Spillane, Me, & The Trans Swede

DEAR READERS

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 deserve because of the timing of publication. When many stories arrive that week, they may only be listed for several days.

Mickey Spillane was one of the best American writers of pulp detective fiction. He was a man of many talents; a wartime fighter pilot, a real estate investor, an actor playing Mike Hammer, a lover of beautiful women, including his wife, a connoisseur of classic motor vehicles, and a nature lover who permitted a wild rabbit to give birth undisturbed to her babies in his Jaguar.

All sex scenes in these stories 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. You will read about 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, in most of the stories, there is some fucking going on, but oral seems to be winning the race. Some language, i.e., trannies, for trans people fairies, and homos, is dated from the time period (1958-1964) of the stories, descriptive and authentic, and not meant to be offensive. In the 'woke age', one can be none too careful. You may discover humor or sarcasm in my writing. Please deal with it. Life can be funnier than some of you may think. Long life reveals it!

This is my fourth story in the Hammered series, involving the youthful association of his 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 an encounter with a kidnapper, an orgy with friendly ladies of the night, and Mickey's infatuation with my cousin Janice, back then his assistant went by his Christian name, Truman.

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

The third 'Hammered Story,' "Spillane-in Again," 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 four. There is enough sex and tissue time to satisfy the wankers.

Please note the fourth story takes place in 1964 when the word 'tranny' was still fashionable, descriptive, and not pejorative. Mick and his assistant, Truman, follow a missing person case all over Manhattan and nearby New Jersey and to a cult-owned ferry docked in the Hudson River. Truman is surprised to discover he has an interest in a gorgeous Swedish trans who holds the key to solving the case, even if it involves holding other things he would not want to discuss with Mickey.

MICKEY, ME, & THE SIX-FOOT GORGEOUS SWEDISH TRANNY

In the middle of the month of May 1964, I really pissed off Mickey. I was checking the condition of my .32 Colt while waiting in his Jaguar. The pistol is an older semi-automatic model, dark blue, with a few worn spots. I'd inherited it from my uncle, a WWI vet who had reenlisted in the Second World War and carried it as a sidearm when stationed in Berlin. Uncle George, God rest his soul, said the semi-auto's military advantage was that it used lead-slugged cartridges rather than the steel-jacketed service ammo. If he had to kill a Nazi in a close encounter, the MPs would never know who did the dirty.

Daydreaming about the time he was jumped in an alley and shot two Nazi thugs and thinking the chamber was empty, I pulled the trigger to relieve tension on the firing pin. Was there a live bullet in the chamber?

The gun went off with a deafening blast, and the slug bored a neat round hole in the walnut veneer of Mick's prized 120XK Jaguar, just to the left of the tachometer. Thank God I didn't destroy any of the internal workings of the Jaguar.

"Truman, you're gonna pay for that, you idiot," said Mick in his New York accent. "We are going to drive around for the next 80 days with that hole in the dashboard. The dealer says it will take that long to order a new one from England."

I laid low for several days drinking beer and reading some gay story mags with pictures I'd picked up in the trash bin outside a New York 42nd Street adult bookstore. I'd thought the well-worn reviews contained stories and photos of naked women, but they didn't. The 'girls' mostly had large penises, and the photos were questionable jerk-off material.

I wasn't sure if I was a candidate for gay sex. On some occasions, looking at the half-naked whores and audaciously dressed trans people in Times Square, seated in the windows of Howard Johnson's all-night restaurant, with their tits hanging dangerously out of their dresses, I got excited. Flamboyant tranny hookers, bare-breasted danced under the Westside Highway, shouting obscenities at each other, and on occasion, seeing a very fem tranny, my dick might have experienced a brief workout. Please don't quote me on that.

One time a tranny, in Times Square, her big breasts hanging out of a cutout t-shirt, saw my dick swell up and pulled me behind a shuttered newsstand for a quick blow job. It felt great until the blond asked for twenty dollars, which I reluctantly handed him/her. The main question I kept asking myself was, can a private dick stick his cock in some other guy's poop chute? Did that make you gay? I didn't think it was something Mickey wanted to hear about.

A few days later, Mick called me on the phone and said, "Pick up the Jag at the garage and meet him at my cousin's bar on 9th Avenue and 47th. Street."

I realized the silent treatment was finally over. If we were going back to work, I figured Mickey had calmed down.

When I picked up the car at 45th Street, a half block past 9th Avenue, I saw the hole in the dashboard was now plugged with a wad of chewing gum.

"Pretty good repair," said Mick when I picked him up, "don't ya think," talking with coffee breath and a Pall Mall cig in his mouth.

"Yes, boss, the guy who fucked up the dash is an idiot."

"Don't run yourself down, Truman; you're only half an idiot. Good thing you didn't shoot yourself and get blood all over the leather seats. You'll never get the blood off English leather."

"Thanks for your concern — for the seats."

"It's OK, bucko, chill out."

"Where are we going, Boss?"

"I'm feeling kinda horny, so take me uptown to see my girl Beulah at 126th Street and Amsterdam. She's said she's got a new worker there. If you want a blow job, I'll pay for it."

"Just what my girlfriend would approve of—I'll pass."

With no disrespect, Beulah Preston was a 40-year-old black whore that was a long-time receptacle of the Boss's cum shots. She was a natural beauty in her day, with big tits and a wide ass, but her assets had swollen over the years. Mick had a fascination for her I could not explain.

Mick continued, "I started fucking Beulah when she was 20 years old, fresh from a bordello in Jackson, Mississippi. She could coax a blow job out ya even if you were knocking on death's door, and she'd swallow the jizz, never get ya dirty."

"You don't think she's a little over the hill?"

"Nah, when I look at her, I see the 20-year-old she once was."

"That's good."

Beulah says in that sugary southern accent,

"Honey, come by early; that's when a guy's testosterone is boiling over," so just drive me over. I'll go up; it should take at least ten minutes if the equipment still works. Beulah says I've got the biggest white cock she's ever sucked, and that's quite a compliment."

"Did you ever think she was just trying to be endearing?"

Mick didn't respond. The traffic was light that morning as we ran into a river fog that wet the windshield. I was glad I hadn't put the top down. We got up to the address in two shakes of a lamb's tail. I parked on 126 Street, across from the second-story bordello, and Mick, in his trench coat, clambered out the side door and, in ten steps, disappeared in the fog. Mick returned about twenty minutes later to the driver's side and tapped on my window, pointing with his finger. I rolled down the window, and as he leaned forward, smelling of homemade bourbon, I noticed the fly of his pants was unbuttoned.

"I'm gonna be a few minutes longer, Beulah's got a problem, and I gotta get some info from her. Her niece has been missing for two days. Beulah is afraid a sex trafficker has kidnapped her. Diane's a nice girl, a virgin, and Beulah is her Auntie. The kid is a student at Hunter College. Diane told her Auntie that she was going to a one-day music festival and never came home."

"She's not a whore?"

"No, Truman, she's not a whore; at least, she wasn't a few days ago. Her name, if you care, is Diane Baker."

"Isn't that a movie star?"

"Not in this case. This is a 19-year-old black student, Beulah's niece, and we gotta find her. Stay parked here. Drive around the block if a flat foot tells you to move."

And off Mick went.

"Hey, Mick," I shouted after him, "button up your fly before the worm crawls out."

"Thanks, Truman." Mick reached down to button up his dark flannel pants and went back to talk to Beulah.

Mick returned about fifteen minutes later, holding a few sheets of paper, and got in the car. By then, the fog had lifted, and you could see rats as big as cats scurry along the side of the streets looking for breakfast. Mike got into the car and said,

"Ok, kid, I got the mojo."

"You gettin' paid for this, Mickey?"

"You don't take money from a friend Truman, especially one who sucks your cock. That's the first rule of the street, but you'll get your salary, don't worry."

"I don't worry, Boss. Just trying to look out for you and your big white dick in Harlem."

Mick laughed, "Don't worry about me or my dick. It ain't me who fucked up the car's dashboard."

He had me there. I shut up.

"Where are we going, Boss?"

"Drive us down to Soho. The niece was living there with another student."

He handed me a slip of paper with a pencil scrawl that I recognized as the boss' handwriting. I quickly turned on Broadway and headed to the West Side Highway.

When we exited the highway, where a bunch of half-naked hookers congregated, I slowed the car, and they all waved, then we headed over to 6th Avenue."

"Your friends?" said Mick.

"Nope, I never fucked any of them."

"They don't seem too sure of that."

"Ok, maybe a few times."

"See over there," said Mick, pointing to a wire fence enclosure near the downtown exit, "they are planning to build two huge towers here."

"They are always doing something."

"An article in the New York Times said the underground supporting foundation would take two years to build. They gotta connect the Cortland subway line, so there'll be a subway station under the building. Big fuck'en job."

"I guess so," I asked, "Tell me where we are going from here, Boss."

"Head over to Bleeker and park in Frank's Russo's Funeral Home's small parking lot. They know me, and they know the car."

I did as the Boss said, and when a mortician came out dressed like a surgeon, he saw who we were, held put up his thumb, and went back inside.

"Let me out here," said Mick; her address is just around the corner.

"Can I come with ya?"

"Sure."

I followed him around the corner to a fourth-floor walkup. It was a gray building, once a soap factory dating from the 1920s but converted into apartments in recent years. You could still make out the original stone letters, Manhattan Soap Company, even though a few were missing.

We climbed the winding staircase to the top floor, where we had a view of one of the city's outdoor wire-fenced exercise areas. It looked like a prison playground. Even though it was early, half-naked men were playing handball with maniacal zeal, their glistening, sweating bodies glowing in the midday sun. I guess it's true; New York never sleeps.

We quickly found apartment number 4A at the top of the stairs. I knocked on the door, and after a few moments, I could hear the lock click, and then the door creaked open. A very short young woman peeked out without removing the chain.

"Diane's Auntie sent us. She's worried about Diane."

"Oh," the occupant slid the chain and opened the door. "Come in."

A thin sheet of metal covered the outside of the wooden door, considered a fire prevention device years back. Time had turned the metal into a battleship grey, and the bent edges exposed the wood beneath.

Once inside, the small studio had high ceilings and a tiny kitchen.

"You're Diane's roommate?" said Mick.

"Yes, I'm Susan Forness."

"Hi," said Mick, "Diane Baker's Auntie sent us to see if you knew anything about her disappearance. You're the gymnast?"

"Yes, that's me, but I don't understand. You say her Aunt has disappeared?"

"No, her Aunt is fine, but Diane seems to have disappeared."

"Are you sure? I thought she was staying with her Aunt over the Memorial Day weekend."

Mick explained that was not the case and asked if Sue knew what had happened to her roomie. I stood to the side, observing. Sue. She was a white girl, very short, with a large head and hair shaved close. The gymnast was scantily dressed. She had short, muscular legs and forearms, with a pair of reading glasses resting on her forehead. Sadly, she was wearing a transparent nightgown that revealed nothing I was interested in. Gymnasts are famously deficient in tit, but an ass man might have admired her glutes.

Diane's roomie was helpful but not helpful enough. Sue had seen Diane earlier that day, saw her leave with a small tan suitcase, and figured she was staying in Harlem for the weekend. It did not surprise her that Diane had not returned to their studio, but Sue knew little else. Just as we were leaving, she said,

"Wait," ran into the corner and returned with a news clipping about a religious meeting just outside the village the same night Diane disappeared.

"I know little about this," said the short gymnast, "but this clipping was on her night table. Diane had said this outfit had some cool musical groups, but that's the extent of my knowledge."

Mickey, not knowing if this was evidence or a throwaway, carefully folded the paper and put it in a manila envelope with the other potential clues he'd collected.

"Can I offer you anything to drink," said Sue. She looked younger than 20 years.

"No thanks, we're good," said Mick.

"And you?" said Sue turning to me.

"Gee, thanks, I'm OK; nice meeting you."

"Please come back if you get any notice of what happened to Diane; we still don't have a landline installed; the telephone company said they had to lay new wires."

"Yes, sure, no biggie," I mumbled, "it's an old building."

"Yeah, but the rent is cheap. I'm usually free, not dating anyone, so come on by. We could go to a vegan coffee shop down the block and get to know each other."

Sue's stature reminded me of a twenty-year-old girl I met last year at the Rockefeller Center Skating Rink. I'm not attracted to short girls, but the ice skater's grace enchanted me. Her little skirt rose like a kite in the wind over Central Park when she twirled. Her attractive muscular legs and pink panties caught my eye. Her name was Natori, and contrary to Sue's flat chest, she had two meaty bazooms that deserved immediate attention. My dick rose to salute her performance.

I took her out for a soft drink at the indoor snack bar. She said, "I'd like a hot dog."

"What the lady wants, the lady gets."

The server handed her a hotdog with relish, and she immediately bit off the end. I took that as a good sign of fearless sexuality. If a girl refuses to bite into a hot dog, you can forget about getting a blow job.

"How did you get a name like Natori?"

"Oh, that? My dad learned Japanese during the War when he was stationed at a prisoner-of-war camp. It means a bird or a Phoenix."

"Cool."

She looked at me with a longing I rarely elicit in girls, so I asked,

"Would you like to take in a movie with me?"

"When?"

"Whenever, how about tonight? There's a Jerry Lewis film at the Whitestone Drive-in."

"A Drive-in? That sounds like fun."

"I'll ask to borrow Mickey's car; he's my employer. We can put the top down and have a blast."

"Oh, yeah."

She gave me her address. I told her I'd pick her up around 7 pm, just when it begins to get dark.

"Should I bring something to drink or eat?"

"Sure, whatever; they also have good tubs of buttered popcorn."

I left the top-up on the jag for the drive out to the theater because it gets windy on the expressway. Mickey said go have fun, and Natori and I ended up at the drive-in just after the cartoon promos began. I put the top down and hooked the chrome speaker to the top of the window.

Natori had outdone herself; there were sandwiches, bottled soda, and a half-filled bottle of gin.

The evening progressed eventfully. By the time we finished the sandwiches, soda and drank the gin, Natori was in the mood for love. I lost no time getting her bra off and her panties down. Her vagina was as wet as a beaver in a pond. She told me to get into the passenger seat and handed me a condom from her small purse. I unzipped my pants and ripped off the condom's foil, rolling it over my hard-on. Natori wasted no time; with her open bouse and naked breasts in my face, she sat on my cock and did an up-and-down wiggle dance until I filled the condom she'd provided.

I had my eyes closed through most of the sex, and when I opened them, I realized something was very wrong.

With her hair pulled back, she looked familiar. It turned out there was a reason for my uneasiness. She later told me she was the daughter of the owner of the 'United Cigar Stores' luncheonette downstairs from Mickey's office, a place I often frequented for a cup of morning Joe.

Our romance, as intimate as the first date was, made me feel queasy. When I looked at her, with her hair pulled back, their faces looked so much alike that I thought I had been kissing her father.

Then she burst out crying. Had she read my mind?

"What's the matter, Natori? Did I do anything wrong?"

"No, the sex was great, it was such a relief to feel your big cock inside my pussy, but I'm the one who did something wrong. I promised my college boyfriend I'd remain faithful. I wanted to control myself, but the temptation to have sex with you was just too strong."

"Don't cry, and it's ok. He'll never know."

"But I tell him everything."

"If you tell him how good this was, you'll have him jerking off before you finish the story."

"Don't say that."

'When do you go back to college?"

"In a few days, I fly out to Montana and won't be back for months."

I kissed away her tears and wondered what I had just lived through. Natori certainly had a problem with being faithful, and I wasn't into pseudo father fucking. We parted that night and let life take its course. Yes, Natori was a great fuck. But the first date was the last for me. I also stopped going to the 'United Cigar Store' for morning coffee. Her short Dad standing at the cash register reminded me too much of that crazy screwed-up night to sit there drinking coffee with him watching me.

I kept my past recollection to myself as I followed the big guy down the four flights to the street level, holding tightly to the metal handrail as I tried to avoid the broken stairs. If I shared that story with Mickey, I knew he'd make fun of me forever.