The Auction

By Peter Wynn

A fast moving story about a cold-blooded killer (Artie) and his lover (Jane) looking for the one big score that will put them on easy street. When the economy puts the hurt on a wealthy entrepreneur, and forces him to auction off his cherished painting, others devise a plan to put that work in their asset column. Nothing is out-of-bounds for Artie, who never stumbles or allows a brief encounter with another woman to get in the way of his objective; to become rich without engaging in what most people refer to as work.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Wynn
• Release date: Feb 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452489476

Peter Wynn

I'm hopelessly behind the curve regarding computer-based meet and greet places. I'm just a guy who thought it would be fun to write a really raunchy book, kinda get it out of the way, so that I can press on with better stuff soon. Cheers!

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Chapter 2

Monday morning Dick arrived at work, a lumber warehouse called the Board Store, and found his boss.

Mornin’ Jimmie, he said as he limped into the small office.

Dick, what happened to you?

Man, I turned my ankle last night. It tightened up, I think I better see a doctor.

Yeah, go ahead. We can handle the workload here. Call me when you know what’s happenin’.

Thanks Jimmie, appreciate it.

Dick was careful to continue limping as he returned to his car. He crossed town and turned into an alley behind Daisy’s Salon, parked and walked to a nearby auto parts store. He purchased a windshield sunshade, used to keep interiors cool, sat its lower edge on the dashboard and pushed its top lip under his sun visors. He opened the sharpest blade in his Swiss Army knife, cut a slice in the material and folded it back until he could see Daisy’s back door. He looked at the many cracks in the dashboard and thought, I should’a got one of these a long time ago.

The seat in Dick’s car was broken down, and by the third day in the alley he began to think about surgery to correct the spring impressions that covered his backside. The pain disappeared when a lowered, 1964 Chevrolet Impala entered the alley and stopped behind Daisy’s.

Dick watched a big man, heavily muscled arms covered with tattoos, head shaved, dressed in a white tank top and baggy Levis, climb from the car. The dude didn’t walk to Daisy’s back door; he strolled. Sunlight glinted from a gold chain that draped between a belt loop and a pocket of his jeans.

Jane met Tattoo outside, hugged him and handed him a white, plastic grocery bag. Dick noticed how the man’s hand rested on Jane’s ass. He took the bag with his free hand, and reluctantly used the other to remove a rumpled, white envelope from a back pocket and give it to her. He got in his car, reversed from the alley and drove away.

Dick reached down and turned the ignition key. The engine cranked over, fired and died. He pumped the gas, tried again, same result. By the time his old Datsun was running the Chevy was long gone.

Piece of shit! he said, as he slammed his fist against the steering wheel.

Chapter 3

Two long, boring days later, Dick had learned nothing more. Just before 5:00 p.m. he walked into his apartment, saw the answer machine’s light blinking and pushed the play button.

Hi baby. It’s about four and I’ve got two customers to go. The manicurist’s school called, one of their instructors is teaching a technique at a downtown shop. I’m gonna go, be home at ten. Warm up the pizza, you’ll be okay. Stay awake for me, luv ya.

Dick ran to his car and hurried back to the salon. As he drove past he saw Jane had hung the closed sign in the window, but the lights were still on. His tires protested loudly as he turned the corner at the end of the block, parked and stood in the mouth of the alley. The 1964 Impala sat near the back door.

Dick got his car, moved it to where he could see the low-rider, and waited. Before long Jane and Tattoo left Daisy’s and drove off. Dick hurtled through the alley and turned in the direction the blue and white sedan headed.

The car was already a block away and Dick pursued from a distance.

After a couple of miles the Chevy entered an area of downtown no longer suited for lovers walking in the moonlight. The car ahead pulled to the opposite curb, Jane got out and walked into a donut shop. As Dick drove past Tattoo never looked his way. Jane sat on a tall stool, talking with a guy who stood behind a glass-fronted counter.

Dick continued to the end of the block, hung a tight U-turn and parked facing the same direction as the Impala. He didn’t dare shut off the old car, and it was only minutes before his wife came outside and got back in the Chevy. She carried a small, white bag; somehow Dick wouldn’t have bet there was a glazed and a jelly-filled inside.

Dick followed the Chevy past streets he was familiar with. He had seen their names in more than a few newspaper articles, stories of shootings, knifings and other violent crimes.

Dick watched the blue and white sedan slow, and then park, in front of a store that offered all night peep shows and a variety of adult merchandise. Jane went inside, the little, white bag in hand. Dick was beginning to think she’d been inside way too long when Tattoo must have had the same thought. The big man hurried inside, and less than a minute later re-appeared. He was preceded by a skinny, slump-shouldered male, and trailed by Jane, clothed but disheveled. Jane trailed the two along the sidewalk, not interrupting what appeared to be a heated argument.

The three reached the mouth of an alley, and Dick saw a bright flash from a knife blade. The small man swung his arm around, the blade’s tip missed Tattoo’s chin by an inch.

Tattoo shoved the man into the alley, a pistol appeared from nowhere, and Dick heard four shots. Tattoo and Jane ran to the Impala and fled the scene. After a few minutes they screeched to a stop outside a low class motel called ENCORE; laughing excitedly they ran to an already rented room.

Blinking neon illuminated the interior of Dick’s car: first red, then bright white, and red again. Dick sat, outwardly calm, bleeding inside, disbelief etched on his face. He climbed from his car, walked to Jane’s room and stopped outside her door. He clearly heard Jane’s unmistakable voice shout, Oh, Baby! Yes! YES!

Then it was quiet. Just as Dick turned to leave he heard the rhythmic thumping of the bed as his wife’s body slammed against her lover. Dick returned to his car, shoulders slumped; tears glistened on his cheeks like raindrops on rose petals.

During his drive home Dick realized his earlier question, asked of no one, was answered. He knew he married a monster. Inside his apartment he called the police and reported the shooting. He told them his wife was involved, but she was out for the evening.

An hour later Jane walked through the front door, called out to Dick, found him in the kitchen, put her arms around him and kissed him hungrily as she coaxed him toward the bedroom.

Dick, not wanting to touch the woman in his arms, feigned a sore back. Undeterred, Jane got down on her knees in front of him, pulled down the zipper of his shorts and reached through the opening, just as the doorbell chimed.

Dick stepped back, zipped up and opened the door. Three policemen entered, two went straight to Jane, verified her name, cuffed her, and led her to the door.

Jane looked over her shoulder, at Dick, and her face turned ugly as she realized he had called the cops.

Dick saw the stare. The room turned cold. He gave his statement to the police and after they were gone he locked himself inside.

Days later, Dick arrived at the Board Store and his supervisor told him he heard a rumor that Jane had been released. Dick, happy with his decision to change the locks at his apartment, climbed aboard his forklift, put his clipboard of work sheets on the seat next to him and drove slowly to the far end of the cavernous building.

He reached his workstation, opened a locked cabinet and started a fresh pot of coffee brewing. When he turned back to the forklift he came face-to-face with Jane and Tattoo.

Jane looked up at Tattoo and said, Artie, this is Dick.

Tattoo growled, Looks like Dickhead to me.

Dick said, Jane, what do you want?

Why’d you call the cops, Dick?

I didn’t…

Oh come on…

Listen, asshole, my woman was in jail… said Artie.

Your woman? She’s my wife…

Don’t interrupt me, asshole…

Dick picked up a four foot long piece of wood and swung it at Artie, who ducked as the oak board whistled past his head. He charged into Dick’s mid-section and slammed him backward into a metal rack, crushing his head against an upright. Artie stood back as Dick collapsed to the floor, bent over, picked up his limp body and threw him onto a large table saw. Artie shoved Dick until his head lolled on the far side of the saw’s guide, pulled a rag from his pocket and used it to start the powerful motor. He activated an automatic setting, and as the saw’s razor-sharp blade made its way slowly across the width of the table Artie turned and said, Let’s get out of here.

They were in the main aisle, walking quickly, two rows of plywood sheets away, when Dick’s head rolled off the table and landed in the middle of a plastic bucket half full with sawdust.

Chapter 4

Artie pulled his Impala into an alley, drove about a hundred feet and stopped abruptly. He jumped out, ran to a nearby garage and opened its old, heavy, wooden door. After pulling the Chevy inside he told Jane to get out, he shut the garage and directed her to follow a path between tall weeds and assorted junk.

Jane knew better than to say anything and waited patiently after Artie knocked loudly on the back door of a house as decrepit as its garage. She watched dislodged paint chips fall slowly to the porch’s floor.

The door opened and they stood face to face with Artie’s brother, Don, a skinny, pasty-faced, pockmarked guy who didn’t share a single feature with Artie.

Hey Bro, what’s up? he said.

You got to get rid of the Chevy.

How soon?

Tonight.

Done.

I need my stuff…

In the hall closet.

Jane stood by while Artie extracted his belongings from a disorderly pile of odds and ends. She was about to ask, "Are we walkin’?’ when Artie straightened up and looked at Don.

You got a car with clean title I can use?

Yeah. It’s a piece of shit but it’s got a good motor.

Where…?

Out front. Don dug in his pocket, came out with a key and tossed it to Artie. When will I see you?

Maybe a month, I don’t know.

Don pointed at Jane and said, Is this who was with you when you shot Avila?

Yeah. The cops got nothin’, that’s why she’s out. They can’t connect me, at least not yet.

Why the rush?

We had to hurt the fucker who turned us in.

That’s cool. Get out’ta here…

At the front door Artie pointed to a Firebird that was silver at another time. Is that it?

Yeah.

It is a piece of shit. Artie threw his bag and a small canvas case in the trunk, Jane sat in the passenger side, and they headed east.

On the freeway Jane asked, What’s he going to do with your car?

Chop shop. It’ll be little pieces and parts by morning, and nobody will ever find the VIN.

I liked that car. We fucked in it the first time you took me somewhere. Shit, we had sex ten minutes after you picked me up… What’s a VIN?

Vehicle identification number. They’ll cut out where it’s stamped and melt the pieces.

Where we goin’?

Texas.

Jesus…

As Artie and Jane drove east on Interstate 10 Jimmie found Dick’s body. In a matter of minutes detectives, and then crime scene specialists, showed up. They taped off the store’s back lot and a third of its interior space, and began their inspection. Forensic experts from every specialty worked diligently, from the gate in the rear fence to the killer table saw, and finally, the gruesome remains of Dick himself.

Ten hours after Artie and Jane left Don’s house they pulled into the parking lot of a two-bit motel in Tucson, Arizona. Jane, glad to get out of the car, took sixty dollars, went to the office and registered. They took their belongings inside, Artie took off his shirt because it excited Jane, Jane removed her shirt because it excited Artie, and they lay on the bed.

They touched, kissed, caressed, and made love, putting the day behind them. Artie went out for beer; Jane called for a pizza. While she waited she tuned the TV to an I Love Lucy episode.

How can you watch that crap? said Artie when he got back to the room.

It’s romantic. I like romantic. Sex is great, but a little romance once in a while doesn’t hurt.

Yeah, yeah. He sat his case on the bed, opened it and took out an IBM laptop.

Whoa, where’d you get that?

I stole it…

Can you do anything with it?

I can do a lot with it.

Can you get on the Internet?

Hell yeah.

How’d you learn?

My asshole stepfather had a computer. Every time he went out to play pool and drink I played with his computer. By the time I was fourteen I’d been in a hundred porn sites, chat rooms, all that shit.

How’d you pay…?

Back then a lot of sites were free, I called it settin’ the hook. One night asshole came home early, caught me, and beat the livin’ shit outta me.

And…?

He locked the computer with a password.

So your computer career ended…

A buddy of mine figured out how to break the code, we got in before asshole came home the next night.

How’d he know how to do it?

He was smart, that’s how. Too bad he wasn’t smart enough to stay away from drive by shootings.

What’re we going to do?

Now, or tomorrow?

Now…

Drink some beers and eat…

Someone knocked on the door; Artie opened it. A pimply-faced teenager stood outside, pizza warming-bag in hand. He said, Good evening, sir. Your total is $18.50.

As Artie took out a twenty the kid looked past him, directly at Jane, lying naked, on her side, watching the transaction. She smiled. The teen almost swallowed his tongue, turned beet-red, handed Artie the pizza and ran to his car.

After the door closed Jane said, I’d like to hear his story when he gets back to the store.

He’s probably sittin’ in his car whacking off…

I know I would if I just saw me naked.

Chapter 5

Mandy Jenkins removed her apron, hung it on a hook in the employee break room, and tiredly made her way to the front door of the grocery store. She had just completed a double shift; the store had been hit hard by a flu outbreak, and her body told her she had worked sixteen hours.

It was raining. It had been raining when she got to the store, and by the look of the parking lot it hadn’t stopped. She dodged puddles, but just before she reached her car she slipped and her other foot came down in a pothole deep enough to jolt a car. Her shoes were old, and the cold water seeped through, soaking her foot.

Goddamn it. She took off her leaky shoe and hurled it at her battered, twelve year old Toyota Celica. It hit the door closest to her, but the dent it made had plenty company. Mandy got in, noticed she’d left the window down about an inch, sat down on a wet seat, hit the steering wheel and said aloud, Son of a bitch.

As her cotton and polyester slacks and her panties soaked through she thought, Here I am, twenty-four years old, living in Dallas, and haven’t had a date in a year, or sex for longer than that. I’ve got two hundred bucks in the bank, and now I’ve got to drive home with a soaking wet, freezing cold ass. Just fucking great.

Even her Internet lover sucked. Instead of two hours of cyber teasing and pleasing, he’d reduced their on-line meetings to Mandy going down on him, he supplied the Cool Whip, followed by slam-bam, thank you ma’am. Bastard. I’ll show him.

She stopped at McDonalds, picked up a Big Mac, fries and a Coke, and by the time she reached home it was after 11:00. She knew her grandmother would be sleeping, she went to bed every night at 8:30. Mandy realized how fortunate she was to have a nice place to live. Her parents were killed in a car accident years earlier, and gram had put a roof over her head ever since. Mandy made her way through the dark, quiet house to her room, closed and locked her door, took a bite of burger and logged on.

She knew she was on her lover’s Buddy List, and sure enough, within moments he IM’d her. Mandy grinned at the screen, put a handful of fries in her mouth, wriggled out of her pants, shirt and underwear, donned her favorite robe and sat down.

The message read, Where ‘ya been all freakin’ evening?

That’s a nice welcome for a girl who’s just worked sixteen straight hours.

Whatsa’ matter, your boss bend you over in the storeroom after hours? Musta’ been a helluva party…

Yeah, right. You wanna fight, or what?

I want to fuck, but you probably got a headache…

You know somethin’, you’re right. I worked my ass off today, I’m tired, and I don’t need any of your shit.

Listen slut, apologize…

Fuck you, eat shit and die.

You little cunt…

Keep it up and I’ll report you to the cyber cops.

Fuck you too…

Mandy hit cancel and her Instant Message screen disappeared. Her mood was foul and she didn’t want to go to sleep that way. She scrolled through some Chat Rooms she’d been in and found a familiar screen name. She struck up a conversation, converted to IMs, removed her robe and let her fingers take the place of those belonging to the nameless, faceless person whose words caressed her monitor.

Chapter 6

Samantha Eder shouted into the phone, I passed, Donny, I passed!

Passed wha…oh, the BAR exam. Congratulations, sis, that’s fantastic.

Donny, I swear, I was sitting at my computer at five ‘til six, you know, a web page opens at 6:00 o’clock…

Whoa, Sam, slow down. What are you talking about?

The BAR results. California opens a website at 6:00 p.m. on the day results are official. Probably everybody in the state that took the test was trying to get in at once. I slammed two Vodka-Collins and almost lost them while I was waiting. It took me about ten minutes to get in, I was sitting in my pjs and a window opened, it said my name appeared on the pass list.

Donovan said, So, the Eder family has a lawyer.

"Yep, we’ve got a lawyer, me! Donny,