The St Valentines Massacre Fiasco

Valentine's Day, 1948

Violet Barfly was the kind of broad you really want to get next too. Her monstrous 44DD's had the kind of jiggle that gave guys a headache and a double sized boner, even sitting still. When she walked, her ass gyrated like the roller coaster at Coney Island. She was topped off with a head of long blond hair and the face of Jean Harlow. This babe was one hot orgasm waiting to happen.

Harry Dick couldn't help watching her as she swivel-hipped across 5th Avenue towards the low-rent office building where he had his office. Harry's Cock noticed the Barfly dame too and stretched over the window sill to get a good look at the broad.

"She wants me, Harry, I can tell," Harry's Cock leered. "And, I think she's coming here."

"Get back in my pants and shut up," Harry growled angrily.

"If you'd keep your hand to yourself, I wouldn't get all excited, Harry."

Just then, the door of HARRY DICK, PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS opened and Violet jiggled into the outer office like a proverbial bowl full of Jell-O. Moments later the intercom buzzed. "There's some tramp her to see ya, Harry," came the voice of Harry's secretary, the luscious and well stacked, Miss Maria Torres.

"Send her in, doll," Harry and his Cock said in unison. Harry hurriedly stuffed his copy of the latest issue of "HAIR PIE" magazine in the top drawer of his desk.

The door to the inner office opened and Violet Barfly jiggled into the room. Harry motioned to the chair in front of his desk. Harry's Cock was doing some motioning of his own.

"Now then," Harry said, professionally, "What can I do for you?"

"I know what you can do for me, baby," Harry's Cock remarked, with a big, one-eyed grin.

"Oh, Mr. Dick, it's just awful. My boyfriend is missing," Violet sobbed into a ruffled hankie.

"Now, now. Tell me all about it," Harry told her.

"Yeah. And sob more. It really makes your tits jiggle," said Harry's Cock.

"We were going to Atlantic City for Valentine's Day, you know. It was going to be a really big deal. He even got us reservations at a really classy motel and everything," Violet sobbed. "I'm not sure which one, but he kept referring to it as having a big 6 on the sign and told me they would keep the light on for us."

"Yeah, that's it, baby. Keep the tears coming and soon I'll be cumming too," Harry's Cock said gleefully.

Harry slapped his cock under the table and whispered, "Shut the fuck up. This is business."

"Oh yeah, Harry. Slap me around some more. I like it."

"Now, Miss...?"

"Barfly. Violet Barfly."

"Okay, Miss Barfly, when was the last time you saw your boyfriend?"

"It was the night before last. I met him at the Ass Pump Room over on Quincy Avenue. We go there a lot. I work there sometimes."

"Ass Pump Room, eh? Don't think I know that place. What kinda joint is it?"

"Ass Pump," said Harry's Cock, grinning wider than ever, a drop of precum dribbling down his shaft.

"It's a real nice place, Mr. Dick. It has red flocked wall paper and really classy black velvet paintings. A real classy joint, you know."

"And you say you work there, sometimes?" Harry asked.

"Yeah, I work there on Thursday and Friday nights. I'm trying to earn enough money to buy my invalid mother a wheelchair," Violet said, still sobbing.

"Hmm. Sounds like a real nice place," Harry said. "And what time did your boyfriend leave?"

Violet had to think for a minute. "I think it was around midnight. He said he had a meeting with some guys from out of town."

"Do you have any idea who these guys were?"

"No. But he said they were from Chicago."

"Well, Miss Barfly, I'm pretty busy right now but I'll try and squeeze you in. But I don't work cheap. I charge $19.95 a day plus expenses," Harry said, sitting back in his cheap, Naugahyde office chair.

"Yeah. And I'd like to squeeze into you too," interjected Harry's Cock.

"Well, I'll have to dig into the wheelchair fund, Mr. Dick, but here," Violet said, handing over two crisp, new twenty-dollar-bills.

Violet Barfly stood and leaned over Harry's desk, her right hand extended to shake. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Dick. I'll keep in touch," she said leaning over even farther. Her fun bags were about to pop out of her low cut dress.

"Oh, God. I'm fucking dying down here," moaned Harry's Cock.

Harry shook Violets hand, while staring at her knockers. "I'd like to touch...I mean, and I'll keep in touch with you too, Miss Barfly."

Violet turned and walked to the door. The whole room seemed to undulate with the movement of her ass as she walked. At the door, Violet turned. "Oh, one more thing, Mr. Dick."

"Yes? What is it?"

"These guys, Geraldo, that's my boyfriend, were supposed to meet. They were Italians and I think they were in the music business."

Harry considered this for a moment. "What makes you think that, Miss Barfly?"

"Well, he said they all carried violin cases. So they must be musicians or something." With that, Violet opened the door and was gone.

"Hmm," Harry thought, "Violin cases...Italians...from Chicago? Sounds like mobsters."

Harry turned to the window of his office and watch Violet Barfly walk out into the street, wave down a cab and climb in. Harry's Cock continued to dribble.

The intercom on his desk buzzed.

Harry pressed the button on the intercom and said, "What is it, doll?"

"You have a phone call, Harry. I'm going to lunch now. Bye," Maria said.

Harry picked up the telephone. "Harry Dick here."

"Hi, Harry," came the voice of the insane author and sometime porn-monger, Jenny Jackson.

"Oh, Shit. There goes my day," Harry said, into the receiver.

"Now, Harry. Don't be like that. I did send you a real case this time. Sounds like this Barfly woman's mixed up with real mobsters."

"You sent her?" Harry asked, suspiciously.

"Of course, Harry. I'm the only one who writes you. Who else would have sent her?"

"Son-of-a-bitch," mumbled Harry under his breath. "Why couldn't I get a real writer like Mickey Spillane or someone instead of this schizophrenic nut-job?"

"What was that, Harry? I couldn't quite hear?"

"Never mind, Jackson. What's the deal? After all the shit jobs you sent me, now you send me a good job for once?"

"Just trying to make it up to you, Harry. I'm thinking I could make you the next Mike Hammer or something."

"Yeah, yeah. Like, I really believe that, Jackson," Harry said, rolling his eyes.

"And look at me. I'm all soft and shriveled again," remarked Harry's Cock.

"I know you're busy, Harry, so I'll let you get to work," Jenny said. "Oh, and tell you cock to shut the fuck up. He isn't supposed to talk."

The phone line went as dead as Harry's Cock was feeling.

The door to Harry's private office opened and Police Inspector "Boney" Malone entered the office. "So, Jenny actually gave you a case, eh, Dick?"

"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. A worn out flat-foot," Harry said, with barely disguised dislike.

"Knock off the comedy, Dick," Malone said, seriously. "I hear Jenny sent you a case involving some Italian mobsters from Chicago."

"Maybe. What's it to you?"

"Those Chicago mobs are mixed up in a lota stuff, Harry. Stuff like, prostitution, loan sharking, drugs and porn. I'm here to tell you to back off."

"Boney, every case I get, you say to back off," Harry said, trying to act tough. "Now, I admit, Jenny has sent me some pretty phony cases, but this one is big."

"Look, Dick. Jenny tells me you are on to something. It's Valentine's Day, right? You ever hear about the St. Valentine's Day Massacre? That was Al Capone and his Chicago mob."

"Well, no. Not really. But that don't mean anything, Boney. This is my case and it's going to make me a big name in the detective business in this town."

"Yeah? Remember what you said about the Christmas Dildo Caper? That case was going to put you on the front page. At least your Christmas Tree made the front page of the Times, even if you didn't."

"Hey. Don't remind me. Okay?"

"The boys down at the precinct are still laughing, Harry."

"Fuck off, Boney!"

Malone was still chuckling when he stepped out of Harry's private office. There he turned to Maria Torres and said, "You ready for lunch, baby?"

"Oh yeah," Maria said, with a wide smile. "You going to give me a big sausage for lunch again today, Boney?"

*******************

Harry Dick parked his 1924 Packard on the street, down the block from the Ass Pump Room. After locking his priceless piece of junk, he swaggered down the street and entered the club. Violet was right. The Ass Pump Room was really swank.

Dick walked up to the bar and waved at the bartender. The bartender blew his nose on his bar towel and asked, "What'll it be, buddy?"

"A little information," Harry said, handing the bartender one of his business cards. These cards he'd gotten at a garage sale in Yonkers the previous summer. The cards had been printed for "Big Al's Fine Frozen Meats" but Harry had artfully crossed that out and wrote in his own business name.

"Fucked up card, guy. Where'd you get these? Some garage sale or something?"

"None of you lip," Harry said in his best tough-guy voice. "You know Violet Barfly?"

The bartender looked nervous. "Yeah, I know her. Who don't?"

"You ever seen her boyfriend?"

"Yeah. He was here a couple a nights ago. Kind of a squatty, Italian guy."

"That's him. You seen him since?"

"Naw. I head he had a gig with some guys from Chi-Town."

"These guys carrying violin cases?"

"Yeah. That's them. Tough looking guys."

Harry thought for a minute, and then asked, "What can you tell me about Violet?"

"Nice girl. She's saving up to get her invalid father a wooden leg, I hear."

"She ever hang out with any of the other dames in here?"

The bartender scratched his ass. "Yeah. She and Rhonda are good friends. That's Rhonda over there on the edge of the stage."

Harry wandered over to the stage. "Are you Rhonda?"

The woman looked down at him. "Yeah. That's me, Rhonda Rockets. What's it too ya?" she said, and then glared at Harry. "And put your cock back in your pants. You're gonna get us raided. It is kinda cute and all, but it is sort of small."

"I wanna stay out here and investigate," said Harry's Cock, as he was shoved by in Harry's pants, "And what's this about small?"

"What can you tell me about Violet," Harry asked.

"Oh, her? She's a good dancer and makes pretty good tips. But her boyfriend is a dork. He wanders around with his violin case like there's something valuable in there or something."

"Do you know where he hangs out?"

"Yeah. You can usually find him downtown. I heard him say he had a gig down at 7th Avenue and West 56th Street."

Harry thought for a moment. "That's over by Central Park West, right?"

"Yeah, that's the place. Now I gotta get to work. You want a lap dance?"

Harry stared at Rhonda. "Lap dance," he said, in total confusion. "Why would you dance on my lap? Wouldn't that hurt?"

"Yeah. I want one," pleaded Harry's Cock.

"You don't know too much, do ya?" Rhonda said, shaking her head and wandering away.

Harry went out to his Packard and started the engine. Soon he was heading downtown. His cell phone rang in his inside coat pocket. He answered the phone. "Hello?"

"Hi, Harry," came the dreaded voice of Jenny Jackson. "You on your way downtown?"

"Yes. Why?"

"You better stop at a news stand a get the afternoon edition, Harry. Look in the entertainment section."

"Ok, what are you doing now, Jackson? I smell a rat."

"Why, Harry. I'm hurt. I'm just trying to help you out," Jenny said, feigning a stifled sob.

"Right, Jenny. Like you never give me anything you don't think will make me into the butt of some stupid joke or something," Harry said angrily.

"Now, watch your driving, Harry. I don't want you to have a wreck or a stroke. I'd have to find a way to resurrect you in the next caper."

"Ok, so what am I looking for in the "Times"?

"Just check the lead story in the entertainment section, Harry. And, by the way, why do you have a cell phone in 1948? They haven't been invented yet."

Harry angrily closed the cell phone and threw it in the back seat. "Bitch!"

The Packard stopped at 8th Avenue. Harry got out bought a newspaper at a news stand. Turning to the entertainment section, he saw a picture of three guys carrying violin cases. Skimming through the first paragraph of the article, he saw that the President of the United States, Harry S. Truman, would be at a performance at the same place these wise-guys were hanging out. "Yeah, and we know what wise-guys carry in their violin cases, don't we. I seen the 'Untouchables."

Harry returned to the Packard. He was about to start the engine when it struck him. "Oh my God! They are going to assassinate the President." Harry jumped out of the car and made a fast call at a pay phone to Boney Malone at the Third Avenue precinct.

"Boney, listen. This is big. The Barfly dame's boyfriend is going to assassinate Harry Truman. You gotta get down to 7th Avenue and West 56th Street with a lot of guys so we can stop this."

"What the hell have you been drinking, Dick?"

"No. I got a hot tip from Jackson. These guys are going to shoot the president."

"You sure about this, Dick?" Boney said, disbelieving.

"Yes. I'm sure. If you move right now, you can cut out the Federal guys and take all the credit."

"Hmm. That doesn't sound all that bad. I'll round up the guys from the detective squad and meet you there."

Harry hung up the phone and ran back to the Packard.

As the car eased out into traffic, Harry patted the prized 38 special under his arm pit with the confusing engraving on the receiver: "To Louis on his 21st birthday."

"One of these days, I'm going to find out who the hell Louis is and what was so hot about this birthday," Harry promised himself.

"Hey, Harry," said Harry's Cock. After we get these guys, can we go back the office a bang Maria? I've wanted to do that since Christmas."

"Shut up. You aren't supposed to talk. Okay?"

Harry pulled the Packard into the alley behind the building on 7th Avenue. He climbed out of the car and looked around. He saw a door marked "Employee Entrance." He tried the door. It was unlocked. He went inside.

The interior of the building near the back, where Harry entered, was dark. He moved cautiously. The he saw them. They were on a stage closer to the front of the building. All three wise guys carried violin cases stood around talking. Harry stopped to listen.

"Yeah, dat's right. Da President of the U S of A is on his way down here right now. What say we give him a little surprise?" Harry heard one of the thugs say.

"Yeah. I got something for him," another said with a wide sneer.

Harry got ready as the three men set their violin cases down on a table and began to open them. Knowing there was no time to wait for Boney and the others, Harry sprung into action.

"Stop right there!" Harry yelled, stepping out into the lighted stage.

"Who the hell is he?" one said, rhetorically while reaching into his violin case.

Harry saw the movement. He had no time to think, just react. Harry lowered his shoulder and charged the three like a linebacker headed for the goal line at the Super Bowl (which wouldn't happen for another forty years or so, but what the hell). Harry's shoulder crashed into the nearest thug. The man fell over the table. Harry leaped to his feet and grabbed a violin case. He raised it over his head and brought it down hard on the head of a second thug. The case broke in half as the thug went down.

Then Harry turned and saw the last thug reaching for his violin case which had fallen to the floor. Harry leaped across the stage and landed on the case with both feet. There was a loud crunch. Harry sent his fist to the jaw of the third thug sending him flying, unconscious, from the stage.

"What the hell is going on here?" said a loud voice behind Harry.

On pure reflex alone, Harry turned and attacked the new comer. Harry drove his fist into the man's face and pounded him to the stage floor. Then, with his hands clenched around the man's throat, while he pounded his head against the floor, he gapped at the figure. Harry Dick was pounding on the President, Harry S. Truman. "Mr. President, thank God you are safe," Harry blurted.

"Safe? Why wouldn't I be safe from anyone but you?" The President looked totally confused and angry.

"Why, mobsters. They were going to kill you, Mr. President," Harry said, confidently.

"Mobsters? Who? These guys? They're violinists. This is Carnegie Hall, for Christ sake," the President said, turning a bright red. "You're the only one trying to kill me. Who the hell are you, anyway?"

"Dick. Harry Dick, private eye. At your service," Harry said, proudly.

The president leaned down and picked up a badly mangled Stradivarius. "Private meat-head is more like it."

Just then Boney Malone and his men came rushing down the main aisle. "Okay, Harry. What the hell is going on? Did you get the guys?"

The president turned to stare at Malone and the detectives from the third precinct. "Another bunch of morons. Do you know these guys, Dick?"

"Police Inspector Malone," Boney said, proudly.

"Well inspector. You are just in time for an arrest."

"Okay, boys. Cuff these guys and take them downtown."

"No, inspector. Not them. Arrest Harry Dick. He's the one you want."

Harry picked up one of the violins. It was smash flat as a virgin's chest. "I don't understand. These guys are gangsters," whined Harry.

"Oh, hi, Harry." Violet Barfly had come in the stage door. "I see you got the guys. But these are the wrong guys. I found my boyfriend a while ago at the Ass Pump Room."

The president stared at Violets jiggling torpedoes. "And you are?" he said extending his hand.

"Oh, hi. I'm Violet, Mr. President. Pleased at meet cha." Taking the president's hand the two walked off the stage together.

"Now, tell me, Violet, all about the Ass Pump Room," the president asked, with a sleazy sneer on his face.

Harry, of course, was led off in handcuffs to the screams of three violinists telling him they were suing him for millions. As he left the building, he turned. Above the entrance was a sign that read: "Valentine's Day Concert for Lovers and Other Strangers."

"Yeah, there ain't no one stranger than you, Harry," laughed Boney Malone.

"Does this mean I ain't gett'n any again tonight?" asked Harry's Cock, with a tear dribbling down his shaft.

The insane (and somewhat evil-minded) author, Jenny Jackson, sat in front of her word processor giggling at the thought of Harry's next adventure - Harry Dick Meets His Cellmate, Bubba.