The Trench Coat

Greetings fellow lovers of erotic fiction. This is my entry in the The 2022 "Hammered: an Ode to Mickey Spillane" Author Challenge.

I have paid homage to (plagiarized) Dashiell Hammett, Rex Stout, John D. MacDonald and Kilgore Trout (1) and films by John Huston, Alfred Hitchcock, Stephen Spielberg, and well, anyone who ever made a mystery film. Especially Bogie films.

The main feature of this little story is the Object. The Dingus. The McGuffin, as featured in stories from Sherlock Holmes to last week's episode of NCIS(2). But it also features the rugged hero, (owner of the titular trench coat) forced into a situation he isn't prepared for, ably assisted by a beautiful, possibly dangerous woman, who is not only a total babe and one Great Dame, but also clearly smitten by our reluctant hero. Aside from the Gadget, there is a dead body, the rumpled PI, the clean-cut cop, the flamboyant thief, the menacing gangster and not one but TWO other mysterious hot dames with unknown purposes. Oh, and a storm on the Great Lakes, unexpected partial nudity and people over 50(!) engaging in the Horizontal Rhumba. The dance with no steps. Chesterfield Rugby(3). Making the beast with two backs. I have a million of them...

There is also a shocking amount of "tease and denial" herein.

Grab your fedora and don't forget to slip a bottle of pretty good rye into your pocket in case you need to seduce a reluctant dame(5)

Footnotes:

1.No, I didn't. You will find no references to the SF classic "Venus on the Half-Shell" in this story.

2.I assume. I haven't watched that in some time

3.That would be a couch or a sofa outside of Canada. Well, Canada in the 40s and 50s.

4.Okay, I only have one more and it's "taking the skin boat to tuna town" and I don't want to use it. It's kinda offensive(6)

5.See "The Big Sleep" starring Bogie.

6.Not only would Mickey approve, but he would also hate these footnotes. He would call me a pedantic college boy who never threw a punch or took one for that matter!

****

A reality of living on the Great Lakes is this: If you don't like the weather, wait five minutes. It is true in Chicago, in Buffalo, in Toronto and in Sault Saint Marie in Michigan and Ontario: both sides of the border.

That's how it was on a sultry summer day in August on Toronto's waterfront. The company had just won a huge contract, and they threw a party for us worker bees. Well, wine, beer and snacks, at an outdoor venue overlooking the lake. Ducks, geese and the ever-present herring gulls swam lazily on the calm water. There wasn't a breath of air moving. The lake surface was as flat as the Blue Jays last outing against the hated Yankees. The humidity and temperature conflicted with the "business casual" dress code. The women present seemed a great deal more comfortable in light dresses and skirts than the men, mostly in golf shirts and khakis. I know I was drenched. I barely tasted my first beer although it did put out the fire. I was sipping my second when Mae arrived.

I should say she made her entrance.

Mae makes an impression when she arrives anywhere. Parties, restaurants and bars, meetings, you name it.

She's not stunningly beautiful; she might be best described as somewhat plain. But, she has a presence. She's Asian. Oops "euphemism alert!". She is of Chinese ancestry. Do you have a mental picture? No, you're wrong. That's not what she looks like at all. She's tall, 5'-7" or 5'-8"; I've never asked. Depending on the shoes, she can be almost the same height as me, and I'm six feet. She has broad shoulders, shapely hips, large breasts and a full, round backside. She was about forty, by her own admission, with flawless skin and a warm, friendly smile. Perhaps she wasn't so plain after all.

And, in the fifteen years I have known her, her shoulder-length hair has been bleached blonde. That's quite a look.

Today she was in a plain, white V-neck cotton t-shirt, about a size too small that showed a generous expanse of tanned cleavage and nicely emphasized her braless breasts. A thin teasing wedge of her flat belly appeared and disappeared above the waistband of her skirt as she walked. The skirt was a lightweight white T-shirt material that came to just above her knees. The skirt flared from the waist and offered just a hint of her shapely behind. She had white sandals with four-inch heels. She once described a similar pair as being forged in Hell by Satan himself. The kind a woman wears out but carries home. She displayed a wonderful, broad smile on her maroon lips. Her eyebrows rose above her Ray-Bans when she saw me and a small group from our department by the bar.

"Hi guys!" she said and "ran" in that well-practiced shuffle step that can only be learned after years in heels. All that lovely mature flesh jiggled as she moved. Someone handed a gin and tonic to her, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thanks, I need this!" she said, taking a long sip. She left a maroon lip print on the glass. Lucky glass I thought.

We chatted in a circle with all the office stereotypes; the office gossip, the tease, the grump (that would be me), the know-it-all, the suck-up, the fashionista (that would be Mae). We chatted in ever changing clusters. Mae, the know-it-all and I were in an intense discussion about one of Toronto's favorite subjects: 'what's wrong with the Maple Leafs', when the skies opened. Huge drops fell in sheets. Soaking, torrential downpour. The sun had been oppressive a few minutes earlier. A few people had sought shelter as they saw it cloud over, but people like us, distracted by what they were doing, got caught. There were a lot of screams and girlish squeals from the group. A few prepared individuals produced umbrellas. I reached behind the bar for my old trench coat.

I was about to put it on when I saw Mae. She was standing under an awning, which I could see was visibly sagging under the weight of water. Before I could say anything, it let go with a loud rip and splash, taking her from damp to drenched. Her clothes became transparent. I could see her large dark areolas and her now erect nipples. The left one was pierced with a barbell. I also noted that she wore black bikini panties. Probably a poor colour choice.

I take full credit for being a good friend. Instead of gawking at the now essentially naked woman before me, I crossed to her and gallantly placed the coat over her shoulders. She looked up at me from behind her sunglasses in surprise.

"You probably don't need the shades, Mae." I said, pulling the lapels across her breasts.

"Thank you Ted. I, uh I guess I wasn't expecting that. I am soaked. I'll just warm up and you can have your coat back. She slipped her arms into the sleeves. I'm a big guy, so even a tall, voluptuous woman like Mae swam in it.

Mae was also the office klutz, and often unaware of how people, especially men see her.

"Uh hang on there kid. Your white top and skirt are now transparent. You might want to keep that on until you get to your car."

"Do you think anyone will notice?"

"I was twenty feet away, and I noticed every detail."

"Really?"

"Nice piercing in your left nipple."

"Oh. Ok. Um, I didn't drive. I figured we'd be drinking, so I took the subway to Union Station, then an Uber here."

"Keep the coat. Bring it to work Monday. I don't think I will be solving any murders over the weekend, and I don't know where my fedora is, so..."

How optimistic of me.

"I think I'll avoid the subway and splurge on a real cab to get to my car."

"Yeah, I understand. Here," I offered her a business card. "This cab company is run by my sister-in-law. Use my name, and ask for a woman driver. Be sure to tip her well."

"Thanks Ted. Now I'm going to get out of these soaking wet clothes and put them in a bag. See you Monday." She kissed my cheek and was gone before I could tell her there was a waterproof pouch inside the coat.

I left a few minutes later.

***

Saturday morning, I slept in; so did my cat and dog. The sound of a phone ringing entered my dream. I couldn't find the phone aboard the Enterprise, so I asked Lt. Uhura to answer it. The dog barked, and I came to.

"Yrgh" hack! Cough! "Hello?"

"Ted? It's Mae."

I tried to remember whether she was a Yeoman or a Transporter Chief. Then the fog cleared.

"Hi Mae. How are you?"

"Were you up?"

I looked. Half mast. Then I finally came fully awake. "Yeah." I said into the phone. *I had to answer the phone*, I said silently to myself.

"What are you doing today, Ted?"

*Sleeping in*, I thought to myself. "I planned on taking Brutus to the off-leash dog park after lunch, and then I was going to cut the grass and watch a ball game on the radio." We had often shared our common opinion that radio was made for baseball. I like to sit on the deck with a beer and listen to the game, puttering around the yard as I do.

"Brutus?"

"My Dachshund."

"Oh, cool. Nice little dogs."

"Just never use the "L" word in front of him. He thinks he's a Mastiff."

"Ok. Speaking of which, I'm going to be north of the city today, so I thought I could drop off your coat and treat you to a beer in thanks. How's that sound?"

"Like a perfect way to spend a summer afternoon." The image of Mae, soaking wet, dress transparent came unbidden to mind. Now three-quarters mast. "Say around 1:30?"

"I'll see you then. Bye!" She hung up.

I fell back into a restless sleep, dreaming of rain and wet cotton.

***

I got back home from the dog-park about 1:15. Brutus snored on the passenger seat of my Jeep. It took some effort to wake him. I had just hung his lead by the door when Mae's knock came. I opened the door to see her resplendent in my trench coat, a large fedora and black pumps. A gold chain hung at her neck, disappearing into the folds of the coat. She smiled broadly below the brim of the fedora, looking up at me through her sunglasses from the step.

"Come in, Mae. Great to see you!" I took her hand and led her in. She set a bag down on the landing.

"Nice place you have here, Ted. Really nice." Brutus and Charlie, my long-haired tabby appeared at the top of the stairs. Charlie turned and padded away, disinterested. Brutus gave a sharp bark, wagging his tail. Mae reached up and started to pet him. He rolled over on his back, demanding and receiving a belly rub.

"What a great l- uh that is a great dog!"

"He's a lothario, who charms all females between 4 and 94, and ignores most men." He huffed, turned back over and stalked away.

"I guess I'm just a sucker for romantic men, even if they have four legs."

"Can I take your, er, my coat?"

"Ted, I just want you to know how much I appreciated you lending me this coat. I suppose white cotton was a poor choice to begin with." She said, untying the belt. "And I guess I should have worn a bra, but it was so hot that day. Besides, I wanted to display my new piercing. Just a little. You know, like the old ad, 'does she or doesn't she?' Hey, you noticed it!" She hung her hat on a rack by the door.

"And it didn't help that the t-shirt was about a size too small. I'm not exactly petite. The shirt really emphasized the girls." She began unbuttoning the coat with one hand, and holding it closed with the other.

"As for the black panties, hey, I wear black lacy things when I'm feeling naughty. That makes sense, right?"

On "right?" She opened the trench coat.

I guess she wasn't feeling naughty.

She was naked under the trench coat. Gloriously naked. I admit I was staring. That means the memory is very clear. She appeared to have an all over tan. I could see no tan lines. Her skin was a uniform medium brown. The piercing in her left nipple was a silver barbell, clearly visible. Her breasts were glorious. Bigger than I thought. They suited her broad swimmer's back. Her stomach was flat, muscles peaked through soft flesh. She obviously worked out, but wasn't extreme about it. Her belly button was pierced like her nipple. Her pussy was bare from what I could see. Shapely legs from thigh to ankle were aided by the pumps. I looked up at her deep

brown eyes. Her face was alive with a wide smile. She giggled.

"Well?" she asked.

"Very well. I'd say outstanding! Um, what-"

She giggled again "Well Ted, you saved me from exposing myself to the whole office. You said my outfit was practically transparent. You even describe one of my piercings. I just thought I should thank you properly for protecting my honour by giving it up to you. You're such a great guy. A cold beer hardly does justice to your actions. Now, get over here so I can take care of that bulge that has apparently formed in your pants."

I was unable to disguise the fact that I was getting very hard. Mae was gorgeous. She had also fueled my fantasies more than once over the years we worked together. In almost twenty years, this was the first time we'd been single at the same time.

Why not?

Why not indeed. Because just as I stepped forward and reached for a shirt button, the doorbell

rang.

"Shit!" we said simultaneously.

"Jinx. You owe me a Coke." Mae said as she shrugged the coat back on. I better get this while you, uh relax a bit. You can't lead with your cock." She opened the door.

"Hi!" she said

At my doorstep stood a tall, thin, almost cadaverous man carrying a bundle wrapped in newspaper, tied with string and taped all over.

"Ungh!" he said as he lurched in. He fell on his face, the bundle skittered away. Evidently, the knife sticking out of his back had caused him to be uncommunicative.

"Do you know a Mr. Ungh?" Mae asked, kneeling beside him. "No pulse. I'm guessing Mr. Ungh is dead." She reached for the knife.

"Jeeze Mae, don't touch that! Leave him for now. Lock the door and I'll call 911. Oh crap!"

"What?"

"That looks like the knife from my toolbox in the garage. Yep, my initials are on it." It was a long, double sided insulation knife that I used as a utility knife. Its six inch blade was frighteningly sharp. I even sharpened the serrations.

"What are we going to do?" she asked. At least she was implying that she would help me. Good! I was going to need all the help I can get.

"Leave Ungh and come into the kitchen. I have to think, and I could use a drink"

We hurried to the kitchen. Mae brought her bag.

"I have beer!" she said helpfully.

"I think I need something stronger." I replied, taking a bottle of Rye down from my liquor cupboard. I snagged a couple of glasses and poured us each a healthy shot. I downed mine, winced and poured another, Mae sipped hers.

"Easy Ted. You need a clear mind about now." She cautioned.

"You're right." I said. I took a small sip and set the glass aside. "I guess before I call the cops I'd better check that knife to be sure. Come on Mae."

When we got back to the door, something was missing. The package was there. So was the knife. And Mae's hat still hung on the hat rack. Ah that was it: Mr. Ungh was gone.

"Where's the dead guy?" asked Mae.

"I guess he got better." I said, looking at the knife, blood covering its blade and handle.

"What's that?" Mae asked, pointing at the bundle.

"There's just one way to find out." I said, picking up the item.

The bundle was heavy and bulky. There were obviously quite a few layers of newspaper around whatever was inside. The newspapers were old. The outer layer was a yellowed Toronto Telegram from the 50s. The string was also yellowed with age, as was the packing tape used to mend the package over the years. I opened my pocket knife and began to open the package. Newspaper gave way to Kraft paper, and then to a soft fabric. Silk? Maybe. The silk was a drawstring bag. I opened it. I gasped involuntarily.

"Well? What is it?"

"It's the stuff that dreams are made of." I quoted.

"Huh? That's Shakespeare, right? A Midsummer Night's Dream, I think?"

"Shakespeare via Bogie." I corrected "Say 'hello' to the Maltese Falcon."

In my hands I held a heavy statue of a bird of prey, a foot or so high, and painted a low gloss black.

"For real?" Mae asked.

"I don't know how to answer that question. In the story the bird was solid gold, encrusted with precious stones and painted black as a disguise. At the end of the movie, what they have is a fake, heavy, black but worthless. Sam Spade, that's Bogart's character tells a cop that it's the stuff that dreams are made of."

"And the dead guy that got better?"

"In the movie the bird is delivered to Spade by Captain Jacoby of the MV La Paloma, with a knife in his back. He's trying to keep it from Caspar Guttman, Joel Cairo and Bridget O'Shaughnessy."

"Like the song?"

"Eh? Oh, yes, the Friends of Mr. Cairo. Anyway, it's a great movie, perfect cast, and one of the quintessential 'Film Noir'. Heck, John Huston practically wrote the book on Film Noir. He even did a cameo as the Captain. Bogie, Mary Astor, Peter Lorrie, Elisha Cook, and Sydney Greenstreet as Guttman."

"Is it worth anything?" Mae asked the obvious question.

"If it's a real prop? I dunno, how much is James Bond's Aston-Martin worth? Ten times the value of the vehicle? Twenty? Or Captain Kirk's communicator? Or Indy's fedora? Inigo Montoya's father's sword? They're all just movie props. I mean, they have value in the eyes of collectors. And those people are nuts. But the real ones are pretty well known."

I turned it over in my hands, looking for some clue. There were a couple of scratches on one shoulder, otherwise it was uniformly dull black. There on the bottom it had a yellowing tag which read "Warner Bros. Prop Dep't" and the date June 9th, 1941. Near the edge of the base was another mark, 7.5 maybe? the "7" had a line through it as common in Europe.

"I guess it could be real. But the dead guy? And why me?" and, I silently added, *Why just as a beautiful naked woman was about to make an indecent proposal?*

"I don't know. Come with me, we'll do some research."

I took her to the computer. Ok, it was in my bedroom. But, in my defense, it is a large room, and has my home office. She sat on the edge of a filing cabinet and crossed one perfect tanned leg over the other. The trench coat opened enough to show an expanse of thigh. Oh, yeah. I forgot: she's naked under the coat and was about to, well I'm not sure. Blowjob? Hand job? Hot fucking in multiple positions and orifices? Concentrate Ted. The Bird.

Google provided lots of information about the movie, and the book, and the prop. Or more correctly, props? It seems there were several. Including one that was actually made of gold for the Academy Awards in 1942. The movie props were eleven-and-a-half inches tall and weighed about 7 pounds for the ones made of plaster and forty-five pounds for one made of lead. The lead one had famously been dropped on Bogie's foot. Complicating things was the fact that Jack Warner gave copies away to people. One was found in Actor William Conrad's den after he died. And a comedy parody was made in the 1970s which meant more, slightly different Falcons were made.

The most recent auction of one used in the movie fetched four million dollars.

"How tall is our little friend Mae?" I asked, handing her a ruler.

"Let's see. Uh, eleven-and-a-half inches. Does that mean anything?"

I thought, *If you're not impressed with eleven-and-a-half inches, I'm sure not going to impress you.*

"That's the correct size. At least, that is what the one in the movie is supposed to be. Care to guess its weight?"

"Uh, maybe twenty kilos or so. So yeah, forty-five pounds. Do you think it's real?"

"The thing I'm holding looks like the real thing, it's the right size and weight, and it says property of Warner Brothers. If it's not "real" someone went to a lot of trouble to make it look real. Of course, the big question is how do we fit in?"