Good Samaritans Finish Last

"How did you know it was Artie's?"

"It was the same one Cohen used to light my cigarette when we went to that planning meeting months back. It was rose gold with a sculpted nude who had a diamond on each tit."

"I never saw that."

"You busy talking to the blond organizer."

"Oh, Jesus."

"So, how do we handle this?"

"They will pay you $5000 a month, and you will give them back a check for rent on a bogus storage depot for the same amount. It's not gonna cost you anything. If necessary we'll do some creative bookkeeping. No one will be any the wiser."

"Ok, if you say so."

"Boss, it's as simple as that, and we live to dance another night."

At that point, Marge came up behind my desk, pushed my rolling chair back, unzipped my fly, and reached inside. As her tongue wrapped around my cock I closed my eyes and thought I was dancing in the sky circling the imagined island paradise of San Juan when my dick exploded. Being the good girl, she let not a drop hit the floor. She swallowed it all. God bless Margarita!

So you might say I was sexed into this money laundering shit. I had a feeling it wasn't going to be as easy as Margie said. The laundering went on for eight months like clockwork. Then one day, I got back to the office later than usual. Magie always locked up the place at 5pm, but the door was open.

To my surprise, some tall guy was standing behind my desk with his back to me. When I looked closely, I could see he wasn't wearing pants. A part of his naked brown ass was visible.

"Hey, what the fuck is going on?"

At that point, Margarita popped up from behind the desk. I could see she could not talk as the guy pulled up his pants. She cupped her hand to her mouth and spat out a large wad of cum.

"You fuck, you leave her alone," I shouted.

The low life reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade. He pointed the long thin blade at me and said,

"Yo shut yo fucking mouth gringo. I put this in your eye and make yo suck my verga."

Marg interceded, "Go now, Alonzo, you got what you wanted. Now, get out, leave him alone."

The creep came out from behind my desk with his long red cock still dripping sperm. Without pushing it back in his pants, he walked past me, as if his wet large erection was a badge of honor.

Then as an afterthought, before he got out the door, he turned, "Or maybe white boy, yo like it in yo fat white ass?" and he grabbed his flaccid dick and waved it at me. Even in its lesser state it was formidable.

I admit I was scared and defenseless. A picture of me down on all fours flashed through my mind.That was not a position I was going to relish. I heard the door slam, and Marge ran to me and threw her arms around me, crying.

"I didn't want you to see, but if I didn't suck his cock he threatened to cut up my face."

"This has got to stop Margie. I'm going to call Mickey. He'll know how to handle those thugs."

-----00000-----

I called Mick. Fortunately, it was June. Mick had arrived in town ten days ago. When I explained to him what was going on. He was flabbergasted.

"He did what? To your secretary?"

Mick had met Margi a few times when he'd come by the office for some minor property fillings, and we'd all gone out to lunch at Katz's Deli for a pastrami sandwich and a Celray. Of course, I'd never charged him for the legal work.

"This has got to stop.," shouted Mick. "Money laundering is one thing, but what he forced Velda, I mean Margie to do, is beyond the pale."

"I'll kill the son of a bitch," I added.

"OK, Kid. Just calm down. We're going to take care of this. I grew up in Hell's Kitchen."

"How we gonna take care of it? How, Mick?"

"Did I ever tell you about Butcher Cumminskey, aka 'Eddie The Butcher'?

"No, Mick, who was he?"

"Back when I was growing up Hell's Kitchen was a dangerous place. The Irish gangs and Italian Mafia were rubbing each other out. My cousin, Mikey, had a hitman in his gang who'd been a butcher at Amalgamated Meat Cutters. Eddie was the one who originated the practice of dismembering victims as if they were a side of beef, then dumping pieces in the Hudson River."

"'Eddie the Butcher' owned a small bar called 'Sunbrite.' Maybe you heard of it?"

"Was that over on 10th Avenue and 50th?"

"Yeah, you got it.

"Think I had a beer there one time."

"Well, there was a series of murders by the Butcher, his last one was that of Paddy Dugan."

"You used to call me Dugan."

"Yeah, I had a fondness for the guy. When you was a kid, you reminded me of him."

`"So what happened?"

"OK, first, Coonan and Commiskey, killed a rival gang member called Curley. Why? Probably over a turf question for the gang's bookies, but whatever the reason, that killing started the bad blood between the two groups."

"Coonan and Commiskey decided to drop by Dugan's apartment on 10th. Ostensibly they told Dugan they were planning a heist, but they went there to kill him. In the middle of a three-way card game, one of the hoods got up to take a piss and hit Dugan over the head with a lead sap,"

"A what?"

"A sap is a leather pouch, 5 or 6 inches long filled with buckshot hanging from a leather strap. When you hit a man in the back of the head, it's lights out."

"When Connan sapped Dugan, the victim fell off his chair. That was when they beat the shit out of him. Whether Dugan was still alive when 'Butcher" Commiskey cut off his cock, excuse the pun, that is a bone of contention. The Butcher found a half-filled milk carton in Dugan's fridge, dropped the penis into the carton, and put it back in the fridge. Commiskey proceeded to dismember the guy. They fit the pieces into an old suitcase and carried it out. An old girlfriend of mine, Alley Sacks, filled me in on the details. She was called in to help clean up the bloody mess."

"Jeez, these were not just bad guys but mean ones."

"You gotta understand, life was cheap to those guys. To them, it was kind of a joke."

"So, what happened next?"

"The next day, Coonan and Commiskey sat down in the Sunbrite bar and began drinking Irish Whiskey. In those days, before the amalgamation of all the notable Irish whiskey distilleries into the Pernod Ricard Company, no Irishman would drink the booze coming out of Northern Ireland, our gang wouldn't touch the stuff. The only Whiskey we'd drink was 'Powers,' distilled in Dublin, in the Republic. We considered that to be our patriotic duty. Jameson, the most commonly sold Irish Whiskey in the USA today, back then had its origin listed on the label as Northern Ireland. Today it says Dublin."

"OK, thanks for the whiskey lesson, but what happened in the bar?"

"Alright," says Mick, so these gangsters are sitting there with Billy Beatti, another gang member. Commiskey pulls out a package from under the table. What do you think was in it?"

"I don't know? Tell me."

"He opens the box and pulls out Dugan's head by the hair. As Dugan was mostly bald, that was a trick in itself."

"Oh shit."

"Commiskey sets the head on the table and says to the barman,

"Pour our guy a drink, he may have been a fuck-up, but on many a day, he was a good Irishman."

They put a shot glass of Irish in front of Dugan's head. Then one of them put a lit cigarette in Dugan's mouth. The Butcher hands Beattie the keys to Dugan's apartment and sends him up there to fetch a milk carton from the icebox.

"We got milk here," says Beattie, "What do ya need that for?"

"Go, do as you're told," says the Butcher. Beattie runs around the block, gets the milk carton, not knowing what's inside it. When he gets back he's told to pour the contents of the milk carton down the sink drain and out pops the penis, covered with milk."

Coonan tells the barman, "Run some water on it, wash it off."

"Wash what off? Hey, what the fuck is this?""

"The barman runs water on it and recognizes it. He picks it up with an ice tong and hands it to the Butcher, who identifies it as "Dugan's big cock. Commiskey flips it to his pal Coonan, who dries it with a bar towel and sticks the penis next to Dugan's head, saying,

"I'm sure you missed this, but now you got it back."

"Commiskey tells the barman, "When you're done jerking off the cold cut, put it in an empty pickle jar with some vodka. And that's where it sat in the bar fridge for the next few days while Duggan's head went for a swim."

"Two days later, Mad Dog Sullivan came into the 'Sunbrite.' Commiskey was seated at the bar with his back to the door. Mad Dog walks up behind him and, without hesitation, pulls out a.38 Special and shoots Commiskey in the back of his head. The Butcher was dead, slumped over the bar. Mad Dog goes behind the bar, right to the fridge, takes out the pickle jar and says to Beaty,

"The family's gotta bury the stiff. Dat's the only piece of him that's left."

"Beattie wasn't about to object. Squeaky Dori Grepgy, the resident alky whore, who used the 'Sunbrite' as her booking office, piped up in her high pitched voice,

"Yeah, it was a nice dick when Dugan used it. He fucked me with that thing plenty of times. Of course, it was much bigger then."

"That ain't gonna happen no more," Mad Dog says to Grepgi.

-----00000-----

Dori Grepgy-- I hadn't heard that name in a very long time, but I was pretty sure I knew who she was. Back when I had started exploring the denizens of 'Hell's Kitchen,' I'd gone with a friend of mine, Louis Altchulter, now a successful attorney who worked as an assistant for Rudy Giuliani when Rudy was the DA.

Louis was then a freshman at NYU. We'd strayed south of 'restaurant row' on 46th Street and 9th and walked west to 10th Avenue. The little 'Sunbrite' bar was sandwiched between a hardware store and a real estate office and capped with a large blue hand-lettered sign. We went in for our last beer of the night. It must have been our third mug. Of course, we knew nothing of the dive bar's history.

I'd remarked to Luis, "The digs in this neighborhood are probably cheap." Today the same area is filled with expensive high rise buildings.

"Who the fuck would want to live down here?" said Louis.

"It's not so bad. Plenty of local color." I added. "Plenty of hookers, and cheaper than Times Square." I nodded in the direction of a woman seated at a table in the dark corner near the restroom.

Thinking I was a potential client, the woman raised her big tits off the table and came over to us. She was tall, probably five foot nine with long unkempt stringy brown hair. She wore a black lace dress that had seen better days, and her large breasts were well delineated, although sagging. She wore stockings without a garter belt. They were rolled up and visible along the seam of her dress. She might have been a mother or a sister of one of the kids I grew up with. She was not threatening, and there was an air of raw sex in her eyes and expression. The tip of her tongue lay in the corner of her lips as she approached us.

"Here comes your dream boat," said Lou.

"What are you boys doing down here," in a high-pitched squeaky voice. From the way she slurred her words, it was obvious she'd had more than one drink.

"My friend is looking for some fun. If you know what I mean?" said Lou.

"I could do both of ya for a twenty,"

"Louis was quick to shake his head.

She turned to me, and I could see one of her nipples was peeking out of her boatis,

"What the fuck you looking for, sweety?" She was certainly persistent.

I didn't know what to say. She reached out and took my hand. Her grip was very strong.

"You got some money, kid? Maybe a ten-spot? Call me Dori. I'll suck your cock like nobody's business. Where you go'in ta school, kid?"

Maybe she'd noticed the college monogram on my jacket.

"NYU."

"Oh, I know lots of boys from there. Sucked a lot of college cock. You know why I like college cock? It cums fast, not like these old guys here in the bar who take forever. Come on."

I found myself being pulled toward the men's bathroom's brown door. My curiosity kept me from resisting.

Once we got inside, "You want a blow job or a hand job?"

She'd already pushed me into a stall. She sat down on the toilet. As the door swung closed behind us, I could feel her big hand slide down the back of my pants.

"What are you doing, Dori?"

"Give me a hand here kid, I'm trying to get your pants down."

"Sure," I unhooked my belt and waist button on my heavy jeans. They fell under their own weight to the floor with my keys and wallet still inside.

I was standing there when I looked down. I could see Grepgy's broad shoulders and tangled hair as she pulled down my white briefs. Without waiting for an answer, she must have assumed I wanted a blow job. I could feel her hot breath on my cock in the damp cold bathroom. There was no escape. My back was up against the stall door. She wasted no time. My cock

"You gonna use a condom?"

She paused her sucking and responded with my cock still in her mouth,

"Ain't no need,"

Then she returned to the blow job, licking and sucking, taking deep breaths every few strokes off the side of her cock- filled mouth, running her tongue around my dick like it was a lollipop. Her hand had worked its way between my legs and was squeezing my balls like a metronome. At first, I thought all this was going nowhere, but my hard-on began to respond.

Sensing the pulsations of my penis, she went all the way down, squeezing my balls tightly, her lips pressed against my pubes. As if a reflex, I grabbed the back of her head. I held her against me, shooting what felt like a few pounds of gizz into her mouth. Of course, it was more like an ounce, but she sputtered and coughed as she rose. She turned to the toilet where she'd been sitting to spit the juice out.

"You're supposed to tell a lady when you are about to cum, " she mumbled.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know.

She pushed past me and got to the yellowed sink and started running the water, catching it in her palm to rinse her mouth.

"You better wash up hon, I may have left some lipstick on your dick. We don't want your wife to see it."

"What wife? And who the fuck is we?" I thought, but I said nothing

I positioned my soft dick on the edge of the sink and splashed some cold water on It. God only knows what shit was in her mouth, and now it was crawling up my urethra. The cold water stimulated me to piss in the sink, hoping that would clean me out. I grabbed a paper towel to dry myself. I tucked my cock back in my pants, pushed open the bathroom door, and walked over to Louis.

"What the fuck happened? She jerk you off? You fuck her?"

"Just a blow job. Now let's get the fuck out of her." I took one last drink from the mug. The beer was getting warm.

Before I could set the mug down, Dori came running out of the men's room shouting, "Hey you, you stiffed me for the ten bucks," with her empty hand out.

"Be quiet. I got your money, no problem."

I grabbed a crumpled ten from my jean pocket and slapped it in her hand. A few men, about to come to her defense, were deciding to move on me. I waved the bill in the air so all interested might see our capitalistic exchange was concluded.

"Let's get gone," said Louis.

It had started to rain, so we ran to the subway and made our way home. Yes, I knew who squeaky Dori Grepgy was. The whole episode flashed through my mind as Mick finished his story saying he'd met Margi and liked her,

"the perfect Velda with a Spanish Harlem accent."

-----00000-----

I was right when I figured Mikey would know how to handle these punks. He showed up a day later, around six o'clock, in a station wagon. Inside was a pick, two shovels, a lantern, and an empty paint can. Also, a roll of used plastic that painters use to cover the floor.

"What the fuck is all this stuff, Mick?"

"You wanted to get these leeches off your ass, I'm going to take care of it for you, and I ain't gonna use no tweezer. Come on, we're gonna go for a drive."

We drove about an hour north on the interstate. We arrived at a large cemetery in Valhalla, N.Y., just as it was getting dark. It was foggy and desolate. The place seemed to have been abandoned., even the gatehouse at the entry was boarded up.

"Go push the gate open."

"I got out and pushed the noisy rusty gate until it was open wide enough to get the station wagon through. Then I quickly closed it.

We drove to the far end of the cemetery. Mick pulled over, leaving the motor running, just in case. It was twilight, but a full moon would appear a half-hour later.

"Dig as fast as you can. Yesterday's rain will make it an easy job. Pile the dirt up on the far side."

We dug like badgers, "You gotta go dig at least 6 feet deep," said Mick, "Otherwise, animals will dig em up, but we're going to pour lye on the bodies just in case."

I had some idea of what Mick was up to, but that was the first time I heard the word 'bodies.' I realized what the two heavy white bags in the car were for.

When the hole was about 7 feet deep, Mick measured it with the height of the long shovel, and said, "It's OK."

We put the lye in black plastic bags that made them invisible in the dark laid on the side of the hole.

"What if someone spots this?"

"The only one who comes here is a security guard, an old buddy of mine, used to such things. He is paid by the Mafia to keep an eye on the place."

"You mean this is a Mafia graveyard?"

"What do you think?"

I knew the answer to my stupid question.

We drove back to the Bronx, stopping at the White Castle for a few burgers and fries.

"You know the guy who inherited this hamburger chain is fucking one of the Hemmingway sisters?"

"I guess he knew where the good buns were."

"The trick is to be born into the right family," said Mickey.

"Yeah, when I was born I looked around and said to the doctor, Send me the fuck back, this is the wrong family."

"Your secretary said the two thugs come like clockwork on the 2nd of the month at 5 pm. What is today?

"OK, let me check my watch. Today, I mean tonight is the 31st."

"So tomorrow, Monday is the 1st, Tuesday is D day."

"What do you mean D Day?"

"You figure it out."

That wasn't too hard to do.

"OK," said Mick, "I'll be at your office on Tuesday at 3 pm. Tell the secretary to leave early."

Sure as a cuckoo clock's bird, Mick came through the door Tuesday afternoon at precisely 3 pm wearing a yellow tee-shirt.,

He was carrying a large plastic garbage bag. Inside was a sawed-off Browning semiautomatic shotgun that held five cartridges. There was a gallon plastic container, a little wider than the one you'd keep bleach in. Mick pushed the end of the barrel into the mouth of the container. It was a tight fit. He then wrapped a few turns of duct tape to secure the two were mated.

"What the fuck is that?"

"It'll act as a pretty good silencer, wait and see."

Mick took the paint specaled plastic roll and spread it out on the floor. He placed the paint can and a roller with dried white paint on the plastic near the edge of my desk. Then he walked behind the desk and fit the shotgun with the ersatz silencer in the space underneath.

Mick sat down in my chair and glanced at me, "Let's hope the cock suckers are on time. We got a half hour to wait."

That was the wrong word to use as far as I was concerned. The image of Margie, her mouth full of that slug's cum wad, made me sick to my stomach.

Mick sat there watching the front door with one hand under the desk.

"Excuse me a minute, I gotta piss."

"Take your time," said Mick.

No sooner had I closed the bathroom door than I heard the front door latch open. I glanced at my watch.

Sure as an unwanted thunderstorm, the two Columbians showed up at 5:03 pm. I could hear them as they both came in.

"Shut the door, fellas. We're painting the place," shouted Mick. "Step forward, boys. But don't kick over the paint can."