Spillan-in Again

Dear Reader, this story is entered in our brilliant sexy writer, Chloe Tzang's '"Hammered: an Ode to Mickey Spillane" Author Challenge.' What a privilege to participate! Although there are no prizes, please give the story a fair vote of 4 or 5 so others can enjoy it as well. New readers often pick stories on a score basis even though some of the best stories do not receive the acclaim they deserved because of the timing of their publication. If many stories arrive that week, they may only be listed for several days.

All sex scenes in the story involve people over the age of 18. There are lots of prostitutes, con people, low lives, and politicians herein. Do not take them as models for your behavior. A lot of disgusting oral sex that some folks find pleasing, some anal sex that may not live up to its reputation for pleasure, and the occasional wankers trying to find a reason for their existence.

Oh yes, lest I forget, there is some fucking going on, but oral seems to be winning the race. Some language, i.e. trannies, fairies, and homos, is dated from the time period (1958-1962) of the story, descriptive but authentic and not meant to be offensive. In the 'woke age' one can be none too careful. You may note a degree of humor or sarcasm in my writing, please deal with it.

This is my third story in the Hammered series; involving my youthful association as an assistant and driver for Mickey Spillane, the writer, and erstwhile detective. All my stories can be found under "erectus123 Works."

The first story, "Good Samaritans Finish Last," tells about our first adventure, an encounter with a kidnapper, an orgy with friendly ladies of the night, and Mickey's infatuation with my cousin Janice, back then I went by my Christian name, Truman.

In the second story, "Spilling With Spillane," I was using my middle name, Wesley. A nosy neighbor observed me enthralled in oral intimacies with an older woman and ipso facto implicated me in a murder that never occurred.

This is the third 'Hammered Story,' "Spillane-in Again," which tells the tale of a voluptuous Redhead drug dealer selling weed to City College students, including the Mayor's nephew who weeds out and nearly kills himself. Here goes with story number three. There should be enough sex and tissues to satisfy the wankers.

*

You may remember my association with Mickey Spillane? Maybe not? Let me refresh your memory and my own. I am of advanced age but I can still remember all the details of my youth when I called Mickey my dear friend. That is not to say, I can remember what I had for breakfast this morning. As you age, the past comes alive as the present dims.

I remember well, one adventure we had back when the sun hardly shone in mid-Manhattan. Maybe it was because we were out prowling almost every night and rarely saw the sun unless the brisk daybreak sent us home when our sore eyes had begun to close.

Mickey would have called this story 'The Case of the Ice Cream Truck Pussycat', but the backside of the story was too personal and painful for me to forget.

Mickey was called to Gracie Mansion, the official residence of the Mayor of New York City. Mick, an amateur NYC historian, said the edifice was built in the 1776s revolution's aftermath when the area was rural countryside. Today it sits on East End Avenue and 88th Street in the Yorkville neighborhood of Manhattan. The mansion overlooks the Hell Gate channel in the East River and is spectacular viewing.

Even though I'd grown up in Hell's Kitchen, the West Side District that runs approximately from 40th to 54th Street, I'd never been uptown to Gracie. The name was familiar, being in the news as the place the Mayor lived, worked, entertained dignitaries, and as we learned had his secret meetings.

Mick said "if this was official business, Bob would have called us down to Park Row," where City Hall was located, but this mission was something different.

I drove the white XK120 Jaguar uptown on the Henry Hudson Parkway. The canvas top was down. We exited at 72nd Street and rounded the park where the basketball and handball courts met the grassy slope where on a Sunday the guys with kites would make the youngsters jealous.

"You know Mick, my Uncle took me out here on the grassy field a few times when I was a kid and there were guys sailing kites high in the air."

"Yeah, the stiff breeze comes in from the water."

"Kido," some guy said to me, "You wanna hold the kite string?"

"Wow, that was the high point of the entire summer."

"Probably before you were masturbating?"

"Yes, I hadn't yet learned that skill, but I'd started practicing."

"Ok kid, pull in here. We've arrived, this is Gracie Mansion."

The Mansion is painted yellow, and surrounded by iron fences. It is a circular property that sits like an island right by the river. Since we were in mid-winter, the trees were bare of leaves and the straggly branches seemed to reach out trying to touch the full moon above.

We parked the car in the guest space where there was a young cop dressed in blue, his shields highly polished.

"So pretty," Mick mumbled, "Probably a fairy."

"Officer," Mick yelled out, "Keep your ass on the car, I mean your eyes on the car."

"Yes sir," the young cop responded.

I followed Mickey up the front staircase for about twelve steps and in through a rounded portico that led to the front door. We climbed up a rickety staircase lined with old stained rugs whose smell was unpleasant. The mayor's office was behind a large oak door with a polished brass lock that seemed too big for its purpose.

"This place must be a hundred years old," said Mick. "My fucking gout needed this climb like a baboon needs three balls."

"Yep, you can smell the age," I added, "Old wood, ya know."

Dugan, the Police chief, was sitting in the oak chair outside Mayor Bob Wagner's home office. Security wasn't so tight in those days, things got a lot tighter after John F. Kennedy was shot.

Bob Wagner served as Mayor from 1954 to 1965. In the bright light of Rudy Giuliani's terms, before Rudy became a spokesman for Donald, the city needed cleaning up. The era of Mayor Bob Wagner is nearly forgotten. Those who lived in NYC before and after Giuliani took office, are still grateful for the changes he brought. Previously, a woman and child could not walk down the street in midtown without being harassed by panhandlers and derelicts. Rudy's Trumpian activities, though perhaps regrettable, did not undo his earlier achievements in keeping the city safe.

Mayor Bob Wagner was seated in front of us. Every New Year's Eve, Bob would be arguing with Mike Quill, the head of the Transit Union to keep the subways running. I guess all the tension affected Mike Quill who died early. They say Mike spoke the King's English, but when the cameras started rolling, it was strictly Irish brogue. This was before the late 1970s when the street artists had the nerve to cover the subway cars with graffiti and no politician would be caught standing in front of these horrendous movable pop art exhibits.

It was a peaceful time compared to what lay before us, the ferocity of the VietNam war, the Aids deaths, the daily student protests, and the everyday mass shootings of today. I'm sure Mickey Spillane would say "the country is going to hell in a handbasket." What that means, I'm not too sure, but it sounds right.

"Come on in," said Chief Dugan standing up as we entered the hall, "his Honor is already inside."

"Sure," said Mick.

Dugan was everything you might have imagined a big city cop to be. Piebald, overweight, red faced, and thin-lipped. If you counted the rings under his eyes, you'd know how many beers he drank last night.

Dugan mumbled something about this case being too personal and opened the door to the Mayor's inner sanctum. The walls of the Mayor's office were painted with details of trees and outdoor scenery, and the chandelier gave off a yellow glow. There was a log fire going in the fireplace and the smoke filled the air with a woodsy perfume.

Bob was sitting at his huge desk behind a grass-green glass table lamp. Bob Wagner had the look of an aristocrat. He spoke the 'King's English' differently than you or me, and you felt honored to be in his presence. The mayor appeared older than on television. Tonight he wore no makeup. He looked up at the two of us; semi- smiled at Mick and frowned at me.

"Hi Mick, I appreciate you coming down here this morning," then looking at me, "Who's the squirt?"

"One of the Hell's Kitchen kids, Wesley. My gout is acting up and I've got him driving the Jag."

"Can he keep his mouth shut?"

"As tight as the hinges on Grant's tomb."

"I always wondered who was buried there," said the Mayor, "But it better be tighter than a clap whore's cunt. Have a seat guys, Dugan could you please wait outside?"

As Chief Dugan turned I could see the powdered sugar all over his mustache from the donut he was eating when we came in. He closed the door behind his very large ass. Bob leaned over the table and began in a whisper,

"Ok boys, here is the skinny, we don't know who, but we do know how. She's a bitch with red hair dressed like a good humor man, guy, doll whatever. She's been operating a good humor truck without any good humor."

"What does that mean?"

"It means instead of selling ice cream or fudgsicles, she is selling marijuana to college kids over at the City Colleges."

"Ok, so why call us?"

"My nephew was one of her customers. He got weeded out and crashed his car and is in the hospital a hair away from the morgue."

"So what do you want from me? said Mickey."

"Find that bitch and make sure she leaves town, pack her off to Canada. On no account can she be blabbing about young Gippy to the New York Post. The next election is not far off."

"How would she know who he is?"

"Kids have big mouths to impress and he evidently paid her an off-hour visit that led to some sexual shenanigans. The kid has a cock as big as a Hebrew National Salami."

"Ok," said Mick, "It probably runs in your family, but remember you'll owe me one."

Bob shouted, "Let them out Dugan, and put out your stinking cigar. Do you think for 25 cents you get a real Havana?"

Dugan never arrived, so I got up, and we walked out through the smoky haze, to the stairs that led down to the car park where a plain clothes-man was guarding it.

"Nice wheels," said the rookie.

I nodded. We climbed into the white Jag and I turned it around.

"Stop next to the Cadillac," said Mick.

I pulled alongside and there was Dugan in the back seat, smoking his cigar. When I raised up to look inside, I could see the young cop with the polished shield on his knees sucking Dugan's 'cigar.'"

"That's our police chief," said Mick, "getting his cock munched by a fucking fairy."

Mick ordered, "Knock on the window."

I reached out and tapped the car window with my knuckles.

Dugan looked startled and Mick yelled,

"Hello boys, having fun?"

I put my foot on the gas as I shifted gear, and we threw a load of gravel behind us as we peeled out.

"Could I ask you a question, Mick?"

"Sure kid, what is it?"

"If a guy lets a fairy suck his cock, does that make the guy gay?"

"Which guy?"

"The guy being sucked?"

"Strictly speaking, they may both be fairies, but you have to give credence to the situation. Lots of straight guys, even married guys may offer their dick for a blowjob. That doesn't make them homos, guys in jail do it all the time and guys in the armed forces If you are straight and there are no girls around you may look for some sexual pleasure from another male."

"Mick, did you ever get a blow job from a man?"

"Kid, that's a question you do not ask, but there are some fine-looking trannies on 6th Avenue who could blow you and you'd never know they were men in high heels."

"Thanks, that makes sense."

We drove back to Hell's Kitchen quietly. I was hoping I hadn't pissed off my boss. From the daydreamy expression on Micks' face, I'd guess he was remembering a tranny blow job he had no intention of talking about.

We got to Spillane's Bar, around 7:30 pm, where Mick made his office at the third table on the left. No, Mick didn't own the place, it was his cousin's bar.

Joe, the bartender, greeted us,

"Hi Wesley, do you want a coffee, coke, or a beer?"

"Coffee will do."

"Cream and sugar?" said the barkeep.

"Black," I said.

"That's good cause if you want cream I'd have to squeeze Mrs. Kablooey's tit."

At the sound of her name, the old lady looked up.

"Waaa?"

"Go back to sleep, you old slut."

Then to me, Joe said,

"She's almost stone deaf, doesn't hear shit," then he burst into high-pitched laughter.

I thought back to the other older lady, Mrs. Koonen, whom I knew so well. She'd come by the bar for a glass of Sherry, always stipulated Porto Port in the old-fashioned black bottle.

The first time I walked her home, it was at Joe's suggestion. He must have known what she was up to. When Mrs. Koonen and I got to her place, she said in a sweet voice,

"Wesley, would you like a blow job."

"Miss Koonen, that is very unladylike," I admonished her as she reached out for my zipper.

Cocks being what they are, one squeeze led to another, and before you could say, 'Mickey Spillane was right or Joe suspected,' she had my dick in her mouth and was busy performing a professional-grade blowjob, even to the last suck, swallowing all the 'wiz-bang.' Maybe there is something to be said about treating older women nicely!

After the first suck-off, like clockwork, once a week, Miss Koonen would arrive just as day turned to dusk and invite me to walk her home.

"I made some cookies," she'd say.

"Probably banana-shaped," said Joe.

Micky would put his finger to his mouth to show what she had in mind.

Once I'd get her home, she'd wet her whistle with some dry throat lubricant, and away she would go. There was no stopping her. Mrs. Koonen was quite an accomplished cocksucker.

My train of thought was interrupted when Joe shouted, waking me up.

"Hey, didn't you have a thing last year with that Koonen slut?"

"Please Joe, let the poor women rest in peace."

"Did you kill her with your cock?"

"Naw, she visits her sister this time of the year. She'll be back any day now."

"Back sucking your cock, she will," said Joe.

"I've given that stuff up for Lent."

"Sure you have. What you mean is you lent her your dick to suck."

"Whatever Joe, whatever."

I left aside the putrid comments of the bartender and said,

"I gotta pee Joe, all these old memories make my dick wake up."

"Just don't be wanking on the John."

"I won't Joe, did you want to blow me before I piss?"

"You wish," said Joe, and we had a good laugh.

I went into the small bathroom appropriately painted yellow. The old crusty paint was peeling in various spots and I wondered if it was the lead paint they are always worried about. I thought of that nice Mrs. Koonen, who was always ready to blow me. The old gal believed if she swallowed enough of my sperm, she'd live forever.

In our previous adventure, I almost went to prison when Mrs. Koonen disappeared. A well-meaning neighbor had seen Mrs. Koonen, through her bedroom window, with my cock in her mouth. When Koonen went missing, her neighbor reported to the police that I was the last one seen with her before her disappearance. Thank God, Koonen returned from a lengthy visit to her sister before they charged and sentenced me. Even one week in a city jail is no fun, it smells so bad!

I sat on the peeling toilet seat and thought of how, when I was growing up, I never had girlfriends. I felt awkward even though my dick was grand and worked perfectly. Jesus, I jerked off enough to fill an oil tanker, but back in those days, no one offered a cunt for me to fill.

Now it seems to me almost every woman wants my dick in her mouth or her cunt, and even some women, as weird as it seems, like my dick in their ass. Many Puerto Rican girls, who are among my favorites with their curvy assed figures, easy sexuality, and accent, will be quicker to give you a piece of their ass than a shot at their pussy. In their country, they tell me; it is important to marry with an intact hymen. To satisfy their priest and their boyfriend, they simply roll over to relieve the male's sexual frustration and offer up their shapely butts for a few minutes of anal.

When I was younger and needed sex so badly, I could not find relief. Now there is no sense of urgency, I can go a week without 'getting any'. Masturbation has become anathema. I really don't want to do it anymore. It's not as satisfying as it was back in grade school when I'd daydream about the prettiest girls while jerking my monster. Maturity changes one's perspective on sex.

But I have to admit, Mrs. Koonen is very good with blowjobs. She said 'swallowing my jizz had made her feel like a thirty-year-old.' I heard Micky come into the bar so I got up from John, flushed the toilet, and realized my left foot had fallen asleep. I dragged my foot out of the bathroom, and saw Mickey standing there.

"Come on kid, we got a lead on the Red Head. They found her ice cream truck parked in the back of a tenement up in Harlem."

Just then, Miss Koonen comes in the door and sits a few stools away. She's probably fifty-five and knew my Mom back in the day.

"Oh, hello Wesley," she says, "I was just thinking of your dear mother." And she starts to weep. She looks up at me with tears in her eyes, "Could you walk me home Wesley?"

Speaking of the devil, there she was, not bad looking for a woman past fifty. She had big tits that cascaded to her midsection. Cheap bras don't show them off what she carried. Her hair was still brown and thick, a little gray was closing in on the back of her head, only visible when she was leaning forward sucking my cock.

"Maybe when we get back, lady, me and the kid got business now," said Mick, addressing the lady.

"She can blow you when we get back," Mick says under his breath, to keep Mrs. Koonen from hearing him.

"Kid, we gotta get the fuck out of here."

I'd given no details of my rapport with Mrs. Koonen to Mick or Joe. A gentleman doesn't talk about sex, but somehow they seemed to have figured the whole thing out. The fact was, sex between myself and the older lady took place with a degree of separation. We never talked about it. She never undressed or bared her large breasts and there was always the smell of old-fashioned perfume, whose name I could not identify, but it was pleasant and sensual, a childhood scent reminiscent of the room's smell when my Aunts would get together to play Canasta.

Before she did her thing, Mrs. Koonen would open up the window shades and I could see all the way to the river. She sat on the bed in her dark bedroom and the light from the window was like a projectionist's beam illuminating us. I guess that was when the neighbor's prying eyes saw us. Maybe that display was what Mrs.Koonen wanted, was she proud of her conquest of a younger man, or was this display an unplanned happenstance?

I noticed on the night table a photo of a young guy in uniform. I once asked,

"Mrs. Koonen, who is that?" pointing at the photo.

"It's not really Mrs., it's actually Miss Koonen. That photograph depicts the love of my life, Albert, who died in Normandy. That was back in World War Two, in France don't ya know. I was to be his virgin bride. Father Patrick said we girls had to save our maidenheads for the night of our marriage or else we'd go to hell, or at least to purgatory."

"The priest told us that cock sucking was ok, not a sin if it helped us wait. I once surprised Sister Mary Beth on her knees in the rectory. Father Patrick pulled some big cigar-like thing out of her mouth. I thought he was performing an exorcism, freeing her from some evil spirit, but later I understood what was really going on."