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From: jimmy@jimmy-hat.com (Jimmy Hat)
Subject: {ASSM} Glows in the Dark 1/3 (MF rom toys)  
Date: Sun, 10 Jun 2001 23:10:02 -0400
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This work contains graphic depictions of sex acts.
Please do not continue if this makes you uncomfortable,
or violates laws in your part of the world.

This story is Copyright 2001 by Jimmy Hat (jimmy@jimmy-hat.com)
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Glows in the Dark 

ONE 

Though the day was hot, both Maytag and Stanton dressed formally.
Gerald Maytag wore a dark olive suit with a glen plaid, an off
white button-down shirt, and a simple necktie. Heather Stanton
also wore a dark pants suit, but the material was a light
synthetic blend, and unlike her partner, she did not have the
burden of a closed collar and knotted tie constricting her neck. 

In a way, this was fitting; Maytag was hotter for the case, as
well. As often with this pair of FBI agents assigned to monitor
the pornography industry, Maytag had seen a newspaper article
that he thought warranted investigation, while Stanton thought it
called for a guffaw at best. This time, the dubious cause for
alarm was a report of radioactive strippers. 

The article offered a photograph of a woman's torso partially
masked by two strategically placed black boxes. "Unfortunately,"
read the caption, "We cannot show you the evidence of the
radioactivity in this family newspaper." The article did bolster
this evidence with witness testimonials, including the quote,
"she ought to have that looked at, if you know what I mean." It
even made allusion to a secret defense industry factory close by
to the scene. 

Stanton thought the article must have come from a supermarket
tabloid, but it actually ran in a small regional newspaper from
western Connecticut. Maytag insisted on following up the article.
He called the newspaper, spoke to the editor, and received the
contact information for the reporter who filed the story, Neil
Farrier. 

Farrier lived in a century old farmhouse with weathered shingles,
creaking porch steps, and tired window shutters. Bright turquoise
paint livened the walls of the house, though, as did flower boxes
by the windows that spilled over with flora. Maytag and Stanton
walked to the screen door and knocked. There was no answer. 

Maytag wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, and brushed back his
short brown hair. "Mr. Farrier?" he called through the screen
door. 

"Let's try around back," Stanton said. 

The two made their way down the porch steps and around the side
of the house, with Stanton leading the way. Her dark hair swayed
as they moved past a Volvo wagon parked in front of an open
garage and around the side of the building. Behind the house was
a large vegetable garden surrounded with chicken wire to hold
back foraging creatures from the nearby woods. Flowers lined the
footpath on either side, a mix of white, red and purple. The two
called out for Mr. Farrier, but were again met by silence. They
were about to leave when they heard a dog barking. 

Out of the woods bounded a sheep dog. It stopped in its tracks
upon spotting the pair of agents, bayed again, and looked back
into the trees. A figure emerged and the dog circled back to his
side and offered another bark to announce the master's arrival.
As dog and owner came closer, Maytag and Stanton held still. 

The man wore khaki shorts, hiking boots, and a white tank top
that contrasted with his tan skin and revealed part of a chest as
full of dark curly hair as his head. His angular face was colored
by black stubble around his chin and jaw line, and pink sunburn
on his nose and the tops of his cheeks. He carried two pails, and
the muscles in his bare arms stood out in response to the load. 

He looked on the two strangers with curiosity but without
concern, and the sheep dog had taken on the same calm, confident
attitude. "Can I help you?" the man said. 

"Are you Mr. Neil Farrier," Maytag asked. 

"That's right," he answered, putting down the pails. He
approached the pair who were dangerously close to stepping on his
impatiens. 

"I'm agent Maytag of the FBI, this is Agent Stanton." 

Farrier extended his hand. "Agent Maytag, Agent Stanton." His
gaze lingered on Stanton. She met it right back, with blue eyes
that looked out from under a frame of shiny black hair. The
beginning of a smile came to Neil's lips. "I hope you aren't here
to arrest me," he said. He didn't sound like he meant it. 

"No," Maytag replied. "Just here to ask a few questions." 

"What about?" Neil asked. 

"An article you wrote for the Steeple Times," Stanton answered.
She didn't specify which article. 

Neil was intrigued. "Fair enough," he said. "I just picked some
blackberries from a patch out in the woods. There's some
lemonade, too. Why don't we step inside for a second." 

The inside of the house was as bucolic as the outside. There were
walnut-stained wooden chairs and a matching table, with
embroidered lace place mats and a matching doily under a short,
fat beeswax candle for a centerpiece. Copper pans hung from pegs
on the wall. Even the appliances looked rustic. Stanton expected
to see hand painted duck decoys, but could not spot them
anywhere. 

Neil served them tall glasses of lemonade and small bowls of ripe
blackberries. He sat down and plopped a large juicy berry into
his mouth. "So what do you want to talk about?" 

Maytag rotated his glass with his fingers. "You wrote an article
about possible radioactive contamination at a local bar. We'd
like to ask you some questions." 

Neil almost spit out the berry. He looked back and forth at the
FBI agents. "You're not serious, are you?" 

"Of course we are," Maytag said. Stanton took a sip of lemonade
and looked more amused than serious. 

Neil leaned over the table. "Well, that article was a mistake, a
joke." 

"You mean there are no radioactive strippers?" Stanton said
mockingly. Her comment was directed more at Maytag than Farrier. 

"No!" Neil said. "Look, you have to understand some things about
the Steeple Times. In one way or another, I've worked for that
paper just about my whole life. When I was a little kid I had a
paper route with my bicycle. In high school I loaded trucks. When
I got out of college I did ad copy, and now I write the
occasional article or two. 

"A couple of years ago, the paper was bought out by a big chain.
To save money, they closed the local office, and do all the
editing and layout in New York or Newark or some damn place.
Anyone writing articles here just sends them along by computer.
They print and distribute locally, but all the administration is
done centrally. They do the same thing for lots of regional
papers. It's how they make money. 

"Anyway, it also means the editor doesn't know anything about
what goes on here. I wrote that article as an April fools joke
piece, kind of a tradition with the Steeple Times. They must have
misplaced it back then, found it again this summer, and decided
to run it." 

"How about that, Maytag," Stanton said. "The whole thing was an
April Fools' prank." 

"Then why didn't they print a retraction?" Maytag asked. "I saw a
letter to the editor in today's paper praising the report." 

Neil shook his head. "Sorry, Agent Maytag. I saw that, too, and
had a good laugh. That letter was from the owner of the go-go
bar. He said he 'saluted the editor's instincts and abilities.'
It was pure sarcasm. It's even funnier that they printed it. This
is a small town, and everyone knows what's going on. No one is
happy that the paper was bought out like that, and so it's fun to
see the new management get egg on their face. There was no
retraction because no one told them they made a mistake in the
first place." 

"So why didn't you correct them?" Maytag asked. "It's your
reputation, too." 

"My reputation is fine, Agent Maytag. People figured it out soon
enough, and word travels fast." 

"Sorry we wasted your time, Mr. Farrier," Stanton said. 

"I still have a couple of questions," Maytag said. Stanton sighed
and drank more lemonade. "In the article, you described seeing a
dancer with luminescent...features." 

"Correct," Farrier replied. 

"Did you really see that, or did you fabricate that?" 

"Actually, I did see that. There's a dancer named Starr there
that does a special show once in a while. She uses a special
paint and it glows under black light." 

"Do you know that she uses paint? Did you ask her?" 

"No," Neil answered. "I didn't explicitly ask her." 

"Does Starr work there regularly?" 

"I believe so," Neil answered. 

"OK, then," Maytag said as he stood. He offered Neil his hand.
"Thanks for the help, and the lemonade. Very refreshing. If you
could tell us where this go-go bar is, we can be on our way." 

"Sure," Neil said. After shaking Maytag's hand, he explained
where the bar was. "But it won't be open until later tonight," he
cautioned them. 

"Thanks again," Maytag said, as he left he kitchen. 

Neil looked at Stanton. "Is he serious about this?" 

"He's very thorough," Stanton explained. "We'll be at that club
tonight, you can bet money on it." 

"I doubt you both need to go there," Neil said. 

"No?" 

"I mean, there's better things for you to see here than some dive
nudie joint." 

"Oh, really?" 

"Absolutely. Why don't you have dinner with me tonight?" 

Stanton smiled. "Always so forward with strangers, Mr. Farrier?" 

"Only when I know I don't have long to act," Neil replied. 

Stanton needlessly flipped her hair over her shoulder. "What time
is dinner?" 

"Let's say seven." 

"Seven it is," Stanton said as she left the room. 

"Oh by the way," Neil said. "How the hell did you two ever find
that Steeple Times article in the first place?" 

"Like I said," Stanton replied with a grin. "He's very thorough." 

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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