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By J.T. Benjamin
7 PM At Mickey...
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By Lynne den Hartog
Different strokes

By Richard V Raiment
Honeyed Tongues
Richmond, Dear Park

By Robert Buckley
Corner Booth
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7 PM At Mickey Mulligan's
© 2001 by J.T.  Benjamin

I walked into Mickey Mulligan's Pub and stood in the doorway for a moment.  Mickey's place was designed to look less like a bar and more like a cave; it was very dark, with lots of shadows and very little light.  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, but I spotted her instantly.

She sat at the bar, one long leg crossed delicately over the other.  She wore a black knee length skirt with a long slit up the side, giving everyone in the room a nice view of the middle of her thigh.  She wore a bright red blouse and her long blonde hair cascaded around her shoulders.  I walked toward her.

There were a gaggle of half-drunk executive types sitting at the other end of the bar, leering at her and trying to work up the nerve to buy her a drink or make conversation or do anything they could to get her into bed.

That was no surprise.  Madelyne Timmons was simply the kind of woman who got those kinds of reactions from men.  She was more than good looking: she was a stunner.  But then, she worked at it.  Everybody has a skill; a craft at which they work and practice and hone to perfection.  Some people play the saxophone or they paint in oils or they golf or they play the stock market.  Madelyne Timmons' craft was looking beautiful.  She devoted all her energy to being the most desireable woman in town, and she was as good at it as the Chief Surgeon at the Mayo Clinic was at carving up people.

I walked past her and toward the collection of drunks.  I caught the bartender's eye and ordered a shot of whiskey and a beer.  My two best friends: Jack Daniels and Bud Wiser.

I looked at the four of them and said, "She's some looker, huh?"

The tallest drunk said, "Oooh, she's hot! She's so fucking hot!"

I asked, "Belong to any of you guys?"

The shortest one had a mustache that made him look like a pudgy Adolf Hitler.  He said, "Naw.  Not yet, anyway.  We're trying to decide which one of us is the lucky guy to ask her out."

"You bunch of slobs actually think you've got a chance with her?"

A drunk with red hair snorted. "Better than you've got, buddy! You look like two miles of bad road!"

I said, "Listen, punks! A lady like that has class, style.  When you've got those things, you're able to move beyond mere appearances and see the true person within.  I may not look like much but I've got more inside than all four of you lushes put together."

The redhead said, "You're full of shit! I'm going over there, and she's going home with me!" He straightened his tie.  His buddies slapped him on the back for encouragement.  As he walked by, I said, "Betcha twenty bucks she shoots you down."

"You're on!"

It wasn't pretty.  We couldn't hear what he said to Madelyne Timmons, but his body language told the tale.  At first, he appeared charming and confident, like he was maybe reciting a soliloquy from Shakespeare.  Madelyne Timmons said a couple of words, and he gave another soliloquy, only with a little less confidence.  She said a few more words, and then his confidence was gone.  His shoulders sagged and his body suggested that he was pleading with her.  She shook her head.  He rescued his last shred of dignity by walking away.  The next step in his little performance would have been to get on his knees and beg.

The redhead came back, mumbling. "Fucking bitch is probably a lezbo anyway."

I fought the urge to pistol-whip him and I said, "Give me my twenty."

The redhead said, "Ten to one you do no better."

"I'll take that bet."

The other drunks wanted in on the action, so we spent a few moments haggling and by the time I walked up to Madelyne Timmons, I stood to win seven hundred and fifty dollars if she said, "yes."

It was a set-up, of course.  You're probably smart enough to have figured that out long ago.  I sat down next to her and said, "Hi.  If you don't mind my saying so, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.  You waiting for somebody or are you here alone?"

She smiled at me with a killer pair of crystal-blue eyes and said, "I'm in the Grand Plaza Hotel.  Room 1713.  Meet me there in ten minutes." She handed me her hotel key, put money on the counter for her drink and she walked out of the bar.

I held up the room key in triumph and colleted my cash from the stupefied drunks.

Candy from a baby.  Four babies, actually.  I think the redhead was even crying.

Two hours later, Madelyne and I were lying naked on the bed.  We were still sweating from having what felt like the best sex I'd ever had.  I think that every time I go to bed with Madelyne, and then the very next time, I find myself thinking, okay, THAT was the best sex I've ever had.

She said, "Seven hundred and fifty dollars? Not a bad take this time.  I should demand a percentage."

"You've got plenty of money.  I'm the one who had his phone turned off last month."

Madelyne giggled and she ran her fingers through my chest hair.  Her touch sent goose bumps down my body, and I felt something stirring in my groin.  I'd thought I was exhausted, but Madelyne was allowing me to find new sources of strength.  She said, "I should go soon.  I have to be home in an hour." Her hand moved down to my cock and she caressed it.

I was growing more erect by the second. "How long does it take you to get there from here?"

"Forty-five minutes." She rolled onto her back and stretched like a cat.  Her firm, round breasts pointed at the ceiling.

I rolled over on top of her and put my now raging hard-on into her pussy.  She groaned as my shaft went deep inside her.

She groaned. "Honey, I have to go."

I ignored her and began thrusting. "So you'll be late."

Her hips began to buck, thrusting her pelvis to meet mine. "Don't you....ohhh....don't you have to go somewhere?"

We began fucking in earnest and I said, "Not til tomorrow morning.  I'm meeting your husband."

*              *              *              *              *              *

The following day, at ten thirty A.M., Norbert Timmons snarled at me. "Nothing? You've been following her for two weeks and you've found nothing?"

"Mr.  Timmons, your wife doesn't appear to be a stupid woman.  If she suspects that you might know something, she could have called it off.  She might just be too careful for me to find something.  Of course, it might just be your imagination."

"Don't give me that crap!" Norbert Timmons stood up.  He epitomized the "fat cat." He weighed probably three hundred pounds, one for every million dollars in his checkbook.  I shuddered at the thought of poor Madelyne having sex with that bloated monster, he grunting like a pig and she trying to sound excited while not suffocating or suffering a broken rib.  Timmons began to pace. "You're supposed to be the best private eye in the business! And I know she's cheating on me! I know it! You're not trying hard enough!"

"Mr.  Timmons, I'm doing my best, but I'm a man of limited resources.  Speaking of which, your retainer's about used up.  Since I can't find anything on her, we'll probably have to call this off."

"We're not calling anything off! She's cheating on me and I want you to find the bastard! Here!" He pulled his checkbook out of his jacket pocket as quickly as I could draw my .45 out of my shoulder holster.  He scribbled in the checkbook so quickly and so vigorously with his pen I wondered if the check would be in shreds by the time he was done.  He tore the check out of the book and threw it at me.  He said, "I trust this will convince you that money is no object.  You're working for me until you find something.  That's an order."

I looked at that two and the four zeros after it and I couldn't help smiling.  I said, "Mr.  Timmons, I'm all yours.  This could take a while, but you're the boss."

Candy from a baby.

© 2001 by J.T.  Benjamin All rights reserved.  No part of this work may be reproduced without permission from the author.  This means you.

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