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The Case of Sheryl?s Pregnant Niece

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I parked the minivan in the last row of an army of pickup trucks outside “Scooter’s Saloon”. I like the minivan for surveillance because it doesn’t attract much attention, but here, in this sea of symbols of raging masculinity, I felt a little effeminate; one big four-by-four dually in the next row even had a large, plastic scrotum complete with testicles hanging from the bumper hitch.

In the beatup mini-truck beside me, the occupants were blissfully unaware of my intrusion. The guy was stretched out on the seat with his head resting on the window, and all I could see of him was his balding head. I could see more than I wanted to see of his companion, a rather tall, full-figured, fortyish looking woman who was busily humping up and down on his lap. Her western blouse was open and her huge breasts spilled over her red lace bra and rubbed his face as she leaned into the upstroke. The bleached-blonde, shoulder length hair fell around her breasts and each time she rose, I caught a glimpse of her pink belly before it plunged down again.

She seemed to be having a great time of it all, and as I watched, her head fell back, and her mouth contorted into what I assumed to be her face of impending orgasm. Her painted lips formed an appropriate “O” as her body jerked rapidly up and down, and then she collapsed on him. After about a minute, she raised, saw me looking, and her lips formed a kiss as she lifted her breasts into view, wobbled them at me, and then raised the left one to lick the nipple with her pink tongue.

The guy probably thought this was just for him, and was trying to catch her large right nipple in his mouth, but, although I appreciated her direct approach, I’d had about as much of this as I could take. It’s not that I’m a prude; it’s just that , regardless of the popular myth about PI’s taking pictures through bedroom windows for a living, and enjoying it, I’m not really a voyeur. I got out, locked the van, and walked to the door.

I stepped into line behind two shapely female patrons fishing their tight hip pockets for their ID’s as they walked in the door. “Scooter’s” was one of a hundred or so small country-western bars that populate the less traveled streets of Nashville, and from what I could see of the outside, it was definitely not rhinestone cowboy territory. The exterior had the unmistakable feel of small, neighborhood grocery store, circa 1950. The windows that once displayed sale ads and produce had been painted from the inside with scenes of horses, barns, cows, and other vignettes of the artist’s conception of middle Tennessee country life, and the red neon cowboy boot on the roof changed to white, then blue as it kicked at the night sky. The white signboard shouted out, “JESSE RAWLINS AND THE TENNTUCKY TRIO”, and in smaller letters below that, “ORIGINAL COUNTRY MUSIC”.

The little pickup show turned out to be the highlight of an investigation that started at Barney’s the night before. I’d stopped in for my nightly scotch and friendly conversation with the owner, my lesbian best friend Joyce. Joyce had bought the bar from some guy named Barney several years ago, and had never gotten around to changing the name. It was late Friday night, most of the after work crowd had departed for home or other evening delights, and Sheryl, Joyce’s lover and roommate was bustling around, picking up glasses and wiping tables. Sheryl and I get along well, considering that she once thought I was out to take Joyce away from her, but we’re not what you would call good friends. She speaks to me when I come in, and smiles, but that’s about as friendly as she gets.

Joyce walked down the length of the bar, leaned over it showing me some very nice cleavage, and whispered, “Jase, come around the bar and back to the office.” Before I could ask why, she had turned and walked through the office door. Sheryl quickly slipped under the lift counter and followed.

I slipped off my stool and walked to the end of the bar, lifted the counter to step through, and walked back down to the office door. About this time, my fantasy of Joyce realizing her desire for my body, temporarily renouncing her lesbian ways, and raping me in her office had kicked in, and my imagination was working a double shift thinking up delightfully wicked thoughts. My fantasy modified itself to include Sheryl, but as I approached the office, it hadn’t yet decided if she just watched or was an active participant. As I entered the office, I was prepared to be pushed down on top of her desk and ravaged. I wasn’t at all prepared for what really awaited me.

Joyce and Sheryl were sitting on the office couch, and between them was the most pregnant twenty year old girl I had ever seen. She was nearly a carbon copy of Sheryl; well, she would have been except for the swollen belly. Sheryl is about five six and is a hundred twenty pounds of pure blonde fiery passion with yummy small breasts and a yummy tight bottom and yummy…well, you get the idea. It makes me jealous bahis firmaları of Joyce every time I see her touch Sheryl; I’m sure Joyce knows this, because she does it a lot when I’m watching…and then grins wickedly at me and winks. The girl had the same long blonde hair, a little larger breasts, and a little larger ass, but I generously attributed the size to her delicate condition. As I stared, first at her, then at Sheryl, the girl rolled herself up off the couch, and waddled over to me, her hand outstretched and the big smile on her face gleaming with white, slightly bucked teeth. Her belly was so large that it pulled her blue dress up at least three inches in the front, and the black flats she wore looked well cared for, but were showing their age.

“Mr. Conford, I’m Dietra Spone, from over in Carter County. I came to Nashville on the bus because Auntie Sheryl wrote and said you’d help me find Harley.”

Her voice dripped the molten, honey-sweet accent of an older Eastern Tennessee. I knew the area of which she spoke. It was beautiful country, the houses and barns clinging to the sides of the Smokies, and the people who lived on the farms and in the remote small towns unconsciously preserved the old speech and customs just by using them everyday. I looked at Dietra closely, and saw in her face the same clear, clean, beauty that made Sheryl so lovely, and the innocence born of life at the relaxed pace of the mountains. The face was smiling, and her handshake was firm, but the slender hand was cold and clammy. I put on my “nice private investigator who really wants to help you” suit, and tried to put her at ease. She released my hand, and crossed her arms on her built-in, tummy armrest.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Dietra. Please call me Jase; Mr. Conford was my father. I didn’t know Sheryl had a niece, but I see your family tends toward very beautiful women.”

I saw Sheryl roll her eyes, and then mouth something I used my lip-reading skill to interpret as “whit amunch abowl sweat”, but that really didn’t make much sense to me. Joyce, on the other hand, was sticking her finger in her mouth, making gagging motions, and silently giggling her ass off; I understood that. So much for my attempt at suave and debonair.

“Jase, she’s serious. Now stop with the schmooze and listen to her.” Sheryl was upset. “She’s looking for her boyfriend, and she needs to find him before… well within the next couple weeks anyway. I told her you’d help her and I’ll pay you for your time. Tell him your story, Dietra.”

“Well, Jase, Harley and I went steady in school back in Roan Mountain, but after we graduated, Harley got a job playing guitar with a band in Nashville, and we kind of broke up. He’s really good, and the band is supposed to make a recording one of these days. Well, anyway, he came home for a visit last summer, and came to see me. I still loved him, Mr…I mean, Jase, and we went swimming in the crick above our house. One thing led to another, and, well, you can see where it led. I have to find Harley to tell him about the baby. I don’t know if he’ll want me or not, but he still needs to know. Auntie Sheryl’s going to help me with the baby and all, so I’ll be OK; I just want to tell him, that’s all.”

“What’s Harley’s last name?”

Dietra’s smile evaporated as her face became serious.

“Promise you won’t laugh?”

“Why would I laugh?”

“Just promise, OK?”


“Davidson. Harley’s last name is Davidson. See, his daddy thought that name would be neat and all, like, when Harley grew up he could ride around on this big motorcycle and be Harley Davidson on a Harley Davidson, but Harley hates it. He had a rough time with it in school, ’cause Harley’s kind of shy and, well…he’s not exactly a football player, if you know what I mean. Don’t get me wrong, Harley’s not one o’ them sissy boys; he likes girls.” She laughed nervously, “Well, I guess you already guessed that, but he’s real soft hearted. The guys used to call him “Soft Tail”, ’cause of his name, and Harley said he was gonna to change it when he came here. Anyway, my letters started coming back to me about a month ago. When I called his hotel, they said he’d moved out and didn’t say where he was going. Mr. Conford, I just got to find him. Can’t you please help me?”

I looked at her enormous belly and her sweet young face, then looked at Joyce who’s eyes were silently pleading with me, and then at Sheryl who looked like a little puppy begging for a biscuit. It was useless to tell Dietra that Harley probably had lots of fun with her at the spring, but then decided to lay low in case she tried to find him again. It was useless to point out that Harley could easily disappear in Nashville, and I’d have one hell of a time finding him if he really tried to stay hidden. It was useless to speculate on whether Harley was even still in Nashville. Dietra was convinced Harley was here, and all three were convinced that I could find him.

I wish kaçak iddaa women didn’t have this affect on me, I really do. When they put on that “please help me” face, my rugged, manly, private investigator’s objective attitude turns to silly putty, and I’ll do anything they want. By the time I realize it’s happened again, it’s too late to say “no”, and I’m off to rescue the damsel in distress, especially if the damsel is as pretty as any one of these three.

“OK, let me get what information you know, and I’ll get started in the morning.”

According to Dietra, Harley was the best guitar player in Roan Mountain; from what I knew of Roan Mountain, he was probably the only guitar player there, but Dietra was obviously proud of him. He’d come to Nashville to join the thousands of young kids who dream of fame and fortune in the recording industry. They work for minimum wage, spend everything they earn on demo tapes and CD’s, starve a little and grow up a lot, and after a couple of years, most go back home to real jobs. A few are good enough to make a meager living playing in the bands that do three one-hour sets a night in the many clubs in Nashville and the surrounding area. Once in a while, one of them has something that clicks with a record company, and the dream comes true. I knew Harley wasn’t one of the lucky ones, but he might still be playing with a band somewhere. Dietra gave me Harley’s highschool picture. The boy who smiled back at me had her same innocent eyes and long, blonde hair. He looked uncomfortable in the suit and tie, and I imagined Harley would be a lot more at ease in jeans. I wanted to make her feel a little better, but I didn’t want to encourage her too much.

“Well, Dietra, I’ll see if I can find your Harley for you. Do you remember the name of the band he was playing with?”

“Well, when he left, Harley told me it was “Tobacco Country”, but this summer he said something about changing their name to “Rabbit Flats”, because they thought it sounded better. I don’t know if they did or not, because Harley never said in his letters.”

The next morning I called Carla Hampton. Carla is a gorgeous brunette with long legs and a fantastic set of breasts who became a friend after I taped her husband in the company of a very young, very naked young woman; the tape helped Carla keep her recording business intact after the divorce proceedings she started against him and she was very grateful. Damn, that woman did know how to be grateful. She came to my office to look at the tape, and ended up climbing naked onto my own desk and seducing me into making love to her. She seduced me later that night on my couch…twice. She seduced me the next morning in the shower. Carla can be very seductive. We have a rather unique friendship. Any time Carla gets horny, she comes to Barney’s for a cheeseburger and double scotch; then we go to my place and she screws my eyes crossed. We wake up the next morning, and she goes back to her office. I’m already in my office, so all I have to do is limp to the shower, stand under the water until it turns too cold to tolerate, and then go back to bed for the rest of the day. By evening, I’m recovered and ready to get back to PI stuff. It’s really a quite simple relationship, but it is fun.

I asked Carla if she knew of a band called Tobacco Country. She said, “Wait a sec”, and I heard the clicking of a keyboard.

“Jase, Tobacco Country sent us a tape last year. We rated them better than most, but they were just another country rock band, so we didn’t sign them. Their agent’s name is Bill Gadston, if you’re interested; his office is over on Music Row.” Her voice turned soft and sensuous. “Jase, you gonna to be at Barney’s tonight?”

“Afraid not, darlin’. Working on a case. I need to find a guitar player that plays with that band, or used to anyway. His sweet little pregnant girlfriend wants to tell him he’s going to be a father, and from the looks of her, I don’t have much time. If I get lucky, your Mr. Gadston will be able to tell me where to find him, but if they changed agents, I may just have to bar hop until I find somebody who knows him.”

The voice turned softer, more sensuous, and had little pleading overtones. “But, Jase, I’m feeling really… tense, if you know what I mean. I could really use a backrub…and a frontrub…and a siderub…and a rub in some other places…and I could make it worth your while.”

Damn, I could picture Carla sitting at her desk, her long dancer’s legs crossed so her skirt raised to show the tiny thong panties she loved. She was probably caressing herself, too. Carla had a particular fondness for her own touch, at least if I wasn’t around. Damn, why did I have to work for a living? I was stubbornly professional, or was it stupidly professional? “Sorry, honey, not tonight.”

“Well, shit, lover. I guess Mr. Bullet is going to have to stand in for Mr. Conford again tonight.”

“Mr. Bullet?”

She giggled. “Mr. Silver Bullet. I found kaçak bahis him in Chicago, last week. He’s always hard, and never gets tired. He does tend to eat lots of batteries, though. I should have bought the handy AC adapter, I guess. Hurry and find your guy, Jase. Mr. Bullet is nice, but I really need you.”

I called the Gadston agency, but the answering machine said Billy was in Atlanta until Monday. I should have just waited until Monday, but the girls would ask me what I found out, so I had to try something today. That’s why I was at Scooter’s. Most of the bands know each other, so if I was lucky, I might get a lead on Harley’s location.

Inside, Scooter’s was a typical redneck country bar with wall to wall neon beer signs, stools at the long bar, and a small dance floor all just barely visible through the dense, smoky haze. Three pool tables were lit by hanging fluorescent lights and rows of quarters shared the table lips with chalk cubes and the long burns of forgotten cigarettes. Two guys in jeans, flame splashed shirts, black cowboy hats and python boots maneuvered for position as a buxom woman in tight leather mini-skirt and tiny halter top leaned into her shot at the cue ball. Two dart boards hung on the rear wall, and a quiet group stood and watched as the shining missiles flew through the air to choose who bought the next round. Behind the dance floor, the band was setting up for the first set, and guitar and bass runs blended with drum rolls and rimshots to mix with the country ballad blaring through the speakers hanging from the ceiling. I walked up to the bar, and ordered a beer from the bartender. It was hard to concentrate on her red hair and smile, pretty as they were, because her bikini top and cut-offs tended to distract me. Through some miracle of engineering, the two small triangles of fabric managed to contain those magnificent breasts, although they looked too high set and firm to be original issue, and when she bent over the ice tub to retrieve my beer, soft, tanned cheeks cased in white lace peeked at me from under the hem of the shorts. All in all, the effect was intended to draw big tips from the horny guys at the bar, and judging from the dollar bills crammed into the wine carafe in front of her, it was working. The wedding rings on her left hand kind of spoiled my vision of her, me, and a bedroom, but I tipped her a buck anyway. Anybody who tries that hard deserves a reward.

The music had changed to a slow ballad, and the dance floor quickly filled with couples locked in passionate embraces as they slowly rocked in place. Here and there, I saw long, deep kisses exchanged and over in one corner, a slender woman in western blouse and skirt was slowly humping against her cowboy’s thigh as he cupped her round ass with both hands. The song ended, and lights lit the band on the stage. They immediately launched into a fast, upbeat instrumental at a volume I was sure was not OSHA legal, and amid rebel yells and whistles, the couples cleared the dance floor. It’s a good thing I Iike country music, because after an hour of this, my ears were ringing and I was reasonably sure I was developing an addiction to nicotine. I bought another beer from the red-headed breasts and sauntered in my best cowboy saunter back to the table where the band had gathered. I decided to play this one straight, at least to start. I walked up to the guitar player and stuck out my hand just as he was sitting down next to a chubby, dishwater blond.

“I’m Jase Conford, and I really enjoyed your music. You guys write all this yourselves?”

“Hey, Jase, Cliff Pardue. This is Connie, my wife. Yeah, man, we write all of it.” He shook my hand, and I made nicey to Connie. She was kind of cute, and her smile would have raised the dead. It was easy to see what Cliff found in her.

“I’m looking for another guitar player. He plays with a band called Tobacco Country. Think you could help me out?”

“Jase, man, don’t know. Why you lookin’ for this guitar player?”

I gave him my business card. “I’m a private investigator, and I’m trying to find him for his mother. She hasn’t heard from him for a couple months, and want’s to make sure he’s OK.”

All right, so I lied; a guy might hide from his girlfriend, especially if she’s expecting, but never from his mother.

“How do I know you’re not gonna repo’ his wheels, or serve him with a warrant or something?”

“Well, you don’t, but I don’t do that kind of work. I just find people for other people.”

“What’s the guy’s name?”

“Harley, Harley Davidson.”

“Mister, you gotta be shittin’ me. Ain’t nobody named Harley Davidson playin’ ax in Nashville.”

“Well, he might have changed it. I don’t think he liked the name very much. How about Tobacco Country? Ever hear of them?”

“Yeah, but they call themselves Rabbit Flats, now. Ax man’s named Dave Harlow, not Harley. They’re playin’ over at the Spur for the next few weeks.”

“Dave’s got short, black hair, right, and he’s about six feet tall?”

“Nope, Dave’s got blonde hair clean down to his asshole, and he’s about average height.”

“Shit, must not be my guy. Hey, thanks though; buy you and your lady a drink?”

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