Good Samaritans Finish Last

"I guess you still like me," she said, turning her head and kissing me on the cheek.

When we got back to Mick's apartment, Janis took a hot shower and steamed up the whole place. When she came out of the bathroom wearing Mick's white bathrobe showing ample cleavage, she looked like a million bucks. At this point, she certainly had nothing to hide. Her long dark red hair, freshly shampooed, was piled on her head and sparked like a crown.

The three of us, exhausted, spent the night together. A few hours later I woke up in the big sofa chair and saw Janice was no longer on the couch. I could hear Mick laughing and Janice giggling. The last words I heard were,

"Oh no, Mick, you're too big and I'm too sore. Let's try something else."

I fell back asleep. I'm not too sure of what came down between them, especially after what she'd been through.

In the morning, the two of them seemed in a good mood. Mickey was whistling some Irish ditty and Janice looked as cool as a tennis player. The three of us walked over to the bus terminal on 8th and 42nd. We saw a lingerie store where we bought her some panties and two bras. Mick accompanied her into the try-on room to help her hook the bras. At least that's what he said he was doing.

At the bus terminal, Mick bought her a ticket to leave an hour later on a 17-hour bus trip to Jacksonville. He gave her an extra hundred for snacks along the way. We waited with her till just before departure. She kissed us both goodbye, although I could see Mick got a more prolonged smooch.

Mick whispered in her ear, but I could hear,

"Meet me in North Carolina."

"No problemo," said Janice, and she climbed onto the bus carrying assorted bags of chips and canned drinks. She was perhaps the only traveler without a suitcase of clothes. Her roommate had promised to forward them by post.

I'm sorry to say that was the last time I saw Janice. She stayed down south. I was stuck in the north. I decided to study at Brooklyn Law School. The term was starting. Two weeks later, Mick was headed south for the winter. The last time I spoke to Janice, she said,

"I'm still very much in touch with Mickey." Whatever that meant?

----00000-----

In the next few years, I finished Law School, passed the New York Bar Exam, and opened up a small office in the Bronx on 167th St. I didn't lose touch with Mick. We spoke occasionally but rarely saw each other. Sometimes the days pass like hours, and the years pass like minutes. I was now seven years out of law school.

Part of the tension in the Mike Hammer stories involved Mike, the brute yet savvy investigator, and Velda, an exotic blond, yet one who was not dependent on Mick. You never quite saw the two of them have at it, but in the back of your mind, you knew those two were finding some off-hour for doing the nasty. And then that name, "Velda," where did that come from? I once asked Mick. He said,

"I just liked the sound of it."

"Was it Norse, Teutonic, French?"

"Well, I'd heard the name as a kid," said Mick, "it was the name of a friend's sister. They were Germans, and maybe my ear was off because I remembered it as Velda. Years later, I met the guy, he'd taken over a newsstand near Madison Square Garden. I saw him standing inside one of those covered newsstands they have in New York City, selling mags and lottery tickets. I asked for a copy of the New York Post. I tried to squeeze under the narrow roof to escape the rain, and recognized the vendor, 'Skeeter,' from the old neighborhood. I asked,

"How is your sister Velda?"

"Not not Velda,-- Valda," he said, "Valda."

"Oh yeah, sorry. I never got an answer to my question, as to how she was doing."

"Personally," said Mick, "I think Velda is far sexier than Valda.

I have to agree. 'Velda' was really Mick's invention.

-----00000-----

My law office was a storefront with two rooms and a bathroom. At that time, a lot of small-time lawyers were taking over storefronts. The idea was to meld with the neighborhoods and bring the office into close proximity with the clients. Low-income people are often prone to litigation, provided it is on a contingency basis. Like most of the public, they have accidents or have children in trouble with the law. I wanted to specialize in accidents. Gang bangers were too dangerous to deal with.

I went to a local used furniture store and bought desks, chairs, and bookcases. They were all in matching oak and looked like something Perry Mason might have used. I had hoped for something more modern but was constrained by my limited budget. At least it looked professional.

I had asked an Employment agency to send me a few applicants to be interviewed for office manager positions. My requirements? The applicant had to be on time, know how to type, and as the neighborhood was Spanish-speaking she should be able to converse in Spanish. If she was easy on the eyes, all the better.

Three applicants showed up:

The first was an older woman who reminded me of my grade school teacher, Thelma McCarthy, who came into the office bent over, balanced on a walking cane. She spoke Spanish with a Castellan accent. I doubted her ability to physically deal with the pressures of a law office. I needed someone who, in a pinch, could quickly get over to the courthouse to file papers. I thanked her and told her we would consider her skills. But, she added,

"I'd prefer a shorter workweek, four days from nine to three, I have to care for my grandson once a week."

The second applicant, Dexter Thomas, was a young black man just out of community college. He was expecting to attend law school at night. He came through the door wearing a sweatshirt hoodie, said his Mom was white and his Dad was black. Why he volunteered that information, I didn't know. I never asked. He looked around the room as if he was memorizing the positions of every article. I enjoyed talking to him. He was bright.

As he became relaxed, he confessed to his past drug problems and several relapses. He volunteered the information that he feared a backward step. I told him readdiction and rehab were common factors in freeing oneself. He nodded in agreement. The possibility he might fall backward would cause a big problem in a small office. Dexter was also heavily tabooed. The white lines were hard to see on his dark skin, but tattoos might have had a negative effect on clients in our lower strata neighborhood. Our locals were conservative though they voted Democratic, but I feared they might associate tattoos with criminals who acquire their tattoos in prison.

Then to my surprise, Dexter said, "If I show you something, do you promise not to be shocked. It's kind of private but I am very proud of it."

"Sure," I said, not knowing what he had in mind.

At that, he stood up, unbuttoned his pants, and lowered them to his knees. What he was showing me was his large cock with multicolored wings tattooed on the surrounding skin.

"Wow, I've never seen anything like that."

"They go crazy for this at the bathhouses," he said smiling.

"Well good luck with that, I'm sure it brings you all the attention you deserve.

Even after this exhibition I liked the young man and considered him as an alternative. I even asked if he would consider part-time work as a paralegal. Later I realized he was testing to see if I was gay, figuring that might bolster his chance of employment. I couldn't help him there.

The third applicant was Margarita Gonzales.

"Call me Margi," was the first thing she said. When she took off her stylish trench coat, I immediately thought of Velda. She had two large breasts, barely hidden. Her tight blouse revealed ample cleavage. Her shapely rear was in sync with the singer Abby Lane, the wife of the famous band leader, Xavier Cougar's, one of my teenage fantasies. Abby was famous for taking a nude bath in a bathtub filled with coffee and then call in the press for an interview. She was a knockout. The photos of her in the tub were exceptional.

Margi proudly said she was Puerto Rican and was able to converse with all the people she met in the neighborhood's bodegas. She lived only 6 blocks away, had no kids, and a small dog.

Who says Latins are short? She was at least five-seven, and with the high heels she wore, I was unsure if she could get through the front door without hitting her head or frazzling her high hairstyle. She had large dark eyes and a golden skin tone that was gorgeous.

I knew at that moment, from the tingling down between my legs, that turned into a snare drum beat, this was the one.

From that moment, I fell apart as an objective interviewer. I just sat there listening to the sing-songy Spanish Harlem chick talk. I was entranced. Of course, as you might imagine, I chose a Velda for my secretary, a gal Friday as they used to call them, though I don't know why. Maybe I was influenced by the Mike Hammer stories. You might have thought it would be a mistake, but Margie turned out to be near perfect.

Margi's job performance was excellent. Once we became comfortable with each other we were going at it after hours for five years. Her name was Margarita, and she was Puerto Rican, but I'd found my Velda.

Margi exuded sexuality; her body, a curvaceous rear that flowed like Niagra Falls, breasts that rolled forward like an avalanche, a vagina that I hoped would suck me in like an octopussy. But it wasn't just her body, I'd fallen in love with the way she spoke English. Go up to Spanish Harem and give a listen. You will know what I mean. I was fascinated with her pronunciation, the sound of her voice, and the words that rolled effortlessly out of her mouth.

I quickly learned that for every plus, there is always a minus. It took only a short while to discover Margie was perfect. When I was confident she would stay, I gave her an insurance form to fill out. It asked for the name of whom to contact in case of a health problem and the relationship. Margi, filled in with 'Gaston Garcia, husband.' How stupid of me to think that a woman like her was unattached.

I waited a few hours and then commented,

"I didn't know you were married?"

"Isn't everyone," she replied and excused herself to go to the 'little girl's room.'

As ladylike as she was, the bathroom door was not soundproof. I waited silently and listened for the loud splatter of pee that I'd heard during the few weeks she'd worked for me. It was the only sign that her mystical body was ruled by biology. Then came the toilet's flush.

I moved back to my desk, so I wouldn't look like a creep. I sat visualizing her urination, the yellow liquid flowing past her vagina, her sparse pubic hairs. I wasn't surprised when my penis inflated. The attraction for her was too obvious. I also felt doggy.

I thought, "Shit, she's married!"

"So tell me about your husband. Have you been married for a long time?"

"Not much to tell, maybe too long. We dated through high school, and he seemed like a nice guy, hard worker, sober."

It turned out she was married to a big galoot. A prison guard at Rikers Island. Although they shared the same domicile, he spent nights at his Mom's place, close to the prison, only coming home on weekends and holidays. I realized I had Marge five days a week, and he had her for the weekends.

I had no intention of getting entangled with a married woman. It didn't happen by planning or design. Being with her every day, my cock was in a constant state of erection. I usually hid it behind a clipboard or under the desk. I'd reach down to test its firmness before getting up. I was trying to be discreet, but I'm sure she knew. Women have that sixth sense, an awareness of when a man is interested in them. If her pussy was the polar north, my dick was the compass pointer.

She'd been working for me for about nine weeks. We were putting together a plea for a teenage kid who stole his Mom's car and crashed it into the back of a bus. I felt a little dizzy. Maybe it was that intoxicating perfume Margie was wearing.

"What's the scent you have on?"

Margie smiled. "Oh, I can't recall, 'Herrera,' or something like that. It's Spanish. Do you like it?"

"Oh yeah, it's great.

It was now a half-hour past quitting time. I'd already locked the entry door. This was back when the homeless problem had started. You still didn't expect strangers to come barging in asking to use the bathroom, but you'd think twice about leaving a front door open. Occasionally I'd get to the door in the morning and find some poor homeless person sleeping there, blocking the entrance.

I went back into the office and was standing behind her desk advising her while she was typing a form. As I gazed over her shoulder, my head grazed the back of her's, and maybe it was the scent of that perfume, or maybe my hormones that took over. In a reckless moment, I leaned forward and kissed her on the neck.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that."

"I'm not. It was a wonderful kiss. You have a light touch."

"But you're married. God, Margie, I don't want to lose you."

"You won't. I'm not going anywhere. Marriages are a lock, but there is also a key."

I had no idea what she was talking about. Maybe it was a Puerto Rican saying.

She stood up, turned around, and threw her arms around me. Her full lips closed with mine for a kiss that went on and on. Of course, my dick rose more than 98 degrees, then it went higher than a thermometer reading. She could feel the big guy pressing against her, so Margie reached down to give him a good squeeze.

"I'm glad to meet you," she teased. "I see you all the time, but we've never met. Come on, Boss, I gotta give you some relief."

We were stuck together like two birds on a branch, ready to make love. Still kissing me, she directed me onto the couch in the waiting room. As I fell back, my head crushing the head rest, she deftly unbuttoned my pants. The next thing I knew mypants were down around my ankles. Somehow her red panties were in my fist. As smooth as a ballet dancer, she insinuated herself on top of me, sliding my dick into a chasm I'd dreamed about entering.

It was an easy fit, but like a Chinese handcuff. The deeper you entered, the tighter it became. I couldn't help myself. I was so excited I came before even twenty seconds had elapsed.

"I'm sorry, I was too fast."

She kissed my cheek. "That's ok, Boss. It will take longer next time."

We began to fuck almost every evening after we closed the office, locking the front door. Margi was right, the sex did take longer as I got control. She would climax wildly, shouting in Spanish, riding my dick like a pogo stick. Sometimes I was afraid she'd break it in half, but I had no intention of ever asking her to slow down or to be more careful. All I wanted now, from life, was to get my hands and mouth on those big nippled breasts and my dick inside her small, wiry nest of pubic hair. Was it Dante who wrote about vaginas or was it on a different subject?

"Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."

The months passed like raindrops that fell one at a time. Each month I learned something new about Margi. Her marriage was childless. She had a good rapport with her husband, she'd admitted they still had sex regularly--mostly on weekends. Why did she marry so young?

"We were too young and bamboozled to know the difference. Now it's too late, at least I got you. I know I can get pregnant, but I think my husband has been shooting blanks all these years. " Only later did I realize that he was still shooting. Her vagina always seemed to be looser on Mondays, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

"Since we been lovers," Margie said, "I take the pill."

"Aren't you afraid he'll find them?

"I hide them in a vitamin bottle."

This confessional led to some heavy kissing. When I finally got my tongue out of her ear. I whispered, "I'll never leave you,"

"Oh, you will, I know that, but that's ok."

Then there were the times of the month when Margi was having her period. There was a faint smell when she burst into the office in the morning. It wasn't just her Spanish perfume. I imagined it was a primordial pheromone, a scent with a magical hormonal ingredient. It made me super horny and drew me ever closer. On those days, I'd hold her tightly, and my cock would swell and press against her, telegraphing how desperately I needed her,

She'd touch my face gently saying, "My flow is too heavy today. Honey, I suck you off instead."

On those occasions, to give me relief, she'd go down on her knees. I'd drop my pants and sometimes standing, sometimes sitting, she'd surround my dick with that warm mouth, those thick red lips. She'd look up at me with her big eyes and then she'd get my cock so deep in her mouth, pressed against my cock hairs as I held gently to the sides of her head.

I'd cum quickly, "like a teenager," she'd say. She'd always swallow my cum as if it was holy water. Then she'd cough up a few dark strands of my curly pubic hairs. I'd apologize, and she'd laugh and say,

"As long as I get them out from between my teeth before my hubby get's home."

She'd laugh, she smiled and her dark eyes would trap me in an intense stare that only ended when Margie would break away and run into the restroom, where she kept a bottle of mouthwash in the antique medicine cabinet above the sink. When she'd reappear, she'd say,

"I only rinse my mouth because I don't want anyone to see your sperm on my lips, but your cum is very special. It has a very sweet taste. I love the taste, and I love you."

I never asked her how she knew my cum was special, that would have been one question too many. Later that day I'd discovered a large drop of ruby red blood on the toilet seat that somehow she'd missed. I touched it with my finger and painted the head of my engorged penis. In some strange way this was a shared intimacy.

The neighborhood was Spanish-speaking. I could pick apart the lingo if they talked slowly, I was soon lost if they sped up. Most of our cases were auto accidents or usurious used car contracts.We tried to stay out of court. Margi sat in on all the client interviews as a translator and erstwhile paralegal.

Things were going fine. Business was picking up. I'd given Margi a raise and was thinking of leasing a better vehicle. Then our life went haywire. Two low life hoods came in and spent a long time talking to Margie. I watched through the little two-way pane in the door that separated my office from the front reception room.

I could see the tall one kept touching himself and looking at Margi's cleavage. It didn't take long for that soft spot to grow into a boner. Finally, he offered her a cigarette which she took and placed in her mouth. He automatically pulled out a large gold lighter and lit the cigarette. I'd never seen Margi smoke before. When they left, Margi came into my office. She smelled of smoke, her face was red, and she was sweating.

"What was that all about? What did those slime balls want? Besides a piece of you."

"Dey mens, they is all alike. Dey Crazy for Spanish pussy. The tall one ask what time I got off."

"Why?"

"Because he want a blow job before he go home to his wife."

"I'm not gonna let anyone mess with my girl."

"Don't get involved, honey. They are dangerous men. They will hurt you. To me, it's just another dick." I've spent years pondering what she meant by that comment.

"No, Marge, I'll kill the guy if he disrespects you."

"Don't talk stupid."

"So, what's the story?"

"Well, honey, they offering you a proposition. I telling you. It best you accept it."

"Ok, shoot... and if I don't accept it?'

"They said they kill you."

"Are they serious?"

"You know Arty Cohen, the accountant, from two blocks away."

"The guy they found dead last week, shot between the eyes?"

"Yes, they offered me a cigarette, and then the tall one, he pulls out Artie's gold lighter."