Catfish Retires 4 By Bald Hairy Man
This is a story for adult men. It depicts gay sex. If this offends or bothers you, DO NOT READ IT. It is a fantasy and is not a sex manual, or a discussion of safe sex. If you have, comments send them to bldhrymn@yahoo.com or bldhrymn@aol.com.
F.Y.I You might look for Catfish Looks for Loot for some background on this story.
The plot to steal art works from Bath was the tip of a large conspiracy. I was visiting Wells at the home of the Cathedrals Choir' Director. I was there when we got word that the director committed suicide. Alarm bells went off immediately. Local Police departments tend to deal with low level crimes. Detective Inspector Miller and George were preceptive and suspicious men. this was an opportunity to shine.
I heard of the death at ten in the morning. By ten-thirty George and two constables were at the house. They knew this wasn't a co-incidence. The suicide of person associated with a major attempted robbery was lucky. The director had been in Florence for a week so there was no way he could have returned to Wells to destroy evidence. Miller and George knew that. The house was secured.
I also discovered the problems with over trusting gossip. I was told the suspect guard was the Bishop' relative. The actual story was that the Guard, Delacour, got the position because he was a relative of some one higher up. The story evolved to say it was the Bishop. Delacour was the Choir Director's cousin.
It seemed that the Choir Director was a good musician, but a shit human being. Norman, the butler, possessed the most important trait for a butler; he was stunningly two faced. One face was totally devoted to the director, the other face hated his guts. As a faithful retainer, Norman overheard conversations that were private and indiscrete.
Norman didn't know anything about the robbery, but he did suspect the Choir Director's loyalty was not to the Bishop of Wells. The Director was hoping to rise to a position at Canterbury, St. Paul's, or York. Apparently, he thought he couldn't get there by talent alone. He needed cash and lots of it.
George found private correspondence that was suspect. One of the letters mentioned the names of men who might be interested in rare books. They also mentioned a Count. I sent that information to my friendly museum in Richmond, and to Templeton. Templeton was interested in finance, but only very wealthy men could buy a stolen masterpiece.
My pal Mouse usually hung around the Cathedral area to pick up casual labor. Mouse was a nice guy, willing to work hard, but looked a bit odd and I suspected his brain wasn't operating on full power. Lugg was a smart man who was unable to talk. He was Mouse's protector.
Norman was looking though mug shots of art thieves. He didn't recognize any of them, but Mouse walked by and he recognized a face. Mouse seemed to have a photographic memory of faces. He remembered the faces of the men who came to the Choir Director's house.
A young police constable, Fran Gooding, had incredible patience and went over hundreds of mug shots with Mouse. He picked pictures of four men. Each of them had a connection to art theft. When George got that information, he exclaimed, "What a coincidence!"
By this time Scotland Yard was well involved. They discovered that the director's concerts at other cathedrals were followed by a theft two to three weeks later. The Wells Police had all of his phone calls, several of which were unusual.
It was not yet proven that the Wells theft was related to Anthony Deal's art gallery problem. We didn't yet have a connection. I sensed a connection. The thefts were all of works that could not be displayed. The masterpieces in Deal's collection and the Well's manuscript were well known and easily identified. They could not be sold on the open market. I assumed they were for the secret collection of a possibly unstable millionaire. I suspected mental illness was involved.
I had met many collectors, and most were eager to show off their collections. A few wanted art as an investment, assuming it would appreciate in value. Most were collecting for enjoyment and with the intention to leave it to an art museum.
I returned to Bath and met with Anthony Deal. He said he had received some anonymous offers to sell him important paintings. The agent for the buyer was unknown as was the potential buyer. Deal was wealthy, and the offers were low.
Deal was known as a hard-headed businessman with few social graces. He had begun buying paintings when an interior decorator took him to an art gallery to find, what the decorator called wall art.
The gallery was a few levels up the bottom of the art gallery food chain, and Deal bought a painting that was sold as a copy but was an original. That may have been a fluke, but Deal was hooked. He had never looked at art, but he developed a good eye. Deal was getting older and the new museum was intended to improve his image. Deal was miffed by the low offer.
MacDuff's continuing anti-mugging campaign was successful. He was now focusing on Dennington & Annandale, the non-existent accounting firm located next to the main art storage building. It had proved to be difficult to trace, exceptionally difficult. That was an obvious clue. There is no reason to have a secret accounting firm.
To have a firm with convoluted ownerships suggested it was something other than a bookkeeper. Something else was going on. I wondered if the building was just a staging point for an illegal act. Julian was helpful. He was born in the area, went to school there and was on the local Rugby team. It seemed that just about everyone knew him.
The locals were impressed when Dennington & Annandale purchased the building for well over its value. They were surprised when the firm didn't move into the expensive property. One group thought Deal had purchased the property. However, Deal moved fast. When he bought a property, it would be renovated and put into service rapidly.
I was chatting with Julian and Dunstan in a small office in the art warehouse when we heard an explosion. We ran out of the room and saw it was in the rear of the building and seemed to involve the roof. There was sun streaming through smoke and dust. Several bodies were on the ground including a senior curator, Betsy Wormley. Betsy wore massive, tent type, paisley caftans, so it was easy to identify her. The Bath Firemen arrived in what seemed like seconds with the police and ambulances.
There was smoke everywhere, so we checked for fire, and found none. Betsy staggered up and immediately identified the art filled boxes the needed to be moved to safety. This was in the French Impressionist part of the storage. I think she had a concussion, but her assistants moving men took care of the moving quickly while others took her to the hospital.
There was little damage inside the warehouse. I knew what a bomb could do, and this wasn't major. The stench in the air was of pure incompetence. I later found out the bomb had been sitting on the roof and the main force of the explosion had been up into the air. The bomber was on the roof, but his body was now a 1,000-piece jig saw puzzle. The medical examiner had his work cut out for him.
I suspected from the damage the bomb had been intended to blow a small hole in the prefabricated concrete roof. I guessed there was too much explosive. It seemed to me the bomber didn't know much about the roof system and knew less about bombs.
The crates of paintings were substantial, but they had wheels. Dunstan helped rolling some of them to a safer location. Justin went hunting for casualties. He found the head of the bomber. While most of his body had been shredded by the blast, the head was almost complete. Sometimes God immediately punishes the evil and rewards the good. Justin could identify the head. It was a member of a rival Rugby team.
The police press releases told the public that the body had been all but liquified and would require DNA tests. They also said they were checking to see if it was an industrial accident perhaps involving a gas cylinder. It made a brief mention on the evening news. Deal only hired top of the line builders. Hours after the police left the roof was sealed.
Justin hadn't known the name of the Rugby player, but the team photo solved that problem. The Rugby player, Ronnie Butler, was suspected of working with a gang called the Bath Bombers. The name was not a coincidence. The group tended to have left or right extremist connections and seemed to set off a pipe bomb every two or three years. Issues weren't important to them as long as it provide an excuse to bomb something. Ronnie's was a bouncer in a Bath night club.
All of this was odd. Street thugs aren't into pricy art much. High end art thieves don't use street gangs. Using a bomb in an art theft was clearly a bad idea. None of this made sense to me.
Templeton's people found a possible reason for the amateur night attack. Our Count was suspected of fencing masterpieces. In the murky world of stolen art, there were whispers that some of his inventory was of doubtful provenance. That is the art world's polite way of saying it was fake or stolen.
When one of your special clients spends millions on a fake masterpiece, there is a price to pay. The Count had to return the cash in several cases. The paintings ended up in a trailer selling sofa sized paintings.
The Count had an extravagant lifestyle and the loss of income meant he had to economize. Apparently, he failed to pay the thieves the full price of their services. As was the case with most of Templeton's information, there were no facts involved, just things that someone heard, rumors and whispers.
I knew Templeton well enough to understand that in his world, a whisper was never accidental. In high finance, it was an advanced early warning system. For those who were in the know, it could save them from millions or billions of losses. The art market was financially insignificant, but some of Templeton's friends were in the upper tier of collectors or on the boards of major museums. Multi-billionaires do not like to be cheated.
Ronnie Butler, the atomized Rugby-Bomber, was good lead. The local police knew of his associates and the groups associated with his associates. Julian told us that Ronnie was an aggressively disliked man. He was a nasty jerk when he was sober. Drunk he was a character from a horror movie. That he met a horrible end seemed to strike most of the people who knew him as fitting.
The police had a lot of information on the Bath Bombers. With the leads the Bath Police were in their element. They had the manpower to follow every lead. Anthony Deal was not a man to lie back and see what would happen. MacDuff added more men.
Ronnie got on the roof by climbing on top of a delivery truck. He went from the top of the trailer onto the lower level canopy over the delivery dock and then onto the main roof that was only five feet higher. The warehouse roof was lower than many warehouses to avoid stacking artworks too high. If you had a container of marble statues sitting on top of a box of paintings, it might crush the paintings. The curators and handlers of art works are ever so slightly anal retentive about the protection of masterpieces. I suspected Deal didn't need to worry.
While the public news releases tended to understate the problem, every museum in the country was warned from the National Gallery to the East Buttfuck municipal museum. There was no clear connection between the Deal museum problem and the Wells' attempted robbery, but I had a strong suspicion they were connected. I had a conversation with a senior man for the Bishop of Wells. I was told he was officially the Bishop of Bath and Wells. He was way up the bishop food chain in England. I explained my suspicions. That evening the Bishop sent out warnings to churches and Cathedrals.
Two days later I was invited to spend several days at a country house by the Music Director of Salisbury Cathedral, Jerome Miller. The invitation came by way of Marcus Green who I had met at the nude swimming club. He and Andrew were close with Jerome. I asked if this was a business or pleasure party.
"My guess is it's about 50% very serious and 50% intensely pleasurable," he replied. "If you can talk seriously while massaging an ass with your cock, the ratio might change. Jerome is a serious, intelligent man who periodically takes a trip on the wild side. He was a friend of our late, not much lamented, Choir Director. I think he has some things he would like to clarify."
I asked, "Are Lugg and Dunstan included in the invitation? I assume the house is not well suited for me."
Marcus nodded. "I explained your situation to him, and they are invited. They are also welcome to join in the recreational episodes. I mentioned that they are tops. That quite excited Jerome."
"He likes to slum?" I asked.
"Jerome is far too polite to even think that sort of thing," Marcus said.
Thursday afternoon Dunstan, Lugg and I were on the way to Jerome's home Castle Stone Ford. It was a pretty drive, and the place was impressive from a distance. When we got closer. I realized the medieval castle ruins were impressive. The actual country house was big, but not grotesque. It was a Victorian play castle. Sir Jerome came out to meet us. He was a financial advisor to the Bishop of Salisbury. The staff of the house was all male and included some beefy men. When Lugg and Dunstan got me out of the car, I noticed a look of relief in the men's faces. They realized there would not be much heavy lifting for them.
The house was wonderful, sort of a Hollywood's version of a haunted castle. It also could have been used as an example as the least handicapped accessible house in England,
We went to lunch and I met some of the other guests. I knew Marcus and Andrew. Professor Williams was a musicologist. He was with Thomas, a graduate assistant and Howard, who I thought was Thomas's special friend. The Rev. Mr. Ashton Jones-Deveau and Rev. James Doolittle had something to do with church finances and Toby Daniels ran St. Thomas's Home, a nursing home. Toby looked like a 1970's hippy in a suit.
I asked about the history of the house. Jerome said that we only had a weekend and that wasn't long enough to do the entire history of the house. "The original builders and subsequent heirs to the house, made money, but were otherwise without distinction. They never made it into the history books, but not a single member of the family was beheaded either. Fame and distinction were not helpful if your goal was long life," he explained. The conversation was pleasant.
"Now Catfish, is there an interesting story behind you nick name?" Dr. Williams asked.
"There is, but I'm not sure its suitable for clerical company," I said.
The men laughed. "I'm afraid you have not spent much time with clerics," Rev. Doolittle said. "Are you Church of England?"
"My mother was a good Presbyterian. I was usually believed to be her cross to bear," I said. There was more laughter.
"Let's have the story, please," Jerome asked.
"Well, when I was younger, I was not the impressive physical specimen I am today. Some guys seemed to think I was a scrawny dwarf. We were showering after a basketball game during which I did not distinguish myself when a guy told me my cock looked like a one-eyed catfish. The boys jeered me until the Coach heard the commotion. He asked what was going on. After a while, a kid said it looked like I had a Catfish hanging between my legs. The Coach said he rather have a Catfish than a minnow. Ever since I've been Catfish," I explained. There was a lot of laughter after that.
"Apparently you aren't shy. Is there any chance we could measure it later? I have a feeling it is a keeper. Is there a story behind the missing leg?" Jerome asked.
"A simple story. I interrupted a rape in progress. The rapist was armed. He aimed for my heart, but shot my leg off," I said. "It wasn't exactly off, it was dangling," I said.
"I think that makes you the possessor of an interesting life," Jerome said. "Although the Chinese curse, "May you live in interesting times," seems to apply to you."
After dinner I had a private conversation with Jerome in the library. "Since the suicide I have considered my conversations with late Choir Director. Some of those conversations seemed normal at the time, but they seem odd now. I also saw him having lunch with Robert Wetherlow, the industrialist," Jerome said.
"I don't know Wetherlow," I said.
"He is known as the hermit billionaire. Reclusive, prone to suspect business deals, he is not much admired," Jerome explained. "There were rumors that he was involved in stolen Iraqi antiquities."
"Just rumors?"
"Yes, but the men who were said to be involved died," he explained. "The late director's other conversations involved an open choir position at St. Paul's Cathedral in London. He wanted to know what he had to do to get the position. I took that as telling him the people he needed to speak to. There is a possibility he was asking about more tangible ways to advance his prospects."
I said that was interesting and I would look into it.
It was a warm summer night, and he mentioned he had a swimming pool. "I don't know if you would be interested in that, or you might take offence."
"I am a lot more mobile on one foot in the water," I said.
"We are all boys here, it's nude," he added. "Is that a problem?"
I smiled. I think he knew the answer. We went to the pool. My Uncle Jake told me I was more attractive naked than dressed. He didn't mean that I was attractive naked, but one part of me took the edge off my unattractiveness. I didn't know it would work in reserved and up tight England.
I felt a little like a reverse Cinderella. She dazzled in her golden coach and beautiful gown. A naked, short, hairy guy with a slightly erect cock worked like magic in the pool. The Rev. Mr. Ashton Jones-Deveau said my cock was more like a bullhead than a catfish. He was a well-endowed cleric and I think he was usually the biggest man in the shower room.
Two of the beefy men who were recruited to help me were in the pool. Most of them were big and hairy and I wondered if there were there to double the testosterone level.
While I knew it was going to be a sex party, I hadn't realized it was a fetishists party involving wealthy, well-educated men, and common laborers. I knew that nice guys aren't limited to a single income level. But for men who were born wealthy and never came into contact with the lower orders, common men were sexually exciting.
They hit the jackpot with me, short, hairy, and hung my Southside Virginia accent was exotic. I was sort of a newly discovered humanoid from rural Virginia. They were polite and careful. I was in a good mood and horny as hell. The Rev. Mr. Ashton Jones-Deveau described me as sexually generous. Ashton was not exactly a sheltered virgin on a first date.