Late One Night in the City. Adult, Violence. (standard:action, 2109 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jul 19 2020	Views/Reads: 1141/803	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A white businessman is stranded late at night in a violent inner-city neighborhood.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

picking up my change.  I wonder what else I can do?  There might be 
another phone around here? I think.  Or, maybe try that bar, actually 
taking a chance and going in.  If I tried one of the lighted houses, 
I'd run into the language problem, and with my luck I'd pick a crack 
house. The best choice, I think, is to lock myself in my car and wait 
for a cop to come by.  I can always get a tire-iron out of the trunk to 
defend myself. 

My thoughts are rudely interrupted by a muffled scream coming from the
alley.  I feel weak, stomach flopping around like a grounded fish, as I 
edge over to peer down its length.  A slightly darker blob is moving 
around in the narrow tract.  Some unintelligible sounds, mixed with 
sobs, emerge.  Jeeze, I think of someone being mugged back there. 

I turn, wanting to leave quickly.  No one is in sight to help.  For some
reason I'll never understand, I can't force myself to leave.  Fighting 
fear, I ease my way into the opening, trying to be quiet as my feet 
kick debris, crunching some, rattling other unseen items.  When I 
disturb something metal, by the sound, that seems to roll away, I bend 
down to find a heavy metal pipe under my hand.  Cold steel gives me 
confidence as I tip-toe down the alley toward the altercation, which 
quiets down a bit as I come closer. 

The sobbing becomes louder again and I hear rough breathing as my eyes
adjust and I begin to see the combatants.  A scrawny man in a dark 
t-shirt has a smaller girl in his grasp, one hand dipping into her 
jeans, the other against her chest, pinning her firmly to the wall. 

I see frightened eyes peering past his shoulder, hope seeming to shine
in an ambient beam of light crossing a pretty Spanish face. 

Heedless of my safety, I step back and swing the heavy pipe at his back,
as hard as I can, trying to pretend he's a tree or telephone pole.  
"Thump,"  and his torso goes forward, as though screwing her, then 
falls away to writhe on the ground, his groans louder than hers ever 
were. 

The girl cowers against the wall, watching, hands clasped over a torn
shirt. 

Frightened that he might get back up, I take an opportunity to kick the
guy, first in the head, then in the small of the back, my foot 
impacting something metal.  Reaching down, I'm glad I do, as my hand 
finds the handle of a pistol, which I jerk out of the back of his belt. 
 I don't know much about guns, but this one feels large and heavy to 
me. 

In between sobs, she speaks that same fucking brand of what must be
Spanish, not that I know one from another. 

"I can't understand you," I tell her while glancing both ways down the
dark canyon. "No speakin Span ... ish, me." 

"Th.... Thank you, mister.  He ra ... rape me.  Maybe." 

"I think maybe, for sure." 

Before I can stop her, she's on her knees, down at my feet.  I think
she's probably feeling faint and can't stand, so I reach down to clasp 
her shoulders to raise her. 

"I wish thank you, mister.  No charge for you. Never charge for you." 

Before I can stop her, she unzips my pants and has my dick in her mouth,
sucking professionally, and I should know the difference. 

Damn, but she's good, and I haven't realized how worked up I am,
sexually, that is. 

My eyes and senses on her actions, I forget her assailant -- though he
hasn't forgotten.  His face rises up in front of me, eyes glaring in 
the otherwise dark face.  As he leans toward me, I raise my hand, not 
even thinking of the gun, my hand jerking on the trigger. "Kablam. 
Kablam." 

The look of anger turns to one of surprise as he staggers back toward
the mouth of the alley.  Even as he falls at the entrance, other hands 
grab him.  A crowd fills the relative light at that end of the alley -- 
probably patrons of the bar.  I can see them trying to adjust their 
eyes, anger already building among them.  Christ! I think.  He's 
probably among friends.  And here I am, a hooker hanging onto my penis 
and his gun in my hand. 

I gotta get the hell out'a Dodge.  Eyes on the entrance, I know only one
direction ... the other way. 

Grabbing the girl, I pull her to her feet and drag her to the other end
of the alley. 

"Here," she grunts, nodding to the right. "We goes here, okay?" 

Since I'm sure as hell not going back, I follow as she takes off,
running down the sidewalk.  We duck into a  recessed doorway where she 
rings a doorbell.  I look behind us, seeing a crowd forming at our end 
of the alley.  I don't need any encouragement to shove her into the 
opening doorway, slamming the heavy door behind me. 

A rough-looking guy glares at me, locking the door. 

The smell of something or other is overpowering as we thread our way
past reclining and nodding men and women, crossing the room to settle 
into a kitchen, dishes piled over every available space, roaches 
scurrying away as we sit at a table, across from each other. 

"Carlotta," she says, pointing at her narrow chest. 

In the light, I can see she's very young, maybe 17 or 18?  Jeeze, I may
have been sucked by a minor, I think, shuddering, my staff shrinking. 

"I finish thank you," she says, sinking under the table on her side.  I
feel her hand on my fly. 

"NO!"  I shout, rising to my feet, feeling her hand dropping away. "No
suck.  That's okay, really." 

"I'm good.  You don't like me?" 

About that time, old ugly sticks his head in the doorway, craggy
pockmarked face looking like he'd like to tear me apart.  When she 
shakes her head and jabbers, he gives me what might have -- in anyone 
else -- been a grin, and fades out of view. 

"Wha ... What was going on in the alley?"  I ask, watching her closely
as I sit down, crossing my legs under the table and waiting for my 
heartbeat to steady. 

"He promise me $20, no give.  I say no fuck him, and he get maddern
fucking hell," she tells me. "He want do anyway. Cheap shit, him." 

While she's talking, I look around, seeing a telephone sitting,
partially hidden, behind a stack of pizza cartons. 

"Stupid of him, wasn't it?" I agree. "Can I use your telephone." 

"Sure, maybe $10, you pay?" 

"Of course.  What's the address of that bar on the other street?" I ask.


When she gives it to me, I call a taxi service I often use, having to
promise the dispatcher triple the normal cost to come to that address. 

"I gotta send three drivers," he tells me.  "We never go into that
jungle at night without at least three armed men in the car." 

"Okay.  Remember, a new green Lincoln two blocks north of that address. 
I'll be waiting inside." 

"Are you armed?  If not, we ain't about to waste our time.  You'd
probably be dead by the time we arrived." 

"I'll be there," I tell him. I shudder, then look around. “I'm among
friends.”  I hope. 

I turn to Carlotta. "Honey.  If I pay, can you and a few friends wait
with me at my car." 

"Course.  We nice people, not those pricks at the cantina." 

Armed security guards from the construction site are also waiting,
standing at the open gate, clubs and ball bats nearby and drinking 
beer, when I get there. 

"Man, you should'a seen those kids strip that car. Really professional. 
Oh, and those are our blocks under the wheels.  We gotta have them back 
when you're done." 

"Why didn't you stop them, or at least call the cops?" 

“Man, ain't none'a our business, man." 

When the taxis arrive, two of them filled with armed men, I'm waiting
next to my stripped Lincoln.  Its missing all four tires, most 
accessories, and sitting on concrete blocks from the construction site. 


The insurance will take care of the the car, and I'm having a good time
learning Spanish songs with my new friends when the taxis arrive. 

Jeez, do I have a story to tell at work. 

The End.


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