were close / but it was hard enough imagining / my buddy J befriending pigs, much less / romancing girls intending to work forces.” To my relief, she chuckled warmly.

“(Yeeeeah…)” I replied sheepishly. “Um… I need your cell so I can let you know when all of you can start sending in those tips.”

“I… trust you, Dip. In spite of what your plan involves, in spite of my experience with cops, in spite of the advice my own soul is whispering to me, I really do trust you, but I still hafta be careful with my private information. I won’t give a cop my phone number if there’s any possibility that her boss might search her phone. And it’s probably in your best interest not to keep records on any other people living less-than-legal lifestyles. Cough, J, cough.”

“Oh, I don’t bother with writing down contact info, I just memorize it. And I delete conversations unless they’re potential blackmail material.”

Her eyes yelled, [What?]

“Yeah, I memorize all my text messages, DMs, and email—not verbatim, but accurately enough that I can keep my phone nice and clean and empty.”

“Don’t you ever forget?”

“I have every desk phone in the department’s directory memorized, I remember my teachers’ numbers from college, I remember the numbers for the few classmates who bothered to share them with me all the way back to kindergarten. Email and street addresses, too.”

“That—and you must agree—is incredible.”

“I don’t usually tell people about it, because whenever I have told them they started asking me to summon things from the past like it’s a party trick.”

“I won’t do that.” She recited her cell number, I memorized it, and we parted with fare-thee-wells.

I drove us home, and when we got to my door, I told Judy, “So we’ve, uh, done it once in my bed…” Shosh disappeared without comment.

“Yes. And there’s plenty of other unclaimed territory remaining, as well.”

“I guess that’s true. But I was wondering if we could—maybe—have some sex that isn’t out in the open where a rando can just stumble in on us while I’m dry humping you, maybe? For once?”

“I’m awfully tired…”

“You can sit back and relax while I take care of everything. I’d like to try… (eating pussy.)”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“So far, you’ve never given me the chance to—‍”

“Okay, Andy, listen. I will sleep with you tonight on two conditions.”

“I’m listening.”

“First: you let me eat you out.”

“Okay. I’m looking forward to that.”

“Second: you don’t try to get me to show you my bottom half.”

“(Oh.)” I was frustrated by her secrecy, but I had begun to crave her touch. I powered through the disappointment. “(Oh…)” I acquiesced impatiently. “(Fine…)”

“I’m glad we were able to come to an agreement.”

Disappointed—but not defeated—I let us into my apartment so that I could be eaten out by my fuckbuddy—the first domino in the chain of mistakes that led to me losing her.

Chapter 17: Ten-Ticket Thrill Ride

Content Warning: Discussions of Transmisogyny and Fetishization of Transfemmes; Accusations of Sexual Coercion

She gratified me without regard for her own gratification—but she seemed satisfied with the exchange she had arranged for us, which consisted of her pleasuring me and me impatiently wishing for her to «just let me have fun with your genitals already.»

And I say that she seemed ‘satisfied’ because she nearly severed one button on a brand-new shirt as she all but ripped it off and shoved me onto the bed, eliciting a surprised shout-laugh out of me, then yanked off my pants and then my panties, exposing my pussy—the whole time with a riveting, ravenous, serial-killer grin. She threw her purse on the bed and took off her own shirt, then unclasped her bra and freed her breasts. I ogled them as she crawled over me and dangled them over my chest. I chanced squeezing them and was rewarded with the satisfying sensation of pillowy flesh filling the gaps between my fingers.

I massaged them like a cat kneading her owner’s lap, simultaneously relaxing and exciting myself. “Having fun, Andy?” I nodded with the familiar smile of a drunkard. “You know, you’ve never sucked my nips.” I sent a kiss her way over-the-air and she caught it and put it in her pocket, then dragged her tits across my face. I gloried at their softness, and bunched them up so that her small-ish nipples were touching, and per her suggestion I nibbled both of them with my lips, a tactile pleasure I wished I’d tried sooner; and while I so entertained myself with her tits, she hummed contentedly and stroked my hair.

Then, suddenly, she announced, “Okay, I need to—I need to eat your pussy now.”

“‘Need’?”

“Yes. That’s how I get off.”

“Um. Okay, go ahead.”

“Before I start… have you been tested?”

“Yes, Friday, during my fitness for duty exam, all swabs negative.”

“Perfect.”

She backed up until her head hovered above my vulva and stared between my tits into my eyes. Thoughts flocked and flew and flung themselves about my head as I stared back at her, my neck bent forward at a ninety-degree angle; I wondered when she was going to start, what it would be like, whether I would enjoy it—when she answered all of these questions by bringing her head down and tickling my labia with a kiss, taking little steps upward with her lips until she arrived at my clitoris—

My head wrenched back into the pillows as she sucked, sending a buzz up my stomach and spine and forcing me to stretch every muscle in my body. I gasped at the force of the pleasure, and instinctively laid my hands on her head and followed its movements. I managed to gasp, “(Finger.)” She obliged me with a digit up my hole, completing my pleasure circuit. As she massaged my most vital organs, internal and external, every little push of her finger was a moment spent basking in the pure and peaceful meadows of heaven, and every swirl of her tongue was a moment of being ravished in the most sensual and decadent circle of hell. With each passing second living on both sides of the eternal world to come, my moaning grew in volume, and I felt the pressure within my loins build and build until—

“Stop,” I commanded. She stopped, just short of giving me my orgasm. Momentarily, I regretted the command, because it was agonizing to go from a hundred miles per hour to parked one sixteenth of an inch short of the finish line in less than a second… but I couldn’t stand being the center of attention any longer.

“Are you okay, Andy?”

I panted. “I’m fine.”

“No… problems?”

“Nope, I just…”

“So… Do you still want to have sex?”

“I do, but I want to be the one doing the pleasing. I want to… um… give you oral.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Her patience wavered.

“I want to.”

“I would prefer to be the one doing the eating.” She sounded irritated, but at the same time sympathetic towards my desire.

“Up until now it’s been all about my pleasure. You deserve some now. It’s your turn to feel good.”

“Just let me do all the work, Andrea,” she said flatly.

I was sick of not being able to pleasure her. “No. I won’t let you eat my pussy until you let me eat yours.”

“You’re so close, though—I need to finish you.” She seemed to be in as much pre-orgasmic agony as I was. Maybe more. Which gave me an idea…

“I don’t cum till you cum. If you don’t accept those terms, I revoke my consent until you change your mind. Your move.”

“This is sexual coercion, Andy.”

“Are you seriously trying to tell me… that I am sexually coercing you by revoking my consent? That, since you need so badly to make me cum, that I owe you consent?”

Her frustration dissolved into something only vaguely resembling resignation; I detected a hint of disdain. “Point taken.” She got off the bed, unbuttoned and removed her jeans. “Get ready for the best ‘pussy’ you’ll ever have.” Her words would have excited me were it not for their dark tone. She pulled down her panties without spreading her shapely legs. I savored the privilege of gazing upon her naked body.

But something was missing.

“Okay… Now, lie down and spread your legs. Show me your pussy.”

She turned around and fell onto the mattress, landed on her back, then scooted backwards fully onto the bed, all the while keeping her legs glued together.

I crawled to the foot of the bed, gently grabbed her ankles, and spread her legs—but I did not find what I had assumed would be at their intersection.

“Well? Are you going to ‘eat me out’?”

“Um.” I was not expecting what I found, and I needed to rewrite my entire script.

“No? Changed your mind? Can’t figure it out? Grossed out?”

‹I’ve seen this before, but not on a woman.

‹Hmm…

‹I wonder.›

“I guess I’m not eating you out.” I kept a straight face.

“That’s what I thought.” She started to get up.

I ran my hand up her ankle, dragged my grip up her calf, rubbed her inner thigh, and stopped an inch short of my goal. She froze, her eyes wide with surprise. I brushed my fingertips across her skin further up, eliciting a shiver, until they were right next to those floppy six inches of her. I unfurled it and gave it a gentle squeeze. Like her earlobes, it was soft and delicate and suckable. My lips turned up in a lustful smirk, and her expression of shock turned into an expression of pleased surprise.

“I’m not really sure how this thing works,” I lied, “I barely know how my own genitals work. Would you mind telling me how to… get it ready for my mouth?”

“Um… Shyeah. First… you can pull down the foreskin.”

I played with the skin on the outside, wrapped my hand around it and carefully peeled it back, and watched everything grow until the vaguely mushroom-shaped contents were wholly exposed at the end of about two stacked Red Bull cans’ worth of flesh. A wild, famished grin gradually parted my lips. “Oh, my! It’s way bigger than I thought it would be.” I gave the firm shaft a squeeze and giggled. “It was so soft but now it’s petrified!”

“That’s part of the magic of cocks.”

I rubbed the tip and listened to her quiet humming, then ran a finger along its soft underside. “Does this feel good?”

“(Mm.) Yes. It does.”

I noticed that a droplet of precum had pooled at the opening. I wetted the tip of a finger with it and tested its properties—thin and slippery, not unlike my own juices. I used it to lubricate her head, but there wasn’t enough of the stuff, so I reached inside my pussy and got some of my own lubricant and rubbed it all over the tip of her cock like it was a giant clitoris, starting at the hole and working my way down… “How about this?”

…and as I reached the rim, she let out the agonized breath she’d been holding in. “(H-h. Yes.)”

I brought my face up close to it, observed it, and in doing so, breathed on it. It replied with an eager twitch, a satisfying reaction. Her Burgundy-nuanced perfume sensuously assaulted me. I kissed the underside, and she grunted quietly. “Did that feel good?”

“Yes, but mostly because it was super intimate. And sexy.”

I looked her in the eye as I licked the little fold of skin on the underside of the head.

She whispered, “(Fuck.)”

I wrapped my hand around the shaft and gave it a gentle tug, like the piston of a steam locomotive just getting started. “And that?”

“(Yes…)”

I moved my hand up and down the shaft, just like in the straight porn I’d watched out of curiosity; I stretched the loose skin up and over the tip, and noted her pleased growl. “Why were you afraid to show me your cock?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I’m a detective. I eat complications like I eat Cinnamon Toasties.” I licked it between strokes, taking in her scent the whole time.

“(Damn, this is so fucking hot.) Alright. Long story short, whenever I have sex with cisgender people—outside of when I was doing escort work where my dick was the primary draw for men—they usually have no idea I’m trans, and I prefer to keep it that way because out of the dozen or so times the truth came out, ninety-nine percent of them either ran away or tried to hurt me on the spot, like I was the Creature from the Black Lagoon.”

“Or like a vampire.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m not that type of person. You haven’t known me long, but you should know that much by now.”

“(I… just…) have a hard time… trusting cisgender people.”

“Okay. I think I get it, so I hope you don’t feel pressured when I ask… Do you trust me now?”

Her reply was not instantaneous, but I didn’t expect it to be. I patiently pumped away at her cock, and tried to steel myself for a possibly negative or ambivalent answer. But it was neither. “(Absolutely.)” There was a finality to the utterance that I did not pick up on in the moment.

I smiled. “That’s a relief. And in case you haven’t figured it out, I trust you. But now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s get back to the sex.”

“I would appreciate that. Blow me.”

“Yes, ma’am!” She giggled. I placed my lips on the tip, then slowly accepted her cock until the whole thing stretched my lips and filled my mouth. She groaned the whole way, until my nose was buried in her bush…

A sharp aroma, carried by

A subtle current to my nose,

Which strikes me with intensity

Of fragrancy and heavy body

First sang the coffee, roasted dark

And freshly ground, put through the press

Then poured while hot to be consumed

As black as jet— and I for once

Enjoy my piping mug of joe

No sugar to adulterate—

The cream, though, I do so much crave.

My horniness rocketed to its peak. I pulled back until only the head was in my mouth and sucked. She whined. I sustained the vacuum while massaging the underside with my tongue. She placed her hands on my head and gave it a gentle nudge, so I gave her what she wanted and thrust my head back down, then up, then down, ad infinitum, eliciting heavy breathing and hums and grunts from her throat. I played with my clitoris, synchronizing the rhythms of my fingers and my head-bobbing, feeding my need for touch but failing to gratify myself even as I inserted my finger and rubbed my G-spot, only growing more and more unsatisfied with each touch of excitement; each time her cock filled my mouth, my nose was blasted with her scent—until her brand had boiled all my mind into steam as my pussy burned for her. Eventually my desire became so overwhelming that I couldn’t continue sucking. Reluctantly, yet somehow also eagerly, I took my mouth off of her cock.

I needed more.

“Andy—why—(why did you stop?)” she asked anxiously.

“(I… don’t… know,)” I murmured, hypnotized as I watched her cock bounce anxiously with each beat of her heart. It looked like it needed my pussy as much as my pussy needed it. And it was everything I needed.

“What do you mean? Sucking dick shouldn’t require you to think straight. Or think at all.”

“(I… need…)” I informed her in a monotone, mesmerized by her pulsating cock.

“You need what?”

«Cocks belong in vaginas. They’re designed for each other. It’s natural. It’s meant to be inside me. It must go inside me. I need it. I need what it has to offer me.» I crawled over her until our parts were right next to each other, separated by just a few inches.

“(Andy, what are you doing…?)” she asked, warily. I grabbed her cock and guided it as I lowered myself onto it…

I felt a rush like going 30 over the limit on the interstate explode in my vagina and shoot up my spine into my brain as the tip passed through my entrance, forcing a shrill sigh from my throat and encouraging me to keep going. It made a deliciously wet noise as it entered me, and I relished the feeling of fullness as I took in all 8 inches of her. We moaned in parallel as my pussy accepted her cock as the selfless heroine accepts her destiny for the greater good. “(Ohhhhh)—fuck… You dirty, sexy girl.”

I lifted my hips, then brought them down, grunting in satisfaction once it was all the way inside again. She threw her head back with a groan. “(Ahhhhh…)” With determination and deliberation I repeated the motions, over and over and over again, as we both moaned like whores. She asked, “Are you sure you—(mhh)—wanna do this—(hah)—raw?”

All I could think about was her cock being inside me, spreading me, filling me, completing me. “I just… need you inside me. To the very end.”

She lifted me by the hips then let me back down, and I swallowed her once more. “(Your pussy… God damn…)” We worked together to bring me up and down again and again—our love-making boiled over. “Oh, God, yes… (Fuck… fuck… hah… fuck… hah…)” Her limited lexicon gradually devolved into horny vocalizations. As she ceased using words, I lowered my chest onto hers, eased as far up her cock as I could go, until just the tip was tickling my entrance and I could feel that beautiful rush, so that my lips could reach her neck, so that I could kiss her gently on the throat; but I could only go so long without that feeling of fullness.

Our bodies resumed moving together, me rocking my hips against hers, her thrusting her cock into my pussy, both of us working towards the same goal. I remember her regaining a limited ability to speak, whispering between moans in the midst of our lovemaking, “(God… your pussy is… driving me… crazy, it’s… practically designed… for my cock… slick… and strong… and pretty… I just want… to… cum… inside…)”

As her movements became more exaggerated, she warned me, “Andy, I’m gonna cum—(mmh)—in a few seconds—(ah)—you need to get off of me.”

“I need your cock,” I insisted as I continued to ride her.

“You don’t need to do anything for me, I can finish myself off.”

“I need you to—(mmh)—be inside of me when you—(hahhh)—cum. I need it.”

“Oh, Christ, I can’t believe this is really happening—but—Andy, for your sake you—(mhh)—you need to get—(hah)—off of my—‍”

“Please don’t make me get off.” Up and down and up and down I went, impaled upon her cock.

“We need to pull out—if I cum inside you, you might get pregnant—but—but God I want to be—inside you when I—oh, yes-fuck-I’m—cummi—ah—hah—inside—you—yes—ah—O Ishtar! I must be dreaming…” She grunted and grimaced blissfully and her hips jerked greedily. I devoted every hungry joule in my body to riding her cock as her chest heaved and she breathed in aggressive gasps— “(Hahh, hahh, hahh, fuck, ah…)” —and her eyes rolled back and her fingers dug into the soft flesh of my hips and slammed me down onto her cock and held me there as she began to—

Spurt hot white foam

Hissing hot milk

Micro bubbles

Poured in layers

On espresso

Sipping gently

Acid tangy

Earthy nutty

Chocolate tones, with

Greed I swallow

Sudden changes

Flow from pelvis

Fibrillation

Bliss like morphine

Brew of poison

Drives me crazy

Cuts my brain up

Blends to liquid

Nervous smoothie

Now I cannot

Think of any

Person besides

You, my love, my

Universe

As someone chopped up my mind and fed it to a Magic Bullet one euphoric piece at a time, I was gradually overcome by a… need for her that transcended mere love. I pulled myself up to her tip and kissed her neck. ‹I want to be with you forever. I will be with you forever. We are one.› The only thing left on my itinerary was getting back to riding her until I climaxed.

I finished kissing her and resumed riding her, with her hands guiding me up and down, an obscenely contented smirk severing her chin from the rest of her face. We rode the rising and falling waves of my lust together, gazing desirously into each other’s eyes.

The tingling of the brushing of the crown of her cock against my G-spot on each stroke and the feeling of her filling me gradually magnified in their intensity as I—

sail closer

ever closer, ever closer

to the shores of God’s own promised country,

in which nothing’s worth a care, and ev’rything is beautiful.

I run my boat upon the sands;

as five and five toes dip

into the soft warmth of the sun-kissed beach,

the forces trapped within me

in great waves mount higher,

drive me forwards

and into the garden at the center of it all

wherein I dance till I am famished.

when I bite the fruit grown in the garden,

it explodes between my teeth,

obliterating mind and soul and

seizing the remains of my cadaver in sheer ecstasy,

a blanket of euphoria atop me laid

whose gentle weight forces a smothered cry

from ’twixt my lips…

My muscles gave way and I collapsed on top of her, my chest heaving, my body buzzing, my lips smiling. I hummed as we cuddled atop my lumpy old king-size mattress, her arms wrapped around me, her fingers gently rubbing my back, her body touching mine, her cock inside me, her lips pressed against my forehead, every little aspect of my existence a perfect masterpiece of the art of living, the best and most beautiful moment of my existence spent with the best and most beautiful person who I loved more than anybody or anything.

After we had laid there for a while, she asked, very quietly, “(Andy… may I ask a somewhat personal question?)”

I kissed her neck; she sighed. “I will share absolutely anything with you, Judy.”

“Okay… Would you happen to be on birth control?”

“Oh, God!” I shot upright and yanked my curls. “Oh fuck, what have I done? What the fuck have I done? I’m due to ovulate today or tomorrow!” Her eyes spread, wide as the Grand Canyon, and she bit her lip. “I’m fucked, I’m so fucked! Judy! I’ve fucked up royal—(mf—)”

She took a deep breath then placed a finger on my lips, interrupting my panic. “(Shh.) You have options. Everything will be alright.”

My panic shrank just enough to be contained, but I was still not feeling that ‘everything’ would be ‘alright’. “I’ve fucked myself over, I’ve—and now you have to worry about a kid…”

She was calmly containing some kind of emotion which was definitely not anxiety. “I’m fine. I’m not… super jazzed about you having to deal with an unplanned pregnancy—so maybe we should… (fuck…) abstain from unprotected sex next time you’re fertile, instead of giving me the chance to… succumb to temptation.”

‹‘Temptation’… I let her do something she was trying not to do. I let her relapse, or… something like that.› “How can you trust me if I tempt you and succeed on the first try?”

She cupped my cheeks. “It’s not that big a deal, you didn’t hurt me—in fact, you made me feel amazing, so there’s no need to get worked up on my part. I… (trust) you, Andy. Even though… even though… I only met you two days ago. And I’ll still trust you even if you do way worse than something so innocuous as giving me the privilege of fucking you raw without pulling out.” She gently pulled me down so that we were chest-to-chest and kissed me on the forehead, and I let myself relax just a little. “As for why you don’t use BC… that’s none of my business.”

“But if we’re having sex, don’t you need to know?”

“No. I don’t want to risk unintentionally pressuring you into doing something you might not want to do.”

“Oh. Well. Um. I’m open to it now that I’m having sex, but… I won’t have insurance to pay for it after the end of the month. I can’t afford COBRA.”

“You can apply for Medi-Cal.”

“Okay. Sure. Duh. And in the meantime, I guess we can use… condoms.” The word was bitter and slimy on my tongue.

“But will you use condoms?”

“Y-yeah…?”

“Are you sure about that?”

I blinked. “Why… shouldn’t I be?”

“Are you going to keep condoms handy?”

“I think I can trust you to supply your own.”

“Well, you just happen to be correct.” She grabbed her purse off the nightstand and pulled out a plastic-film-wrapped pre-lubricated extra-large contraceptive. “But you can’t trust every partner to be so diligent. Are you allergic to latex?”

“No.”

“Have you been tested for latex allergy?”

“Uh… No.”

“Medi-Cal should pay for a test. Do you know how to put one of these on me?”

“While your penis is much straighter than the banana was… I think I could figure it out.”

“What would you say to me pulling out and you putting this on my cock?”

“(Um…)”

She held out the condom for me to take. “Go ahead. Put a wrapper on it.”

“(I don’t want you to pull out…)”

“You said you would use a condom.”

“Yes, I know I said that, but—(ugh…)”

“Come on. Take it. Open it. I’ll even help you put it on me.”

I very reluctantly accepted the rubber and pinched one serrated edge to tear the plastic.

“Go ahead.”

“What if I mess up? I don’t want to waste your condoms.”

“I get boxes of them from Family Futures. Let’s practice.”

That thing I held between my fingers felt so… unnatural.

“Open it.”

It took far less effort to tear it open than I would have liked—I wished I’d been unable to do it.

“And… take it out.”

I removed the condom from its wrapper. It was slick, slippery, slimy.

Then she scooped her hands under my ass to lift me. “Let me help you get off…”

My love high threatened to crumble. “Stop. Don’t pull out.” She took her hands away. “I want you inside me. From start to finish. And I… don’t want to use a… a condom. Or pull out.”

She nodded knowingly and (I suspect) with pity. “Just my luck: a woman who only likes to do it raw and insists on me cumming inside.”

“I’m sorry.”

She giggled. “Andy, there is absolutely nothing for you to be sorry about, trust me. I’ll go to the drugstore the morning after we’ve fucked and pick up the morning after we’ve fucked pill; it has a good chance of working. And, worst case, if Plan B doesn’t do its job, abortion can be your Plan C. You’re okay with either of those, right?”

“I’m not looking forward to an abortion, but if it ends up being the only way to dodge parenthood…”

“Would you like me to go with you to the clinic?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I think that would make it a little bit easier.”

She patted me on the cheek. “You’ll be fine. You aren’t gonna be a mother.” I was caught off guard by an inexplicable nip of regret. “Everything will be fine.”

“Thank you, Judy.” I finally relaxed all the way, and those words I had previously decided to keep unsaid until the right moment decided that now was the right moment and rolled off my tongue: “I love you.”

As I added those three words, her face strained nervously.

Domme’s Game

Rachel Kramer Bussel

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