Catfish Finds Old Gold 8 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
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The mention of the gold room and the Rembrandts set off alarms in my mind. A gold room could contain some gold, money or just be painted a nice shade of yellow. A Rembrandt could be a copy, a school of Rembrandt work, a forgery or the real thing. From my conversation with Teddy, I guessed J. J. wasn't a connoisseur, or a traditional art collector. I assumed he was a trophy hunter. That sort of man was very susceptible to forgeries.
Since his collection, whatever it was, was private and not on view, just possessing the Confederate ingots would have been fine for him. I liked the thought of J.J. being the bad guy, but that was just a hunch, and there was nothing other than a few random comments connecting him to the murder and the gold.
My hunches are good, but I know over reliance on a hunch can cause big problems. If you focus too much on one train of thought you can end up lost. At my office I had the Nerd Squad do more research on our millionaire.
J. J. was self-made; he inherited nothing. He was also ruthless and not at all squeamish about business practices. He was deceptive, but usually not to the point of fraud. Somehow his 50/50 partnerships tended to get him 75% of the profits. He also developed what my nerd called a "Ponzi Scheme Lite." It acted as a Ponzi scheme, but the fine print in the contracts left him without legal responsibility. He wasn't popular or admired.
He was reclusive and tended to live in semi fortified compounds. The Virginia plantation was the main residence, but he owned an island in the Caribbean, and a house in Switzerland. He had been less reclusive when he was younger, but after a while screwing all your business partners made going out in public problematic.
He bought his plantation house in 1997. That caused quite a stir at the time, since the house had been in the same family since its construction. That was a problem, since the murder had occurred a few years before that. There was an article in the New York Times of him, "leaving the Upper East Side for the Southside of the James." The article also mentioned his acquisition of an island in the Caribbean.
My computer guys are good. Tommy, my oldest guy, was working on Confederate and Civil War sites. He found J. J. on a list of donors to a Confederate Museum in Richmond in 1990. It was a charity ball, and he was listed as a resident of Queen Anne County. Queen Anne is a long way from the Upper East Side of New York.
Tommy connected with some pals in the DMV. J. J. had a Virginia driver's license dating from 1990. His residence was listed as Shirlington, Queen Anne County. I had never heard of Shirlington. It was an 1880 house built on the site of an older plantation that mostly had burned in the Civil War.
It turned out that the Attorney General of New York was opening an investigation into one of J. J.'s businesses in 1989. Apparently he decided to move his primary residence to Virginia at that time. J. J. had been in a business deal with a charity. He was to be the straw man in a real estate deal. He was to acquire a property for a major expansion of the institution. Apparently J. J. bought the property using the charity's money and then tried to sell it back to them for a massive profit. As was typical of his business deals at that time, the charity's lawyers hadn't checked the fine print. There was some sort of an out of court settlement, but the affair caused much comment and it ended J.J. social life in New York.
I went to my apartment in Richmond and took some time to think. It amazes me that a situation can change from being dire to ordinary in seconds. Once the gold was safe in a bank vault, the nuts vanished. Even the most delusional knew an attack on a bank was impossible. In place of an armed attack there was a massive outbreak of lawsuits. Some of the Confederate groups seemed to think the gold belonged to them. One man thought it should be distributed to the heirs of Confederate soldiers. That was God's gift to lawyers.
My job protecting island was over, but I hate loose ends. There was the death of Beauregard's father and the missing gold. The murder was the ultimate cold case, but I wanted to clear it up. There were several historians and the medical examiners who were trying to figure out the fate of the antique skeletons, but the police had their hands full with the normal crimes of a modern city.
Something else bothered me. The entire Confederate outbreak was odd. It appeared to be a spontaneous event but I wondered. The excavations on the island were common knowledge. It was covered by the newspapers and the television stations. If the man who killed Giles was still alive he could have known that the body would soon be discovered. With the discovery of body came the discovery of the gold.
I assumed the murderer had stolen the gold. If the gold was still in his possession, he retained a direct link to the murder. The obvious solution was to dispose of the gold. The allure of the gold may have been too much to allow that. If the discovery of the gold was immanent, the outbreak of Confederate treasure hunters would have been a welcome diversion.
I don't know what use the diversion would have been to the murderer. Perhaps he hoped the missing ingots would not be noticed if there was enough confusion. It seemed to me that the SOS group and the other groups would have needed days if not weeks to get organized and set up camp in Richmond. Were they forewarned? Only the murderer would know what would be discovered on the island. The Sons of the South was the biggest of the organizations and it was first on the scene. J.J. was their leader.
I wanted to get near to J. J. but I wasn't sure how to get in. It seemed to me that there was a chance he was connected to the Confederate gold. Whoever was associated with the gold automatically became a suspect in the murder. I had connections with upper class Richmond, but J. J. was an outsider and didn't associate with the locals. His plantation was referred to as a compound by some of the local residents.
I do tend to be a lucky guy and luck struck that night. A fire broke out at J. J.'s plantation house. It started in a barn and spread to the main house. The house was secluded and it took the entire night for the fire department to get to the fire under control. It smoldered through the next day. There were flair ups and parts of the burned structures collapsed during the day. The site was too dangerous to investigate.
J.J. vanished during the fire.
I went off to see Rupert on a hunch. I thought he might know something about the fire. Fortunately, now that J. J. was gone, the plantation manager hired Rupert to provide security and help with the cleanup. The right hand man had tried to keep officials off the site. The entire site was a potential crime scene and the Sherriff and Fire Chief would have nothing of that[BW1][BW2][BW3][BW4][BW5][BW6][BW7]. They would allow some people to help with the cleanup. I wanted to be a part of the janitorial part of the group. Apparently some things in the house could not be touched by ordinary workmen. They had to be members of J.J.'s team.
J.J. had what seemed to be an odd approach to security. He was apparently obsessive about security, but he didn't want anyone to know how obsessed. He was well beyond the ordinary multimillionaire's security obsession. However, once he trusted a man, the way he did Rupert, he took their judgment. The plantation manager knew Rupert and knew J. J. like him. Thus I was in the clean-up crew as was Teddy.
The plantation was in rural Queen Anne County. Rural counties in Virginia can be very rural. Due to its location their emergency services served as back up for the Tidewater area and Richmond. They had sent people to New York in 9/11, so the were up to date when it came to bombs and explosions. The State Police and the ATF guys were involved too. The plantation was awash in investigators.
I was at the plantation the next afternoon. It was a mess. The brick buildings were in comparatively good shape. JJ had renamed Shirlington. It was now called Jonescroft. The original house was now the west wing of the plantation house. The 1880 the main house had been demolished and a new mansion built in its place. This turned the house into a Westover look alike. Westover was the Byrd family seat and was very high prestige. J.J. had souped-up the house to meet the Architectural Digest standards for decoration.
He also added some out buildings. Some were colonial style buildings that served as offices, a library and a playroom. The rest of the structures were barns, sheds, garages and utility structures. The barns were supposed to be for horse breeding, but apparently they were used as warehouses. The ATF men were trying to find out what was in the barns. Whatever it had been it was flammable. The intensity of the fires suggested a bomb or incendiary device.
The east wing of the house was roofless, but the other brick buildings were in comparatively good condition. The other utility buildings were in varied states of ruin. The underground gallery was my prime interest.
The Sherriff was not happy to see any of J.J. minions. He wanted to run the show. J.J had greatly offended him. Rupert, however, had a knack. He and the Sherriff hit it off. They had both been Marines and they must have exchanged the secret handshake.
"We have to investigate the dangerous situation here. If it hadn't rained so much, the fire could have burned half the county," the Fire Chief said, "The second growth is very thick and J.J. seemed to think that thickets add to the security of the place. He also was a bit of a survivalist. He had a large store of gasoline. The gasoline tanks were little more than barrels, with no safety devices or alarms at all. Eccentric millionaires are one thing, setting the county on fire is quite another."
We went to the easternmost out building and started looking for salvageable items, this building served as an office. It was undamaged. The roof had burned off, but the interior of the Colonial style building was made of cast-in-place concrete. It was fireproof and probably safe from nuclear attack. That seemed odd to me. We moved on to the next building.
The second building was a reconstruction that was intended to look like a kitchen. The detached kitchen was a typical part of pre-Civil War Virginia houses. This was oddly placed, since it sat to the front of the main house. Kitchens were always placed to the rear or side.
Rupert told me this building was the entrance to the underground art gallery. The door was jammed. We knocked it open and the roof was entirely gone, and there was no concrete inner structure. There was nothing left in the interior. The basement door remained. There was one good aspect to the fire. The firemen fought the bigger fires and let this building burn, thus there was no water damage. Fires burn up, and we hoped whatever was in the basement had a chance to survive.
We went to the door. It was locked. It was a simple hardware store lock. I opened it quickly. The top area of the stairwell was smoke damaged but as we went down the stair, there was no sign of the fire except for the smell.
Rupert flipped a switch. There was a humming sound and the lights turned on. "Most of the place has back up power," he said. We entered a room. The lighting was dim, apparently only some of the lights were connected to the back-up generator.
"Shit, it's a fucking Rembrandt!" I said when I saw the first painting. I had seen it in a television program on stolen art work.
For a redneck I'm pretty good with art work, relics and antiquities. Catfish & Company has many cultural institutions as clients. I provide undercover services and security for both their patrons and artwork. I was essentially an addition to the insurance coverage.
One of the museum curators told me that while I was dumb as shit, I had a good eye. I also have a good memory. If I see a photo I remember it. If you had an art historian or museum curator visit your house you would hide the stolen goods. There is no need to hide artwork from the gardener or a repairman. Being small and ugly is a positive advantage for me.
"Is it real?" Rupert asked.
"That's beyond my pay grade. If you are into stolen art, you can be taken to the cleaners by someone selling forgeries. The people who authenticate paintings like this aren't going to get involved with a work as famous as this one," I explained,
We went out to tell the Sherriff of our discovery. It was a mad house above. They had just discovered a badly burned body in the ashes. Eventually it was the first of three bodies. The stolen art work was not in the Sherriff's area of expertise so I called the Art Museum. The director, head curator and the European curator arrived an hour and a half later.
We returned to the basement gallery. The second the curators saw the paintings they knew they were real. The shock of seeing the paintings was almost as great as seeing them in an underground gallery below a burnt out building. The Sherriff came down and there was a brief discussion about investigating the theft of the paintings in the basement verses taking them to a safe place. The curators won the debate. They were sure the owners of the paintings would rather have the paintings safe, than to catch the thieves.
The curators returned to the museum to arrange for the transfer and the Sherriff put a guard on the kitchen. I suggested that we put a tarp over the roof in case of rain.
"What do you think that stuff is worth?" the Sherriff asked.
"The curator said the Rembrandt was real. I would guess it's a hundred million or so," I said.
"Rusty," he said to his deputy, "Go buy some heavy duty tarps." We spent the rest of the day covering the burned out roof. Rusty helped. Rusty looked familiar. I remembered we had hooked up many years earlier. He was heavier and had grown a beard since I saw him last.
Rusty was a good old boy from South West Virginia. He had a thick accent and sounded like a hick. He did mostly undercover work. He now had a ginger beard. Beards aren't a trooper thing. I assumed he had an arrest record that was so good, they let it pass. He was real good questioning suspects who misjudged him. He was smart and a good investigator.
When we hooked up years earlier, I found out he had one weakness. Rusty is a size queen. I suspected he was straight unless he encountered seven inches or more. He is also the last man in the world who you would expect to be gay friendly.
Rusty was nice, but I knew the Sherriff wasn't going to leave the art works unprotected. Rusty was watching us. He was no fool. We were done at 6:00 and went to have dinner. Rusty joined us, he didn't want us out of sight. I assumed he had ulterior motives. He was after information about J.J. and the operations at the plantation. He was not into art theft or forgeries, so there must have been something else.
We went to a small restaurant in Richmond and had a good dinner. Rusty and Teddy hit it off well. They were about the same age. Teddy told us stories about J.J. and life on the plantation. Rusty was most attentive. He had a nice "Aw shucks" country boy personality, but he was collecting information. I had talked with Teddy about many of the same things, but knowing there was a basement art gallery filled with real old masters made me more attentive.
Rusty soon had Teddy and Rupert telling him all about J. J.s operation. Reading between the lines, I suspected Rusty was looking into embezzlement and the Ponzi scheme. I think he was trying to find out where the money was hidden. After a few beers, the conversation was cheerful and informative.
After we ate we went to my apartment for a beer. Rupert received a call from the museum. There was a major storm forecast for the next day in the afternoon. The museum vans would be at the plantation by six. They hoped to get the artworks in a safe and dry place before the rain's arrival.
I offered the men my apartment to use as a crash pad, since I was closer to the plantation than any of the other men. We would have to leave the apartment by 5:00 then next morning. It was 9:30 by the time we got to my apartment, and we were filthy. Soot, dirt and ash combined with sweat is bad. The residue left over from the gasoline fire was bad too. We went straight to my shower. I put our clothes into the washer to try and get some of the worst crud off before it bonded with the fabric. By the time I joined the men in the shower, everyone was getting along well.
Teddy was captivated by Rusty. Rusty was all muscle, hair and testosterone. Rusty was not immune to admiration. Rupert like his men manly. Rusty and I aren't shy types and we were naked. Teddy looked as if Christmas had come early.
There was one change in him Rusty I didn't know. Two months earlier his wife had left him for a doctor. She left with the kids. He was blindsided and shocked. This was his first sexual encounter since his wife left. He was ready. We also had more to drink than I thought.
Neither Rupert nor Teddy guessed Rusty was a bottom. They found that out very quickly once we went to bed. We were all tired, but somehow it was hard to fall asleep. There is no better sleeping pill than an orgasm. I had drowsed off, but I gentle rocking motion of the bed woke me up. Rusty was on his hands and knees and was taking Teddy's cock doggy style. It was clearly a success.
"You started the party without me," I said.
When I sat up I discovered I was already hard. I was surprised my cock responded so quickly. I thought about going back to sleep, but decided to solve my erection problem first. No one was surprised. I didn't see Rupert. He had poked his head under Rusty and was sucking his cock. I had fucked everyone in the room and I didn't know where to start. Teddy moaned as he shot off. When he pulled out of Rusty's ass. I took his place.
Rusty had a barrel chest; his figure was like Bluto's with a narrow waist and a bubble butt. For big man he had a small hole. When we played years before, it took a while to open him up. I'm not a man rammer, and if I was, I wouldn't do it to a trooper. Once I was in it was great. He was tight and very appreciative.
I nudged my knob into Rusty's ass and gave a little push. A second later my entire cock vanished in his cum filled ass. Rusty's eyes crossed and he moaned. It was a long drawn-out moan. A friend of mine said my cock turned tenors into bass-baritones. It was the moan of a satisfied man.
I don't think of myself as a pervert, but I do like to use another man's sperm as lubricant. It seems efficient and friendly. Teddy had deposited the cream during a spectacular orgasm and I reused it. I liked the thought of Teddy's millions of spermatozoa touching my cock as I filled Rusty's willing ass.
As I pulled out, his tight ass pulled my foreskin over my cock head and then peeled it back as I pushed it in. his sphincter grabbed my cock head and then stroked my shaft. It was beautiful. We had an appreciative audience in Rupert and Teddy.
I thought we would have a quick fuck session followed by sleep. The night turned into a night of fucking with brief interludes of sleep. I wondered if we had all taken insatiable pills. Luckily intense sexual satisfaction can make up for lack of sleep. It was a relaxing night.
The alarm went off at 4:30. Teddy was next to me and I was hard. I shoved my cock into his ass and pounded him like a mad man. We were two happy men by the time we left for the plantation at 5:00. We made it to the plantation by 5:45 just before three moving trucks arrived with what seemed to be half of the museum staff.
The Sheriff was worried the "arty types" might not be careful enough. No one could be more anal retentive than the museum staff; they more than met his standards. The museum registrar and staff photographers were part of the group. Everything was carefully recoded and photographed. The museum people came with high powered lights and portable generators. We could see all the art works clearly
At dawn the fire investigators found a second body, and the police went off to deal with that. The general thought was that J.J. was one of the bodies.
I had a feeling J.J. wasn't a hands-on kind of guy. I assumed he escaped in anticipation of the discovery of the stolen art work. The bodies were badly burned; it would take days to identify them. With a few days and access to private jets, J.J. had more than a good head start.
The main gallery room was filled with the paintings J. J. liked. There were two attached rooms with concealed entrances. Teddy knew about them, although he had never been inside. Rupert figured out the key to get in. Unbelievably it was J. J. birthday.
One room was filled with some paintings and crates. The curator identified several as forgeries. Others were genuine. I noticed that two of the unpacked boxes had swastikas on the packing. When we tried to move them the crates fell apart. Apparently they had been opened before but had only been tacked back together. It was Nazi loot.
I knew that art confiscated by the Nazi's was still so hot that no respectable collector or museum would touch it. J.J. liked bargains, and I assumed it represented the ultimate bargain. It was suitable for only those who didn't want their paintings on public display.
The rain held off and the gallery was put under heavy armed guard. The first truck of artwork, mostly of old masters, was sent off to the museum. An hour later a second collection of Nazi loot left. That took care of the major rooms. Many of the museum people left to get the paintings to the museum and check them for any immediate repair or conservation work.
Still missing was the Gold room mentioned by J. J. to Teddy. It must have been in a hidden compartment or perhaps in another building.