Savory Lies and Deadly Spies

Savory Lies and Deadly Spies

Betrayal, Revenge, and a Colt.45

by

dmallord

Copyright by dmallord, January 2024, USA. All rights reserved.

I thank Kenjisato for his editorial assistance in preparing this submission.

INTRODUCTION

"What is the theme? Well, it's an Ode to Mickey Spillane, so think gritty, dark, and overflowing with violence and sex in the best traditions of Spillane's Mike Hammer." That's the blurb from CholeTzang, a Literotica writer par excellence and sponsor for this Ode to Mike Hammer 2024 writing event.

Prologue

Emmerson Temple. Need I say more?

Really?

You've never heard the name? You're damn lucky. I wished I'd never heard that fuckin' name, myself!

I couldn't get the name out of my head. I should have stopped when I first read 'Emmerson Temple' on the cover of a dusty, old brown folder wrapped with one of those elastic snappy bands. Opening and reading that packed folder was my first mistake. My second was not immediately tossing it into a burn barrel and hightailing it out of there.

'Emmerson Temple, screw you!'

I cursed as an afterthought of what went down between us that put me into this hospital bed.

I'd watched Emmerson Temple's life and mine growing dim...as I pulled the cold, steel trigger on Betsy, my Colt.45.

That's what got me to where I am now. It started so damned innocently as another routine case of finding a low-life husband who absconded with his wife's money. So, the bitch said.

Savory Lies and Deadly Spies

"You look like—shit, Moby Dick," Brenda snickered, eyeballing me as I dragged my ass into my inner office on that faithful, first frosty day of January.

She flicked the gray ash off her half-smoked Marlborough cig into the amber whisky glass on my desk. She exhaled. A gray, smoky puff escaped those ruby lips. As I opened the inner office door, the plume rose and swirled above her dreadlocks.

I stopped and stared. My bloodshot eyes poured over her silk stockings, crossed at the ankles with her heels resting on my desk. The silky red dress slid back to her waist, above those red garters. Brenda's cute ass was parked in my chair. Gravity at work had tugged her silky dress down those firm, bare, chocolate thighs. Her pussy...

Damn, the woman could read my mind like a dime store novel. She grinned as she took another slow, deep drag from that cancer stick.

She took her time at it, damned well knowing what the hell my bloodshot eyes were staring at.

Brenda enjoyed dicking around with my name. She enjoyed her wordplay at my expense. My dependable righthand girl always got a chuckle playing with the stylized name on my door, 'Mike Mobius Detective Services.'

Ordinarily, I'd have welcomed her up-skirt view. The broad rarely wore panties. Two years ago, she told me her pussy was too pretty to hide as I spotted her sex peeking out in a way-too-short dress as she sat for a dick-hard interview. Immediately that day, I hired her. I came damn close to bending her over my desk and doing her just for tempting me—but I had just gotten married. That new ring on my finger held me back—for a while.

The bender of a headache from this weekend at Stella's place killed any comeback line I'd had while eyeing those black gams that branched at her bare forested slit.

'So, today I was Moby Dick? So, fucking what?'

Stella called this past Friday. "Babe, I realize now I made a mistake. It was all my fault. Can...you come over so I can apologize?"

I fell for it. She wanted to discuss in person if we could start over. Stella knew I was on the wagon and fucked with me anyways. Two years, I'd been sober. Exes are goddamn bitches. I should have known better; I knew that from investigating a lot of them.

Seeing the rage register on my puss, Stella laughed in my face.

"What's the matter? Still can't hold your liquor?"

I boiled over when I realized what she'd pulled.

She'd ridden my cock harder than she rode those damn guys at the 'sex-shoppe.' Stella worked at that seedy cum-shop on Friday nights. Her hard fucking ride worked. I let my guard down. In post-coitus bliss, she'd surreptitiously put vodka in my coffee. One cup, and I couldn't stop. I found the bottle and drained it while she laughed in my face.

"WHY?"

"Payback," Stella gasped, wiping the blood that ran down her busted lip over her chin and dribbling onto those hefty titties as she stumbled backward.

The rest of the weekend bender was a blur. But for sure, I knew she deserved the hard backhand to her bitching mouth. That much I remembered while finding the familiar path to the liquor store and my flop on Eight Street.

_______________

Monday, I'd stumbled into work.

"You drinking again, Mike?" Brenda's tone was accusative as she crushed her smoke in my glass.

"What's it to you, Bitch?"

"Yeah, right. I see Stella got to you. When are you going to learn she's bad juju?"

"I'm done with her."

"Like hell you are. Look at you! You can't even dress yourself. Your shoulder holster is twisted, and...Christ, your.45's safety is off! You're not fit for shit today. Go home or some flophouse and sleep it off," she spat out the words, lurching out of my chair.

I tugged out Betsy and clicked on her safety, reluctantly putting her in Brenda's outstretched hand as she eyed me disapprovingly. A gun in a drunk's hand, even in my state of semi-sobriety, I realized wasn't a damn safe practice.

"Get the fuck out of my office," I growled as she ejected the clip and racked the barrel.

"At least you didn't have a round in the chamber."

Her tone cut like a knife—almost like Stella's. She kept Betsy, hustled out, and slammed the door.

I figured she was probably pissed.

Women...

Parking my ass behind the desk, I raged at Brenda, slammed my fist on the desk, and against all odds, searched for that hidden bottle in the bottom drawer. Damn, Brenda—she was good—kept me dry for two years. However, this past weekend, she failed me. That was my fault, though. She had warned me twice and tried to keep me from going over to Stella's and falling for her sob story again.

Empty-handed, I stared at the calendar: January, again, nothing written on it. No case. Nothing to start a new year. January was always cold and caseless, mostly. No one gets off their asses and wants to stir shit around in the bleak and chilly month of January.

Still, I wanted something to happen—and a bottle.

I needed cash flow—and a bottle.

Stella's alimony was due, and the till was empty again. My thirst, however, was full-blown. I needed vodka.

The direct line to my desk phone jarred my head-splitting thoughts, few though they were.

I barked, "Hello!"

There was no return greeting. Just that cigarette-sucking inhale, like the prelude to cancer creeping upon you.

Police Detective Carl Maloney's whiskey voice croaked, "Mike, your ex called me..."

I listened in silence and waited. But Carl didn't utter another damn word.

The three of us—Carl, Stella, and me, were on a first-name basis. We'd been down this rocky highway during the divorce.

"She had it coming," I finally grumbled into the receiver, just to hear the fat bastard's voice again.

His reply told me he didn't give a damn.

"She got a lawyer, Mike. Filed a complaint—wants you brought up on charges—assault and battery—says you...forced her...and threatened her with Betsy."

"How long?" I huffed.

'Bitches...'

"I can hold off 'til Friday, maybe; get a lawyer, Mike. That's as long as I can give you. Turn yourself in by then or..."

I hung up before he finished. I was pissed off more than ever.

The bitch was on some vendetta. What was it?

She had me in her crosshairs.

Why?

The answer wouldn't come. I had no freaking idea. She knew I didn't have the money.

What was she up to?

WHY?

That eternal question 'WHY' echoed, then fell silent in my head.

There's always a fuckin' 'why' to everything.

I hadn't a hunch. My mind was clouded, vodka-deprived, and in a haze.

The phone rang again.

"What the fuck now?" I barked, not looking at the caller ID.

"There is a woman here to see you, Mike," Brenda quietly replied.

Something was up.

Her tone was like a sobering slap in the face. I felt—wrong about barking.

"Lawyer?" I asked, softening my voice and thinking about Stella.

"No, I don't think so," Brenda said hesitantly. "Hold on."

"No, not a lawyer...Mike, she needs help."

"Don't we all. Send her in."

"I'll...bring her in, Mike," Brenda responded. Her tone was tempered, almost meek.

I should have taken that as a clue in the way she spoke. It wasn't Brenda's usual tone. You don't pick up much on clues when you're half-sober and half-shitfaced.

Brenda ushered in a knockout.

She was gorgeous. She had that regal aquiline woman's nose thing going for her. She wore a long, black overcoat and held a white cane. She strolled in and froze in place. I noticed the cane, second to the drop-dead beautiful milky-toned face. The cane appeared distinct from others.

It buzzed—a hot, blind dame looking for a buzz from a dick. Though I couldn't see through her dark glasses, I'd later find out she once had piercing cobalt-blue eyes. At least she couldn't see my unshaven face and disheveled appearance. I had that going for me, I figured.

"Mike, this is Ms. Temple."

"Hello," I managed to greet her.

'How the hell do you tell a blind dame to take a seat?'

I looked at Brenda for some clue in the gap between our greetings. Women should know those things.

"Mr. Mobius," she asked, sweeping the cane and tapping a chair leg, "I need your help."

"Take a seat," I muttered.

Brenda reached out a hand, "May I help?"

"Thanks," she replied, "but I can manage."

She tapped the chair, reached out, and slid into it. Brenda left me alone with the blind dame. It was too late to yell out for Brenda to stay. It's one thing to deal with normal dames in private, but broads, even good-looking ones, that come with some...defects...I find hard to handle.

As the door closed, my eyes poured over her lithe frame. Temple's words flowed into the growing silence.

"It's okay. I'm not totally blind, Mr. Mobius. I see blurred shapes—like dark, smoky shadows. I know you are sitting behind a desk...and I'm damn good at hearing things. I'm intuitive, and all my business associates declare I'm very intelligent, too.

"I can smell your tobacco. Cigarette by the smell. American blend. I'd have taken you for a cigar man, Mr. Mobius."

"Ah..." I stammered, watching those rose lips moving. She might be intuitive but still wrong on occasion, I thought. The tobacco wasn't mine—it was Brenda's. I gave up smoking. I didn't correct her, though.

I was mesmerized as she kissed each word like someone tasting honey before she eased them out.

"I can tell your breathing is elevated. You shouldn't be uncomfortable in my presence, Mr. Mobius. I don't bite. Treat me like a proper woman, hon. Just don't expect to—bed me. I'm married," she teased.

I smiled at her frank, candid remarks.

"So, not Miss. Shirley Temple?"

I noted the English accent and thought about some guy getting a piece of this blind dish's cherry-lipped pie. For an instant, I wondered how fucking some blind English dame would play out. I'd find out—not too far down the road. Her being married didn't matter.

"Mrs. Temple—separated at the moment. Call me Emily or...Em...if you like."

"Mike, if you like," I countered. "Now that the intros are over, what can I do for you, Em?"

She leaned forward; her perfect posture held that stiff British chest out.

"I married a shitty American. No offense meant, Mr. Mobius."

I shrugged, though a moment later, I realized she couldn't see that as she promptly continued.

"He disappeared after an argument—over money. I have a lot—he wanted it. One thing led to another, and he returned to the colonies with some of my belongings. My apologies, the States, I believe you say. I can't find him to serve papers for a divorce. Perhaps you can help with that and handle cleaning up some estate property for me, an uncle's estate, here—in the States?"

"I'm not sure I'm your man for this job, Em," I sighed. "Time has me by the short hairs. If English use that expression."

"We do," she smiled, thinking about that.

"I've had men by their short hairs a few times. It gets them off quickly," she smiled, seemingly relishing the thought.

I gave that idea of those slender fingers enmeshed in a guy's short hairs some thought and smiled.

"I wasn't always this visually impaired, Mr. Mobius—Mike. Perhaps you feel that's because of a lack of time—because of your ex filing charges?"

The corners of her lips curled with just a hint of snark. She seemed damn pleased with herself.

I lost my smile. It turned into a sneer.

"You working for my ex-bitch?" I muttered.

'How the fuck else would she know that about Stella?'

"No, Mike. I just checked you out. That's all. To see if you had the stones it takes to get what I need done. Do you? Have the balls, Mike? If you do...I might be able to help with your 'bitch' issues. Make her go away if you like. Money can do a lot of things, Mike."

Her tone was smooth, like oil on water, with a hint of vitriol beneath the surface. I could see the rise in her breathing like she had detected in mine. I drank in the vision of a stone-cold-hearted—witch who had my attention. The part that caught most of my attention was when she said she might be able to help with my 'bitch.' Clearly, she was accustomed to dealing with gritty issues. I got that just from her tone.

"Why me?"

"You interest me, Mike. You've got steel in your bones. Some I talked to say you have a warrior's code—honest—faithful—though not in a married way. That's rare in this world. I need someone I can trust—a man who honors his word no matter what. You know, a virile, rugged, ex-military type—driven by duty?"

Em had me pegged, and not with some strap-on dick, either. She'd found one of many flaws. When I gave my word, it became my bond. I should never have accepted her deal. But flattery can bend a fallen alcoholic, with the law breathing down his neck, and short on funds. I liked how she thought. I did get it.

Still, I was stupid. Suckered in by a rich bitch and fell for her handicap condition as well. It was like pity sex—yeah, that came into play. Bitch liked it, too; I would find out too late.

"I'll take the job. It might take a while to track him down...the Colonies are pretty spread out."

I planned on calling in a favor, from my cousin Vinnie, for shit I didn't know how to handle. Damned computers could just about find anybody these days. Still, it took heavy muscle to coldcock an unwillin' body. Ain't no chip processor or nerd got stones to do that. Maybe what I lacked in technological brains was made up for by ex-military muscle.

"Em, I'll make some inquiries."

Em pulled out her iPhone and ordered, "Siri, call an Uber." And I'll be damned if the cane didn't start spitting out directions to her on where to meet the driver.

"Don't look so surprised, Mike; this electronic device gives me independence. I can travel the world without a guide dog using this electronic WeWalk white cane and...rarely get lost. I'm working on a replacement tip that...serves as a vibrator."

She smirked as a little laugh line curled in the corner of her ruby lips. Letting that line stew in my mind, she walked to the door. Turning, she added, "Just pulling your pud, Mike...I don't use vibrators...with so many tongues available."

Before Em left, she gave me her weasel hubby's last known phone number. I fed it to my cousin Vinny, and he ran with that.

Tuesday, I knocked on her hotel door. It buzzed open.

Em was pissed when I walked in and announced, "Your money-hungry weasel is in Vegas."

"Em, Vegas is noted for gambling, and Sheri's Ranch—that's a legal brothel in Pahrump, Nevada. He's a guest there. What do you want to do?" I asked, watching her face burn red.

"Get him," she hissed, "Drag him by his—low hanging balls into court. As a bonus, I'll give you what he'll never see again."

I watched as she raised her skirt. My lips watered, then went dry thinking about the honey-blonde crotch in that English Sherwood Forest. My eyes lit up. I considered role-playing Robin Hood, a hoppin' and a bobbin' on top of Maid Marian.

'Right then, I knew she was no 'temple,' not one where good people worshiped.'

"It's gonna take money, then there's Detective Maloney's deadline to surrender," I croaked, watching her fingers swirl around in her forest.

"Give me Maloney's number," she answered, breathily. "I'll deal with him and keep him out of your hair. Maybe your ex, too. Still got her number?"

She smiled and dropped the hem of her skirt. She may not have seen my terse face, but she could hear my deep breath intake as I scribbled it on a hotel notepad.

I realized she didn't move to take it as I held it out. "Sorry, should I text it to you instead?"

"A quick learner would, Mike. A blind woman can use all the help she can get."

Somehow, the ice in her voice gave me the impression that she could deliver on what she said. Em booked my flight to Vegas with her money and first-class accommodations.

Wednesday, before I boarded the flight, I got a text from Carl Maloney about a delay in issuing my arrest warrant. Then, I got a second text saying, 'Forget about it. The district attorney dismissed the charges.'

It didn't chap my ass any. However, it did give me a chance to smirk. It had me wondering about how Em got Stella off my ass, though.

'Who the hell was Em? And with her connections, why did she need me?'

Like a dark cloud, that thought floated above my head as I walked out the door and headed to the airport.

_______________

Flying first class was a hell of a lot different than riding in coach. I stretched out my six-foot frame while watching the stewardess pushing a cart, knowing what it held. I gripped the seat. My arms tensed as she got closer and was about to ask me for my order.

"Vodka straight, make it a double," I was prepared to say.

On the tip of my tongue, the words were ready to spill from my parched lips like every time I'd fallen off the wagon. Stella might be off my ass for now, but what the bitch did with that spiked coffee had me back into the fight for my sobriety again. Twelve Steps Program—fuck—I was back at step one.

Across and facing me sat a coquette, a trifecta of Asian, Black, and White descent. A micro-skirt rode obscenely up her thighs. I focused on her. I focused on what I knew she could do for me. It was a distraction, though not as good as thinking about liquor—or—licking her.

Her sloe eyes twinkled below those almond-eyed skin folds. That slightly drawn smile danced across her face. That she-devil knew I relished her delicious chocolate ice cream thighs. My thoughts consumed her, one long lick at a time. She spread her legs—her pert, pouty lips peeked out. Another 'full-monty dame,' temptingly on view for a two-hour flight, I breathed deeply.

Two hours...maybe join her in a hotel...

She piped up as the stewardess arrived. "Mr. Mobius will have a Coke, no ice...just like mine," she added wryly, looking me dead in the eye, "Normally, Coke wouldn't be my preference, but tonight it is—out of professional courtesy, Mike." The voice was deep, the reverberations resonating with feminine black undertones.