Read Online Copp On Fire, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp, Private Eye Series) by Don Pendleton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Don Pendleton
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Moore—or Franklin or whatever she calls herself these days—is a whore for sure. Haven't you seen her old movies?"
"Which are those?"
"Cinderella Balls?, Passion's Pucker? She's sucked and fucked every porno stud in town. Cops don't watch porn like other natural men?"
Well, you can see, I had a live one too.
She invited me into the gym for tea and I took her up on it.
I had a live one, yes. And I began to wonder how long I could keep her that way.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I loved and hated the lady. She could be bitchy but also frank and witty. Everything was right upfront. She said what came to mind, never picked at words.
She'd been married to Wiseman for thirteen years, which made her thirty-two now. If she'd ever been nineteen and dumb, no one would ever guess it. Her husband had become disabled after their separation, the result of a freak horseback accident in Mexico while he was down there with one of his location units—some sort of spinal damage. Says she went down to visit him in the Mexican hospital and he ordered her out. The injury had done nothing to improve his character—and it was shortly after his return to L.A. that he took up with Melissa, who just months earlier had married the screenwriter Charles Franklin.
I wondered about his paralysis and his ability to work out with Melissa. Justine assured me that he would find a way; she was just as sure that Melissa would find something to suffice in her bag of tricks.
I also wondered about Albert and how he might have felt about chauffeuring around his ex-wife with his boss.
"He did more than chauffeur," Justine informed me. "He also bathed him, put him to bed, and probably shook his dick when he peed. So maybe Albert helped out in bed too. I told you, he would eat live chickens for Bernard. What does an ex-wife have to do with anything? My God, if he could stand the porno studs, what couldn't he stand?"
"Were they married while she was doing that?"
"Not to hear them tell it, but as far as I know she's still doing it. How old do you have to get to disqualify as a starlet?"
"How old is she?"
"Twenty-eight going on eighty, depending on which part of the anatomy you're wondering about. If you figure roughly six inches to the stroke and a hundred strokes to an encounter... that's right about fifty feet of cock per orgasm. About a hundred of those gets you a mile. She's got to have at least fifty cock-miles on her."
She gave that to me with an absolutely straight face.
I wanted to talk some more about her husband but Justine was itching to get out of her tights and into the shower. The "gym" was a room about twenty-by-fifty feet with Nautilus equipment and an aerobics mat, massage table, a corner lounge with overstuffed couches and large-screen TV. It connected to her bedroom via a huge bath with a circular sunken tub, island shower, another massage table . . .
"There's room for two in the shower," she told me, and casually stripped off the tights as I sat there.
I said weakly, stupidly, "Thanks, I had mine Saturday."
She shrugged, went into the bathroom, kept on talking to me through the open doorway while she showered. Wasn't much of a conversation because she couldn't hear me over the shower noise and I wasn't about to get any closer.
Under almost any other circumstances I can think of I would have carried that lady into her shower and carefully scrubbed every inch of her. Probably I would have contributed to her cock-miles.
But this wasn't James Bond time. I was burning, true, but not with sexual passion . . .
Later I was glad I'd kept perspectives intact. Because this big Viking of a woman came in shortly thereafter and began preparing the massage table—chiseled body, muscled thighs, looking as though she could wring you dry and squeeze the life out of you.
She looked at me. "Shall I put
"Which are those?"
"Cinderella Balls?, Passion's Pucker? She's sucked and fucked every porno stud in town. Cops don't watch porn like other natural men?"
Well, you can see, I had a live one too.
She invited me into the gym for tea and I took her up on it.
I had a live one, yes. And I began to wonder how long I could keep her that way.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I loved and hated the lady. She could be bitchy but also frank and witty. Everything was right upfront. She said what came to mind, never picked at words.
She'd been married to Wiseman for thirteen years, which made her thirty-two now. If she'd ever been nineteen and dumb, no one would ever guess it. Her husband had become disabled after their separation, the result of a freak horseback accident in Mexico while he was down there with one of his location units—some sort of spinal damage. Says she went down to visit him in the Mexican hospital and he ordered her out. The injury had done nothing to improve his character—and it was shortly after his return to L.A. that he took up with Melissa, who just months earlier had married the screenwriter Charles Franklin.
I wondered about his paralysis and his ability to work out with Melissa. Justine assured me that he would find a way; she was just as sure that Melissa would find something to suffice in her bag of tricks.
I also wondered about Albert and how he might have felt about chauffeuring around his ex-wife with his boss.
"He did more than chauffeur," Justine informed me. "He also bathed him, put him to bed, and probably shook his dick when he peed. So maybe Albert helped out in bed too. I told you, he would eat live chickens for Bernard. What does an ex-wife have to do with anything? My God, if he could stand the porno studs, what couldn't he stand?"
"Were they married while she was doing that?"
"Not to hear them tell it, but as far as I know she's still doing it. How old do you have to get to disqualify as a starlet?"
"How old is she?"
"Twenty-eight going on eighty, depending on which part of the anatomy you're wondering about. If you figure roughly six inches to the stroke and a hundred strokes to an encounter... that's right about fifty feet of cock per orgasm. About a hundred of those gets you a mile. She's got to have at least fifty cock-miles on her."
She gave that to me with an absolutely straight face.
I wanted to talk some more about her husband but Justine was itching to get out of her tights and into the shower. The "gym" was a room about twenty-by-fifty feet with Nautilus equipment and an aerobics mat, massage table, a corner lounge with overstuffed couches and large-screen TV. It connected to her bedroom via a huge bath with a circular sunken tub, island shower, another massage table . . .
"There's room for two in the shower," she told me, and casually stripped off the tights as I sat there.
I said weakly, stupidly, "Thanks, I had mine Saturday."
She shrugged, went into the bathroom, kept on talking to me through the open doorway while she showered. Wasn't much of a conversation because she couldn't hear me over the shower noise and I wasn't about to get any closer.
Under almost any other circumstances I can think of I would have carried that lady into her shower and carefully scrubbed every inch of her. Probably I would have contributed to her cock-miles.
But this wasn't James Bond time. I was burning, true, but not with sexual passion . . .
Later I was glad I'd kept perspectives intact. Because this big Viking of a woman came in shortly thereafter and began preparing the massage table—chiseled body, muscled thighs, looking as though she could wring you dry and squeeze the life out of you.
She looked at me. "Shall I put
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