Chapter 1
HIS HAND FOUND MY BREAST AND GENTLY caressed it. I stifled the moan so he wouldn't know how hot I was.
I didn't protest when he pulled me to him. He got his left arm around me and his right hand tilted up my chin. His lips mashed down on mine, as hot and dry as Kansas in August. His hand crept down my back, tracing erotic patterns all over it. I shivered a little as he gently stroked my hip and thigh.
His tongue now came out to play with mine, and soon they were flogging each other, and I gasped and moaned and stiffened in his arms.
He now had nothing to fear; he knew that I was now his, all his.
His hand found the zipper tab at the back of my neck and slowly tugged. The zipper parted, and his hand lightly skittered around over my bare back. I jerked my face free and threw back my head, my eyes closed and my moans low and throaty.
His hands tugged at my peignoir and I shrugged out of it. He freed my bra. My breasts were proud and firm and up-thrust. He plucked the nipples and they stood erect. He got his arm around me again, and his hand gently caressed my breasts and plucked my nipples. I yelped and moaned.
He leaned me back against his left arm, bent over and planted sucking kisses on my breasts, and finally his lips clamped on my nipples. I was now a throbbing vibrating mass of warm flesh. I wanted more and more.
He gently laid me on the couch, pulling my long lithe legs up and apart. But, hell, he was too big to do much on a couch, so he picked me up and carried me to the bedroom.
He dropped me on the bed, slid down beside me, got his left arm under my neck and rolled me on my right hip. His lips found mine, and our tongues began to spar once more.
His right hand gently stroked my back, my buttocks, and down over my thighs. He rolled me on my back and began kissing my inner thighs, licking at the lips of my wet pussy.
He pulled up my legs, draped them over his shoulders, and leaned forward. I reached down, grabbed his cock and stuffed it in my cunt. He moved farther forward, pressing my legs up on either side of my head. I lay there with my eyes closed, biting on my lip, and moaning as he began with long slow strokes, quickly gaining steam and speed.
I began thrashing around and humping my butt to meet his every thrust.
He was headed for the gate and tried to pull free. I wasn't about to have that, so I reached up and grabbed him and held tight.
"Spray me, Baby, spray me," I whispered.
I began humping faster. I felt myself clamping down. We were headed toward the wire together now.
We made it, with a low scream and a grunt.
He rolled off me, gasping as I nibbled his ear, and my hand caressed his belly, sliding down to tug and massage his spent cock to see if I could get him ready for another go around.
Suddenly there it was, ramrod hard and straight, throbbing and ready for action.
We lay on our sides and he pulled me to him, and we lay there belly to belly. I lifted my right leg and he shifted between them. And then he pushed in me, ka-boom!
I began exploding with the rapidity of a machine gun, and every time I blew I could feel myself clamping down on him. I knew he was having one helluva time holding off.
We rolled and flopped and clung together, and I wondered if he was man enough to hold out until he got the job done.
And then the surging pressures began within me, and I knew that I was headed for a grand slam explosion. But from the way he was acting and groaning, I was afraid that he would come before he got me going.
And then we exploded together with one long continuous crashing force that would not quit. My body bucked and reared as one grand explosion after another threatened to tear me apart. And, as from far away, I heard him grunt and felt his fingers clamping on my arm.
In time, the storm passed, and we lay there gasping for breath, shaken as if we had just been tossed up on the beach by wild waves of a stormy sea.
We finally rolled apart and lay on our backs. Then I noticed his breathing was too damn rhythmic. The big lug was asleep.
I was still horny, damn it. I sat up and looked around, hoping some other stud at this wife-swapping party would be energetic enough to take me on, but nothing doing. There were naked bodies all over the place, but none of them looked able to function; swollen fat pricks lay limp on white bellies, milky gray semen still leaking from their heads. The gooey stuff was flooding the room, dribbling out of cunts, mouths, bungholes and cocks, and giving the room a peculiar sensuous aroma.
Why the hell did I let Helen talk me into coming here, I asked myself. Bunch of paunchy guys and tiring women only good for two or three comes. Guess she thought it would be cute to have a couple of stags along for variety. Yeah, cute, I thought, pulling' on my clothes.
Chicago Swap Club. Hell, they even had embossed stationery. Shit. Bunch of pussies. If d be a cold day in hell before I got myself mixed up with anything like this again, I thought.
I'm Molly Gilligan, ex-cop, Chicago Police Department. I wouldn't have been an ex-cop if I'd stayed in Chicago, content to be a cop and not; a hero.
But what do you do on a gorgeous spring morning when you're glad you're alive, and you look forward to that day, and then you go to the hall door, stoop down to pick up the morning Blade, and you stare at the headline: , BAR OWNER KILLED
There'd been an epidemic of these in the small towns within two hundred miles of Chicago. Every time I saw such a headline I'd stop breathing and frantically grab up the paper. ' '
And that's what I did that morning. There it was:
Clodville Mike Gilligan, well-known local figure, sportsman, and owner of The Melon Patch, a popular local bar, was shot and killed last night as he stood behind his bar, laughing and talking to a customer. Police report ...
I dumped the newspaper on the floor, slammed the hall door, and grimly strode back to the kitchen.
So they had finally gotten Dad, too. I had warned him, but he wouldn't listen. He just laughed when I told him what was going on. He said that I had lost my grip and perspective since going on the Chicago force.
I wasn't losing my grip. Hell, you didn't have to be on the Chicago force to know what was going on. Just read the Chicago papers and the small town papers for two hundred miles around.
Nobody knew who or what was behind this power play, but a power play it was. Prankie Carpello and Manny Eckstein, after long years of shooting their way to the top, had finally faced each other as the two top dogs of the two most powerful gangs in town, For a few years there had been relative peace, as far as the city was concerned, because Frankie and Manny were busy consolidating their positions and increasing the power within their own gangs. So, although bodies were found dumped at least once a week, it would be a minor hood who had been rubbed out as part of the consolidation.
Then came the second phase. The smaller gangs were either absorbed or wiped out. And that didn't rock the city.
About a year earlier, one or both of the mobs had tried, to expand its empire. One or both of the mobs had begun taking over bars in small towns within two-hundred miles of Chicago. It was all very legal. The front man always bought the bar and had the license in his name. He was as clean as a scrubbed toilet. But a toilet is a toilet, and even if it doesn't stink, it's still a toilet. That was the way with these front men who took over these small-town bars. They were clean. They had no criminal record. Their backgrounds were spotless. Yet everyone knew that they were fronts for a mob, either Frankie's or Manny's. And now they'd gotten Dad.
I balled my fist and beat on the kitchen table. I was too mad to cry. But I knew this much: Frankie or Manny and the torpedo who'd blasted Dad would regret that they had ever done so. I'd see to that.
I stared out the window, but I wasn't seeing the brilliant sunshine or the first crocus or the robins or smelling the warm fragrant air drifting in through the partly open window.
All I was seeing was a big, bluff, genial, laughing Irishman by the name of Mike Gilligan, with a thatch of unruly white hair and a ruddy face and piercing blue eyes and with a cigar always stuck in his mouth.
Dad had been warned. In every mow-down so far, investigation showed that the bar owner had been offered a fat price to sell out and retire. But if he didn't, he soon had lead poisoning. And it was always a bar with the license in the owner's name, not in the name of a corporation. So the license ended when the bar owner dropped over dead. And then the license was up for grabs. It was always grabbed by a front man for a mob, but investigators could never find out which mob.
Dad was a bullheaded Irishman when he got his dander up. He knew about the other takeovers. So when he was approached, Dad probably began bellowing like a wounded bull moose and threw him out. He was a proud man, so that's probably why he didn't call me; he didn't want to hide behind my skirt. But if only he had, he might still be alive.
I reached for the phone and pulled it over to me.
Then I grabbed up a small notebook and flipped the pages.
I got another cigarette going, picked up the phone, and clawed at the dial. And then I sat there, dragging on my cigarette, staring out the window, and still seeing no robins or crocus, as I listened to muted ringing.
"State Building."
"Extension nine forty-eight," I said. There was a moment's pause with buzzing on the line.
"Nine forty-eight, Zubach."
"Is Terry Gillespie in."
"Who's calling?"
"Molly Gilligan. Tell him it's important."
"I should think it would be," he growled. "Hang on." Again there was a short wait, and I blew smoke and listened to the buzzing line.
"Hi, Molly. I just saw the paper."
"Yeah. What are you going to do about it?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know Dad's license is up for grabs. What are you going to do about it."
"What can I do about it?"
"A helluva lot, if you want to. I want that goddamn license."
"You know I don't make policy, Molly. I just carry out orders."
"Yeah. But if you get the orders, you may still catch political heat and decide to take a dive."
"Not me. I've never taken a dive. I'm with you on this all the way, so if you can figure out a way to get on the inside track to get your dad's license, I'm with you all the way."
"Thanks, Terry. That's all I wanted to know."
I slammed down the phone and grabbed the notebook again. I picked up the phone and dug at the dial. He caught it on the second ring.
"Good morning, Uncle Matt. This is Molly."
"Yeah. I just brought in the paper."
"So what are you going to do about it?"
"What do you mean?"
"I want that goddamn license."
Once more there was a silence. Longer this time.
"Molly," he finally said, "you're acting like your dad. You're going off half-cocked."
"I don't give a goddamn whether I'm cocked at all. I want that license. I'm going to take over that bar, and I'll show the bastards."
"And you'll wind up with lead in your pants."
"Wanta bet? Because I won't be running away from them when I get it. If I catch lead, it will be right in my guts."
"Spoken like a true Gilligan."
"Stow it. You were Dad's best friend. You fought and bled for each other during World War II, so don't get sanctimonious with me."
"I'm not. But I don't want you hurt."
"Don't worry about that. If I get hurt, it's my own goddamn business. Mother's gone. Dad's gone now. And if I go, I'll go with my boots on. And don't say that sounds like Mike Gilligan."
There was again a long silence.
"Molly, what do you want me to do?"
"I want the skids greased. I want to get on the inside track to that license."
Silence again.
"Molly, that might not be easy to do."
"Who cares about that? You shouldn't, either. Your best friend, Mike, is dead. So what do you want to do about it?"
"Where are you going to be?"
"When?"
"Sometime today or tonight." , "Try here," I said. "If not, try Clodville."
"You going out?"
"Damn right. As fast as I can throw my gear in my car and throw my badge at Old Horse Face."
"You quitting?"
"Damn right. I don't know how rough the party'll get. As long as I'm a member of the force, I'm under their rules and regulations and have to carry a revolver. I want out. After this is over, I might come back."
"What are you aimin' to do?" .
"Whatever has to be done. That was the Gilligan bar, and it is going to be a Gilligan bar until I decide to sell it."
"And if you don't?"
"Then I'll run the goddam thing. Life as a Chicago cop isn't all roses."
"Yeah. I know."
"You know Terry Gillespie."
"Of him. Never met him."
"I know him well. So did Dad. I just talked to Terry. If I can get on the inside track, he'll shove me through."
Again there was a long silence.
"Okay, Molly, I'll get on it But I'll tell you how you can help me..."
"How?"
"Know any of the boys on one of the papers."
"Yeah. Clancy Murdock, on the Blade."
"I've heard of him. You know him."
"Intimately," I told him.
He chuckled. "You must be carrying on where Mike left off. Okay, get hold of this Murdock. See if you can get him to play your dad's murder up. Stir up public opinion. Have you pictured as the poor bereaved daughter who wants to get her dad's license so she can carry on the family business. But play down this bit about you wanting to rub out the mob."
"I getcha. And thanks."
"I'll get back to you later in the day. Either here or in Clodville. Will you be at the bar."
"I suppose so. Somebody has to run it."
"Okay. And, Molly ... "
"Yeah."
"I'm sorry."
"So am I. If you really are, you'll get me on the inside track."
I dropped the phone and reached for the directory. Clancy put the paper to bed by two a.m., but he never put himself to bed before noon. Not if there was a hot poker game going somewhere.
I picked up the phone and dialed.
"Sammy's Joint," a deep voice bawled.
"Juggy?"
"Yeah."
"Molly Gilligan."
"Oh." His voice was softer. "Sorry about that."
"Yeah. Have you seen Clancy Murdock."
"I dunno. I been busy. He may be around or he may not."
"Is Murph around?"
"Yeah. I think so. Just a minute, I'll see."
There was a crash as the receiver was dropped and swung back against the wall. I knew that phone well. It was old and battered and scarred and had been on the wall, surrounded by dirty wallpaper with hundreds of phone numbers written on it, since the days of Capone.
"Yeah, Molly ... "
"Murph, have you seen Clancy Murdock."
"No. Why?"
"I need him. Desperately."
"Yeah, I can imagine. Sorry about your dad."
"Murph, you can always use an extra ten or twenty. If you'll find Clancy for me..."
"Don't insult an Irishman," Murph roared. "I'll find Clancy for you. You keep your money in your pants. Where are you?"
"In my apartment. I can't hang around here long."
"I understand. Stay put for thirty minutes. Then take off. But where will you be after that?"
"Probably in Clodville."
"I can't promise, but I'll try to deliver within a half-hour."
He slammed the receiver on the hook. It banged my ear. And I dropped the phone and was rubbing my ear. The phone rang.
"Good morning, Molly. This is Charlie. Have you seen the paper?"
"Yeah. How's everything in Clodville."
"Okay. I've just opened up."
"What shape's the place in?" .
"The mirror over the back bar is all shot to hell. And about a gross of glasses got smashed. Otherwise there's not much damage."
"Get hold of Sy. See if the insurance covers. If not, call Jack Clayton. In fact, even if the insurance covers, call Jack Clayton, anyway. Tell him you want that mirror replaced before noon. Tell him that Molly said so. Then order another gross of glasses."
There was a silence. "Molly, do you mean to carry on?"
"You're goddamn right. If you want out, figure your time and I'll pay you when I get there."
"Molly, you know me better than that."
"Nobody knows anyone until the chips are down."
"But do you know where I can get a bulletproof vest?"
"Yeah. I'll bring a bunch of them with me. You can have that much protection."
"When're you getting here?"
"I dunno. It's now nearly nine. I have some running around to do. It's a two-hour run to Clodville, wide open. So I suppose it'll be one or two this afternoon. And Charlie..."
"Yeah?"
"Keep it under your hat that I'm coming in. Wear a long face. You don't know what you're going to do now. Don't let on I'm taking over."
"Gotcha. See you this afternoon."
I tossed my cigarette aside and went over and grabbed up the coffee. I set it down and reached over to open a cupboard door. I got down a pint of bourbon and slopped some in the mug. Then I poured coffee in t and carried.it back to the table.
So I had set the political and the legal wheels in motion. I wondered how fast they would grind. And I wondered how long I could stay on at The Melon Patch. I had forgotten to ask Terry, but there had to be an interim, at least until the license was awarded to someone else. I'd get hold of Joe Tabor as soon as I got back to Clodville. He and Dad were old cronies and had hunted and fished and played poker together for years. Joe would go the route for me.
When I got back there, what then? Would they send a monkey around to buy me out at a imagine price after Dad had thrown one flunky out? If not, then I had to be on the alert for a shootout at any time. But what about the place being bombed during the night? I'd have to find out about how to hire protection at night, and what it would cost.
And that brought me to the one thing I didn't want to think about, but had to. How much money did Dad have when he died? Was The Melon Patch paying its way? I didn't have a helluva lot saved up, so if Dad was digging at the bottom of the barrel, and The Melon Patch was barely breaking even, I wondered how I could hang on to it. I'd have to get down to the bank and talk to Henry Claymore as soon as I got in town.
The phone suddenly erupted at my elbow. I grabbed it up. "Yeah?"
"Clancy, Molly. I just heard the news."
"Yeah. Ever hear of Matt Monohan."
"You mean the Matt Monohan."
"Right."
He whistled. "I'd advise you not to go messing around with him."
"I'm not. He was Dad's best friend. I've always called him Uncle Matt."
"Oh."
"Yeah. I need powerful artillery right now. I'm going after Dad's liquor license."
There was a humming on the line.
"Molly, do you know what you're getting into?"
"Damn right. Can you feature a combination of an Irishman and a cop and the daughter of Mike Gilligan not manning the fort now?"
"No. But it's dangerous."
"So is crossing State Street."
"So what do you want of me?"
"Uncle Matt says that if you can blow this thing up and show me as wanting to carry on the business and the family name, so public sympathy can be stirred up for me, his job will be easier."
"Yeah..."
"And Uncle Matt says to play down any idea of me playing hero or trying to rub out the mob."
"Yeah."
A pain there was silence.
"Okay, Clancy, how about it? Do I rate a sob story."
"Sure. I'll have to clear it with my editor."
"Will he kill it?"
"Not if I tell him that Matt Monohan is pushing it. When do you want me to break it?"
"Tomorrow morning's paper, if possible."
"Okay. I'll have to check around. Where can I get hold of you?"
"I'm shoving off for Clodville soon. Try The Melon Patch out there, collect. And make it person to person. I've got a lot of running around to do."
"Right. I'll get back to you."
Okay, that jelled it.
Less than a half-hour later I was in my T-Bird, headed for downtown. The traffic was heavy. I had all the windows down, but that morning I paid no attention to the sights and the sounds and the smells of the city.
In another half-hour I was wheeling into the parking lot of the 97th precinct station. I worked out of there, swing shift.
I climbed out and went inside and headed for an elevator. The cage came down empty, and I marched in and jabbed at "5". Then I stood there alone, in the silence, watching the numerals blink above the door.
At "3", a big, baggy Newfoundland-dog-of-a-man with iron gray hair stepped into the cage. He had the jowls of a bulldog. His eyes were deep set and probing.
He looked at me. "Sorry about Mike."
"Yeah."
"What are you going to do about it?" I stared at him. "What do you think I'm going to do about it?"
He nodded. "So I suppose it's no use trying to talk you out of it."
"Not a damn bit."
He shook his head. "Just like Mike. But you'll have to resign if you start a vendetta."
"I know. That's what I'm on my way to do. I've been waiting for the day when I could throw my badge at Old Horse Face."
He laughed. "Boris means all right."
"Yeah. But he hasn't got enough means for me."
The door slid back. His big hand clamped on my arm. He stared into my eyes for a minute. "Be lucky, since you can't be careful."
I nodded as he trudged out of the cage and down the hall. I followed and turned left.
A few minutes later I was in the outer office of Captain Boris Masternak. Sophie looked up from her typewriter as I pegged in.
"Sorry about your dad," she muttered.
"Yeah. Is Old Horse Face in?"
She smiled. "Shhh. That door's pretty damn thin."
"I don't give a goddamn if he does hear me, because I've got something to tell him."
"Say, what got into you?"
"What should have gotten into me two years ago, my first day out of here. I should have thrown my goddamn badge in his face that day."
"Well, then, why. didn't you?"
I whirled. There stood Old Horse Face, six feet of blubber topped by gray hair.
"Because I was as gutless as you. But no more. I'm quitting."
I opened my purse and yanked out my badge and I did throw it at him. It bounced off his broad chest and clattered on the floor.
He turned the color of an autumn sunset. "Why goddamn you..."
"Exactlv. And here's my ID, too." And I threw that at him.
Then I turned and pranced out.
"I'll have you before a review board!" he yelled.
I stopped in the doorway and turned. "Don't bother. I'm through. I quit. I've had it. I resign. How else am I supposed to tell you that I want no more goddamn lip from you or anything to do with your office? I've had it."
I whirled and marched down the hall to the elevator.
That was telling him, I thought, but as I went down in the elevator I wondered if I had been so smart after all. I'd wind up with' a black mark on my record for insubordination and impertinence. But so what? Everyone from top to bottom knew what Old Horse Face was. He didn't have what it took to get any higher than captain, so he had been belching sour milk for over twenty years and it ruined his disposition.
My next stop was Gus' Gun Shop. I'd known old Gus Kleinschmidt since I was a rookie. I had just climbed out of my car one afternoon when I heard him yelling, "Police!"
I'd had my badge and my gun for only two days, but I romped up to him as if I were an old pro. He must have been robbed. Hell, I didn't have any idea where to look or what to do. I was under orders not to tackle any dangerous assignment alone, so the best thing for me to do was to phone in. But I played a hunch. I went two doors down the street and into a bar. Sure enough, there was a pimply-faced kid setting up drinks for everyone. So I marched up to him and flashed my ID, with my knees shaking. But I got him over against the wall and made him lean against his hands. I searched him. And there was a wad of bills in an old envelope with Gus Kleinschmidt's letterhead on it. So Gus had his money back within ten minutes after he started yelling. Gus and I had been friends ever since.
I hadn't seen Gus for nearly a year, so when I walked in his watery blue eyes lit up and he spat a stream of tobacco juice through his white mustache and put his curve-stemmed pipe back in his mouth. "Goot morning, Molly."
"Hi, Gus. Got any thirty-thirties around?"
Gus frowned at me. "So when did you decide to go hunting this time of year?"
"I'm not going hunting, Gus. But others may be hunting for me."
His frown deepened. "But I don't understand."
That morning's Blade was lying on his scarred counter. I picked it up, flopped it over and my finger pointed to the lead story.
Gus, still frowning, picked it up with shaky hands and squinted at it. He looked at me. "Dat your fater?"
I nodded. "I'm going out and take over that bar."
He shook his head. "No goot. You vill get kilt."
"Mebbe so. But I heed protection. Got any thirty-thirties? Or what else have you got?"
"You still got revolver I giff you?"
"Yes. And Dad's service revolver is under the bar. But I want two or three thirty-thirties or something like that under the bar, too."
Gus nodded.
He trudged out from behind the counter and toward the rear and went through twin drapes. He soon came back, with a shotgun in the crook of each arm.
"Dis vot you vant, not rifle. Come up front. I show you."
I followed him up to the counter and he laid the shotguns down. He picked one up, patted it, and looked at me. "I brought these from Germany when I came over. They vere my fater's. I hunted mit them in Germany. I have kept them clean, but never used tem."
"But I don't want your ... guns."
His hand went out and clamped on mine. "Listen. I'm an old man. I have no family. If I die, who gets them? You're leaving town. I vant you to have them."
We stood there and stared at each other a moment. Then I nodded.
He again patted the gun. "See? Twelve-gauge magnum. Has recoil pad. Checkered French valnut stock. Hand-engraved receiver. Ventilated rib. Metal bead frontsight."
He laid down the gun. "This is a matched pair. I vant you to have them. I'll take them out to your car."
"And what about snells?" I asked.
He nodded. He turned and pulled six boxes off a shelf. "Takes either three or three and three-quarter-inch shells. Three-inch is better."
He dumped the six boxes of shells into an old brown paper bag and handed it to me. "You carry them, please."
He picked up the shotguns and then laid them down. He turned and headed for the back room again. He soon came back with two of the most beautiful gun cases I had ever seen.
"I might as veil do this right," he told me. "I thought I vould keep them for souvenirs, but an empty gun case is like an empty house or an empty heart. It has to be filled. So here." He opened one of the cases. He put a shotgun into it and beamed down at it. Then he looked up at me. "See, vat I tell you? Case no longer empty. Case beautiful again."