The Continuing Adventures of Bill Top, Private Dick (#1) by Frank Maloney
As I open the door, the stench of stale beer and decade old cigarette smoke compels a tear of joy to well up in my left eye. Being a man of principle, I refuse to let it fall and wipe it away with the sleeve of my long, black wool coat. I move towards the decrepit wooden bar, noticing only two other patrons in the establishment, seated at opposite ends of the aforementioned bar. I remove my frozen leather gloves and dirty old ushank, wipe away the thin film of snot that has accumulated on my upper lip, and take my place in the middle; equidistant from the two other men. A large man, the barkeep, turns around to face me, his fat mug is greasy and--despite the frigid temperature--doused in sweat. “You wanna da-ring?” he asks in a barely audible Eastern European accent. “Yeah, yeah, thanks. Gimmie your cheapest beer and a shot of Malort.” “No Malor here,” he says. “Well, just the beer then,” I reply, not bothering to mask my disappointment and fury. No Malort? In this fucking city? The barkeep hands me a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon and says, “Tha-ree dollar.” I shoot him a perturbed grimace. “Three fucking dollars for a can of PBR?” “Tha-ree dollar,” he grunts again, holding out his calloused and grimey hand. I pay the fat fuck; no tip.
We repeat this exchange ten or twelve more times. Being well on my way to good and drunk, I recall that I entered this particular watering hole with a purpose. What was it again? Couldn’t be the lost dog I was hired to locate for Mrs. Adams, though maybe he is in here. “Baxter!” I shout--or slur--leaning back on my barstool and goofily turning my head from left to right and back again. I burp and hiccup at the same time, resulting in that almost yacking sound so familiar to drunks. I swallow the sour taste it leaves. No sign of the mutt. I order another PBR.
Ah, yes! Last week a young woman by the name of Stephanie Clark came shivering into my garden level office/residence located somewhere in the middle of the 2400 block of Sacramento Ave. She had on one of those black and white checkered coats with the big buttons in the front giving way to a skirt that is really too short for this weather but a man like me is not going to complain; thin but defined legs covered by black leggings that flow down into her long black boots with loops and straps everywhere that make no discernable sense whatsoever. She removed her white knit cap and shook out her flowing blonde hair in the same motion. I had my feet on my bulky metal desk and was sipping on a glass of George Dickel sour mash sipping whiskey--neat--as I watched her take off her two-dollar plastic sunglasses with neon green frames that hip people wear, look around, notice me, and try to smile as she stepped lightly across the room, her boots clicking on the hardwood floor with each step. tik tik tik tik.
She approached my desk and extended her hand towards me, her fingernails painted green except for the parts where the polish had been chipped away: she had been neglecting them. “Stephanie Clark, we spoke last week,” she said, smiling insincerely. Her face was like so many women her age, beautiful in a way both so innocent the beauty invites one to weep and hold her and hold on for dear life, for fear of losing sight of such beauty; and also a bit world-weary--a fury, perhaps, hiding just behind her bright blue eyes--in a way that makes one want to bend her over a public bathroom sink and fuck her with a violent disregard for her comfort and pleasure.
Her’s was the usual tale. Third year of a young marriage and all of a sudden her husband is coming home at odd hours, stinking of booze, and she feels utterly invisible. “I feel utterly invisible,” she’s saying as I hold up my bottle of whiskey and make an expression that asks, “would you like some?” She nods her head, “yes,” and continues: “it’s like I’m not even there. I’ve tried crying, I’ve tried yelling, I’ve tried waiting for him in lingerie in bed. He just falls asleep, like I’m not even there. I feel utterly invisible.”
I poured two glasses of Dickle and pushed hers across the desk. She thanked me. She looked sad but sexy. “So your concern is that he’s a drunk?” I ask. “No, he’s always been a drunk. We’re both drunks, but we used to be drunk together. We’d drink all day and fuck all night, that was our thing. That’s how we loved. But lately…” I stopped her, interjecting, “...you feel utterly invisible? I’ve heard that before. You think there’s another woman?” I asked. “Yes.” she replied. Typical.
Marriage is sham sold to young ideologues that promises a certain level of contentment but tends to simply replace the box of shit that is one’s life with a fresh, new box of shit. The first day of the rest of your life but life is still shit, is what people have trouble understanding. Not me! You can’t pull a fast one on ol’ Bill Top, Private Dick.
But marriage is just about the only business for a P.D. these days. The wonderful thing about infidelity is that the poor sap being fucked around on is usually so wrapped up in denial that the proof being in the pudding just won’t cut the mustard. These people aren’t hiring me to catch their suspected infidel in the act; my billfold is like a collection plate at mass: money exchanged for the right to hope. We (the clients and myself) both know that it’s hopeless. Not one of these people would walk into my office if there wasn’t already evidence enough to close the case. Please, Bill, they’re saying, please Bill please take the truth and make it a lie.
So I walked out the door on that miserable January day in the city of Chicago to begin my search for nothing at all.
*
Stumbling now diagonally across the city, down Milwaukee from Logan Square headed in the direction of North Ave. The goal of this adventure is--as far as I can tell at this juncture--is to try my luck with the desperate single hipster girls drunkenly traversing Wicker Park, vainly searching for comfort in tacos and over-priced shots. Somewhere along the way I duck into an alley to piss. Task complete and exiting the alley, I trip over the outstretched leg of a vagrant who is either sleeping or dead. I try to catch myself on a nearby dumpster but miss my mark and I land, luckily, in a small bank of snow built up against a red-brick residential building. I’m wet now, cold, and blind angry. Gathering myself, I rise, walk over to the bum, and spit. A glob of saliva strikes the man’s face but there is no reaction, so I decide to kick the bastard. I wind up and drive my boot into his gut with all the might a drunk can muster in the cold Chicago snow. This gets the man’s attention.
He clutches his belly and folds up fetally, releasing a stream of blood stained vomit in the process, a bit of which lands on my boot. Irate, I wind up for another kick, but the bum rolls of out the way and my foot slams into the dumpster and I yell, “Fuck!” I turn around just in time to watch his fist connect with my gut. I’m bent over now, and a knee strikes my nose, breaking it in several places. I’m tasting my own blood, splayed on my back in this fucking alley, bloody, drunk; fucked.
Here comes the bum to finish me off. I can hear his footsteps crunching along intoxicated in the snow. I see him above me now, smiling like a rabid hyena; blood and puke dangling filthy and chaotic from his beard. He’s saying something, maybe, but I certainly don’t comprehend it.
I swing my right leg up as hard as I can and catch the fucker square in the balls. His eyes grow wide and for a split second he stares right at me--shocked--before starting to vomit again. I try to dodge but it is too late. A bit of his spew lands on the back of my coat as I scramble to my feet, slip once, and bumble my way out of the alley.
I continue towards Wicker, stopping to discard my coat and clean my shoes in the snow. I find a bar with a $5 beer and shot deal and belly up. Some faggot is crooning over an electronic beat through the speakers and a skinny hipster slut is eyeing me. I can smell the desperation emanating from under her skirt as she sashays idiotically to the stool next to mine and helps herself to a seat. She tells me her name, which I do not commit to memory.
*
The next morning I leave the strange woman’s unkempt studio apartment while she’s still snoring, being careful not to wake her. I’m not one for morning conversations. Upon arriving home, I jot down some notes on the case:
On a lead from Stephanie Clark, I ventured to Ronny’s Bar, a spot that Stephanie said her husband, Ted, frequents. I asked the grotesque Eastern European bartender about Ted, and he said something impossible to understand. Now that I think about it, perhaps one of the other patrons mentioned knowing Ted. Fuck it though, it is too late now.
Might have beaten up a bum?
Also coming back to me now is an incident in which I--upset again at the lack of Malort in Ronny’s bar--stood atop the bar, undid my belt, slipped off my blue jeans and boxer shorts, and defecated while laughing in a maniacally high pitch. This would explain my departure from the establishment.
Perhaps unrelated: what is it about skinny hipster sluts that makes them all love getting choked?
Reviewing these notes, I arrive at the conclusion that there are still more questions than there are answers with this one. Questions like: Where is Ted Clark? With whom is Ted Clark cheating on Stephanie Clark? Important questions indeed, but questions that will have to wait to be answered after my meeting with Mrs. Clark, which I realize was scheduled for 5 minutes ago.
*
I’m sitting at Stephanie Clark’s kitchen table partaking in a wonderful mimosa brunch she has for prepared for us. She did not seem to mind my tardiness. The spread is ridiculous in it’s scope: scrambled eggs, eggs benedict, a bowl of assorted melons, french toast, pancakes, fried potatoes, and bacon. She’s also provided coffee and whiskey. I doesn’t take a P. Dick to see she’s trying to impress me. This realization gives me an erection.
When you’ve been in this racket as long as I have, you become aware of certain truths. One: that a woman who suspects she’s being cheated on is just about the easiest lay in the game. Two: that if you allow a woman to think she’s in control, you’ve got her, man.
“So, Mr. Top,” she says, trying to act casual as she pours a shot of whiskey in her coffee, “tell me, is it true? Is my husband cheating on me?”
“I’m afraid so,” I reply. It’s not really a lie.
“Oh I knew it!” she screeches and throws up her hands, in as much relief as anger. “Who is she? Did you see her?”
“Mrs. Clark, I’m sorry to say that your husband has been seeing multiple women, three, as far as I can tell. Maybe more if my sources are correct. I’m so sorry.” I let out a long exhale and sip from my coffee, eyes down, looking at my plate.
I feel a hand touch my knee. I turn my head and slowly raise my gaze, “Mrs. Clark?” I ask, as her fingertips crawl up my leg, to my inner thigh, inching ever closer to my penis, deliberately slow. “Mrs. Clark, wha-”
“Shhhhhhhh,” she cuts me off, letting the noise hang in the air and before I can respond she’s got my fly down and is undoing my belt buckle. Pausing, she straddles me in my chair and delivers a passionate kiss, or a few, as she grinds her crotch into mine.
Then it’s back to my cock. She pulls my blue trousers down to my ankles, rips off my shoes, and then flings the pants over her shoulders. Her tongue carresses the base of my johnson for a moment and then moves up the shaft. I watch joyously as she inserts my member into her face via the mouth and allow myself to enjoy a few seconds of the blowjob before removing my cock from her mouth, flipping her body so that her pussy is in my face and her face is on my junk and I get to licking and she gets to sucking. Oh, the ecstasy! Oh, the glorious flavor of this slut’s holes! My tongue indulges in an exploration of her asshole, and I nearly weep it tastes so good.
I’m about to pop, so it’s time to fuck Mrs. Clark. I pull my face away from it’s snack, and say, “It’s time to fuck, Mrs. Clark.”
Right side up, Mrs. Clark turns towards the kitchen table, lays her torso flat on it, and spreads her legs wide. She says something coy, but I don’t really hear it.
Left hand on her hip, right hand in her hair, pulling, I begin to thrust into her. I take great pride in the audibility of the meaty thwack these thrusts create. She’s howling the usual female “ooo”s “aaah”s and “ohmigodfuckme”s. It’s a really good time I’m having right now.
She cums once, then again soon after. We move to the floor.
I’ve got two fingers up her ass, and I can see her face muscles twitching on either side of the fine line that separates pleasure and pain. She’s beginning to cum again and I can feel her pussy begin to tighten around my cock, like the jaws of a snake. With each thrust now I can feel all the little cells of my body wiggle joyously, electrically. She’s feeling it too, I can tell, as her nails stab into my back, intensifying my pleasure again, even as she draws blood. I’m lost in it now, on top of her, her legs on my shoulders, thrusting long and deep and urgent. I’m hovering between reality and a place where there is only this pleasure, this unnameable warmth, that passes through us as I stare directly in her eyes, both of us with looks that question whether or not we’ll be able to take this once it hits, like we’re on Willy Wonka’s elevator about to blast through the roof and into the heavens. All I know of pleasure and pain and life and death and hope and fear come together into one pure moment of untainted ecstasy as I feel my balls go numb and my cock release one, two, three, four blasts of fresh cum into her pulsating pussy and I collapse on top of her, shaking, lighter, content.
*
The next day, back at my bulky desk in my office/residence, sipping George Dickle, I phone Mrs. Clark to inquire about any titty bars that Ted might step out to.
“We’re sorry, but the number you have dialed is not in service,” says the robot lady that answers.
I hang up the phone, light a cigarette, lean back, and take a sip of whiskey.
Frank Maloney is the founder and Editor-in-Chief of Food & Pussy. He boasts 0 college degrees and 0 credentials of any sort. He spends most of his time making cheeseburgers and country music. Reach Frank via Twitter at @frankxmaloney or by e-mail at frankxmaloney@foodandpussy.com
