Detective Daphne Wojciewski needed answers. The guy wasn't cooperating. His fault. It was he who'd jumped her from behind just as she was exiting her car. He was much larger, far and away the brawnier, but his narrow male hips were no match for her equestrian thrusters and, while he reached and wrapped a semi-chokehold on her, she'd driven her big bucket posterior backwards, jabbing an elbow into his ribs. The big man fell like a house of cards.
Still, he'd have been up in a second were it not for Wojo's quick turnaround and even quicker toe blast: the black pleather pump split his kneeling legs like goal posts and sent him down to all fours—but she wasn't finished yet. Her big butt shot horizontal outwards like a polyestered horse’s rump as she bent at the waist--her tight gray business skirt preventing her from squatting—and here fought off his feeble manipulations of protest, and she thrust an insistent hand down the front of his button-fly jeans.
"Your balls're coming with me. I suggest you follow," she said smartly, bringing him to his feet. He complied but stood shakily. Wojo saw he might go down again any second.
"Don't do it," she snarled, squeezing some more. "You're gonna hang yourself if you fall.”
(Business-like. ‘What’s with this bitch?’ his frantic thought. Everything business-like!)
“I ain't lettin' go," she advised with a shake of her head, red hair rising and falling. A lion’s mane and this bitch bites.
"OOO!—OOO!—OOO!" came the involuntary high-pitched ejaculations under the moustache, the lips forming on “O,” protruding and quivering. Quite an octave raise from the deep, imposing baritone he'd originally accosted her with.
"Talk!" she insisted. Twisting and watching and making the “OOOs” go harder, faster, higher. She was face to face and sick of it. Had enough and the day was young. Brown saddle of freckles over her nose wrinkling up as she glared and menaced. It was that time of the month and WHY NOW!?
"Who sent you?! Was it Louie Rocco? Hm?!"
Nothing. Grunts and feeble squeaks and heavy eyelids beating frenetically and eyes rolling up back into the head and down again. The guy wanted to talk. Fact is he couldn't. Wojo was her own worst enemy: She played too rough.
Wojo scanned her surroundings. "Hmph," she said, satisfied at something.
"Come." She lead him over to the right, off the sidewalk, him pelvis first, her walking backward and pulling. When they got to the chain link fence she stopped, and with her free hand struggled at his fly and then, voila, his package was out, exposed to the open air, but still being strangled by her slender, pale, merciless digits. Her free hand now went into her purse, brought out a pair of handcuffs.
The big man's chin was jutting up to the sky, Adam's apple bulging. He did a big in-over-his-head gulp a-la-Vince McMahon as he felt the cold metal go noose-like around his 'nads. Wojo tugged upward on the cuffs, testing it, letting him know what he was in for.
"Aye! Aye! Aye!" the man squealed at each tug, standing on tip toes throughout.
"There," Detective Wojo said, then, laughing, added, "How long can you walk on water?"
Standing on tip toes with his package cuffed to the fence a few critical inches too high for comfort. Trouble. ‘How'd he get into this?’ he thought. What'd the boss send me after THIS bitch for? Shit. Shit. He puffed and huffed and his mind raced as he sought a way out--but no way. There wasn't a way. This was really happening. ‘Shit! Get me out of here!’ he thought. Boss! Help! Anybody! His hands clung to the fence; he looked down and around and dribbled panic-stricken saliva like he was thirty stories up.
"NOW you'll talk," droned the Lady Dick confidently.
"No!" he said, and he gulped and swallowed hard. "No--I can't--he'll kill me."
"Oh, you'll talk," she corrected, surfeited with dramatic irony like somebody who knows exactly what the hell she was talking about. "When you get tired of hanging on, oh you'll talk all right."
He clung and he hung, clung and he hung. Wojo went back to the car, took out a donut and some coffee, skirt spread wide and thick as she sat on the edge of the hood and watched and ate and sipped quite calmly, quite calmly indeed. A couple minutes went by. Poor guy, she thought. Yeah, she had a heart. Someone under that hard cynicism she felt a little bad for every guy she'd ever de-nutted before. Still, there was that other side she had. One that didn't take no shit; one that's cracking a smile as the poor dumb bastard's legs're beginning to shake now. Yep, calves can't take much more. Look at those white knuckles hanging onto that fence. Give 'im another minute.
She went back around to the driver's side, reached in the open window, extracted a romance novel, then it was back to hood, flipping through pages and more coffee sipping. Gotta do something to fight this monotony, she thought. Look over. Poor bastard's leg shaking like convulsions now. Instant smile, suppressed chuckle.
OOO--the leg went—
Back up on tippy toes now. Oh you poor bastard.
"Okay, I'll talk! I'll talk!"
‘Thank goodness I don't have those,’ she thought. Thank goodness. Doesn't take much to get you f#ckers to talk.
Wojo took her time finishing her donut and coffee, thinking and waiting, reading, sipping, till he was pretty much begging and mewling and would've sold his grandmother out. Serves him right, she thought. Don't jump me. Not if you got balls, you don't.
When she did come to his rescue finally, first she took time to taunt him, rub it in a bit, blow in his ear, brandish and wave that flashy little, precious little, vital little key on the outskirts of his hallucinating peripheral vision. The guy was sobbing into the fence unabashedly. Savoring the moment even longer, she stuck a finger through one of the holes in the fence, wrapped it around and caressed the tight thin bulging skin of his sack with a long red fingernail. Even now, she noted, will a man quiver with enjoyment if you do this. Putz. What a putz. She soundly rapped the end of the finger a few times on the peachy-like bulge--TAP, TAP, TAP--and watched his eyes roll up, roll up, the lids blink, blink, and the dry mouth wheeze and plead. But when she pressed down, when she made like she was trying to leave a fingernail impression on the skin of that peach, then that was all she wrote.
"Okay! Okay! I’ll do anything!—I'll talk! It was Rocco!—he hired me!—it was him!! Lemme go—PLEASE!!"
"Wasn’t so hard now, was it?” she muttered sardonically, then harrumphed satisfactorily to herself: "Men. Easy gettin' you guys to talk. Yeah, too easy."
The fella got his desperate wish. ‘Free at last, free at last, thank goodness they are free at last!’ thought he. He was standing there bent over on top, spacey-eyed and head hanging down at chest level, shoulders in a bunch, and he was hanging on, protecting his liberated sack with all debilitated might.
“Why do you guys try and cover up?” she asked. “You know it doesn’t do any good. A thick pistoned-delivered knee to those same goobers dropped him for good. Detective Wojciewski chuckled and went away, pumps clacking on pavement, went about her daily business and watched her head as she plopped her wide bottom down in the driver’s seat. Damn skirt, she thought. Damn butt, she thought again.
New business she had to attend to. Let’s pay a visit to Louie Rocco, she thought, driving off. Yeah, Louie. He’s got balls. Go get the sonuvabitch. Once and for all.