Circles of Gold Never End

"Are you or have ever been police officers or prosecutors?" she asked and paused as we said we had not. "Are you here gathering evidence for anyone for use in a condemnation of our business or us personally?"

Again we stated we were not there to exact retribution from sinners. She confessed to being a sinner, and we all laughed.

"For straights like you two," she said with a knowing grin, "I'd recommend ladies in the strip lounge; but you just might want to swing where you have more time, you know, to get acquainted."

"We were told that Margie gave a good show and a fantastaic ride," I said, pressing the envelope. My gamble came up three Margies as the slot lore goes.

"Margie works the swing club only," the greeter sales girl said. "Give me 150 big ones, and I send you over to the swing club to find Margie."

"No woman can give me sex worth $1,500 a night," I said.

"If Margie's not worth the price of admission," the greeter said, obviously tongue in cheek, "our boss will refund your money."

"Along with how many holes in my head?" I asked and once more grinned almost painfully.

As I gave the woman 15 one-hundred-dollar bills, I glanced at Bill. He had become uncommunicative perhaps even fallen into an unresponsive stupor.

"We heard about Margie's sidekick, Marcie," I ventured. "Any chance Bill could hook up with her?"

"There's no doubt at all," the greeter said laughing as if at a private joke. "Where you find Margie, you'll find Marcie."

Quickly, I removed Bill's wallet and was relieved to find that he also had prepared for this eventuality.

Providing us with identifying coins and directions required only seconds. In the meantime, the muscle man lost interest and wandered back into the bar.

"You're sure Margie will be there?" I asked with a skeptical grin.

"She'll be there when she knows she has good business waiting," the greeter assured me, also grinning. "This is no shake down; and, keep in mind that you're good for 12 hours or another $300 will get you a four-hour extension Sunday afternoon."

But the extension would not be with Margie. She had to go home and would not return until her husband left for work Monday.

Bill was mobile and aware when I found the Swing Club, a four-bedroom home in an upscale neighborhood 15 minutes from the Strip Club. He hesitated at the door, but I rang the bell.

Our welcoming agent was a trim solemn woman in her fifties.

I tensed as she accepted out coins and studied our driver's licenses. Interesting! She didn't connect the names Stone and Mason.

It was then that I learned from the woman that she knew "The Talent, as she called it, only by first names. Our swinger hostess was called Brenda.

As we sipped coffee and ate donuts, Brenda boiled over with information. She literally loved to talk.

"Margie came on board about a year ago," Brenda said. "She was getting it on with Bruno, a burning love with fire and fury, when he proved to her that she was one of the fortunate few who would enjoy relay sex."

And, in Brenda's story, Margie was off to the races making coin of the realm faster than she could haul it to the bank. Where was the woman I had loved unreasonably for two decades?

Though the story of Marcie's rings held no vital importance for me, I foolishly pushed closer to the edge than wisdom permitted. Brenda knew everything and told all. Maybe she knew about the rings.

Knowing what happened to Marcie's rings had become an obsession with Bill. His interest in our adventure, however, had cooled perceptibly. As time passed in Brenda's kitchen, he had seemed to become increasingly distracted, perhaps even retreating into himself.

In retrospect, I know that I should have seen the change in his demeanor and led him out of there. As the record will show, moreover, I did nothing, though I perceived that he was in trouble deep down in his unconscious.

Instead I forged ahead dangerously and asked Brenda if she knew the story of Marcie's rings. I smugly congratulated myself for having such marvelous perceptive powers as Brenda began to unlock the mystery.

"You heard about that, did you?" Brenda smirked. "She went to bed with this perfumed high roller player, convinced he was the love of her life."

Brenda's story of the rings was sad but hilarious. Bruno had sold her to the player for an hour for $300 during a slow week. Marcie had become instantly infatuated. Defying Bruno, she went away with the player for a weekend of romance and finding true love.

"Her true love screwed he silly and stole her purse," Brenda said, hooting and snorting as she talked. "The SOB stole her four thousand-dollar engagement ring and eight thousand-dollar wedding ring and $3,000 in whore cash."

I found the story hilariously funny and satisfying, but Bill sat staring at his hands. He apparently had dozed during Brenda's recitation. Again I casually dismissed a symptom when i should have dragged him out of there.

More than a dozen couples and a few individuals passed the kitchen door as we sat at the table drinking coffee and watching cable. They all threw money into a large fishbowl, and Brenda hawkishly carried the bowl into a utility room she had claimed for an office.

At intervals Brenda would call the greeter at the Strip Club asking for news of Bruno and his entourage.

It was 3 a.m. when Brenda appeared with the news that Bruno was on his way with Margie and Marcie.

"It's about time," I responded.

"You'll last for another ten minutes," Brenda said, hitting my shoulder companionably. "What's with your friend?"

For the first time since arriving at the Swing Club, I studied Bill's features. He was alert. Answering questions posed no problem for him.

"Cheer up, old boy!" said Brenda the whore madame as she hugged Bill. "You're about to have the time of your life."

Bill stared at her and nodded woodenly. I was about to call it off and get Bill out of there when the front door opened and the targeted trio entered.

Bruno spontaneously spouted vile curses. Marcie uttered one word of a plea for mercy, and Margie snarled a vile sexual profanity before beginning to hyperventilate. I would say she also was screaming in high "C" crescendo, but I'm certain someone, an astute observer would doubt that she could scream and hyperventilate at the same time.

Screaming filled the hollows of the house. I found that I could not scan with the required quickness to process all that I saw.

Bill's choice of the Glock proved disastrous. Without my awareness, he had added a 17 round magazine. I'll never know how I missed it.

Screaming ceased. Muzzle smoke seasoned with the acrid odor of burning powder poisoned the air.

Bruno bolted out the front door leaving Marcie dead and Margie uninjured but screaming hysterically. Brenda had been hit but was still standing.

As I leapt over Marcie's body in pursuit of Bruno, I heard the last report of the Glock. I did not need to see Bill to know that he had fired a round into his own head.

My brain was running ahead of my rational mind, I halted abruptly and stepped into a utility room where Brenda had a desk. I had seen her go into the room each time that she collected cash from arriving guests. Her coffers should runneth over, and that was truly the situation.

I left the house with Brenda's money box under my arm. Taillights at the end of the block very likely marked Bruno's line of retreat.

My car was only feet away at the curb. No need, however, to get excited and nervous chasing Bruno. My enigmatic greeter at the Strip Club without a doubt would serve as Bruno's safe contact and source of money.

With the muzzle of my .45 in her ear, the hard eyed beauty with the blazing Latino Gypsy eyes would do anything that I instructed. She was no fool, and everything she possessed was for sale.

Where Bruno goeth, there shall I be within a tick of time.

END