Page 31 of A Long Con

“Oh, God!” cried Melanie.

Both her and Berkeley bellied up at the bar, too. O’Bell was alone on the floor, presumably dead.

“We met him at a bar,” she said. “What was the name of that bar?”

“Schlager’s,” her husband said.

“Yes.” She reminisced fondly. “He was always talking about his hunting. How he loved it. It relaxed him, to shoot things.”

Berkeley scoffed, and poured himself some sake too. “I’ll bet.”

Royal had callously stolen the hotel room key and phone from the dead O’Bell’s pocket.

I could not go near the body, not even after gulping a few of those sake flasks. He also found a driver’s license with an address near Altoona, Pennsylvania—surprisingly, Dennis O’Bell was his real name—and he showed Melanie how to call the most frequently-dialed number in O’Bell’s cell to tell the person he was dead. That is, given that the number wasn’t another “hunt club” guy, which it probably was. But it wasn’t our problem.

As we walked from our bikes to the hotel room I said, “I have half a mind to call out these hunt club assholes, maybe leak their shit to some newspaper.”

“Well,” said Royal, equivocal as always, “you don’t know what’s really going on. Maybe those targets were criminals.”

“Even so. They should be processed through a court of law like everyone else.”

“Even the child molesters?”

I did have to think twice about that one. Child molesters were the lowest life forms on earth, the worst kind of shitdongles, creepazoids, and scum-sucking rat bastards. Even in jail, they would be preyed upon in the most horrible way. “Well, maybe it is better to put them out of their misery. This the room? This is a nice place.”

The Marsella resembled high-end condos, with nice stonework and lots of glass.

“We’ll get that painting and get out of here,” Royal said as he opened the door. The living room had ambient lighting, mustard velour couches, and a modern dining table with eight chairs. We went straight to the bedroom, figuring that was where he spent most of his time, since the rest of the space was immaculate.

Frankly, I saw no reason why not to sleep in the room. Why the hell not? It was a freebie, and I could walk out from the shower with my cock at half-mast, tantalizing Royal. A wooden walking stick leaned on the queen bed. I could use it to toy with his hard-on, his nipples which had already proven to be sensitive. Oh Lord, if he was a true sub, he’d let me slide that stick up his hole. Or, if he was still reluctant to scene with me, I could “casually” be jacking off on the bed with one of his furry handcuffs tight around my dick.

Or, Royal could still be tweaked with me for lying to him about the origin of the painting.

“I don’t see it,” I said vaguely, heading for the bathroom.

“I’ll try the closet in the living room. You try this closet.”

We met again in the bedroom empty-handed.

“Nothing,” we both said at the same time.

Royal said, “He could have passed it off before going to kill that guy.”

“Yeah, but why would he be promising us to make the trade after we ate sushi if it wasn’t here?”

Royal raised one eyebrow. “Because he was lying the whole time? He was intending to kill me, if that escaped you.”

I felt ashamed. “But I’d still be alive. I’d get on his ass.”

“Yeah,” he said cynically. “And I’m the only one with a piece, who knows krav maga.”

I sank deeper into my shame. I’d never get the guts to massage him with a walking stick now. “All right. Let’s stay the night here just in case someone shows up. I’ll order from room service. Let me get the menu.”

“Good idea. I’m going to call that Melanie lady, see if she got through to O’Bell’s best friend.”

“What do you want to eat? Fish?” I said that because I reckoned Royal for a health-minded guy, not just because he’d almost choked on the ovary of a blowfish. Then I realized we’d never eaten together before.

“Very funny. Get me a burger and fries.”