Читать книгу Klick's Shorts - Milam Smith - Страница 9

When I heard the clapping, I was so drained, bent over Jerri, breathing heavy, I couldn’t even sit up and look to see who it was doing the clapping.

“What are we going to title this performance, dear?” His voice was like the snarl of a dragon.

I managed to sit up. My nakedness did not bother me. I’d once killed two men while brushing my teeth after a morning shower.

Man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. I’m not bragging about the killing. I’m not every happy about it when it happens, even in the most judicial of circumstances.

But afterwards…afterwards I was always happy to be alive. It is our instinct, humankind, to survive. No matter the price. No matter the cost.

He was big as a Mac Truck. Naked himself except for a pair of black satin boxers that must have been the match for Jerri’s nightie.

“Oh boy,” I said. Sorry, but in that state, after sex, totally spent, staring at a man holding a gun, it is often hard for the brain to come up the best of biting quips.

It’s even hard to say the simplest of things, like, “I love you,” afterwards. At least for men.

Mac Truck said, “Not a bad title. Not great, but in a pinch….” He paused, as if in deep thought, the gun hanging nonchalantly down by his side. “How about,” he said, bringing up the pistol, “‘Your Money or My Wife, Again?’”

I think he was serious. Not just about wanting my money, but about the title. And about his wife.

Jerri moaned, squeezed me with her privates, said, “Ooo, I like that one!” She squirmed away from me and, I noticed with flush of pride, stumbled to her feet and over to Mac Truck. I watched her shaky legs. Gave me strength, that burst of pride. Macho macho man.

I stood up.

“Gerri, this is Klick.”

“Gerri and Jerri? Not any kin to the Rosses are you,” I asked, watching their puzzled faces. I’d worked a case years back (Klick the Dick) where a married couple practiced the most perverted kind of act imaginable during sex. Fatally perverted.

Jerri turned and moved away, behind Gerri. Hmm, this could get confusing. Jerri, the woman…. Never mind.

She was still rubber-legged when she returned, holding a video tape in her hand. She had black marker in the other hand. Her brown eyes glinted suddenly. She scribbled something down on the label.

Proudly she showed Gerri. He grinned.

“Klick The Dick,” Gerri said. “I like it, Hon’. Sounds like a classic.

“Okay, ‘Klick’, this is the deal. Hand over all your money, your wallet with all your charge cards and ATM cards, we let you walk. Once we’ve drained your accounts tomorrow, we send everything back to you in the mail,” said Gerri.

“Otherwise, Clyde, you will become an amateur Internet star overnight,” added Jerri.

We stood there, staring, me considering. Occasionally Gerri would glance down at my fully exposed self.

I put my hand to my chin, scratched it as if deep in thought. “You know, that don’t sound half bad,” I said. “What say we sign a contract, I get one third of what you sell on the Net?”

Gerri frowned.

I held out my hands, like ‘how about this’ and took a small step or two forward. “That title’s a killer, Jerri, I do admit.”

“Hey, asshole, you get nothing if we go on the Net. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, moron,” Gerri said.

“Okay, okay…but then again, considering my performance, someone might approach me, make a sequel. You know, this might be a good deal.” Another step forward.

Gerri glanced down again, and I moved, right leg coming up, around, kicking, like a snake’s flicking tongue, and the pistol flew from his hand. Then a sliding step forward, a side kick aimed down, low, at an angle, right above his knee. There was a sharp crack and the big tree that Gerri was came crashing down.

I snatched the tape from Jerri’s hand. She blinked at me, then down at her husband on the floor. He was holding his leg, gasping, his face as pale as the rest of his beached-whale body.

I strolled over to the phone by the wet-bar, made a call to a dear friend of mine at the Fort Worth Police Department. Only late as it was, I was calling his home.

“Hey, asshole, you know what time it is?” Detective Bobby Shinn said, his usual perky self, even in the middle of the night.

“You’re not going to believe this,” I told him. “Remember the Rosses?”

“Oh great,” he said. “How many bodies this time?”

“None,” I said in shock. “You know I’m not a violent man.”

“Yeah, and Mother Teresa wasn’t really a nun.”

I told him where I was and asked he keep this quiet for now.

After I hung up I beeped Wimpy Dooley. He’d given me the number just in case we got lucky.

“You didn’t call the cops, did you?” There was a hint of panic in his voice.

“I am experienced at this kind of thing,” I told him. “I called a guy’ll keep it quiet for now. Depends on what shakes loose.”

I told him where to find me.

Even though Dooley was just two blocks over, counting his day’s receipts, Shinn beat him by a couple of minutes