The Creep (24 page)

"Go on, tell me." She nibbled his ear,
then
took a long sip from her glass while he continued. "I think we've known each other long enough to talk openly. I'd like to tell you a fantasy of mine that I've had for a long time, and if you like it, we'll act it out. If you don't like it, I'll never mention it again." He took a sip of champagne.

Anita laughed. Not a sneering laugh, that would have put Harvey right off, but a sexy laugh.
A very sexy laugh indeed.
"Of course I'll like it, I like it already, I'll do anything for you, Bill,
you
know that." She gave him a big kiss and squeezed his dick. "Tell me what it is, your fantasy. I've got
a few of my own I wouldn't mind acting out. Mind you, you've fulfilled most of them already." She kept on caressing his cock.

Harvey ran his hand slowly up and down her thigh. "I've always wanted to go to a high-class hooker. Of course, I never have. But I've fantasized about it over and over again. I'd like - you to be the hooker. We'll both pretend we've never seen each other before. You dress up in all sorts of lingerie and work me over, good and proper. I'll pay you cash, that's all part of my fantasy."

"I love it. When can we do it? I've always fantasized about being a hooker! I've got some interesting ideas of my own." They went into a kiss but burst out laughing instead, before making delicious, hot slippery love - probably on the strength of the hooker fantasy.

As usual, the New York City police are ultra busy. It's usually only the humor that keeps them going. There's a lot of it around, and the night Bishman killed Maggie was typical.

One drunk, absolutely spifflicated, left his club around four in the morning. The vodka he'd been drinking had made his
cheeks go all numb
.

He got out to his car, a nice clean Honda Prelude complete with custom paint job. It was quite frosty outside and his windshield had iced over on both sides. He fumbled around for what seemed like an eternity in his glovebox and eventually grabbed what he thought was the de-icer aerosol. He liberally sprayed both the inside and outside of the windshield and started to make his way home. Like all drunks, their cars know the
ir own way home. This one was n
o exception
...
Thank Christ
!

Windshield wipers going full tilt on the outside, hot air blowing on the inside, the drunk
had never, ever, in his whole life, driven through such thick fog before. But he persevered.

This really was the foggiest night he'd ever seen, he was congratulating himself that he'd only bounced off about a dozen stationary cars in the last five miles and now he was nearly home. Unfortunately the last car he glanced off was a cop car
...
i
sn't it always the way?

They pulled him over and when the cop opened his door he literally fell out onto the street, passed out,
non compos mentis.

The first cop pulled his buddy over from the patrol car and they were there a good half an hour. What they wanted to get to the bottom of was why the driver had sprayed the inside and outside of his windscreen with gray paint. They didn't get a coherent answer.

The other noteworthy incident of the evening was that during the day, the traffic signals on Tenth Avenue and 23rd Street had been completely ripped out by a truck that was hauling a huge load of cardboard. The truckie never even stopped and he dragged the whole traffic light about a hundred yards down the road in a mighty shower of sparks and loud grinding metallic noises before they disentangled themselves from the bottom of his truck.

All that was left at the scene of the accident were the live electrical wires coming out of the ground.

Apparently, shortly after midnight, a woman had been walking her dog - a little Chihuahua by all accounts - and the damn thing pissed on the two live wires. The dog literally
exploded in a huge puff of acrid smoke and the woman just stood there holding the dog's leash, howling hysterically. She wasn't too happy about it. She wasn't too coherent, either, when the police arrived to take her statement.

The police officers put the charred and smoking remains of the mutt in the trunk of their patrol car and drove off, making some quip about
mustard or sauerkraut with your hot dog, madam?

Harvey surmised Bishman was talking about a previous event that had left Harvey dangling half-way through a story. When this happened, Harvey couldn't help but be ex
cited, his adrenalin level rose.

Bishman felt good about himself. He bought a twenty-cent razor and a five-dollar black sweatshirt with the slogan on it, WELCOME TO NEW YORK, in white letters along with the outline of a murder victim, like the police use. This appealed to Bishman's sense of humor.

He walked up to the Port Authority where the Greyhound buses leave from, went into the downstairs bathroom and spruced
himself
up. He threw the razor and his old sweatshirt into the trash and walked out into the cool air of Eighth Avenue, feeling good about having a little over a hundred bucks to his name.
Maggie's money! Killing, it's a living
!
Thought Bishman, as he popped three tabs of acid into his mouth.

He walked as far as 97th Street. It was cool, four-thirty Friday afternoon. He decided the time was right to put his thumb up. There was a lot of traffic. Everyone was vacating the city at the same time. This was usual. Every time a police siren went, Bishman thought
I'm not leaving this place any too soon, yeah, boogaloo.
He was lost in his own thoughts.

Wrapped up in the busy
-
ness of his mind he only just noticed the Connecticut plates on the black stretch Cadillac which had pulled up and stopped. He'd only had his thumb out a matter of seconds. He was expecting a ride to take somewhat longer;
but when you're on a roll, you're on a roll
. For a single moment he had a flash of nervousness.
Is this maybe three or four black dudes in a limo, who just want to take me for a ride, perhaps play with my mind?

A tinted window rolled down and a distinguished looking businessman of about fifty-five enquired: "Where ya heading, fella?"

Bishman thought quickly: "Outta town, probably Connecticut, but outta town definitely."

"Jump in, buddy, I'm going to Groton. You can drop off anywhere along the way or get out at Groton and pick up your route."

The limousine lurched into the traffic, somewhat aggressively. Bishman and the businessman introduced themselves. There was instant rapport. Two interesting guys,
both wanting
something from each other.
Company, conversation, excitement, adventure, something out of the norm maybe.

"I'm Leonard Prendegast - good to have you aboard. Cold in the city, isn't it? I'm glad to be getting out for the weekend, what did you say your name was?"

"Bishman, Bob Bishman. Yeah, thanks for the ride. It's too cold for me in Manhattan, this time of the year. I'm looking forward to hitting the road again."

"What do you do, Bob?
Just travel around, checking places out?
That must be a great life. I'm tied to a desk for eighty fuckin' hours a week.
But when I do travel I love to get to Copenhagen – I
have my own
private suite in the
five-star
Marriot.
In actual fact I have
a Penthouse that takes up a
whole floor.
"

Bishman noticed the guy's Rolex President with diamond face, bezel and strap, and some ostentatious but enormously appealing diamond rings. This guy is made of money, Bishman just knew it.

He could also sense a number of other things. Although the guy was stinking rich there was no barrier. He was talking to Bishman on his level and Bishman knew it, and appreciated it.

The interior of the limousine was plush. There was a small television and a fully-stocked drinks cabinet that Bishman's eyes had fallen on.

"Wanna drink?"

"I'll force one," replied Bishman.

"What do you fancy after a hard day's work at the office?" he chuckled.

"Oh, whiskey for me, straight, lots of ice."

"There you go, buddy, just help yourself. Take plenty of ice too, you deserve it." Prendegast operated a switch at the side of the cabinet and ice cubes plopped out, one cube at a
time. They were shaped like a pair of woman's tits, which Bishman thought amusing, although he didn't say anything. He'd never seen anything like that before.

He took the whiskey, thanked Prendegast, held the glass up and looked at it ruefully, then toasted: "Antibodies." He smiled, and took a long sip of the whiskey full of ice tits.

"Call me Leo. Everyone calls me Leo." Leo gave an encouraging smile.

Traffic had been pretty slow and they were only just moving through Harlem.

"Not many folks go up to Harlem these days unless you fancy getting your fucking head blowed off, ain't that the truth? New York, what a city, where the weak get eaten and the strong grow rich!"

The 'phone went. It startled Bishman.

"Excuse me, Bob, I must take this, the West coast still keeps going for another three hours and I need to tie up some loose ends." He picked up the phone and lit a cigarette with a solid gold lighter.

"Yeah, of course it's Leo. And I know who that is. Well at least I think I do, I hope it's you, Arnold. You got my message OK? The deal's do-able. I outlined it on my
fax,
you and I go in fifty-fifty with the money. We cut the other guy in for fifteen percent of the action and always keep him at that level, no voting on his shares, but we do need him for his creativity.

"This new magazine will fly. You get the guy's drift. With a name like
Tycoon
, all tits and ass, better material than
Playboy, Mayfair and
Penthouse
put together.
There's
some real neat pussy shots, just getting wet, but still quite legal and the detail is clearer than anything you've seen before. This guy knows what he's about. This is the latest technology. It's all filmed in Denmark. That's where they make the plates and we can print anywhere in the world. That's right. Yes! Yes! Yes! You got it.