The Jerk-Off - 13. Chapter 13 A Close Resemblance or an Exact Duplicate

After popping another Xanax, his second of the day so far, Fred reached into the middle console of his Cadillac Escalade, grabbed the open bottle of Coors Light, and took a swig to wash it down.

He slowed as he approached the house on East K Street, the oldest and one of the poorer neighborhoods in Brainerd. The area was rather bleak, an industrial area across the street from a row of weathered wood-framed homes. Slowing to a stop, Freddie looked over to see Elliott emerge from the side door of a house with a leaning front porch, storm gutters along the roof’s edge, sagging from the weight of old leaves and muck.

Even though Elliott smiled and gave him a little wave, Fred grimaced. I don’t like that damn cap he always wears, he thought. Much cuter when he let his long, dark hair flow loosely around his face. We’re gonna have to do something about that.

It took just a couple of minutes to drive over to Cemetery Hill. A relatively quiet spot along the Mississippi River, it was now a public access boat launch. The cemetery was long gone, the graves having been dug up, and the permanent residents moved to an area less prone to flooding. There were just a couple of vehicles and empty boat trailers parked along the side of the road. Quiet at noon on a weekday, even though the weather was perfect.

When Freddie opened the rear lift gate of the Escalade to grab a blanket and a bag of sandwiches, Elliott giggled.

“I guess you must like chocolate,” he said.

The back end was littered with several large empty containers of Hershey’s Chocolate Syrup. The dark brown plastic jugs were labeled 120 ounces.

Fred just smirked.

The blanket spread out back in the trees, sandwiches and drinks consumed. They both laid on their sides, looking at each other.

“Do me a favor. Take the cap off.”

Elliott giggled. He pulled the cap off and shook his hair out.

“Fuck, you’re cute!”

Elliott, feeling a bit shy all of a sudden, looked down and to the side, blushing.

“I just realized. I don’t know a damn thing about you.”

“Well,” Elliott replied, looking back up, directly into Freddie’s eyes, “you know some things about me that hardly anybody else knows.”

“Yeah. If you’re talking about that sweet ass of yours, you’re probably right.” Freddie paused. “How about some of the other stuff, like where you’re from and where you’re going.”

“Where do you want me to start?”

“First, how old are you?”

“Nineteen.” The first of many lies. He looked even younger, but Elliott kind of liked that age.

“You from around here?”

“No. I’m from Wausau, Wisconsin.” Also, made up. But, Elliott’s creative mind went right to work spinning his little tale.

“Your family still over there?”

“Yeah. My dad and mom are teachers in the Wausau Public Schools.”

“How’d you get here?”

“I’m in school at St. Thomas. Fine arts.”

“Nice.”

“The job at Morey’s is just for the summer.” Elliott swept the hair out of his face. “What about you?”

“I’m from Wayzata. Sold insurance for a few years. Then, my wife came into some money and I sorta retired.” He chuckled, then abruptly changed the subject. “So, are you Gay?”

“Yeah.” Elliott looked at the wedding band on Fred’s finger. “Are you?”

“I’m, ah, in between.” He smiled tucking his ring finger underneath his other hand. Then a bit more seriously, “How about if we get you naked?”

Elliott sat up and looked behind him. Seeing there was no one around, he pulled his polo shirt off. Freddie delighted in seeing Elliott’s flat chest, dark brown nipples, a small patch of hair in the middle. Turning onto his back, he pulled his belt apart, unzipped his jeans, and started to pull them down.

“No, everything,” Freddie said, pointing to his shoes.

Elliott chuckled, a bit embarrassed, before kicking his shoes and socks off. In seconds, he was completely naked. Fred actually hadn’t noticed the boy’s cock before. The last time, he was so entirely obsessed with his adorable butt, he hadn’t taken the time to check out the equipment. For someone with such a narrow frame, his unit was nice and thick, hard and throbbing. Low hanging balls. His cock and balls stood slightly forward, away from his abdomen. A nice patch of trimmed black pubic hair.

Minutes later, after giving Elliott’s sweet tasting thighs a tongue bath, Freddie had him on his back, knees up, his ass primed for his own cock. He leaned forward, holding Elliott’s head with his hands. They looked into each other’s eyes for an extended moment. And then, with a grunt, Freddie stuffed his cock inside him. Elliott groaned.

After it was over and they’d both cum, they lay next to each other. Elliott’s eyes started to droop closed.

“Are you sleepy?” Freddie asked.

“Hmmm, yeah, didn’t get much sleep last night,” Elliott whispered.

“Me neither. I was up kind of early,” Freddie replied. He didn’t think Elliott even heard him. He appeared to be fast asleep.

***

Ozzie skipped out of the house, coming to a dead stop when he saw that the Beemer was gone.

“Uhh-h-h,” he groaned in exasperation.

The only vehicles left in the driveway were the Lexus and the Wrangler. No way was he going to let himself be seen driving a “mom” car, so he jumped into the Jeep to check for the keys. As usual, they were in the ash tray. They had all mocked O when he picked up the ‘93 Jeep at a vintage car auction. Painted in baby blue, a Renegade logo on each metal door. His dad spent an obscene amount of money getting air bags installed so it was legal to drive. And, it drove like crap, rumbling and rattling down the road.

Ozzie pulled the bikini top back and fastened it around the roll bar. Stomping on the accelerator, the Wrangler hesitated for a moment, coughed once, and blew out of the driveway leaving a trail of noxious black exhaust. As he drove down the highway, he reached over and twirled the radio dial. Of course, it only had an AM-FM radio and a slot for CD’s. God forbid it should have anything like Bluetooth. With a smirk, he settled on the local country music station.

After pushing in the cigarette lighter, he reached into the breast pocket of his sea foam linen shirt and pulled out a joint. When the cigarette lighter popped, he pulled it out and lit up.

On a trip to nowhere. A bright blue sky, puffy white clouds, rich green trees lining the road, not too hot, a perfect day. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea that he’d been kicked out of the house. First stop—The Brockster’s. Ozzie frowned when he saw the empty driveway and the apparently abandoned house. Oh, well, he thought.

Taking another drag, he absentmindedly unbuttoned his shirt, letting it flap in the breeze as he drove on. Shania Twain was on the radio. He tapped his thumb on the steering wheel in time to, “Man! I Feel Like a Woman!” Maybe that should be my walk up music, he surmised with a smile.

Deputy Everett Blaisdell sniffed the air, his arm up on the open window frame of the cruiser, as they patrolled along the highway.

“You smell that?” he asked, turning to his partner, Gary Porter, who was handling the driving duties. Porter smirked, as he stepped on the accelerator.

“CW-14, 11-95, possible 212, on County 10,” Blaisdell thumbed into the radio. Police code for traffic stop, possible illegal drugs, on County Highway 10. He leaned forward and turned the overhead rollers on. As they sped up and got closer, Deputy Blaisdell punched the license plate into his computer. “Clear,” he said. No violations. He flipped the dash cam on.

Up ahead, Ozzie sucked down another toke, held it in his throat for a few seconds, and blew it out, blithely unaware that the skunk like odor was leaving a trail behind him. That blissful hollow feeling was now beginning to envelop him. When he looked in the rear view mirror and saw the emergency lights and the flashing brights on the squad car, it hardly registered. Then he giggled. Realizing he was getting pulled over, he obligingly slowed down and pulled onto the shoulder.

“License and registration,” Porter demanded, standing next to the Wrangler, slightly behind where Ozzie was sitting. Blaisdell stood behind the Jeep, his hands on his gun belt.

“Who, me?”

Porter smirked. “Yeah, you.”

“New York state,” Porter said, as he scanned Ozzie’s license. “You staying around here?”

“Ah, yeah. My parents have a house over near Bay Lake.” Ozzie instantly felt a little uncomfortable.

“Well, Mr. de la Renta,” Porter replied, dragging and punching the word ‘de’, making it sound more like ‘Dee-e-e,’ “I don’t know if you’re aware that it’s illegal to possess and use marijuana in the State of Minnesota if you’re under twenty-one.”

“Oh, yeah?” He suddenly realized the joint was still hanging out of the side of his mouth.

Porter’s eyes narrowed. He started to think about how he could fuck up this kid’s life pretty darn quick.

Holding his hand out, he said, “I’ll take that.”

Ozzie obediently pulled the joint out of his mouth and dropped it into the deputy’s open hand. There was a long pause. Porter looked at Ozzie, smirked, and handed the license and registration back to him.

Just before he walked away, he said, “You might want to be a bit more careful in the future.”

When they got back into the squad car, Porter turned to Blaisdell.

“You want any?”

“No, that’s okay.”

Porter shrugged as he put the joint between his lips and took a drag.

Puttering along, well below the speed limit, the music now playing at a lower volume, Ozzie started to realize how lucky he had been. All of a sudden, he was bathed in sweat. Both freaked out and totally stoned.

When he hit Crosby, Ozzie noticed a crudely painted cardboard sign at the entrance to Crosby Memorial Park. “Flea Market Today,” it read. Thinking the cooler air coming off of Serpent Lake might be refreshing, he pulled into the park, quickly finding a parking place. A food truck yielded a Mountain Dew and a bag of Doritos. Still sweaty and, by now, unbelievably stoned, Ozzie shrugged his shirt off and dropped it over his shoulder.

He strolled along a row of tables and open tents perusing the kitschy craft items. One table was full of knitted pot holders and embroidered kitchen towels. An open tent held a peculiar assortment of metal sculptures, bent and pounded into odd looking renditions of animals, including one giant spider with a small tag hanging from it carrying the remarkable price of $2,500.

He paused for a moment at a table filled with various carved items, whittled from different types of wood. As he chomped on a Dorito and took another swallow of his Dew, he spied one curious item sitting off to the side. Looking closer, he squinted trying to make out what it was. He stepped forward around an older couple and picked up the object. Examining it carefully, a low giggle came rumbling out of his throat. The wooden sculpture appeared to be an exact duplicate of an erect penis. Not appeared to be—it was! Curved at just the right angle, a thick uncircumcised head, even a hole at the tip. Around eight inches long, stained to a rich brown. It was straight cut at the bottom so it could be easily displayed standing straight up, as if someone might place it on their fireplace mantle. Made of some kind of hardwood, probably mahogany or cherry.

Jerking the hair out of his eyes, then brushing the long side back, he looked at an elderly lady who was sitting on a plastic lawn chair behind the table. She smiled up at him.

Clearing his throat, Ozzie tried to speak without bursting into hysterics. “You sell many of these?” he managed to squeak out.

“Oh yes, it’s our best seller!”

“Ha!” It came out like something between a gasp and a guffaw. “You take cards?”

“Yes, we do, young lady. I mean, young man.” The woman giggled herself, a bit embarrassed, as she pushed herself out of the chair.

Suddenly, a voice from just over his shoulder.

“Is that supposed to be a close resemblance or is it an exact duplicate?”

Ozzie turned around, his mouth partially open.

“Ah, hi.” He looked at the girl quizzically.

“You don’t even know who I am,” she laughed.

Ozzie fixed his stare on her, a kind of blank look on his face.

“I’m Maddie. I met you the other day when you were reading Jane Austen to my Nana. You know, at the Community Center.”

“Oh yeah,” Ozzie laughed, “You’re that girl!” She was the one who was with her dad. She looked cute that day. Even cuter today. Light brown hair, loose around her head and down on her shoulders. Those cat like brown eyes, oval face, sporting a summer tan, cute little body. Tank top, a pair of shorts, and flip flops.

“That girl? Oh, c’mon!” Now she was laughing, too.

They stood and chatted it up for a couple of minutes. They were both the same age. Maddie was going to be a sophomore at Madison which was how locals referred to the University of Wisconsin’s main campus. She was actually from Crosby.

“I know. I don’t really fit the stereotype. I don’t go to community college and I’m not especially into bikers and beer,” she said sarcastically.

“I don’t fit a stereotype, either,” Ozzie responded, fluffing his hair with his hand.

She smiled, looking down at his recent purchase.

“I can see that.” She cleared her throat. “So is it?”

“Is it what?”

“You know. The same or…?”

“It depends,” Ozzie smirked.

“On what?”

Maddie found out what awhile later.

Her family’s house was just a few blocks away.

After sharing another joint, they lay together on a wide beach bed in the back yard. Bordered by a thick hedge and trees, it was private enough that neither of them minded getting completely naked. They rolled around for a bit, first Ozzie on top, then Maddie using her superior strength to roll on top of him.

Pushing herself up on her haunches, she first admired his thick cock.

“That’s fuckin’ gorgeous!” Maddie shivered, then reached down and grabbed the one made out of wood. “They ARE almost the same size!”

Ozzie giggled, his hands behind his head, as Maddie pushed his knees up. She rubbed it against his asshole, preparing to stick it in.

“No, no, no,” Ozzie grunted. “Lube, lube lube!”

“You like it though, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do,” he smiled through half closed eyes.

Ron liked it, too. He licked his lips, as he watched them from a second floor window. He wasn’t paying attention to his daughter. That was plain wrong. The boy, however, was fascinating in so many ways. His hand sneaked under the waistband of his pants.

With a low chuckle, Maddie reached over to a nearby side table and grabbed a tube of sunblock. Quickly coating the wooden dildo, she nudged it slowly into Ozzie’s ass. Ozzie’s eyes widened, then narrowed.

It was a couple of inches in when Ozzie gasped. He grabbed Maddie’s wrists. “I can’t do it this way!” He said, breathing hard. “Give me a second!” Pushing her back with his feet, he quickly flipped over on his knees. With his face flat on the beach bed, he reached back and pulled his butt cheeks apart. “This way,” he gasped.

Studying Ozzie’s face as she leaned to the side, Maddie pressed the dildo against him, watching his reaction with satisfaction as it slowly disappeared inside his ass.

A good time was had by all three of them.

***

Deck frowned, his hand scratching the back of his head. Even though he was outwardly calm, he could feel his blood pressure rising. Minutes ago, he’d arrived from his meeting with Gretchen.

“See all that brown stuff?” his project manager, Gus Grimly asked. He pointed at the pistons of one of their Cat 950 GC Wheel Loaders. They had pulled the hood off of the engine block. More brown goo dripped off of the walls and sides of the carburetor.

“What is that smell?” Deck asked.

“If I had to put my money on it, I’d say it was chocolate,” Grimly said with a grimace.

Deck stuck his pinky finger into the mess, took a dab of it, and put it on his tongue.

“Jesus Christ! That’s what it is!”

“They’re all like that, Gus.” One of the other project managers said as he walked up.

Five large machines out of commission. Two wheel loaders, a bulldozer, and two graders. One of them caught fire briefly when the operator tried to start it before having to put out the flame with a fire extinguisher.

Just then, two law enforcement vehicles pulled onto the construction site. Sheriff Concannon grunted as he got out of the lead vehicle. What now, he thought? His list of open cases was getting longer and more bizarre. Nothing like the usual stuff—bar fights and DUI’s.

“Don’t you guys lock your gas tanks?” he asked after getting the initial report from Deck and Grimly.

“Covers were busted off,” Gus replied.

“How about a construction cam? You got one of those?” Concannon swiveled around to look.

“Power was cut,” Gus replied, pointing up at a camera mounted on a pole at one corner of the site. “The feed stopped at 1:48 a.m. this morning.”

“So, you guys think someone dumped chocolate syrup down the gas tanks of these pieces of equipment?”

Gus nodded.

“Okay,” Concannon said with a sigh. He hitched up his gun belt. “We’ll get some samples and run them through the lab. And then, we’ll see where we go from there.” He smirked. “I guess our vandal has a sweet tooth.”

“Sheriff, goddamnit!” Deck was starting to lose it. “I wanna know who’s fuckin’ me around! I got shit to do and everywhere I turn, there’s shit happening!” He paused for emphasis. “To me!”

Concannon stood there patiently for a couple of minutes while Deck continued his rant.

“You done?” he finally interjected. Turning to one of his deputies, he muttered, “Troftgruben, bag some of that.” Back to Deck, “I got a lot on my plate, Deck. We’ll put this on the list.” He stalked away, aware that Deck’s glare was burning a hole into his backside.

***

Shamus knew he was on thin ice with this judge but, he plodded along, nevertheless. Working with one of the state’s lawyers, they formulated their plan to get a court order for Linnie Lee’s phone records.

“Do you consider Ms. Ledecker to be a suspect?” the judge asked. Shamus was on a zoom call with Felicia Taylor, representing the state, and Judge Nelson.

“Potentially, but not at this time,” Shamus responded. “I believe she was being coerced by the murder victim into acting as an agent for him in order to acquire ownership of some land on Ledecker Island. And, I believe the individual who was talking to Ms. Ledecker on the phone was directing the scheme.”

Nelson rubbed his chin and sighed.

“Okay, I’ll sign this order. But, I’d like to warn you all of the evidence you may gather from getting these phone records could be challenged if this thing ever results in a charge. You’re gonna need a lot more to build a case.”

Within an hour after the court order was filed, Shamus was looking at Linnie Lee’s phone log. Surprisingly few calls so it was easy to pick out the number she had referred to in the interview by day and time. A 612 area code, likely Minneapolis. A search of that number just added to the mystery. It wasn’t listed to anyone. Was it a burner?

“It’s a forwarding number,” one of the state’s techs told him a few minutes later. “It automatically forwards to another number and there is no way to find out what that number is.”

“Not any way?” Shamus asked, completely flabbergasted.

“Nope.”

“This is a kind of stupid question, but is it possible to find out who has the first name Clark in the 612 area code?”

The tech chuckled. “Yeah, I can probably get that for you. I should have something for you by day end.”

Shamus wiped his hand across his mustache, clicking off the call. Switching windows, he opened up his story. Time for a pleasant distraction. He rubbed his fingers against his palms, and began typing away.

***

Late afternoon. The Ghost was able to avoid most of the rush hour traffic. After all, he was reverse commuting, driving into the city rather than leaving as most people were. First stop when he reached the offices of Dinwiddie Partners—In House Counsel. He dropped the soft-sided locked briefcase onto Danny Gopnik’s desk along with his keys.

“Here ya go, Danny. I’m going to see fearless leader.”

The Ghost was feeling rather proud of himself as he sauntered down the hall. He hadn’t really found out anything at all about how and why Orly had gone to his maker. And, for sure, he would have to find new pressure points to encourage Linnie Lee to front for them. Either that, or just buy her share, out right. But, stumbling across Louie Lee in that bar was a giant stroke of luck. He knew Clark would be thrilled to find out they had gotten control of his parcel for less than a third of what they thought they might have to spend. Of course, there were a few expenses, like the one-way plane ticket to Australia. They had some under-used resources in Fitzroy Crossing anyway. This gave those boys down under something to do.

“Hey Leonard. Can I see you for a minute?” Danny was leaning out of his office door, one hand supporting himself against the door frame.

“What’s up?” he asked as he re-entered Gopnik’s office.

“I think maybe you’re missing something?” He held the briefcase open. It was entirely empty.

Eyes bulging, The Ghost grabbed the briefcase from Danny, sweeping his hand inside of it, pulling the leather dividers apart. In a fruitless gesture, he tipped it upside down and shook it. Pulse racing, he slumped into the nearest chair, his hands against the side of his face.

“Let me think. Let me think!”

He grabbed the briefcase and examined the lock.

“Shit, shit, shit!”

Tiny little scratches around the keyhole, apparently residual from some kind of instrument that had been used to jimmy the lock. He groaned. Sure enough, when he finally crashed, or was that when he passed out, around 3 a.m., the sales and closing documents were securely locked in that case. The only time the briefcase was out of his sight. Right after Louie Lee left The Bar and Gas in their car, The Ghost had initiated the transfer of the three hundred “k” into his bank account.

He quickly thumbed a number into his phone.

“Where is he?”

“Oh hi, Leonard,” Henny Russell greeted him in a bright cheery voice! She was the so-called flight attendant on their private jet, doing double duty as Louie Lee’s baby sitter until he got to Chicago.

“I asked you a question,” The Ghost growled.

“Oh, he’s in the airline terminal, I suppose. You know, waiting for his flight.”

“Get your ass over there and make sure he’s still there!”

“But…” Henny never had a chance to ask him how she was supposed to get past TSA. That was the last time she’d seen him. Louie Lee had given her a happy wave and a smile just before he walked through the scanner.

Practically sick to his stomach, The Ghost sat in his own office. Waiting. More than forty-five minutes later, the phone rang.

“He’s gone!” Henny said breathlessly.

She had done just about everything to find him. Checked all the bars, the waiting area, stood near a couple of men’s rooms, even had him paged.

“Thank you very much,” The Ghost rasped into the phone. He clicked off and threw it against the wall.

A couple of hours earlier, Louie Lee had just finished washing down a Philly Cheese Steak with his third Corona. Using his phone, he quickly checked his bank account. There was the three hundred. Even though everything was starting to look a little blurry, he managed to enter the right numbers and get the whole balance transferred over to a numbered account in the Caymans.

Pushing himself off the stool, he strolled up the concourse, not before stopping at another bar and taking some time to polish off a couple more beers and a soft pretzel. Now that things were pleasantly spinning, he ambled back through TSA into the main part of the terminal. Following the signs for CTA Trains, he wove his way through several corridors before finding the entrance, using his remaining spare change to pay the fee, and half stumbling down the stairs to the platform.

Louie Lee chuckled at his good fortune. Flush with cash, he had every intention of returning to Bay Lake and resuming his life.

Nearby, Garnie Schmelka leaned against the wall, his mind spinning. The thirty-five-year-old, recently released from a psychiatric hospital in Joliet, had been on the loose for a couple of weeks. On the loose, as in he wasn’t exactly released. He just walked out one day.

Without meds, his brain became increasingly scrambled. Garnie quickly ran out of money. Panhandling helped a little but he was still forced to eat out of garbage cans from time-to-time. Somehow getting himself out to Chicago-O’Hare on a train, his plan was to board a plane to Rome, Italy. One problem—no ticket. After he realized that, he wandered the terminal for a few hours before heading back down to the Blue Line.

Now, the noise and echo from the approaching train set off a scream inside his head. No other way to quell the screeching and grinding other than to take action. That fella over there should be able to help me, he thought. He went over and, with two fingers, gave him a nudge on the shoulder, to get his attention. In retrospect, maybe it was more than a nudge.

Louie Lee was already rocking from heel-to-toe, a delightful fog filling his head. So, when he was pushed, it barely registered that he was falling forward. When his head hit the ground, he felt no pain.

As the train barreled toward him, he only had one question: “How about a beer?”