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Authors: Iceberg Slim
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scene he’d witnessed and left the office.
Captain Ellis went through a familiar routine. He swiveled hischair to remove a folder fat with Canadian dossiers and mug shots from a file case behind his desk bearing the caption
Vicksburg Kid And Associates.
Captain Ellis put it into his desk drawer and locked it. He turned back to the file-case and extracted folders and mug shots of deceased and imprisoned con men. He placed them on the desk before him.
Officer Tate escorted Stilwell into the office. The captain slipped on his commiserating blow-off-the-mark mask as Officer Tate deposited Stilwell into a chair at the side of the desk. The captain smiled and leaned to give Stilwell’s hand an energetic shake reserved for transient V.I.P.’s and city hall nabobs. The captain lit a cigar as Stilwell started his fruitless search of the mug shots.
PETTICOAT PIT
C hristina lit a stick of gangster for them. Folks studied her perfect profile, her breeze-flogged hair streamed like golden bunting as she hustled the Excalibur through the moil of cars and people to the outskirts of the city. He marveled at her sorcerous resemblance, under the soft glow of the night sky, to Camille Costain, the alabaster Chicago witch with the kinky sexual hang-ups with rain and the psychic maim as keys to the penultimate sexual gratification. He remembered again how Camille had tortured him, driven him to near madness before she dumped him.
Christina said, “How about a bit of this lovely night’s ambience before I drop you off, wherever?”
Folks shrugged, “Why not?”
She smiled, inserted Robert Goulet’s
Couldn’t We?
into a dashboard tape deck and sang along throatily.
Folks decided to postpone Christina’s direct physical punishment through a brutal womb sweep with his weapon. He’d titillate her, ignite a bonfire of passion in her loins, get his revenge on her for the Costain pain. He’d leave her strung up on a steamy rack of desire and frustration. He’d punish Christina, the heiress, for the crimes of her robber baron fore-bearers, for her death-stained fortune. The fortune amassed from the misery of coal mine’s black lungers, he’d readso much about to support his fake background as Utah Wonder, star con roper up from the coal pits.
He’d punish her for the hopelessness and starvation in black ghettos, for his dead black mother. For all the blacks ever imprisoned in holds of slave ships. He’d punish her for being spoiled, pampered, aggressive, beautiful and rich. But most of all for the pain her prototype, Camille Costain, had inflicted upon him. He shaped a cruel smile as she tooled the Excalibur into an access road at the foot of a mountain.
Suddenly she pulled the car onto the road shoulder. She dramatically keyed off the engine, turned and faced him with an enigmatic smile.
He suspected she was about to give him some sort of crotch test to reverse their positions. He blandly looked about the moon-swept, but rather bleak terrain in the loom of the stygian mountain.
He mockingly said, “Miss Buckmeister, this is an interesting spot that you’ve discovered. A macabre ambience.”
She glanced toward the mountain and said huskily, “Johnny, I didn’t want to stop here. I did because I’m afraid of you, Johnny.” She fingered the lacy hem of her slip as she averted her eyes. “I wanted us to go to my lodge at the top of the mountain, but you . . . ah, well, lie for a living. I hate lies! I’ve never before felt for any man quite as I do about you. I’m terrified at the risk that you, the consummate reflex liar, have lost the capacity for truth in every instance. I pressured Trevor to tell me all about you, how you, a child of fourteen, went into the Utah mines to support your mother and younger brothers and sisters. That is your redeeming aspect to me. Otherwise I should not be here with you. The question is whether your horrid life left you bitter and hostile toward people like me.”
He slipped on a
Captain Ellis went through a familiar routine. He swiveled hischair to remove a folder fat with Canadian dossiers and mug shots from a file case behind his desk bearing the caption
Vicksburg Kid And Associates.
Captain Ellis put it into his desk drawer and locked it. He turned back to the file-case and extracted folders and mug shots of deceased and imprisoned con men. He placed them on the desk before him.
Officer Tate escorted Stilwell into the office. The captain slipped on his commiserating blow-off-the-mark mask as Officer Tate deposited Stilwell into a chair at the side of the desk. The captain smiled and leaned to give Stilwell’s hand an energetic shake reserved for transient V.I.P.’s and city hall nabobs. The captain lit a cigar as Stilwell started his fruitless search of the mug shots.
PETTICOAT PIT
C hristina lit a stick of gangster for them. Folks studied her perfect profile, her breeze-flogged hair streamed like golden bunting as she hustled the Excalibur through the moil of cars and people to the outskirts of the city. He marveled at her sorcerous resemblance, under the soft glow of the night sky, to Camille Costain, the alabaster Chicago witch with the kinky sexual hang-ups with rain and the psychic maim as keys to the penultimate sexual gratification. He remembered again how Camille had tortured him, driven him to near madness before she dumped him.
Christina said, “How about a bit of this lovely night’s ambience before I drop you off, wherever?”
Folks shrugged, “Why not?”
She smiled, inserted Robert Goulet’s
Couldn’t We?
into a dashboard tape deck and sang along throatily.
Folks decided to postpone Christina’s direct physical punishment through a brutal womb sweep with his weapon. He’d titillate her, ignite a bonfire of passion in her loins, get his revenge on her for the Costain pain. He’d leave her strung up on a steamy rack of desire and frustration. He’d punish Christina, the heiress, for the crimes of her robber baron fore-bearers, for her death-stained fortune. The fortune amassed from the misery of coal mine’s black lungers, he’d readso much about to support his fake background as Utah Wonder, star con roper up from the coal pits.
He’d punish her for the hopelessness and starvation in black ghettos, for his dead black mother. For all the blacks ever imprisoned in holds of slave ships. He’d punish her for being spoiled, pampered, aggressive, beautiful and rich. But most of all for the pain her prototype, Camille Costain, had inflicted upon him. He shaped a cruel smile as she tooled the Excalibur into an access road at the foot of a mountain.
Suddenly she pulled the car onto the road shoulder. She dramatically keyed off the engine, turned and faced him with an enigmatic smile.
He suspected she was about to give him some sort of crotch test to reverse their positions. He blandly looked about the moon-swept, but rather bleak terrain in the loom of the stygian mountain.
He mockingly said, “Miss Buckmeister, this is an interesting spot that you’ve discovered. A macabre ambience.”
She glanced toward the mountain and said huskily, “Johnny, I didn’t want to stop here. I did because I’m afraid of you, Johnny.” She fingered the lacy hem of her slip as she averted her eyes. “I wanted us to go to my lodge at the top of the mountain, but you . . . ah, well, lie for a living. I hate lies! I’ve never before felt for any man quite as I do about you. I’m terrified at the risk that you, the consummate reflex liar, have lost the capacity for truth in every instance. I pressured Trevor to tell me all about you, how you, a child of fourteen, went into the Utah mines to support your mother and younger brothers and sisters. That is your redeeming aspect to me. Otherwise I should not be here with you. The question is whether your horrid life left you bitter and hostile toward people like me.”
He slipped on a
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