Spilling With Spillane

Dear Reader,

This story is drawn from real-life experiences in New York City's Hell's Kitchen and was written for the 'Hammered' collection. If you enjoy it, please give it a fair vote and favor the author so you will get notice of new stories. As always, your comments are welcome.

Another Spillane story entered too early and published should have been in this collection as well. See, "Good Samaritans Finish Last" which is listed in an index of my stories.

Stay well and enjoy. There is, in my opinion, nothing finer than good sex and reading about it. Best Regards, erectus123

*****

SPILLING WITH SPILLANE

I grew up in New York's Hell's Kitchen, just like Mickey Spillane. Of course, Mick was older than me. It wasn't until I was a teenager and had read a bunch of his pulp fiction that I got to meet him.

When I was old enough to drink, I began to hang around Spillane's Bar on 9th and 49th St in New York City. I loved to listen in on the stories that the old-timers told. One day, when I saw a sign in the window offering a job. I asked Joe, the bartender if he could use me.

"What's your name, kid?

"Wesley Kehoe, sir."

"Well, Kehoe is a good Irish name. How old are ya? Ya gotta be at least eighteen to work in a bar."

"I turned eighteen in February," I answered proudly, "Sir."

"You can forget the 'Sir bullshit.' This is a fucken dive bar, not the House of Lords."

"Yes, sir."

"Are you sure you're not compromised?"

"What do ya mean, Sir?"

"I mean, are you retarded! I said to cut the 'Sir' shit."

"Oh, yes, I mean I will. No Sir, I'm not retarded."

"Shut the fuck up, Wesley," Joe points in the corner,

"You know how to swing a boom kid?"

"Get the fucken broom and start sweeping."

"Sure, Sir."

"Ok. you're hired."

I started work that same day. Joe came out from behind the bar and gave me a lesson in sweeping. Short, fast strokes, hard pressing the broom head against the floor. In no time, I was cleaning, dusting, scrubbing the bar with scouring powder, and performing an occasional paint touch-up.

I thought the famous author owned the bar, but no, it was owned by his cousin of the same name who had achieved quite a bit of notoriety as a gang boss. I should say the bar was owned by his widow, who we rarely saw, because that Mickey, the criminal, was assassinated while trying to broker a truce between the Italian Mafia and the Irish gangs who historically controlled Hell's Kitchen.

I worked as a clean-up guy for several years while going off and on to John Jay College. I was studying jurisprudence, thinking I'd become a lawyer or policeman.

Joe said I could continue to earn pocket money, and if I got done early, I could do my studying on one of the back tables. That was when Mickey, the author, started hanging around the place.

"What the fuck are you doing, Kid?"

"I'm the clean-up guy, but now that I'm at college, Joe said I could study when he didn't need me for, well, you know, the clean-up.

My Mom is dead, and my sister Ida takes care of the three younger kids, so the tiny apartment is bedlam if you catch my drift."

"That's good, kid, keep at it."

Spillane's was an old bar. The dusty ceiling was made of stamped metal. I guess it was Victorian in origin. The bar was over a hundred years old. I thought it was quaint, but Mickey looked up and said,

"Why don't they modernize this fucken place? It looks like shit."

And he was right. The bar smelled of stale beer and had the aroma of a day-old coffee pot. A wet mop in the corner didn't help the odor. The barstools squeaked when I moved them, but to a young man like myself, the stench of the place had a glorious masculine perfume. The barstools cried out in agony when you sat on them, and the stuffing was so far gone that the stools hurt your ass. But I was young, and this was New York, and there was no safety catch on my dick.

Maybe it was the delinquent atmosphere of the neighborhood that brought Mickey to visit. He seemed always to be working on something. He'd sit with a yellow legal pad, busy taking notes. I recognized him immediately. Mick's mug was on the backside of his many paperbacks. When I repeated this to Mickey, he said, "They should have put my backside on the front cover. You'd be surprised how many guys and gals are turned on my ass." I guess he was joking?

Mick, always a stylish dresser. He usually dressed casually in slacks and a Dodger t-shirt as the temperature in late August was in the 90s.

"Here kid, ya old enough to drink whiskey?"

"Yes, sir," and Mick passed me a full jigger of Early Times Whiskey.

I took the shot like a pro, but something went wrong, and part of the booze exited out my nose.

Mikey started laughing like it was the funniest thing since Rocky, our late governor, had a coronary while fucking his young mistress. I took a few minutes to recover as the whiskey burned up the inside of my nose.

"You better learn how to drink whisky unless you're gay?" said Mike.

This comment scared me, but I was quick on the draw,

"I find that guys who ask if someone is gay are really looking for a free blow job."

"Touche kid, touche. It looks like you've got a bit of the Blarney Stone in ya."

Yep, I'm 99% Irish."

"And what's the 1 percent?"

They lopped off my foreskin when I was a baby, so I'm 1% Jew, I guess? That wasn't at all true. I'd just invented it to see Mick's reaction.

"Or Arab," said Mick.

"Yes, maybe that," Mick said as he busied himself rifling through the assorted papers spread out in front of him.

"You know, it used to be that the whores would stand under the upper level of the Westside Highway and parade around half-naked to entertain the onlookers.

The West Side highway's upper level collapsed with an earth-shattering roar in the middle of a cold December night a number of years ago--one overloaded dump truck too many. The upper deck was never rebuilt. Pieces of it, supported by rusty ironwork, now serve as a freestanding park and garden space."

"We used to get drunk and go down there and fuck them whores. Sometimes if you were too shitfaced, you'd end up with a tranny. If the bitch were smart enough, she'd slip your cock in her ass before you knew she wasn't a girl, and you might never have found out except that one of your buddies made you the laughing stock over it."

Mick asked me, "Have you ever gotten laid?" I was embarrassed to say "no."

"Well, sort of," I answered.

"It's either yes or no, Wesley. Are you some kind of idiot?"

"Ah, sort of."

"Tell me what happened."

"Well, it was at a party. We were playing Spin-the-Bottle, and I spun and ended up with Mary Ellen MacGuire. We went together into Shane's bedroom..."

"Who the fuck is Shane?"

"He's one of the kids on the block. We all grew up together. It was his nineteenth birthday party."

"Go on."

So Mary Ellen and I go into Shane's bedroom and start smooching. I got a hard-on. I guess she noticed it.

"A few spins later, Mary Ellen's spin stops on me."

"How many were ya's?"

"Six or maybe eight kids. So once more, we go into the bedroom, and instead of kissing right off, Mary Ellen says, 'Show me your dick."

"I say why?"

"Just show me."

So I unzip my fly, and she takes over and unbuttons my jeans. They fall to my knees. She pulls down my underwear and says, "Just be quiet. I'm gonna suck you off." She gets down on the floor rug, lifts up her bra, and says, "Hold onto my tits. You can suck 'em if ya want."

So I just stand there, feeling her big titties, my dick is now pretty swollen, and she says,

'What's wrong with your dick. You got this thick skin around it. It's not like my Dad's."

"Yeah, it's ain't a modern dick."

"When it's snipped, it's cleaner that way," she says.

But whether I got a thick foreskin or not, she doesn't need more convincing. She's sucking it like it's the key to the kingdom when Shane's Mom bursts into the room.

"What are you two youngins up to," she shouts.

Mary Ellen stops sucking, but I'm ready to pop. She starts to stand up. My dick explodes, and she catches most of it right on her face and across her tits.

Shane's Mom starts screaming, "Get out of here, you filthy sinners."

We run out the door and down the brownstone's stairs.

I say to Mary Ellen,

"Gee, I'm awfully sorry I got you all wet."

"That doesn't matter."

We are passing the little park on 45th St., and she says, "Come in; we're not done."

She sits down on the cement stairs and lifts up her skirt. As she's pulling down her panties, she says, "You got a Jimmy?"

"What do you mean?"

"Jimmy, a rubber, a condom, you dope."

"Ah, no."

"Well then, you gotta pull out before you jizz me."

"Ok."

"I'm standing there as she undoes my pants and puts her hands on my naked butt, and pulls me closer. My dick seems to know just where to go. Then, just as I'm getting inside her, O'Casy, the dumb neighborhood cop, spies us and starts shouting. We gotta stop in the middle and runoff. So, Mr. Spillane, I don't know if that qualifies as getting laid or not."

Mickey puts one finger in the air and says, "You can say you got laid. That's a pretty good story. But you lied to me when you said you was part Jew."

"Yeah, I know, I was just kidding. But aren't the Irish one of the ten lost tribes?"

Mickey continued, "Now she said something about her Dad's cock. Did you ask her about that?"

"Yeah, I did afterward. Mary Ellen said her Dad was a mean drunk, and ever since her Mom run off with some fireman, her Dad makes her suck his cock."

"My God, that is terrible."

"Yeah, that's what I thought, but she said it was fun. Her Dad said she had to be learning how to do it cause all the guys expect a blowjob after the first date, and it was a safe way to keep from getting pregnant."

"That's true, but sucking your father's cock ain't what they teach ya in church."

"It's a lot worse in church, Father O'Grady was caught fucking Mary Hanson's Mom, and he's still there in the church. Her brother said O'Grady corn holed him after his eighteen birthday, and the dummy was going back for more."

"Oh bejeezus, what is this world coming to?" said Mick.

About that moment, Miss Koonen comes in the door and sits a few stools away. She's probably fifty-five and knew my Mom back in the day. I remember she brought an apple pie to the house back when Mom died and has spent a bit of time with my Dad ever since.

"Oh, hello Wesley," she says, "I was just thinking of your dear mother." and she starts to weep.

"Go put your arm around her," says Mike, "Maybe she'll give you a blow job."

I take his advice, not because of his dirty comment. I'm just trying to be a nice guy. She calms down pretty soon and disengages from my chest. Now my shirt stinks from old lady perfume.

"Order me a Cognac, will you deary and come by to visit sometime, don't be a stranger."

I relay the order to Joe and sit down again next to Mike, who says,

"See, she wants you to visit. That's when you'll get the blowjob."

"Sure, just what I need."

"She wasn't always old, shit she probably ain't even fifty. That's when some broads are in their prime."

"Ok, whatever you say."

Mickey continues, "Speaking of daughters servicing or being raped by their fathers, do you know an old gal named Alice Callahan?"

"I think so."

"Well, she still comes in time to time, " says Mick. "We all went to school together. Her Dad would fuck her every Saturday night. He'd come home drunk, act like he thought she was his dead wife alive again, and start pawing her. By the time he finished, his cock was in her whizzbang."

"Jesus."

"Now we didn't believe her story even though we knew Billy was a drunk. Then she pulled out her blood-soaked panties and said this was from the first time. "It's happened just about every weekend for the last two months. "

"That bloody thing was convincing enough for me, but two of the guys still did not believe her. So Alice says, "come up to the apartment late Saturday night, and you can watch."

Bert and Harry secreted themselves in the bedroom closet. Billy came in drunk mumbling and proceeded to call his daughter his wife and reaching out for her. Then the Dad ripped open her robe. When she pulled away, he hit her square on the jaw. She fell backward, Billy undid his belt. His cock was straight as an arrow when he plunged into her as if it was a dagger.

Harry wanted to break out of hiding, but Bert insisted on waiting until her Dad had pierced her vagina. This time, the drunk had a different target in mind. He lifted up his sleeping daughter's legs and began to sodomize her. Alice awoke from the stabbing pain just as the two men burst out of the closet and restrained Bill. Bert and Harry reported back to Mickey, who was the head ringleader of this gang of vigilantes.

"That was enough for us," said Mick, "Once the word got out of what Billy Callahan was doing to his daughter, me and a few guys decided it had to stop. We got Billy so drunk he couldn't distinguish between a live girl and a blow-up doll. We filled the doll's vag up with Clorox, and as you might expect, someone ended up with serious burns.

When he sobered up, we told him if he pulled that shit with Alice again, we'd shorten his bird by more than a few inches. We also beefed up Alice's bedroom door with a substantial lock cause we knew when Billy was drunk, he remembered little. That seemed to work until a year later when the drunken fuck was pushed onto the tracks of an oncoming subway car. Who pushed him, I'm not at liberty to disclose."

"Yeah, this neighborhood has had its share of tragedy and chaos."

"Well said," replied Mick.

A few months later, we learned of a serial rapist who'd get into the older buildings and grab a woman who came by late at night. His modus operandi was to pick a building where he had access to the basement or sublevel. He'd drag his victim down the stairs, hold a knife at their throat and force her to comply with his sadistic impulses. The rapist was up to his seventh victim. It looked like he was going to go on raping for the foreseeable future.

"You've heard of the 'Downstairs Rapist,'" said Mick. That was what the press was calling him. That same day the Daily News had new accounts with photos of a half-naked woman's corpse with her legs spread. The 'News' was capable of printing just about anything. Who knows if the image was staged? Only a few weeks earlier, it had printed a photo of a headless guy who'd fallen into the subway tracks. The spread showed the headless body and a closeup of the ripped-off head--pretty gory stuff.

"We gotta get this rapist guy," said Mick.

'How are we gonna do that," I asked.

Don't worry about that. I'll meet you here when Joe closes up the place.

I waited just about fifteen minutes in front of the bar. Mick showed up in his white Jaguar two-seater 120XK, probably the most beautiful sports car ever made.

"Great car," I offered as I got in. "

"There are some clothes on the floor, don't step on them. "

"What for?"

"For you, what's for? We are going to use you as bait."

"Oh sweet Jesus, no."

"Oh yes, I'll be right beside ya. You think I'd let anything happen to you?"

"Yes, I do. And if this killer finds out I got a cock and not a cunt, what then?"

"He'll probably try to kill ya sooner."

There wasn't any reasoning with Mickey. He pulled the car over into a nearby vacant parking lot, and I changed into girly clothes. The blond wig fit ok. The dress had rubber tits sewn in, and the butt was enhanced.

"Ok," says Mick, "Now I made a list of the buildings this creep has been attacking. He's drawing a straight line from east to west. I figure he should be active in the corridor of 44th Street between ninth and tenth. We'll start you walking that beat. Here," he hands me a heavy crowbar.

"If someone says something out of place, you hit them with the sharp end."

"What is the sharp end for?"

"It's to remove nails."

"Oh yeah, I can see that."

So Mick drops me off, and I start walking west towards the river.

Mike didn't calculate how many sailors would ask me, "How much, Babe," thinking I was a whore. I guess I played that part well enough to garner an Emmy.

I managed to get through that crowd of lovelorn until I came against what I took to be a giant Russian seaman who wouldn't take no for an answer and had no intention of paying for sex.

"Me Sergei," was all he kept saying as well as "Fucky-fucky," but is there anything else that must be said?

Sergei charged in low, lifted me off my feet, and carried me up to the fence that separated the train trestle from the high point of land. Once on level ground, he laid me down. When he lifted up my skirt and saw my cock through the near-transparent red panties, a big smile came on his face as he rolled me over. Then I heard a smart 'thwak.' That was Mikey's Louisville Slugger meeting the back of his head.

Mick helped me to my feet and walked with me to the block past 10th, where he was convinced the real rapist would next strike.

"Pull yourself together. You look like a mess."

Grateful for Mickey's timely intervention before the giant Russian had opened up my ass hole and made my toilet moments forever painful, I straightened my costume and obeyed. I walked too and fro, up and down the block.

It was two-thirty when I felt a leather cord go round my neck. The rapist was dragging me up the stairs of an old brownstone. Not a word was spoken. I was having the breath crushed out of me, so my attempts to yell "Mick, Mickey" came out sounding like a muffled cough.

When we got up the stairs, the rapist, I imagined he was, who else would he be? Slipped a slender blade into the front door lock, and the door flew open. Now I was being dragged inside and across a landing that led to a stairway going down.

Appropriately, I, too, was headed down. Like all old basements, the place smelled of garbage. The rapist had no difficulty tying my hands. I was semi-conscious at this point.

The rapist paused and loosened the leather cord. It turned out to be a dog lead. Through the haze, I could see he was wearing a black mask. He lifted my head and said, "You bitch, suck my dick, or I kill you."

"And if I refuse," I mumbled, hoping to gain time.

"Then I kill you anyway."

"Ok, ok, I'll suck it."

When he heard my unmistakable male voice, he grabbed me by the throat,

" What are you, some fairy whore. You don't get to suck the Lord's cock."

With that, he punched me in the face and abandoned his prey. In the yellow light of a swinging bulb, I could see that he headed upstairs. I wasn't sure if he was closing the door and coming back to finish me off. Then came the loud familiar sound of a baseball bat hitting a skull. The rapist lost consciousness and fell down the stairs. He lay at my side like a dead fish.

I could hear Mick talking; it turned out he was telling Joe to get the cops. I had no idea the bartender was involved. Paying no attention to me, Mick wrapped duct tape around the rapist's hands and feet. There was still no sign of life from my attacker.

Sometimes later, Joe and two New York City cops came down the basement steps, grabbed the rapist, and read him his rights, which made no sense to me as the rapist was still unconscious.

When they were gone, Mick got me up on my feet, untied my hands, and told me to lift up my red panties, or he'd be tempted to fuck me himself.

"I'll let you know if you have to go down to the police station tomorrow and make a statement," said Mickey. "Unless they throw the bum in the river. It's happened before." With gratitude I had survived, so ended my undercover victim's charade.

I took a few nights off, and when I got back to sweeping, Mick had flown off to his seaside retreat.