Pandemonia City

Part 1

I awoke with a jerk from a bad dream, the details of which fled with the opening of my eyes.

There was a warm body in the bed beside me. It belonged to a doll named Isabella Wyona, as did the bed, the room, and the apartment. She was Caribbean, from a place called Cat Island. A fan dancer down at the Diamond Club and a pretty good one. Her deep brown skin, a tone or two darker than my own, stood in high contrast against the white linen of the sheets. The same effect held against the pure white ostrich feathers she used in her act.

She opened her big brown eyes as I was studying her face. "Morning."

"Morning, beautiful."

"Mmm." She gave a sleepy smile and snuggled closer. "I'm glad you stayed until I woke up. I didn't know if you would."

"Leaving you in bed is not an easy thing to do, gorgeous."

She purred, rubbing a breast against my arm. "Such a honey-tongue and so early in the morning. How'd you sleep?"

"Just fine, doll. You?"

"Me to. Must've been all that exercise," she said. And I felt her fingers slide across my thigh under the covers to caress my sac and cock. She began to stroke me, bringing the slumbering pole to hardness. "Except, my bottom is tender from all the spanking you gave it. The girls at the club were right, you are a sadist."

"No, they were wrong. A sadist is someone who derives pleasure from inflicting pain. I'm a hedonist, which means I derive pleasure from dispensing pleasure. Anyway, you like having that big black ass of yours spanked. A lot."

She put on a pout but her dark eyes were scintillating. "Maybe," she allowed, licking at my ear.

Then she slid her shapely form on top of me. I could feel the wetness of her cunt against my thigh as she positioned herself. She mopped the flared head of my cock between those juiced pussylips before grunting in a most unladylike way as she impaled herself. I echoed her grunt as my pole speared into her tight cavern, feeling the play of her wall muscles ripple around me. She began to roll those skillful hips of hers.

"Spank me again," Isabella moaned, as she grinded.

Being her guest, I obliged the request.

:.

An hour or so later, Isabella was sitting up in bed with her back against the headboard, the sheet pooled down around her waist with her shapely tits displayed, as she smoked and watched me get dressed. She looked sexily dishelved, hair mussed, and redolent of fresh sex.

After pulling on my shoulder-holster I lifted the pillow and took my gun from beneath it.

She gave a slight scowl. "Was that there all night?"

"Yes."

Her tongue wet her full lips and I saw her big chocolate nipples harden. "Can I hold it?"

"It's a gun, baby, not a dick. It could go off in your pretty face."

"And a dick can't?"

"Good point." I made sure the safety was on and handed the rod over.

"Ooo. It's so heavy."

Some dolls, and quite a few guys for that matter, seem to get an erotic thrill from handling firearms. You don't have to be a head-shrinker from Austria to figure out why. Isabella ran her hands lovingly over the handle and barrel of the gun.

"It looks different from the kind in the movies," she said, holding out her arm and with one eye closed taking aim at her reflection in her dresser mirror.

"This is a Speers .45 automatic," I explained. "In the movies they always use revolvers, I don't know why. I guess because it looks more like the guns cowboys used. Who knows. Anyway, in real-life its important to get the first shot in first and keep em coming, nothing beats an automatic pistol for rapid firing. Plus, with an automatic you can screw on a silencer, when need be."

"Mmm," she said, all eyes for the rod, her fingers moving lovingly over the gun metal.

I laughed and pried it from her caressing fingers. "Much more of that and you two'll have to get engaged."

She pouted, being a big one for pouting, as I holstered the weapon.

"You put it in upside down," she observed.

"I had it custom-made that way," I explained, as I shrugged into my suit jacket. "An inverted holster allows for a slightly quicker draw than the standard kind. I got the idea from a Resistance worker during the Great War."

:.

The bruised clouds, which had been threatening all through the flight from Isabella's place to my building, released their rain in a sudden torrent just as I was bringing the machine in for a landing.

The abrupt change in air density caused the gyro-copter to stutter in a gust of wind on its final approach but I'd had years of experience landing on the skyscraper's roof, and it was no cause for concern. The wheels touched down in the center of the blue-lit landing circle, and as the rotor blades spun to a halt and folded against one another, I taxied the machine into its hanger. Switching off the ignition, I withdrew the key before opening the cockpit door and getting out.

I left the small hanger and locked the door. Stepping out onto the roof the hard rain began to patter down on my slouch hat, wetting the shoulders of my overcoat. It'd been raining everyday for a month, I was dog sick tired of it. Walking under the sheltering overhang of the elevator kiosk, I pressed the button. The doors slid open, I stepped in and pressed the button for the office level. The car descended.

:.

Down in my office, high and dry from the weather minus hat and coat, I poured a couple of fingers from the desk-bottle into a glass and swiveled the chair around so I could look out the window at the cityscape, misted gray under its curtain of rain.

The persistent rain had gotten me down, that and I hadn't had a paying customer walk into my office for over a month. Not too surprising as there was a depression on. Pandemonia was feeling the pinch along with the rest of the world. People had to save their money for bread and butter. They couldn't afford a detective, not even one that worked for forty dollars a day.

With the lost of its economic base the Grand Apple had faded some from her past glory. Entire neighborhoods had been abandoned, deserted. Block after block of broken window buildings standing empty, hollow-eyed idols who's worshippers had lost the faith and gone away. Only the gated communities of the wealthy remained unscathed, encircled around the Financial District. The Syndicate strongholds, depression-proof, continued on their merry way. The poor and defenseless survived as best they could.

The City had become a lousy place to live, an even lousier place to have to make a living. The brandy didn't help my mood, which was lousy as well. I was living off squirreled away money and that was lousy too.

Then, the phone rang. I picked it up. "Titan Agency."

"Hey, Theo. This is Rich. Rich Thurman." Thurman was the house dick over at the Radioland Music Palace Building.

"Well, will wonders never cease. It's been so long I thought someone'd plugged you."

He laughed in my ear. "Not currently. Listen, I might've a bit of business for ya. Free right now?"

"Sure. What's the job?"

"Get on over here to the Palace soon as you can. I'll meet ya in the lobby and give ya the low down on the lay. Can do, sweetheart?"

"No sweat. See you in about half an hour."

"That will do nicely. See ya."

I smiled as I replaced the receiver. Things were suddenly looking up.

:.

I stood in the radio star's dressing room.

"Miss Wright," Thurman said, by way of introduction,, "this is Mr. Titan, the investigator I mentioned. Prometheus Titan, this is Tessa Wright."

She nodded at the introduction but didn't bother to offer her hand. I let it pass as I hadn't bothered to take off my hat for her. There are some people you take an instant dislike to, for me, Miss Wright was one of those. This despite the fact that she was a looker.

She was a muffin all right, the ice blonde expensive hair-do, expertly applied make-up and a curvaceous figure poured into a Parisian designer gown. But, she was also the sort of woman who starts lying before she ever opens her mouth. Her projected image was completely divorced from her actual personality. Everything about her was contrived, an affectation. A construct. On top of everything else, she had, I felt, questionable taste in perfume.

"Mr. Thurman mentioned you had a watch stolen."

"Yes. A Longine, a gold Longine, fourteen carats. Jewel movements with diamonds at the cardinal points."

The voice was vaguely familiar. I'd heard Wright sing once or twice on the radio. But she was featured on the network I hardly listened to. She had the kind of style producers aimed at mythical middle-America, Ella Fitzgerald with all the saucy sexiness drained out, so that nobody got any ideas.

"Do you have a photograph of it by any chance?"

Her brow pinched. "Pfft, no. What sort of people go around taking pictures of watches?"

"The careful sort, for insurance reasons, in case they're stolen."

She frowned at that and her pretty eyes narrowed, unable to make up her mind if I was being a wiseass. She pulled out a ready-made from her purse and began fitting it to a long-stemmed holder.

"Light." It was not a request. I leaned across, flicking open my Zippo, and lit the square for her. "Thanks," she said, blowing the smoke in my face.

"When did you last see it?"

"The watch? Before the broadcast, here, in the dressing room. I went out, did my number and when I came back it was gone."

"Did you lock the door?"

"Yes."

"Did you notice any strangers about?"

"No, not particularly, but you might want to talk to the little dye-job chippie down the hall."

I thought that was rich, the pot calling the kettle bleached. "The chippie?"

"Miss Wright is referring to Claudia Storm," Thurman interjected.

"Alright, I'll go do that."

I left, more than a little relieved to do so. It felt more like stumbling away from the lioness' den. Thurman followed me out and closed the dressing room door after us. I lifted at eyebrow at him. "She always that sweet and cuddly?"

He gave a sympathic smile but lead me well away from the dressing room door before replying. "Sometimes being worse, ol' buddy. This is radio and she's queen bee around these parts. That's the reason I called ya, to run interference. I gotta work around here."

"And better for her to hate my guts than yours."

"Ya always was an Abercrombie. Welcome to show business. C'mon, Claudia's dressing room is just down the hall."

Thurman unwrapped a stick of chewing gum as we walked, which meant he was back on the wagon again. His habit was to chew on gum when tee-totaling. This was all fine and dandy except he tended to pop when he chewed, bad as a girl in secondary school. But, if history was any indicator, all would return to quiet once he took up the bottle again. Rich Thurman was not one to resist the siren call of John Barleycorn for very long.

Before we got to the second door the corridor was blocked by a small female mob. There were a dozen attractive eager young women in the hallway. I figured them for Palace Concubines, the famous synchronized chorus dancers. They must've been in rehearsal because they were in skimpy spangled costumes, showing no little leg and thigh, and all of them were looking adoringly at the surrounded skinny young man in their midst. I recognized his face. It was Johnnie Romano. Just gazing at him seemed to count as foreplay for the dolls. I began to sweat in reaction to their combined cloud of pheromones.

"Hey, there's Johnnie. C'mon," Thurman said, somewhat self-importantly. "I'll introduce ya."

Romano was busy smiling and signing all the scraps of papers shoved at him from the mob of pretty judies. I noticed he had eyes the rare shade of blue that distracts the female mind while questing hands slip under their clothes. I've never been one to desire fame nor riches but to say I wasn't jealous of his attractiveness to the nubile dolls would be to tell a lie.

Thurman put on his voice of authority and dispersed the gaggle of young ladies about the singer. "Come on girls, give the guy a chance to come up for breath." Reluctantly, they went their way with many giggles, squeals, and glances cast back over their shoulders.

"Johnnie, I'd like to introduce you to my pal, Theo Titan. We go way back,. Theo, well, you know who this is, the famous Johnnie Romano."

Romano smiled and it lit up his face like neon. The kid had charisma alright. "Just plain Johnnie," he said, holding out his hand. I shook it. His hand was soft, not the hand of a laborer.

"You in the business, Mr. Titan?"

"Me? Show Business? No. I exhausted my artistic talents learning to tie my shoes."

He laughed. "Hey, that's a good one."

"Theo's a private dick. We started on the force together, way back when."

"A shamus, huh? Well, whatever it is I didn't do it." He dramatically lifted his hands in the air.

"Don't worry. You're not currently under suspicion."

"Whew, that's a relief. Hey, listen fellas, we'll have to get together for a drink or something some time. But, right now, I'm late for a meeting with my lawyer. Gotta go over some contracts. Sorry, but gotta hoof it."

"Good meeting you, Mr. Romano," I said.

"Johnnie. Plain ol' Johnnie."

"Alright, take it easy, Johnnie."

"Only way to take it, pallie."

"See ya, Johnnie," Thurman said.

"Yeah. Don't take any wooden nickels, Rich." And the singer sauntered away down the hall, hands in his pockets.

"Nice kid," Thurman observed.

"Yeah. Popular with the ladies, if nothing else."

:.

Thurman rapped on the door and there was a muffled come in from the other side.

"Evening, Miss Storm, this is Prometheus Titan, He's a private detective."

Thurman moved aside and I saw Claudia Storm for the first time. It was worth the lifetime of waiting. She was more than somewhat of a stunner.

Pretty can be bought. Hair can be bleached, dyed, curled, or straightened. Noses fixed, eye color contact-lensed, mouths lushed with lipstick and cheeks rouged. Shortness cured with high-heels, fat girdled, and flatness padded. But, beauty is innate, as in-born as blood-type. It is an absolute, either a woman has it or she has not. Claudia Storm had it and she had it in spades. I could see why Tessa Wright hated her guts.

Her demure figure sat easily in a white chair before her large lighted make-up mirror. Her hair was a dark brooding red, shot through with variegated highlighted strands from strawberry blonde to spun gold. The luxurious drape framed her oval face and cascaded down around her shoulders and down her back. Her eyes were topaz-gold. She had a perk nose. Cosmetics had been lightly applied, her vestige wasn't one that really needed make-up, her lips glistened under green lipstick, the same shade as her nail varnish. Although diminutive, she had shapely legs and full breasts so firm and high they played gravity for a complete chump. That body and that face had been made for show business. Hell, women who looked like her were the reason they invented the business in the first place.

She looked me over lazily with her long-lashed eyes and smiled, holding out a hand. "Prometheus? That's a hellva name to have to live up to." Her voice matched her looks, husky, smoky, bedroom tones.

I took off my hat and shook the proffered hand, feeling the delicate bones beneath the smooth flesh of her tapered fingers.

"Both my parents were professors of the Humanities. They thought it appropriate, given the family name. Parents can often be short-sighted about such things. My friends call me Theo."

Claudia nodded. "The dragon lady sic you on me, did she?"

"She seemed to think you might know something about her watch, yes."

"She's full of shit. She just doesn't like me."

It took some effort not to smile. "And you don't care for her."

"No."

"Excuse me," Thurman said, "But I gotta see a man about a horse. Back in a few." He gave us both a nod and left.

"Look," she said, leaning forward in her chair, "I'll tell you something strictly on the QT. Only, you gotta promise me you won't tell who told you."

"Cross my heart."

"Hmm. Anyway, the bitch's been going out with Johnnie Romano. And, some of Johnnie's friends are less than alter-boys, if you know what I mean." She put her finger to her pretty nose, pushing it aside. "He was born on the east side of the river, in Guernsey. So was I. I know whereof I speak."

"I get you. So you think Romano might know something?"

"Johnnie? No. Johnnie's a straight-shooter, as nice a guy as you ever want to meet. At least when he's sober."

"And when he's not?"

"When he's not he insults waiters and slaps cocktail waitresses. But, he's not drunk very often, leastways not in public. No, Johnnie's got too much class to go around lifting watches, but a few of his hanger-ons wouldn't have such ethical restraints. You say I said so and I'll deny it."

"I already crossed my heart."

"Yeah, I saw," she grinned. "Look, the hour growth late and I'm meeting some friends down at Jack Johnson's restaurant. Is that all?"

"Sure." I took a card from my jacket and handed it to her. "If you think of anything else my number's on there. Or, just drop by sometime, I'll buy you a drink."

She took the card in her manicured fingers and looked at it, before giving me the look all professional girls give to prospective dates. I saw her calculating the worth of my shoes and suit, judging just how much I might be able to do for her. Then she shrugged.

"Sure."

I smiled, not taking offense. It wasn't like I didn't know I was poor and uninfluencial.

:.

I met up with Thurman afterwards. "Who besides her ladyship has a key to her dressing room?"

"Floor manager. But, if I had to say, I'd say he's clean. That lock's for shit. It wouldn't be hard to pick, if it was picked."

"She said she locked it."

"Yeah, she says. She also claims she's thirty-three when the day of her birth was forty-two years ago. Dame like that can't be bothered with trivial details like locking doors behind her."

"Anybody in need of money? On the dope?"

"Shit, Theo, this is America, everybody needs money. As for drugs, damn near every member of the band is a muggle, try and find a musician who's not. Far as heroin, I haven't noticed anybody nodding off lately. Plenty of the execs are into the nose-candy but none of the suits were around tonight. I don't figure this for an inside job."

"Alright, I'll just ask around among the regulars."

"Okay, just don't ruffle any feathers, the big boys want to keep this out of the blatters."

"I'm Mr. Discreet, you know that, Rich."

After a hour or so of casually questioning the hired help the only thing I found out was that nobody saw anything and nobody knew anything. I decided to pack it in and start canvassing pawn shops within walking distance of the studio. No joy. It was getting late by then and I went back to the office to call up a few fences I knew who specialized in expensive watches. None of them were any help.

Then, I decided to call it a day.

:.

The next morning the phone rang. It was Lectric Larry, one of the fences I'd called the day before and left a message with his assistant to have him call me back.

"Hey, Theo, what's up?"

"Same ol' thing, Lectric, my dick and the rent. How you doing?"

"Can't complain, nobody listens even if I do. Abe told me you called, what's up?"

I clued him in on the situation.

"Huh. Sorry, I'm not currently holding such an item in my inventory. Funny thing, 'though," he said. "The cops've were around last month looking for a dingus like that. Same description and everything. Mugged off some rich old broad outside the opera. Still, Longine sells allot of watches."

"Yeah," I agreed. "They do. Thanks anyway Larry. Stay out of trouble."

He gave a chuckle and hung up. I pressed the button to clear the line then called up Thurman to give him a progress report.