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?"
