PARIS HILTON SHOT DEAD ON RED CARPET

 

The flashbulbs didn’t fade as she lay bloodied from her stiff blonde head to her stiletto heels; lifeless limbs flung out at her sides, as pink in death as she had been in life, the spark extinguished by a single shot from among the crowd.

The guy had been waiting among the paparazzi and onlookers for the girl with the spray tan to appear from the Bentley radiant like a vision, as if God Himself had bequeathed the excited mob a true to life golden statue of its own. A Lifetime Achievement Award, for waiting.

In a flash the image was all over the Internet and making the front page of tabloids around the world. Kathy Hilton was beside herself and got in touch with one her friends high up in the administration, but the Feds wouldn’t touch it. That left it up to Nicky.

“You say there were two men.”

“One man slipped into the crowd, like I told you, but there had to be a second man, the man that fired. No one else was close enough to take a shot like that.”

“You know your guns do you?”

“Everyone in our family is a charter member of the NRA. Paris and I used to go with our father to the range and give us shooting lessons, but—Mister Brady, Paris carried a gun!” she yelped. “We both—did,” she added.

I looked at her and asked, “Do you have gun on you now?”

She stood back and raising her arms, said, “Do I look like I have a gun?”

She wore what looked like a purple satin sheet tied at the shoulder and her arms up that hike it above her waist. She didn’t have anything on except flesh, and she stayed that way so I could take a good look. She looked like she wanted me to frisk her but I passed.

“I’m surprised she didn’t have it with her,” she said, bringing the arms down, disappointed when I didn’t jump at the chance and she put her freshly waxed cooch away before she hurt somebody.

“It wouldn’t have done her any good anyway. Let’s talk about your sister’s murder over a meal. What say, on me? If I take the job, it’s on you.”

“Oh, Mr. Brady, you do have a way of making a girl smile.”

“Call me Duke, and cut out that girl stuff. You’re a grown woman and I intend to treat ya like one. You’re sister, she was older than you?”

“By two years but you’d think by two minutes. We practically twins, except we don’t look anything alike and Paris has enormous feet.”

Truth was they weren’t anything alike. Nicky had her head on her shoulders such as it was and her sister’s big feet’d never walk in stilettos again.

“Minutes count for something,” I said. “Your sister liked the limelight. You play your cards close to your chest. I mean, vest.”

She looked at her amply enhanced cleavage in the open trench coat and uttered stupidly, “But I’m not wearing a vest.”

“You’re not playin’ cards, either. It was a figure of speech. I’m takin’ you up on the job, Nicky. Not that I need the money, I just don’t wanna see ya get hurt. You debs get to me somehow, I don’t know how though. Karl Marx wouldn’t like it.”

“I love Karl Marx. He’s one of the Marx Brothers, right? I love them.”

“Sure ya do.”

I hit the office light and we were off.

In a house on a street in Westchester a boy and a girl were doin’ what a boy an’ a girl do. The boy was nervous and the girl wasn’t sure why.

“I’m such a slut,” she murmured in his ear. “I can’t believe I’m letting a guy half my age get into my pants, not that that’s so bad. I’m forty, you’re twenty, so it’s not like I’m robbing the cradle, exactly, or is it?”

“Shut the hell up, willya? I’m over the age of consent,” he said, fumbling with her bra straps. She helped as best she could.

“But you still live with your parents,” she said, slipping a bare arm free. “Your soon to be divorced parents, as you’re so fond of saying.”

He had a big tit in his mouth, but tried to talk anyway, saying, “ Look, my father’s already living somewhere with his twenty year old girlfriend. As soon as my parents’ divorce settlement is finalized they’ll officially go their separate ways and leave me with the house. I hope they kill each other.”

The guy had his reasons for staying in the room he grew up in, with its Spiderman and Britney Spears posters. Spiderman she understood, but Britney Spears was an odd choice of pin-up for a straight guy, not that she didn’t have what it takes but it was kind of like Madonna or Judy Garland or any of the other pop tarts of the moment that were little more than gay icons in the making.

I brought Nicky to a nice bar around the corner from my office for a drink. The place was old, and that made it a dump, but it was a nice dump. The bartender was friendly and served us a couple of Manhattans. We were sitting at a table when the waitress came by with menus. She pretended she didn’t recognize Nicky’s face from the tabloids, the place was dark enough for her to get away with it.

Once the waitress had taken our orders and left, I leaned in on the table and said, “I suppose there’s no point in asking if anyone wanted your sister dead.”

 

The girl thought about it for about all of a half a second. The bedroom door was shut and his grubby hands were down her skirt. Even if he were a closet case what else would a twenty-year-old man who still reads comic books do with a naked, horny forty-year-old woman in his room while his mother was downstairs washing his XL Flintstone pajamas? She’d do the same thing if the shoe were on the other foot. That is, if she were twenty and he were forty like his dad and, anyway…there she was, letting the kid get the upper hand. She decided to take a little initiative and grabbed his nuts to see for herself if this was a man in the body of a man or a boy in the body of a man, if you know what I mean. She was curious as hell, so she reached for it, in the most un-lady way and squeezed. She must have squeezed a little to hard because his eyes popped out of his head and he stumbled and landed on top of her. She’s being crushed and she’s got Spiderman looking over her shoulder.

“Would you turn down a blowjob?” she whispered.

He grinned, and said, “If a woman offered me a blowjob I’d have a hard time turning it down.”

Well, okay she thought, that’s a clear signal that this boy is ready to become a man and she pulled down his zipper and his little worm popped out. Tasty but she kind felt like a wide mouth bass about to take the bait. I guess he didn’t realize what was coming—um, no pun intended, unfortunately, because when she put her lips around it he froze and not in a good way.

His pecker that was only at half-mast to begin with shriveled up into a tiny knot and she looked up at him and say to him, “What the hell just happened?”

He was red in the face and his little balls were like tiny blue peanuts and his Willie was gone—I mean his little red poker had shrunk so small that she thought it went back up into his body. It was then that she thought, “Oh—my—god, this guy has never been with a woman—or anything. Maybe he didn’t know what he was doing, but she knew what she was doing. She couldn’t suck it because it was gone.

So she stood up, pulled her shirt down over her milky gobs and said, “Maybe I should go.”

And he was so embarrassed he was trembling and she stopped and took a good look at him, trying to read his face. He just put his head on her shoulder and started crying, crying, like a baby and she couldn’t resist patting him on the back and saying, “There-there. It’s all right. Some other time.”

And he lifted his head looking her in the face, saying with tears in his eyes, his face still red, “I’m sorry, that doesn’t happen when my mom does it.”

That’s when she heard shuffling outside the door and decided she’d better leave. I mean, for all that, she thought he was a great guy and she didn’t want to make his mom jealous.