Hurricane Kretschman.
4th book in Fish Fishbein's "Adventures in La-La Land" series.
Chapter 3
“Whoops. Sorry about that. Heh, heh. ”
Dale Kimbrough cursed silently in the darkened room, punched a couple of keys on his laptop and chuckled again. This time, a little more nervously, as he struggled to get his PowerPoint presentation back on track.
“Welcome to the age of computers. Heh, heh…”
He tugged on his neckwear in the dark.
With all the money and corporate clout in the room, this meeting had to go better than perfectly.
And he’d already made two strategic blunders.
The first was in hitting the wrong key and sending his presentation back to the PowerPoint slide his audience had just seen.
And the second was in the outfit he’d put together for the meeting.
Since this gathering was going to take place in one of the conference rooms at the Hilton in Fargo, North Dakota, he figured he’d toss in a little sop to the Midwestern small town, rural area, and added a bolo string tie to his dark, impeccably tailored knock-off of a Brioni suit.
How was he to know there would be almost a dozen and a half men and women dressed like New York bankers seated around the conference table?
“Now…as you’ve already seen, Branson, Missouri plays host to more than eight million visitors a year.”
He changed to the next PowerPoint slide and felt a drop of “flop” sweat work its way down his spine.
Damn right he was nervous.
There was more corporate green-stuff and investment potential seated around that table than at any other gathering he’d ever seen.
Power players and decision makers from the biggest brands in hospitality, travel, banking, entertainment and gaming.
Hell, Trump even had a heavy-hitter in there taking notes.
“And we think that with its position as the gateway to the Black Hills, and all the natural attractions, amenities and diversions the area has to offer, Sturgis, South Dakota will easily eclipse Branson to become America’s next big family getaway and vacation spot.”
He punched up the next PowerPoint slide as someone seated at the table cleared his throat.
Not a good sign,
Another drop of sweat trickled down his back.
“And so do a lot of other players in your respective industries, ladies and gentlemen.”
The PowerPoint show quickly riffled through a collection of impressive corporate logos. Names like Disney, Six Flags, Hilton, NBC, Universal Studios, MGM Resorts, United Airlines, Sony, and more.
“As you can see, with your investment, your employers would be in some very impressive company. We’re offering a serious opportunity here for each of you to nail down a ground floor spot in what will be the most explosively growing niche in family oriented travel and leisure.”
The lights came up and Kimbrough threw the meeting open for questions.
One hand immediately disobeyed gravity.
It belonged to the guy who’d just interrupted Kimbrough’s presentation to clear his throat.
“Glad you could make it, Marty,” Kimbrough nodded to the man. “What’s on your mind?”
“I’ll tell you. Overall, I’m pretty impressed with your numbers and projections and all.”
That well-manicured hand belonged to Martin R. “Shovelhead” Ratliff, senior vice president in charge of expansion and new ventures for the I-15 Group, a multinational gaming and hospitality player that owned or operated premier hotels and casino properties in Las Vegas, Reno, Vicksburg, Connecticut, Macao and Bermuda. Along with raking in hundreds of millions in tax-free bucks every year from their online casino gaming sites.
When it came to separating the suckers from their bankrolls, the I-15 Group was the ten thousand pound elephant in the room.
And Shovelhead Ratliff was the driving force behind that pachyderm’s growth.
“But I see a small problem. And I want to see how you deal with it, before I commit.”
“Heh, heh,” Kimbrough fired another salvo of nervous chortles at Ratliff’s section of the conference table. And the tiny rivulet of flop sweat running down his spine had suddenly grown. “No problem, Marty. Whatever it is, chances are, we’ve already anticipated it and have it dealt with.”
“Ok, in less than a week, a million or so bikers are going to roll into Sturgis for the town’s annual motorcycle rally. What do you think that week-long kegger is going to do to your portion of the family oriented travel and leisure market?”
“I’m glad you asked, Marty. We’ve already addressed that very issue. And I can assure you that this will be the last year it’ll be held in Sturgis.”
“Oh, really? That rally’s a tradition that goes back almost eighty years, friend. Last year, it brought a little more than eight hundred million dollars in revenue into the area.”
“Marty, my proposal has the potential to bring in more than ten times that. I’ve already discussed it with the county’s supervisors and the town’s mayor and the city council, and they’re all on board. Same with the Lakota Sioux. We’ll just have to convince these bikers to hold their party someplace else.”
“And just how do you plan to do that?”
Kimbrough smiled. “Let’s just say that contingencies are in place. And if you don’t mind my asking, Marty, you seem to know an awful lot about this event.”
“That’s because I haven’t missed a single Sturgis rally since 1975. The same with three of my buddies in this room.”
The trickle of sweat running down Kimbrough’s back had overflowed the waistband on his slacks, and was now running down the back of his leg.
“I’m going to be there next week. For the whole…damn…rally. And I’ll be keeping an eye on you and those “plans” of yours. I want to see how you talk a million Harley riders into finding another place for their annual blow-out.”
All Kimbrough could come back with was another nervous, “Heh, heh.”
“Do that, and I’ll take you and your plan seriously. But, you screw this pooch, Kimbrough…and we’re all going to know you’re just another jerk-off in a badly made suit.”
****
Shawna goosed her throttle and quickly jumped out in front of Fish, Kenny and Einstein. Then she eased back a little on the gas and motioned for everyone to pull off at the rest area coming up on the right side of the road.
“You Ok?” Fish yelled over to her as he shut off the ignition on his old school chopper.
“Fine, Fish.” She climbed off her ride. “Got no lizard to drain, SweetPea” she chuckled. “So, let’s just say…I’ve got to let some water out of the pond.”
The deputy pulled a couple of rolled up pieces of clothing out of one of her saddle bags, then leaned over to give Fish a kiss.
“Damn, we ate a lot of miles today.” She kissed him again. “A ton of miles.”
Then she affectionately pinched The Big Dog’s crotch. “Don’t make any plans for later, Honey. Be right back.”
Fish returned her kiss and then looked past Shawna to where the line for the ladies room was out the door and had disappeared around one corner of the cinderblock building.
“Don’t bet the farm on it,” he let out a chortle and gestured with his head toward the posse of waiting women.
“Well then,” Shawna shrugged. “Be back as soon as I can. In the meantime SweetPea, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
She gave him one last grope and a kiss, then headed off for the ladies room.
Fish watched her walk away and shook his head, chuckling.
Don’t do anything she wouldn’t do.
Hell, the stuff on that little list was probably all three-strike felonies.
While he waited, Fish decided to spend a couple of minutes taking a good long look at Shawna’s scoot.
He squatted down next to it and was seriously impressed with everything he saw.
Starting with the engine.
Shawna wasn’t blowing smoke back at the jail in Twin Falls, when she told him she’d dropped in a hundred twenty-four cubic inch S&S mill.
Same with the Baker six-speed tranny.
And the oversized Brembo’s grabbing the front and rear wheels.
The Big Dog whistled appreciatively.
Shawna’s ride had more than enough lickety-splititude to embarrass the crap out of any Motor Company product that wasn’t set up for the drag strip.
Fish stood up, his eye fell on her gas tank and he doubled over laughing.
To begin with, someone had shot about ten layers of flawless pearlized lavender on the tank, and then polished it off with a couple of coats of clear coat.
There were no skulls.
No flames.
No flags.
And no freakin’ eagles.
None of the other graphic clichés bikers like to pile on by the trainload.
Just a large, life-like and glowering Bengal tiger crouched between the rider’s legs, and ready to pounce.
With a pair of eyes that drilled right through the person working the brake and clutch levers.
And painted with its fur trimmed all the way down to the skin, by an artist who really knew what the hell they were doing.
Then it was all framed with delicate, feminine-looking script lettering that spelled out the words, “Shaved Pussy”.
“Boy,” Fish just had to chuckle again. “Talk about your truth in advertising.”
He spent a few more minutes inspecting and admiring the know-how that had gone into assembling Shawna’s ride. Sure, everything she’d added to her machine was available at dozens of online parts houses. But it was the thought that went into each of her parts choices that made for a scoot that took no prisoners.
Standing back up, he took a second glimpse at her gas tank, shook his head and fired off another chortle.
Then he glanced toward the restrooms and saw her walking back.
And his heart just stopped.
It was like a slow-motion scene from one of those dumb-ass, teenage coming of age movies. The ones that always seemed to take place at the beach.
Shawna was sauntering his way in a pair of mirrored aviator shades.
Moving confidently and unhurried, like she owned the place and everything in it. Like some predator on the Serengeti, keeping an eye out for its next gazelle.
Around her neck was a turquoise and silver squash blossom choker.
Set off with a fresh coating of lipstick in a shade that could put any self-respecting fire engine to shame.
And the deputy had replaced her t-shirt with a form-fitting black leather vest, which started a couple of inches above her waist and exposed a ton of real estate to the South Dakota sun.
But the real heart-stopper was the territory between her belly button and her boots. Where Shawna had removed her black leather chaps in the bathroom, then her jeans.
Then she unfolded one of Victoria’s Secret’s best and skimpiest black thongs. And stepped in.
And climbed back into her chaps.
Leaving pretty much the big goose egg to the imagination, both coming and going.
“I’m back, SweetPea,” Shawna threw her arms around Fish’s neck and gave him a huge smooch. “You miss me?”
He silently returned her kiss, his little head having temporarily snatched control from the bigger one.
“Whatsamatter, Sugar Bear,” the deputy chuckled. “Feline got your tongue?”
“Uh huh,” The Big Dog nodded. “The shaved one.”
“I can see that,” she reached down to squeeze the bulge that had sprouted in the front of Fish’s Levis. “Feel it, too,” she giggled.
“Hey, don’t get me wrong here, Shawna,” Fish’s Buddha-licious smile had reclaimed its traditional perch on his countenance. “But I’ve gotta ask…why? I mean, you looked pretty damn good already.”
“Because it’s all about the entrance, SweetPea. We’re gonna hit Sturgis in about a half hour, right? Figure around a million bikers and their women’ll be in and around the town.”
Fish nodded, not really seeing any problem with Shawna’s reasoning.
“And from the minute we roll in, I want every guy in that town wishing to Hell he was you. And every female so freakin’ jealous of me she could spit. Then I want them all to see that we’re unavailable.”
She pulled a smaller version of her squash blossom choker out of her pocket.
“Here,” she handed it to Fish. “Put this on, and keep it on the whole time we’re at the rally.”
“Ok,” Fish shrugged and slipped the piece of traditional Navajo art onto his wrist. “How come?”
“Because these mark us. As far as everyone at the rally is concerned, for the next week, I belong to you, and you belong to me.”
“Ok, but I don’t see --”
“Somebody messes with you -- I don’t care who it is, I’ll kick their sorry ass. They mess with me, I’ll kick their ass, too.”
The Buddha-licious grin that normally rode around perched under Fish’s nose suddenly decided to go grab a cup o’ Joe.
“Hold it, Shawna,” the same for the level of fun that was usually in his voice. “Who the Hell died and appointed you my freakin’ guardian? And what makes you think I need your protection, anyway? Look, I’ve been fighting my own battles for a Hell of a long time now. And kicking the occasional tuchas in the process. And y’know what? I’m pretty goddam good at it when I have to be.”
“Fish, I…I--” Shawna hemmed and stammered, trying to connect with something to say. It was like The Big Dog had just smacked her upside the noggin with a large, dead salmon.
That was the tough part about being a Dom – when someone you really cared about – a guy you really wanted to build a special life around – just plain wasn’t having this part of the relationship.
“I’m sorry, SweetPea. I guess I just wanted to --” Her voice trailed off and the words started choking in her throat.
“C’mere,” He held out his arms and wrapped Shawna in a huge, tight hug. “Look, no harm, no foul. Ok?”
Shawna smiled up at him through her sniffles.
“All I’m saying is, you can kick all the ass you want, Shawna. Just leave me one from time to time. I mean, hey...why should you have all the fun?”
She chuckled in spite of her tears, threw her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss that was so long and so intense it bordered on desperate.
Fish let his fingers meander all over Shawna’s back, settling on the thread-thin wisp of black string in the back of her thong.
“Mmmm. I didn’t know butt floss was the new black.”
“See?” Shawna giggled. “You learn something new every day.”
“But I thought you always go commando.”
“Not in these pants, I don’t,” The deputy chuckled again. “Honey, even I’m not that brave.”
“Whoops. Sorry about that. Heh, heh. ”
Dale Kimbrough cursed silently in the darkened room, punched a couple of keys on his laptop and chuckled again. This time, a little more nervously, as he struggled to get his PowerPoint presentation back on track.
“Welcome to the age of computers. Heh, heh…”
He tugged on his neckwear in the dark.
With all the money and corporate clout in the room, this meeting had to go better than perfectly.
And he’d already made two strategic blunders.
The first was in hitting the wrong key and sending his presentation back to the PowerPoint slide his audience had just seen.
And the second was in the outfit he’d put together for the meeting.
Since this gathering was going to take place in one of the conference rooms at the Hilton in Fargo, North Dakota, he figured he’d toss in a little sop to the Midwestern small town, rural area, and added a bolo string tie to his dark, impeccably tailored knock-off of a Brioni suit.
How was he to know there would be almost a dozen and a half men and women dressed like New York bankers seated around the conference table?
“Now…as you’ve already seen, Branson, Missouri plays host to more than eight million visitors a year.”
He changed to the next PowerPoint slide and felt a drop of “flop” sweat work its way down his spine.
Damn right he was nervous.
There was more corporate green-stuff and investment potential seated around that table than at any other gathering he’d ever seen.
Power players and decision makers from the biggest brands in hospitality, travel, banking, entertainment and gaming.
Hell, Trump even had a heavy-hitter in there taking notes.
“And we think that with its position as the gateway to the Black Hills, and all the natural attractions, amenities and diversions the area has to offer, Sturgis, South Dakota will easily eclipse Branson to become America’s next big family getaway and vacation spot.”
He punched up the next PowerPoint slide as someone seated at the table cleared his throat.
Not a good sign,
Another drop of sweat trickled down his back.
“And so do a lot of other players in your respective industries, ladies and gentlemen.”
The PowerPoint show quickly riffled through a collection of impressive corporate logos. Names like Disney, Six Flags, Hilton, NBC, Universal Studios, MGM Resorts, United Airlines, Sony, and more.
“As you can see, with your investment, your employers would be in some very impressive company. We’re offering a serious opportunity here for each of you to nail down a ground floor spot in what will be the most explosively growing niche in family oriented travel and leisure.”
The lights came up and Kimbrough threw the meeting open for questions.
One hand immediately disobeyed gravity.
It belonged to the guy who’d just interrupted Kimbrough’s presentation to clear his throat.
“Glad you could make it, Marty,” Kimbrough nodded to the man. “What’s on your mind?”
“I’ll tell you. Overall, I’m pretty impressed with your numbers and projections and all.”
That well-manicured hand belonged to Martin R. “Shovelhead” Ratliff, senior vice president in charge of expansion and new ventures for the I-15 Group, a multinational gaming and hospitality player that owned or operated premier hotels and casino properties in Las Vegas, Reno, Vicksburg, Connecticut, Macao and Bermuda. Along with raking in hundreds of millions in tax-free bucks every year from their online casino gaming sites.
When it came to separating the suckers from their bankrolls, the I-15 Group was the ten thousand pound elephant in the room.
And Shovelhead Ratliff was the driving force behind that pachyderm’s growth.
“But I see a small problem. And I want to see how you deal with it, before I commit.”
“Heh, heh,” Kimbrough fired another salvo of nervous chortles at Ratliff’s section of the conference table. And the tiny rivulet of flop sweat running down his spine had suddenly grown. “No problem, Marty. Whatever it is, chances are, we’ve already anticipated it and have it dealt with.”
“Ok, in less than a week, a million or so bikers are going to roll into Sturgis for the town’s annual motorcycle rally. What do you think that week-long kegger is going to do to your portion of the family oriented travel and leisure market?”
“I’m glad you asked, Marty. We’ve already addressed that very issue. And I can assure you that this will be the last year it’ll be held in Sturgis.”
“Oh, really? That rally’s a tradition that goes back almost eighty years, friend. Last year, it brought a little more than eight hundred million dollars in revenue into the area.”
“Marty, my proposal has the potential to bring in more than ten times that. I’ve already discussed it with the county’s supervisors and the town’s mayor and the city council, and they’re all on board. Same with the Lakota Sioux. We’ll just have to convince these bikers to hold their party someplace else.”
“And just how do you plan to do that?”
Kimbrough smiled. “Let’s just say that contingencies are in place. And if you don’t mind my asking, Marty, you seem to know an awful lot about this event.”
“That’s because I haven’t missed a single Sturgis rally since 1975. The same with three of my buddies in this room.”
The trickle of sweat running down Kimbrough’s back had overflowed the waistband on his slacks, and was now running down the back of his leg.
“I’m going to be there next week. For the whole…damn…rally. And I’ll be keeping an eye on you and those “plans” of yours. I want to see how you talk a million Harley riders into finding another place for their annual blow-out.”
All Kimbrough could come back with was another nervous, “Heh, heh.”
“Do that, and I’ll take you and your plan seriously. But, you screw this pooch, Kimbrough…and we’re all going to know you’re just another jerk-off in a badly made suit.”
****
Shawna goosed her throttle and quickly jumped out in front of Fish, Kenny and Einstein. Then she eased back a little on the gas and motioned for everyone to pull off at the rest area coming up on the right side of the road.
“You Ok?” Fish yelled over to her as he shut off the ignition on his old school chopper.
“Fine, Fish.” She climbed off her ride. “Got no lizard to drain, SweetPea” she chuckled. “So, let’s just say…I’ve got to let some water out of the pond.”
The deputy pulled a couple of rolled up pieces of clothing out of one of her saddle bags, then leaned over to give Fish a kiss.
“Damn, we ate a lot of miles today.” She kissed him again. “A ton of miles.”
Then she affectionately pinched The Big Dog’s crotch. “Don’t make any plans for later, Honey. Be right back.”
Fish returned her kiss and then looked past Shawna to where the line for the ladies room was out the door and had disappeared around one corner of the cinderblock building.
“Don’t bet the farm on it,” he let out a chortle and gestured with his head toward the posse of waiting women.
“Well then,” Shawna shrugged. “Be back as soon as I can. In the meantime SweetPea, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
She gave him one last grope and a kiss, then headed off for the ladies room.
Fish watched her walk away and shook his head, chuckling.
Don’t do anything she wouldn’t do.
Hell, the stuff on that little list was probably all three-strike felonies.
While he waited, Fish decided to spend a couple of minutes taking a good long look at Shawna’s scoot.
He squatted down next to it and was seriously impressed with everything he saw.
Starting with the engine.
Shawna wasn’t blowing smoke back at the jail in Twin Falls, when she told him she’d dropped in a hundred twenty-four cubic inch S&S mill.
Same with the Baker six-speed tranny.
And the oversized Brembo’s grabbing the front and rear wheels.
The Big Dog whistled appreciatively.
Shawna’s ride had more than enough lickety-splititude to embarrass the crap out of any Motor Company product that wasn’t set up for the drag strip.
Fish stood up, his eye fell on her gas tank and he doubled over laughing.
To begin with, someone had shot about ten layers of flawless pearlized lavender on the tank, and then polished it off with a couple of coats of clear coat.
There were no skulls.
No flames.
No flags.
And no freakin’ eagles.
None of the other graphic clichés bikers like to pile on by the trainload.
Just a large, life-like and glowering Bengal tiger crouched between the rider’s legs, and ready to pounce.
With a pair of eyes that drilled right through the person working the brake and clutch levers.
And painted with its fur trimmed all the way down to the skin, by an artist who really knew what the hell they were doing.
Then it was all framed with delicate, feminine-looking script lettering that spelled out the words, “Shaved Pussy”.
“Boy,” Fish just had to chuckle again. “Talk about your truth in advertising.”
He spent a few more minutes inspecting and admiring the know-how that had gone into assembling Shawna’s ride. Sure, everything she’d added to her machine was available at dozens of online parts houses. But it was the thought that went into each of her parts choices that made for a scoot that took no prisoners.
Standing back up, he took a second glimpse at her gas tank, shook his head and fired off another chortle.
Then he glanced toward the restrooms and saw her walking back.
And his heart just stopped.
It was like a slow-motion scene from one of those dumb-ass, teenage coming of age movies. The ones that always seemed to take place at the beach.
Shawna was sauntering his way in a pair of mirrored aviator shades.
Moving confidently and unhurried, like she owned the place and everything in it. Like some predator on the Serengeti, keeping an eye out for its next gazelle.
Around her neck was a turquoise and silver squash blossom choker.
Set off with a fresh coating of lipstick in a shade that could put any self-respecting fire engine to shame.
And the deputy had replaced her t-shirt with a form-fitting black leather vest, which started a couple of inches above her waist and exposed a ton of real estate to the South Dakota sun.
But the real heart-stopper was the territory between her belly button and her boots. Where Shawna had removed her black leather chaps in the bathroom, then her jeans.
Then she unfolded one of Victoria’s Secret’s best and skimpiest black thongs. And stepped in.
And climbed back into her chaps.
Leaving pretty much the big goose egg to the imagination, both coming and going.
“I’m back, SweetPea,” Shawna threw her arms around Fish’s neck and gave him a huge smooch. “You miss me?”
He silently returned her kiss, his little head having temporarily snatched control from the bigger one.
“Whatsamatter, Sugar Bear,” the deputy chuckled. “Feline got your tongue?”
“Uh huh,” The Big Dog nodded. “The shaved one.”
“I can see that,” she reached down to squeeze the bulge that had sprouted in the front of Fish’s Levis. “Feel it, too,” she giggled.
“Hey, don’t get me wrong here, Shawna,” Fish’s Buddha-licious smile had reclaimed its traditional perch on his countenance. “But I’ve gotta ask…why? I mean, you looked pretty damn good already.”
“Because it’s all about the entrance, SweetPea. We’re gonna hit Sturgis in about a half hour, right? Figure around a million bikers and their women’ll be in and around the town.”
Fish nodded, not really seeing any problem with Shawna’s reasoning.
“And from the minute we roll in, I want every guy in that town wishing to Hell he was you. And every female so freakin’ jealous of me she could spit. Then I want them all to see that we’re unavailable.”
She pulled a smaller version of her squash blossom choker out of her pocket.
“Here,” she handed it to Fish. “Put this on, and keep it on the whole time we’re at the rally.”
“Ok,” Fish shrugged and slipped the piece of traditional Navajo art onto his wrist. “How come?”
“Because these mark us. As far as everyone at the rally is concerned, for the next week, I belong to you, and you belong to me.”
“Ok, but I don’t see --”
“Somebody messes with you -- I don’t care who it is, I’ll kick their sorry ass. They mess with me, I’ll kick their ass, too.”
The Buddha-licious grin that normally rode around perched under Fish’s nose suddenly decided to go grab a cup o’ Joe.
“Hold it, Shawna,” the same for the level of fun that was usually in his voice. “Who the Hell died and appointed you my freakin’ guardian? And what makes you think I need your protection, anyway? Look, I’ve been fighting my own battles for a Hell of a long time now. And kicking the occasional tuchas in the process. And y’know what? I’m pretty goddam good at it when I have to be.”
“Fish, I…I--” Shawna hemmed and stammered, trying to connect with something to say. It was like The Big Dog had just smacked her upside the noggin with a large, dead salmon.
That was the tough part about being a Dom – when someone you really cared about – a guy you really wanted to build a special life around – just plain wasn’t having this part of the relationship.
“I’m sorry, SweetPea. I guess I just wanted to --” Her voice trailed off and the words started choking in her throat.
“C’mere,” He held out his arms and wrapped Shawna in a huge, tight hug. “Look, no harm, no foul. Ok?”
Shawna smiled up at him through her sniffles.
“All I’m saying is, you can kick all the ass you want, Shawna. Just leave me one from time to time. I mean, hey...why should you have all the fun?”
She chuckled in spite of her tears, threw her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss that was so long and so intense it bordered on desperate.
Fish let his fingers meander all over Shawna’s back, settling on the thread-thin wisp of black string in the back of her thong.
“Mmmm. I didn’t know butt floss was the new black.”
“See?” Shawna giggled. “You learn something new every day.”
“But I thought you always go commando.”
“Not in these pants, I don’t,” The deputy chuckled again. “Honey, even I’m not that brave.”