The Case of the Vindictive Cuckold

This is my contribution to the Mickey Spillane HAMERRED series. Anyone who has ever read any if the Mike Hammer novels knows that they are gritty and often predicated on characters and situations that are morally ambiguous. All of the characters in this story are morally reprehensible. I have eagerly embraced this tradition in a satirical farce that I hope will be humorous. I've melded inspirations from other fictional detectives that I hope will add to the humor.

*

It was another scorcher of a day in the city. Looking down through whirling fan blades from my opened window, I watched a group of kids literally frying eggs on the sidewalk. My air conditioner would have picked this day to die on me, but I didn't have an air conditioner. Ordinary people like private dicks can't afford air conditioners. An electric fan was all that I could afford. The marquee on the theatre across the street didn't bother to announce what movie they were showing. It just reminded everyone that the theatre had air conditioning. I'd have to go see some B movie if I wanted to get cool. I felt around in my pocket in a futile search for enough loose change to buy a ticket to the movies.

Fortunately; I did have ice in my refrigerator. I rummaged around in the sink to find a glass that wasn't to filthy then dropped three cubes into it. Just to keep myself honest, I measured in two fingers of rye whiskey using my index finger and little finger. I then added another finger of water to fill the glass.

As I looked down on the street through the whirling fan blades, sipping my whiskey and waiting for my newest client to show up, I had a hunch that the shit was about to hit the fan. A sizzling sound then a puff of foul smelling smoke heralded the death of that feeble reprieve from the heat. Maybe the shit wasn't going to hit the fan, at least not today.

I was on my second cigarette and halfway through my whiskey when I was alerted to the arrival of my prospective client by the clicking of her high heels as she walked down the full length of the long hallway from the stairs. The elevator was on the fritz, again. The slow rhythm of the clicking conjured up images of a woman who had legs all the way up to her armpits.

I reluctantly buttoned my shirt up and straightened my tie so as to look at least somewhat presentable to my newest client. The feel of stubble on my neck reminded me that I hadn't shaved, again. It was too late to worry about that. When she phoned me, she had sounded to desperate to care about how presentable I wasn't anyway. I knew that I wasn't going to turn her away, even if she turned out to be trouble. I had bills to pay.

The Blonde that finally walked through my door was not a disappointment, but she was a mystery. While her legs didn't go all the way up to her armpits, they stopped at a spectacular pair of wide hips that flared from a narrow waist that only accentuated her amazing breasts. The obvious impressions of her nipples through the fabric of her dress combined with the gentle swinging and swaying revealed that those magnificent mammaries were unrestrained by a bra. That was a reasonable compromise with the heat. The unfastened buttons of her normally demure dress that revealed the white lace bodice of her slip as well as her stocking tops was also a reasonable compromise. I sure as Hell wasn't going to complain about it anyway.

In spite of the enticing expanse of deep cleavage that the woman presented to me, she looked respectable enough. A rather impressive diamond glittering on her left ring finger proclaimed that she was not only married but married to serious money. Her wide hips combined with her gently rounded belly and somewhat pendulous breasts revealed that she had rewarded her rich husband by birthing a baby or three.

I gestured towards the only empty chair in my office as I invited her, "have a seat. Make yourself comfortable." I thoughtfully pushed my glass of whiskey across the desktop, silently offering her a drink.

The dame sat down like a lady. However; as she demurely crossed her legs, her partially buttoned dress and the lace hem of her slip revealed not just a not so brief glimpse of her stocking tops and garter belt but confirmation that her carpet matched her drapes. I found myself regretting the vast expanse of my Partners Desk that blocked me from getting a closer look. The lack of panties was no slander to her virtue in my book. I private dick has to be an astute observer of details. It had become obvious to me in recent days that most of the dames in town were going commando, just to beat the heat you understand.

The high class dame eagerly took a long sip from the glass that left it only a quarter full before she spoke. "Mister Mallet, I need your help," the dame pleaded. "My husband is plotting to kill me."

I asked the doubly obvious question. "Why would any man who is married to a dish like you want to kill her?"

Perhaps she was desperate, but the dame ignored my vulgar observation. "My husband suspects that I am cheating on him. He has hired private detectives to follow me to get proof, real or fabricated. He has told me that if I ever cheated on him or tried to leave him, he would have not just the other man but me buried alive."

I asked the next obvious question. "So what do you want me to do about it?"

"I want you to follow me. I want you to be my witness that I'm doing nothing wrong," the dame explained. "I'm also hoping that you can spot the detectives that have been following me. When you discover who these detectives are, I want you to get them to stop following me."

"How am I to stop them from following you? Should I just sweet talk them or do you expect me to lean on them?" I explained, "I'm not a copper. I can't force anyone to do anything for you, at least not legally."

"You're a detective. Certainly you would be respected by the detectives that my husband has hired," the dame fantasized. "They would listen to you, wouldn't they?"

"They might if I offered them enough or leaned on them hard enough," I lied just to suggest the possible need for bribery or a felonious assault. "However; it will cost you serious money."

The blonde pulled a bankroll of bills out of her purse as she said, "I have a thousand in cash that I have saved up from my household allowance. I can get you more after my husband has calmed down."

I contemplated the cash. Prices have risen since the end of the war, but a guy could still buy a brand new Ford, Chevy or Dodge for less than a thousand. I wasn't in the market for a new car, but I had other bills to pay. The cash tempted me, but I was wary. That was an awful lot of dough for the wife of even a wealthy husband to save up from her household allowance. "That thousand might do for a down payment, but I would need some type of security deposit. Maybe I could hold some of your jewelry as security?"

The dame lost it. She burst into tears. She got up from her chair and came around the vast expanse of my double deep Partners Desk to kneel before me. I was treated to a closer view of her deep cleavage as she sobbed incoherently. A lingering look at a dark brown aurolae and swollen nipple confirmed my suspicion that she was a mother. I took pity on her. Then she put her head in my lap. Her sobbing provoked more pity. Her face pressed against my groin was even more persuasive. The dame felt me swelling against her cheek. Although she was obviously quite respectable, she wasn't stupid or even naïve. I felt her unzipping my pants and reaching into my briefs.

I might not be the most gifted private dick in the city, but if there is any detective who's more gifted than me, I've never bumped into him. She gripped my shaft with both hands while kissing and licking my knob. She released her grip with one hand so as to take me deeper in her mouth. She sucked me as if she was a pro. She even took my balls into her mouth to suck on them. I began to suspect that she must have worked in a truck factory during the war, dechroming trailer hitch balls. I might have lasted longer, but I wasn't trying to please her or impress her. I held her head firmly to restrain her. She didn't struggle as I began to spew into her mouth. She gamely continued to suck on me until I was finished. "That will do as a security deposit, if there is more where that came from," I gallantly suggested.

"There is," the dame assured me. "Would one or maybe even two security deposits a day suffice?"

"That would do nicely," I agreed as I put her proffered bankroll in the inner breast pocket of my suit jacket.

The dame got up to stand before me. She lifted the hem of her dress to inspect her stockings. They were obviously expensive silk stockings rather than cheaper nylons. She was relieved that she hadn't snagged them. I was pleased by the lingering, close up view of her blonde carpet that truly matched her blonde drapes. Unfortunately; after providing me with more information and answering a few questions, she lowered the hem of her dress so she could go about her business.

I had a bad feeling about this case. Getting sucked off by some dame that I had just met normally wouldn't provoke my suspicions, but she obviously wasn't any ordinary dame. A woman who wears ten grand worth of jewelry doesn't casually suck off strangers in lieu of paying cash. This dame was serious trouble. I needed to be prepared for trouble.

I opened the two top drawers on each side of my Partners Desk, then lifted up on the desk top. As the desktop rose on springs, the secret compartments between the twin fronts of the desk rose with it to reveal my arsenal. I contemplated my choices.

While God might have made man, Samuel Colt made them equal. John Moses Browning made some men more equal than others. While this dame was obviously trouble and the Ma-Deuce is about the most comforting gun for a guy to have when trouble rears its ugly head, there was no way I could comfortably lug around a fifty caliber machinegun much less its tripod. The Browning Automatic Rifle would be almost as indiscrete. Any gunfight involving my war souvenirs would provoke questions about failure to pay the two Cee notes in transfer tax not to mention theft of government property.

Although I'm partial to Browning firearms, I'm not a snob. My Thompson, forty-five caliber, submachine gun beckoned to me. Unfortunately; the Thompson is also indiscrete unless I wanted to carry it around in its violin case. Bad guys usually aren't considerate enough to allow a guy time to get his Thomson out of its case, insert a magazine and maybe attach the stock so that you can have a fair gun fight.

Ignoring my war souvenirs, I considered my selection of pistols. The Colt nineteen-eleven pistol was normally a reasonable choice. Unfortunately; given the heat any private dick worth his salt should be able to spot anyone carrying a forty-five under an unbuttoned coat from a block away. The Browning Hi-Power in nine millimeter would be equally indiscrete.

I selected my favorite concealed carry gun, the Fabrique Nationale Model nineteen-ten. The three-eighty cartridge is disrespected by many armchair gunslingers, but the compact cartridge is usually just as persuasive as a nine millimeter. The compact, hammerless, striker fired pistol wouldn't get snagged on clothing so easily, even if I needed to carry it in my pocket. The Browning Triple Safety system with manual safety lever, grip safety and magazine disconnect safety had saved my life more than a few times. I doffed my jacket so I could don the appropriate shoulder holster. With a six round magazine in the pistol plus one in the pipe backed up by two extra magazines nestled comfortingly in their pouches under my right arm pit, I was ready for any reasonable amount of trouble.

Since the dame had told me where she would be going to pick up her children, I had time to grab a bite to eat. It had been days since I had eaten anything. Rosie's diner was right across the street from my office. The food was better than most greasy spoons's, but Rosie was the seasoning that made the meals so flavorful. Rosie wasn't a high class dame like my new client. Rosie also had wider hips that only partially obscured her thicker waist. However; Rosie was blessed with even bigger breasts that she left unharnessed even when she didn't need to beat the heat. Rosie was also a grandmother, but that was only because Rosie and her daughters were floozies who had started pushing babies down their chutes when they were still teenagers.

Rosie wasn't pleased to see me until I whipped out my wad while casually allowing her to see my pistol that was holstered under my coat. I had run up quite a tab in recent weeks, but now I was obviously on the job again. My tab to Rosie was just one of my debts that needed to be paid. I paid my tab, with serious interest. Rosie reached inside her blouse to tuck the cash under one of her heavy breasts then she took my order, eagerly. As she knelt before me to get a coffee cup from under the counter, she casually parted her thighs to reveal her stocking tops and her dark carpet that matched her drapes. Rosie might be a floosy, but she is an astute businesswoman. She understands that there is nothing like a flash of boob and kitty to stimulate a guy's appetite. I ordered a steak with all the trimmings, a milkshake as an appetizer, and pie for desert.

When I was finished eating and got up to leave, Rosie invited me into the backroom so she could thank me for the interest on my tab. She slipped off her apron and unbuttoned her dress to reveal that she wasn't even wearing a slip. She then knelt before me to take my Johnson into her mouth, just as the high class dame had done barely an hour earlier. Rosie must have also worked at the same truck factory during the war, but she had more in mind than just dechroming my balls. Rosie rose up to sit on the counter then spread her thighs invitingly.

My fat Johnson slipped into Rosie's chute easily enough. It was immediately obvious that I wasn't the first guy to take a ride in Rosie's chute this day. Rosie was also on the rag. I didn't care. I buried my face between her big tits as I began pounding her. Rosie has the kind of tits that a guy can really sink his teeth into. She doesn't mind if a guy is gentle.

Rosie came easily. She always does. When I was ready to pop my nuts, I sank all of the way into her. She hadn't asked me to pull out and the first guy or guys to take a ride in her chute today obviously hadn't pulled out either. Rosie doesn't worry about guys pulling out when she is on the rag. When I finally pulled my Johnson out, she sopped up the leaking semen and blood with her apron, buttoned her dress, then put her apron back on. I didn't bother to wash the blood and semen off of my Johnson before I tucked it back in my trousers. I peeled a few more bills off of my bankroll. It was just extra interest on my tab, you understand.

Finally feeling drained, I got in my thirty-eight Chevy coup to catch up with my newest client. I arrived at Saint Mathews Catholic church just as she was ushering her brood out of the daycare center. Her kids were not yet in school but they were out of diapers. She and her husband had apparently been busy. She loaded the kids up in her Cadillac sedan. It was a brand new, postwar model with lots of shiny chrome. With the war over, Uncle Sam didn't need so much chrome for tanks and airplanes anymore.

I dutifully followed the dame for the rest of that afternoon and into the evening. She had explained that her husband was out of town on business. She took her kids out to dinner at a nice restaurant, not some greasy spoon like Rosie's Diner. I didn't spot any private dicks that were following her. The only noticeable people were a couple of nuns and some guy in a ridiculous plaid suit. No private dick worth his salt would be caught dead wearing plaid. I then followed her to her house where I parked down the street to wait and watch. I still had not seen any hint of other gumshoes following her. Just another pair of nuns and another guy in a plaid suit.

I had finished a pack of cigarettes and was half way through a pint of bourbon when the high class dame came out of her house. She walked right to me. I had shown her my car from my office window so she could recognize it. She got in on the passenger side.

The high class dame didn't waste any time before reaching for my zipper. She was soon sucking on my Johnson again. She was giving me another security deposit, you understand. If she noticed the flavor of semen and blood from Rosie's chute, she didn't seem to care. I lasted much longer this time. I wanted to impress her and I was hoping that maybe her jaw would get tired so she would invite me to take a ride in her chute. No luck. She kept sucking until I blew my nuts again. As I watched her ass retreating to her house, I found myself wishing that she would pay some principal.

I awoke at dawn. I peed into a mason jar, then opened my car door just wide enough to discretely dump it in the gutter. An hour later, the high class dame with her brood emerged from her house and loaded up in her Cadillac. I followed them back to the Catholic church. With the kids safely under the care of the nuns, the dame drove off.

The little voice that had been telling me that this high class dame was trouble got louder when I followed her into the worst part of town. It was dark town. It was the type of neighborhood that even the Mafiosos avoided. What was a high class dame doing in dark town?

The high class dame seemed to be walking towards Sam's Pool Emporium. Sam Spade, or Sam Spade the Spade as he was usually known, was the crime boss of dark town. His pool hall was merely the least illegitimate face of his many, more criminal operations. I'd had dealings with Sam Spade a time or three. I'd gotten my ass kicked every time, but I still respected him because he and his boys had respected me enough to not kill me. Sam was packing a Johnson that is even bigger than mine.

The high class dame had barely walked a block before she was accosted by a group of teenaged toughs who obviously wanted more than just the rocks on her fingers. They wanted to give her an introduction to Black cock. They knocked her down and maybe out as I was getting out of my car. I counted four of them as they began ripping her dress off of her.

I'm the type of guy who can really handle himself you understand, but I'm not stupid. I drew my pistol, slapping the butt as always to ensure that the magazine was fully seated as I took a two handed grip. I'm not one of those idiots who fires one handed from the hip. One of the toughs pulled a thirty-eight caliber revolver to menace me. I thumbed off the manual safety on my pistol while instinctively holding the pistol tightly to ensure that the grip safety was disengaged. He emptied his gun without even nicking me. I didn't so munch as shoot the gun out of his hand as shoot his hand that was holding his gun. He ran away, clutching his wounded hand, leaving his revolver along with three black fingers on the pavement. His three friends followed him.

I pocketed the compact, five shot revolver then grabbed the high class dame and her purse, but left her torn dress. I loaded her and her pair of thirty-eights into my thirty-eight Chevy coupe and drove her to my office. A quick check of her pulse assured me that she was still alive. In an effort to be somewhat discrete, I covered her with my overcoat as I carried her up to my office. This kind of thing happens often enough that no one would get to curious. I cant afford to rent an apartment, so I have a Murphy bed in my office. I pulled the bed down then laid the high class dame out on the blankets. The lace bodice of her slip wouldn't have done much to hide her thirty-eights even if one of the straps hadnt been broken when the street toughs roughed her up. The lace hem of her slip had ridden up high enough to fully reveal her kitty. I pushed the hem of her slip up above her waist so I could get a really good look at her.