Hell Bound: Spinnaker's Gold

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

The Sweating Man

At the same time in room 246 at the Ottoman Hotel, Myoko Jones, wig off, moved dreamily up and down on Archie Picket’s straddled c**k, knees braced to either side of him. Light glinting on the bare scalp, not shaved but natural. Alopecia totalis, brought on by scarlet fever when she was a child, had left her utterly hairless, top to bottom, back to front, side to side. Not one sprig to be found.

Myoko said, “My mother warned me about you.”

“Did she now?” Archie said.

Lying supine beneath her on the big comfortable bed, he admired the rhythmic lurch of taut, youthful breasts. Her extravagant n*****s were badly bruised, but erect, as always. He tugged them. Myoko hissed in response.

“Sore?”

“You have no idea.”

He grinned up at her. “What else did your mother say?”

“Wants me to be more like my sisters.”

“Living happily ever after on alimony and child support?”

“Something like that, join the country club, take a lover, and make dirty movies like dear old Mom.”

“And she thinks I’m depraved?”

“You are depraved, darling, that’s why I love you.”

“And why she doesn’t, of course.”

“God, you’re deep.”

“Wise, too.”

She punched him in the chest. “I mean deep as in up to your balls inside me. My liver’s probably got little dents in the bottom.”

“It will in a minute,” he said, and rolled them over.

“Ooh, baby,” Myoko said happily.

Archie settled into the deep, elliptical hip swing that was their bread and butter. Myoko said it hurt to be f****d like that. She loved it, long and hard and steady. She wrapped her legs around his waist. Hunched him back.

“Do I f**k as good as Johnny?” he asked.

“Of course you do,” Myoko said.

“Better?”

“Different,” she said thoughtfully. “You’re both good in bed, but Johnny is like being mounted by a horse, or something. His c**k is so big that I can’t think of anything else when he’s inside me. It’s distracting, like Sarah Bolt’s t**s. With you, I can relax and enjoy things, and I like that very much, my dear.” She hugged him tightly as she said, “Anyway, you’re my Master, now, Mr. Picket, Sir. Johnny gave me to you, and I’m glad. I love you so much it’s hard to think past that.”

“You were quite a birthday present, I’ll have to admit.” He grinned. “Speaking of distracting, did you really c*m while Farnsworth spanked you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Nasty bitch.”

She groaned, heaved beneath him, banging out another orgasm. She’d lost count of how many that made. She said, “I love it when you call me names.”

“You are such a slut,” Archie said, picking up the pace again.

“More,” she groaned.

“Worthless cunt.”

He put his weight on one arm and slapped her face, not too hard, but enough to knock her head to the side. She probed the corner of her lips with a pink tongue and smiled at him.

“That’s the ticket,” she said.

Slap.

“Harder.”

“f**k meat.”

Slap.

“Oh, yes.”

“c*m bucket.”

Slap.

“Oh, hell yes!”

She arched against him, squealing then panting like a puppy after a hard run, said, “Gimme the hot stuff, baby, I want it right now. Right now!”

“Coming right up,” Archie said. “So to speak.”

Myoko giggled breathlessly.

“Hard to do, you laughing like that.”

“Try it from my end,” she groaned, cumming again before he could.

“I am trying your end,” he said.

“You’re so funny.”

She bit his neck like a vampire after a dry spell.

Afterwards, they showered and dressed. Went downstairs to check out of the hotel. Mr. and Mrs. Colin Dupree on a week-end getaway, looking well-fed, well-rested and well-f****d. Perfectly natural in such a splendid little hotel. The police had gone, Farnsworth, too. Mission accomplished. The morning papers were full of the story. Not the kind of attention the Ottoman liked.

Waiting in front for a taxi, Myoko was looking very fine in a pale green sundress and brown flats, both Chanel, blonde wig in a chignon, big earrings, sunglasses, and A red s***h of lipstick. Looking every inch the sophisticated and above all, grown, woman with nary a mark showing. The waif was dead. Long live the waif.

Archie idling with their suitcases, wearing Versace trousers, brown huaraches without socks, and a deep green Charvet dress shirt open at the throat. They looked like high-end hotel guests, young, well-dressed, moneyed, heading to the airport. People like that were a dime a dozen in Palm Beach, no one gave them a second glance. You want to be noticed, wear Any-Mart clothes and drive a pick-up. Looking exceptional made them invisible.

“Stop smirking,” she said, clearly amused.

“Can’t,” Archie replied. “I came three times. That’s a record.”

“For you, maybe.”

“Damned right, for me.”

“You’re welcome.”

A black Range Rover wheeled in, braking hard, hitting the curb with an expensive thump. The front bumper missed Myoko’s knee by a hand’s breadth. The two of them stepped back reflexively. A bald man in a rumpled suit stepped out of the car, sweat oozing into the soiled collar of his shirt.

“Goddam valets, ought to know better than to stand in the way,” he said.

“Appreciate the advice,” Archie replied mildly.

The sweat hog squinted at Myoko. “I know you, toots?”

“You wish,” she said.

He grunted, took a heavy roller bag out of the car, set it on the sidewalk, and tossed the keys. Archie plucked them out of the air. “Park it somewhere safe, Gomer. Put a scratch on it, I’ll have your ass.” He went through the minor courtyard and into the lobby, puffing like an old steam engine, bag trailing behind.

“Gomer?” Myoko asked.

“And don’t you forget it, Toots.”

Archie waved to the attendant, reading his newspaper behind the desk.

“Cab still not here, sir?”

“Cancel it,” Archie said, “we’ve got a ride.”

Crossing the Worth Avenue Bridge, Myoko caressed the expensive leather upholstery. “Range Rover’s are so nice,” she said.

“Don’t leave fingerprints,” Archie said.

“I’ll wipe it down at the airport.” Her laugh was shaded toward brittle. “I can’t believe you stole a car after all this.” Meaning the night’s work.

“Showing initiative is all,” Archie said. “The man said park it somewhere safe, he didn’t specify where exactly. It seemed like a good compromise, all things considered.”

“Splitting hairs, aren’t we?”

“Like you’d know,” he said.

“Note to self,” she said with wry humor. “Never argue with a car thief.”

“Good policy.”

Archie parked the Range Rover deep in the overflow parking lot at Palm Beach International Airport. They changed clothes in the car. Myoko went to a black wig, a two-piece suit of dove gray silk, no blouse or bra, four inch heels, and no jewelry save an expensive watch on a narrow alligator band. Archie peeled the false goatee off and changed contacts from green tinted to brown. He knotted a tie at his throat.

Myoko got out first and walked quickly to the courtesy bus kiosk Looking like business suit Barbie with bruised n*****s. The bus arrived and she climbed aboard. Archie waited five minutes and got out of the car, slipping into a blue blazer. He caught the next bus. At the arrivals terminal, he flagged a taxi and went to the executive section of the airport where Myoko was already doing the pre-flight walk down on their plane, a pretty little Cirrus SR-22-T.

Archie stowed the luggage. She put on a headset and fired the engine, talking acronyms to the control tower, and paying close attention to her checklist. New pilot. Hard at work. Archie climbed on board, strapped in. Myoko taxied out and took off into the easterly wind, banked hard, making the loop back to the central Everglades behind Miami’s jumbo traffic patterns. She made a very nice job of it. Just the two of them. She set the auto pilot.

“How about some p***y?” Archie asked, eyebrow raised in query.

“You have got to be kidding.”

Shit-eating grin.

“Better not, Archie, too much civilian air traffic out here. Besides, we’re already in the mile high club several times.”

“I’m trying for bonus points.”

“Don’t you ever get enough?”

“Of you? Not hardly.” He removed the dark contacts and fluttered his eyelashes at her fetchingly he thought. “Don’t it make my brown eyes blue?”

She smiled. “If I had a d**k, it would be getting hard right now.”

“I’m straight as an arrow, darlin’, but if you did have a d**k, I’d switch sides.”

“Really? You’d suck my c**k?”

“In a heartbeat, in a New York minute, in the blink of an eye I’d take that baby all the way down my throat and hum John Phillips Sousa until you spouted like Moby’s d**k. And I’d never go back to women. Never.”

“Don’t you mean Moby d**k?” she asked.

“I know what I meant.”

Warm laughter. “You are so full of s**t, Picket.”

His cell phone buzzed somewhere over the Everglades. Text. “Johnny, says what the f**k happened? No idea what he’s talking about. Anyway, we meet for supper at his place, drinks before. Got a gig at the Watering Hole at ten o’clock.” He tossed the phone down. “I love it when a plan comes together.”

“And when the check cashes.”

“Bourgeois slut.”

More laughter.

Archie looked out the side window, watching a private jet hurtle past at about twice their cruise speed. He recognized it as one of the new Piper Altairs, a sweet little single-engine, six-passenger business plane with a yawning air intake above the fuselage just ahead of the tail empennage. Didn’t give it much thought, just admired the beautiful lines. Couldn’t help himself. He was a card carrying airplane junkie.

Brand new on the market, those Altairs. In standard trim with good avionics, they ran three million a pop, give or take. Only a handful delivered as yet from Piper’s Vero Beach plant. Whoever that was flying had some serious horsepower to get one so early in the production run, the lucky bastard. Picket watched it go.

“Wish I could afford one of those,” Myoko said wistfully, looking at the jet.

He pulled her skirt up and stroked bare thighs.

“Lot of people think the same about you.”

Mona Lisa smile.

“Snake charmer,” she said.