Motor City Gumshoe

WELCOME TO DETROIT

There are fifty shades of gray in the Motor City. And all their names are Death.

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. OK, forget about the "best" part. That was when the Huron, Ojibway and the Chippewa still roamed the Lakes, long before Whitey came and the frogs renamed the Indians' Tsychsarondia River "Detroit," which evidently means "The Straight" in frog. But what would I know? Us dagos didn't get here until long after that; in fact most of us are still living in the City that Never Sleeps.

Call me Ahab. Why not? That's what my paisano and long-ago kike partner Ishmael "Izzy" Goldfarb did. He named me after the song "Ahab the Arab" by the immortal Ray Stevens, a fantastic song that they never played anymore due to political correctness and the pressure from the fantastically rich towelheads over in Dearborn. Poor old Izzy could never tell the difference between a guinea and a camel jockey. That proved to be his undoing at the end.

I know there is another Ahab, some meshuggina captain pursuing a white whale that ate his leg in the long ago. But in the Big D, it is I who gets to play the role of the white monster, chased by moolies even as I try to extract their last coins in order to survive.

I walk over to my grime-encrusted window and peer down at the always-entertaining drama on the streets below. Today it is two wild dogs fighting over a human ear over on Al Sharpton Avenue. They look like mastiff-pit bull mixes. They were likely abandoned by their animal-loving owners after the dogfighting business went under. Not much hope for the rest of us if even that industry failed. They say that there are roughly 50,000 wild mutts patrolling these streets, as if they owned them. Which they do.

There has been black smoke coming from the north for two hours now. Pretty soon I'll hear the sirens. Undoubtedly a fire somewhere in Highland Park or Hamtramck, whose fire departments no longer existed due to budgetary constraints. To get any response, you had to fax your call for help to the Detroit FD. That's right, fax. And even then, a response was pretty unlikely. The D's fire department is stretched pretty thin.

I look at the hollowed-out brick building down the street, wondering when, if ever, they would demolish it. The window on the ninth floor is still open, the room in which they had discovered the three-year old, moss-covered corpses of 17 crack addicts a few years ago. The moss is still there. I sincerely hope the stiffs are not. The inner walls of every room in the 25-story building are decorated with graffiti. Normally, I am opposed to graffiti, but in this case they are beautiful, signs of life in an otherwise desolate post-apocalyptic wasteland.

But what light through yonder tenement window breaks? It is a hooker, and her globes shame the imperfect moon. Arise fair ho, and let us see thy brown nipples revealed in the gray morning haze. Take down thy brassiere and shake thy plenteous hooters at me. Dangle them out the window and smile at me, thy most devoted fan.

She does every bit of that, and my rod rises with the fog-cloaked sun. She gives me an enigmatic Mona Lisa smile and then heads for the door. At least the world's oldest profession still prospers in the Motor City, which gives me reason to hope for better days.

I look down at the tumbleweed blowing down Seven Mile Road, and shake my head. Last time I checked, there ain't no tumbleweed in the D. Must be an hallucination. I'm probably just suffering from the DTs. Last time I downed a fifth of that rotgut hootch they make over on Six Mile was a couple of days ago. I'm about due for seeing snakes. Or tumbleweed.

Maybe tumbleweed is the new lilac hedge in these parts. Probably be cheaper to grow.

Or maybe it blew here from Texas or Arizona. Fucking global warning. That had to be it.

My reveries are broken by the sight of my favorite ho exiting her building and making a beeline for yours truly.

I just manage to button my shirt and swirl a little Scope around in my bone-dry mouth when the buzzer rings. I push the button to open the ground floor door and hear the pitter-patter of nine inch heels as they ascend the rat-infested stairway to the 14th floor.

I hastily open all seventeen locks on my "office" door and try to press my shirt against my hard but admittedly over-nourished abdomen.

THE CLIENT

I open the door and see the most luscious doll that has ever graced my humble abode. She hands me her leather jacket with the always-tasteful image of Rasheed Wallace on the back. Beneath that leather jacket she wears a dress that would make even Marilyn Monroe or Tina Turner green with envy. The massive mocha melons that I wake to each day threaten to burst free from the thin straps of her gown at any moment. Her gams are long and well-toned. Way out of my league, I think.

"Hi there, babe," I say. "We don't usually get classy dames such as yourself gracing this here establishment."

I offer her my paw. "I'm Tony Gambino, the president and still sole employee of the Gambino family, I mean detective agency. What can we do for you, Miss...?"

"Jackson, Maria Jackson," she tells me as she takes the hot seat in front of my desk. Her tongue must have twenty studs in it. I can almost feel them sliding up and down my prosciutto.

I get out an intake form. "How do you spell that?"

"M-A-H-R-H-E-A-H-A-H J-A-Q-U-E-S-O-H-N," she tells me.

"That's what I thought," I tell her, "but it never hurts to ask, what with all the moolies living around here. I mean blacks. I mean African Americans. No, persons of color. No offense." I was sweating now, afraid I would lose my first client in seven years.

"None taken. I would expect no more from a spaghetti-slurping guido such as yourself. You know Whitey hates you more than he does us niggers, don't you?"

"Hey, don't I know you from somewhere? You look awfully familiar."

"I ought to. You been staring at me through your high-powered binoculars for over seven years now. To refresh your memory, I been dangling my boobies out the window every morning. I like to watch you stroking your salami, or should I say kielbasa in your case, while you watch me. Especially when you shoot your jism all over those shiftless bastards walking down Wesley Snipes Boulevard.

She pulls the straps of her gown off her shoulders, and her lovely chocolate bazoombas spill shamelessly free. "Recognize me now, you greasy goombah?"

"Reckon so," I tell her. "I like your style in credentials. A lot. I guess I'll always know where to find you. But before we get to the skin-slapping business at hand, how about telling me about the real reason you are seeking out my services, you cunt-munching jigaboo."

"So you know about Trixie," she said.

"I've got really great set of binoculars," I remind her, "although they're nothing compared to the headlights you're flashing on me right now. Also I'm pretty hard to spot when you've got a pair of white thighs wrapped around your head."

"You have me there, dago," Mahrheahah sobs, and she begins dabbing at the tears that are steaming down her face like Niagara Falls. "Oh I'm so worried about Trixie. I haven't seen her for days."

She wraps her arms around me and I feel her soft unobstructed mega-splazoingas pressing against my chest. "There, there," I say lightly patting her on the back.

There are a million lives in the Motor City (at least there used to be back in the day), and Trixie's story was just more of the same. It was a story old as time. Boy meets girl. Girl meets boy. Boy chops up girl. Girl gets thrown into the Detroit River.

"I think she's gone, maybe dead. She's been meeting with members of a sex club called the Salt Mine. I think they're going to kill her. It feels so awful."

What Mahrheahah doesn't know is that there is giant salt mine 1,200 feet below our fair city, covering 11,500 acres and sporting over 100 miles of underground roads. Every flatfoot in the D knew about these warrens, a prime fishing area when you were trying to meet your monthly arrest quota. Meth and crack addicts seem to be drawn to those dark tunnels like moths to a flame.

There is also an underground river below the city, once called Conner Creek. It used to flow through through beautiful ravines and valleys as it meandered from the city of Warren to the Detroit River. But it had been diverted underground by Ford and his henchmen. There was talk about raising the river and letting the nature punch its way back through the crumbling asphalt that was once the center of a thriving city. Much of Detroit would become the primordial prairie of flowing grasses that it once was. But like most things in the Motor City, there was not enough green to do such greening.

But I don't tell Mahrheahah any of that. I do tell her that I thought I might be able to help her find Trixie.

Mahrheahah presses those well-honed tan gams against me even tighter.

"Right now, I just need some comfort," she says.

I knew I was going to be able help her there. My rod had already achieved the same angle of inclination as the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

She presses her crotch into me. "Oh mah, what have we here? Ah do declare it's the Great White Hope. You don't know how long I have waited for this," she says as she lets her flimsy dress fall off her body and kicks off her spike heels. She had been going commando, as I suspected, and her lowered mouth was now even closer to my cock.

"I guess this is why they call you a private dick," Mahrheahah says, as she tears off my fedora, suspenders, .375 Magnum, shirt, pants and wife-beater underwear. (No shoes or socks, as I always went barefoot in the house, just in case some ninja, MMA wannabe, or yakuza asshole turns up, which they have, more times than I can remember. Although ever since Lucy, bless her heart, clocked me with that frying pan, I don't remember too much.)

"I feel so alone," Mahrheahah whispers, "now that Trixie is gone. I feel so lost and empty without her. I need warm skin wrapped around me, all over. And inside me, everywhere. Do you know how long it has been since my throat has tasted real meat? Man meat, instead of a cold plastic dildo?"

I allowed as how I didn't, but Mahrheahah gives away the answer by opening her mouth like a great white shark and plunging it over my johnson. My first guess was going to be months or years, but now my guess was going to be in the nanosecond range.

She closes her lips around Mister Winky and begins to slide them up and down its rock hard length. She wraps her hands around my ass cheeks to bring me closer to her devouring mouth, allowing me no escape. Not that I wanted to escape. Last time I met a dame this hungry was in that thatch hut back in 'Nam. And that little slant was motivated by the napalm raining from the sky onto her humble little hamlet. When I felt the cold bone of her ribs on my fingertips, I knew that the liquid fire had done its work, my precious little Trinh Hoa was no more. I had crawled through the dirt of an abandoned Cong tunnel back to my unit, knowing I was going to have some mighty 'splaining to do about the napalm burns on my shoulder.

"Something the matter?" Mahrheahah asks me.

"Just remembering something," I tell her. I take her head in my hands and begin ramming my cock in and out of her mouth the way she wanted me to ("with no mercy," she had said).

Mahrheahah's mouth matches me thrust for thrust. Her right hand slowly slips from my ass cheeks to my balls and her left hand finds my cornhole, which it soon penetrates to a depth of four inches. If only she were WNBA superstar Brittney Griner. Then it would have been eight inches. But who's complaining?

She starts squeezing my balls as her head bobs up and down on my shaft. I grab both sides of her head to urge her on, and she she slams her head up and down my member at a rate that must surely put her neck vertebrae at risk of dislocation. Her fingers begin to assfuck me like there was no tomorrow. She rotates her right hand on my my testicles, squeezing them like they were Chinese Baoding balls as her mouth hoovers me and her delectable digits plumb my deepest depths. I squeeze her head as the moment grows near.

Soon I can take it no more and I explode in a torrent of hot jism that fills her mouth as she she squeezes my balls to ensure she empties me completely and shoves her fingers another two inches into my ass just to make sure.

I hold her gently against me as her tongue searches for every last drop. Her head rests on my abs as she throws her arms around my ass and I do likewise with her head.

We stay like that, just quietly listening to symphony of the night, which consisted primarily of sporadic gunfire, sirens and the incessant howling of the hounds of hell.

She looks up at me and smiles. "You know once you go black, you'll never go back."

I grin and tell her, "Once you go wop, you'll never stop."

"Let's see about that, you guinea greaseball," she says as she gives my mussolini a affectionate squeeze, and it pops up like a howitzer salivating over a Yankee tank.

"Well, I see that at least there is no stopping this wop," she says as she runs her tongue from the root of my Eiffel Tower to its very tip. I don't tell her that I take time-released Cialis just in case the time is right. I guess I'm an optimist, as my time hasn't been right for over six years now.

She grabs my pole and leads me into my own bedroom, which she seems to know like the palm of her hand. And that palm has already produced wonders beyond my wildest dreams.

She sweeps the cold case files off of the bed. Somebody was going to have a lot of collating to do. And that somebody was going to be me.

She lies down on my sheets, her muscular back gleaming in the red neon light. Her dreads spill down said back like a beaded waterfall flowing from her neck to the delightful crack in her ass.

"I'm so cold," she says. "Be my blanket."

I climb upon her back like the graceful leopard that I am. I lick her ears and her neck, as I part her dreads and enter her. She cries out, and I push even further inside her being.

"You don't know how long I have waited to feel real meat inside me," she says, as I reach up to interlock her fingers with mine. "Pound me baby, fuck me like a rag doll. I've been a very bad and dirty girl."

I haul back and bury myself inside her up to the hilt. She lets out a gasp that is filled with pleasure, pain, surprise, submission and longing. I interlace my fingers with hers, feel her ample buttocks against my abdomen, and take her left ear in my mouth, nipping it and exploring its every convolution. I haul back and jam her even harder, and her whole body shudders in submission and pleasure.

I take the outer ridge of her ear between my teeth as she begins to gasp and pant in response to her total loss of control. I haul off and shove into her once more, and her mocha back and spine arch to meet the violence of my thrusts. Her gigantic tits are spread out beneath her helpless body and I take one in each hand, squeezing them in my paws enough to make her wince and cry out, "Pound me, fuck me harder, you greasy dago."

I maul her breasts and began to pound into her as hard as that Polack rapist slammed into my helpless mother all those years ago. I could do nothing to save her from that fate. I take Mahrheahah's dreads in both hands and pull her head to the upright and locked position as I bury myself into her brown flesh over and over again. Her whole body begins to shake and go rigid and she lets out a scream that would wake up the whole neighborhood, had there been any souls still living it. I come inside her in a volcanic torrent of spermatozoic lava. She arches her back and then collapses on my sheets, her whole body limp, just like the thoroughly-fucked rag doll she had wanted to be.

"Very nice, you dago copper," she said. "I wondered if you still had it in you."

"In spades," I say and smiled. "Only when I'm buried in spades."

"Okay, ofay. It's been a long, long time since my body entertained a real live cock, and yours is most impressive. That's why you and I are gonna do everything that a man and woman can do together. Right here. Right now."

Somehow I knew that there were an uncountable infinity of such acts, based on Cantor's theory of transfinite numbers. Must have been something Doc Stokes taught me back in the academy. If so, it was the only thing I learned.

"Trixie?" I ask.

"Fuck that faithless bitch, homey," she says. "We got more important things to do right now. I'm gonna extract every last sperm out of your overmuscled dago ass right now. We got plenty of time to get Trixie later. "

"Then I need to get a drink," I say.

I walk into the bathroom and plop four more time-released Cialis pills in my mouth. I come out and grab my half-finished bottle of Thunderbird wine of the table and rinse the pills down my parched gullet. I hold out the bottle to her, but she waves it off. "Man drink that stuff, that man's gonna die," she says, echoing Sheriff Bart's admonition to the Waco Kid in Blazing Saddles.

"I know that. That's why I do."

"You got any cuffs on you, big guy?"

I chuckle and open the desk drawer. "See anything you like?"

She picks out my two pairs of German Clejuso cuffs and holds them up to me.

"Chain me," she says, stretching out her glorious tan body and arching her back. I step over her, my rod already as hard as the last surviving rocks of pavement that remain in this ruined city. As I straddle her, my balls slide across her mountainous breasts, and my cock becomes a pulsating, throbbing spear of titanium. With my balls nestled in the valleys between her soft breasts, I cuff both of her wrists to the posts.

Her tongue cannot reach me, but swirls through her lips like a serpent trying to escape from hell. I slide down her arching ribs and pulsating abdomen and run my tongue against hers. Then, I slowly slide further down her torso, licking everything in sight as I descend. When I reach her cooze, she raises her legs over my shoulders and turns her pelvis upward for easier dining.

I tease her by running my tongue around her nether lips and pulling away when she tries to grind those lips against me. I run my arms underneath her legs and push them back so that her twat is helplessly exposed to me. I plunge my mouth onto her cunt, spearing it with my tongue as I take her clit in my lips, flicking my tongue in and out of her and all around her. She tries to raise her arms to take my head in her hands, but she is helplessly chained and powerless. All she can do is arch her back and press my shoulders down with her legs. I push into her as though she were a football tackling sled, and her legs are forced once more hard against her abdomen and hooters.

I reach around her strong legs and take her breasts into my hands, running my palms softly over them, teasing her erect brown nipples mercilessly. Then I begin to knead her breasts, squeezing them hard, and then rhythmically squeezing them and releasing them, as my lips, tongue and mouth work the center of her being with increased ferocity. Her whole body shudders and stiffens as she comes and her liquids anoint my face like an old-school baptism. Her legs squeeze me like a vise, holding me against her as wave after wave of orgasmic throes rack her body. Her body finally stiffens in one cataclysmic orgasm. Then she falls away from me, spent.

But she will not get off that easily. Not when my rod and balls are aching like this. I grab her ankles and force her legs up to her shoulders. She is completely open and powerless before me. I drive my throbbing shaft downward, deeply inside her soaking, throbbing quim. I pound my way in and out of her as I fall on her legs and breasts. I grab each of her mammoth ebony hooters and squeeze them with all my might as I fuck her in a frenzy such as I have never known before. I bring my head up to her eyes and kiss them as her body heaves in its violation. My lips find hers and our tongues intertwine. She tries to raise her hands to grasp my head, but they are chained and cannot reach me. I no longer have control of my own body, which has become a mindless, driving machine. My cock feels the ripples of her orgasms as they come one after the other inside her sugar walls, milking me, demanding payment in kind, and I bury myself into her up to the hilt and explode inside her.