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Archive name: dixon3.txt (M/g, rom, ped)
Authors name: Xainia Xanadoupolos (Address withheld)
Story title : Dixon Park 3: The Hitman and the 
              Hooker's Daughter 

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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2002.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story.  You may post freely to non-commercial
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Thank you for your consideration.
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Dixon Park 3: The Hitman and the Hooker's Daughter 
by Xainia Xanadoupolos (Address withheld by request)

***

A doomed-from-the-start relationship between an elderly 
man and a young preteen girl. Like all such romances 
since Romeo and Juliet, someone has to die!

***

The little girl looked up in mock earnestness at the man 
who sat next to her on the park bench. "My mom says you 
are queer!" Then she giggled. She pulled the skirt of her 
summer dress up another few inches along her slender 
thighs and swung her legs. She appeared totally unaware 
of how sensually provocative the action was, but the wild 
mischief radiating from her deep blue eyes convinced the 
man that she really intended to arouse.

The look of surprise on his face was almost entirely 
pretence. "Weird? Me? What's weird about me?"

"Queer!" corrected the girl. "Not weird! Homosexual! 
Gay!" Linda giggled again. "Ponsy! But I don't think you 
are." She corrected herself instantly. "No, I don't just 
think it; I am sure!"

"Well, that's a relief!" exclaimed Garth Bartold. He let 
his breath escape with a long drawn-out hissing sound. 
"And what, may I ask, makes you think I am not gay, 
queer, homosexual or ponsy?"

She gave the question serious consideration. "All the 
time we have been here," she explained solemnly, "you 
have not once looked at the men and boys who have passed. 
And there have been some real bunnies!" She gazed in the 
direction of a couple of men, bare-chested and in 
abbreviated shorts, jogging towards them; they had been 
round the circuit of the park twice already in the time 
they had been sitting there.

She waited until they passed and followed them with her 
lively eyes. Unconsciously, her fingers rubbed her 
crotch. Seeing men like that did something strange to her 
insides. It was the way their firm, muscled thighs moved 
and how their powerful biceps flexed! "You showed some 
interest in those women." 

She pointed at a couple of late-teenage mothers walking 
with baby carriages now in another part of the park. "And 
apart from anything else, I've seen you looking up my 
legs at my panties." 

She stopped swinging her legs and spread them wide 
instead. The hem rode another centimetre along the bare 
flesh. She lifted a foot and rested it on the bench. 
Another male jogger turned his head towards her, his eyes 
fixed on her spotlessly white panties. She assumed he saw 
what she intended him to see.

The pretence left Bartold's face. He frowned slightly at 
the obvious interest shown by the jogger. She seemed 
gratified by the situation. She loved to rouse men from 
their usual lethargic, supercilious air of presupposed 
pre-eminence. 

He asked, "And did you tell your mother that I examined 
your underwear?" He let his gaze fasten on the 
unblemished white of the tight cotton triangle covering 
her essentials. He was aware of a familiar stirring 
inside him. He knew that he would be inside her if she as 
much as hinted that she wanted it that way!

"God, no!" The girl sighed; it was a near-contemptuous 
sound. "She would never let me come anywhere near you if 
I told her anything like that." She let out another 
lingering sigh. "Mom tells me things." She grossly 
exaggerated the emphasis on 'me'. "It's like a crazy one-
way traffic system in the city in thick fog during the 
rush hour at dusk; everyone hell-bent on getting home as 
quickly as possible and mindless of anyone else." 

The imagery was quite striking, Garth decided, and the 
description remarkably coherent for one so young. 

"It's never a real conversation," she continued after a 
long silence, "but I don't really mind, because I only 
half-listen anyway!" She was looking into the distance, 
day-dreaming about the male joggers. "It is quite 
flattering to have a man look at you in the way you look 
at me sometimes. It's a kind of compliment, even though 
my mom says that grown men should not even think of 
looking at little girls in any sort of way." She 
snickered. "I said that if they didn't look at little 
girls, they might trip over them, or stomp them into the 
sidewalk, but she never listens to anything I say!" She 
became pensive again. She licked her lips at the approach 
of another pair of mature male joggers. She waited until 
they passed. "You don't look at Elise in the way you look 
at me! Do you?" She stabbed the last question.

"Don't I?" He frowned. The pretence had returned to his 
face. "Elise?" He knew the girl perfectly well. He knew 
all the people who lived in the block, perhaps better 
than they knew each other; it had become second nature to 
him to know all he could about the people he dealt with. 
"Elise?" he repeated. "Who is Elise?" His life had often 
depended on his knowing people.

"She lives next floor down from us!" The little girl 
smiled beguilingly and the man nodded as if to say, "Oh, 
that Elise!" There were four families living on the floor 
below. Her eyes sparkled wickedly. "But Elise is not 
nearly as pretty as me." Elise was the only other girl of 
comparable age living in the block. "Or as sexy!" And it 
was quite true, compared to Linda she was downright 
plain. And utterly devoid of any sexual appeal.

Linda had been with the man many times in the park when 
she went there to play when her mother had clients, much 
oftener than she had seen him at the luxury apartment 
block where he lived next door. They met almost daily 
this way throughout the long summer, and when Linda had 
school to go to, they met at the weekends. Theirs were 
the only two apartments on the top floor. Above was the 
slanted roof, with a wide catwalk inside artificial 
battlements, and a place for flying the flag on the 
fourth of July.

Below there were four other floors with similar 
dwellings, either three or four of them to each floor, 
and at ground level there was the office, the security 
guard's kiosk and the much smaller apartments where the 
security men, the caretaker and the office lady lived. 
There was also a basement laundry room where Linda played 
when it rained and where one of the security guards 
occasionally came to tickle her and feel her up.

He once stripped her and stuck two fingers into her until 
it hurt and she started to cry, and he gave her 
chocolates and some money. It was only rarely that the 
laundry room was used for its proper purpose, never more 
than once a week; most people used washing machines and 
tumble driers in their own apartments. Even the rotary 
clothes lines on the lawn at the rear of the building 
were only rarely used.

Garth Bartold was a hit-man. Lucille Mayflower, Linda's 
mother, was a high-class hooker. Garth was at the stage 
in his career where he could pick and choose his jobs, 
and mostly he chose not to work; he did not have to - he 
had made his pile and the block of luxury apartments was 
not the only thing he had to prove it. He only made hits 
now as special favors to extremely important, selected 
clients. The people he did hits for were supposed to be 
anonymous, but he always made a point of finding out all 
he could about them before he actually completed the 
assignment. His precautions had paid rich dividends. 

Lucille, for her part, had always made a point of picking 
and choosing her clients, and now, like Bartold, she was 
seriously thinking about retiring altogether. Among her 
current clients were a couple of Republican senators, a 
Roman Catholic bishop and a few priests, the professors 
of moral philosophy and chemical engineering at the state 
university, a few businessmen and a heart surgeon from 
the general hospital in the city who was also a devout 
follower of a famous television evangelist with whom he 
had made many public appearances. Rarely now did she have 
more than one client per day. She felt an increasing 
obligation to spend quality time with her daughter; these 
feelings, however, seldom found actual expression, and 
simply remained as good intentions. Anyway, Linda 
preferred the man's company.

Garth Bartold shifted uncomfortably on the park bench. He 
rose. "Come on, let's walk and talk," he suggested. "I'll 
buy you lunch." She nodded agreement. "And after lunch 
I'll take you deep into the woods and rip your clothes 
off and make mad passionate love to you."

"There are no woods in Dixon Park," she reminded him as 
she fell into step. She tittered. "It will have to be 
some place else!"

Their lunch was the kind Linda loved best. Garth bought 
the food and drinks from the cafeteria in the park where 
they made up picnic baskets for customers. They ate their 
fresco meal at one of the tables in a grotto secluded 
from the rest of the park by a high cypress hedge. 
Occasionally, joggers on the circuit took a break there, 
and businessmen sometimes sought to 'get away from it 
all' with their 'secretaries' within the close confines 
of the isolated grotto. And, of course, the park rangers 
made regular visits.

They had the place to themselves; a couple of teenage 
lovers rose and left as soon as Garth and Linda entered 
the grotto with their picnic basket. Bartold said that 
they didn't have to leave on their account; the pair 
looked sullen and not in the least as young lovers 
should. The man shrugged, Linda looked pleased and laid 
out the contents of the basket. She played the little 
mother, pouring coffee into his plastic cup and wiping 
crumbs from his chin with a napkin and fussing around 
him. And she chattered continuously.

"How come you never married?" she demanded, and before he 
could collect his thoughts to answer, she declared, "I 
think that's why my mom thinks you are gay - because you 
are grown-up and single. She says everyone should be 
married at least once by the time they are thirty. And 
there are never any women calling on you." She paused for 
reflection and breath. "But you never have any men 
callers either. Only the caretaker, and he doesn't 
count." She prattled on, much as Bartold imagined the 
girl's mother spoke to her, with no expectation of any 
intelligent response. 

Garth had made his first official hit while he was still 
in a junior high five hundred miles from Dixon Park. The 
small-time crook who hired him tried to welch on the 
deal, then tried to blackmail him. The second hit was a 
lot easier and gave Garth much more satisfaction, and, 
coincidentally, no-one ever tried to sell him short 
again. The lesson he learned from the experience was that 
the professional exterminator must, before all else, keep 
a low profile. Suddenly Garth Bartold dropped out of the 
dating scene and entered his senior high as a complete 
nonentity who passed unnoticed even by teachers.

He hardly missed the sexual part of his growing up, 
because the available material at the time never really 
appealed to him. He had employed the services of a 
thoroughly vetted hooker, later in life, and far away 
from home. It was because of the pressures of his kind of 
work that he had never married. He could as easily be 
killed as he killed others, or be arrested and sent to 
prison for life. But how could he explain these things to 
a child?

It was an extraordinary fact, and one that worried him a 
lot, but the only person he had ever felt a real sexual 
attraction for in his entire life so far was Linda 
Mayflower, the eleven year daughter of a professional 
whore! The kid had everything he looked for in a female 
companion.

Right, she was nowhere near being fully developed, but 
she had long, slender legs, indications of breast buds 
that would never grow out of control, a really pleasant 
face with revealing eyes and a mouth that had been 
designed for kissing. French kissing! She had long hair 
that was a dream to stroke, and velvet soft skin, 
especially on the inside of her thigh and on her chest 
and abdomen. She was intelligent too, and seldom talked 
the kind of puerile rubbish he often heard from the lips 
of other youngsters. She was well-mannered and always 
treated him with respect enough not to try to lie to him. 

As soon as he set eyes on the child, when her mother 
first viewed the apartment in the company of the 
caretaker, the office lady and one of the security 
guards, he sensed trouble deep inside him. Linda was 
eight at the time and, although they met only in passing 
when Lucille was introduced to him, the eye contact 
between man and child had been as ominous and as filled 
with innuendo as if she had leapt at him, wrapped her 
long skinny legs around him and kissed him full on the 
lips.

He knew for a fact, in that split second, that he was 
going to fall stupidly, idiotically in love with this 
delicate little blossom, and that he would make every 
effort to take full possession of such a desirable 
property at the earliest opportunity. But he vowed that 
he would never force the issue; he would take his time 
and allow her to initiate any advance. And make any final 
decision that had to be made.

Garth silently and carefully tidied the table. The 
returnable items he packed in the wicker hamper, the 
litter he dumped in the trash bucket. He sat down again 
and gazed his fill at the little girl, now reclining on 
top of the rough timber table as if she were a 
photographer's model. She made no attempt to rectify the 
fact that her thin dress had ridden up to her hips. The 
man confirmed his previous opinion that the child was 
blessed with an extraordinarily beautiful body.

"Do you really like looking at me?" she demanded. It was 
as if she were able to read his mind. "Do you really 
think I am pretty? Would you really like to make love to 
me?"

"Yes I do, yes I do and yes I would! But I think it's 
time we were getting back." He studied his watch. "Your 
mother will be wondering.."

"She has a client, remember!" interrupted the child with 
conviction. "You know she's a prostitute, don't you?" She 
said it as a matter of fact.

"I know." The man's answer was brusquer than he intended. 
"But I don't think you should go around advertising the 
fact. Saying things like that to just anyone you meet 
could court trouble."

That was one of the things she liked about this man: he 
never talked down to her, he treated her like an 
intelligent human being and he always seemed straight and 
honest with her.

"You aren't just anyone, and I wouldn't mention it to 
anyone else." She swung her long legs round to give him a 
full frontal view. "I think I'll be a prostitute when I 
grow up."

A sudden sadness swept over the man. He muttered, "Not if 
I can do anything about it!" He wanted to take her home 
and set her up on a pedestal. No he didn't! He wanted to 
take her home and take her to bed. He reflected on the 
fact that she had never been over the threshold of his 
apartment. In a way, he was scared to have her to himself 
on his own home pitch. He wanted her fervently, but he 
did not want it to be a violent or selfishly motivated 
possession; he wanted it to be a mutually agreeable and 
satisfying experience.

Again it was as if she read his mind. "I thought we were 
going to make mad passionate love!" she exclaimed. "I 
think I would like that!"

He laughed. He looked around. "Here?"

"Why not? It's as private as you can get in Dixon Park." 
She followed his scanning of the enclosed space. "It 
isn't the optimum location for intimacy, not exactly my 
boudoir, but it'll do!"

Again he was impressed by the child's facility with 
language. She had once told him that she had been 
answering the telephone for her mother and taking 
engagements for her since she was five. He could well 
believe it.

"Will you kiss me, then?" she asked when he remained 
silent. He leaned towards her and pursed his lips. She 
turned her face away. "Not like that! Yeeeughhh!" She 
grimaced grotesquely. "That how my mom kisses me." She 
made it sound like some kind of corporal punishment. "I 
want kissed in the way that young couple were kissing 
when we came in here?"

Quite without warning she threw her arms around his neck 
and kissed him full on the lips with an open mouth and a 
hyperactive tongue. Their teeth clashed. Almost as an 
instinctive reflex, the man felt for a breast that was 
scarcely yet there. He felt her tiny nipples hardening at 
his touch. Her hips began to vibrate and rotate.

His hand dropped to caress the inside of her smooth thigh 
and worked upwards to rub the crotch of her panties; she 
was soft and wet under the fine fabric. He broke the 
kiss. He pressed her back to lie along the picnic table 
as his fingers explored under the gossamer thin material. 
She splayed her thighs and he brought his face close to 
her most secret places and noticed the bruises, one clear 
thumbprint in each groove on either side of her pubis.

Approaching conversation from the far side of the 
hedgerow broke the spell. Garth lifted the child from the 
table and brushed down her dress. He spoke in a funny 
voice. "Vee shall continue zees some ozzer time at 
anozzer place!" And Linda giggled.


They met on the bench in the park at the same time on the 
following day. 

"Another client?" he asked as she approached. She nodded. 
When she sat close to him, he asked quietly, "Was it a 
client who gave you those bruises on your groin?" She 
blushed, deep scarlet. She seemed reluctant to reply. He 
grunted, "If you and I are going to get married someday." 

She jerked her head round. "You're way too old for me!"

"We should start off on the right foot." He ignored her 
objection. "OK?" He was not smiling. "And I say that the 
right foot to start with it the truth, the whole truth 
and nothing but the truth. OK? No secrets from each 
other. OK?"

"What do you do for a living?" she asked unexpectedly. 
"What job do you do when you go away from home for a week 
at a time? How do you make your money?" She was not 
smiling either. "I think if we were to get married, I 
have every right to know where my next meal is coming 
from!"

"Touchee!" he exclaimed. This kid was bright. He like 
bright kids.

The jogging track seemed busier than usual. Mostly men, 
but some women, some dressed in the scantiest of kit, 
expressions of grim determination to enjoy their 
particular brand of sadism written clearly on their 
tortured faces, passed the Garth and the girl every few 
seconds. It was like trying to conduct an intimate 
conversation on the sidewalk of Callister Street amid the 
melee of shoppers and office workers.

"Could we go elsewhere?" She rose and took his hand. "The 
maze, maybe. Or the gardens. It's more private there!"

"Or the theater," he said. "Do you think your mother 
would allow me to take you to the theater some time?" 
They walked away from the jogging circuit. "Maybe we 
could have dinner, then go to the Coliseum." There was an 
embarrassing pause. "Do you think she would let you go 
with me?"

"You could always ask her," the girl suggested. "But I 
doubt it! I told you yesterday, she thinks you are not 
natural." She reflected on the problem for a few moments. 
"She thinks any man who is not married by your age has 
something very much extreme wrong with him." She giggled. 
"You could always blackmail her, of course!" There was 
another awkward silence. "You know she is a hooker and 
she is using your property for immoral purposes. You 
could threaten her with exposure and eviction." She 
pulled the man in the direction of the maze - it was a 
favorite place for lovers. "Or we could elope and get 
married in Kansas!" She laughed merrily now. "They allow 
anything in Kansas!".

Inside the maze, he lifted her face to be kissed. Her 
mouth was open, her lips moist. Garth lifted her skirt 
instead and examined the bruises closely. He had seen 
something like them on the neck of a man who had been 
strangled. Any first year student of forensic medicine 
would be able to recognize them, and bruises like these 
could lead to a man being jailed for six to eight years. 
They could even mean a man being killed!

Linda gazed down at the crouching man. "It was one of 
mom's clients that did it. When I told her about it she 
struck him off her list and told him never to show his 
face around ever again. She said she would kill him if 
ever he came near me."

Garth Barthold brushed down her skirt.

"Aren't you going to feel me?" she asked. "I thought we 
were going to make mad passionate love."

He remained in a crouching position. He looked up at the 
little girl. He asked quietly, "Did he rape you?" When 
she nodded, he asked, "Are you going to tell me who did 
it?"

She shook her head. He led her by the hand away from the 
maze. Both had a premonition that a barrier had been 
erected between them. As they approached the jogging 
circuit, he heard her sharp intake of breath. It was the 
kind of sound made when one receives a shock. Two men 
were approaching, one dressed in a black track suit, the 
other in extremely brief running shorts. Garth looked at 
the girl. She was blushing.

"Hi there, Linda!" the man in running shorts called out. 
He was bare-chested and displayed rippling muscles. There 
was also a slight bulge around his middle. "Nice to see 
you again. Regards to your mom!" He made eye contact for 
a split second with Garth, and smirked.

"Well, talk of the devil!" exclaimed Bartold.

Linda looked up quickly. There was guilt written large on 
her face. "I didn't say that he was the one!"

"You didn't have to," returned Garth. "I just happen to 
know things like that. He was, wasn't he?"

Linda Mayflower nodded. "You still figuring on marrying 
me?"

"Of course!" Bartold followed the man with his analytical 
gaze. He would pick him out in a crowd at a distance of 
four hundred yards. Instinctively he turned his eyes in 
the direction of his luxury apartment block. Four hundred 
yards away! "Why? Apart from the fact that you are 
prejudiced against old people, have you any other 
objection?"

Linda Mayflower sighed softly. "His name is Liam," she 
said quietly. "Liam O'Neill!" After a while she added, "I 
liked him. I liked him a lot!"

"Until he raped you!"

Linda Mayflower did not reply.

In the next three days, Garth Bartold learned almost 
everything it was possible to know publicly about Liam 
O'Neill. He also discovered that the man was involved in 
gun-running for Irish terrorists, he had dabbled in the 
under-age vice of the city until the Mafia gave him an 
indication that they were not too pleased, he was 
involved in the heavy drug traffic between Colombia and 
the East Coast, and he was keeping three city whores busy 
because of their young female off-springs. O'Neill had 
also ran on the Irish ticket as a contender for the 
governorship of the state and was only defeated in the 
nomination by a rather crooked nose. He had, above and 
before these sins, left his grubby thumbprints on Linda 
Mayflower, and for this he had to be removed permanently 
from the scene.

Garth was a patient man. He had long since learned to 
wait for the optimum moment. It came after another two 
weeks, the last week of the long summer vacation from 
school for Linda. O'Neill had taken to the jogging 
circuit in an attempt to counteract a tendency for his 
abdomen to become marginally convex. Always, at roughly 
the same time of day, before leaving his office at the 
eastern end of Callister Street, he would use his 
intercom to contact his current bodyguard to accompany 
him.

Bartold, had he chosen to do so, could have listened to 
every intimate conversation the man had on the intercom 
with his secretary or on the telephone to his lovers and 
business associates. Garth Bartold was appalled at how 
easily he could still intrude on people's privacy and 
uncover their most intimate secrets. Garth would watch 
from the catwalk on the roof of his luxury apartments. 
Then he would take his time and stroll down to meet Linda 
Mayflower in the park.

O'Neill felt the merest kiss against his cheek as the 
laser found its mark. He put up his hand to brush away 
what he believed to be a fly, exactly as Bartold had 
planned it. The laser created an aura around the gold 
ring on his finger, with something like a comet tail from 
Callister Street. Still jogging, the looked back and 
upwards in surprise to follow the direction of the thin 
streak of green light.

The bullet burst into his left temple and blasted his 
brains to pulp. The body staggered backwards and spun 
around. The bodyguard was several paces ahead before it 
dawned on his slow-witted understanding that something 
was amiss. When he glanced back. O'Neill had already 
dropped to the ground. The nearest joggers were more than 
a hundred yards coming and going. He could have no idea 
what direction the bullet that killed O'Neill had come 
from.

By the time the police arrived on the scene, Garth 
Bartold was sitting on his usual bench.

"Another client?" he asked as Linda approached.

"Yeah!" She nodded in the direction of the jogging 
circuit. "What's going on over there?"

Garth glanced in the proper direction. He shrugged. "Who 
knows!" He took her hand. "Let's have some lunch. I'm 
hungry!" A hit always made him hungry. He eyed her 
shapely body. "Then after lunch I'll take you into the 
woods and ravish you!"

She laughed. "I've already told you," she said. "There 
are no woods in Dixon Park. It will have to be somewhere 
else!"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life in
anyway shape or form. 

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