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“Spanky,” he whispered into his headset with his eyes glued to the door. “Did y’all get rid of the shit yet?”
“Boss, why didn’t you tell us that bitch had pitbulls? They almost chewed Buckwheat’s balls off.”
“How was I supposed to know Sasha had dogs? Anyway, we have trouble. A detective just left here snooping around. Now, I lined up one more job with this chick, Samantha Peterson, and then we lay low.”
“Canderick, I’m not complaining about the money you puttin’ in a nigga’s pocket, but what the hell are you doing this for? It’s not like you need the money. You’re an executive of the collections department—”
“Not just collections, but senior executive of operations,” Canderick corrected Spanky.
“Whatever. The point is, you making plenty of bread there. I know we don’t get into each other’s personal lives. Is it the rush that drives you? They got a name for people like you—kleptomaniac. A klepto that’s over collections—”
“Senior executive of operations.”
“Whatever. Buckwheat and I got a new name for you. Your new handle is Klepto-Collecto. Get it? It’s a play on your kleptomaniac tendencies and you being a supervisor over the collections department.”
“That’s senior executive of operations,” Canderick reminded him. In some kinky kind of way he liked how the new name sounded. Yeah, that was him: Klepto-Collecto.
He’d gotten a picture-text of Samantha before the detective’s intrusion. On his BlackBerry, Canderick pulled up the picture-text of her rocking a string bikini. She was a forty-something-year-old housewife who looked late-twenties, with the body of a video vixen. Usually, Canderick would have his secretary draw up the mortgage modification papers, but this time he wanted to work them personally. He set to work, fantasizing about eating from Samantha’s honeypot while still trying to sniff Sasha’s scent in his mustache.
• • •
Samantha Peterson had negotiated her own terms: It was to be an oral-only affair with a two-hour time limit. Letting one of his MWPs dictate terms was a first for Canderick. He couldn’t give a good got-damn about her terms and conditions because Samantha looked too pussy-licous for him to waste the precious little time she’d allocated him by sticking dick to her. This was some pussy he was gonna enjoy sucking on.
It was one o’clock Sunday morning and Canderick wasn’t wasting any time. When he’d arrived at Samantha’s crib she tried to give him some old melancholy musical about her husband losing all their savings in a Ponzi scheme. But Canderick wasn’t Oprah; he wasn’t there for a boo-hoo session. Canderick was there to eat pussy. And he was doing just that, with his head between her voluptuous thighs, lapping at her pudding like tomorrow wasn’t his to physically call home.
To be forty, Samantha was in shape. Not one stretch mark in sight. Her six-pack abs almost mirrored his. Samantha’s skin was the color of toffee. Her toenails were polished to perfection, and they were now raised as high as she could get them. Canderick was tongue-fucking her like his dick had traded places with his tongue. When they’d first started, Canderick noticed that Samantha was trying hard to fight it. She wasn’t super-religious, but she kept on chanting about burning in hell for dealing with the devil. And now here she was, hot, sweaty, moaning, and playing with her nipples as Canderick sucked hard enough to dislocate her clitoris.
Samantha clenched, pulling the back of Canderick’s head deeper into her na na as a tsunami of an orgasm washed her away. But Canderick kept on sucking until his time was up.
• • •
It wasn’t until Tuesday that Canderick got a phone call at the office bringing horrific news.
“Boss,” Spanky said in a voice filled with panic. “I think Buckwheat killed that bitch Samantha.”
Canderick just sat there, not saying a word.
“We were up inside her crib when Buckwheat knocked over a glass shelf. Samantha got out of bed to investigate and Buckwheat panicked. He cracked her over the head with the pistol—fucking blood was everywhere. We dragged her to the closet and stuck her in.”
“Is she dead?” Canderick asked, holding his breath.
“Don’t know, but you better get lost. The police picked up Buckwheat and—”
The phone dropped the call.
At that moment, Claudette led Detective Bruckheimer into Canderick’s office with two beefy uniformed officers in tow.
“Canderick Mann, get up. You are under arrest in connection with the murder of Samantha Peterson,” the detective announced.
“I didn’t kill anybody,” Canderick boldly protested while one of the officers handcuffed him.
The detective went on to say, “We just picked up Butch McCoy. I suggest the next time you pick your crew make sure they’re not stupid like Butch McCoy, aka Buckwheat, and Calvin Reed, aka Spanky. Your two geniuses left their prints all over the closet door where they stuffed Samantha Peterson’s body. Butch McCoy gave you up, Klepto-Collecto. Gentleman, take this bad boy away.”
Claudette waved as they led Canderick away.
“I told you that I would have my happy ending.” Claudette was only too happy to gloat.
With no emotion, hands behind his back, Canderick walked, trying to sniff Samantha’s scent from his mustache. He wore a stupid little grin on his face. Kleptomania had robbed him of a promising career and was about to steal his freedom. Canderick knew he was headed to prison, where the musty odors of inmate ass and feet were the only scents that would settle inside his mustache for a long time.
