Jeff and the Judge

[Struff Bunstridge]

First section of a two parter.

 

Jeff stretched one leg carefully to his left, trying to stave off the cramp that was threatening to engulf his entire lower half. He shifted his weight awkwardly and did the same with the other leg; Jesus, it was claustrophobic in that wardrobe.

 

In the small sliver of light emanating from the narrow gap between the pine doors, he checked his camera. It was still fully operational, with hours of battery life left. That was good; he’d hate to have it fail on him at the crucial moment. He’d been sitting in the confined space of the judge’s wardrobe for – he checked his digital watch – about two and a half hours, and having extracted coathangers from his ears and shoes from his ass, he’d finally found a comfortable position in which to sit and wait for his time to come. The old excitement had initially bubbled through his veins, but, as time had passed amongst the ratty old sports shoes and musty smelling winter coats, that excitement had faded, along with his expectations. It had been months since he’d got a good lead, and the call had come two evenings ago. He’d been sitting in his usual seat at the usual bar, drinking the usual piss-weak beer and flirting with the usual tired old waitress. Betsy may have been a looker in her day, but her day had been a long time ago. Now, her tits sagged, her belly grew seemingly by the day, and a permanent “seen-it-done-it-got-the-T-shirt” look was etched across her vodka-lined face. She’d wandered over to answer the phone, currently on something like the twenty-seventh ring, and had brought it over to Jeff.

 

Davey had sounded excited. Well, by his usual standards, anyway. He was usually so full of cheap speed and cheaper whiskey that he sounded like the world was running on fast-forward, jumping from one thing to the next and the devil take the hindmost. He was a cheap lousy drunk, but tonight he had something, something real good, something Jeff wouldn’t want to pass up.

 

Judge Finkelstein was a philanderer, a womaniser, a rogue amongst men. His long-suffering wife, victim of a hundred indiscretions and a thousand affairs perpetrated by her ass of a husband, was away on some middle-aged women’s cruise. He’d never been caught – his reputation and money saw to it that that kind of thing never got out – but his old lady knew all about it, and so did Jeff, although he couldn’t prove a damn thing. Jeff had been trying to get the dirt on this guy for months, but the judge was always too smart, switching motels and cars at the last minute, always managing to give Jeff the slip. Tonight, Davey reckoned, old Finky had made no such provisions; with his wife away, and Jeff off the scene for so long with the divorce and rehab, he thought he was safe. He’d be taking this skanky broad to the Smile motel out on the interstate tonight, and if someone could just get the pictures the world needed to see, that Jew bastard’s name would be mud before his wife even got home. Problem was, Davey had specifically said three o’clock, but it was now approaching four thirty in the morning, and Jeff was no longer sure it would be a productive night.

 

These were the thoughts running through Jeff’s tired, overheated mind, when he heard high-pitched, drunken giggles, and the key turning in the motel door.

 

[Ronmar The Only]

Nice, third-person limited if I remember correctly. And I do love my stories in the third person, personally. Who's at door number one?

[Stefan.]

Nice work; I can't see anything wrong with it. I'll be looking forward to part two. This has inspired me to do a short.

[Eminence]

It's enjoyable, so far. A pleasure to read, and, despite its shortness, has produced and developed an engaging story. I'm looking forward to the next instalment.

[Struff Bunstridge]

Part Two.

 

Jeff froze, not even daring to breathe as he heard the door swing open. The giggling was clearer now, and it seemed to drill through his skull. He tried to peer through the gap between the wardrobe doors, but all he got was the same view as before; a sliver of bed, half a mirror, and the door through to the en suite bathroom. As he gazed out over the room, he noticed that a low rumbling voice had replaced the giggles, and a slurping noise surely meant the judge was pawing at the neck of his new conquest.

 

The woman suddenly appeared in his narrow field of vision, sitting on the bed before lying back. He couldn’t see her face, but he had a good view of her body in the slutty little black dress she was barely wearing. His eyes travelled slowly over her curves, lingering at her full breasts and the heart-stopping swoop of milky thigh. She was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling rapidly. He fancied he could almost hear her heart beating, and he found his lust rising along with the hem of her dress. He watched the judge’s perma-tanned, bejewelled hand oozing its way slowly up her leg, and caught a flash of pink underwear before the hand abruptly withdrew. He heard footsteps approaching his hiding place, and he cursed himself for not finding somewhere better to conceal himself. Aware of how ridiculous he must look, hiding in some scummy bedroom like a lousy pervert, he held his breath as the dull thudding footfalls, muffled by cheap carpet crusty with dried beer and god-knows-what kinds of dried bodily emissions, drew nearer. The door opened.

 

There was no physical way Jeff could have made himself smaller, but he sure as hell tried. Trying desperately not to make a sound, he sat motionless as a whooshing sound preceded the light being totally obscured. He’d been set up, he realised, as something made of soft cloth and smelling vaguely of Old Spice enveloped his head. He heard the door close, and the sound of whomever it had been moving away. He reached up and clawed the item from his face; holding it up to the light, he let out a chuckle as he recognised the judge’s ratty old sports coat he always wore on his hot dates. He shrugged the jacket away from himself and it slid down to rest on his feet.

 

They were both on the bed now, and she was on top of him, straddling his old man’s frame, naked but for her panties. Her back was to him, and he admired her bouncing blonde curls as she shook her head alluringly at him. This had to be his time; he planned to burst from the wardrobe, snap a few steamy shots of the judge and his new mistress, and demand money. If money was not forthcoming, f*ck it, he’d sell the pictures to the local press. That’d rattle the old buzzard’s cage! Slowly, Jeff counted to three under his breath, gripping his camera tightly in excitement, before rising from his wardrobe and storming out into the room, his flash burning holes in the semi-darkness, his finger working overtime on the camera’s button. He saw them both stiffen with surprise, then shrieking and grabbing their clothes, until at last the camera beeped to tell him he was out of film, and the pair stood dishevelled and breathless on the other side of the bed.

 

*

 

Reflecting on the scenario from his less-than-comfortable seat in the back of the police car, Jeff had to admit it must have looked pretty damn funny, had anyone stuck their head round the door of room 14 of the Smile motel out on the interstate at that precise moment. He had expected the girl to be some trash from the street, maybe a hooker, or one of the drunk chicks from the karaoke bar in town. He’d envisioned a pretty face, but one that had seen its fair share of tequila slammers, crack rocks and blowjobs with truckers in rest stops. He certainly hadn’t expected Mrs Finkelstein herself, standing next to her husband, panic turning to confusion and finally to rage as she realised what was going on. The pigs had arrived in record time once they’d twigged who was in that room. Oh well, thought Jeff as the police car started to pull away from the motel, at least he’d gotten some damn fine pictures. And if that wasn’t Jeff’s job, hell, he didn’t know what was.

[Ronmar The Only]

Nice.