Someone knocked on glass door of the Spade & Archer office. From under his dark brown fedora, Sam Spade pried open one eye then placed the half bottle of Old Sweat Sock in his desk drawer while he shoved the cock he had been stroking back in his pants. Rising, he straightened his trench coat, drawing the belt tight around his waist and tied it in a knot. "Come in," he growled in his best Humphrey Bogart imitation.
The door opened and in walked brunette about five foot seven walked in wearing a dark blue jersey dress that looked like it came off the rack at one of those expensive boutiques downtown. This broad had legs that went all the up to her ass and pair of lips that could set forest fires. She sauntered across the room and sat in the wooden office chair opposite Spade.
"Are you Mr. Spade?"
"Yeah. That's me. Sam Spade, Private Eye."
"Why are you wearing a trench coat, Mr. Spade? It's ninety degrees in here."
"Dames," thought Spade, rolling his eyes. "They never understood image." Spade went on, "And what can I do for you, Miss…"
"Astor. Mary Astor. Mr. Spade, my lover has disappeared. I'm afraid something may have happened to him," she said in the deepest, most sultry voice Spade had ever heard. A tear glistened at the corner of her eye. Spade's cock began to grow in his pants.
As Mary talked Sam Spade knew he had heard the story before. Salesman blows into town and picks up some dame, fucks her silly, maybe even knocks her up. Then he's off to the next town. But this dame looked like she had a few pesos in her purse to spend and a hot pussy just waiting for an oversized cock like his.
"You want me to find him. Right?" Spade already knew the answer as he stared casually at Mary Astor's heaving 38DD's. He could feel the bulge in his pants grow bigger just thinking about those melons.
"Oh yes, Mr. Spade," she said reaching in her purse, pulling out a wad of bills. "See I have money, a lot of money. I can pay anything you ask."
Reaching up to adjust the bulge under his armpit and down to adjust the bulge in his pants Spade said, "Ok. But I don't work for peanuts. It'll be $19.95 a day plus expenses. Take it or leave it, sweetheart."
Getting up from his swivel chair, Spade stretched to his full four foot three inches and came around the desk, thinking he remembered being somewhat taller in the last story. "Ok, give me all the details, baby. Don't hold back. I gotta have a place to start. Now who is this guy? What's his name? How many times did he get between your legs? Was it good for you too? Did you like it when he…"
Noticing the bulge under Spade's armpit and the one in his pants Mary Astor queried, "Why do you have two guns, Mr. Spade?"
"One's for long range and the other is for close contact," Spade replied placing his hand on Mary's thigh.
Mary Astor handed Spade two crisp twenty-dollar bills and a manila envelope. "There's two days in advance, Mr. Spade. Now get your greasy paw off my leg, you bastard!" she added. "Can you start immediately? I've written down everything I know about this man." Mary Astor handed Spade a large manila envelope.
"Don't get your panties in a knot. Just testing the waters," Spade said wryly. He could tell by the negative reaction that he was dealing with a high class broad with considerable experience. "Well. I have a lot of big cases I'm working on. But for you, sweetheart, I'll start now."
Spade had nothing to do. Miles Archer was the real detective. He only kept Spade around to answer the phone because a partner was cheaper than a secretary.
As Mary sauntered back across the room to the door, Spade's eyes were locked on her ass. Unconsciously, he rubbed the bulge in his pants. "This dame has got some motor working under that skirt," he thought.
At the door Mary turned and said, "If you want me, just whistle. You know how to whistle don't you? Oh… never mind… that was Lauren Becall's line from 'To Have or Have Not'." With that the door closed leaving Spade alone with his hard on.
Opening the manila envelope Spade found a handwritten letter along with a picture of Mary. She was naked with a carrot stuck up her ass. It was signed with the words "Give it to me, Big Boy," written across one corner. Grumbling, Spade picked up the phone and dialed the operator and asked for a number in Oregon.
"Hello," came the answer of the author.
"I smell a rat, you bitch!" Spade shouted into the phone.
"Oh, it's you, Sam. How are you?"
"Don't fucking 'How are you' me."
"What's the problem, Sam?"
"Naked picture in the envelope? Are you're steering me into another one of your low budget porn stories? If that's it then I'm walking."
"Would I do that, Sam?"
"Hell, yes. You've done it every time. Remember High Sierra Whorehouse? Or what about Hookers of Vera Cruz? Then there was Casablanca BJ. You said those were straight too. But you changed the titles as soon as you started writing. Look sister, I got a reputation to look out for in this town. You even had me jacking off in the first paragraph, for God sake!"
" Sam, this is a regular mystery, not porn. That's the way detectives act. Now just do what I write, ok? And while you're at it, try and open your mouth and try to annunciate better, would you? You sound like a cheap imitation of Bogart."
Fuming, Spade hung up the phone, pocketed the picture and began to read the page like the author wrote it. "Damn, her punctuation sucks almost as bad a Jenny's," he thought.
It seemed Mary had met this guy in a local bistro called The Ass Pump Room over on Wilshire Boulevard. By the sound of it, this guy had been humping the Astor dame for quite a while and she had fallen for him big time.
Spade thought for a moment, then left the office to check out the club. He wanted to find out if anyone knew this guy. Taking the bus downtown, he transferred to the number 7 headed for Wilshire Boulevard.
Spade had been to the Ass Pump Room once with Archer while he was learning the ropes to be a detective. It was one of those places with richly decorated red flocked wallpaper and classy black velvet paintings on the walls. The place even had two stages where two brass poles awaited overworked and underpaid waitresses eager to shed their clothes and flaunt their gym-toned bodies.
While talking to some of the Ass Pump girls Spade discovered that all of them were named either Ginger or Shana. In addition, they were all working their way through college while supported their invalid parents. "They just don't make nice girls like that anymore," thought Spade.
Walking into the darkened club, Spade's eyes adjusted slowly to the dim lighting. He leaned against the bar and motioned for the bartender.
"What'll it be?" asked the bartender.
"An O'Doul's and some information," replied Spade pulling out a bright shine quarter. "This is yours if you've got some answers for me."
The bartender stared hungrily at the quarter. "Get the hell out of here you moron. They don't make O'Doul's in 1941 and that chicken shit quarter will buy you nothing."
Unflustered, Spade decided to make his rounds of the club. Across the room he spotted one of the Gingers he had met on his previous visit.
"Hello, Ginger. How's tricks?" he asked in his best private eye voice as he swaggered up to her.
The woman covered her bare nipples with her hands and crossed her legs. "Who are you? Some cop?" she asked.
"No baby. I'm a private dick. Looking for someone." Pulling out the picture of Mary Astor he showed it to the Ginger. "Ever seen this broad before?" he asked.
"Oh yeah. I don't recognize the carrot, but I see her all the time in here with a detective guy. He's a regular and a big tipper. Maybe you know him. His name is Miles Something-Or-Other"
"Private eye named Miles, you say? Seen him in here today, Ginger?"
"Yeah. He's the one sleeping in the back booth. And by the way, my name's Heather this month."
Spade sauntered over to the back booth, and then sliding in opposite the slumped-over man he took his wrist and shook him roughly.
"Hey, wake up." Nothing happened. Spade shook him again, harder. The man slid off the bench to the floor under the table.
The bartender came over to see what the commotion was all about. Seeing the man under the table he said, "Hey, none of that sissy boy shit in my place. You tell your friend to get off his knees or both of you can get the hell out."
"Umm… I think there's something wrong with this guy. I was trying to wake him up and he just slid off."
The bartender got down look at the man on the floor. "Well, fuck. You killed him," shouted the bartender.
Heather's voice came from across the room saying, "Naw. Wasn't him. There was some other guys here talking to him a while ago. This jerk just got here."
"Well, I'm calling the cops. Nobody leaves. OK?" The bartender hurried back to the bar and lifted the telephone receiver.
"You know who was he talking too, Ginger… I mean Heather?" asked Spade.
"I don't know who they were, mister. One was a tall fat man. The other was a short, weird guy with funny eyes. There was another sorta weenie guy with a handgun." Then confidentially she moved close to Spade and whispered, "I ain't supposed to tell you but I had a talk with Jenny and she told me those guys were Sydney Greenstreet and Peter Lorre. The weenie guy's name is Wilmer. You didn't get it from me, Ok?"
Looking nervously around the club Heather went on, " I got troubles with the cops coming. I'll get arrested cuz my dance license is expired. So can I just act like I'm with you on a date or something?" Without waiting for an answer the naked woman slid into the seat next to Spade and began unzipping his pants.
Leaning over, Spade quickly went through the dead man's pockets. He only found car keys, wallet and a claim check ticket for a pawnshop over on Muncie Avenue. Pocketing the keys and pawn ticket Spade thought about making a run for it, but he could already hear the police sirens coming from the street. So he quickly went through the wallet while the woman started to give him a gratuitous blowjob, hoping to make it look good for the cops.
"Hey, mister. Why do you have a gym sock stuffed down here?" she asked holding up a white sock that was rolled up to look like a long cylinder.
Feeling shocked Spade said in his best detective voice, "Oh… that's where I lost it. Umm… it wasn't there to make a bulge or anything. I've been looking for that."
"Hey, is this your cock?" she asked. "That's the smallest cock I ever saw. Does it work?" Heather laughed.
"Of course it works. Works better than most. Here come the cops," Spade said pushing Heather's head down on his lap.
Spade stuffed the dead man's wallet in the pocket of his trench coat and reached for his cell phone to call Jenny_S again.
"You bitch! Not only do you have me mixed up in another one of you dumb low-budget porn stories but you made me short and gave me a little dick. That was fucking mean!" screamed Spade.
"No, Sam. I didn't give you a small cock and make you short. That's how you were created. I could give you an interesting war wound though if you like."
"Rewrite this turkey, Jenny. I want to be tall and have a really big cock. If you don't I'm going to expose you to the Tribune. I got friends down there you know."
