A Jack O'Callahan Mystery: Black Leather and Blackmail, Issue #8

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Warning: This post may contain mature content.

     The Maltese Falcon Taproom was a quiet place on Hawthorne Lane. It had wood paneled walls and dim lighting. David and Jenn sat in one of the booths along the wall. David had a glass of bourbon in front of him, a pair of ice cubes were suspended in the amber liquid. Jenn was sipping on a green cocktail.

     “How you feeling? First time is always an interesting experience,” asked Jenn. David took a sip from his glass.

     “Well, still a bit sore,” muttered David, with a nervous chuckle. 

     “You took it well, though.” Jenn grinned twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

     “Grew up in a tough neighborhood. Learned quickly to take the pain.,” explained David, “Though, I don’t think that getting tied up is my thing.”

     “It’s not for everyone.” Jenn took a gulp from her glass.

     “You said you used to run? I’ve been around runners and you don’t sound like them.” asked Jack.

     “What do you mean?” Jenn looked confused.

     “Well they have almost their own language,” explained Jack.

     “Oh. I only did a couple of jobs. Small time stuff. I wasn’t ingrained into the lifestyle. I’m not to proud of some of the stuff I did. But, I’ve put that behind me.” 

     “I understand. Everyone has things they would rather forget,” said David.

     “I think I need another drink,” she muttered. She slid out from the booth and walked to the bar. David watched her. Her hips swayed as strode up to the bar. He grinned and took a swig from his cup. He turned away when he saw her turn around. She slid back into the booth with a blue cocktail with a straw, and a matching umbrella in her hand. She smiled at him. 

     “What?” he asked.

     “Oh nothing,” she grinned, the straw placed in the corner of her mouth. David jumped as he felt her foot on the inside of his leg. She rubbed his calf slowly. She watched his expression. “You know, No one has looked at me since we got here.” 

     “Really? You look fantastic,” said David, surprised.

     “Awww, you think so?” she cooed. Her cheeks turned a faint pink.

     “Yeah. Of course! You’re gorgeous.”

     “You aren’t to bad looking either,” she flirted. David smiled and looked into his drink. Jenn got up and slid next to him. Her arm slid around his and her blonde head rested against his shoulder. “You know… you look really good without your shirt off.” She ran her hand inside his jacket.

     “Heh,” he grunted, taking a sip from his glass.

     “You do,” she assured. She placed her finger on his chin and turned his face to look at her. She reached up and pressed her lips against his. She pulled away quickly. She looked at the floor, her hand on her neck. “Sorry, I didn’t mean too,” she muttered. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close.

     “It’s okay. I didn’t mind.” He picked up a napkin and wiped her lipstick from his lips. She looked up at him. He smiled at her. 

     “It’s getting late…” she yawned.

     “I’ll walk you home. The city is dangerous after dark,” said David.

     “Thanks.” Jenn stood, walked to the bar, and handed the bartender her credcard. He swiped it and handed it back. David waited for Jenn at the door, his coat slung over his arm. Jenn pulled on her coat and they stepped onto the streets.

*****

     Jack sat at his desk, cigarette balanced between his fingers. 405 West Wisconsin Street. Hmmm… The dominatrix must be behind this. I know it. But why would she not ask for money? Why would she ask him to follow her instructions in the city council? He obviously liked relinquishing control, but outside the dungeon? Something’s off. What would push a domme to do this? Power. Yeah, but would she have put slugs into him? If it was power she was after, she lost it when he died. Someone else must be behind this. His mind drifted to what the detective said about the bullet. Nine-millimeter, hollow point. He got up and opened the filing cabinet. He pulled out a file labeled, ‘Maxine Grove; 25 Aug.-Sept 3 2043’. He opened the file and pulled out the baggie with the shell casing.  He opened it and pulled out the brass cylinder. He held it up to the light to read the etching on the bottom, “9MM-HP”.  Who ever called me must be behind this. But just because Alderman Malone was killed by the same round, doesn’t mean that whoever that voice was, is behind this. He took a long drag on his cigarette. I need to find out what is going on. I need to get into that dungeon and find the computer. There might be some clues as to who is behind this. E-mails, transaction history, something… Jack put out the cigarette. He grabbed his coat and headed out of the office.

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