Title: The Stuff That Dreams are Made Of

Author: Tinnean

Fandom: The Maltese Falcon

Pairing: Sam Spade/Miles Archer, Sam Spade/Wilmer Cook

Rating: NC-17

Feedback email: Tinneantoo@aol.com

Disclaimers: Not mine, never were, never will be. They belong to
Dash Hammett and John Huston and the fantastic Humphrey Bogart.

Archive: If I sent it to you, please feel free! Otherwise let me
know.

Summary: How Sam wound up with that bird in his hand and a
faraway look in his eyes.

Series/Sequel: Not at this point

Warning: m/m, language, spoiler for the movie

Note: if you read the book or saw the movie, you know what the
story is; I have no idea what Iva's maiden name was, but
Masterson sounded good. Major thanks to Gail for her invaluable
help. And this one's for Silk, because of what's going on at that
other list.

*****

The Stuff Dreams are Made Of

By Tinnean

It wouldn't have happened, none of it, if Miles Archer, my
partner, could have kept his dick in his pants.

He was mine, before he ever met Iva Masterson. I loved him,
worked with him.

Played the sap for him.

He met Iva while I was tied up down at City Hall, wrangling with
the assistant DA, trying to pull his chestnuts out of the fire.

And he was out fucking some bleached blond bimbo.

How long had *that* been going on?

I got back to the office, exhausted and barely able to set one
foot in front of the other. Effie Perine, our secretary, cast me
a pitying look before turning studiously back to her typewriter.

I was too tired for our normal banter. I just crossed the floor
to the door to our office, the one that said **Spade and Archer.
Private**.

*Very* private.

Miles was already at his desk, his feet propped on a corner,
lounging in his chair. "How'd it go, Sammy?"

He knew I *hated* when he called me that. And he always called me
that when he was up to something.

I ran a hand over my face, deciding I'd better shave soon. All I
wanted was to take him to my bed and wipe out the past few hours
with some hot, sweaty sex. But I didn't want to leave whisker
burn all over his fair skin.

"I got him off our backs. He threatened us with having our
licenses revoked."

"*Again*?" Miles laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
"Good-for-nothing cocksucker!" Why was he in such a good mood?

That's when I heard the titter. And saw the blond sitting
casually in my chair.

"A client, Miles?" I asked shortly.

He got to his feet. He was about six foot two, and he dwarfed my
average height. Somehow that never mattered when we were in bed
together.

"Iva, this is Sam Spade, my...partner." She wore this little
polka dot dress with tiny cap sleeves, and his fingers were
around her arm, assisting her to her feet, caressing the soft
skin above her elbow.

I was too stupid with fatigue to try to decipher his moves.

"Sam, this is Iva Masterson. Soon to be Iva Archer!"

Well. Fuck *me*!

What does a guy do when his lover, his *same
sex* lover, tells him he's marrying a member of the *opposite*
sex?

I walked around to the other side of my desk, pulled out the
little pouch I kept my tobacco in and began to sprinkle it
carefully on the cigarette paper. It was a move that always gave
me time to collect my thoughts, and no one ever realized how
adrift I might be.

"Really, Miles?" I ran my tongue along the edge of the paper,
slowly and deliberately, watching my partner's eyes. He couldn't
take them off my tongue. He still wanted me.

Why was he marrying this blond then?

I slid the cigarette half way into my mouth, sealing it, then
took it out and reversed it. Then I struck a match with my
thumbnail and lit it.

"Congratulations," I finally said, mildly. I drew in a deep
lungful of the acrid smoke and let it dribble out through my
nose. Only then, when I was positive I would shoot neither of
them, did I lean over and kiss her cheek. "I'm sure you'll be
very happy with Miles, Iva."

I approached Miles and he drew back abruptly. I could see that
for a minute he thought I was about to kiss him as well. Instead
I took his hand as if to shake it, squeezing, grinding the small
bones together. He pulled his hand free before his sl...future
wife could see the look of agony on his face.

He flexed his fingers and pasted on a sickly smile. "Well, we
just wanted you to be the first to know."

"Oh?" I asked, dropping down into the chair that Iva had vacated.
"I'm so fortunate! Do let me take you out for a celebratory
drink."

"That's so kind of you, Sam," Iva said, her green eyes examining
me thoroughly. "Actually, we need to see my family, to tell them
the happy news."

"Another time, then." I just wanted them out of my office now.

"Oh, yes!"

My head jerked around sharply. Her smile was very prim, but her
eyes were hot as they raked over my body. I swallowed wrong and
choked on a mouthful of smoke.

The door closed quietly behind them, and I heard the murmuring of
their voices as they spoke with Effie.

I reached down to open the bottom left drawer of my desk and
pulled out a bottle of rye and a shot glass. I looked at the
glass, and then returned it to the drawer.

It wasn't big enough. I pulled the cork out of the bottle and
tipped it to my lips. It burned all the way down, and settled in
my stomach like a pool of acid. I coughed but was bringing it
back to my mouth when Effie walked in.

She had been with me before Miles became my partner. She knew my
... preferences, but that didn't stop her from considering
herself my best friend.

****

With only average looks that bordered on the wrong side of
pretty, her body was what drew attention: she was built like a
brick ... well to put it politely, she was well built. We first
met in the dingy little bar around the corner, when some palooka
was trying to put the make on her. He was a big guy, and he
laughed when I objected to the way he was treating the girl. So I
knocked him off his barstool and threw him out onto the sidewalk.

Effie was thankful, and we got to chatting. She had just lost
another job because of her looks. Her boss felt her job
description should include the word **mistress**, and she didn't.
She nailed his instep with her spiked heel and was suddenly
unemployed.

"Come work for me," I offered. "I need a secretary, and I can
guarantee I won't make a pass at you!"

"I don't think so," she said reluctantly. "You're a man, aren't
you? And you're breathing? Sooner or later you'll make a pass."

"Umm..." How did I explain that as voluptuous as her body was, it
did nothing for me? "Trust me, Precious. If there's one thing I
*won't* do, it's make a pass at you!"

****

Now Effie strolled into my office, the seductive sway of her hips
an unconscious part of her. She oozed up onto my desk and perched
on the edge, her gorgeous legs crossed at the knee, and began to
build another cigarette for me. I took it from her after she
removed it from her mouth, and put it into my own, waiting while
she struck a match. "Want me to go after them and kick her down
the stairs, Sam?"

I shook my head, still feeling like a man who's been sucker
punched one time too many. She leaned over and stroked my hair,
let her fingers trace the line of my jaw. "He's not worth it,
Sam. He was never any good for you."

"No. I know Effie. I...guess I always knew. I just..."

"You just wanted to believe the lying bastard when he said he
loved you! Men!" she snorted in disgust, and I had to laugh.

"Angel, *I'm* a man too, in case you had forgotten?"

She slid easily off the desk and tipped up my chin to kiss my
cheek. "I know that, Sam." She straightened quickly, almost
throwing herself off balance. "It's time to go home now." Effie
turned to walk out and I admired the curve of her backside, so
smooth and taut for a woman.

What a waste!

Effie paused as she got to the door and looked me over carefully,
shaking her head. "What a waste!"

***

"Effie, darling."

I heard her sigh, but pretended I hadn't.

"Yes, Sam?"

I leaned against the door frame and waved the nearly empty bottle
of rye. "We're almost out!"

"Yeah, so?"

"Are you angry with me, Angel?"

"You're drinking too much, Sam."

"No, I'm not drinking *enough*, darling. Now be a dear and run
down to the corner and get me some more."

She pushed her chair away from her desk and rose to her feet.
"You scare me, Sam. You go out every day with that damned gun in
your hip pocket, and it's like you're trying to get yourself
killed!"

I scowled at her, both of her. Oh. This was not good. Suddenly I
was seeing two of my secretary. And my stomach decided it was
tired of being filled with rotgut whiskey. I clapped a hand over
my mouth and staggered back into my office, winding up with my
head in my waste paper basket.

When I looked up again, Effie was standing in the doorway,
holding a damp, linen hanky. She tossed it to me and then stalked
out of the office, irritation written in the stiff line of her
back. The outer door slammed shut and I winced as the sound
knifed through my skull.

I rolled from my knees onto my ass and leaned back against my
desk, groaning as I hit my head.

Effie was right. If I continued on in this manner, I *would* soon
be dead, from either one of the many enemies I had made, or my
poor taste in alcohol.

The scrap of material felt cool against my heated skin and I
rubbed it over my face. I staggered to my feet, almost vomiting
again as the sour odor from the wastebasket hit me full force. I
clamped my mouth shut and managed to get to the washroom down the
hall without any unseemly accidents.

I regarded my haggard face in the mirror above the tiny sink. The
bags under my eyes were suitable for travel on the Twentieth
Century, and the stubble covering my chin and cheeks made me look
like a refugee from a men's mission. I couldn't remember the last
time I had looked so bad.

Miles had been married to Iva for a little over three months, and
was taking what he called an extended honeymoon. He'd stop by the
office once a week or so, just to pick up his paycheck. Even so
filled with bad liquor that I was seeing double, I was a better
gumshoe than Miles Archer.

I was doing the majority of the sleuthing.

I was also doing the majority of the drinking.

My self-respect reached back to kick me in the ass.

Okay, Spade. The man doesn't want you.

Drinking yourself into an early grave isn't going to change that.

Deal with it.

***

I glanced up and froze when Miles sauntered into the office. He
settled himself on the desk in front of me, his legs splayed
temptingly.

"Well. Fancy meeting you here!" I sneered, trying to hide the
thrill I still got when he was near. "Slumming?"

The look he gave me from under his ridiculously long lashes was
considering. The hairs on the back of my neck began to stand on
end.

"We haven't...talked in quite some time, Sam."

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" In spite of myself,
I could feel my cock grow hard. It had been months since I had
stopped drinking, even more months since he'd come to me. I still
wanted him.

I licked my lips and reached for my tobacco pouch.

Miles leaned over and placed a hand over mine. "Don't, Sam."

"Don't *what*?" I asked, playing for time. What did he want from
me?

"Come on, baby. Don't take that attitude. I *had* to marry Iva!"

"Really? Well, if she told you she was knocked up, she lied! Or
you would have been a papa by now!"

"That's not what I meant, Sam. People were starting to talk." His
fingers curled around mine and his thumb began to run over the
sensitive skin at my wrist. He smiled smugly, and I knew my
runaway pulse was giving me away.

I pulled my hand free, surreptitiously rubbing that telltale
spot.

"*People* always talk. So what?"

"Tom Polhaus told me it was going around the station house that
we were working together a little *too* closely."

"Ah, *shit*!" Tom was a sergeant on the police force, and an old
friend of mine. If he had seen fit to warn Miles off, then things
were getting dicey.

"Yeah. So, you *see* why I had no choice?"

"I guess," I said grudgingly. "But couldn't you have told me? I
thought..."

"I'm sorry, Sam." He smiled and moved in closer to me, those
elegant fingers threading though the hair above my ear, following
the curve to my earlobe. He squeezed it gently, then dug into it
with his thumbnail. I jerked back, but he refused to release me.

He used the grip on my ear to urge me up along his body, and I
could feel his cock pressing needily against my groin. I moaned
helplessly and took his mouth.

Miles let go of my ear and put his arms around me, stroking up
and down my spine, each downward stroke coming closer and closer
to my ass. And then his palms were filled with me, pulling me
closer. I rocked against him, unable to control the wildfire of
desire that flashed through me.

"Effie left early," I whispered feverishly in his ear. "Let me
lock the door!"

"I already did, Sam." He gave that cocky smile of his, that
melted my bones, that made me need to fuck him fast and
furiously.

I settled my lips on his mouth, nudging past his lips to tease
his tongue. I wanted that tongue in my mouth, fucking it. My
fingers went to his belt and I fumbled with it, trying
desperately to undo it.

Miles laughed and backed away. "Do you have something, Sam?"

While I was tearing through my desk, looking for the lubricant,
he was casually removing his jacket and dropping his trousers. He
wasn't wearing any underwear. I nearly came right then.

He bent over my desk, watching as I fumbled with the jar of cream
I had once planned to give Effie as a Christmas gift. Instead,
Miles and I had become lovers and I gave it to him instead.

Hesitantly, I held it in my hand, warming it. "Do you want to do
*me*, Miles?"

He shook his head. I shed my clothes and coated my weeping
erection with the slippery stuff, then scooped out a fingerful
and began to insert it into my lover. Miles was very tight. At
least Iva hadn't been able to give him this!

"Come *on*, Sam. Stop fucking around!"

As punishment, for cutting out my heart with a dull knife, for
marrying that bitch, Iva, for not loving me enough, I shoved into
him with one rough stroke, and he whimpered at the sting.

His passage was snug and hot, and it had been too long since I
had been inside him. I knew I wouldn't last long. I wrapped my
hand around his cock and pulled.

I tried to hold out as long as I could, but his inner muscles
squeezed down, milking me, and I was pouring myself into him, my
orgasm so powerful I was almost on the verge of unconsciousness.

But Miles hadn't come. He was still hard. I slipped out of him
and turned him around, leaned him back against my desk. I went
down on my knees before him and licked at the drops of moisture
that were on the tip of his cock. Then I began to swallow him,
and although I could tell he was fighting it, it was only a
matter of seconds before he erupted in my mouth.

I sat back on my heels, carefully studying the floor. What had I
just done?

I licked my lips, tasting him there, and he pulled me to my feet
and kissed me, his tongue sweeping my mouth. "I can taste me on
you!" he growled. "I love when you suck me off!"

I took a step back. I had made him come, but it had been such a
small amount that I didn't have any trouble swallowing it all. Of
course. He had been getting laid on a regular basis. He wasn't
mooning around, waiting for me.

"Will you fuck me, Miles? Will you put your cock in my ass?"

Miles looked amused, and used his handkerchief to clean himself
up. He pulled up his trousers, fastening the buckle
unconcernedly. "Thanks for the offer, Sam, but I don't think so.
I want to fuck something hot and *wet*. But you can fuck me, if
you like. Or suck me." He shrugged. "We can work out a schedule."

I cleaned myself off and got dressed. Then my fist shot out and I
clipped him on the chin. His head twisted back and his feet shot
out from under him and he fell, hitting the edge of my desk.

"Oww!" He rubbed the back of his head. "What'd you do that for? I
thought you wanted to fuck me!"

"No, Miles. You can fuck yourself! I *won't* do that! I *won't*
share you with Iva!"

The son of a bitch had the nerve to look surprised.

"Oh, go *home* Miles. Go see if Iva can give you what *I* can!"

"Don't be too sure she can't, Sam!" he sniped back, brushing
himself off. "She has a pretty educated mouth!" He got to his
feet. "I'll see you on Monday."

He walked out of the office, leaving the outer door open.

I dropped into my chair, leaned my elbows on the desk and cradled
my head in my hands.

A gentle tap sounded on my door frame, and I looked up wearily. I
*knew* it wouldn't be Miles.

"Sam, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Effie. I thought you had to leave early."

"I did, but I saw loverboy come sneaking up the stairs, so I
waited until he left to make sure you wouldn't need help hiding
the body if you decided to shoot him."

"Effie, you're an angel. Thank you."

She hovered expectantly at the door.

"What?"

"Is there anything I can do for you, Sam?" Her eyes were so
sympathetic. I wanted to shoot something. Or someone.

"Yes, Precious, there is." I began building a cigarette and
didn't speak again until I finished.

"Darling, order me a new desk."

***

Note: A pas de seul is a dance for one.

I gazed at the window behind my desk, not really seeing our names
spelt out.
                          EDAPS
DNA
  REHCRA

The letters were foot high so they could be read clearly on the
street three stories below.

I'd have to do something about the partnership. Soon. I was doing
all the grunt work while Miles Archer got to tail husbands who
were keeping a honey on the side or tracing runaway schoolgirls
for their rich daddies.

Effie Perine poked her head in the doorway. "There's someone out
here to see you, Sam." Her eyes were lit with excitement.

I pulled my watch out of my vest pocket. "It's rather late for a
new client, isn't it, Angel?"

"Maybe, Sam. But she's a real knockout! You'll want to see her!"

I examined my fingernails carefully. "Are you mistaking me for
Miles, darling?"

She had the grace to look abashed, and gave me a crooked smile.
"Sorry, Sam." Since my partner had married that bleached blond
bimbo, Iva, Effie had been trying to get me interested in
someone, anyone. As long as they came with a warm body, they
would do. She called over her shoulder, "Come right on in, Miss
Wonderly."

The brunette who walked into my office had me sitting up and
examining her carefully. Her stride was smooth and gliding, as if
she had been born wearing high heels. A sable stole covered one
shoulder, the soft, lustrous fur draping over her other arm. A
pillbox hat nestled on her rich auburn hair, a tiny bird of black
silk perched on the rim, sending her deep blue eyes into shadow.
The suit she wore, a velvety brown over a pale yellow blouse,
cinched in her waist and fell in a straight line to mid calf. It
rippled as she walked toward me, her hand outstretched.

"Mr. Spade, I can't thank you enough for seeing me at such short
notice!"

"Not at all, Miss Wonderly. What can I do for you?" I gestured
her toward the client's chair that I had purchased a few months
ago. Right after Iva had made herself comfortable in my chair.
"Would you like a cigarette?"

"Thank you, no, I prefer my own brand." She reached into her
purse and withdrew a sterling silver case chased in what appeared
to be Russian Cyrillic lettering. Pressing the concealed clasp,
she made a production of selecting one of the slim Egyptian
cigarettes and placing it between her carmine lips. Before she
could light it though, I struck a match and extended my arm,
holding it toward her.

She had to bend toward me slightly to take advantage of the
light. Then I licked my thumb and forefinger and smothered the
flame.

I settled myself on the edge of my desk and waited while she
fussed with her hat and her furs and her blouse collar, smoothing
her skirt so it fell over her knees in an orderly manner. Effie
stood at the door, her eyes enormous as she took in the little
pas de seul that was being put on before us.

I grinned at her and nodded toward the door, and she went back to
her desk reluctantly.

"If you're quite finished with primping, Miss Wonderly?"

She started, as if she had forgotten I was there. "I'm sorry, I
was procrastinating, wasn't I?" She tittered.

I'd read about that, *tittering*, but I had never actually heard
anyone do it before. A strange sound. I struggled to hide my
amusement.

Miss Wonderly saw it in my eyes, and made herself relax. "I am
sorry," she apologized again. "This is just...This is very
difficult for me. It's a very trying time."

Before she could go into any kind of detail, the office door
burst open.

And Miles walked in.

He was wearing a new suit, one I was sure Iva had bought for him.
I saw how his eyes turned hot as they acknowledged the svelte
figure in the client's chair. "Am I interrupting something, *I
hope*?"

"Miss Wonderly, this is Miles Archer, my partner. Miles, Miss
Wonderly was just about to tell me why she felt the need for the
services of a private investigator."

Abruptly, she reached into her purse. "This is a recent photo of
my sister, Corinne. Until last week, she was at an exclusive
girl's school in New York."

Miles went into my lower drawer and pulled out the bottle of rye.
He cocked an eye at me. It was a new bottle, the seal hadn't been
broken. I brought my gaze back to our potential client.

"She was in school, you say?"

"Yes. She had apparently been corresponding with our chauffeur, a
rather crude, brutish man who goes by the name of Floyd Thursby.
And now she's run away with him! I got a telegram from him
stating that I could have Corinne back if I met him here in San
Francisco and gave him $20,000. But I'm afraid."

"So you want either Sam or myself to find him, and find your
sister."

She smiled at him gratefully. "Yes, that's it exactly. This is
the hotel he's staying at." She handed Miles a card with
something scrawled across the back. He took it from her, letting
his fingers linger suggestively on hers.

She blushed and looked down at her purse. "If you'll just tell me
what your fee is?"

"Our retainer is $200, and we get twenty dollars a day expenses."

She paled. "That's *very* expensive!"

I looked at her sharply. "We're *very* good!"

She opened her purse and withdrew two crisp hundred-dollar bills.
I took them from her, while Miles assisted her to her feet.
"Don't worry, my dear," he said, patting her hand patronizingly.
"We'll get your sister back safely and have this whole thing
settled in no time!" He grinned, an expression that would have
been at home on a shark, and ushered her out of the office.

His hand stroked down, as if by accident, over the curves of her
ass. She jumped and he apologized, swallowing that grin, and
closed the door behind her.

"Have you forgotten you're married now, Miles?"

He turned that smile on me, ignoring my remark. "Are they good?"
he asked, nodding toward the bills in my hand.

I snapped one briskly and held it up to the light. Tiny silk
threads were imbedded in the paper. "They're good," I affirmed.

"And they have brothers in her bag, did you notice?"

"No," I turned my back to look out the window. Below I could see
Miss Wonderly getting into a cab. "I leave that sort of thing to
you!"

"Ah, Sammy! That's why I'll get ahead in this world, and *you*
won't!"

I huffed softly and reached for my tobacco pouch.

"Sure you don't want a drink, Sam?"

"With you, Miles?" I drew in a deep breath of the acrid smoke. "I
don't think so."

****

It was in the wee small hours of the morning when I got the phone
call.

"Spade."

"Sam, it's Tom."

"Who died, Tom?"

"What makes you think someone died, Sam?"

"Listen, Polhaus, the Frisco police don't call me at," I leaned
over to peer at my bedside clock, "at three A.M., just to swap
recipes. So, who died?"

A heavy sigh came over the line, and I felt my gut clench. I had
no family on the west coast. That left only...

"It's Miles, Sam. He took a .38 right in the pump. You better
get down here." He gave me the address, and I copied it down,
but I seemed to be operating on automatic. Numbly, I hung up
the phone and sat with my head in my hands.

Then I poured myself two fingers of whiskey, the first drink I
had had in months, and belted it back. I stood to pull on my
clothes.

I was at the door when a thought struck me, and I turned back to
the phone. I picked up the receiver and dialed. "Effie, darling,
it's..."

"Sam? What's wrong?" Everyone knows that a call at three in the
morning bodes no good.

"It's Miles, Precious. He's been shot."

"How bad, Sam?"

"As bad as it can be. He's dead. Do me a favor, Angel. Get over
to his place and break the news to Iva, would you?"

"She doesn't like me, Sam."

"She likes *me* even less, darling. Go see her, there's a good
girl."

"Very well, Sam. But you owe me!"

"Anything you like, Precious. And try to keep her away from me!"

Over the still-open line I could hear Effie calling to her
mother. "*Nothing's* wrong, mama. I just have to run an errand.
Go back to bed!" And then a hum came over the line and I cradled
the receiver and headed out to catch a cab to Burritt Street.

****

Tom Polhaus looked up from where he was crouching at the side of
a broken guard rail and grimaced when he saw me.

"Sorry to have to get you out so early, Sam."

"What can you tell me, Tom?"

"Little more than I told you over the phone. He took a .38 pill
in the chest, point blank range. It singed his topcoat."

"Is that the murder weapon?" I asked, nodding toward the gun he
had picked up.

"Looks like it. It's a Webley-Fosbery. English make. One shot
fired, recently. They stopped making them a couple, three years
back, I think. Ever seen it before?"

I kept my gaze deliberately blank. "I've seen Webley-Fosberys
before."

Tom knew I wouldn't answer any more than that, and dropped the
subject. "What was Miles doing down here?"

I rolled a cigarette to give myself some time to think. When I
finally spoke, it was to say, casually, "He was supposed to be
tailing someone named Floyd Thursby."

"Why?"

I took the cigarette out of my mouth and regarded the glowing
tip. "Mind if I go down and take a look at him?" Deliberately, I
didn't answer his question.

Polhaus shrugged. "He's your partner, Sam."

"Was, Tom. He *was* my partner."

***

Brief note on this one, for those born after 1960:
a fin is $5.00 and a gunsel is hired muscle, who
generally favors shooting his victims


Effie looked up as I entered the office, her mouth opened on some
wise crack. She took one good look at my kisser, folded her lips
over, and turned back to her typing.

"Aren't you interested in how it went, Precious?"

Her shoulders slumped. "Ah, Sam, don't be cranky with me! I had
Iva in here for hours this morning!"

"What did she want, Angel?"

"She thinks you killed Miles, Sam!"

I swore viciously. Of course she would. She'd like nothing better
than to get her pretty paws on this business! I glowered at my
secretary. "And what do you think, darling?"

"I think you need a drink!"

I sank down in the chair by her desk and tossed my hat at the
coat tree in the corner. "It's been a bitch of a day, Precious.
Sorry." I apologized for my language and rubbed my temples, a
headache thinking about taking up residence there. "Floyd
Thursby's been found dead, and Lieutenant Dundy thinks I did it."

"Thursby? Wasn't he the man who was threatening Miss Wonderly?
How'd you kill him, Sam? I forget."

I curled my lip at her. "Four shots to the back, from across the
street."

She shook her head. "Not your style, Sam. Plus I've noticed
you're not packing heat any more."

"I took your lecture to heart, darling, and put all my little
toys away."

She snorted, a surprisingly elegant little sound. "Were you able
to find Miss Wonderly? Or is it Miss LeBlanc? What name is she
using today?" Effie had taken the call from our client and
discovered that not only was her name not Wonderly, but her story
wasn't even half-way to being true.

Well, Miles and I hadn't really believed her; we had believed her
two hundred dollars, which made it all right enough to take her on.

"Oh, she had already checked out by the time I got there. I guess
we'll just have to wait and see if we hear from her again."

"I think she likes you, Sam."

I gave her a sour look. "And you know how much that means to me,
don't you, darling?"

She turned back to her typewriter and placed her fingers
efficiently on the keys. But I just couldn't let it go. "I
was...followed to the St. Mark."

"Oh?"

"Come on, Angel, I know you're dying to hear all about my dream
man! Boy, actually."

"What? Oh Sam, you didn't!"

"No, Effie, darling, I didn't. He's just...younger than I usually
have them. In his early twenties, I'd guess. A gunsel from the
east coast!" I nodded at her shocked stare. "And you needn't tell
me, Precious, I know I'm losing what little mind I have left! A
gunsel, for God's sake! He's probably got a bullet with my name
on it!" I started for my office door, shaking my head at my own
folly.

"Sam. Be careful!"

I scowled at her and went into my office. As I had ordered, the
sign on the window had been changed. Now it just read *Samuel
Spade, Private Investigations*.

The full bottle of rye was still in the bottom drawer of my desk.
I looked at it, and the seven shot glasses that were lined up
next to it, one for each day of the week, so Effie would only
have to wash them out once.

I set my little soldiers and their general up on my desk and
cracked the seal. Carefully I poured two fingers of rye into each
glass, and then sat back in my chair and contemplated them. I had
a lot of catching up to do.

****

The kid thought he was being so slick, so... professional, but I
spotted him about a block from my office building. He had seen
too many B movies. The trenchcoat he wore belted around his waist
was a drab tan, and matched the slouch hat that shaded his eyes.
I could see the bulge in his pocket where he kept his gun.

I wondered if he'd have a matching one in his trousers.

I hailed the cabby who provided wheels for me when I needed to be
in a lot of places in a short amount of time. Chair was an okay
kind of guy. He had worked on the Golden Gate Bridge at one time,
but then he developed a fear of heights and had to stop walking
steel. He needed the extra fin I gave him every week to be
available, so I kept him on my payroll.

Miles hadn't known anything about that. He never looked over the
books, and Effie would have lied herself blue in the face to
prevent him from finding out. She liked Chair as well, and if he
wasn't married with a half dozen kids, she might have made a play
for him too.

She was the reason I called him Chair. He had taken one look at
her voluptuous body and said, "You're so beautiful, you could sit
on my face for the rest of my life!"

I said he was married, I didn't say he was dead!

I climbed into his cab and told him, "The St. Mark, Chair."

"Hot date, Mr. Spade?"

I should live so long. "No, strictly business, Chair." I grinned
and leaned my arm across the back of the ratty upholstery of his
passenger seat, glancing out the rear window.

There the kid was, in that trench coat and hat, whistling up a
cab, pointing to where Chair was barreling down the street.

And he tailed me all the way to Miss Wonderly's hotel.

***

Notes: Gat and rod refer to guns. Johnnypump is a fire hydrant.
JFK International Airport used to be known as Idlewild. Rackets
are dishonest enterprises, i.e. numbers, bootlegging (when
alcohol was illegal), prostitution, and drugs. As always, racial
epithets are appropriate to that day and time, and no offense is
intended by the author.

This is from Wilmer Cook's POV.


He thought I was a kid, playing at being a bad man. He had no
idea what was in my past, what had brought me to this point in my
life.

****

I worked out of Hell's Kitchen, in Manhattan. As a kid, I ran
wild in the streets. I probably would have wound up dead, either
in the gutter or the bighouse but for an event that changed my
whole life.

I helped out a guinea kid named Sonny, who was getting the shit
kicked out of him by a rival gang. I waded in, don't ask me why,
and saved his ass.

His Pop, I discovered, was someone you didn't fuck with. Mr.
Andolino never forgave an insult, but he never forgot a friend.
Even though I wasn't Sicilian, he made me feel like I was a part
of his family, kind of like that Mick kid, Tom.

Mr. Andolino had already made a name for himself in the rackets,
and a lot of people owed him favors. He always made them an offer
they couldn't refuse.

And then one day, a friend of his, a Russian general named
Kemidov, turned up dead in Constantinople. His throat had been
sliced through savagely, and he had died choking on his own
blood.

I was there when Mr. Andolino learned of this. He was in the
parlor of his brownstone, helping his wife with the packing; they
were about to move out to the country, where it was healthier for
his family.

For some reason Mrs. Andolino insisted on trusting me with the
youngest of their three sons, a curly haired little boy named
Michele. I sat on the floor in my shirtsleeves, my gat snug
against my spine, away from the reach of grasping, chubby
fingers. Michele waited for me to line up his toy soldiers and
then he knocked them over with riotous glee. We had played this
game before, and he never tired of it.

Cesare, one of Mr. Andolino's bodyguards, came pounding up the
stairs. "Boss! Boss! Bad news, Boss!"

They were both looking at him, so I could get away with it too.
He was out of breath, and the sweat molded his shirt to his
muscled chest. I wanted to be plastered to his chest like that. I
licked my lips and dropped my eyes. For some time I had wanted
the handsome Sicilian, but it would have cost me my dick if I had
made a move on him. The Black Hand did not approve of that sort
of thing.

Mrs. Andolino pressed him down into a chair and poured him a
glass of the red wine she made in the cellar. "Grazzi!" He
guzzled it down and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Before he
could say another word, the boss exchanged glances with his wife,
and she nodded briefly.

She gave me a look and I scooped up my charge. "C'mon, Mikey.
How's about you and me go play downstairs for a while?"

"Stay nearby, Wilmer." He was the only one who ever called me
that. "I may have need of you."

I raised my hand to let him know I had heard him, but continued
out the door, the kid on my hip.

Downstairs, I set him next to a Johnnypump and took a rubber ball
out of my pocket. To his delight, I began bouncing it off the
stoop. He clapped his hands and laughed.

It takes so little to make some people happy.

"Will!"

I craned my head back and looked up to the third floor window
where Cesare was waving at me. "The boss needs you!"

Back onto my hip went the little guy and we traveled up the
stairs to where his mother was waiting to take him from me. She
was pale, and her lips were a tight, thin line in her face. For
just a second her eyes held mine, and then she was gone, leaving
me to see what task I would be asked to perform.

Mr. Andolino was sitting at the kitchen table, fat tears rolling
unashamedly down his face. My insides clutched. I had never seen
this indomitable man so devastated.

"What is it, Me signore?"

"Wilmer. You have heard me speak of my old friend Kemidov?"

"The Russian general who did you some small service?"

"It was not so small, but this is neither the time nor the place
to go into that. He has been murdered, most brutally. I want the
man who is responsible to pay."

I was already reaching for my topcoat where it lay over another
chair. "Of course, Me signore." I said simply.

Mr. Andolino smiled at me, and I was glad that I was not the one
who had crossed this powerful man. He handed me a piece of paper
with a name and a city on it. My target and his location. I took
the handful of bills he gave me and stuffed them into my pocket.

"I'll leave as soon as I can get to Grand Central Station."

"That is not necessary. There is someone who owes me a favor, and
he will fly you to the west coast. You leave now."

"Of course." It never occurred to me to mention that I had never
flown before, that I was not comfortable with heights. I did as
Mr. Andolino bid me. "Addio, Me signore."

"You a good boy, Wilmer. Too bad you not Sicilian! Addio."

Cesare walked down the stairs with me, giving me his spare rod
and all the ammunition he had on him. "Go with God, my friend,
and watch your back."

He hugged me, and I was careful not to let him feel my arousal.
But I was able to kiss him on both cheeks, and I took that with
me as I got into the car that would take me to Idlewild.

The driver glanced uneasily at me through the rearview mirror.
"What's up, Willie?"

I realized I had a shit-eating grin on my face. I never smiled. I
wiped off the smile and returned Guido's look stonily. He gulped
and got his eyes back on the road.

"I guess someone's gonna die, eh, Willie?"

"Yes," I said softly, and looked down at the paper in my hand.

Floyd Thursby. San Francisco.


one further note: Mr. Andolino belongs to Mario Puzo.

***

Note: I know Humphrey Bogart's eyes weren't yellow-grey, but Sam
Spade's were, and I've opted to go with Dash Hammett on this one.

This one also is from Wilmer's POV


I was sitting in the lobby of the Hotel Belvedere when the little
man I was waiting to see came hurrying in, crossing rapidly to
the front desk. He carried an elegant walking stick with an ivory
handle. Gloves of the softest leather matched the fawn spats he
wore. His black cashmere coat had a full, luxurious alpaca collar
that was up around his chin. Even from where I sat I could see
the darker splotches that marred its plush, midnight depths, and
the small white bandage that covered his temple.

There was also a bruise on his cheek.

My man seemed to have spent the night on the tiles. The corner of
my mouth tipped up in what passed for a normal expression of
humor.

He stopped at the front desk to get his room key. Tentative
fingers touched the bandage, as if still surprised that it was
there, or that it was necessary to even be there.

I snapped my newspaper shut and was about to rise to approach him
when a hand the size of a ham landed on my shoulder.

"You got a reason to be here, son?"

I kept my face bland as I looked up into his eyes. "I was waiting
for someone."

"Yeah, well, we don't allow such goings on here at the Belvedere.
You'd better be on your way!"

I stared at him stupidly, not understanding his reference. And
then I did and I surged to my feet.

Only to have a grip like a pincer squeeze the nerve at my elbow,
and the newspaper fell from my grip. "You're not going to give us
any trouble over this, are you, sonny? You're going to do what the
nice house dick tells you. Right?"

I jerked my arm free and whipped around to lose myself in a pair
of eyes like a hunting hawk's. My breath caught and for a minute
I couldn't speak.

"I've got business here!" I finally had myself under some
semblance of control.

"Not anymore, you don't!" He looked amused, as if he didn't take
me seriously.

"This was still a free country, last time I looked!" I could feel
the warmth that flooded my cheeks and pooled in my groin, and I
was chagrined. What was it about this stranger that made me want
him?

"Ah, that's just a bedtime story we tell the kiddies!" Those
yellow-grey eyes reflected his enjoyment of baiting me.

"That's a good one, Sam!" The house detective laughed
halfheartedly. He was losing interest in the conversation. All he
wanted was for things to remain quiet until the end of his shift.
"G'wan, Petunia, run along home to mommy!"

My mouth stretched in a smile, but I let my eyes stay flat, and
deadly. He was unimportant, but the man who sicced him on me
might prove to be a problem. I knew him now, and recognized his
type. A private dick who didn't like anyone new coming into his
territory.

He laughed out loud, and my mouth got dry and my dick got hard.
"It's okay, Luke," he told the man hovering next to him. "The kid
knows where he stands now, don't you, kid?"

"Care to take this outside, shamus?" A flash of excitement
rippled through me at the thought of following him into a dark
alley, of pushing him up against a stinking wall and pressing my
body against his, of taking that mouth. I could feel my eyes go
sultry.

For a second I thought he was going to ruffle my hair, and I
wasn't sure how I would react if he did. Then he walked away,
drawing the house detective with him, leaving me standing in the
middle of the lobby.

I took a deep breath and looked around for my man. He was nowhere
to be seen. I turned on my heel and walked out of the hotel.

There was a phone booth on the corner. I got the operator and in
quiet tones gave her the number of the Alexandria Hotel. I
dropped in the nickel she requested and moments later I was
speaking to the man who thought he was my employer.

"Mr. Gutman? I tracked Joel Cairo to the Belvedere. Before I
could get to him, some private dick had me tossed out on my ass."

Gutman said, "Ah, Wilmer, that would be a waste for an ass as
fine as yours!"

A hard blush colored my cheeks. I curled my lip at the receiver
in my hand, but continued speaking smoothly, as if he hadn't
spoken at all. "I don't think Cairo's found the little item
you're concerned about, but I'll hang around here and see if I
can... persuade him to speak with you."

"No, that won't be necessary, Wilmer. Keep an eye on our
investigating friend and see what you can discover about the
gentleman. What did you say his name was?"

I told him what I had heard, and I could almost see him stroking
and pulling at his lower lip and gazing off into space as he
mulled the new pieces of this puzzle he was so desirous to solve.

"I do believe you've crossed paths with Samuel Spade. My contacts
tell me our Miss O'Shaughnessy may be planning to use him to
replace the late, unlamented Floyd Thursby. I don't imagine
you've learned yet who ended his illustrious career? No? Well, I
hadn't really thought so. Hm, hm, hm." He chuckled, deep in his
throat, and hung up.

I stood there, clutching the black instrument until my knuckles
turned white. My eyes closed in revulsion.

Kasper Gutman wanted me. That fat...man wanted to shove his cock
up my ass and fuck me blind. He wanted to force me to my knees
before him and make me... I shuddered in spite of myself.

The operator came back on the line. "Number, please." I forced
myself to hang up the phone and stepped out of the booth in time
to see Sam Spade leave the hotel and get into a car that was
idling at the curb.

I whistled up a cab and told the driver to follow him,
discreetly.

Maybe he was too distracted by thoughts of the brunette who was
inching her way into his life. Maybe he was contemplating the
very unusual Joel Cairo. Maybe he just didn't give a fuck.

Whatever it was, this time he didn't know I was on his tail. I
settled back and watched to see where he would go.

***

After I ascertained that Joel Cairo was snug in his little suite
of rooms at the Hotel Belvedere, I had Chair drive me back to my
apartment building. And all the way back I had that feeling, that
little niggling at the base of my skull, telling me I was being
followed.

No matter how many times I glanced out of the rear window, I
couldn't spot anything suspicious. Jesus, was I *hoping* the kid
was tailing me again?

I shook my head at my folly, walked into my building and took the
elevator to my floor.

****

The night before had been a rough one. Miss Wonderly paid me a
surprise visit. I found her huddled in the stairwell of my
building, half-fainting from fright. I got her up to my apartment
and settled her in the big easy chair by my radio.

She took the glass of Bacardi I folded into her hands, and
smiling pathetically, gulped it down. She didn't realize I only
bought the highest proof available in the States, and she gasped
and coughed and got drops of rum all over her lovely ivory crepe
de chine dress.

When she was finally able to catch her breath again, she went
into a lengthy explanation of why she couldn't tell me what was
going on. And then she begged me to trust her anyway.

She batted her lashes and looked up at me through them. They were
so thick they should have been declared illegal. I leaned back
against the doorjamb to the kitchen and regarded her with a bored
air as I toyed with my own drink. She realized I wasn't buying
the innocent young girl act and abruptly straightened in her
chair.

"I was promised 5,000 pounds if I could deliver a certain objet
d'art, a black bird, some sort of falcon I believe, made of
porcelain, or something similar to that. Floyd Thursby was my
partner, but he betrayed me. He left me in Hong Kong and took the
bird with him, meaning to keep the finder's fee for himself."

"Who shot him?"

"I don't know. I thought it might be Joel Cairo, or perhaps...I
don't know. I'm afraid!"

"So this is all about a piece of sink?"

She was shocked by my callous disregard for something so
obviously valuable.

I shrugged and began building a cigarette.

"Men have died over this bird!" she finally burst out.

I paused as I was about to lick the cigarette paper and watched
her over the edge of it. "Who? Aside from my partner, of course!"

She gasped at the mention of Miles and fumbled for a
handkerchief. "I don't know the whole history of the black bird.
I do know Floyd killed its previous owner, some Russian general,
I think, living in Constantinople!" Then she stuffed the scrap of
linen into her mouth, as if to muffle sobs.

"Oh, you're *very* good, sweetheart! I haven't seen a performance
like that since Lunt and Fontane appeared at the Belasco!"

She lowered the handkerchief and regarded me with hard, dry,
eyes.

That was when she confessed that her name was really Brigid
O'Shaughnessy, and I had to wonder if she had a different name
for each day of the week. First Wonderly, then LeBlanc. Would her
name be Nora Charles tomorrow, and Lady Edwina Morgan St. Paul
the day after that? And what would it be on Friday?

My phone rang and it turned out to be that odd little man who had
stuck me up in my own office and searched for...whatever it was he
was searching for.

"Ah. Mr. Cairo. No, you're not disturbing me at all. Sure, come
on up. It's apartment number..."

He told me before I could tell him, and I laughed sourly. Of
course. Everyone in this fucking case knew more about everything
in it than I did! I let the receiver drop into the cradle and
glanced at the woman who was now wandering restlessly around my
parlor.

"You...know Joel Cairo?" She tried to make the question casual.

Now it was my turn to track her from under my lashes. "Obviously,
*you* do. Care to tell me about it, or are you going to give me
the fluttering schoolgirl routine again?"

"You're a hard man, Mr. Spade!"

Yeah. Miles could have told her how hard I am. How hard I can be.

But Miles was dead. He had been my partner, and now he was dead.
I would have to do something about his murder. You couldn't let
something like that go in our profession. If you did, the next
thing you knew, they all lost respect for you; the cops and the
hoods and the squealers.

And worst of all, you lost respect for yourself.

"Is he after the bird too?"

She started. "The bird? I don't know..."

"Ah, *Jesus*! Are you going to keep playing your little games?" I
demanded harshly. "Do you know how *fucking* late it is?" And I
didn't mean just the time.

There was a tap at the door and I scowled at her, then went to
let Joel Cairo in. He minced past me, the odor of gardenias
rolling off him like the fog coming in off the bay. I waved my
hand in front of my face to disperse the cloying scent and shut
the door, but not before I saw a shadow just down the hall.

The kid who'd followed me to the Wonderly dame's hotel earlier?
At that thought I suddenly found I had a steel rod in my trousers,
and had to surreptitiously adjust myself.

He was way too young for me, a kid playing at being a badman.

Raised voices in the parlor drew my attention back to the problem
at hand. I pressed my fingers against the door and sighed before
I turned to rejoin my guests.

There was an angry outburst in the other room and I hurried in to
find Joel Cairo and Brigid O'Shaughnessy grappling for a gun.
"Children, children!" I chided them. "This is no way to behave!"

The little man lurched to the side as I casually broke his hold
on the gun. The look I gave the girl convinced her to surrender
the compact weapon to me. I tucked it away in my pocket.

"She said you were going to make it look like I murdered your
partner and Floyd Thursby! She said that you would do this for
her because you loved her! She said the police would believe you
because of the kind of man I am!"

"And just what kind of man are you, Cairo?"

He was taken aback for a moment, unsure how to answer that. Then
he shrugged uneasily. "Levantine?"

"Certainly," and I turned a cold stare on the girl.

"That's a lie, Sam! I *never* said anything like that, I swear
it!"

Cairo spun around and lurched toward her, his fingers
outstretched as if seeking her pale, slender throat. She jerked
back and stumbled over the ottoman. Horrified, her eyes enormous,
she watched as the little man tried to reach her.

My left hand grabbed the deep green cravat he wore and twisted,
while my right hand slapped him hard enough to knock him down,
although I kept him standing.

His eyes burned with impotent anger. "That's the second time
you've put your hands on me!"

"Yeah? Well, when I touch you, you'll like it and beg for more!"

Hot desire replaced the anger and his lips parted in excitement,
little puffs of air escaping, signaling his arousal.

I watched him coolly. In the dark, all cats were alike. It had
been a long time since I had gotten laid.

But it hadn't been long enough that I would consider the mincing
fop before me.

Not when there was the kid out there in the hall.

Maybe it was time to encourage my guests to depart...

Like an answer to a maiden's prayer, my doorbell jangled again.
"Don't move a muscle, either of you!" I warned them. Would it be
too much to hope that it was the kid?

I threw open the door and released the breath I was unconsciously
holding. It was. Standing before me were Lieutenant Dundy and
Tom Polhaus.

"Sam, we need to talk to you," Tom said. Dundy just looked
through me, chewing on a toothpick. I hoped he'd choke on the
splinters.

"Can't it wait, Tom?"

Suddenly a cry of pain came from the other room. "We're coming
in, Sam!"

"I guess you are!"

****

By the skin of my teeth I kept my client out of police custody,
although a bleeding Joel Cairo was taken downtown, the material
of his cashmere topcoat crushed in Tom Polhaus' beefy fist.

I saw the girl safely back to the apartment she had taken at the
Coronet, then left as soon as I decently could.

The hallway on my floor was empty. No one was hidden in the
shadows, desperate for me to return and have my wicked way with
his body.

//Of course, I mocked myself. You really expected him to be
waiting here for you? A kid like that? Wake up and smell the
coffee, Spade!//

I tugged off my tie and dropped it onto the chair by my bedroom
window, then leaned over to open it. I always liked the night
air.

Down in the street below, a figure stood leaning against the
street lamp. A match flared and his head inclined as he touched
his cigarette to the flame. Then his eyes met mine over the
distance between us. I could see the flash of white as he grinned
around the cigarette in his mouth.

He touched the brim of his slouch hat in a brief, cocky salute
and faded back into the shadows.

I blinked a couple of times.

But he was gone.

***

Notes: Adam and Eve on a raft is eggs on toast


As far as the police were concerned, there were two murders, and
one man connected to both of them. They thought if they dug deep
enough, they could nail Sam Spade's hide to the courthouse door.

I wasn't about to allow that.

I knew he hadn't killed Floyd Thursby; *I* had done that. It had
been my pleasure to obey my employer's orders, and the fact that
I'd had to shoot Thursby in the back didn't keep me up nights.

I wasn't sure yet who had actually shot Spade's partner, although
I was starting to get a pretty good idea. I knew it wasn't him,
though.

And I knew he was in danger. So I spent most of the night walking
Hyde Street, dodging the cop on the beat, and making sure no one
else paid Spade an unexpected visit.

It was very early when I finally got back from keeping an eye on
his apartment. The newssheets had been tossed on their corners
for the newsies to start hawking them, and milkmen were just
starting their rounds.

I let myself into Kasper Gutman's hotel suite and carefully hung
up my topcoat, the pockets heavy with all the artillery I was
carrying, then sprawled on the settee. One leg was braced on the
floor, the other extended on the cushions. Within moments I had
slipped into a deep sleep.

I rarely dream, and those times I do find me waking sweaty and
sticky and shaking from the force of my orgasm, a silent cry on
my lips.

Because when you belong to the mob, you make sure your cries are
soundless. And you never, *ever* let them know the desires that
are buried so deeply even you are unsure if they are really
there.

I dreamed in those early morning hours, though. I dreamed of
light brown hair spilling over a high forehead, of yellow-grey
falcon's eyes pinning me in place, of long-fingered hands palming
my nipples, stroking down my body, ghosting over the front of my
trousers. I twisted restlessly, rocking my hips up, needing to
feel those hard hands on me, around me. My hoarse breathing and
the muted pops as the buttons of my fly were undone broke the
silence of that predawn time.

And then I stilled as plump, damp fingers reached into my
trousers and freed me.

I came awake as I always do, quickly, quietly, utterly still.

This was no dream. The fat man had my weeping cock in his moist
palm, and was lowering his head to take me in his mouth.

I arched up and he made a satisfied sound deep in his throat.
Before he could taste me, the dark mouth of my gun barrel gently
caressed his temple, and he froze in that position, bending over
to take me, his large belly balanced on my thighs. The click as I
thumbed back the hammer sounded like the crack of doom in that
darkened room.

"Put it back where you found it," I said softly and waited for
him to obey my command. His fingers seemed to want to linger on
my fly, and impatiently I dug the barrel of my automatic in deep
enough to make him flinch.

"My employer sent me to you so you could use my muscle. However,
*that* was not the particular muscle he had in mind!"

Reluctantly, the fat man put my now soft cock back in my pants
and straightened slowly, to see if I would allow it. As soon as
his weight was off me I scooted away from him, trying to hide the
tremors that rippled through my body.

"Hm, hm, hm!" he laughed uncomfortably. "I assure you this meant
nothing! No need to get excited, dear boy! I must have my little
joke, after all! You ... won't tell our mutual acquaintance, will
you?"

I was swallowing hard, keeping the bile down with difficulty.
Although I had acknowledged the fact that men were much more
attractive to me than women, I had never acted on it. And I
wasn't about to now. With him.

"No," I assured him. "He would kill you if he ever discovered you
put your hands on me!" I didn't tell Gutman that my employer
would have *me* killed as well, probably leaving me with my
severed dick stuffed in my mouth. I shuddered. That was
information he did not need to have.

Kasper Gutman heaved his bulk off the settee and lumbered away
from me. He cleared his throat. "Mr. Spade has been informed that
I am desirous of speaking with him. However, he is proving a
trifle ... recalcitrant, shall we say? I want you to find him and
encourage him to accept that it is in his best interests to throw
his lot in with us, rather than with the very deadly Miss
O'Shaughnessy."

I looked up at him sharply, but he was fiddling with the bibelots
on the little end table near the window. He straightened and
continued speaking, never once meeting my eye.

"We shan't speak of this tiny misunderstanding again, shall we,
Wilmer, my boy? Go and find Sam Spade now."

The quiet close of his door signaled my dismissal. I uncocked my
gun and slid it into the holster that nestled against my spine,
then got to my feet and made my way to the bathroom.

I needed to wash off the feel of his hands on me.

****

The Alexandria offered room service, but I had to get out of
there. I strode out through the revolving doors in the lobby,
giving them an extra shove for good measure, and turned to make
my way to a small diner just up the street.

I would have gone to Herbert's Grill in Powell Street, where I
knew the odds of running into the private dick would be fairly
high, but they didn't serve breakfast at the Grill.

Or lunch either. I checked the big clock face on the building
opposite where I was standing and saw that it was close to noon.
Well, I really wasn't much of a breakfast person anyway.

The diner was still empty of the lunchtime crowd, so I took a seat
at a booth toward the rear of the place, where I could keep an eye
on everyone who entered. Being a cautious man had kept me alive
for a long time. It was one of the things my employer appreciated
about me.

In spite of the time, I ordered an Adam and Eve on a raft and a
cup of java. The waitress was about to tell me they had stopped
serving breakfast an hour ago, when I looked at her with my baby
blues and gave her a half smile. She smiled back at me and
brought me my coffee after she gave the cook my order.

Sometimes it paid to look a lot younger than I actually was.

****

I was sitting back in my seat, idly rolling the coffee cup
between my hands, watching the stream of humanity pass by the
window.

And then I saw a familiar face, glaring at something down the
street. I slid out of the booth and reached into my pocket. I
slapped three quarters on the linoleum-topped table and headed
for the door.

I might never be back to that diner again, but my boss had taught
me to never stiff anyone who gave you service. You tipped them as
much as you could afford. Leaving a thirty-five cent tip for a
forty-cent meal was extravagant, but my waitress had kept my cup
filled with fresh coffee and never once complained about the time
I spent there once I had finished my meal.

And, too, I might need an alibi one day soon. She would be more
inclined to remember me if I was generous.

By the time I got out of the diner, the figure I needed to catch
up with was about a block away. I hurried after him, not caring if I
jogged any of the passersby. And then he was right there ahead of
me, and, oh, God, I could smell his shaving lotion. I closed my
eyes for the barest moment and breathed him in, almost drunk on
his scent, then fell in just a step behind him.

Sam Spade was walking briskly down the street when I shoved
something into his back. Because he was before me, he had no idea
it was my finger that was boring into his spine and not the Colt
automatic that was my personal favorite.

"He wants to see you," I said softly in his ear, and he
shuddered.

I didn't realize how close to him I was. I could feel him
along the whole front of my body. And I couldn't prevent myself
from leaning in closer.

He grinned at me from over his shoulder, his eyes alight with
amusement. "Get that rod away from me, sonny, or I'll take it
away from you and break it in two!"

"Fuck you, Mr. Spade."

"Oh, no, kid. I'd much rather fuck *you*!"

***

Note: Looky, looky, looky, here comes Cookie, walking down the
street. Looky, looky, looky, call him Cookie, cause he's sweet!

These lyrics (which I've paraphrased) are from the 30s I believe.
I have no clue who wrote them or who originally sang them.


Somehow, I found myself in Sam Spade's apartment. He ignored my
repeated statement that the fat man insisted on seeing him
immediately.

"I've got until 5:30, Cookie. That's more than enough time for me
to take care of you and then get you home!"

My mouth went dry, and it never occurred to me to wonder how he
knew my name. His fingers latched onto my sleeve and he hauled me
to the curb. The piercing whistle he emitted on placing two
fingers between his lips brought his ubiquitous cab driver to a
screeching halt before us.

"C'mon, Cookie, in you get!" His hand at my waist slid lower and
I froze, half in and half out, as I felt him fondle my ass. He
caressed me through the material of my topcoat and I relished the
feel until it dawned on me it was broad daylight on a busy San
Francisco street.

Mortified by my loss of control, I bolted into the cab and
huddled in the corner. The driver grinned at me in the rear view
mirror, but it was a friendly smile and I realized he hadn't seen
anything out of the ordinary.

Spade had shielded me and prevented the world and his
mother-in-law from seeing what he was doing to my body.

"Back to my place, Chair, and step on it. I don't have half as
much time as I'd like!" He settled back in the seat and watched
me as the cabby competently drove the sloping streets of San
Francisco, making the turns on two wheels and almost becoming
airborne on the top of the hills.

"Take it easy, Chair," he ordered when he noticed my greenish
cast. "I want us there in one piece!"

"Right, Mr. Spade!" The driver agreed easily, but his driving
didn't change that I noticed.

I clamped down on my back teeth, determined to keep my meal in my
stomach.

Sam Spade laughed gently and leaned back against the
seat.

****

The elevator was one of those caged affairs that were
self-operated. It arrived on the lobby floor of Spade's building
and stood open and he waited patiently in it for me to decide if
I wanted to follow him into that tiny box. He didn't say a word,
just lounged there, watching me with those falcon eyes. I was
suddenly so hard I ached.

I took a step forward, and then another, and then I was in the
elevator, the door sliding closed behind me with a soft *shhhhht*.
I chewed on my lower lip, plumping it, and Spade stared at it
avidly.

Not sure what to do with my hands, I stuffed them into the
pockets of my topcoat, curling my palms around the butts of the
pistols that I carried there. The smooth grips soothed me, and I
felt more in control. I stepped further into the cab until I was
toe to toe with the gumshoe.

His yellow-grey eyes grew slumberous and sultry, and his lips
parted as if to invite my kiss.

This was dangerous. I had to get myself in hand. And then the
image that flashed into my mind was of *him* taking me in hand,
reaching into my trousers, taking me out, holding me in his warm
palm. I flushed, and then turned pale, an almost soundless gasp
stirring the air between our mouths.

I made myself face the front of the elevator, keeping my eyes on
the indicator as it moved slowly to the right. I could feel him
watching me; it was almost palpable. I wanted to lean back into
him, let him slide his hands under my coat, pinching my nipples
as I had dreamed, stroking down the front of my body to discover
my traitorous flesh.

I tipped my head back and briefly shut my eyes, only just
suppressing a needy moan.

He reached around me and jabbed a finger at the stop button. The
elevator lurched to a halt. Before I could gather my wits to
protest, he had yanked the shoulders of my coat down around my
arms, imprisoning me.

I made no move to free myself.

I was shaking visibly, unable to tear my gaze from his mouth, his
hard mouth. He saw how I trembled, and he pressed me back into a
corner of the elevator. "Do I scare you, Cookie?" He nuzzled the
hinge of my jaw, then drew back to observe my reaction.

I shook my head, barely hearing his words. All I could do was
watch the movement of his lips as he spoke. Finally I forced the
words out. "Why do you call me Cookie?"

The grin that parted his lips was mocking. "Because you take the
cake?"

My eyes jerked up to meet his, and I saw he was mocking me. I
struggled to get out of his embrace.

"Because you're sweet," he acknowledged ruefully, pulling me back
to him. His knee insinuated itself between my thighs. He was
taller, and his added height gave him the advantage he needed to
rub against my cock. The unbelievable friction brought me to the
verge of coming.

And then the light flashed, signaling that someone was calling
for the elevator.

Sam Spade swore and adjusted my coat onto my shoulders. He
smoothed down the lapels and then fisted his hands in them,
pulling me sharply against him. His lips found mine in a soft,
tantalizing kiss. His tongue outlined the curve of my lips,
traced the seam of my mouth.

I groaned and he took possession of my mouth, his tongue filling
me, mapping the contours and textures. I was almost whimpering
with need.

We were both breathing hard when he released me, and I sagged
weakly against his body. He stabbed at the button and the
elevator jolted on in its upward journey.

We got off on his floor and he strode out and down the corridor
to his apartment. I followed him stupidly, so shattered by what
had happened in the elevator that I didn't even case the place as
I normally would.

Like his personal lap dog, I trailed after him, going through the
open door into his sitting room.

"I can't do this, Spade," I said to thin air. He was not before
me.

I heard a thud, and spun around to see he had kicked the door
closed and was twisting the key in the lock.

"You'll do whatever I want you to, Cookie!" He tossed his suit
jacket aside and his fingers went to the tie knotted at his
throat. It slid off and joined his jacket. Then he began to work
on the buttons of his white cotton shirt.

Even as I was shaking my head in denial of what he wanted from
me, I was feverishly shedding my own clothing. My topcoat landed
with a solid *thunk* and he cocked his devil's eyebrow at the sound
my weaponry made as it hit the floor.

Then he grinned and dismissed the possible danger.

His body was lean and hard, and his dusky-tipped arousal was
jutting proudly against his flat belly, a drop of precome already
oozing from him. My shirt dangled from a wrist, and my trousers
gaped open.

Spade stalked toward me, and I backed off, not realizing I was
going through his bedroom door until the edge of the bed hit the
backs of my knees and I toppled onto it. His grin was a
predator's, and I scrabbled backwards, trying to get away from
him, panicked.

And then he was on me, his hands tearing at my clothing, his
mouth ravenous on mine.

"Don't be coy, Precious. Anyone would think you hadn't done this
before!"

"I *haven't*!" I cried, frantic now, to get away from this man who
was nothing like the one who had kissed me so desperately in the
elevator.

He stopped moving. "Angel..."

"Goddammit, don't call me that! I'm not one of your fucking
dolls!"

He stared into my eyes, then groaned and rolled onto his back.
"You're a virgin?"

"I never said that!" I said huffily.

"You're a virgin!" This time it was a statement. "I'm sorry,
Cookie."

Now that he was calling me by a name he didn't give every dame
and doll in San Francisco, I felt able to relax my guard.

"I...just didn't expect you to jump all over me."

"What did you expect?"

I shrugged helplessly, watching dry-mouthed as he stroked his
hands over his own body. I had never given any thought to the
mechanics of the act. I told him as much. "It's more than my life
is worth to even be on this bed with you!"

His hand paused in its pleasuring of himself. "Mind explaining
that to me?"

I laughed humorlessly. "If it ever got back to my employer that I
was spending the afternoon in another man's bed, I'd be dead so
fast I would barely have time to thank God the boss let me die so
easily!"

"Gutman would kill you for this? Isn't that a trifle ...
*hypocritical* for someone like him?"

He cupped my chin to force me to meet those falcon's eyes, and I
could see the exact moment he put two and two together. "The fat
man *isn't* your employer!"

I shook my head.

"Someone from back east? Someone who thinks what we would do
together would be a mortal sin?"

I nodded miserably.

"Do you feel that way too?"

"If I did, do you think I would have let you kiss me? Strip me
naked? I've given you something to hold over me."

His eyes were shuttered.

"And if you ever choose to use it, I won't wind up deader than
Thursby, and your partner. But I'll be just as dead!"

***

The kid was...uncertain. I could read that in his blue eyes, in
the posture of that sleek body. I should reassure him.

I should...

I kissed him. His lips trembled under mine, and then they parted
and allowed my tongue total access. I was determined to take it
slow, and easy. But the kid began sucking on my tongue like it
was a delicacy he had been deprived of for too long.

His cock had become hard again, and he was rocking against me,
seeking to find the end of the rainbow. Soft whimpers spilled
from his mouth, and I knew I wouldn't last very long.

Miles had been a tough fuck. He let me have him when *he* was in
the mood, but made me work hard for whatever *I* wanted. And even
then he was unlikely to give it to me.

This young gunsel was giving himself to me, wrapped with a shiny
ribbon. I knew that whatever I wanted to do to his irresistible
body would be fine with him.

He had even given me the power to destroy him by informing his
real employer, whoever that might be back east, that his pet
killer had a fondness for members of his own sex.

That knowledge drove me wild. "Tell me you want this, Cookie!
Tell me you want me to fuck you into next week!"

"Yes!" he whispered hoarsely. "Love me...!"

That was not what I was expecting to hear, but the need was
riding me so hard that I dismissed the thought that maybe we
should talk about what we were starting. I pulled a jar of cold
cream out of the night table.

I had placed it there months ago, in hopes that maybe once Miles
would want to spend the night with me at my place instead of some
anonymous hotel room.

I forced that thought away as well. Miles was dead. And this kid
was very much alive, writhing under me as if he wanted to squirm
under my skin and become a part of me.

I covered my cock with the cool, slick stuff, and then scooped a
fingerful up and began preparing his virgin ass. He was so grass
green he had no idea how it could be between men. I kept him on
his back and rubbed my thumb over the slit that was already
beading with precome.

I wanted to see his face when I fucked him for the first time.

He stiffened as he felt my finger pressing in, and then he
relaxed completely and accepted the intrusion. I slid a second
one in, and then a third. He was hot, and tight, and I couldn't
wait a moment longer. I pushed his legs back and apart and
positioned my cock at his entrance. Then I locked his fingers
with mine and thrust forward gently, slowly entering his body.

His eyes dilated so widely the blue of the iris was the merest
ring around his pupils. I eased in another inch and he bit down
on his lower lip, which was already swollen from his earlier
abuse of it.

"No, Cookie!" I said softly as I leaned over and licked that lush
lip. That pushed me deeper into him, so deep that I crossed the
spot that captured his interest.

"*Oh*!"

"Like that, Cookie?"

"Oh *yes*!"

I withdrew a little, then surged all the way in until I was
buried in his snug channel up to my balls.

Somehow his ankles were locked behind my back and he was
thrusting strongly to meet my lunges. I couldn't tear my gaze
from his, couldn't close my eyes to pretend he was someone else.

I found I had no desire to do so.

He belonged to me, as Miles never had, and I determined to mark
him as mine. I found a spot just next to his adam's apple that
would do very nicely, and began to suckle. The kid was so far
gone he had no idea what I was doing. And I'm not sure if he
would have objected if he realized it.

"Fuck me, Sam! Make me yours!" That whisper did it for me. I
began coming as if it had been months since the last time I had
been buried in a warm body.

Well...it had, but it wouldn't have made any difference if I had
fucked the entire San Francisco police force over the long
holiday weekend. I was filling him with my hot semen, and he was
pouring himself over his abdomen and mine.

With a final groan, I thrust one last time and collapsed
bonelessly on my lover. The kid blinked owlishly, as if he
couldn't understand how he had wound up under me with me so deep
inside him he couldn't tell where he stopped and I began.

"Are you all right, Cookie?"

"Mmmm." His murmur was replete with satisfaction.

"Did I hurt you?"

"If you had, Sam, you wouldn't be lying on me like this. You
would be clutching yourself in pain."

"Oh?" I was kind of entranced. It had never been like this with
Miles. After he let me fuck him or suck him off, he couldn't put
enough distance between the two of us. There had never been time
for pillow talk or cuddling or...anything. But the kid was
actually petting me, running his hands over the muscles of my
back, down past my waist, palming the curves of my ass.

"Yeah," he grinned at me cockily. "I would have shot your
pathetic little dick off!"

"My *what*?" I wrapped my hands around his throat and pretended
to throttle him.

"Pax, Dream, pax!" He laughed, a carefree, youthful sound, and I
was reminded of his tender years. "You're a magnificent specimen
of manhood. I'm your devoted slave!"

Miles never called me pet names. Well, I never called him any
either, for that matter. The thought of my dead partner shattered
the mood.

I rolled away from Wilmer and got up.

"Sam?" I hated the uncertainty I heard in his voice.

I couldn't look at him. "I'm just going to get something to clean
us both up." I went into the bathroom and ran the cold water,
then doused it over my face.

"Did I do something wrong?" He was behind me, in the bathroom
door. I turned on the hot water and waited while it warmed up.

That was the one thing about this building. It took forever for
the water to heat up.

"Did you kill my partner, Wilmer?" I finally faced him.

He was shaking his head. "No, Sam. I had no reason to shoot him
*then*. He was still alive when I killed Thursby."

"Thursby didn't shoot Miles?" I had been pretty sure of that.
Miles would never follow the man he was tracking into a blind
alley, with his gun in his pocket and his coat buttoned over it.
He wasn't *that* stupid.

And then it hit me, what the kid said. "What do you mean, no
reason to shoot him *then*?"

He shrugged casually. "When I first came into town. I didn't know
you. Didn't know how much he had hurt you. I'd kill him now, Sam.
*Just like that*!" And he snapped his fingers.

I sagged against the sink. Wilmer took the washcloth from me and
soaked it, then squeezed out the water and shut the faucet.
Gently he wiped me off, and nonchalantly cleaned the evidence of
our recent activity from his body. I scrubbed my face with my
hands. "Aw, Jesus, we have too many suspects! Cairo,
Gutman...Miles' *wife*."

"What about the O'Shaughnessy dame?" the kid asked mildly.

"Effie's woman's intuition feels she's all right."

"And how right has that been before?"

I gave a bark of mirthless laughter. "Yeah, oke, nine times out
of ten it's been off. She seems so sure this time."

"Humph!" The kid turned back into the bedroom, and I followed
him. He was limping a bit, and I knew that in spite of what he
said, I must have made him a little sore. He gathered up his
clothes and sat on the edge of the bed, putting on his socks and
trousers. Interestingly enough, he wore no undershorts. I felt
myself begin to stir again.

"You're leaving now?"

He paused as he buttoned himself up, and I realized that in spite
of his attempt at insouciance, he was unsure of himself, of the
situation he found himself in. "Unless you have a better idea?"

I walked up to him and pulled him into my arms. "Oh, yes!" I
tipped his chin up and looked into his face, with its appearance
of youth and innocence. Until you observed the eyes with their
guarded and world weary expression. Then you understood the
truth.

This was no kid, no youngster. Wilmer Cook was, in fact, a deadly
killing machine.

Was I out of my mind to keep him in my bed, in my life?

I exhaled, letting him feel my breath on his lips before I fitted
our mouths together.

I never *had* been too bright when it came to the men I loved!

***

I sat there, just watching him. He lay sprawled on my bed,
looking so impossibly young I wanted to rail at the heavens.

He rolled over and my gaze went to his cock, which lay, half
hard, on his thigh. Under my fascinated gaze it began to swell
and lengthen.

I refused to allow myself to linger on that temptation and looked
away, only to find I was drowning in the blue of his eyes. My
breath caught in my throat and my mouth went so dry I couldn't
have worked up enough spit to fill a thimble.

"Wilmer..."

"*Cookie*," he interrupted me. "I...like when you call me
Cookie."

And just like that, I could breathe again. I didn't smile, but I
know my eyes had warmed.

"Cookie. We have to get dressed. I need to get you back to your
employer's hotel, and then I want to find out about this damned
black bird."

"The Maltese falcon? I can tell you most of what you need to
know." He got out of bed and came to stand before the chair I had
dragged over to watch him as he slept. I leaned back, saying
nothing as he sank to his knees between my legs.

The young gunsel leaned forward, balancing his weight on my
thighs, and he blew on my cock. It was suddenly, achingly hard,
jutting toward the body that had given it such pleasure. Before I
could ask him how he wanted it this time, his mouth was around
the tip, teasing the slit with his tongue, slowly taking in more
and more of me.

I was shuddering, in a fever of rapture. Miles would never do
this for me, and it had been too many years since an eager mouth
had swallowed me. "Cookie!" I groaned.

He licked the underside with broad sweeps of his tongue, then
began sucking on me fiercely. As his head bobbed up and down, his
teeth scraped me every other up stroke, and I trembled from the
sensations that were sweeping through me.

His palms glided over my knees, his fingers firm on my thighs,
stroking up past my waist to tangle in the dark curls that
covered my chest. He tugged on the hairs, then found my flat
nipples and ran his nails across them. They had never felt so
sensitive.

"Cookie, stop! I'm going to..." but it was too late. He purred
and the sound vibrated through me and I was coming, pouring
myself into that hot, wet mouth. He suckled harder, and I had no
choice but to fill his eager mouth.

I sagged back in the chair, and with one last swipe of his
tongue, he released me, kissing his way up my chest. He slid his
hand around my neck and pulled my head down to meet his mouth. I
tasted myself on his lips, and moaned as his tongue began a
tantalizing duel with mine.

His cock was nudging my flaccid length. "You didn't come!" I
whispered against his lips.

He laughed and leaned away to stare into my eyes. "You'll take
care of that for me, won't you, Sam?"

I shouldn't have felt disappointed. I shouldn't have. Miles
wouldn't even have done that much for me. But...

I sighed. "Sure, kid. You want to sit on the chair or the bed?"

He looked confused. "We can make love that way?"

"What?" Now *I* was confused.

"I wanted to be inside you. If you don't want that, though, I
won't do it."

"You want to fuck *me*?"

"Well, *yes*!"

I was on the bed, on my knees so fast, the kid felt the breeze.

****

The kid was sitting there watching me when I finally came back to
my senses. "Are you oke, Sam?" I could see in his eyes how
concerned he was.

"Never better, Cookie!" I stretched indolently and finally got a
good look at him. "You're dressed!" I was disappointed.

"Didn't you need to see the fat man?"

I caught the warm washcloth he tossed me and wiped myself off. "I
thought *you* were going to tell me about the black bird."

So he told me the story, which began sometime in 1530, when the
Order of the Hospital of St. John of Jerusalem, also known as the
Knights Templar, petitioned King Charles of Spain for three
islands, one of which was Malta. The king agreed, but in
recompense, he requested a falcon be given him every year, a
token of his continued rule of Malta.

The knights were weary of their travels, and in gratitude for the
bestowal of these islands to their order, they determined to give
him not a simple living creature, but a bird created from beaten
gold, and encrusted from top to toe with all manner of jewels:
diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, stones of such value and
purity, their like has seldom been seen since.

The ship that was to carry it to the court of King Charles was
intercepted by the notorious buccaneer, Khaired-Din, also known
as Barbarossa, and sunk with all hands. It was thought the bird
went down with it.

But then rumors began to surface. It was seen in Algiers, in
Sicily, in Turin. By the time it turned up in Paris at the
beginning of the century, it had acquired numerous coats of
lacquer, and only a truly discerning eye could tell what was
hidden beneath the outer layers.

Such a man was Wilmer Cook's true employer. He discovered it in a
little shop on the Left Bank while he was in the City of Lights
on the honeymoon he had promised his wife.

But his movements were under constant scrutiny, and a Bolshevik
attempted to relieve him of the priceless ornament, along with
his life. That was when General Kemidov stepped into the picture.
He destroyed the fanatic, saving not only the Don, but his wife
as well, and placing the Sicilian under a heavy obligation.

As a token of his gratitude, the Don gave the Russian general the
black bird, telling him of his suspicions of its value, and
swearing him to secrecy, for fear of the threat of murder and
theft that overshadowed all the previous owners.

"General Kemidov was a good man, but he was Russian. He had that
sadness they are so fond of hugging to themselves," the kid
remarked. "You'd think no other people in the world had a hard
time of it. It *has* to be those long winters. They're enough to
depress anyone!"

I paused in the knotting of my tie and just indulged myself in
watching his lips as he spoke. "What does the General being a
Russian have to do with the price of booze?"

"Whenever he was overcome with melancholy, he would drink." My
gunsel accepted casually the fact that the soldier, so highly
decorated in the Great War, could still be prey to the heaviness
of heart that tormented him on occasion.

"And that explains it?"

The kid shrugged, his eyes going hot as I bent to retrieve my
shoes. I froze in that position, and shot a glance at the bedside
clock. Regretfully, I didn't have the time to take him back to
bed. I sighed and waited until he took up the thread of his tale.

"When Kemidov got depressed, he drank. When he drank, he talked.
Too much this time. The fat man has been looking for the falcon
for almost twenty years. He heard stories, and had Thursby call
on the General."

That caught my attention. "And Thursby killed him?"

The kid nodded. "He wasn't supposed to, but Thursby always had a
mean streak. Except when it came to beautiful dames."

"Like Brigid O'Shaughnessy?"

He nodded dismissively. "He was a sap. *I'd* never play the sap
for a woman!"

Would he play the sap for me, I wondered?

"So who has the black bird now?"

"Kasper Gutman knows. I couldn't find out from him. The only time
he talks is in bed. I could have gotten the information from him
that way but..."

I grabbed his wrist and squeezed it hard. "You let the fat man
touch you?"

He let me hurt him, shaking his head. "He wanted to, but I
introduced him to my friend Sam Colt." Wilmer pulled out the
automatic that had been in a holster tucked in his waistband. How
had I missed seeing that?

He ran his fingers over the curve of my cheekbone. "My boss
doesn't approve of this type of thing, Sam. You realize that,
don't you?"

My mouth dropped open in disbelief. Was he saying...

"I'll die for you, Sam!"

***

Walking out of my bedroom, I came to such an abrupt halt that my
gunsel stepped on my heels.

The little man was sitting calmly on my settee, pointing the same
small compact pistol he had aimed at me the day before in my
office.

"How very interesting, Mr. Spade!" Joel Cairo said with a smirk.
"You spent an inordinate amount of time in your bedroom with our
young friend here. Perhaps I could convince you to spend as much
time with me?"

He cocked his head flirtatiously, and I sneered at him.

"What are you doing here, Cairo? A bit of breaking and entering?"
I disregarded his remarks as beneath me.

He accepted my dismissal of his lascivious invitation easily. I
really wasn't his type. But I didn't like the way he was eyeing
the kid. "Actually, Mr. Spade, I intend to search your apartment.
The item I was seeking was not in your office, so now I will see
if you have it concealed within these rooms."

I fell back a step laughing helplessly. Wilmer scowled at me, and
then curled his lip at the man holding the gun.

"Of course I will need to be certain that you both are unarmed,"
Cairo said as he approached us. "Be so kind as to turn out your
pockets, please." I stepped between him and the kid and raised my
arms.

"Go ahead and frisk me. I stopped packing heat months ago!" The
grin I gave him was just a baring of teeth; there was no humor in
it at all.

Those soft, plump hands moving over my body were nothing I
couldn't handle. But I would be damned before I let him touch my
gunsel. I kept my body angled so that I constantly blocked his
access to the kid.

Wilmer Cook stepped to the side and began emptying his pockets
onto an end table. Both the little man and I watched in amazement
as the pile of weaponry grew and grew.

A Colt automatic was removed from each of his topcoat pockets. A
Luger followed from inside the coat. Two more small pistols were
withdrawn from his suit jacket along with a Buntline Special and
another Colt from the holster at his back.

Then he leaned over and jerked up his trouser cuff, to display a
derringer strapped to his ankle.

And I had to shake my head, a genuine grin on my face this time.
How could I possibly have missed all that?

The kid caught my eye and his lips parted in an expression of
such sweetness that I couldn't catch my breath. "Ain't love
grand?" he asked in a soft voice, knowing it was the cloud of
lust surrounding me that prevented me from seeing how well armed
he was. "That's it, Mr. Cairo," he spoke in normal tones.

"Perhaps I should search you myself to make sure!"

The gunsel relaxed back against the small table and crossed his
legs at the ankels. The look he turned on the little Levantine
was cold and deadly. "Touch me, and you'll be picking lead out of
your liver!"

Joel Cairo sniffed and turned away to begin looking in drawers
and closets, peeking under the bed, turning over skirted easy
chairs. He even opened the stove, and looked into the icebox,
growing more and more frustrated.

"It's not here! Where can it be? It is not here!"

"I could have told you that, Cairo." I took out a cigarette paper
and began to sprinkle tobacco on it. Wilmer took it from me and
licked the edges. He rolled it and sealed it with languid
movements, passing it between his lips.

Effie had done this a thousand times for me, and it had left me
unmoved.

Now I was hard and aching, in spite of the fact that I had come
again while the kid was buried deep in me.

****

I was trembling on my knees, waiting for him to make a move. His
warm hands followed the curve of my buttocks, then traced the
shadowed crevice, pausing to dip a fingertip into my opening.
Involuntarily, my hips jerked. I was dry, but I'd take it, for
him.

"Sam." His low voice sliced through me and I closed my eyes,
swallowing heavily. I had never had this done to me, and I wanted
it. I wanted it very badly.

His lips whispered over my spine and his fingers slid under me to
cup my balls and stroke my burgeoning cock. "Fuck me, Cookie!"

He must have been paying closer attention than I had given him
credit for. When his fingers came back to stretch me, they were
covered in cold cream. They were gentle, and thorough. "Please,
Cookie, don't make me wait!" I was actually begging him to fuck
me.

Carefully, slowly, he began pressing himself into my ass, sliding
past that ring of tight muscle. I dropped my head onto the bed
and angled my hips so that he could take me completely.

His lovemaking was a torment. He thrust easily in and rocked back
out, hitting my pleasure point each time. "Harder, baby,
*harder*!"

But long minutes ticked by and he kept the pace gentle, until I
couldn't stand it any longer. I bucked onto him frantically, and
forced him to increase the tempo. My loss of control seemed to be
the signal he was waiting for. He began pounding into me, his
moans joining mine to form a counterpoint.

"Sam!"

I could hear the panic in his voice. "Come for me, baby. Fill me.
Show me how much you want me!"

His essence was hot, scalding hot and I felt him deep inside,
flooding me. And then I was covering his hands with my own hot
semen, and he smoothed it over my torso, massaging it onto my
nipples, teasing nerve endings that pleaded for more.

He collapsed on my back, and I stayed like that, with him
covering me, for as long as my quivering legs could stand it.
Finally I was forced to ease us down onto the coverlet and he
slipped out of me.

I couldn't resist asking. "Did you...enjoy that, Cookie?"

"It was delightful."

Oh. That was rather a bland way of putting it.

"Delicious."

That was better.

"De-lovely!"

"Are you teasing me?" I demanded.

Laughing softly, he rolled me over and took me into his arms,
smearing his own chest with my come. "Do you mind, Dream?"

"Do you know what I do with smart-alec little gunsels like you,
Cookie?"

His head was tucked under my chin, and his thick hair tickled my
chin when he shook it.

"I eat them for breakfast!"

****

We were quiet too long, staring into each other's eyes,
remembering. Cairo got curious. And hard. He still held his
little pistol, and thought that gave him some clout at our little
tea party.

He reached out with his free hand to touch Wilmer's obvious
arousal. The kid casually clipped his jaw with a hard left hook
and knocked Cairo onto his rounded ass.

I leaned over and wound my fingers in his cravat, the color of a
ripe, Halloween pumpkin today. I yanked him to his feet, and
shook him like a rag doll. "You keep your fucking hands off the
kid, you got that, Cairo?"

"That's the *third* time you've put your hands on me!" he
snarled. I tipped up his chin and planted one in his kisser.

"And you'll keep taking it until I say otherwise!"

The phone rang and I looked toward it uncertainly. "I'll watch
him, Sam," the kid said softly. "Go ahead and answer it."

I went back into the bedroom and picked up the receiver. "Spade."

"Sam!"

"Effie, what's wrong darling?" I could hear the strain in her
voice.

"Can you get down to the office right away, Sam? Please don't ask
questions! Just get down here!"

"I'm on my way, Precious!"

I strode into the other room, barely noticing that Cairo was no
longer on my setting room rug.

"Cookie..."

"It's oke, Sam. Just because you fucked me, doesn't mean I expect
us to be pinned. I've got some work to do too. You go on, and
I'll see you at Gutman's in a couple of hours."

"Where's Cairo?"

"I threw out the trash!"

And the door closed behind him before I could protest.

I hadn't had many relationships in my life, and those few I'd had
were intense in the extreme.

After Miles, I'd wondered what a no-strings affair would be like,
had been desperate for one, for a hard, fast fuck with no
emotional ties.

Now it seemed the kid was giving me what I wanted on a silver
platter.

Only problem was, I no longer wanted that: I *wanted* strings on
him. I wanted him tied to me so tightly he'd never get loose.

And if that meant facing down his employer back east, well...

I went to a cabinet set into the wall beside the highboy and
pulled out Miles' gun. I tucked it into my jacket pocket, grabbed
my hat and headed for the office.

***

Effie was not happy. I would have sworn her eyes were shooting
sparks. She jumped to her feet when I got to the office, hurrying
toward me. Her grip on my arms was strong, but she couldn't seem
to get a word past lips that were pale with anger.

"What is it, Precious?" I asked softly.

"It's Iva, Sam! She's..."

"I'm suing you for the wrongful death of my husband!" The door to
the inner office had silently swung open and Iva stood there.

How is it some women can look like angels in black? The bordered
mourning veil framed her heart-shaped face, a stark contrast to
her blond hair. She was the image of the bereaved widow.

Until you saw her green eyes, hard and flat and so totally cold
that I shivered in spite of myself.

"Miles knew the score. He was a big boy, Angel." I went into my
office and she stepped aside to let me by. "Every time we went
out on a case there was a chance we wouldn't come back. Miles
knew that!"

"*I* didn't know that! I would *never* have married him if I had
known!"

"Wouldn't you, sweetheart? Well, that's neither here nor there
now, is it? Miles is dead and there's nothing either of us can do
to bring him back!"

"No, there *isn't*," she agreed venomously. "But I want his share
of the business, and if you aren't prepared to turn it over to
me, I'll have my lawyer serve you with papers!"

I sauntered behind my desk and dropped down into my chair. I
pulled out the cigarette papers and tobacco and began to make a
cigarette. "Getting a little greedy, aren't we, darling?"

"A girl needs to look out for herself, nowadays!"

"Oh?" I cocked an eyebrow at her and stuck a match. "I was sure
Miles said something about your family being...comfortably off?"

Her seal fur piece slid off her shoulders and she flung her
little black handbag onto the client's chair. She leaned over the
desk, balancing her weight on her flattened hands. "Leave my
family out of this!" she ordered shrilly. I caught the hint of
alcohol on her breath. "They warned me not to marry a low life
skirt-chaser like Miles Archer! They told me..."

"Tell *me* something, Precious. Where were *you* the night Miles
was shot?"

She recoiled as if I had slapped her. "I...Why, I was at home! In
bed!"

I shook my head and regarded the glowing tip of my cigarette.
"Oh, you may have been in bed, Angel, but it wasn't at home. And
it sure as hell wasn't Miles' bed. You had gotten in not many
minutes before Effie came to tell you about your sudden loss!"

"Effie! That little bitch! She doesn't like me; she's *never*
liked me! She'd say anything to get me in Dutch!"

I was starting to feel worn down. "Listen, Iva. I don't care that
you were seeing someone on the side. I'm sure Miles was as well."
*Sure*? I knew for a fucking fact he was!

She looked at me petulantly. "You're just jealous he wasn't
seeing *you* anymore!"

"Iva, darling, you're out of whatever little mind you have left.
There was never anything like that between Miles and me!" I lied
carelessly through my teeth.

"That's not what he told *me*!"

"And of course we both know how truthful Miles was!"

The fight went out of her and she sagged into the client's chair.
"I need money, Sam! I have to get out of town!"

"If you say so, darling. Why now, though?"

She covered her face with her hands. "Some snooty boy came by and
told me that I had angered a very powerful man! He told me if I
didn't leave San Francisco within the next few days, I'd be
wearing cement overshoes!" She peeked through her fingers to see
how I was accepting her pronouncement.

I kept my gaze polite. "Aren't you being a little over-dramatic,
darling? And why shake me down for half the business?"

"I *need* that money, Sam!" she repeated.

"Isn't Miles' life insurance enough for you, Iva?"

The startled look on her face would have been laughable, if the
whole situation wasn't so sad.

"Let me guess: You had no idea Miles left you with $10,000 in
insurance? Jesus, Iva, you make me tired! Go collect the money
and then get the fuck out of town!"

She rose slowly to her feet and gathered her things, fussily
adjusting the fur around her shoulders. She tucked a lock of
blond hair behind her ear and patted the veil into place.
"You...won't think unkindly of me, will you Sam? I'm really not a
bad person, once you get to know me!"

The door closed behind her and I began to swear, flatly and
viciously. She wasn't a bad person, no, she wasn't.

There was a tap on the door and Effie peeked around cautiously to
see how she would be received. When I didn't throw anything worse
than a dirty look at her, she came in and sat on the corner of my
desk, picking up the cigarette makings and rolling one. I looked
from the cigarette between my fingers to the one in hers, and
threw her a questioning glance.

She placed the cigarette between her lips and struck a match.

"Since when have you picked up this habit, Precious?"

"Since this whole case has started making me nuts!" She drew in a
lungful of smoke and began choking on it. I plucked the cigarette
from her fingers and stubbed it out in the ashtray.

"Take up something else, Angel. This is a filthy habit!"

"I need a drink, Sam! The black widow scared me spitless!"

I took out two glasses and poured a shot for each of us.

"Now that Iva is out of our lives, what *will* we do to amuse
ourselves?" I asked idly, swirling the amber liquid in my glass.

"I'm getting married, Sam!"

My eyes opened wide in astonishment. "Angel...this is so sudden!
Who...?"

She stared moodily at her drink. "Yeah, I'm going to kill Mrs.
Chairface, and marry Chair! How does that sound to you?"

"Effie, my own true love, I think you need a vacation. A very
long vacation!"

"It's good to hear you laugh again, Sam. It's been too long." She
tossed back the remains of her drink and slid off my desk. "I
think I'll go home early, if that's all right with you?"

"Sure thing, Precious. Just lock up behind you, will you? I need
to do some thinking before I go see the fat man."

"Where is he in all this, Sam?"

"He wants the Maltese falcon that seems to have everyone in an
uproar."

"The Maltese *what*?"

"Sorry, Angel. I forgot you missed the latest installment of our
little cliffhanger." I explained about the black bird.

"And is Miss Wonderly involved with this?"

"Her name is O'Shaughnessy, and yes, Angel, she is in this up to
her undeniably pretty eyebrows!"

Effie snorted and threw up her hands in defeat. I couldn't blame
her. This case had more twists than a scenic railway. She walked
into her office.

And screamed.

I bolted around my desk and made for the door. Before I could
reach it, a figure dressed in a black trenchcoat and fedora
pulled low over his face staggered in, dripping blood all over my
hard wood floor. He was clutching a parcel wrapped in brown paper
and tie up with string.

I caught him as he began to collapse to the floor, but he was
almost dead weight. All I could do was prevent him from hitting
the floor so hard he hurt himself. Not that he could be hurt much
more; he was in a bad way.

His lips were by my ear, and as I eased him down he whispered a
few short phrases. I turned him onto his back, but he stared
sightlessly up at the ceiling, his last breath rattling in his
throat.

I glanced up at Effie.

"I locked the door, Sam!" She was always rock steady in a crisis.

"Good work, Angel! Get your hat and coat on." She followed my
orders and hurried back to my side. I was on the phone. "Get down
here right away. I need you *now*!" I hung up and saw the blood
that covered my hand. I took out a handkerchief and wiped at the
stains. Pointing to the mysterious package, I began giving her
instructions. "Chair's coming to pick you up. Take this down to
the train station and put it in a locker. Hold onto the key, and
don't tell anyone about this!"

She looked at me reproachfully. "As if I would, Sam!"

"I know, Precious, but this would cost your life, and I do love
you, Effie!"

"I know, Sam. Just not the way I wish you could! You'll get in
touch with me when you're ready to have the key back?"

I nodded. "If I tell you... 'The kid's mine' then you'll know you
can send it to me wherever that might be. I'll have Chair come
pick it up. But if I say... 'He belongs to the fat man', get that
key to the police and tell them what you know. I'll leave a
letter in our safe explaining the whole situation. Now go, and
tell Chair to make sure you aren't followed!"

Her face was pale. "Be careful, Sam!" She kissed me, her mouth
caressing mine, then picked up the package and hurried out.

But not before I had seen the sheen in her eyes.

*Damn*! Why did life have to be so complicated?

***

Note: The rumrunner belongs to Raymond Chandler, and it's his
disappearance which caused the chain of events that involved
Philip Marlowe in The Big Sleep. Brioski, for all the kiddies out
there, is a lemony-tasting fizzy drink along the lines of Alka
Seltzer, that's good for what ails you.


Part 14

Being thought to be a crooked private eye had its advantages. You
got to meet all manner of shady characters, who accepted you as
one of their own.

I called in a favor from a former bootlegger who used to run rum
out of Mexico. He retired once Prohibition had been lifted and
was working as bodyguard for some millionaire general up on Nob
Hill.

I had pulled Sean Regan's chestnuts out of the fire on several
occasions when our favorite assistant DA got too snoopy. Now I
had a body lying on the floor of my office, and I needed his
help. He was more than happy to assist me out of this jam.

"They'll find him in some alley, if the rats don't get to him.
Don't worry about it, Sam. I've got it covered!" he told me over
the phone. I could hear the smile in his voice, rough velvet over
his Irish lilt, and I regretted, vaguely, that the time had never
seemed right for the two of us.

Regan sent over some muscle and they removed the stiffening body
of the ship's captain who had delivered the paper-wrapped parcel.

****

I was crouching low, smoothing the wrinkles out of a small area
rug when I heard the outer door open. "In here, Chair," I called.

"Doing some redecorating, Sam? Funny, you never struck me as the
interior decorator type!"

I froze. "Damn!" I swore under my breath, then unwound myself and
rose to my feet. Brigid O'Shaughnessy was draped seductively
against the frame of my office door.

"Hello, Angel. Slumming?" I asked carelessly.

She laughed. I could imagine her practicing that tinkling,
girlish titter in the privacy of her bedroom, and it didn't
surprise me in the least that any number of men had fallen prey
to it, including my married partner.

It did nothing for me however, grating on my nerves, like
fingernails across a blackboard.

"You're so funny, Sam!" Her eyes didn't look the least bit
amused, and I backed away from her involuntarily. Whoever had
labeled the female of the species the weaker sex had never come
across Brigid O'Shaughnessy! I would never want to meet her in a
blind alley!

She examined the pale ivory gloves she wore, smoothing them over
her fingers. "May I have a drink, please?" Her tongue peeked out
to moisten her full lower lip.

Adam told God, "The woman tempted me." Well, obviously, she
couldn't tempt me, but I could see why Miles, or any other sucker
would follow her without question, grinning and licking his lips.

I poured a couple of fingers of rye into a glass for her and set
it on the edge of my desk.

"Won't you join me, Sam?"

Reluctantly, I filled my own glass and knocked it back. She
tasted hers delicately.

"What news have you for me, Sam?"

"Kasper Gutman wants to see me this afternoon." I tossed out the
statement and just let it hang there between us.

"The fat man?" She was uneasy now, and I found that interesting.
Gutman made her wary. She pulled the sleek, silver case from her
handbag and made a production of selecting and lighting a
cigarette. "Why would he want to see you, Sam?"

"I'm assuming it's about the falcon. That makes two other people
aside from you who are interested in the black bird."

Her eyes flickered up to mine, then darted away to contemplate
the plume of smoke she blew from her elegantly painted mouth.
"I'm so tired of this, Sam! I don't know whom to trust; I've been
betrayed on every side! I need your help so desperately!" Her
voice throbbed with emotion.

"You have my help, Angel. You're paying me twenty dollars a day
for it, remember?"

"Is that how much your loyalty is worth? I don't have much money
left, Sam! What if Gutman offers you more? The only thing else I
could offer you is my body!"

Why was she so deliberately planting the idea of naked, sweaty
bodies in my mind?

I thought, not of her, but of the young gunsel, moaning and
shaking under me as he came, and I grew hard.

She had no idea what caused the sudden flush to mount my cheeks.
The tiny, self-satisfied smile that curled her lips told me she
thought she had succeeded in bemusing me with the offer of her
body. But to what purpose? To have me so distracted that I would
overlook the little fallacies that fell tripping from her tongue?
Or so enamored of her that I would wind up playing the sap for
her, as so many others had?

Obviously, she was unaware that my preferences ran to a hard male
body rather than a soft female one.

"You've got some things you can raise money on, haven't you? That
cigarette case, the furs you wore the first day you were here,
some jewels? Hock 'em!" I said hardily.

The next thing I knew, she was plastered against my chest, her
arms clinging to me, the cloying scent of her perfume clogging
the back of my throat. Her shoulders shook as if from the force
of her weeping.

"I'm sorry! You're right! I don't deserve your help, but oh, Sam!
I need it! I'm so *very* alone!"

I couldn't prevent the short bark of laughter. "You're so very
*good*, is what you are, Angel!" I took her arms from around my
neck and eased her away from me. She was making me edgy, as if my
skin was suddenly several sizes too small for my body.

Her eyes were dry.

"I'm not a good person, Sam," she shrugged, realizing I wasn't
buying her act, changing tacks so quickly she made me dizzy.
"I've done things... Well, be that as it may, I *do* need your
help. Won't you please help me?" she fluttered her lashes and
begged prettily.

"Now you're really dangerous, sweetheart!" I put the desk between
the two of us and reached for my tobacco pouch. I had to get her
out of my office. "Listen, Precious. I have a meeting with Gutman
in about an hour. Why don't you go on back to your apartment and
wait for my call? I'll let you know as soon as anything important
comes up."

"You promise, Sam?"

I opened my eyes very wide. "Of course, darling!"

I forced myself to take her elbow and walk her into the outer
office. She gave me a smile that was supposed to be tremulous,
but somehow fell short of the mark. "I'll wait for your call,
then, Sam." Her voice took on a breathy tone. "See you later,
sweetheart."

I released my breath only after the door closed behind her, and I
was able to lock it.

****

I sat at my desk and took a blank sheet of paper from the top
drawer. The point of the fountain pen that had once been Miles'
needed to be cleaned. Then I filled it, and began to transcribe
the events that started with the firm of Spade and Archer taking
on the simple job of tracing a runaway schoolgirl.

The sharp, staccato rap on the outer office door pierced the
intensity of my concentration. I reached for the automatic in my
pocket and went to see who was there.

I spared a glance at the small area rug I had thrown over the
bloodstains left by my late, seafaring visitor.

Through the frosted pane, I could see the peaked cap of a Frisco
cabby, and sighed in relief. Chair had seen Effie safely home
after the stop at the train station, and now he was here to take
me to my meeting with Kasper Gutman.

"C'mon in, Chair. Have a drink. I just need to finish this and
then we can get over to the Alexandria."

"Sure thing, Boss." He poured himself a shot but sipped at it
cautiously. Chair had sampled my whiskey before, and he knew how
high-octane I liked it.

I sat back down behind my desk and picked up the pen again.
Everything that would help Tom Polhaus nail Miles' killer was in
that letter. The information about the Maltese falcon was
incidental, and only mentioned in passing.

I tugged on my lip with thumb and forefinger, carefully
considering the course I was about to commit myself to, and then
I grimaced. What would it matter? If the Frisco police sergeant
ever read this, I would be dead.

In painstaking detail, I fingered the murderer of Floyd Thursby
and the captain, Jacoby, whose ship had gone up in flames in the
harbor. I reread what I had written, then folded the pages
meticulously and slid them into an envelope. Tom Polhaus' name
was scrawled across the flap, and then I sealed it.

I tossed the letter into the wall safe that was hidden behind a
really poor copy of Whistler's Mother and threw the combination.
"Give me a minute, all right, Chair?"

He nodded, trying to swallow the last mouthful, and I walked down
the corridor to the washroom.

My face, reflected back in the flyspecked mirror, looked grey and
drawn, and I scrubbed at it with rough hands. Not only was I
putting my reputation on the line, and my life, but my
self-respect as well. It didn't matter how many times I reminded
myself that I played the sap for *no one*.

My head was starting to pound and I had a hollow feeling in my
stomach. The booze I had tossed down earlier was taking great
pleasure in letting me know the havoc it was playing with my
stomach lining.

I ran the water, and while I waited for it to become cold enough
to drink I finger combed my hair, trying to give it some
semblance of order.

The blue bottle of Brioski stood on the shelf above the washbasin
and I shook the crystals into the glass of water. Closing my
eyes, I swallowed it down without pausing, only just preventing
myself from gagging.

God, I hated that stuff!

*****

Note: The 'crippled newsie' line is directly from the movie, only
Sam actually spoke it.

Part 15

I was so lost in thought that I didn't see the kid when I walked
into the lobby of the Alexandria. And then, somehow, he was there
behind me. "Twelfth floor," I told the operator as I got onto the
elevator.

Wilmer Cook was ahead of me as we stepped off the elevator. He
led the way down the corridor to the fat man's door. "That's
rather careless of you, isn't it, Cookie? I could take your guns
away from you. Think how disappointed in you your employer would
be!"

"Would you tell him a crippled newsie took them from me, but you
made him give them back?" He leaned toward me and his blue eyes
grew hot; I shuddered and hardened. "Know something, Sam? I
*never* put myself in a dicey situation. You want my guns?
They're yours. *All of them*! And fuck Gutman! He's not the boss
of me!"

I pressed close to him. "No, he isn't, is he? And you'd die the
hardest way possible if your real boss ever discovered how you're
dropping the ball out here!" I was dead serious.

When had I started to put concern for his safety above everything
else?

"Am I? Is that how you see it?" His face lost all its warmth and
became expressionless. "You *really* think I'm that incompetent?"

"I think that maybe you've gotten carried away by your first walk
on the wild side!"

"Yes, I can see that you do." His lips were a thin slash in his
face. "Did this afternoon mean anything to you, at all? Or was it
just a no strings fuck with a tenderfoot from back east?"

"Cookie..." I shut my mouth. What could I say now? That I cared
for him more than I had ever cared for anyone, including my
partner, Miles Archer? That I didn't think I'd be able to bear it
if he was harmed?

We were involved in something particularly nasty that could see
him sent up the river for the rest of his life at the very least,
or dead at the worst. I stared bleakly into the future, hating
what I saw there.

It was too late. Perhaps it had always been too late. The letter
pointing the finger at Thursby's killer was sealed in my safe. If
anything happened to me, Effie would hand it over to Tom Polhaus.

The gunsel was waiting for me to say something that would make it
all right, that would give him some sense of reassurance that he
hadn't put his neck in the noose for a worthless piece of shit.

I was silent for too long. "C'mon. The fat man wants to see you!"
He fell back into his role of hired gun and opened the door to
Kasper Gutman's suite.

I followed him in and watched as he crossed the floor to a small
bedroom off the sitting area and closed the door firmly behind
him.

"Hm, hm, hm," Gutman laughed, his belly jiggling the elaborate
watch fob that dangled from his vest. His eyes glinted with evil
humor. "Is Wilmer giving you a hard time, Mr. Spade? He can be
such a temperamental youth! Of course, he's the best in the
business; I got him from someone who should know!" He voice was
heavy with innuendo.

"Of course," I agreed blandly, refusing to give him the
satisfaction of seeing he had struck a nerve. The kid told me he
had never had a man before. Instinct told me that I could trust
him, but could I trust my instinct? I forced myself to shrug it
off and got to the point of our meeting. "What are you willing to
give me for the Maltese falcon?"

"You have it?" His face was avid with greed to possess the
priceless bird, my phrasing of the question eluding him totally.

"I...can get it. I want to know if it's worth my while even
talking to you about it."

"Who else could you bargain with, Mr. Spade?"

"Brigid O'Shaughnessy, perhaps?"

"Hm, hm, hm. You're a day late and a pound short, as they say on
the continent, Mr. Spade!" He raised his voice. "Come and join
us, my dear!"

Another door opened and she came in, once again the hesitant
schoolgirl, and I wondered if Kasper Gutman had any idea what
lurked behind that innocent facade she presented.

"Brigid, darling. How delightful to see you here. But I thought
we agreed you would wait at your apartment until I contacted
you?"

"I got worried, Sam. You didn't call, and it got late, and...I
got worried."

"Of course you did, Precious." Oh, she was good. She was *very*
good! Mainly it was that tremulous quaver in her voice, I think.
I turned back to the fat man. "Where does she stand in all of
this, Gutman?"

"One might say we worked on opposite sides of the fence, until it
became clear that we would do better on the same side,
so-to-speak. Joining forces, if you will. The falcon is worth
enough to make us all very, *very* wealthy! And of course we wish
you to join us as well!"

I walked over to the sideboard and poured myself a drink. My
stomach was warning me I'd regret it, but I ignored it and
swallowed the whiskey.

I already had more regrets than I could deal with. What was one
more?

The door burst open and Joel Cairo hurried in, as fast as his
tiny, mincing feet would allow, waving a newspaper that was
somewhat worse for the wear. "It arrived last night! The La
Paloma, with Jacoby as the captain! That *must* be the same
ship!" Then he noticed me and came to a sharp halt, the momentum
almost causing him to fall on his face. "Mr. Spade," he said
hollowly. "How nice to see you again, sir."

"Hello, Joel. Fancy meeting you here! This is starting to feel
like old home week! Anybody else coming, or can we get on with
this?"

The little man cast a look that was almost scared in the
direction of Kasper Gutman. "It's quite all right, Joel. We're
all business partners here, after all. We wish each other only
the very best!"

"If you say so, Mr. Gutman."

But I could see the Levantine was not happy about the turn of
events. I sat on the arm of the settee and watched him from under
my lashes. "What's the story on the La Paloma, Cairo?"

Stubbornly, the little man refused to say anything further.

"Maybe we ought to get your little gunny out here to beat the
information out of him," I remarked casually to the fat man.

"By Gad, sir, you are a hard man! Hm, hm, hm."

I was getting tired of being a joke to him. "I'll show you how
hard I am!" I sprang to my feet and threw my glass against the
coffee table, where it shattered. "There have been four deaths so
far, counting the Russian who started it all! Yes, your Captain
Jacoby is dead. He died in my office!" I could see the three of
them were taken unawares by the news by the varying degrees of
shock on their faces.

The girl's lips were trembling. "Jack? Jack is dead?" A single
tear clung to her lashes and then fell to roll gracefully down
her cheek. She sank down onto the settee and buried her face in
her hands.

"Sweetheart, I didn't think you cared!" I murmured dryly.

"You don't understand. He was kind to me! He would never think of
betraying me as Floyd did!"

"Sure, Angel. Sure. Whatever you say."

The look she cast me was venomous, and I was thankful she wasn't
a black widow spider. I could almost feel her fangs sinking into
my neck.

"Hmmm. This definitely puts a spanner in the works!" The fat man
thoughtfully stroked his double chins, trying to fit this piece
of information into the puzzle. It had taken him long years to
get even this close to the black bird, and he was not about to
let the death of a player in his game get in the way. He waved it
aside as inconsequential. "We know for a fact that the
inestimable Captain Jacoby was in possession of the Maltese
falcon. Perhaps the bird is still on the La Paloma. We shall all
go down to the dock and search the vessel!"

"That will prove to be a waste of time." All eyes were fastened
on me now.

"Perhaps you will allow us to be the judge of that, Mr. Spade!"
Joel Cairo spat as he settled his cashmere coat on his shoulders.

I shrugged. "Suit yourself!"

They headed for the door, except for Gutman, who was watching me
calculatingly. "The good captain was the last man to have the
Maltese falcon! It *must* be on the boat!"

"Must it? If it is, then it will be nothing more than a melted
bit of scorched metal. La Paloma was torched earlier this
afternoon and burnt to the water line!"

I thought for a moment the fat man was going to have a heart
attack. His face turned a pasty white and he staggered back, only
just catching himself against the settee.

Joel Cairo began to whine, "That's impossible! It can't be
destroyed!"

Brigid O'Shaughnessy stated coldly, "I want my 5,000 pounds. I
don't care who pays, but the money was promised to me and it's
*mine*!"

"Now, now, Miss O'Shaughnessy. We have all taken a grievous loss.
There is no need of any one of us to have to bear the entire
burden of it!" Gutman had pulled a large square of linen from his
pocket and was dabbing at the drops of perspiration that beaded
his temples.

"*I've* lost two perfectly good lovers to this fiasco, and I want
my money!"

"This is a decidedly unpleasant side of your personality,
darling!" I took the risk of drawing her attention.

Her eyes narrowed. "You said Jack died in your office. Was he
alive long enough to tell you where he had hidden the falcon?"

"Perhaps."

"*Wilmer*!"

The young gunman appeared so fast I knew he had to have been
listening at the door. "Yeah, Mr. Gutman?"

"Our dear friend, Mr. Spade, is keeping some vital information to
himself. See if you can convince him it will be in his own best
interests to talk to us!"

The corner of the kid's mouth kicked up. "Sure thing, Mr. Gutman!
It'll be my pleasure!"

*****

Note: Wilmer's POV

Part 16

I closed the bedroom door behind me and crossed the carpeted
floor to stand in front of the window. The view wasn't much, just
the brick walls of the building that stood across the alley,
shades pulled down as if concealing the secrets that dwelt
within.

I fumbled in a pocket for the pack of cigarettes I had picked up
earlier, on my way back from the harbor. I had crushed it when
Sam Spade refused to see me as anything other than a kid who had
seen too many B-movies, who was playing at being a badman.

The red circle on the battered package, the logo of Lucky Strike,
had drawn me when I was still in knickers, and I had never seen
any reason to change my brand. I shook out a cigarette and struck
a match with my thumbnail.

The smoke was acrid and biting. I swallowed it and let it trickle
out through my nostrils, the burn almost a punishing entity.

I ruminated on the enormity of my stupidity. I hadn't lied when I
told Sam that I wasn't expecting us to be pinned. But I really
thought...

...that he cared about me? That maybe there was a future for us,
together?

I threw my topcoat over a chair and sat on the bed, my head
buried in my hands, the cigarette between my fingers dropping ash
on the carpet.

He made it obvious that all I was to him was a one-night stand.
And I didn't even get a whole night, just a few hours on a
typical, overcast, Frisco afternoon.

I was a fool to think I could trust a gumshoe. But I couldn't
believe he would throw me aside like a used Kleenex.

All I had left was the hope that he wasn't the sort to kiss and
tell, because if my judgment was that far off, if word of my
folly ever got back to my employer on the east coast, I was a
dead man.

Like in that new game the Parker Brothers created, I wouldn't
pass Go, I wouldn't collect $200, I would be permanently, and
irrevocably dead.

I needed something to keep me busy. I dropped the butt to the
floor and ground it negligently into the rug. Let that pig,
Gutman, deal with the hotel manager when he complained about the
burn.

The Colt automatic was a comforting weight against my back. I
removed it from its holster, then took a kit that contained a
soft cloth and a small bottle of graphite from a dresser drawer.

With gentle hands I set about cleaning my weapon. The odor of
cordite lingered in its muzzle.

The revolver had been fired earlier that afternoon, after I had
left Sam.

It was really too bad about the fire. I guess I should have been
more careful where I disposed of my smokes.

The black bird was gone, and I suspected the ship's captain had
it tucked firmly under his arm as he stumbled down the gangway
and into a waiting cab. I dismissed its whereabouts. Retrieving
it was not part of my job.

****

Making sure the Colt was fully reloaded, I fed a round into the
chamber and holstered it again. I could still hear the murmur of
voices in the other room, although the tone was starting to get
strident as tempers flared.

Cairo must have joined them at some point, and that dangerous
O'Shaughnessy dame. I leaned closer to the door, trying to get a
handle on what was going on out there.

And then Kasper Gutman bellowed my name. I opened the door and
went into the sitting room. "Yeah, Mr. Gutman?"

"Can you convince our very dear Mr. Spade that it is in his own
best interest to disclose the information he has?"

I couldn't help it. I grinned. "Sure thing, Mr. Gutman. It'll be
my pleasure!" I nodded toward my bedroom door. "If you don't
mind, Mr. Spade?" I was going to get my hands on him, one more
time. It might be for the last time, but I'd make damn sure that
no matter who came after me, I was the one he would remember.

The fat man wasn't happy that I was depriving him of his little
show, but I didn't give a damn. I crowded the private eye into my
room and locked the door behind me. Sam turned to face me, sure I
had been putting on an act for the trio in the other room.

Then he saw my eyes, and he actually backed up a step. That must
have been the moment when he realized that I wasn't as young as I
looked. I watched his adam's apple as he swallowed jerkily. I
watched as his tongue swept out to moisten his lips.

And then I was taking those lips with my own, tasting him,
teasing his tongue with mine. He moaned and wrapped his arms
tightly around me, taking over the kiss, holding me so close it
became almost impossible to take a deep breath.

I decided that breathing was vastly overrated when compared to
being kissed by Sam Spade, and I blissfully surrendered to him.

The past, the future, nothing mattered, except the now, his mouth
feeding ravenously off mine, his hands shaping the hardness of my
erection. "I'm sorry, Cookie! I'm so fucking sorry!" he muttered
as his lips traced my throat to the pulse that beat in its
hollow.

He had me back against the door, the sound of my body hitting it
indistinguishable from the sound of someone landing there after
being punched. I groaned, and that too, was misleading.

His fingers were at my belt, tearing at it, and then my trousers
were slipping down around my ankles. He spun me around and
slammed me up against the wall this time, nudging my legs apart,
releasing his hold on me only long enough to free himself from
the prison of his pants.

I was whimpering, and those in the other room heard that, and
then the slap of flesh on flesh as he slid into me and set up a
pounding rhythm. One hand covered my mouth to muffle the sounds
of wild pleasure I couldn't swallow. The other was wrapped
securely around my cock, and he stroked and fondled and tormented
me to a mind-shattering climax.

A few more thrusts, and Sam was following me over the rainbow to
a land of Technicolor dreams.

Finally, he slid out of me easily, and I felt bereft. When I
turned around, he had himself tucked neatly away. I frowned. That
wouldn't do. He looked too...contained.

My fist shot out and I caught him unprepared. He took the blow to
his mouth and staggered back, falling to the edge of the bed and
sliding down to the floor.

He made quite a bit of noise. More than was warranted by that
punch, which I hadn't had my heart in. He touched the corner of
his mouth, catching a drop of blood from his torn lip.

"Enough, kid! No more! I'll talk!" He was going to make me look
good.

I bit my lip and bent to yank my trousers up, wincing slightly at
the pull of muscles so hardly used. Then I reached down to him,
extending my hand, and pulled him back up to his feet.

"Why are you sorry, Sam?" I asked him as I ran a hand through my
hair, trying to erase the traces of how he disheveled it.

"Everything I've said to you, and you had to remember that," he
said acerbically.

I got my surprise under control before he could see it. "You
haven't said all that much to me, Sam!" I remarked. "Never mind.
Just give me a story I can tell the fat man."

He looked tired. "I have to make a phone call. Effie will give
the package to Chair and he'll bring it here."

I nodded and turn to open the door. Sam grabbed my arm. "What?"

"I'm sorry I hurt you."

"You didn't hurt me, Sam."

"I meant...before. You're not a no strings fuck, Cookie. But I
know I'm going to lose you. And oh, God, it's going to hurt!"

*****

Part 17

The fat man got a look of glee on his round face when he saw the
trickle of blood at the corner of my mouth. But then his glance
sharpened and he turned on the gunsel.

"He doesn't seem to be injured too greatly, Wilmer!"

The kid sneered at Gutman. "You didn't say you wanted the marks
visible. You want I should make him take off his shirt? The
bruises around his gut and kidneys should be turning a nice shade
of purple any time now."

I tried to make myself look pitiful, and in pain. My Wilmer was
one tough cookie. I hadn't realized how tough. Gutman would be
wise to watch his step around the young killer.

And the fact that he *was* a killer, had so easily killed *at
least* two men in the short time I knew him, gave me pause. I had
shot men myself, in the course of my work, and I suppose he saw
it in much the same way. But was I putting my neck in a noose for
him?

Was I willing to do that for him?

I tabled that thought for another time, when I would have the
leisure to examine it more thoroughly. Now I had to convince the
fat man that his gunsel had pummeled me enough to make me talk.

The kid could see that although Gutman remained silent, he badly
wanted a close look at my body, and I watched in fascination as
his mouth tightened. He was not about to let anyone see what
belonged to him. I could read that in the glance he threw my way
before his eyes became shuttered. He stalked up to the fat man,
shoving his face close to the suddenly perspiring jowls.

"Are you saying I don't have the moxie to do my job, Mr. Gutman?"
His voice was low and menacing.

Kasper Gutman backed away involuntarily. "Hm, hm, hm," he laughed
nervously. "Not at all, my dear Wilmer! Not at all! Of course I
trust you to follow orders."

The kid nodded shortly and turned away. "Start talking, tough
guy!" he ordered me. I felt my cock swelling, and I was amazed
that his tone of voice excited me.

I cleared my throat. "Sure, kid. Sure. Just don't slug me again!"

He glared at me, afraid that I was laying it on too thick, and I
pulled out a handkerchief, ostensibly to wipe the blood from my
chin, but actually to hide a smile.

"It will take a little time to get my hands on the falcon. I have
to make a phone call."

The fat man graciously gestured toward the telephone on a lowboy.
I picked up the receiver and gave the house operator Effie's
phone number.

"Can we trust him?" Cairo asked as I waited for the connection.

"You have no choice, Cairo," I answered. "I know where the falcon
is, and I'm the only one who can get it for you. Now play ball,
or I'll take this game to the D.A.!"

He scowled, but sat down. A good distance from Brigid
O'Shaughnessy, I couldn't help noticing.

"Precious, it's Sam. I'm fine, Angel. No, the kid's mine!" I
risked a grin at the gunsel. "Now listen carefully, Precious,
this is what I want you to do. Get in touch with Chair and have
him retrieve the item. Tell him to bring it to the hotel he
dropped me off at. Is that clear, Angel? Good. Enjoy your
weekend, darling. I'll see you bright and early Monday morning."

I hung up, Effie's anxious advice ringing in my ear. "Be careful,
Sam. I worry about you!"

Well, that wasn't anything new. I worried about me too! I sat on
the arm of the settee and pulled out my tobacco pouch, trying to
give a good impression of someone in pain. "This shouldn't take
too long. Let's get comfortable, kiddies, shall we?"

****

Gutman, Cairo and the girl had their heads together, obviously
making plans on how to spend their filthy lucre. As long as she
got her dough, Brigid seemed inclined to accept the loss of the
men who had paid the ultimate price for her favors.

Every once in a while, one of them would cast an eye my way. I
made sure I seemed relaxed and unconcerned, smoking one cigarette
after another.

For the first time in months I was packing heat. Gutman, at
least, was aware of that, but he assumed the gunsel had relieved
me of my pistol.

He assumed wrong.

My glance kept wandering to where the kid sat, away from the
three furies, and my brows snapped together in a frown over my
nose. His legs were spread wide, and he was not wearing the
topcoat that would have shielded his lower body. He saw where my
gaze was drawn, and a small smile teased his lips. His tongue
peeked out as if to taste me on his mouth, and under the guise of
making himself comfortable, he rocked his hips, just a trifle.

I growled under my breath and surged to my feet, taking a step
toward him. I don't know what I would have done if not for the
knock on the door.

Yes, I do. I would have yanked him up out of that chair and
kissed him to within an inch of his life. And the devil take the
Maltese falcon and the three who wanted to possess it!

But there was that knock, and so I did nothing.

Kasper Gutman plodded to the door and hurled it open, not even
bothering to inquire who was there. Chair flinched away, not
expecting it to be opened with such violence. He looked around
the fat man until he spotted me.

"Boss, you oke? Effie said I wasn't to give you this unless you
told me yes."

"I'm fine, Chair. Thanks for bringing this by." I pressed a tip
into his hand, and he started in surprise. I never tipped him. He
pocketed the bill with a strained smile and handed me the
package.

I knew that once he was in his cab, he would unwrap the single
and find the message I had scrawled across it in the event it
became necessary to call in the cavalry.

I closed the door and turned to find Gutman so close to me his
breath fanned my face, the scent of eucalyptus making my eyes
tear. His pudgy fingers reached graspingly toward the
brown-wrapped bundle, and I surrendered it to him. He put it on a
console table and pulled a small knife from his vest pocket.

In spite of its size, it had a wicked, sharp blade and it sliced
through the string as if it was butter. Cairo couldn't wait for
it to do its work on the wrapping covering whatever was within
it. He began scrabbling at it, tearing strips of paper off and
flinging them to the floor.

Burlap batting secured with more twine covered the figure and
Gutman cut it free. All three of them worked feverishly to reveal
the statuette hidden by its padding.

And then the fat man set it upright on the table, and we all saw
the black, lacquered bird.

Gutman swallowed hard, his mouth watering, as if in the presence
of a sumptuous feast.

Cairo licked his lips and clenched his fingers spasmodically.

Brigid O'Shaughnessy reached for it with greedy hands, fondling
it as if it was a lover.

And then her head reared back, and she stared accusingly at
Kasper Gutman. "It's smooth!" she hissed. "Where are the jewels?"

Gutman's eyes were blind as he stroked over the porcelain
feathers, and then he began to cut into it with the knife,
seeking what was beneath the protective coating.

Cairo accepted it first. "Fake!" he wailed. "It's a fake!"

Brigid snorted in disgust and turned away to throw herself into a
side chair.

The fat man wiped a hand over a face pale with shock. Drops of
clammy perspiration ran from his temples to his jaw and dripped
onto his stiff collar. His eyes darted frantically this way and
that, as if seeking an explanation within the room. He staggered
backwards and fell into a chair, staring in horror at the black
bird.

"You fool! You miserable, blundering fool!" Cairo shouted at him.
"All this time, we've been chasing a chimera! It was a
counterfeit!" He flung himself down on the settee and began to
weep with frustration.

The gunsel watched the whole show as if it was an entertainment
set out for his sole enjoyment, his attention going from one to
another of the participants. I forced myself to take my eyes off
his compact body.

"Where is it, Angel?"

Brigid O'Shaughnessy started. "What, Sam?"

"Your little playmate was the last one to have it. He got it from
you, he told me that before he died. I have to assume that you
were the one to make the switch!"

For the first time, she looked truly frightened. "That was the
one I gave him, the one I got from Kemidov, I swear it!"

Wilmer Cook pinned her with a fierce look. "You got the falcon
from the Russian?"

She barely spared him a glance, trying to convince me of her
innocence in the switch. "Kemidov wouldn't give it to me. He had
it in his arms, and we struggled. Floyd shot him!"

"Then the Russian made fools of all of us!" Cairo whined. "And
the real falcon must still be somewhere in Constantinople!"

With an effort so massive it was obvious even where I sat across
the room, Kasper Gutman pulled himself together. He wiped the
sweat from his face and neck and carefully got back to his feet.
Approaching the black bird as if it was alive and might attack
him at any moment, he picked up his little knife, folded it and
placed it back in his pocket.

He straightened his suit jacket and spared the bird a rueful
look. A sigh shook his bulky frame. "Well, I have spent seventeen
years looking for that little beauty. Another year will only
amount to five and fifteen-seventeenths per cent of the total
time expended."

Cairo was on his feet. "You're going to Constantinople? I am with
you!"

"Excellent! Excellent!" The fat man reached for the telephone to
contact the front desk and have his bill drawn up. "We'll leave
as soon as the loose ends here are tied up."

"Not so fast," I said softly. "There are three dead bodies to be
accounted for, and the police will be arriving here shortly.
You're going to need a fall guy for them."

Four pairs of eyes were centered on me. The kid's were cool and
considering. The others showed varying degrees of wariness.

"What do you mean, a fall guy?" Gutman asked.

"Just this: the cops aren't stupid. If we give them someone to pin
those murders on, then the rest of us walk! *I* stick my neck out
for no man. Or woman! So choose who you want to throw to the
wolves!"

"Hm, hm, hm! Suppose I choose young Wilmer there?"

"Fine! Is he the one? Are we agreed on that?" I was calling his
bluff and hoping desperately he wouldn't realize that I was
bluffing in turn.

"You are a hard man, sir!"

He didn't know the half of it!

*****

Note: Joe Baskopolous belongs to Milton Holmes and Adrian Scott,
screenwriters of the movie, Mister Lucky. At the start of the
movie, Joe was about to be sent to prison for life for having
four strikes against him. One of them could well have been a
bogus charge engineered by Sam Spade.

The phrase aces, as I use it here, means it was an excellent way
to get the heat off Wilmer.

Part 18

Somehow, I wasn't surprised that the fat man was willing to
sacrifice the young gunsel. Not only had Wilmer refused his
attempts at seduction, but he had made it more than clear that he
was quite willing to shoot Gutman if he touched him again.

"Very well, Mr. Spade," the fat man said, oozing false regrets.
"Wilmer Cook has been like a son to me, but if I must offer him
as a sop to the excellent police force of San Francisco, then I
must." He sighed mournfully, but I could see the vengeful
satisfaction on his plump face.

The gunsel stiffened and began to rise, until he caught my fierce
glare. I slid my gaze toward the door, then turned my back on him
and gathered the attention of the three who had set this whole
affair into motion onto me.

Walking casually to the sideboard, I poured myself a drink and
held the bottle up inquiringly. At their nods, I filled three
more glasses with whiskey and presented them to Gutman, Cairo and
the girl. Then I positioned myself so they faced me, with their
backs were to the outer door.

I deliberately kept my eyes on them, fearing if I watched as my
lover slipped out of the hotel suite, and probably out of my
life, they would tumble to the fact that I had an ulterior motive
for discussing the matter with them.

The door closed so silently I shouldn't have known he was gone.

But I knew. And my heart felt as if it had been ripped from my
chest and held up, beating, for my inspection.

I blew out a steadying breath and contemplated the amber liquid
in my glass. "So, the three of you will be heading for
Constantinople?"

"Hm. Hm, hm. Yes, my boy. As soon as my very dear friend Joel,
and the inestimable Miss O'Shaughnessy get their affairs in
order, we shall bid your fair city adieu and make our way east."

Brigid excused herself to use the powder room. She glided out of
the room, and in spite of our preferences, the three of us
watched her appreciatively. "That's one deadly dame!" I murmured
as I took a swallow of the whiskey. I set down the glass and
reached for my tobacco pouch.

"Indeed, sir! Indeed! It will behoove me to tread warily around
her. Whatever split I see fit to cut her in on will probably not
be enough for her."

"She killed Miles, didn't she?"

"Of a certainty, my dear Mr. Spade! How did you guess?"

"You get to know a man when you ...work with him as long as I
did. Miles wasn't the smartest man I've known, but he'd been
around the block a time or two. He knew what was what. And he
*never* would have followed a man he was shadowing into a blind
alley, with his overcoat buttoned and his gun on his hip. He
wasn't that dumb!"

"But...?"

"But he would have followed *her*, grinning and licking his
lips."

"And so he wound up dead."

"Yeah." I drew deeply on the cigarette I had built and let the
smoke fill my lungs. And the kid hadn't done it. I had been
pretty sure, but it was nice to know that the last time I would
ever fall in love, it would not be with my partner's killer.

She came out of the bathroom and draped her furs elegantly around
her shoulders. Cairo was already in his cashmere coat, and the
fat man was reaching for his derby and walking stick. "You'll
lock up as you leave, Mr. Spade?"

"Sure thing, Mr. Gutman. Do you mind if I keep this as a
souvenir?" I hefted up the black bird.

"Not at all! Not at all! Au revoir, my dear Mr. Spade."

Cairo saluted me with a vague wave. His mind was already on the
trip to the Middle East. Brigid O'Shaughnessy gave me a
flirtatious smile and toss of her head. I might have been the one
who got away, but she never gave up hope, and if this adventure
didn't pan out, she might try her luck with me again.

If that ever came to pass, I'd have to make sure I got out of
town, fast.

The door closed behind them and I stood there cradling the
falcon. I ran my fingers over the smooth curve of its head in a
soothing, repetitious movement, gazing at the chair where the kid
had been sitting.

The kid...I really had to stop thinking of him in those terms. He
was older than I had given him credit for. Twenty-five?
Twenty-six? He hadn't been playing at being a badman.

He *was* a badman, and I was so hard from wanting him that I
ached.

****

It wasn't a knock on the door that shook me from my reverie. It
was a pounding typical of a Frisco cop.

"Come on in, Tom; the door's not locked."

Tom Polhaus pushed the door open and walked in. "You left it to
kind of the last minute, didn't you, Sam? We could have missed
them!"

"But you didn't, did you? Then you had plenty of time."

Tom huffed and walked to the table that still held the glasses we
had drunk from. He picked up one that contained some whiskey and
raised it to his lips. "Want to tell me what this was all about,
Sam?"

"Who's got them?"

"Lieutenant Dundy is taking them downtown. He's thrilled. He's
going to be busier than a one-legged man at an ass-kicking
contest! This should help him make captain!"

"Bully for him!"

"Ah, Sam, don't be like that!"

I scowled at him. "The dame killed Miles. The other two were in
on this with her. If you track them back far enough, you'll find
they were involved in the murder of a Russian general living in
Constantinople."

"That's not my jurisdiction, Sam."

"Fuck."

"Come on, Sam. Help me out here!"

I sighed. "All right, Tom. What else do you need to know?"

His lip twisted in disgust. "I've got one other body, Sam. Who
killed Thursby?"

That's right, the police had no idea the ship's captain, Jacoby,
had been shot. Sean Regan had done me a big favor.

"Who shot Thursby? Joe Baskopolous, I imagine."

"*Joe the Greek*? What's he doing on the west coast?"

I shrugged. "You'd have to ask him that, Tom. If you can find
him." That wouldn't be too likely, since the Greek was working
the rackets on the east coast, last I heard. A two-time loser
already, one more rap wouldn't do him much damage. Unless he was
dumb enough to let his temper get the best of him again and he
killed someone.

The New York City D.A. would like nothing better than an excuse
to send Joe up for life.

And Joe stayed as far away from this coast as he could. Blaming
him for Thursby's killing was aces.

And if it got the kid off the hook...

I walked to the window and stood looking out on the street,
twelve floors below. Even if Cookie was down there, I wouldn't be
able to distinguish him. He was long gone, and the likelihood
that I'd ever see him was fading as rapidly as the fortune this
chunk of black lead represented.

Absently, my fingers traced the lines of the falcon.

"Sam, what is that?"

"Hmmm?" I dismissed the kid from my mind. I'd need to stay sharp
or I'd wind up in jail with the three who were already in police
custody. And I really didn't think I wanted to spend the next
twenty years behind bars with them.

I glanced at the black bird I was fondling absently.

"This, Tom? It's the stuff that dreams are made of."

I handed it to him and walked out the door.

*****

Note: My mother would kill me if she saw the hash I made of the
Italian conversation between Wilmer and his employer. Apologies
all around. I couldn't find a Sicilian translation program, so
this is regular Italian, such as it is.

Part 19

I went to ground in a fleabag hotel that didn't question my lack
of a grip, and then sent a telegram to my employer back east.
With Gutman, Cairo and the girl under arrest, it would be
difficult for me to complete the task he had set for me.

Not impossible, but difficult.

I waited to hear from my employer, and tried not to think of the
gumshoe who had somehow come to mean so much to me.

I lay on the bed, tearing pages from the Gideon's Bible and
folding them into paper aeroplanes, tossing them toward a hat I
had purchased to replace the one I had to leave behind in the fat
man's suite.

So far I had managed to get one of them in.

A hesitant tap on the door brought me to full alert.

"Yeah?" I barked, reaching for my gun.

"Umm, Mr. Smith?" The high treble belonged to the daughter of the
man who ran this joint.

She couldn't be much more than ten, but the piece of shit who
called himself her father had already offered her to me. I had
taken out some of my frustration on him, pistol-whipping him
until his eye was swollen shut and his ear was sprouting
cauliflower. But I knew that once I checked out of this dive he'd
be back to doing it again.

"What is it, Sweet Pea?"

"There's a long distance phone call for you. Daddy isn't happy
about it. He says he's missing out on calls from his numbers
runners. Could you come downstairs real fast?"

He *wished* he ran numbers! Once I finished my job here in San
Francisco, I'd take him for a long walk on a short pier. And
maybe I'd see if the boss was interested in taking in another
kid.

I rolled off the bed and opened the door. The little girl ducked
her head, but not before I saw the fist-sized bruise on her
cheek. I bit back a curse and clenched my hands at my sides. She
flinched away the first time I tried to ruffle her hair, so now I
made it a point never to touch her.

She trailed behind me down the shabbily carpeted stairs to the
lobby. Her father tried to glare through his one good eye, but I
stared at him flatly and he shoved the telephone at me and
disappeared into his office.

"Pronto."

"Wilmer."

"Me Signore." I swallowed.

"Come sono tu?"

"I'm fine, signore. E voi?"

"I'm good, Wilmer. And I'm very pleased with the way you handled
this little problem."

I began to breathe again. "Grazi. But I'm not finished yet."

"Those stronzos?" He laughed and I felt chills run up my spine.
"Those pieces of shit will be taken care of in my own good time.
Don't you worry about it, Wilmer. I'm sending someone out to see
you. I don't want this done over the telephone. That's so
impersonal."

"I will wait for his arrival, signore." I took my courage in both
hands. "Might I beg a favor?"

"Si, si! You a good boy, Wilmer."

"Signore, there's a little girl here..."

I could hear his sigh of relief. "You want to get married,
Wilmer? I hope she's a good Sicilian girl!"

"Signore, she's just a child!"

"Ah?"

"Her father claims to have a hand in the business. He's a liar.
And he beats her."

"Hokay, Wilmer, you want me to make him an offer he can't
refuse?"

"I'll take care of him myself. Would you be willing to take in
the child?"

I held my breath until he finished considering all the
possibilites and grunted his assent. "Sure, Wilmer."

"Grazi, signore."

"Prego. You stay out of trouble now, you hear me? Ciao, Wilmer."

"Ciao..." but the phone was already dead.

I hung it up and grinned evilly at the little girl's father, who
had been eavesdropping. He turned pale and then his eyes rolled
up in his head and he fainted.

****

I expected to have to wait at least a week before my employer's
emissary showed up in San Francisco, but he must have flown, too.
Two days later there was a knock on my hotel door.

My Colt was in my hand when I approached the door. "Yeah?"

"Let me in, Willie!"

I holstered the automatic and opened the door to 'that mick kid,
Tom'. "Tommy! What the fuck are you doing here?"

He grabbed me in a bear hug and swung me off the floor. "God.
It's good to see you again, Willie!"

"How's New York treating you, Tommy?"

"Good, kid. Good. I passed the bar, and in a few years, God
willing, the Don will make me his consigliere!"

"I'm impressed!" I was also disgruntled. Tom was only a year or
so older than me, but he called me kid too. "So how come the
signore sent you out here?"

"Is there someplace private we can talk?" He looked pointedly at
the little girl hovering in my doorway.

"This is Nita, Tom. She's a friend of mine. Tom's a good man,
Nita. You don't have to be afraid of him." She nodded and
abruptly ran away. "She's the one I want il signore to take in,
if it's possible."

He raised an eyebrow, knowing there was more to come.

"Before we leave here, I'm going to kill her old man."

Tom had been too involved with the family not to realize I was
dead serious. "All right, Willie. Let's go grab a cup of coffee
and you can fill me in."

There was a used bookstore two blocks over from my hotel. I had
discovered it one day when I needed a place to come in from the
rain. There were small tables set up at the back, and we settled
ourselves there. The musty smell of books surrounded us, and the
owner brought us two cups of black coffee.

It only took a couple of minutes to explain the situation to Tom.
His approval felt good. "Sure, kid. I'll bring her back with me.
Just make sure you don't get caught."

"You're not going to wait for me?" I paused with the cup half way
to my mouth.

"No, Willie. That's what the Don wanted me to tell you, in
person. He was very impressed with the way you handled things out
here, especially in seeing that the police in this city would
have no way to trace the vendetta back to him."

My mouth was hanging open. "I'm sorry, Tom. I don't know what
you're talking about. I didn't do anything special."

"You didn't call in a favor from Sean Regan?"

"Who?"

Tom sat back and observed me carefully. "How about Joe
Baskopolous? You didn't point Thursby's murder toward him?"

"Joe the Greek?" My voice went up an octave. "You think I'm
fucking *nuts*, Tom? That man is *crazy*! I do what I have to do,
but I don't get *him* mad at me for no reason!"

"Now that's really interesting, Willie. Someone went to the
trouble of seeing your name stayed out of this feud, and by
extension, the Don's name as well. Whoever did this has earned
our employer's undying gratitude."

I was starting to get uneasy. "Just spill the beans, Tom. What's
going on?"

"The Don told me you wouldn't try to take credit for something
you didn't do. He's a fine judge of character, but I couldn't
believe you wouldn't try to take the easy way out, especially if
it meant you were out of the family."

My mouth went dry. "Is he ordering my death?"

"What?" Tom jerked away from me. "No, Willie! Nothing like that!"

"Then what?"

He slid a piece of paper across the table to me. "Do you
recognize this name?"

I couldn't speak; I just nodded.

"You belong to him, now. All debts are cancelled. This man lost a
partner to these people. You will become his new partner. The Don
expects you to honor his wishes in this matter. Have I your word
on this?"

I didn't ask how my employer knew of everything that had gone on
since I had come to the west coast. He had something of a
reputation for being omniscient.

I nodded again, and picked up the slip of paper.

****

I swallowed hard as I looked up at the facade of the building. My
hand fisted in my topcoat pocket, crumpling the paper tucked away
in it, and I squared my shoulders.

He might not want me. He might send me away.

But I owed it to my former employer to follow his orders.

I rode the elevator up to the floor his office was on. For a
moment I felt frozen outside the door. Then I drew in a deep
breath, let it out slowly, and opened the door.

The woman behind the desk looked up enquiringly and then a huge
smile lit her face. She got to her feet and strode to the inner
office door.

"What is it, Effie?"

"Someone here to see you, Sam. And you'll want to see him. He's a
knockout!"

*****

Epilogue

The kid was lying face down on our bed, the sheet pooled low
around his waist.

His life back east had not been an easy one. The skin on his back
was smooth and unmarked, unlike his chest, which was pocked with
scars from random bullets and knives, and one particularly nasty
reminder from a broken bottle.

****

I thought fondly back to the day Effie had announced that I would
want to meet whoever had come into the office to see me. I looked
up from the mounds of paperwork the aftermath of Miles' death had
entailed, to see my kid shifting uneasily from one foot to the
other behind her.

"Cookie!" I was on my feet and coming around the desk before it
dawned on me that maybe I should play a little hard to get.

But then his face lit up with relief, and such joy, and I forgot
that he was a ruthless killer, employed by the syndicate on the
east coast. I forgot that by telling Tom Polhaus that Thursby had
been killed by Joe Baskopolous I had given the kid something to
hold over me for the rest of my life.

I forgot my vow to *never* play the sap for anyone, *ever* again.

I had the kid in my arms and I was kissing him as if tomorrow
would never come. From somewhere in the distance, I heard Effie
say something about closing the office early, and then the door
shutting behind her.

The kid's hands were flexing deep in my hair, trying to pull me
closer. Whimpers spilled from him as his tongue explored my
mouth, and he rubbed himself against my hardening erection. For
days my cock had been good for nothing but pissing, and now here
it was, once more gloriously, amazingly ready to fuck!

I had him that day over my desk.

****

This day, I would have him in our bed.

I sighed happily as I traced his body with my eyes. Things were
working out for us. We were now Spade and Cook, Private
Investigators, and the unsubstantiated rumor that a former mob
enforcer was on the payroll provided us with a certain cachet. We
had more work than we could handle.

Desire tightened my gut, and I climbed onto the bed and straddled
his hips. The oil cupped in my hands, growing warm in my palms,
I poured over him, waking him. He hummed with pleasure as I
stroked it into the loosening muscles that defined his back, and
he arched into my touch.

Rocking over him as I worked the oil into his skin, I got the
slick stuff all over myself as well. My cock, already hard,
quivered with the need to be buried in his tight channel. I
moaned and leaned forward to bite at his neck, licking the
indents my teeth put there.

I slithered back until I was nudging the crevice between his
buttocks. He raised his hips enough to give me access to the
puckered opening, and then I was sliding into his welcoming heat,
inch by slow inch.

His muscles trembled from the strain of holding that position. I
slid my knees further apart between his thighs, spreading his
legs wider. He went down to the mattress and I covered him
completely. I undulated my hips and for as long as I could, I
kept my rhythm slow and deep and easy. Over and over I hit the
spot that made him burn.

Finally I felt my balls begin to tighten, and I knew I wouldn't
be able to hold out much longer. I reached around and took his
weeping cock in a tight grip and matched my movements in his ass
with the stroking of my fist.

I began to pour myself into him, and the heat of my climax and
the feel of my hand on him triggered his own orgasm. His hot seed
filled my hand. I massaged it into his abdomen and on up to his
chest, toying with his flat nipples.

He groaned and I reached down to take hold of his flaccid length
once again. He thrust his hips forward one last time, shivering
from the intensity of our lovemaking.

He was my partner now, in every way that mattered.

"Morning, Cookie." I pressed sucking kisses to his jaw, working
my way around to his mouth.

His blue eyes opened languidly and he smiled at me.

"Morning, Dream."

Now *that* was the stuff that dreams are made of!

~Fin~