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The Maltese Fuckin'
Ch. II: The Streets of Sin City
by Shintani

Joe knew he didn't have much time. Someone had to have heard the shots; someone had to have called it in. He stole inside the apartment, eyes darting around. A quick look at the door revealed that it had not been forced. So whoever shot Anita had been let in. And might still be there. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he drew his pistol and pointed it off into the darkness. Crouching down next to the body, he looked for telltale signs of something, anything. Obviously, she had been alive briefly after getting shot, but not too long. Her phone was lying on the floor by her hand, and there wasn't a bloodtrail through the apartment.

Gingerly, Joe prodded the body with his handgun, using it to lift Anita's lifeless form off the floor. Rich red blood dripped from her mouth as he turned her over. What he saw revolted him. The fabric of her dress was shredded and torn by the gunshots. Yet no powder burns marred her flesh. That told him two things. That the shooter, or shooters had been at least ten feet away when they shot. And they caught her by surprise; long experience told him that most shooting victims, who know what's happening to them, would try vainly to protect themselves with their arms. Not that a human arm would stop a bullet, it was just reflexive.

The wound location told him a third thing. Whoever did this didn't want her to die easily. Two shots to the gut, and she would bleed out. Anita's killer wanted her to suffer, maybe even send a message with that kind of shot placement. Sirens wailed in the distance. Time to go, thought Joe gotta get out of here before the cops show up. He retreated towards the door, but a shiny object glinting in the darkness caught his eye.

A few feet away from him lay two brass casings. Scooping them up, Joe hastened his departure, leaving the building by a back way as the first sector car pulled up to the building. Within minutes, robbery-homicide would be on the scene, and he wanted no part of it. His hands shook as he drove away; the adrenaline rush that had carried him through this ordeal was wearing thin. Joe knew he had to do something about it, and fast. Without thinking about it, he wheeled his car up to a seedy-looking establishment, and went in to find solace.

"Get out of my bar!" roared the man behind the counter as Joe strode in. "You always cause trouble." A menacing looking bodyguard stepped towards him.

Joe whipped out a sawbuck, one of the ones Anita gave him, and tossed it at the bartender. "Shut the fuck up and give me a drink."

"This is a change for you, Joe," said the man. "But don't worry, as long as your paying cash, your money's good here." The barkeep gestured towards a waitress, and she came over, attaching herself to Joe. Her hand wandered down onto his thigh as she leaned in towards him. He glared over at her, not unattractive, for this place anyway, he thought. Her tight T-shirt barely concealed a fine pair of knockers, and her tight shorts weren't really clothes, just another color. A quick glance allowed Joe to read her lips as he reached for his drink.

"Thanks, asshole," he muttered as he wandered off towards the back of the bar, girl in tow. "You're all heart." They took a seat in the rearmost booth, Joe on the inside and the girl beside him. Her hand wandered along his thigh as he knocked back his drink, trying to calm his nerves and figure out just what the hell he had wandered into. The alcohol relaxed him, and his newfound friend's wandering hands didn't hurt either. Joe felt his zipper being tugged on. He took another sip of his booze. The girl beside him lowered her head into his lap. Joe didn't budge. At least she knew what she was doing, he thought, as he felt her fingers caressing him. A warm, wet mouth encircled him. He let out a sigh.

Tossing back the last of his drink, Joe closed his eyes as the girl sucked on his stiffening cock. Random thoughts raced through his mind. Who would do such a thing? Well, Anita surely didn't have too many friends. From what he could remember, she had shot her mouth off all over town about Mickey. And that was a sure way to end up dead. But there was something too obvious about that. He let out an involuntary groan. The waitress was stroking him as she sucked, taking all of his erect pole into her throat. Damn she was a good one. What was he thinking? Oh, right, that was it, Anita had been shot in the stomach. Standard mob executions were single rounds to the back of the head. Whoever did this had done a dirty job, made her suffer, probably for a reason. Damn that felt good, as the girl sucked on him harder and harder.

Looking down at her, he saw that she was leaning across his lap, his cock filling her mouth. Her dirty blonde hair bobbed up and down as she blew him, occasionally, she would pull her hair back so he could watch as she sucked and stroked. Joe lit a cigarette as she continued. Why take this case at all, he wondered? The dame was dead; he could just take the money and run. Yet he had rushed into her apartment without thinking, and taken evidence! That realization hit him like a truck. That felt so good, he could feel it stirring in his lions. Joe grunted slightly as the girl sucked him off. He shot his hot cum into her mouth, and the little slut took it all in, swallowing as she stroked every last drop of cum out of him.

Damn, that had been a long time to wait. Well, with a decent cash flow, maybe, just maybe, he could come here more often. The girl zipped his pants for him, and sat up. Joe reached into a pocket, and handed her a twenty. The cartridge casings that he had found tumbled out on the table. As the girl left, and Joe regained his composure, he picked one up, absentmindedly twirling it between his fingers. Something didn't feel quite right here, he thought, and looked down at the spent brass. On a whim, he pulled out his automatic, and eased the slide back, ejecting the ready round. The .357 round tumbled out onto the table. Joe looked at it, then at the shell casing in his hand. They didn't match. What the hell was he holding? Turning his find around, he stared at it in the dim light. Just a few numbers on the headstamp, no manufacturer name or anything. Joe rushed from the bar, and drove off into the night, off to find the one man he knew, the one man who might still help him begin to unravel the mystery before him.

Like most large cities, Las Vegas had his shiny side, the one found on the covers of the tourist brochures, and then there was the other side. Joe had a sinking feeling that he was going to have to cover a lot of that dark side with this one. The glow of the neon strip faded into the distance as he entered a decidedly seedy part of town. The darkened streets were a sight that very few tourists would ever see. Abandoned buildings lined the streets; shadowy figures lurked on every street corner. Occasionally, Joe would stalk his way past a down on her luck hooker, plying the flesh trades on the roads less traveled. His experience told him that most of these girls started in the classier joints until they got old or fat or pissed off the wrong person.

Now they scrambled to eke out a living. He sidestepped a reeking bum, another wino, another life taken by the glitzy charms that were still only blocks distant. He too, was one of those victims, just years before a stellar member of the elite Las Vegas Police, now just another dark man, on a dark night, with a dark purpose. Yet somewhere, in this nest of whores and vipers, lay his salvation, or so he thought. A decrepit looking building was his goal; a faded sign out front said "Paulines". Taking a deep breath before he entered, Joe hesitantly stepped into a shadowy underworld, one that made his last stop seem like the Ritz in comparison. Paulines was a rough joint, populated by rough characters. Shoot, besides the topless dancers that plied the crowd for money, the main attraction was a crocodile pit, complete with crocodiles. For five bucks, the scantily clad girl in the booth would sell you a live chick to feed the creatures. Joe had been here before, numerous times, and he was wary. Still, there was one man, one who practically lived in this hive of scum and villainy that might just be able to help him.

A loud splashing sound caught his attention as he reached the back room. Another five bucks spent at the pit, he thought as he reached the beaded curtain. Suddenly, a loud growl caused him to spin around. There, before him, was an evil looking guard dog. A tall man in a cowboy hat strained against the short leash as the dog tugged and pulled. "Easy, Zeke, easy," the man muttered. Then he turned to Joe. "Just where do you think you're going?"

"I'm here to see Buddy," answered Joe. "Is he in?"

"No one goes in to see the boss," countered the cowboy. "Now you just run along and play with the crocs, or old Zeke here is going to give you what for."

"Nonsense, Cowboy," called a voice from the back. "Joe, my old friend, it is so good of you to drop by. Please, do come in," continued the voice.

So, thought Joe. He does remember me, and he's willing to see me. That was a good sign. Buddy Randall lived on the hard side of town, thrived on it. While the people in these neighborhoods just sought to survive, from sunup to sundown, Buddy actually prospered. While on the force, Joe had some minor dealings with him, knew that the man would do anything for money. Usually, that meant running guns or girls, sometimes drugs.

But by staying relatively out of sight, and away from the influence of the real organized crime syndicates, Buddy managed to survive. With no supervision of the mob, or scrutiny from the police, he plied his trade, year after year, always the same. For his customers, it was quite an advantage, as many sought to avoid attracting attention to themselves. The guard sneered at Joe as he drew back the curtain. His attack dog snarled menacingly at Joe as he walked into the private room. Buddy Randall sat there, a naked young blonde at his side. Joe admired the goods as he took a seat. From out of the shadows, a young red head made her way to him, and planted herself in his lap. "Good to see you again, Buddy."

"The same here, my friend, you don't come around as often as you used to."

"Well, once I got my ass kicked off the force, I never really had reason to."

The kingpin looked dejected. "Yes, what a pity. It was nice to have a friend with so much influence."

Before Joe could answer, the knockout on his lap shifted her weight a bit. He could have sworn that she did that on purpose, to rub her ass against his crotch. If she did, he wasn't complaining. Her movements left one perky tit in front of his mouth, barely inches away. Joe ignored the distraction and explained about Anita, the shooting, and the curious looking bullets that he had found. Buddy studied one closely as Joe went on.

"My friend, this is very rare," offered Buddy as he studied the item.

"Tell me about it, I've never seen one."

"It is a 9MM bullet casing, different than the ones that your pistol uses," began Buddy. "If, that is, you still carry a Desert Eagle."

"Sure do," confirmed Joe. He smiled at the thought. Back in the good old days, when he had been a rookie cop, he got lucky and found the gun on the cheap. The Israeli Military Industries Desert Eagle was the world's only automatic .357 Magnum. And his had seen some very good use.

"But like I said, this one is different. It's smaller than yours, in fact it's not even the same that the police and military use."

"So?" asked Joe.

"Which means it's a Makarov round. A Russian bullet. Not too common around here. I don't even provide them myself."

Joe sighed, thinking he had reached a dead end

Joe smiled as he stood to take the dealer's hand. "Thanks, Buddy. I owe you one."

"No problem, my friend, it's the least I can do for all the help you've extended me in the past. Why don't you go on home now, and get some rest. Here, I'll even have Patti give you some company tonight." Buddy waved his hand, and the girl left the room to get dressed. Joe couldn't believe his luck. Buddy had not only given him a valuable clue, but he was going to give him use of one of his own personal whores for the evening. Things were looking up again. Before he left, Buddy whispered into his ear. "Just do take care of yourself out there, Joe. This place can be a little rough."

Cowboy and Zeke glared at him as he left. Joe gave them both the finger. With that, he took the girl and headed out the door. He couldn't keep his eyes off her as she wiggled her way to his car. The red head had perky tits, a firm ass, and an impish smile. Plus, she was barely legal, and from what he had felt before, probably an amazing fuck. She wore a tight little tank top that barely concealed her tits, and a tight mini that didn't cover all of her ass. Joe was eyeing her up as he drove, thinking about what he'd like to do to her when she asked him to stop the car. They hadn't even gotten halfway to his place when she reached over for him, planting her lips against his. As they kissed, she climbed out of her seat and up on top of him. Before long, her top was gone, and those perky little tits of hers were in Joe's mouth. It had been so long since he had such a sweet young thing, he savored every moment. Hard little nipples to suck on, such a firm ass to grab. She was so much better than the cheap whores who occasionally graced his bed ever since Sally left. Even now, the eager little bitch was reaching for his cock, but Joe wasn't about to let her breasts out of his mouth. For the second time that night, hired hands unzipped his pants and freed his erect cock. Joe could feel it pressing up against the girl; her wet pussy against him was unmistakable. She gyrated on top of him, massaging his cock against her cunt, brushing him with her trim pubic hairs while he continued to molest her tits. With one quick motion, she raised herself up, ever so slightly, and lowered her cunt onto his manhood. She was so wet, so tight. Must not have been hooking for very long before Buddy found her. Joe knew that the girl would eventually get used up in the process, but he was too far gone along the same lines to care.

Besides, she was happily bouncing up and down on his cock, and the feeling was sensational. He reached down next to his seat, and found the recline handle. With one pull, he was on his back, the girl literally falling on top of him, her tits in his hands. His cock never left her pussy, not for an instant, and she continued to ride him merrily. Her soft moans echoed through his ears as his cock slid inside her, deeper and deeper, piercing that warm wetness. She was so much better than the other girls he had as of late, yet she was still the same. Another warm, wet hole for him to fuck, and then be done with. Still, he pussy felt so good as she slid up and down on him, faster now, her moans rising in pitch and tempo. Joe squeezed her tits hard as he felt his throbbing member release, filling the young girl's snatch with his cum. Amazing. She was so good. Those were the last thoughts that entered his mind before the glass shattered and he felt a heavy blow to his head. Darkness took him as his eyes rolled back in his head; the last vision before his eyes was that of the girl, smiling as his world faded to black. Joe woke up in the back of an unmarked police car. His former partner Ray sat in the front seat, glaring at him. "What the fuck are you up to?" he demanded.

"What do you mean?" asked Joe. "And by the way, it's nice to see your ugly mug again too."

"Cut the shit, Joe," continued his partner. "Someone trashed, I mean trashed Paulines, and rumor has it, it was you."

"What?"

"Don't act so surprised, Joe. People are putting you on the scene. Jesus Christ on a fucking pogo stick, Joe! We're still trying to clean up the mess."

"If you would give me the benefit of the doubt and remember that I'm innocent until proven guilty, do you mind filling me in?" demanded Joe.

"Fine, fine, play it the hard way," sighed Ray. "Fifty grand worth of damage, twenty men in the pokey, and," he continued. "An alligator injured."

Joe had to suppress a laugh. "I didn't know that you could cause that much damage at Paulines. And those are crocodiles, not alligators. Besides, I didn't hurt any crocodile; they were fine when I left. Honest." He laughed out loud at that last statement.

"I don't give a damn!" shouted Ray. "You're in some serious shit. They found your business card and prints at a dead chick's apartment, the rat squad is tearing up your place right now."

"No fuckin' way! And why the cheese eaters, I thought I was off the force."

"Listen, pal, you're in deep and it's gonna get worse. That is, unless you-" Ray was interrupted by a uniformed cop. The officer spoke briefly with him, and handed him an envelope, then left. Ray turned to Joe. "That settles it, you're in for it now."

"Tell me something I don't know," muttered Joe in disgust. "The dead chick, Anita Dick, someone did her with a 9MM Makarov."

"So? Big fucking deal."

"So look what canvas found in your car." Ray opened the envelope, out spilled a Russian-made PSM Makarov pistol, and six 9MM cartridges. The Makarov clip held eight.

Joe buried his face in his hands. "Oh, hell no..."

To Be Continued...

 

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Chapter III - "The Dame in Red Velvet" by EVE
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