Chapter 1
Salas
They met at the Walgreens off Creighton Avenue, the one a mile east of the Fort Wayne Police Department.
Salas noticed her when she walked in through the sliding glass doors. Everyone noticed her. She wasn’t loud like making a lot of noise—but very loud physically. Blond, bouffant hair, eighties-style wavy bangs that were swept back on her forehead. Lavish lips, red lip smackers. Of course the attention-getters were her boobs: two cymbals in the high-school band, large, no bra, tucked into a Jerry Garcia T-shirt. Salas was sure it was a large but fit like a small. Ten pounds of sugar in a five-pound sack. Short shorts, muscular quads, maybe a high-school volleyball player in the day, black stiletto heels. Fortyish, thought Salas, old enough to know better, young enough to keep trying. Lose twenty pounds, and she could be a model. If Salas lost twenty pounds, well…he would still be Salas.
Salas forgot why he was in the store. Deodorant? Razor? Now it didn’t matter.
He tucked his white V-neck T-shirt into his Wranglers, followed her to aisle eight—bath products, hair gels, creams, shampoo, conditioner—and inched along in her direction. Last section before the vitamins, she stopped and grabbed a small bottle. Salas looked over her shoulder; the bottle said, “Warming Gel.” (Someone was watching over him!)
“Looks fun,” Salas said with a smile, revealing pearly-white caps.
She looked at Salas, first in the eyes then up and down slowly, from boots to bald head. She liked bald guys. Her eyes met his. “One would hope,” she said. She was smiling too.
“Any way I can be of service, miss, please let me know. We at CVS aim to please,” Salas said, returning the body inspection but focusing on her eyes. It was more difficult than he’d thought.
“We’re at Walgreens, sweetie,” Blondie said, her tongue stretched out. She gave a slow lick of her lips. Salas’s knees buckled.
“My apologies miss. You have me a bit distracted. I’m a big Grateful Dead fan.” Salas reached out and moved a few strands of hair from her cheek to behind her ear.
“I’m Angelina.” She held out her hand as if to shake.
Salas took her outstretched hand, turned it, bent slowly, and lightly kissed the back of her wrist. He stood up again, made deep eye contact, and said, “I’m Brad. Nice to meet you, Angelina.”
Angelina smiled. “Brad and Angelina! How perfect.”
Twenty minutes later they were in the Fort Wayne Super 8. Twenty-two minutes later he was out of his boots and jeans, wearing only the white T-shirt. Two hours later he was back at work. Forty-eight hours later they were at the Fort Wayne Motel 6. Sex, rest, repeat.
This pattern continued over the next few weeks. Three times per week, two hours per trip, times four weeks equaled twenty-four hours of pure sex. No talking, just down to business, and she still thought his name was Brad.
Today they broke their motel routine, and thank goodness, thought Salas. At nearly $250 a week for hotel rooms, the sex was breaking him. He could have taken Angelina to his place, but it was a shithole, and he knew this relationship, if that’s what this was, would flame out soon. She didn’t know his real name, so why let her know where he lived?
She had texted “Brad” at eleven thirty: “My place at 1:00! 440 Industrial, 2nd floor.”
Salas arrived at twelve forty-five to scout out the area, a little advance reconnaissance.
He parked a block south in front of an Ace Hardware—no sense letting her know the make and model of his car.
The neighborhood was primarily commercial. Parts and supply stores, Lowe’s, cement plant, HVAC, a manufacturer of engine parts, a welding shop that fixed trailers.
Salas walked the block north and found the building marked “440 Industrial.” It was a standard commercial-grade-looking building. Grayish metal siding, double-door entryway into Dan Davis General Contracting, no windows in the front. Sign on the door said, closed.
Walking to the north side, he turned the corner on 5th and found an entry door with steps going up. The door was unlocked. He climbed the seventeen steps to the second floor; he had a habit of counting steps. The stairway was barren: no handrail, no windows. A single light bulb, which was on, hung from the ceiling next to the door at the top of the steps. He knocked lightly, the door sneaking open with each rap. Salas stepped in.
“I’m in the kitchen!” Angelina called out.
The apartment was clean: no clutter, no clothes or empty beer cans on the furniture. Hardwood floors, a small living room with a Pheasants Forever print above the leather couch: two pheasants taking flight in corn stubble, a yellow lab on their tails.
Salas walked into the next room, a small kitchen with a wooden table, and there she was. Like the Indiana August weather, it was hot and so was she. He couldn’t wait to unleash her bosom and enjoy. Like the previous twelve times, talking wasn’t on the table, but soon Angelina was. Salas hoped the solid oak table really was solid oak.
Angelina wasted no time either. Salas had a barrel chest and massive arms. She pulled his T-shirt over his head. Salas, in his early fifties, could stand to lose some weight, hit the gym more, slow down on the drinking, maybe eat a salad every once in a while, but now wasn’t the time for self-reflection.
As much as he loved Angelina’s bosom, she loved his arms. A former college light-heavyweight wrestler at Nebraska, Salas was still built like one, cauliflower ear and all.
Down to his gray Fruit of the Loom boxer briefs and sporting a major erection, Salas stood to drop his final piece of clothing. Angelina was bare chested too, her skirt pulled up and thong panties pulled off. They froze when someone yelled up the steps, “Ange, you home?”
“You have a boyfriend?” Salas whispered.
“Husband.”
“Shit, please don’t tell me it’s Dan Davis Construction,” Salas said a little louder.
“Shhh, yes, that’s our business!” Angelina rushed to get her shirt.
“Are you shitting me? You brought me to work?” Salas was looking for his pants, his shirt, his boots, his boonie hat. The guy coming up the stairs was on number fifteen if he had the count correct.
“He was supposed to be across town!” Angelina was putting her shirt on.
Dan Davis walked in, baseball hat on backward, a pencil behind his ear, the eraser facing Salas. Salas had his clothes in his hand, his erection facing the man.
“Ange, what the hell? Who is this? What? Angelina?” Dan Davis stammered.
“Honey, it isn’t what it looks like,” Angelina said in her defense.
“Sir, I had no idea she was married. I sincerely apologize. I’ll just get my stuff and let you two talk it out,” Salas said softly, clutching his clothes, his manhood standing at attention.
“You stay right the fuck there!” Dan Davis pointed at Salas. “I’m going to totally fuck you up!” Davis, standing taller than Salas and heavier, had Salas’s attention.
“I understand, sir, but there’s no reason to fight. We didn’t do anything. It’s my bad. I said I’m sorry. I’ll just be leaving now.” Salas was quickly trying to exit stage right.
“You ain’t going nowhere till I’m done with you!” Dan Davis screamed as he started across the kitchen floor.
“I don’t want to fight you. I just want to leave. Now let me be.” Salas was very calm, considering.
“Fuck that! I’m going to kick your ass!” Dan Davis yelled, charging Salas, his arms straight out, like he was going for a standing chokehold.
Salas crossed his right arm over, bent his knees to lower himself—keeping his back straight—and neatly ducked under the outstretched arms of Dan Davis. Wrestling 101, the duck under. Salas kept close to Davis and put him in a bear hug. Wrestling 201, the bear hug. Salas’s chest was to Davis’s back, with both of Davis’s arms trapped under Salas’s.
Salas lifted Davis off the floor. “Now I said I don’t want to fight,” he repeated.
“Let me go. Let me go, asshole. Is that…is that…you, you got a fucking boner! I can feel it on my ass! What the hell is wrong with you, man? You’re fighting me with a boner!” Dan Davis was not comfortable in his current position.
“It’s medicated, bro. It has a mind of its own.” Again Salas remained calm.
“Uuuuggghhhh!” Dan Davis was squirming and kicking, trying to head-butt Salas with the back of his skull.
Now redressed, minus the thong—she couldn’t find it—Angelina stepped in and said calmly, softly, “Brad, please let him go. Dan, honey, I’m sorry. We didn’t do anything—this was a mistake. You and I can work this out. Now Brad is going to let you go. He’ll leave, and we can talk. Okay, honey?”
“Okay, okay, just let me go,” Dan Davis pleaded. “And you, you…Brad, get the hell out of here now!” Dan Davis finally quit struggling.
Salas unleashed the bear hug he had on him, backed away, and again picked up his clothes, boots, and hat.
Dan Davis looked at Salas, who was still high and hard. “You son of a bitch!” he screamed, lunging at Salas.
Trying to tackle Salas, Dan Davis came in low like a linebacker. Salas faced him head on and again lowered his body, twisting slightly to the right, and put Dan Davis into a monster headlock. Salas cranked Dan Davis’s head and neck hard, up and back—Salas the cowboy at the National Finals Rodeo, Dan Davis the steer. Davis let out a howl.
“Now again, Dan, you need to relax. I can really hurt you right now, so just relax and I’ll leave.” Again Salas remained calm, trying to defuse the man.
Dan Davis, still in a headlock, said in jumbled, gargled words, “You pussy! You need Viagra to get a hard-on.”
“Now I’m being nice, Dan.” Salas squeezed a little tighter. “Let’s not get personal.” He was started to enjoy this headlock.
“Guess when you’re old and bald, your pecker’s the first to go!” Davis said.
“Well, you know what the commercial says: ‘For an erection lasting more than four hours, call Angelina.’” Salas said it but knew he shouldn’t have.
Dan Davis was furious. He would have been red regardless of the headlock. His face was mere inches away from a guy’s erection, the erection that was trying to screw his wife. Dan Davis started to reach forward, moving his hand off Salas’s forearms and extending it to Salas’s manhood.
“Don’t do it. Do not do that!” Salas no longer had a calm voice.
Humiliated, saddened, and embarrassed, Dan Davis went to grab Salas’s dick.
Salas lifted and dropped Dan Davis to the floor.
Dan Davis cried out in agony.
“Told you not to do that,” Salas said.
Angelina rushed to her husband’s side. She knelt beside him, stroking his hair, kissing his cheek, her boobs in his face. “It’ll be okay, honey. I called the police. They’ll be here any minute.”
“Are you shitting me?” Salas murmured. He buttoned up his Wranglers and slipped on his white T-shirt. He left the socks and went down the steps, stopped at the bottom, pulled on his Tony Lamas, and walked into the warm Indiana sunshine. He tugged down on his boonie hat, got it snug, and slowly headed to his car.
Salas was standing in front of his dark-blue Ford Taurus when a black-and-white Mercury sedan pulled up. fort wayne police was painted on the door, with we protect and serve decaled on the running board.
“Mike!” the police officer on the passenger side of the car called out to Salas. “What are you doing here? They call in a detective for a domestic dispute?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, man,” Salas said, lifting the brim of his hat. “Just here for the hardware.” He pointed to the Ace Hardware store.
“Oh, okay. We’re checking out a marital issue at Dan Davis Construction,” the cop said.
“Need some help? I have the time,” offered Salas.
“No, we got it. See you at the station. Thanks!” The cop at the wheel parked the police car in front of Salas’s. Both officers exited the sedan and headed over to Dan Davis Construction.
Salas watched them turn the corner as he got in his Ford and drove off.
