It was a terrifying experience for Rutledge to be blackmailed by me. So he was greatly relieved to find out it was just me fulfilling his self-confessed fetish. He claimed that was exactly what he wanted!
I'd pretty much forgotten about it and moved on, when Rutledge came into my office saying he wanted me to do the same thing to one of the other guys, Granger. I said, "Yeah, Granger would shit his pants, even though he also said he'd like the danger of being blackmailed." Granger's wife is totally suspicious that he spends his check on booze, hookers, and gambling. So far, though, what she doesn't know hasn't hurt her...
I rubbed my hands and said, "Yesssss! Our Mr. Granger is in for it ... big time!" Rutledge and I laughed and slapped high fives. But I warned him not to say anything under any circumstances, no matter what. He crossed his heart and said "hope to die." I put a bead on his heart and said, "Don't worry, you will." With that, his smile disappeared, till I said, "Cheer up, Granger's gonna get it!"
The joke here, though, wouldn't be on Granger. Rutledge was going to get it again! So Rutledge leaves and Granger comes out of the bathroom, and I said, "You heard everything?" He nodded. We began making our plans. Then I scratched out a note and told him to deliver it, pronto!
A few minutes later, I placed a call to Rutledge. When he picked up, he heard heavy breathing on the line. Then an unfamiliar voice, my voice again disguised. "Rutledge, I understand you're a regular over at the hotel, with everything that implies." He tried to deny it. He might have been suspicious, so I referred to myself in the third person to deflect it: "And I understand you're working with that shithead, Machine Gun Ricky Wayward, whose guts I hate with a purple passion, a hatred beyond words. I'd love to see Wayward take a long walk off a short pier." He clearly didn't like where this conversation was going! His breath was heavy and I could feel the moisture of his perspiration through the line, nearly short-circuiting the connection.
My demand once again was for money, this time $5,000. Or I would go to his wife with all the disgusting lowdown, plus, the police would hear some "very interesting" news of his involvement in a recent diamond heist, among other jobs. Rutledge knew he was nailed, and this time it could be no joke. The resignation in his voice was heartbreaking as he asked where to make the drop. I referred to a particular garbage can at a playground on the east side of town. He said he knew it well. I said that wasn't where he would make the drop, but where he would find his instructions for the next step.
I said "my boys" were watching the garbage can, "so don't be late," and I gave this final warning: "If you double-cross us in any way, if you contact Wayward, my order on you is shoot to kill." I finished the call with only about 10 seconds of maniacal laughter, not wanting to use all my minutes this early in the month.
OK, some time passed, giving me and Granger time to wonder what the hell was going on. I remembered the note in the garbage can word for word: "Rutledge, we hope you enjoyed our little fun. How's the fetish going? -- Wayward and Granger."
About two hours passed -- you'd expect the bastard back sooner! -- when Rutledge came busting into my apartment. He was well-lubed, obviously having stopped by a drinking hole for liquid courage, to do--- to do what he felt he must! Which was to kill me. Thankfully, the booze made him so unsteady, he merely shot four or five shots into my walls and ceiling.
Granger sneaked behind him and knocked the gun down, after which we laughed our asses off. It took a while, but soon drunk Rutledge was also able to laugh, and the three of us left that particular subject arm in arm, singing the old song about "15 men on a dead man's chest."
Rutledge had the 5 grand on him still. I peeled off $100 and sent him down the hall with one of our more patient hookers.
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