A FBOW excerpt in sequence: “A Stinking Revenge”

Chicago, Illinois,.

June 29, 1957

Occasionally, if the girl looked older than eighteen and if ‘Chicago Police Officer John Mahoney’ or his partner were able to frighten the young man and woman enough, separating the young woman from the young man…

Marsha Lipensky certainly looked older than eighteen...

Thinking, Nice piece’a ass, Officer John Mahoney’s tongue nervously flicked across his lips. “You think bein’ married, ‘if’ you’re married gives the two’a you the right to be doin’ the kind’a stuff…” jerking his thumb towards the car, “...the two’a you was doin’, in a public parkin’ lot, yet?”

“No, Officer! You are absolutely right!”

I’m a man, Mitchell reasoned to himself. And he’s a man, even if he is a cop and maybe I can, kind of, appeal to him kind of man to man.

“I know we…” the light shifting to his face, “...shouldn’t be here doing, uh...” Thinking it best to leave just what it was he ‘was’ doing unsaid. “...that kind of stuff. But we’ve been separated for a while now and my wife and me, we just got together a few hours ago and didn’t have anyplace to go to, uh...” hoping the cop would sympathize “...get back together.”

“And you thought ‘here’ would be a good place to do it, did you?”

“Well, yeah.,,” quickly, “... I mean ‘no’! Look, I’m sorry, officer, but we don’t have enough money for a hotel and didn’t have anyplace else to go. But we ‘are’ married!”

“You ‘are’, huh? You think I ain’t heard this bullshit before?”

The best time Officer John Mahoney had ever had in the Montrose Beach parking lot had been with a middle-aged married woman who was parked with a man… a man other than her husband.

“But we ‘are’ married!” The light shifted back to Marsha. “We’ve even got a baby. As a matter of fact…” pointing to the west, above the line of trees, to where the brightly lit top two stories of the Louis A. Weiss Memorial Hospital could be seen, “...he was born there, at .’Weiss’, last March, on the twenty-third.”

Not caring! Not caring at all! Actually thinking, If it is true , then she’s a seasoned broad without that much to lose, so maybe?

“Lady...” Chicago police officer John Mahoney said, “...like I said, you’re sayin’ so don’t make it so, an’ tellin’ me the two’a’ya got a kid together don’t make that so neither.” But having to try, just in case, “You...” pointing the flashlight at Mitchell, “...go stand there!” Aiming the light to the front of the car. “Okay, lady...” Mahoney said once Mitchell was out of earshot, “...say it softly: when were the two’a’ya married?”

Uh-oh! Marsha knew Mitchell did not have a great memory when it came to dates, but even so, he will remember the date of our wedding, she thought. But, uh-oh, again, because they had two weddings: the legal and the ‘in-the-eyes-of-God’ wedding. Which one will he say?

“Come on, girlie, the ‘date’!”

Which one? October? December? Because October is so close to my birthday—remembering they’d talked about it…

“December 17, 1955, Officer.”

The light flicking to Mitchell, “Hey, you! Over here!” Waiting till he was standing alongside Marsha. “When’s your wedding date?”

Uh-oh! Which one did she say? Taking a shot: “December 17, 1955.”

Releasing her till-then-held breath. Thank God! Marsha thought.

Sensing a twitch within his groin— decision made…

Opening the passenger side door, leaning in he yanked the keys from the ignition.

“You, ‘here’!” Mahoney motioned for Marsha to get back inside, then slamming the door shut. “You! ‘Lover boy’!” Motioning for him to follow. “Come with me!”

“Wait...” not moving. “...I ‘can’t’ leave her here, alone!”

“Don’t worry...”

One hand clasping Mitchell’s elbow, the other resting on the handle of his gun… a gesture Mitchell did notice.

“...she’ll be just fine!”

Propelled by the pressure on his elbow... “I ‘really’ don’t like leaving my wife alone back there!”...attempting to pull from Mahoney’s grasp.

Tightening his hold, “Look! I Don’t give a fuck what you ‘don’t’ like.”

Stepping carefully because he wore only socks, dragged alongside Mahoney as he cut across the western end of the large parking lot,

A few minutes ago he’d been worried about being caught ‘necking’—well, maybe more than ‘just’ necking—but now…? Mitchell thought he was being led away to be… What? Beat up? Killed? And what about Marsha?

“You ‘don’t’ have the right to do this! Where the hell are you taking me?”

“I got the right to do whatever the ‘fuck’ I wanna! An’ I told you don’t worry ‘bout her! Now, you want to come easy, or do I cuff you!”

Coming to the end of the asphalt, going about twenty paces on the sandy, hard-packed soil, Mitchell was able to discern the silhouette of car parked beneath a large tree. Approaching, he saw it was a ‘City of Chicago’ police car, and through the open window the glowing red dot of a deeply inhaled cigarette.

Talking through the open window, “Stan, take care’a this guy for a couple’a minutes, will ya!” Opening the rear door, Mahoney jabbed his finger at Mitchell, “ ‘you’...” then towards the dark interior of the squad car, “...in there!”

“Look, officer...” standing firm. “...please! You ‘can’t’ do this!”

“Oh, yeah?” Jabbing him in the chest. “You’re a fuckin’ ‘deviate’!”

Deviate? “ ‘Deviate’? Me?”

“Yeah, ‘you’! An’ like I told you, I can do whatever the ‘fuck’ I want!” His hand going to the nightstick at his side. “And like I said, get your fuckin’ ass in there, ‘now’!”

Having no choice, stepping into the car the door was slammed shut.

Opening the front door, leaning in Mahoney whispered something to Stan, who laughed, then looking over his shoulder, looked at the young man in the back seat. “Take your time, John. This fucker ain’t goin’ no-wheres.”

“Thanks.” Pointing his thumb and forefinger, as though a gun, at Mitchell, slamming the door, Mahoney started off in the direction they’d come from.

Frightened before, now ‘all’ his concern was for Marsha.

“Where’s he going? Why am I…” Reaching for the door, he found there was no handle. “...why am I locked in here?”

Turning, looking at him. “He’s goin’ to talk to your girlfriend a minute…” Stan said, “...to see if she, uh, ‘really’ wants us to haul the two’a’ya in an’ toss ya in the clink.”

“M ‘wife’!” Understanding the implication of what Stan said. “She’s my ‘wife’! And we ‘know’ people, and if that son-of-a-bitch so much as touches her, we’ll…”

“Yeah?” The City of Chicago police officer said childishly, “What’ch’ya gonna do ’bout it?”

****

Sitting behind the steering wheel, Marsha looked nervously into the darkness in the direction her husband had disappeared. After what seemed an hour, but in reality was no more than twelve minutes, seeing an approaching shadow, thinking it was Mitchell, about to open the door and go to him, Marsha realized the figure was shorter and wider.

“Hi!” Going to the passenger side, opening the door and sitting, Mahoney pulled the door shut. “I thought maybe you’n’me could, uh… What’s your name, girlie?”

“What did you do with my husband? ‘ Where’s Mitchell’?”

“With my partner. He’ll be just fine, What’s your name, I asked.”

“Marsha, ‘okay’? My name’s Marsha, and you…”

“I’m John, an’ I thought that you’n’me could, uh, kind’a talk to each other. Maybe kind’a get to, uh, know each other.”

“ ‘Know you’? I don’t want to ‘know you’!” Her stomach lurching, “I want my husband!”

“Well, you know, Marsha, what the two’a you was doin’ before, what you was lettin’ him, uh, your ‘husband’ do to you is what we call ‘deviant behavior’, and…” angled on the seat, facing Marsha who was facing stiffly forward, Mahoney began to run the tip of his finger lightly back and forth along the outside of her thigh. “…and, uh, if I wanted, I could haul the two’a you into precinct and book the two’a you as ‘sexual deviants’ and then whenever there’s a crime of a, uh, sexual nature, your husband… What’ch you say his name is?” Slipping his hand through the seam of the chemise, he rubbed it lightly on top of Marsha’s bare thigh.

The feel of his had sending a surge of repugnance through her, inwardly panicking, taking a deep breath, Marsha clamped her thighs together, tightly.

Forcing his opened hand between Marsha’s tightly clamped thighs. “Oh, yeah, ‘Mitchell’!” The police officer said. “We’ll haul old ‘Mitchie’, and maybe you, too, in for a line-up, and who knows? You know people make mistakes all the time! And who knows…”

When a specific issue or circumstance caused Marsha to become ‘extremely’ nervous, quite often her first spontaneous impulse was to laugh. But then, out of fear, out of ‘monumental’ fear, her ‘only’ impulse was to…

“…maybe someone’ll ‘eye-ball’ him or you and maybe old Mitchie or you’ll spend a couple’a nights in jail... Or maybe even go to trial…”

“Ullpp!”

“Huh? What’s’a matter with you?” Opening the door, the interior light coing on Mahoney was able to see Marsha’s green-tinged face, as…

“Ulllppp!”

…Marsha’s cheeks were puffing in and out as though trying to hold it back, and…

“ ‘Jesus Christ’!”

Attempting to get out of the way, Mahoney quickly backed out of the car, but in a simultaneous move—not wanting to get it all over the dark-blue leather of her 1952 Ford convertible—Marsha Lipensky leaned across the seat, and…

From the very moment she’d awoken, to ‘this’ very moment day... this day— to say the least had been a ‘very’ nervous day… ‘No’! This day had been a downright, ‘God-damned’ nervous day for Marsha Lipensky, so…

“ ‘Gaacchh’!”

Not minding too much, though, if she puked all over the dark blue gabardine material of the ‘City of Chicago’ uniform of police officer John Mahoney,..

.“ ‘Gaacchh’!”

Leaning across the seat so as not to get it all over the dark-blue leather of her 1052 ford convertible, the propulsion of vomit carried through the car door, plastering Mahoney’s not so clean—‘especially’ now—dark blue uniform, and further splattered onto his not so well polished— ‘especially’ now—shoes, and…

Feeling hot vomit soak through his shirt, pants, underwear and onto what up until three seconds ago had been a raging boner.

In stunned shock. “ ‘Jesus H. fuckin’ Christ, lady’...” Officer John Mahoney stammered, “...why the hell’d you have’ta go and do that?”

****

“God-damn-it! God-damn-it! ‘God damn-it’!””

Hearing the voice of his partner moments before seeing him.

“Hey, John!” Getting out of the squad car, going to him. “ya sure finished quick! That broad must’a…” Stopping short. “Wha’ the fuck...” Stan said, “...ya smell like puke!”

Ignoring him. Yanking the rear door open. Tossing the keys to the Ford onto Mitchell’s lap. “Get the ‘fuck’ out’a here! An’ if I ‘ever’ see the two’a you around here again…”

Mitchell did not hear what the cop would do to them if ever he did ‘see the two’a them around there again’, because…

It was a well known fact that Mitchell Lipensky was not, nor had ever been an athletic kind of person. Matter of fact, a paraplegic in a square-wheeled wheelchair going uphill, with the brake on, would probably beat him in a race. However...

Sprinting over the sandy, hard packed soil, across the west end of the asphalt-covered parking lot…

“Hi!” Pulling the door open. “Scoot over!” Throwing himself onto the seat, Mitchell jammed the key into the ignition, turned the motor on and, peeling rubber, drove out of the Montrose Beach parking lot. Three minutes later. Pulling to the curb and turning the motor off. Taking a deep breath. Looking at his wife he took hold of her hand. “Marcie, baby, I’m ‘so’ sorry about that! You okay? Did he do anything to you?”

“Nah! He tried, and I’m kind’a shook up, but I’m okay.”

“Oh, God! Thank you, God!”

“When that bastard came back...” Marsha giggled, “...he tried to screw me.” The nervous giggle changing to nervous laughter. “But I ‘sure’ taught him!”

Now raucous laughter…

…Which was joined by her husband’s also raucous laughter that continued, until. “Remind me...” he said, catching his breath, “...to ‘never’ try screwing you if you don’t wann’a be screwed!”

Attempting to stop laughing. “yeah...” Marsha said, making a stab at sounding serious, “...or I’ll puke all over you, too!”

 Next FBOW excerpt in sequence: Wand Of The Youth God