The Long Squeeze Goodnight

It was supposed to be an easy job... but she put the squeeze on him.

I never should've taken that job from the alderman. But hindsight's as useful as a screen door on a submarine, ain't it? How was I to know at the time?

If I'd turned him down, Gary the Grass would still be walking right now. And Donnie Mahoney would still have his... never you mind. Some things a man just can't rightly talk about. Would take a lot more than a few drinks in me to make me tell you what happened to Donnie. Or to Gary. Or me.

Well, damn. This is a hefty bit of cash right here. You must really want to know what happened with Carmella Keyes, huh?

All right. I'll tell you the whole damned thing. Not as if I've got any pride left to protect, anyway.

It was supposed to be a simple job. The alderman was paying well -- I thought so anyway -- for a straightforward retrieval. The target was Carmella. Just a moll, wasn't she? How were we to know any different? We always saw her just hanging off the arm of Boss Brody. Tall, classy, with a smile like a wildcat and a body curved like Venus rising from the ocean. With those mile-long legs of hers she walked with a hip sway liable to corrupt a Franciscan friar. Those legs of hers...

She'd be carrying something, I was told: a letter, a communiqué of some kind, and if it fell into the wrong hands -- or the right ones, depending on where you stood -- it'd be all over for Boss Brody. The alderman was in deep, you see -- up that old creek with no paddle, in Brody's back pocket. He was hoping to get out.

So I got my compatriots together, Gary and Donnie, planned it all out. We would run the classic fake-mugger scam, with a little bumbling-rescuer twist tailored for the job. Donnie and Gary would accost her before she could get into her car. I'd come on the scene and get into a scuffle with them both, manfully taking on two at once.

Then Donnie and I would do a little tango pretend-brawl to get in her way, while quick-fingered Gary snatched the envelope and made a clean escape with the prize. Afterwards, I'd stay around to console the damsel in distress.

She ain't no damsel, I know now. But she gave us more than our share of distress. More than our goddamn share.

The lights were low when we spotted her walking towards her car. A black Packard convertible. Real beauty, just like her. Her breasts, in the cocktail dress she was wearing, were almost popping out the top. She was wearing a long mink coat, but with every step she took, we saw a flash of her long legs, covered in black fishnet stockings. Her face was half-covered by her hat veil, but even at that distance I could see her ripe cherry lips. She walked with the grace of a hunting spider, and the web she wove was just as alluring and deadly.

Even now... I'd give anything if I could sink my teeth into those full, curvy thighs of hers. Of course, that'd probably be the last thing I ever did. But still.

I checked the time. It was eight-twenty. Nobody else was in the parking lot. Plenty of space all around her car.

"Remember, boys, no need to be too rough with her. She's just a dame. Don't get too handsy now, we don't want real trouble."

"Got it, Joe. C'mon, Donnie boy, let's move."

They sauntered towards her. The shorter dark-haired Gary: face of a weasel and ears of a fox, handy with a flensing knife. Big lumbering Donnie Mahoney: third and largest son of Butcher Mahoney, as slow-witted as the oxen he chopped up in their meat factory down on Seventh and Tenth, fists like tenderizer mallets. Two of my most reliable fellows from the street, and her a lone, defenseless woman.

We were flies caught in a web, and not a one of us but her even knew it.

I'd crept up close enough to see and hear everything, but I stayed in the shadows. Just as she was about to get in her car, Gary called out to her. "Hey, lady."

She turned, and her pretty mouth opened. "Oh!" she said, breathily, and put a gloved hand to her lips. "Oh my!" she said again, with a nervous chuckle. "You startled me, gentlemen."

"Well, awful sorry about that." Gary grinned. He had his hands in his pockets, affecting insouciance, but conveying the lightest, mildest hint of the threat of violence. He's not a large man, Gary, but he's quick. And like I said, he has a way with a knife. And Donnie, he was doing what he did best, which was to loom. He's as broad as a wall, and he has this long scar on his face, thanks to an accident in the family business some time ago. But people don't know that. Gives him a real intimidating air, it does.

And she did seem a little scared. She looked first from one man to the other, a bit uncertainly. "Well... can I... help you gentlemen?"

"Well, that depends, don't it," Gary said, still smiling. "Real quiet night to be out all by yourself, ain't it, lady?"

"Why," she said, a bit indignantly, "what I choose to do is my own business. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll just be on my way, thank you very much."

Donnie moved deliberately to block the front of the car, and Gary moved to flank her, leaning against the car door. "Real quiet night. Be nice to keep it that way, don't you think? Would be a real shame to... disturb the peace and tranquility."

"What... what do you want?" She drew herself up and glared defiantly at both men in turn, with an affronted air. Her chest heaved with emotion.

I have to tell you, just that alone was enough to make a man lose control. She had about the most pneumatic bosom you could hope for, like I said, and when she was taking in those deep outraged breaths... From where I was crouching, I could feel a bit of concupiscence building up in me.

So I suppose it wasn't surprising that Donnie and Gary got the full brunt of it. Something changed in their eyes and their postures. They became bulls in heat, and this was the hottest mama on the street. They're consummate professionals... but this is Carmella Keyes we're talking about.

"Well for starters, if a well-to-do lady such as yourself were to... show a little kindness to a couple of decent gents down on their luck... slip us a five, willya? Or... maybe... give us a little honey cooler, huh?"

I think that was when it all fell apart, because Gary went off-script there. You know how it is. Hard to blame a man, when he's standing right in front of a sultry seductress like that. All he wanted was to cop an extra feel, maybe get a kiss out of it like he was asking, before coming back round to the job at hand.

Carmella twisted her lips in disgust. "You keep your stinking mouth away from me, fish-breath."

Now, she wasn't to know, but "fish-breath" is just about one of the worst things you can call Gary the Grass, on account of his mammy and pappy being fishmongers, see? He'd grown up with and around the smell of fish, and he hates it something awful. Won't even eat clam chowder if he can help it. Of course, that's also how he got so good with a flensing knife.

But, well, he saw red, then, and with a snarl he reached out to grab Carmella by the shoulders.

Her gloved hand flashed out -- her left -- and she snatched his wrist, then twisted. Now, I know a few moves myself, and that was picture-perfect: a move they teach coppers to disarm someone coming at you with a knife or maybe even a gun, if you've got the guts to try. Gary wasn't armed at the moment, but she put that on him and he twisted sideways helplessly just the same, crying out in pain.

Donnie growled, and laid his big paw on her shoulder. She reached up, and grabbed his wrist too.

And then... you have to believe me when I tell you what happened next. It ain't even the half of it, of what happened that night -- it was just the start. But you might be forming an idea in your mind that I'm the worse for drink, or that I'm exaggerating or having you on. Get that idea out of your head right now. I'm telling the damned truth.

She grabbed his wrist -- his right wrist, he'd laid his right hand on her shoulder -- and pushed his hand off. Just like that. With her arm strength alone.

Donnie jerked, as if in surprise. His body twitched. Her expression didn't change -- still had her lips curled, as if she were looking at a couple of mangy dogs on the street. But there she stood -- arms spread wide, so it looked as if she was exposing her chest to the world, like on a cabaret show -- and on the one side was Gary gasping and clutching at his arm, unable to free himself, while on the other Donnie stood Indian-wrestling with Carmella. You know, the kind where they arm-wrestle except standing up, and there ain't no table.

The seconds passed. I could see that Donnie was trying to move his arm, but couldn't. Somehow, Carmella was holding it in an inescapable grip, and she didn't even look strained doing it. Then her face broke into a smile.

"Ooh, so you boys want to wrassle a bit, for some evening exercise," she said, and chuckled throatily. "Why didn't you say so? Happy to oblige."

Donnie grunted angrily, and tried again to move his arm -- nothing budged. He braced himself, and grunted again, as if they really were arm-wrestling. But she held him in place. Her arm didn't shift an inch.

I stayed hidden where I was, gaping fit to swallow a cow. I once saw Donnie heave a carcass of a full-grown bull onto his shoulder and load it up onto the back of a truck. The man could crush an oil barrel with his arms if he wanted to. And there he was struggling helplessly against Carmella the invincible war goddess.

Then she released them. And they both staggered back, clutching at their wrists, staring at her in disbelief. At that point I was wondering if she was some kind of special martial arts practitioner or something. I'd heard of circus strongwomen, of course, but I'd never heard of any of them doing what Carmella just did to Gary and Donnie.

And then... she slipped out of her mink coat. Suddenly a lot became clearer to me, and probably to my friends too.

Nobody I know had ever seen her bare arms before. They knew she had big breasts -- not so uncommon, though hers were truly spectacular. She usually wore a big coat, like that mink one, so nobody thought her shoulders were any broader than a typical woman's. Nobody had ever seen her bare back, either. And her neck was usually covered up too, by a coat or a scarf.

But now she took off her coat, taking care not to spoil or dirty it, and... listen, you ever heard of a guy named Eugen Sandow? A Kraut, from back in the day, muscled like a Greek statue. A really strong man from the other side of the pond. Mostly did exhibitions there, but came to Chicago once, about 30 years ago. Real big, real strong. I saw him when I was a kid.

Carmella Keyes would've been the ideal mate for Sandow. Hell, she might've put him to shame. You understand what I'm saying? Carmella has the muscles of a Greek goddess. And not one of the nice ones governing home and hearth either. As I said earlier, she was a goddess of war, and damn if she didn't look the part.

Her neck was elegant, like the rest of her -- the muscles don't detract from that. Her neck wasn't thick, but you could see the cords when she tensed, you could see the mounds of muscle at their base. Like how you can tell a man's done some heavy work in his life, or maybe some boxing, that triangle of thickness at the base of his neck. Hers could be seen from the front.

Her shoulders... they were molded by a loving Creator into round mounds of perfection out of the highest quality clay, and then chiseled. One look at those bulging shoulders explained why she could handle Donnie like that. Of course, I still can't explain her muscles... enough to make a Spartan hoplite rethink his training regimen.

She turned, carefully folding up her mink coat. "Now, before I get sweaty with you boys, I need to put my clothes aside, so if you would kindly give me a minute... don't want to muss everything up... Boss Brody wouldn't be pleased if I spoiled my wardrobe... he's a generous man, but a lady doesn't take advantage..."

So we could all see the muscles in her arms and back working, as she folded the coat into a neat little package, and put it on top of her car bonnet, and then took off her hat, putting in on top.

Her arms were powerful. You could tell just by looking that she was strong. But, see, you take a man like Donnie, or Black Bruno down by the docks, or some of the guys sitting right here in this bar tonight. Strong men, no doubt. Thick arms, meaty, beefy. Nothing to get excited about, unless you're into that sort of thing. I know people, is all I'm saying. I don't judge. Point I'm trying to make is, those are men's muscles. Hers aren't the same. Her muscles are somehow... more ladylike. Curvaceous.

Did you happen to see an ad in the Tribune sometime last month, placed by a certain Helen Fortney? The broad put up a picture of herself, wearing a low-back brassiere, flexing her muscles with her back to the camera. She was advertising her services, see -- 20 years old, 5 foot 5, 138lbs, wanted to be a strongwoman bodyguard. Some people had a good laugh over it... but others were looking thoughtfully at the photograph. That Helen Fortney did have some strong, healthy-looking arms.

Carmella's arms were similar, except much bigger. You could see the lines separating her shoulder meat from her biceps, the lines delineating her triceps along the bottom of her arms. But her skin was soft as velvet, like that Fortney girl's. So as she turned back around, and demurely raised her hand to her chin as she looked from side to side at Gary and Donnie, I could see that if she kept her muscles relaxed, you'd just see the thickness and the curves, and it'd take some time before you noticed that there wasn't any fat wobbling.

With a few deft movements, she slipped her dress straps off her shoulders, and in a series of swift movements she bent down, stepped out of the dress pooling at her feet, and gathered the dress up into her hands.

Now we were all properly bug-eyed, all three of us. She wasn't wearing anything but the skimpiest, flimsiest bra you could imagine. It was a thin band of black cloth, wrapped around her breasts, covering her nipples. Real kinky stuff, you know? It was a wonder the thing stayed up -- it wasn't held up by anything we could see.

And then there was her G-string. Yes, she was wearing one of those new-fangled things, like the burlesque showgirls. Seems that all those arrests and arraignments over in the Big Apple hadn't discouraged Brody from giving some of that downright indecent underwear to his moll. Carmella seemed more than happy to wear those thongs. She was practically nude now, in just her long elbow gloves and thigh-high fishnets, with dainty black heels, which she proceeded to kick off.

There was just too much of that happening all at once, so you'll have to forgive me. I was just about to tell you about her belly.

I don't know what to compare them to, so you can understand. I got nothing here. I've seen circus acrobats who can hold on to an upright pole and make their bodies stand straight out to the side, like a flag. They have lean, sculpted bellies, so little fat you can see each line of muscle, as if they starved themselves or something.

Carmella's belly isn't like that at all. She had eight -- count'em, eight, not just six -- solid lumps of muscle below her sternum, arranged in two rows of four. Lovely, symmetrical rows. Something inhuman to that, you know what I mean? When you see a statue of Herakles, or Zeus, one of those classical Greek ones, if you got an eye for these things you can see they look more or less natural. The muscle lines aren't exactly perfect. But Carmella's were, at least when she stood like that, with her arms spread out, feet together, like a performer soaking in the cheers from the crowd.

And she was like a goddess receiving her due worship. Dido of Carthage couldn't have been any more majestic. I think the three of us just stared at her bare upper body for a full minute without moving or making a sound. It was just so... full. Lush. Almost bursting with power and vitality.

First you had her arms and shoulders out to the side, muscled better than any man's arms I've ever seen. She looked like she could lift her convertible above her head if she were minded to. Then you had her chest. Those breasts weren't meant for shaking, like some hussy in a cabaret. Would feel almost sacrilegious to even touch them, or to call them "jugs" or "melons". They just sat there, full round orbs of womanhood, and beneath them you could see the firm chest muscles of a dock laborer or a boxer. It's the strangest combination, but it is what it is. And then below that, you had her abdomen, like I said -- the eight lumps of flesh below the two, and her belly button sitting right in the middle of it all, at the meeting of the lines.

All I could think was, if this was the kind of woman Boss Brody could claim as his own, the man could be the President any time he wanted. Hell, he could proclaim himself King of the world, with a woman like that giving him her loyalty.

She smiled, with her ruby-red lips, and it was like a magnificent statue coming suddenly to life. "Well, boys? Still want some exercise? I think you," addressing Donnie, "could help me work up a sweat, at least. My, but you're a big one."

They shook their heads, as if waking from a dream. Then their jaws firmed. They were remembering the job.

"All right, lady, I don't know what kind of freak you are," Gary began, as he stepped in closer.

She frowned. "You, I don't like. Get away from me." So saying, she put her gloved hand elegantly on his shoulder, and... shoved.

Gary the Grass went flying backwards, sprawling in an ungainly heap.

Donnie growled, and reached for her with both hands. She adopted a wrestler's crouch and held her hands out too, grinning happily like a cat that's found the cream. They locked their fingers together for a mercy contest, a test of raw strength.

I'll say it again and again: everybody in this town knows Donnie Mahoney is one of the strongest men around. And there he was, towering over Carmella by a full head, half again as broad around the shoulders -- though her muscles did make her look wider than she really was -- locked in a brute force struggle with her.

And losing. Did you really expect anything else?

You don't believe me, huh?

She braced herself, her footing as firm as the Rock of Gibraltar. In fact, I fancied I could see some lines on her legs coming into relief as her whole body absorbed the force Donnie was putting out. Her fishnets began bulging at the seams. The lighting from the street lamps were good enough for me to see just how large her leg muscles were growing, just by dint of her flexing them.

Her upper body rippled all over. She kept smiling, as Donnie grunted and huffed and puffed, pushing against an invisible brick wall. That is what I saw. With her gloved hands, wearing fishnets and thongs, she was a wall of immovable feminine muscle that Donnie couldn't even budge an inch.

Gary, meanwhile, sat on his butt and watched, with the same incredulous look on his face that I must have had on mine. This was Atalanta come to life, only instead of doing a footrace she was taking over from Atlas and holding up the skies.

"Oh dear. Come on now, big boy. I thought you could give me more of a workout than this," she chortled.

Donnie had never been out-muscled before, and certainly not by a woman. Maybe that's why he lost his temper, and launched a kick at her belly. Then he stepped in closer, and landed a couple more knee shots.

But none of that fazed her one bit. God's own truth. She took those blows without flinching, as if they didn't hurt at all. Donnie started to draw his head back for a headbutt.

And then she twisted her body, I couldn't tell you exactly how, but she sent Donnie flying clear over the hood of the car to land on the other side in a heap. Yes. You heard me right. She threw that man like he was a sack of potatoes.