RAILROADED

     I was in New York on business -- mandatory suit, tie and over-stuffed briefcase; day long sessions around a conference table as big and wide as the Bonneville Salt Flats; sparing and haggling with a bunch of stuffed-shirts who’d just as soon pee down my throat as look at me.  Christ, I should have taken up plumbing, maybe palm-reading.  After Friday’s meeting broke up, I soon found myself wandering unfamiliar streets, trying to score on a little weed to mellow me out.

     And that’s when she stepped out of the darkness, directly across my path; a babe who was also out to score.  This woman should have been soaking bare-ass in some hot tub with Brad Pitt, sipping champagne.  She was a rose amongst thorns.  If she’d been copilot, Mohammad Atta would have forsaken Islam and set an alternate course toward the neon lights of Vegas.

     She had long tresses of jet-black hair, as shiny and silky as the feathers of a raven.  Her eyes -- slightly almond-shaped -- were nearly as dark as her hair, her skin alabaster-white in the comparison.  The most perfect of noses with the cutest flare to the nostrils.  And her lips; sensually pouting, like a female Elvis Presley.  She had a dynamite body with a two-second fuse, all shrink-wrapped into a skin-tight leather jumpsuit.  I observed all of this in the time that it took me to gulp, my heart beating faster than Desi Arnaz on the bongos.

     “Hi, sweet cakes,” she purred.  “Care to fool around?”

     “Come on.”

     “Is that spelled c-u-m?”

     “Are you -- uh – serious?”  For once my discretion won out over my dick.  “I -- uh -- I think I’ll take a pass.”

     Suddenly, I felt something hard being pressed against the back of my head.

     “Oh, I’m serious, all right. I’m just as serious as my friend holding that .22 against your noggin.”

     The stirring in my loins disappeared as fast as Jesse Jackson at a Klan meeting.

     “What is this -- a stickup?”

     “I sure hope it sticks up,” she quipped, nodding toward the dark entry of an alley.  “Step into my boudoir, honey-bunny.”

     “Look, I’ll give you all the money that I have.  But, please, don’t take my credit cards.”

     Her expression turned as hard as steel.  “Bloodstains are hell to get out of a five-hundred dollar suit.  The alley, now!  And, believe me; it’s not your money that I want.  It’s your jewels.”  She gave one of the cutest winks I had ever seen.  “And I’m thinking along the lines of the Hope Diamond.”

     We walked down the alley for perhaps a hundred yards and turned a corner.  And, voila, there was her boudoir; a Coleman lantern, an incense burner and an air mattress.

     “Whip off your trousers, honey, and we’ll get this show on the road.”

     “Tell me; were you planning on grabbing the first guy to come along?”

     “Or did I find you unbearably attractive?”

     “Well -- uh -- yeah.”

     “Well, you do have nice eyes.  Now, shuck those pantaloons.”  She looked over my shoulder at her friend.  “What do you think, April; boxers or briefs?”

     “He’s the business type and you know how they are.  If I have to venture a guess, I’d say briefs -- the bikini kind.”

     “I think that you may be right.  Oh, before you pull down your britches, let me see your wallet.  I’d like to know who I’m going to bonk.”

     “See, I knew you wanted my cash.”

     “Shut the fuck up about money!  I’m more interested in taking a gander at your license.”  She snatched the wallet from my hand, located my license and held it closer to the lantern.  “Reginald Earnhardt.  Born on March the fourth, nineteen-seventy-three.  He’s from Phoenix, April.”

     April gave a throaty giggle.  “Yeah, he looks like a Phoenician.”

     The babe tossed back my wallet.  “I’ll call you ‘Reggie’ and you can call me ‘Darling.’” 

     “Fair enough, Darling.”

     “Down with the pants.”

     “One question, first.”

     “Okay, shoot.”

     “Why are you doing this?”

     “Why?”

     “Yes, ‘why.’  Pardon the expression; but you are one fucking, good-looking, dynamite-ass chick.  You could have any number of guys just by snapping your finger.  So why do you choose this method, which -- by the way -- can land you straight in the hoosegow.”

     She winked.  “Let’s just say that I like the thrill, the risk, the adventure.  And let me not forget that wonderful, pulse-racing, near orgasmic sense of domination.  So, there, you have it.  Now drop those fucking drawers!”

     I unhitched my belt, unzipped my fly and let my trousers fall to the ground, the girls squealing with delight at my bikini briefs.  With a nod from Darling, I let my underwear drop, a blush setting my cheeks on fire.

     “Ah, Reggie; you’re going to have to do better than that.”  Darling held up a condom, letting it swing between thumb and forefinger.  “It’s got to stand up and salute for this.”

     “Well, I’m under a little pressure, here.”

     “Maybe this might help.”

     She snatched off her leather boots, and was out of her jumpsuit faster than Houdini.  And there she stood; a virtual goddess of love!  There were no seeds in those melons.  And there was definitely no Sheriff of Nottingham in her Sherwood Forest!

     “See, you’re better already,” she cooed, tossing me the condom.  “April, back off a ways to make sure we don’t get any unwanted company.  That would play hell with Reggie’s boner.”

     “I’ll try to keep him covered at the same time.”

     “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary at this point.  Tell me, Reg; do you prefer the top or bottom?”

     “I’m strictly a bottom man.”

     “That’s just fine by me.”

     We did it, right there, under the romantic glow of the Coleman, my shirt and suit coat hiked up to my chin.  Although the sex was under duress, it was the farthest thing from my thoughts.  My lasting power was phenomenal, greater than it had ever been in my life.  She squealed, she panted, she gasped, and she shrieked with delight as we both blew our cookies at the same time.  When she stood, the light of the lantern shone on her body, her sheen of sweat glimmering like all the diamonds in New York.  I laid there, totally exhausted, my euphoria worth a million joints of marijuana!

     “Well -- uh -- how was I?” I asked, secretly crossing my fingers.

     “Reggie, you were utterly fantastic --- a regular Hugh Hefner!”  She danced around, patting her twat.  “Wow!  My tee-tee is throbbing like a thumb whacked by a hammer!”

     I closed my eyes with a smile, wallowing in my pride.  When I opened my eyes, after what seemed like only a few seconds, she was gone!  She had vanished like chimney smoke on a windy night.  Everything; the Coleman, the incense burner, even the fucking air mattress.  For a few moments, I thought that it might have been a dream -- a wet one at that.

 

** * ***

 

 

     I was relaxing at home in Phoenix, on a Saturday afternoon, the happening in New York a distant memory, when I heard a knock at the door.  It was an urgent knock, not one of a friend or family member, if that was at all possible to determine.  When I opened the door, I was confronted by two men in suits, one holding a badge under my nose.  I saw two Phoenix cops standing back, at the bottom of the porch steps.

     “Uh -- yes -- can I help you in some way?  Was there a robbery nearby or something?”

     “Sir, we’re with the NYPD.  I’m Detective Russo and that’s my partner, Detective Maloney.  Just for the record; you are Reginald Earnhardt?”

     “Yes, that’s me?  You said you’re from New York?”

     “That’s right.  Mister Earnhardt, we have a warrant for your arrest; for the rape of one, Samantha Gleeson; on June the seventeenth of this year.”

     “What in the hell are you talking about?  I didn’t rape anyone!”

     “Were you -- to the best of your recollection -- in New York on the aforementioned date?”

     “Well, I might have been in the city on business.  Maybe it was June, I guess.”

     “Sir, would you assume the position, please.”

     “The what?”

     “Please; turn around, place your hands against the wall and spread your legs, so we can check you for a weapon.”

     “Are you fucking crazy?  I’m not carrying any weapon!”

     The bigger of the two cops slammed me against the wall, spreading my legs with his foot.  “This would have gone a whole lot easier on you, if you’d chosen to cooperate.”

     “Wait a minute, wait a minute; this supposed rape victim wouldn’t be called ‘Darling’ would she?”

     “Is that what you called her while you were raping her?”

     “You have it all wrong!  She’s the one who raped me!”

     They both started to laugh and it spread to the two Phoenix cops who were now standing just inside the door.  I mean laughter; belly-shaking, face-reddening, teary-eyed laughter!  Finally, the big New York detective moved nearly nose-to-nose with me, his eyes dancing with merriment as he held up a picture of Darling.

     “Give me a fucking break, Earnhardt.  Does this woman look as though she has to force herself on any man?  Please, sir; do not insult our intelligence.  Christ, I have a rod-on, right now, just looking at her picture.”

     With that, Detective Erection whipped out a card and started to recite my Miranda rights.  It all sounded like garble to me as I stood there, gaping, wide-eyed, my head literally in a spin.

 

*** * ***

 

 

     The three of us flew back to New York, me and Detective Russo handcuffed to one another.  Sweet Jesus, I felt like a Mafia hit-man, or, worse yet --- Saddam fucking Hussein.  Once in the city, I was photographed and fingerprinted, and thrown a phonebook so I could look up the number of a lawyer.  I chose Murray Gold, figuring that a tough Jew would be a bigger help than some weak-kneed gentile.  My mother knew a lot of hotshot attorneys, but, at the moment, she was touring Europe with her gigolo boy friend.  And I mean “boy” friend.

     Murray was a little pip-squeak of a guy with a balding head and thick-lens glasses, but he looked like he had grit to me and that was all that mattered.  One of the first things that came out of his mouth nearly floored me – “This Samantha Gleeson is not only saying that you raped her; she’s saying that you’re the father of the child that she’s carrying.”

     “Oh, no -- there’s no fucking way!  The bitch made me wear a rubber for Christ-sake!”

     “Those things aren’t infallible, you know.  Maybe it had a pin-hole or something.”  He leaned close to me, narrowing his eyes.  “’I’m going to ask you this question once and only once.  Did you or did you not rape this Gleeson woman?”

     “I most certainly did not!  She’s the one who forced herself on me!  At gunpoint, I might add.”

     Murray raised his bushy brows.

     “Yeah, that’s right; her friend, April, held a fucking gun to my head.”

     “That’s funny; she’s accusing you of the same thing.  The Phoenix cops are probably searching your house as we speak.”

     “I don’t own a gun!  I can’t stand the sight of them.”

     Murray sighed.  “I’ve got to tell you; Samantha Gleeson is not only an eye-popper, she’s extremely rich and influential as well.  Not to mention the fact that her daddy is one of the top muck-a-mucks on Wall Street.”

     “That is just great!” I nearly screamed, running my fingers through my hair.  “So what are you telling me, here; I don’t have a chance in hell of proving my innocence?”

     “She raped you, while her pal was holding a gun on you?”

     “That’s what the hell I said!  What -- you don’t believe me?”

     Murray looked at me long and hard, as if attempting to read my innermost thoughts.  “Okay, I believe you.  The question being; who in the hell else will?”

     “Look, it figures I’m not the only victim of her little dominatrix game.  This unborn baby could be the off-spring of one of any number of guys; Joe Blow or John Doe, who knows. Could I take one of those tests to see if there’s a match?”

     “Maybe yeah, maybe no.  I don’t know if it’s possible with the kid still in the womb.  I’ll have to check.”  Murray shrugged.  “But that’s the least of your problems.  The biggest being the charge of rape.”

     “Okay, okay, so what’s next?”

     “There’ll be a preliminary hearing to see if there’s enough evidence to hold you over for trial.  That’s when we’ll find out what your bail will be.  Do you have anyone willing to post it?”

     “My Mother would, but she’s off somewhere, touring Europe.”

     “Maybe I can get you off on your own recognizance, if I can prove that you have no priors, and up until now, you’ve been an exceptionally model citizen.  Oh, there’s one little thing.”  Murray read from the paper that he had taken notes on.  “So you were walking the streets, dressed in a suit and tie, and trying to -- I quote – ‘rustle up a little marijuana to mellow me out.’”

     “Correct.”

     “Well, Jesus H.; that would go over like a case of the Hershey squirts during a high mass.  Let’s make a much needed correction, shall we.  ‘I was out taking a leisurely walk, and, being an out-of-towner, I made a wrong turn and got lost.’ Does that sound better, Mister Pot-Head?”

     “I’m no pot-head!”

     “Well, the judge and jury would have certainly thought so.”

     “Okay, okay; my life is in your hands.  Please, get me out of this fix, because I do not deserve this SHIT!”

     To make a long story a bit shorter; Murray talked with the judge and my preliminary hearing was held five days later.  And what a fucking fiasco it was!  Samantha Gleeson had gotten her long hair shorn to a bob and she had traded her black leather jumpsuit for a baggy, floral-printed dress that concealed every aspect of her dynamite body.  Fuck, she looked like Joan of Arc!  And wouldn’t you know it; she was carrying a wad of tissues to dab away an almost constant stream of tears.

     Her friend’s name turned out to be ‘May’ instead of ‘April.’’  It didn’t make a lick of difference; one fucking month was as bad as the next.  But one thing did make a difference and a big one; she was a loving wife and the mother of three, plus the head director of an organization that aided needy children! 

     To make matters even worse; there happened to be a total of four people that actually witnessed me raping poor little Samantha! Where they came from I don’t know.  They were probably bought with a good sum of money by either “Darling” or her hotshot father.

     Needless to say; the judge deemed that there was more than enough evidence to hold me over for trial.  However, Murray managed to have the bail dropped and for me to be released on my recognizance.

     During the preliminary hearing, I kept getting whiffs of a strange smell and I finally realized what it was; my ass, basted with butter and seasoned with spices, turning very slowly over a red-hot fire!

 

*** * ***

 

 

     I sat in the courtroom next to a very nervous Murray, my eyes occasionally wandering over to the jury; nine women, of all the luck, and three men.  Three blacks, two Hispanics, two Orientals, two whites, and three of undeterminable origin.  Seven of them were under the age of fifty, I would say, and the rest over, one looking to be about eighty-five.  No matter how I cut the pie, it kept coming up blackbirds.  I thought about a bunch of angry ranchers about to string up a cattle thief.

     Dear, sweet Samantha was clad in a black maternity dress with the word “BABY” in bold yellow letters, accentuated by sweeping red arrows.  The tissues -- once again -- were in ample supply, and when she blew her nose, she made sure that everyone in the courtroom could hear. 

     May, her gun-wielding accomplice, was decked out in a matronly gray suit and frilly white blouse, her hair pulled back tautly into a bun.  The four witnesses with the bionic eyes looked like contestants in an Ozzie and Harriet contest.

     That’s when I realized that I was finished, railroaded by a bunch of fucking con artists!

     May took the stand, swore on the bible, and lied to her heart’s content, saying that it was me who was brandishing a gun on that terrible night.  I jumped to my feet and shouted “liar”, but the judge pounded his gavel and warned that another such outburst would force him to evict me from the courtroom.  Murray, without the slightest idea on how to proceed, failed miserably at his attempt to tear apart her testimony.  When the same went for the Ozzie and Harriet look-alikes, I slumped in my chair and gave up all hope.

     When Samantha took the stand, all teary-eyed and sniffling, the prosecutor patted her knee and turned to the jury.  “Miss Gleeson; with the terrible ordeal that you went through -- how do you ever manage to repose yourself?”

     “It’s not easy, sir, but I read and find solace in the bible.  The Lord has seen it fit to be at my side during my time of need.”

     A collective sigh went up from the jury.  The forewoman bowed her head with a resounding “amen.”

     “Miss Gleeson; do you see the man who so wantonly and viciously attacked and raped you, during that fateful evening, when you and your friend were walking home from Saint Patrick’s Cathedral?”

     “Oh, yes,” she fairly gasped, pointing a trembling finger in my direction.  “He’s --He’s right over there.  I will never be able to forget those terrible eyes for as long as I live.  Like – Like burning embers in a -- in a smoldering pile of ashes.”

     “Let it be entered into the records that Miss Samantha Gleeson has indicated Mister Reginald Earnhardt as her assailant.”

     “So be it!’ barked the judge.

     The Devil’s disciple continued to pummel and flail and hammer my character for a half hour more, until, finally, it was Murray’s turn to try and correct all the damage.  Sidling up to the stand, he paced for a few moments before snapping his head toward Miss Samantha “Darling” Gleeson.

     “Miss Gleeson; is it not a fact that on the aforementioned night, it was you who forced yourself on my client. It was you, Miss Gleeson, with the aid of your armed and dangerous cohort ---.”  Murray whirled and pointed at May.  “Missus May Sylvester!”

     There was a sniggering from the jury, which mounted by leaps-and-bounds, until it was an outright chorus of eye-watering, chest-heaving, knee-slapping laughter!  It spread quickly throughout the courtroom; the reporters, the gathered observers, the witnesses, the bailiff, the attorneys, the guards, and, finally, even the judge!  Upon reaching its epidemic proportions, Murray -- my own damn lawyer-- started to hee-haw so forcefully that his glasses slid down to the very tip of his nose!

     Realizing that I was doomed -- finished, kaput -- it was hard to resist the temptation.  Laughing like a hysterical hyena, I dashed to the stand before anyone could stop me and drove my fist right into the startled face of Miss Darling Gleeson.  When her nose popped like an over-ripened melon, I couldn’t help giving her two more for good measure.

 

*** * ***

 

 

     I made my way slowly, warily, up the olive-drab corridor, swishing the mop from side-to-side: raucous laughter and the bomp-bomp-bomp of a basketball coming through the windows from the exercise yard below.  A metal door clanged shut in the distance.

     As I neared the end of the corridor, my eyes glued to the floor, I happened across a pair of prison-issued shoes the size of gunboats.  My eyes eased up the blue denim trousers, across a paler blue shirt, and, finally, into the scarred, flat-nosed, meaty-lipped, shaven-headed mug of Mad Dog Dougherty!  Those massive arms with tattoos emblazoned from sloping shoulders clear down to paws the size of catchers’ mitts.  I spotted a fire-breathing dragon, a Tweetie Bird, assorted knives and daggers, and a rattlesnake curling through the empty eye sockets of a skull.  On each of the sausage-like fingers of his right hand was a letter, which, together, spelled out the word DOOM.

     His eyes twinkled as he leaned close to me.  “Hi, sweet cakes -- care to fool around?”

 

 

THE END