shouted.
She rolled on her side toward him, groaning as she moved.
Enough of this crap, Folsom thought. He grabbed a handful of her robe and ripped it from under her, leaving it bunched under her head. He rubbed a palm over her stomach, pressing down firmly against her tight but bruised muscles.
The pain from Folsom’s touch must have finally penetrated Wendy’s brain. She sprang awake and cried out, “Jesus!”
“Jesus ain’t gonna help you here, sweetie,” he said, rubbing harder.
“No! Not tonight. I hurt so bad. Ple-e-e-aze.”
“Especially tonight, Wendy. Especially tonight,” he murmured
Folsom mounted her and quickly satisfied himself. He knew, and he knew she knew, that the worst was yet to come. He took her face in one hand and squeezed her cheeks, his fingers compressing the swollen areas around her eyes, until she screamed with pain.
“That’s my girl,” Folsom said. “You never disappoint me.”
He moved his hand down to her left breast and squeezed the nipple until her screams came in a long, high-pitched sequence. He started to move down her body so he could put his mouth on her breast when a shrill ringing broke into his reverie.
“What the hell!” Folsom spat, knowing it was his cell phone. Very few people had the number, so it must be important, especially at this late hour. “Sonofabitch!”
He climbed off Wendy and slapped her face. “Don’t move,” he roared. “I’ll be right back.”
He went in search of his cell phone, which was in a pocket of the pants he’d dropped somewhere in his bedroom. In a corner of the room, he saw the light blinking through the fabric of his pants. Snatching them off the floor, he rummaged in the pocket, grabbing the phone, and jerking it free. He looked at the display and recognized the number: Donald Matson’s. He pressed the TALK button.
“This better be good, Matson. You’re interrupting something very important.”
“I’ve got problems, Gerald. Bad problems.”
Oh, Jeez, what a pussy, Folsom thought. “Your wife find you in bed with the babysitter?”
“This isn’t funny,” Matson cried. “The FDIC performed an audit of the safety deposit box owners at Broad Street National Bank. It was just a standard audit, looking for anything suspicious. You know, names of politicians or of organized crime members. But they found the box in my name. Someone from the agency’s Inspector General’s office just served me with an order to disclose the contents of the box when the bank opens tomorrow. They want to inventory the contents.”
“So? You’re a citizen. You’re allowed to have a safety deposit box.”
“They thought it was strange I had a box in downtown Philadelphia, when my office and home are on the northwest side of town.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“The $1 million in cash you gave me is in there.”
“You fuckin’ idiot. You left the money in the box? In my bank?!”
“Where else was I going to put it? It’s not like I can invest it in a mutual fund.”
A sudden thought hit Folsom. “Don’t tell me you’ve still got the safety deposit boxes at the other banks I’ve taken over, with the cash still sitting in them.”
“Well, I’ve taken out some of the money. Gifts for the family, private school tuition. Stuff like that. But I can’t buy boats or sports cars without raising questions.”
“Matson, do you realize once the Feds find the cash in your box in Broad Street National Bank, they’ll probably put two and two together and check boxes at all the banks you put me into? How are you going to explain millions of dollars sitting in a half-dozen banks?” What Folsom didn’t add was that there was no doubt in his mind once the Feds started interrogating Matson, he’d spill everything he knew, including how Gerald Folsom had paid him off. They were both going to jail.
Matson began crying. “Oh God, Jerry. What am I going to do?”
Folsom considered the options and then snapped, “Pull
She rolled on her side toward him, groaning as she moved.
Enough of this crap, Folsom thought. He grabbed a handful of her robe and ripped it from under her, leaving it bunched under her head. He rubbed a palm over her stomach, pressing down firmly against her tight but bruised muscles.
The pain from Folsom’s touch must have finally penetrated Wendy’s brain. She sprang awake and cried out, “Jesus!”
“Jesus ain’t gonna help you here, sweetie,” he said, rubbing harder.
“No! Not tonight. I hurt so bad. Ple-e-e-aze.”
“Especially tonight, Wendy. Especially tonight,” he murmured
Folsom mounted her and quickly satisfied himself. He knew, and he knew she knew, that the worst was yet to come. He took her face in one hand and squeezed her cheeks, his fingers compressing the swollen areas around her eyes, until she screamed with pain.
“That’s my girl,” Folsom said. “You never disappoint me.”
He moved his hand down to her left breast and squeezed the nipple until her screams came in a long, high-pitched sequence. He started to move down her body so he could put his mouth on her breast when a shrill ringing broke into his reverie.
“What the hell!” Folsom spat, knowing it was his cell phone. Very few people had the number, so it must be important, especially at this late hour. “Sonofabitch!”
He climbed off Wendy and slapped her face. “Don’t move,” he roared. “I’ll be right back.”
He went in search of his cell phone, which was in a pocket of the pants he’d dropped somewhere in his bedroom. In a corner of the room, he saw the light blinking through the fabric of his pants. Snatching them off the floor, he rummaged in the pocket, grabbing the phone, and jerking it free. He looked at the display and recognized the number: Donald Matson’s. He pressed the TALK button.
“This better be good, Matson. You’re interrupting something very important.”
“I’ve got problems, Gerald. Bad problems.”
Oh, Jeez, what a pussy, Folsom thought. “Your wife find you in bed with the babysitter?”
“This isn’t funny,” Matson cried. “The FDIC performed an audit of the safety deposit box owners at Broad Street National Bank. It was just a standard audit, looking for anything suspicious. You know, names of politicians or of organized crime members. But they found the box in my name. Someone from the agency’s Inspector General’s office just served me with an order to disclose the contents of the box when the bank opens tomorrow. They want to inventory the contents.”
“So? You’re a citizen. You’re allowed to have a safety deposit box.”
“They thought it was strange I had a box in downtown Philadelphia, when my office and home are on the northwest side of town.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“The $1 million in cash you gave me is in there.”
“You fuckin’ idiot. You left the money in the box? In my bank?!”
“Where else was I going to put it? It’s not like I can invest it in a mutual fund.”
A sudden thought hit Folsom. “Don’t tell me you’ve still got the safety deposit boxes at the other banks I’ve taken over, with the cash still sitting in them.”
“Well, I’ve taken out some of the money. Gifts for the family, private school tuition. Stuff like that. But I can’t buy boats or sports cars without raising questions.”
“Matson, do you realize once the Feds find the cash in your box in Broad Street National Bank, they’ll probably put two and two together and check boxes at all the banks you put me into? How are you going to explain millions of dollars sitting in a half-dozen banks?” What Folsom didn’t add was that there was no doubt in his mind once the Feds started interrogating Matson, he’d spill everything he knew, including how Gerald Folsom had paid him off. They were both going to jail.
Matson began crying. “Oh God, Jerry. What am I going to do?”
Folsom considered the options and then snapped, “Pull
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