Hammered: a Jewel to Die For

When a body turns up with the name of his old flame, Pardee must make a choice and decide how far he'll go to protect her...if it's her at all.

This story was written for the

The 2023 "Hammered: an Ode to Mickey Spillane" Author Challenge

. It's a sequel to my story for the 2022 event entitled "Hammered: Big City, Dark Nights," but this stands alone, requiring no knowledge of the earlier tale.

Many thanks to Chloe Tzang for sponsoring the event again this year.

© SouthernCrossfire - 2023. All rights reserved.

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The late 60s and early 70s were turbulent times in the United States and the situation in the big city was no different.

Except in many ways, it was worse.

Crime, driven by greed, social, racial, and political unrest, drugs, and, well, general meanness, was way up, and the city seemed to practically bleed, particularly after dark, when assaults, robberies, rapes, and homicides occurred on a nightly basis. That's where I came in. As a sergeant of detectives on the vice squad working those late hours in NYC, I saw it each evening and dealt with the aftermath each night.

After that aftermath was usually a dark, lonely time, with a bottle of bourbon being my best friend and comforter. After my divorce, I'd thought long and hard about leaving it behind, using my skills to become a private eye; I'd even gone so far as to get my private detective's license and to start looking for my own personal Velda to keep my business and my personal lives in line. However, getting the goods on cheating husbands, adulterous wives, and deadbeat dads wasn't how I saw spending the rest of my life so I stayed with the force, always trying to make a difference while often gritting my teeth at the results.

Or rather, the lack thereof.

On this particular night in August of 1973, it was just after 2:30 in the morning when I finally made it home. I trudged up the stairs, wishing for the millionth time that my building had an elevator.

It was an old masonry building, built in the late 20s, with thick brick walls and concrete joist floors built over stay-in-place clay tiles. Rumor had it that the stock market crash of '29 hit during construction and the builder, who found himself overly extended, had deleted the top two floors, the elevators, and some of the other originally planned amenities just to get it finished. I'd never been a fan of the way it looked outside, austere, as if it might have been more appropriate in Moscow than in NYC, but it was comfortable inside most of the time and I'd gotten it fairly cheap following my divorce.

Unfortunately, it wasn't quite so comfortable in the heat. With the masonry walls, it warmed up slowly during the day but it also stayed hot longer at night and this was a particularly hot night.

By the time I reached the top floor, I was even hotter than before and looking forward to a stiff drink or two, a shower, and bed. I opened the windows on entering and turned on my fan, hoping that I'd actually be able to sleep. I'd poured a drink to help with that and had started unbuttoning my shirt when I heard a knock on my front door.

"Annie, what are you doing here?" I asked on seeing my neighbor from across the hall standing in front of me dressed in pink cotton shorts and white tank top with tiny straps that were barely there. In case there was any question, practically beaming headlights revealed she was braless and, as tight as those little shorts looked, I suspected the situation was similar down below.

"It's so hot I couldn't sleep so I was reading when I heard you coming in." Almost purring, she added, "Was wondering if I could come in for a bit?"

We'd had a lot of turnover in the building in recent years, and Annie was an example of that, though her moving in had been partially my fault. She was a hooker who'd gone against the grain in comparison to many girls, saving as much as she could over the years so she could get out when she wished. She'd also been my informant for a couple of years so when a broken nose, a couple of broken ribs, and boatload of bruises were the impetus she needed to quit, I helped her get out but I also paid her pimp back, at least a little, before seeing him awarded a five-to-ten-year upstate vacation courtesy of the good citizens of New York.

After I told her of its availability, Annie had bought the unit across the hall from me and she made it a point to show me her gratitude shortly after moving in. I'd told her repeatedly that I was just doing my job, but she'd been equally insistent that gratitude was also very important to her. I finally gave in and she almost killed me twice that evening as a result.

With her seeing me as safe and me having developed something of a protective streak toward her, we'd been "friendly" quite often since then. She was, in truth, rather plain, with brown hair, brown eyes, and thin lips that rarely smiled, but she was nice and she had a killer body. In addition, and perhaps the tipping point, Annie knew how to do things my Patricia, in all the years we were married, never considered attempting.

However, this wasn't a good night for that, so I said, "Annie, I'm sorry, I'm awfully tired."

"It'll be well worth your while. And I promise, you'll sleep like a baby when I'm done with you." With my shirt unbuttoned most of the way, she ran her hand inside and down my stomach, pushing it under my belt and into my pants.

As she took me in hand and my blood surged, I gulped, realizing that sleep actually could wait a little while. "Well, when you put it that way..."

She gave a little wink over her shoulder at me as she entered, pulling me along quite willingly considering she wasn't letting go of her leverage. She stopped behind the couch and pushed me against it before letting me go, withdrawing her hand, and then undoing my pants. They and my boxers came down in one smooth motion bunched around my ankles with Annie falling on her knees in front of me, her eyes looking up into mine, a submissive look that said she'd do almost anything for me, that she'd do her best, and that she'd enjoy it.

With her giving me a look like that, I knew I would.

Her setting established, Annie looked down and gave a little moan on seeing my standing salute to her. Her left hand cupped under me, and her right thumb and index finger circled the base of my shaft so she could maneuver me however she wanted. She leaned in a bit as she pulled my erection out toward her before giving a flick of her tongue over my frenulum.

I gave a shiver and a moan of my own.

She shifted me a bit and then started licking, her tongue quite skilled as it circled me while her eyes looked up into mine, indicating all the while that she was my love slave, to do with as I chose.

Her motion was so smooth I didn't realize she'd let go of me with both hands until I saw her sweep those little straps off her shoulders and then push that thin white top down to reveal her boobs. I'd never checked her bra to be sure but I suspected they were at least D cups. What I did know for sure was they looked great, they looked perfect on her, and they felt wonderful.

She reminded me of that last part a moment later as she rose up straight on her knees while having me spread my legs to lower myself so she could reach up and wrap those smooth, sweet titties around me. It was a slow, steady pump with Annie giving me a lick at the top as my head broke through, all while she continued staring up into my eyes with that "I'll do anything for you" look.

However, Annie's look belied the truth, that Annie could play the part well but that she'd never had a real submissive thought in her life. Instead, she sucked a man in with what he wanted and then the hidden tiger in her was revealed. This time as she started to build me up with my feet still trapped in my pants, she grinned and pushed me over the back of the couch with enough force that I complied but she also did it with enough finesse that I knew she wasn't trying to hurt me. Over the back of the couch she came like a tiger on the hunt. I was lying on my back and she was on top, kissing me like there was no tomorrow.

"Get in me, Les. Fuck me like you mean it," she grunted as she pulled the bottom of those little shorts to the side and pushed herself down on me. I hadn't had a chance to sample her but it seemed she was quite wet with desire as I slid into her tight hole and buried deeper and deeper as she pushed on until there was no more left to go.

"God I've been dreaming about this all day," she cried as she sat atop me, clenching and relaxing, clenching and relaxing. I loved the feel of what she was doing but then she started moving up and down, riding me like a naked ballerina on a horse with a burr under its saddle. She was a sight to behold, her muscles gripping me while those perfect breasts bounced up and down in time with her motions.

Once I had the rhythm, I started thrusting up to meet her downward thrusts so it wasn't long before I groaned, trying to fight off the rapidly-building urge. I also took her bouncing boobs in my hands, as much to feel them jiggle as it was to help her. They did feel great and I was soon focused on them rather than the sensations that were roiling and building downstairs.

Annie was still looking into my eyes but now it was perfectly clear that I was the hunted rather than the hunter, the slave rather than the master.

"Keep going, Les. Don't you dare cum until I tell you that you can," she said throatily. "Make me cum. Make me!"

I was getting close, too close, so I finally had to take control, picking her up off of me and spinning her around. I was back in her in a second, buried to the hilt but on top this time where I could pound her with all I had. Once I started that, it didn't take her long and I was right behind her.

When the proverbial fireworks were over, Annie put her arms around me and drew me close, keeping me lying there on top of her as our breathing slowly began to return to normal.

"I like you a lot, Les. You make me feel wonderful."

Perhaps she was fishing for the L-word. Maybe she wanted to hear it, to change the status of our non-relationship into something more. Or perhaps she was just overcome by the moment.

Whatever the situation, I told her the truth and gave her what I could. "I like you a lot too, Annie, and you do an incredible job in the feeling department."

To my surprise, her usual dullish expression brightened a bit and she smiled. "Thanks, Les, but it's hot as hell in here, we're both as sweaty as racehorses, and if you don't let me up right now, I have a feeling you're going to have an incredible mess on your couch."

I laughed at her turning the phrase on me as I watched her race toward the bathroom. In her early to mid-30s, she was quite fit and well-tanned. I shook my head as I briefly wondered if my holding-out on commitment was really such a smart thing. Not really sure, I decided to leave things as they were and continue holding off or saying more.

Her shorts and hair straightened and the shirt and straps back in place, she came back out a couple of minutes later and gave me a little goodnight smooch before stepping across the hall to her place.

***

After she was gone, I quickly showered and was asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow. Sure enough, I slept like a baby, just as Annie had promised.

Until the ringing started, anyway, and it went on without stopping. One open eye, the lit numbers on my clock radio, and some quick math told me I'd been in bed for all of thirty-nine minutes. The little tile flipped over for the next minute just a second later as I reached for the damn phone.

"Pardee. What?" I growled into the receiver. I'd changed my number and made it unlisted a couple of years before after a case, so this had to be a friend with an emergency, a wrong number, or the station.

Personally, I was hoping for it to be a wrong number.

"Sergeant Pardee, Jerome Hanley on the night desk from the precinct. We just got a call from the 37th. They've got something they need you to look at."

"Hanley, I just got home and in bed. Can't it wait until tomorrow?"

"Sorry, Sarge, but it's a stiff. They need you there ASAP. I called Lieutenant Crosley first. He said go."

Crosley was my supervisor so I gave a muttered curse followed by a throaty growl of displeasure as I sat up on the edge of the bed. "Did you call Vaughan?"

"No. But I can."

"Do it. Tell him I'll be there to pick him up, usual place, in...twenty-five minutes, from right now."

"Will do, Sarge. Good luck."

I hung up without replying and was dressed and out the door less than five minutes later.

***

Detective George Vaughan looked as tired as I was when I pulled our aging Ford Custom sedan up to the curb to pick him up. He wasn't in a talkative mood when he got in either. Of course, we'd been partners for almost two weeks since he made detective and we still weren't even on a first name basis.

"You know what this is about?" he asked after the first few blocks.

"Not a clue. Crosley said 'go,' I go."

He nodded but said nothing else, just watching out the window as the rotating magnetic flasher I'd placed atop the car continued to light the buildings and storefronts as we passed by.

And those lights, I felt, were indicative of the situation we faced every night, with someone doing something bad and flashing police lights bringing the resulting mess to everyone's attention. Of course, most people locked in their homes or apartments tended to ignore most of the lights and the sirens and what noise they could as they tried to overlook the evil around them and hope that it wouldn't affect them.

The lights of the three squad cars parked in the street were flashing ahead of us as I double-parked my old Custom behind the last one, with my lights joining theirs. I was overdue for a new car, probably a Custom 500, but the jerks downtown knew that I'd recently hit my twenty and would be eligible for my pension soon so they weren't too worried about keeping me happy.

That's also probably why they kept me on Vice's evening-to-night shift, too, where I could help try to keep the city safe for a while before going home to drink away the bad memories and deal with my personal sorrows. Then, after a few hours of troubled sleep, I'd be up and it would start all over again the next evening. They knew I'd never climb another rung up the NYPD's leadership ladder, but they also knew I'd do my level best to help protect the city and its citizens every day on the rung that I had reached.

The middle of August is usually a hot time in the city and this was no exception. The alley reeked with the stench of decay, rotting food, feces, and piss as Detective Vaughan and I shone our flashlights to light our way and to drive off the rats.

"Jeez, you'd think people would clean this shit up, try to make something of this city," griped Vaughan. I said nothing, having come to terms long before with the fact that wasn't going to happen on my watch. I could only try to keep it from getting worse.

Three of the officers ahead of us appeared to be actively searching for something, two were talking to each other, and one stood still and silent, looking at something on the ground. The last one looked young, so I feared I knew his tale and dreaded seeing what held his gaze.

"Hey, Les Pardee! Good ta' see ya', man! Heard you made sergeant. Congrats!" boomed Officer Ty Miller, an acquaintance if not an actual friend since just a few years after I joined the force. Like me, he was a transplant from the south, only Ty, at 6'-6" tall and 270 pounds, was from the deep south and sounded it from even a block or more away.

"Hey, Ty, it's been, what? Three, four years? How are you, buddy?"

Ty and I chatted to catch up for a couple of minutes before George raised an eyebrow. I gave him a little nod, and when Ty had finished telling me about his daughter's team, I made introductions. The two men shook hands, looking practically the same size. Then we got down to business.

"So who's the vic? And why were we called in on it? The guy a pimp or did he have a bookie sheet in his pocket?"

Ty chuckled. "Nope, nuthin' like that. In fact, he didn't have anything in his pockets at all. Officer Jones? Quit starin' an' get over here ta' report."

The young officer looked like he was barely out of high school, so I suspected that he probably had just a few weeks on the beat under his belt after graduating from the academy. From the look on his face as he approached, I also suspected that this was also his first stiff and that he was just realizing the relative fragility of the human condition.

Jones' hand was unsteady as he pulled out his little notebook and started to read.

"Ah, male, Caucasian, 30 to 35 years of age, 5-eight to 5-ten. Trim, about 160 to 165 pounds, brown hair, brown eyes, and no distinguishing features, visible scars, tattoos, or needle tracks, sir. Oh, and no ID, either, sir. Wallet, watch, and keys missing, if he had them, and so are his cigarettes and lighter. No rings, either, but no obvious ring marks on his fingers."

"He was a smoker?" George asked, already shining his light over the body, adding its beam to the portable they'd set up to light the investigation.

"Reeked of it, sir, though it could be that he'd been in a room with lots of people smoking."

George looked at the back of his hand and nodded. The skin was dry and tight. Smoker, all right.

"Can you tell what did him in?" I asked.

"Ah, it looks like someone worked him over good—"

Miller cut in. "On the report, add that it appears they avoided his face and anything readily visible. Now, keep going."

"Yes, sir. We, ah, can't see how extensive it is without stripping him, but it looks like he's got a lot of fresh bruises under his shirt plus several broken fingers...on each hand. As for what ended him, we can see a single gunshot wound to the torso."

"Shot here or dumped?" asked George, who I was sure had already seen the pool of blood on the ground in addition to what was all over his clothes. Poor sap was dead, so we might as well make it a teaching moment for the younger officer.

Jones' eyes widened and he turned even whiter on seeing the thin pool that he'd stepped in while checking the body. Being so dark, he hadn't realized what it was; once he did, he tried to wipe his shoes on some debris at the edge of the lit area.

Ty joined in. "Jones? Ya' done?"

"Uh, yes, sir. Shot here, uh, looks like—"

He gagged before continuing, "—based on the blood."

"Jones, if you're gonna' puke, ya' better get further away from my crime scene to do it. If not, get some photos of the blood pattern after ya' mark any of your own clodhopper prints. Get some measurements of it—the blood pool—too, so we can give it to the ME."

Jones nodded nervously and did as he was told.

Ty grinned and whispered. "The guy was shot, probably a .38 caliber from the look and no exit wound. No shell casings around, so probably a revolver and wouldn't be surprised if it's a Saturday Night jobie. Trying to let Jones do as much as possible on this; he needs the experience so he won't look so much like a fuckin' ghost next time."

Officer Jones, while he looked like he was going to be sick, was able to hold it together and hold his lunch down as he took the photos his partner had ordered.

"Officer Miller, you never did tell us why we were called in on this instead of calling the homicide guys. What gives?" asked George.

Ty sighed. "Best ya' see it rather than lettin' me spoil the surprise. I called it in to the station and somebody there suggested we call you in since it might possibly be connected with one of your cases."