Oil of Roses

Many thanks to Literotica author ‘englander1961' for her help, editorial services, encouragement and a title much better than my original, which has elevated her to the status of House Goddess of Sexy Story Titles. Thanks to Sammi Scott, aka Titsy McYarn, the Cute at the Heart of the Abyss for her help and valuable critique. Thanks to Literotica author ‘KY ridgerunner' for the stories that planted the idea in my head months ago. A belated and much overdue thanks to John Hasty for his peerless editing. Starting with this chapter, bounteous thanks to Kevin for his incredibly thorough critiquing and voluminous notes.

After you've read this, if you have any inclination at all to comment, please do so, either by email or on the comment board... The best way for me to grow and improve as an author is to hear from the people who read my work. I welcome constructive critiques and non-abusive comments. I will answer, in at least a semi-prompt manner, any email that comes with an email address. If you feel you must respond in a hateful or angry fashion, you may put your head down upon your desk and do so, quietly to yourself, for as long as you feel it necessary. This story may not be copied to other sites without my permission. If you have not read the earlier installment(s) of this tale, it would probably help you to make sense of this one if you did so.

* * * * *

After they had showered and while the ladies were dressing, Harry went upstairs to his father's old office. Praying that his memory didn't fail him he twirled the combination to his father's safe and pulled on the handle.

Nothing happened. Sweat popped out on his brow, he turned the handle a little more firmly and it moved. Sighing with relief he looked inside, grabbed a sheaf of bills and closed it again, spinning the lock. His father had always believed that even the most law-abiding citizen might at some point in his life need several items and that was what he kept in his fireproof safe. Ten thousand dollars and his family's passports… Harry had periodically switched the money for fresh bills over the years. The only passport it held now was his, never used and probably out of date.

Harry cursed himself for his forgetfulness. He had meant to go to the bank that morning but other things had occupied his mind and here he needed cash and there was only the one place to take it from. It bothered him more to be using it from the ‘emergency fund', as his dad had called it, than to be spending the money in the first place.

As he went back downstairs he started thinking about other ways to remodel the house. His father's old office, for example, might be a lot more useful to him on the ground floor than upstairs. To be truthful, he hardly ever even thought about the three bedrooms and two baths upstairs.

When his mother had taken ill and become too weak to climb the stairs, his father had gutted most of the downstairs and remodeled to its present configuration; a large living room, a large master bedroom and bath and a small guest room and bath where his father had spent many a night half asleep, listening for his wife's call. Upstairs one of the bedrooms had become his father's office, moved from the den on the first floor. The other two had been his and Nicki's rooms.

He would have to talk it over with his wife and their pet, see what they thought might be done with all the unused space upstairs.

As the ladies had been dressing, Carol had filled Margo in on their plans to acquire Tamara for Eddy.

"So," Margo asked, "how much do you think she'll be and how much danger will we be in dealing with Mr. Philouma?"

"You, my precious darling, won't be in any danger," Harry said, coming in the door, "I hope. You'll be at the wheel of the car, ready to get us the fuck out of Dodge. As for Carol and I, well, answer the question, my pet."

"Vic keeps Phillie on a pretty tight leash these days and the leash is held by a couple of Vic's boys that are there to protect Phil. About the worst that could happen is you'd get the shit kicked out of you. Me they'd probably just slap around, fuck once or twice and let go."

"Oh, sounds delightful… any idea how best to avoid that?"

"Well, of course, be respectful, other than that, play it by ear. He's a walking case of small-dick syndrome, with good cause from what I hear, so be polite. Don't kiss ass, though. You kiss ass and he's going to walk all over you and we still won't get what we want. The last time I heard anything, which was about six months ago, he was already tired of Tamara but I haven't heard of her being sold. I imagine if you make him a decent offer, he'll go for it."

"How decent an offer is ‘decent'?"

"He won her in a poker game covering a thirty-five hundred dollar bet. He'll want more than that but if you don't piss him off, I imagine we could get her for as low as a thousand."

"Harry, did you plan for the night of our engagement party to also involve buying a woman for Eddy from a mobster?" Margo asked.

"No honey, it just worked out that way."

"Good, I was hoping this wasn't a part of the experience that I was supposed to have fun with somehow."

* * * * *

The Campisi Gentlemen's Club wasn't much to look at from the outside. A storefront with a painted-over front window, the small sign proclaiming its name mounted just slightly askew on the door. The surrounding store fronts were all for lease and had been for as long as anyone could remember.

The façade didn't fool anyone, least of all the police. The club behind the door paid its money, bought their inattention and all was right with the world. Nobody questioned the large men with suspicious bulges under their arms that watched the area and the parking lot across the street with its crop of BMWs and Mercedes. Nobody mentioned the fact that<<,>> in a part of town noted for the homeless, street crime and random acts of vandalism, this area was curiously immune to those urban plagues.

It was simply the way things were.

As they pulled up, Carol and Harry got out.

"Margo," Carol said, "I wouldn't leave the motor running, it might make security a little nervous. If all goes well, we'll be out in about fifteen minutes. If we're not out in forty-five minutes, drive away. Whatever you do, don't call the police. They're not going to hurt us too badly if they hurt us at all. If they do we'll call you from the hospital."

"Harry?" Margo said.

"You're the one who told me to trust her instincts, dear, time to take your own advice. We'll be fine. You stay out here, keep cool; we'll be back in a few."

As they walked up the sidewalk to the entrance, Carol put her leash firmly in Harry's hand.

"Harry, you're buying her for someone else, I'm on loan to you because I know her, I know Phil and I know my new owner's tastes."

"How much trouble are we really in?"

"Not much. I'd say there's only a five percent chance that things will go badly."

"Alright, one in twenty, I can live with those odds."

They hit the door.

* * * * *

Eddy pulled up to Chez Bubba's, got out of his truck and stared at the restaurant with anticipation. It had been too long since he'd been there and he'd missed it.

In one of the periodic attempts to revitalize the east part of the city a deluded chef from Quebec named Henri Laroque with more money than sense had built a lovely restaurant and named it "Chez Henri".

His move south had been prompted by his hatred of the cold but it was soon postulated among the locals that the real reason he'd moved was that he'd been chased out for being a shitty cook and a worse businessman. Anyone who'd eaten at Chez Henri was more than likely a supporter of that position.

Negative reviews and horrible word-of mouth performed as a Greek chorus to the restaurant's tragic story. Soon it was evident that the venture was going to fail and one night, around 11:30 according to witnesses, a shot was heard from inside.

It is a measure of the esteem with which his neighbors regarded Henri that no one called it in until the next morning.

When police arrived, they found that Henri had blown his brains out all over the west wall of the dining room.

The building eventually found its way onto the auction block where it was purchased by a couple of well-educated good ol' boys who had found an inspiration for their dining venture in a typical review of Henri's.

"When a Texan is arrogant, we laugh it off with ‘It ain't braggin' if'n it's the truth'. When Henri Laroque of Chez Henri is arrogant, he has no such leg to stand on.

"This reviewer loves fine French cuisine as any regular reader of my column can attest. What I was served at Chez Henri last night is to French cuisine what McDonald's McRib is to Barbeque; what some bland Yankee bean-filled, tomato-y stew is to Chili; what a college cafeteria's all-purpose-patty with rubber gravy is to Chicken Fried Steak."

So, a building designed in French Provincial style was renovated as if taken over by poor white trailer trash. Two additions, to provide private rooms, wore the facades of a double-wide mobile home and a tin shack. Various small stovepipe chimneys poking up at different spots on the roof carried the smoke from the barbeque pits away. The elegant crest, in scrolling calligraphy, that once read "Chez Henri" now sported "Bubba's" hand painted in red with a big brush over "Henri".

The menu, once an elegant placard of French delicacies, was changed to black crayon on brown paper; one side telling the history of the building as well as the story of Henri, the other listing items like "Chicken Fried Steak- if you kin say it ain't the best you ever et, we'll call you a liar to your face", "Beer-Battered Catfish Fillets- Beer an' Grease, to of the Texas food groops" and "Chili, Hot or Hotter ‘n Hell- you ask for beans an' we ask you to leave".

The main dining room, once so pretentious with its period furniture, delicate and frail, was now populated with sturdy mismatched tables and comfortable, uglier-than-sin chairs. The walls were covered with every type of red-neck memorabilia imaginable, except for one section of the wall. It was roped off and for a five dollar contribution to ‘Heifer Project International' a guest could have their picture taken with ‘whut wuz left of Henree', a careful copy of the original blood splatter in dark maroon paint, almost brown, and the real bullet hole.

It was an immediate hit with diners. The food was superb, the service friendly and the atmosphere… well, the atmosphere was unique.

For years when Eddy had worked in the east part of town, he had lived at Chez Bubba's, eating lunch and supper there practically every day.

Eddy could taste their Chicken Fried Steak already… pounded round steak, hand-dipped in batter, deep-fried, covered in gravy that you could taste the bacon grease in, a necessity as any true connoisseur of southern cream gravy would tell you, the steak so big it overhung the plate, so tender you could cut it with a fork. Eddy had gotten weak-kneed just thinking about it.

And Eddy would get to see Karen again. In a world full of women that were tiny fragile creatures to be treated gently or else he might hurt them, Karen was, while still a woman, definitely ‘one of the guys'. He'd missed her in the years he and Harry'd not been hanging together.

* * * * *

"Alright Patricia, now there's a lot I need to, well, I guess I need to warn you about before we get there."

Patricia Keller looked at her partner Karen with some suspicion. She had met Harry before the separation and liked him, he was a good person. She hadn't much cared for his wife and was not surprised to hear the revelations about her behavior. She had heard a little about Carol, mostly that she was responsible for the turnaround in Harry's life that had, in turn, led to the change in Karen. It was a change that still seemed almost too good to be true. Karen had made her a promise and given her a means of altering Karen's habitual workaholic behavior. She was to use Karen's full name, Karen Elizabeth Pinard, and order her to either get to bed and make love to her, or to take her out somewhere on a date. Patricia hadn't believed Karen would let it work at first but she was becoming a believer. It was obvious that Karen loved her very much and was willing to do anything to make their relationship work. They'd spent more time in bed than they had in months and more time out together having fun than they ever had. And to tell the truth, Patricia was finding she enjoyed having that power.

"Alright… such as?"

"Well, Harry's life has gotten a little… bizarre… since his separation. He's involved with Carol in a sort of B&D, Dom & sub kind of way, and he's involved with an old friend of his named Margo in a normal romantic kind of way, not that he's not romantically involved with Carol, he is, and she is with him, and Carol and Margo love each other as well, it's hard to explain and I'm sure I'm not doing a very good job of it, but, well, they're a threesome.

"Eddy's going to be there too and Eddy's going to say some things to me that'll probably raise your eyebrows. I'll do the same right back but believe me, he's one of the sweetest men alive and he'd take a bullet for you if you asked him and probably still would if you didn't.

"I just didn't want you to be too surprised if things get a little… odd… tonight."

"I'm forewarned," said Patricia.

* * * * *

The inside of Campisi Gentlemen's Club wasn't some glitzy Vegas nightmare. It had been decorated when founded in 1949 by Vittorio Campisi's wife, Speranza, and she had very good taste. Cypress plank paneling, fixtures in light bronze, leaning towards gold. The furniture was leather in dark blues and greens with the occasional dark burgundy. Successive generations of the Campisi family hadn't seen a need to change the décor, merely maintain it. Large period ceiling fans stirred the air and regular careful cleaning had kept the smoke deposits from building up on any visible surface.

It was an establishment that discouraged the curious and the first line in that discouragement was a walking wall of grey-pinstriped suit standing just outside the door.

"Excuse me, do you have business inside?" the wall asked.

Carol looked up at him. "We're here to see Phil."

"Is Phil expecting you?"

"No."

"Wait a minute… do I know you?"

"Maybe… I used to come here a lot with Tony Juliana a few years ago."

"Sure, little Carol, I remember, go on in… be careful, he ain't in a good mood."

"When is the fat fuck ever in a good mood?"

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that… I'll even pretend I don't agree with it."

They walked inside. The maple floors, shining where they weren't obscured by thick Persian carpets, gave a slight echo to their footsteps as they walked down the corridor that stretched before them. Small security cameras swiveled to watch their passing.

"This is nothing like what I expected. This place is beautiful."

"Yes sir, Speranza Campisi, the decorator, was a classy lady from what I hear. I talked with her daughter, Violetta, a lot when I used to come here with Tony. Lord knows there wasn't much else to do while I was being his ‘good luck charm'. I'd hang on his neck between hands sometimes, I'd escort him when he was taking a break, but otherwise, I was pretty much at loose ends. So I spent quite a bit of time talking with Violetta and some of the other women."

They passed from the hallway into a foyer where a pair of gentlemen looked them over carefully, patting them both down thoroughly and examining each object they found.

"I'm here to see Phil," Carol said.

"He's playing in the Trapani Room, second door to your right in the East wing."

"Thank you."

They turned to the right and after a short hall entered a large open area that spread out to their left, small and intimate groupings of furniture dotting the space. To their right, doors with name plaques; "Palermo", "Siracusa", "Ragusa", "Catania", "Messina", "Agrigento" and finally "Trapani".

The suited man outside the door smiled at her.

"Hey, Carol, good to see you again."

"Al? My God Al, you're looking great!" She glanced down to see a prominent wedding band on his ring finger. "And married? It seems to be agreeing with you."

"Oh yeah! You remember Carla Russo? Well, she said ‘yes' and I've never been happier. We've been married two and a half years now; our first child is on the way."

"Al, two and a half years and just now pregnant? I don't think you've been being a good Catholic."

"Look Carol, what goes on with my privates is between me, Carla and God in heaven, especially after it come out about all them priests and those boys. If birth control's the worst sin I have to answer for, I got no worries."

"Oh, I'm being rude. Al Donetti, this is Robert Evans. I'm on loan to him to help grease the wheels. He's looking to buy Tamara for a third party. Robert, this is Al Donetti, an old friend."

Harry put her leash in his left hand and put out his right, happy to see it wasn't shaking.

"Mr. Donetti, a pleasure."

Al shook his hand.

"Mr. Evans."

Al turned to Carol once again.

"I'm glad you're here to get her. Phil's tired of her and you know how he gets when he gets bored with a toy."

"He hurt her?"

"Shit no! You know his old man would have his ass for that. But he's started playing his little games with her. I don't think she's had too many decent meals in the past month. You two go on in, see if you can get her away from him. Good luck."

* * * * *

Eddy was sipping a beer in their private room, they had gotten the one that looked like a tin shack, when Karen and Patricia were shown in.

He'd never seen Patricia before. He gave her the quick once over and he liked what he saw. She was a good six inches taller than Karen, had some meat on her bones, a round face, a wide mouth with obvious smile lines, kind of reminded him of Carol that way. Her blond hair was feathered on the top, hanging down her back and tucked behind her ears. She moved with confidence and the only sign that she was slightly unsure of the situation was her grip on Karen's forearm as they walked in, arm in arm.

He stood up. "Well I'll be gawddamned if'n it ain't that clam-lappin' dyke, Karen! I thought by now the right-sized dick woulda come along and changed your whole world view!"

"Well I'll be, it's a red-necked, Neanderthalic throwback! I found the right-sized dick. I call it ‘Suzanne', after your mama, and it fits my strap-on just fine. How is your mama, by the way, she still keep your daddy tied up in the yard?"

"Nah, she done chased him under the porch, goes out there ever once in awhile an' pokes him with a sharp stick, make sure he's still alive. Speakin' o' mamas, I did say hello to your mama last week, braided her back hair for her, she was real appreciative, treated me like I was her own son. Of course, in your family that meant she fucked me for eight hours, kicked me in the nuts and told me to git on outta there, but what can ya do?"

"Yeah, ma, she's a pistol alright, mentions you in all her letters, laughs about that case of the clap she give you. Have you had that checked out?"

"No, I'm gonna keep trackin' down your family members and sharin' the love till my dick falls off or I got ‘em all, then I'll worry about a doctor."

Karen burst out laughing. "Eddy, how would you know if your dick fell off?"

"Oh, gawddamn, I walked right into that one!"

"Yeah, you sure did."

The two of them went into a three-point stance and then charged at each other like bulls bent on mutual annihilation. They slammed together and Patricia was sure she felt the room shaking.