{ASS} New: "Double Cross" by DG [1/9] (Please Read First)

[diony...@hotmail.com]

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The following piece of fiction contains strong sexual
content and is meant to be read only by adults. If you
are not at least 18 years old, or if you are offended by
this type of material, please do not read any further.
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"Double Cross"

A Frank Stern Mystery

Š 1999 by DG (diony...@hotmail.com)

Chapter One
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Everyone has a hobby, and mine happens to be voyeurism. Over the
years I've built up quite an extensive collection of pictures of
unsuspecting women and couples in compromising or revealing positions.
Some I took in my capacity as a private detective, most were just for
fun. It's a dangerous hobby - that's part of the attraction, of
course - and I've gotten myself into some pretty sticky situations and
even been arrested once or twice. Embarrassing, but no big deal.
Until recently, that is. I took some pictures a few weeks ago, some
nice topless pictures on a public beach, and those pictures very
nearly got me killed.
Thinking back on it now makes me feel queasy inside and short of
breath. It would have been a stupid, shitty way to go. Anyway, it's
a long story, and I better start at the beginning if I'm going to get
it all down right. I'm not going to change any of the facts, though
God knows some of the facts make me look pretty bad. I'm the first to
admit I'm not the second coming of Sherlock Holmes, and I've already
admitted to being a sexual voyeur, but I'm not a liar.
I was between cases at the time, a situation I find myself in all
too often, and I had spent the morning moving furniture to make the
rent. I was on the freeway, heading back to my apartment for lunch,
when my cell phone rang. I reached behind me and fumbled through the
mess of packing straps, tools, and boxes that litter the back of my
van, finally coming up with the phone.
"Frank Stern."
"Frankie, there you are. It's Vic. Got a hot one for you,
buddy. I'd take it myself, but I gotta meet my parole officer in
twenty minutes. So naturally I thought of you."
Vic is a fellow voyeur, a lot more hard core than I am. That's
not why he's on parole though - he's a burglar by trade, and a bad
one. "So what's the story?" I asked.
"Two words for you, Frank: Claire Ingleford."
"No kidding, really?"
"Yep. She's on Sparkle Beach right now, catching some rays with
her world-famous hooters on full display."
"As seen in Playboy magazine."
"You got it. So whattya say?"
At the moment I was heading east, away from Sparkle Beach. It
would take me at least half an hour to get there, by which time the
show would probably be over. I was tired and hungry, and I had
another moving job scheduled for this afternoon.
But this was Claire Ingleford, star of the prime-time drama "LA
West," voted "TV's Sexiest Vixen" by People magazine two years
running. Not that I'm a big fan of the show, but the fact that she's
a celebrity does add to the attraction.
"I'm all over it, Vic. Wish me luck." I disconnected the phone
and cut across two lanes of traffic toward the next exit. Such is the
pull of the voyeur.
I made it in twenty-five minutes flat, and this time I was lucky.
Claire Ingleford was still there.
Sparkle Beach is one of the less crowded public beaches, since
it's no good for swimming or surfing. The waterline is littered with
jagged rocks, and the incoming waves throw up fountains of salty
spray, often creating rainbows or glittering sheets of luminescence.
Sparkle Beach is also known for another kind of glitter - celebrities.
The unwritten rules here are no autograph requests, no gushing
conversation, and absolutely no cameras. I always followed the first
two.
After taking off my shirt and pulling a faded Dodgers cap down
low over my eyes, I wandered along the beach, scanning my eyes back
and forth. It didn't take long to find what I was looking for: a
loose circle of people standing around trying to look like they
weren't gawking.
I wandered over and joined the group, and got my first look at
Claire Ingleford in real life. She was sitting on a chaise lounge
under a big multicolored beach umbrella, and despite the overcast
weather she was wearing sunglasses and a straw hat and had her nose
painted white with zinc oxide. Next to her was a big, tan man with
dark, curly hair. They were both reading magazines, pretending to be
oblivious to the dozen or so gaping onlookers. They were sitting only
about ten yards from the waterline, which was clever positioning,
because anyone who tried to linger in front of them to get a better
view would get wet from the spray.
But you could still see plenty from the side. Claire was wearing
only the bottom half of a bikini, and I could see the firm round curve
of her left breast extending out past her upper arm. I had my little
Olympus cupped in my hand, covered with a folded towel, and I slid the
shutter open with my thumb and aimed it by feel. I snapped off a few
shots, the towel muffling the snap and whine of the motors.
Some dolt yelled out "Claire, you're beautiful!" She looked up
from her magazine and smiled briefly. This caused a bit of a titter
from the onlookers. Claire has a distinctive smile - the corners of
her mouth turn up sharply, exposing her upper teeth and giving her an
almost feral look. Jack Nicholson smiles the same way. When Claire's
bad-girl character on "LA West" smiles at someone, it's like a Mafia
don giving the kiss of death. With any luck, that smile would now be
part of my personal collection.
As I worked my way along the perimeter, taking pictures as I
went, a throaty voice called out "Claire, how about standing up for a
second?" This was greeted by some nervous laughter.
The Sparkle Beach privacy conventions were obviously going to be
no match for a topless TV star who had recently posed for Playboy, and
I figured I had only a few minutes left, if that. I decided to cut
between Claire and the ocean, spray be damned, to get some frontal
shots.
But just as I was about to go for it, Claire and her companion
stood up. I shot a rapid-fire series of shots as she took off her hat
and shook out her glossy brown hair and then raised her arms up over
her head in a languorous stretch. A few people clapped and whistled,
and I didn't blame them. Claire Ingleford has a truly first-class
rack: firm, grapefruit-sized breasts capped with pink areola the size
of silver dollars and large, pouting nipples. With her arms raised
over her head and her back arched you'd swear they were fake, but then
when she relaxes and moves around you can see they're all-natural.
The rest of her isn't bad, either, although she was shorter than I had
imagined, maybe five-four or five.
I was in nirvana for thirty seconds or so, as Claire turned this
way and that, taking off her sandals, folding her towel, putting away
her magazine. It was like she was posing just for me, and I fired off
shot after glorious shot. Then two things happened at once. Claire
and her male companion started walking directly toward me, and I ran
out of film. The automatic rewind seemed as loud as a chain saw, and
I swore under my breath and wrapped the towel more firmly around the
little camera.
They passed within a few feet of me, holding hands, and then they
waded into the light surf. I could hear Claire laughing and
shrieking, and I figured they must be frolicking and splashing, but I
was on my knees in the sand, desperately fumbling with the Olympus,
trying to get the old roll out and a new roll in.
"Hey, what do you think you're doing? You're not supposed to be
taking pictures on this beach."
A middle-aged woman was looking down at me indignantly from
behind a huge pair of sunglasses. She was wearing one of those modest
one-piece bathing suits with the little ruffle-skirt around the
middle, and she was holding a Judith Krantz novel. I got the
impression she would just love to see a pervert like me strung up from
the nearest lifeguard tower.
I gave her a cold stare, and said "Ma'am, I'm with the FBI. I'm
going to have to ask you to step back and allow me to conduct my
business." She gave me a disbelieving look, but didn't say anything
else. Bold-faced lies like that can be surprisingly effective, if all
you need to do is buy a little time.
The new film loaded, I got to my feet and rejoined the crowd, the
middle-aged woman following behind. Claire was standing knee-deep in
the water with her back to ocean, her legs spread to brace herself
against the waves. Her oiled body was beaded with glistening drops of
water, and the cold Pacific had tightened her skin and made her
nipples even more prominent.
A wave crashed into her at waist level, and seawater gushed up
her back and over her head. She let out a little shriek of surprise,
and then she shook her head back and forth like a dog, her thick, wet
hair whipping around her head. Her breasts swung and wobbled
enticingly.
"Jesus, this water is freezing!" she said.
"We can tell," said one wit.
At this, Claire crossed her arms over her chest and turned
around. Then she looked back over her shoulder at the crowd of
people, as if noticing for the first time that she and her boyfriend
weren't alone. I suddenly realized that I wasn't taking pictures, and
I snapped a few shots.
"Are you all staring at me?" said Claire. Her eyes were wide and
innocent. It was sort of a silly performance, but I was enjoying it
anyway. She turned around and put her hands on her hips, and thrust
her chest out provocatively. I remembered a very similar shot from
the Playboy spread that came out last year. I took another quick shot
and then decided to work my way closer.
"I really shouldn't be doing this," said Claire with a smile.
Her tone was conversational, but her voice was loud enough for
everyone to hear. "I have a movie opening in a few weeks, a serious
big-budget movie, and the producers told me to behave myself."
"Are there nude scenes?" asked someone. It sounded like the same
guy who had asked her to stand up.
Claire chuckled, not put out at all. "Of course. We shot some
very steamy love scenes, but I'm not sure how much ended up in the
movie. They told me it would be tasteful, but I'm kind of worried
that they'll show too much. I guess we'll all have to go to the
theaters and find out. The title is "Wishing Her Life Away," and it
has Alec Baldwin and Gene Hackman in it too."
Just as she finished her little plug, a big wave smacked her in
the back, knocking her forward onto her hands and knees. As her dark-
haired companion helped her back to her feet, I got some nice unposed
shots of her breasts swinging and swaying. The rush of water had
driven her bathing suit into the cleft between her buttocks, turning
it into a thong, and this had exposed the rose tattoo on her shapely
left buttock. I got a shot of that before the man straightened out
her suit for her. Claire was laughing at the little pratfall, but the
man seemed to be upset, and they exchanged a few private words.
"OK, everyone, I've got to get going," said Claire. "Don't tell
the Warner Brothers people I've been running around half-naked, OK?
I'll get in big trouble."
Yeah, right.
As they started walking back towards their umbrella, there was a
little round of applause from the crowd, which had grown to maybe
forty people. The applause seemed appropriate, since the whole thing
had the flavor of a staged event. I wondered if it was a publicity
stunt to promote the movie, but the lack of any media seemed to
preclude that.
Just as the clapping died down, the woman with the Judith Krantz
novel called out "Miss Ingleford, that tall thin man right in front of
you has been taking pictures of you all along. I just thought you
should know."
There was a moment of truly dreadful silence. I looked around,
as if trying to spot the shmuck with the camera. A lot of people were
looking right back at me.
"Who? Who's got a camera?" It was the boyfriend, and he sounded
very angry. I started to melt back into the crowd.
"That man right there in the baseball cap! He's got it hidden
under that towel."
She was pointing right at me, and a tight circle of curious
people formed around me, marking me as clearly as if I had a target
painted on my chest. I decided that a graceful exit wasn't going to
be in the cards. I barged right between a young couple holding hands,
wove through the rest of the crowd like a tailback, and broke into the
clear, heading back toward the parking lot at a sprint.
Once you make the decision to run for it, the best thing to do is
go all out. People are rarely willing to chase after someone on foot,
and a sudden cheetah-like explosion will get you out of a variety of
unpleasant situations.
I glanced back over my shoulder and saw the boyfriend giving
determined and athletic chase, his jaw locked with effort and his bare
feet kicking up little sprays of sand. There are exceptions to every
rule, and they are what make life interesting.
My loosely-tied sneakers were sloshing around uncomfortably on my
feet, and I knew the boyfriend was gaining on me. But the parking lot
was in sight, and I still had a good lead. I put my head down and
concentrated on maintaining my form over the last fifty yards or so.
I hurdled the low cement wall separating the beach from the parking
lot, and made a beeline for my van.
I had left the van unlocked for this very reason, and I gave
myself a mental pat on the back for my crafty foresight as I wrestled
the rusty door open and slid inside. I fumbled the key into the
ignition and started it up, and wasted no time heading for the exit.
In the side mirror I saw the aggrieved escort picking his way gingerly
along the hot asphalt, staring angrily at me. I resisted the impulse
to thumb my nose.
Back on the freeway, I cranked up the radio and wailed along with
the Stones as they complained about the Honkytonk Blues. The brief,
heart-pounding chase had sent a cleansing flood of adrenaline through
my body, temporarily washing away the malaise and irritation that had
dogged me for the past few weeks. I patted the little cylinder of
film in my pocket like a druggie who has just scored a week's worth of
his favorite potion.
I showed up at my afternoon moving job right on time, and for
once everything went smoothly. A old guy with a giant china cabinet
in his dining room, a hideous old piece in ink-dark mahogany with
ornate carvings of stags and boars all along the top. Probably worth
at least ten grand.
The thing had been looming against that dining room wall for
something like forty years, but now the owner was moving into a
smaller place and putting it up for auction. The brawny meatheads
from Atlas movers had told the guy it was all one piece, and that he'd
have to call in a specialist mover.
So I show up with my partner, a wily Italian guy by the name of
Alonzo, and we see right away that unless they built the house around
the thing, it has to come apart. Alonzo knows his furniture, and he
remembers that these old German cabinets have a special inside
attachment holding them together. He takes out a few drawers, pokes
around with a flashlight and a screwdriver, and ten minutes later we
have the thing in two pieces and the job is a piece of cake.
There's a moral there somewhere, but damned if I know what it is.

* This story is a copyrighted work. Reposting or archiving this story
requires the written permission of the author.*

Comments are welcome.

DG
diony...@hotmail.com
DG's Story Page: http://baird.pair.com/dg.htm

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