The name's Jack Wayne. I'm a private detective. It all began on a sweltering Friday in June. I was sitting behind my desk thumbing through a paperback of "9 & 1/2 Weeks" and sipping a glass of bourbon when my secretary stuck her head into the office.
"Hey, Jack." she said in an annoying tone. "Jack, put the book down for a minute!"
Maxwell Anderson Jr., or Max to most of his friends, had waited years to be allowed to attend his parent's annual Mardi Gras party. It was considered by many in their social circles to be the grandest party of the season. Max's mother, Edwina Anderson, was born and raised in New Orleans, and left when she married Maxwell Sr. so he could take a position that ultimately led to his running his own law firm. Edwina, like so many other wives of wealthy and successful husbands, was a 'bored housewife' who did charity work, worked out, and drank too much.
I didn't know if it was the unseasonal heat or the heavy work we'd done that day or Jake's scary stories or Miguel's empty bed that kept me awake in the dormitory that night, but I had nervous energy to spare. I would doze, but I'd wake up with a start and look over at Miguel's bed, the emptiness of it now explained, and then I'd check all of the other beds to see in guys were there. And sometimes they weren't, and then I'd speculate.
"Fire in the hole!"
Lauren Thompson watched with satisfaction as the two tapered smokestacks suddenly curtsied and bowed like 18th Century dancing partners, collapsing into a billowing cloud of dust. She rose from her crouch behind the wall of sandbags, turned off the bullhorn and walked back to the operations trailer to review the remote camera videotapes.
The Orient Express train had left Vienna Station at dusk, and there was no longer anything to see out of the coach window, the lights of the towns flashing by having been extinguished hours ago. Magnus the Authenticator was weary, and the clacking of the iron wheels on the iron rails as the train thundered toward Belgrade lulled him. But the unfamiliar noise of the speeding train and frequent lurch from side to side robbed him of sleep. He'd never ridden a train before;
"For the last time; I don't KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!"
"Oh I think you do. I just don't understand who or what you're protecting."
"Fucking cucaracha, do you have any ears?!"
"And again, with the feistiness...Just tell us what we want to know."
The room was poorly lit for effect, but the redhead didn't know that. She was blindfolded and cuffed to a cold steel chair.
This story was written at the request of, and for a fan. She knows who she is, and I hope the pleasure she gets from the story does not fade too quickly.
You sit at your computer, searching for and finding exquisite pictures of exquisite women, your senses already heightened at the sight of them, your attention completely on the screen, your mind and thoughts filled with visions of that special dream lover, the one that can take you to those places you crave, those sensations for which you yearn.