A Song for the Liar

The private dick was paid to tail a negro chanteuse for a mystery man and got more than anyone bargained for.

 

(MF, interr)

By: Punchinello for Pulp Erotica

 

New York City, 1948

Nick Coffel sat low in his chair near the stage. It was a comfortable position and one he had gotten used to over the course of the night. He was watching the singer. But he wasn’t just watching.

She had noticed him early and had gotten used to him over the course of the night. She had begun singing to him indirectly forty-five minutes before and now she had begun to sing to him directly. He provided her with a target of sorts, he guessed. The feeling was mutual.

She was very pretty, exotic, her skin a creamy brown, with sensuous lips and huge eyes. Her dress was as black as her hair. It dipped low in front, to reveal her ample breasts—but it was tight enough hold them firmly in place. It dipped low in back too, to reveal the graceful curve of her spine when she turned away. It also stopped abruptly at mid-thigh, revealing the strong slender legs of a dancer; those long, dangerous curves ended in black spike heels.

She did not know he was a private investigator. She had no idea that he had been hired to watch her, photograph her if she was up to something. And what that “something” might be was by now patently obvious.

There was a certain quality to her voice that he had been trying to describe to himself for almost an hour. It was thick and sweet, like honey, but had a sad wisdom that had no parallel. It gave her nobility and sensuality; it made her sympathetic and desirable. Coffel had to work hard to imagine her ever smiling anything other than a bitter smile. It was as if she had given in to fate or to the absurd nature of life, and in surrendering, had conquered it. The quality repulsed Coffel nearly as much as it attracted him. It made him uncomfortable, but all of life was uncomfortable.

Besides, Coffel had the same quality.

The dame sang on. Song after song, a quietly emotional tone of sad frustration twisted the notes as they left her delicate throat. This was blues. Suddenly, the music stopped and she was bowing. Coffel was taken aback for a moment when she rose smiling boldly at him. It was a significant smile that made her eyes sparkle. When the spotlight went out, she disappeared behind a curtain. Coffel went back to his drink.

A minute later, a shadow fell over him—a curvaceous shadow. “Do you mind if I sit?”

Coffel rose to meet the gaze of the singer. “I wouldn’t stop you,” he replied.

“Men never do,” she said, taking the seat and moving his hat. “Don’t you stand up to greet a lady...or are you afraid someone will see that pistol in your waistband?”

The hint of a smile drained out of his face. He sat up straight and pulled his jacket closed.

“I’m just teasing,” she said, sitting. “I like man who carries a pistol in his pants. It means he’s ready for action.”

“Nick Coffel,” he said offering his hand.

She took it briefly, a girlish handshake. “Angela Carro. You’ve been sitting here all night, Mr. Coffel.”

“You’ve been singing all night.”

Angela smiled. “Have I bewitched you?” she asked. She was a dark beauty with slow, cool, deliberate movements. Perspiration still hung on her brow and cleavage, making her sparkle seductively in the dim light of the nightclub.

“You’ve more than entranced me,” Nick deadpanned. “I’m downright hypnotized. Where are you from?”

“South Beach...Florida. My father was Cuban and my mother was Haitian.” She bent her head toward him. “Why have you been watching me?” Her voice was firm.

“That’s between me and my client,” Nick replied. “Privileged information,” he said with a little smile.

“You won’t tell me who hired you?” She asked, cooling considerably.

Nick smiled. “Of course not...but—”

“But what?”

“But who would want you watched?”

Angela dropped her gaze. “Salvatore Botalucci.”

Nick leaned back, pleased with himself. Now he knew who had sent “Mr. Antonne” to hire him. He enjoyed playing this sort of information game, but a name like Botalucci, however, made him think twice about the nature of the case. He didn’t have to think long.

“He is trying to win my heart,” Angela said. Irony twisted her smile and made her unattractive. “He is a clumsy man, used to getting his way.” Nick nodded. “What would it take, Mr. Coffel...”

“Nick.”

“What would it take...Nick...to persuade you to drop this case?” Nick noted that she was asking what, not how much, and the way her smooth brown breasts pressed at the front of her dress, while she was doing the asking.

“Oh, I’m not a very ethical man. I bribe easily,” he said. She smiled wryly.

“...And what would it take to persuade you to work for me instead?” Her wry smile turned timid.

“Even less,” Nick said.

Angela leaned closer. Her breasts were full and round, threatening to overflow her dress. “And what would it take to persuade you to have another drink with me?” The snub-nose .38 revolver in Nick’s waistband was rapidly becoming very uncomfortable.

“Nothing at all.”

They had time for one more drink before it was nearly closing time. The club wound down and the waitresses began clearing tables. “Nick...”

“Hmmm?”

“What do you think Salvatore is into?”

“Everything that’s wrong with the world.”

“It’s very late. We should go.” She wore a slightly worried look. “I think I would like you to take me home.”

“I think I should hail you a cab.” Angela smiled thru her chagrin.

Outside, Nick hailed a cab for Angela, making an odd point of asking her where she lived and then relaying it to the driver. She turned and kissed him full on the mouth, her tongue darting softly between his lips.

“You taste like scotch whisky, doll.”

“Your brand, Nick?”

“You better believe it.”

A few minutes later, Nick managed to get a cab for himself; he gave the driver the same address.

The cool night was spread thin over the New York sky. The streets barely remembered the rain early in the day. The cab smelled of alcohol and gasoline. The cabby was quiet. Nick’s eyes hurt. He took the pistol out of his waistband and put it in his coat pocket.

The cab eventually rounded a corner, and Nick caught site of the other cab just pulling away. Two men were leaning against a building down the block, just out of the circle of light of a nearby lamppost. Another leaned on the railing of a second-floor fire escape in the alley across the street. The cab slowed.

“Drive on for half a block,” Nick ordered.

The weary detective paid the fare and stepped out into the crisp night with one hand on the revolver in his pocket. He walked back down the street toward Angela’s building and stopped as he came parallel with the two across the street. He turned to look at them, then crossed the street toward them.

The goons immediately moved on. One went on down the street and the other went up, ducking suddenly into the alley across from Angela’s building. Turning that way, Nick heard the echoing metallic sounds of the third goon descending a fire escape. By the time he reached the alley, not a soul was left in sight.

“You lookin’ fer a poke in the nose, mac?” came a rough voice from the deep shadows. Nick said nothing, but drew the pistol out of his pocket. He twisted the gat in the half-light. He wanted to make sure they saw it.

Suddenly, a trash can lid came whirling out of the darkness. Nick twisted away, but it struck him in the shoulder blade of his gun hand and went rattling down the cobblestones. Nick spun in the direction from which it came and leveled the iron.

He saw no movement. “Who are you?”

“Shadows, mac. Big, bad shadows.” This voice was smoother—and more menacing.

The lamplight that spilled from the street was in Nick’s eyes now. He could see a narrow strip of Angela’s building across the way. Movement at a second-floor window caught his eye.

It was Angela, peering out the open window, wary about the noise.

She had taken off her dress and so stood there covering her bare breasts with her arms. Seeing no one in the darkness, she leaned far out on the window sill to look up and down the street. Her big tits hung free in the cool night air, swaying slightly, dark nipples hard as little rocks. Nick stared, mesmerized, and moved slowly toward her, like a sleepwalker. Just then, there was the sound of a car approaching. Angela ducked back inside.

The car pulled to sudden halt at the mouth of the alley. Its back door popped open.

Suddenly, from behind, the two goons rushed Nick and bowled him over. The roscoe went skittering over the cobblestones as the goons ran past and ducked into the back of the waiting car.

Before Nick could get up and collect his gun, the car had zoomed away. He looked up to see Angela standing at the window again, this time in a little red shift, holding it closed over her breasts, looking pie-eyed and apprehensive. He was still too much in shadow for her to see him. Nick stared for a moment more as Angela reached up to close the window, her shift opening, her big tits swinging free over her bare belly, gently curved.

He crossed the street to enter her building.

It was a nice place, well-kept but by no means luxurious. He checked mailboxes and ascended to Angela’s floor. The door came open the moment he came before it. Angela peered over the chain. The red shift he had seen thru the window was a beautiful silk robe, so short that she couldn’t help but reveal a long, smooth, brown leg.

“Oh, Nick! Thank God,” she breathed. “I thought you were one of them.” She closed the door and quickly opened it again, chain removed.

“I chased ‘em off, doll,” Nick replied.

“What were they doing?” She held the door open with one hand and her robe closed with the other.

Nick stepped in. “Tonight, just watching.” He draped his coat across the chair by the door.

“Let me put something else on,” she said over her shoulder, padding into the bedroom on bare feet. In a moment, she came out again in a long, flimsy, white nightgown, with the red robe over it, for modesty—tho her stiff nipples were anything but modest.

Nick stared after her as Angela crossed the room to the kitchen. “Do you want something to eat?” she asked. “I’m always hungry after singing all night.”

Nick took off his jacket and put it with his coat. He ambled into the kitchen loosening his tie. “I’m always hungry at three a.m.” he said.

Angela looked askance at him. “Eggs?” she asked.

“Eggs would be fine,” Nick smiled. He stood behind her, watching every move. There was deliberate grace in every motion as she cooked. She smelled of smoke and perfume, standing there in her shy nightgown and lewd robe. Soon the room filled with the smell of inviting smell of fried eggs and coffee. Nick found himself very hungry indeed.

“Done,” chimed the leggy cook.

Nick took the plate she gave him and remained still while she spooned the scrambled eggs onto it. When she handed him a fork, he took it and ate the eggs standing beside her, watching her make some more for herself.

He finished the eggs and leaned against the counter drinking his coffee, just staring. He usually took his java black, but tonight he put milk in it; and the color of the coffee matched the rich creamy brown of Angela’s skin.

Angela finished the second batch of eggs and scooped them onto a second plate. As she turned off the burner, Nick silently stepped behind her. He slipped one arm around to take the plate and slipped the other arm around her to take the fork. He put his head over her shoulder and looked at her sideways. She smiled sideways back at him and then opened her mouth the accept the forkful of eggs he offered.

He continued to feed her, breathing lightly on her neck, feeling her roving hands brush lightly his legs. When she had had enough, she took the fork from him and turned to feed him. He pressed close against her and took the fork in his mouth as she offered it.

Finally, when the plate was empty, she stood staring at him. “Still hungry?” she asked quietly.

He nodded quietly.

“So am I,” she said in a husky voice. She brought his hand to her lips and licked his thumb. He pressed closer against her as she kissed and licked his palm. When she began sucking and biting the soft flesh between his thumb and forefinger he could stand the silky torture no longer. He freed his hand and used it to pull her head toward him. As their lips touched softly, her hands slid around his back while his free hand traced the soft line of her spine. They kissed slowly in a long, wet kiss that made them both hungrier.

They parted slowly and with locked gazes. Nick turned her around and sat her up on the kitchen table, kissing her again with rough, wet urgency, stroking her soft breasts thru the thin silk.

“Oh, yes,” she breathed, pulling at his shirttail, pulling him closer. “I’m afraid, Nick. What if Salvatore finds out? He’ll kill us both.”

“Don’t be afraid, doll. I’ve got it worked out. Nobody’s going to touch you.”

“Nobody?” Angela asked coyly.

“Nobody but me,” Nick murmured, sliding down her body to her thighs, which parted them eagerly. He buried his face in her musky crotch and nibbled at the soft mound thru layers of fabric.

“Oh God, yes! Mmmm, that’s so good, Nick.”

Nick pushed the nightgown up over the smooth, creamy brown legs it covered, and kissed his way down Angela’s thighs.

“Ohhh...wait,” Angela moaned. “Wait. I want this to be right.”

Angela slid off the table, took Nick by the hand, and led him out of the kitchen, and into her bedroom. They kissed again as she pushed the door closed—a languorous, passionate kiss. Nick’s hands glided across Angela’s back and pulled the robe off her shoulders. It fell away easily and fluttered to the floor.

She turned away and lowered her head, but Nick pulled her close and ran his hands over the two soft globes of her breasts thru the thin fabric of her nightgown. She moaned softly as he cupped them, squeezed them gently, fingered the hard, dark nipples thru the silk.

Then as Angela wet her lips with her quick pink tongue, Nick pushed the straps of her silk nightgown off her shoulders. It slid down her curvy frame like water, revealing the full glory of her body, naked but a pair of black lace panties. She stepped out of it gracefully, turning to him and proudly displaying bare brown tits firm with small, dark nipples.

They kissed again, caressing, fondling. He caressed the full length of her back; she stroked his neck, his chest, his arms. Angela pulled Nick’s shirttail out and began undoing the buttons. She opened it to bare his chest and pulled it down off his arms and let it fall to the floor. She unbuttoned his trousers quickly as he pulled off his undershirt. They fell onto the bed together, touching, kissing.

Angela pushed Nick’s pants and shorts down over his firm ass and then slid down his bare chest to leave tiny, hot kisses on his thighs and the tip of his risen cock. She pulled his trousers the rest of the way off and let them fall to the floor, then kissed her way back up his body into his arms.

Nick stroked Angela’s long, dark curves and pulled off her lacy, black underpants. Then he slipped his hand between her thighs and gently pressed his finger into her wet, pink groove. Angela moaned softly and lay back, raising her big soft breasts toward Nick’s mouth. He took one dark nipple between his lips and kissed and licked and bit softly at it. Angela moaned again and thrust her hips toward his hand with rhythmic force. Nick took her breasts in both his hands and gently nudged her legs open with his knee. Angela spread her long legs open wide and licked Nick’s muscled neck.

She reached between her legs and found Nick’s thick cock and guided it into her wet and waiting pussy. Nick eased into her gradually, thrusting then pulling back, thrusting then pulling back. Angela moaned again and again, soft gasping moans heavy with pleasure.

Soon, their hips fell into a slow, heavy rhythm, which grew into a pulsating fire of need. Nick kissed and licked Angela’s wide and waiting lips with fast and forceful passion. She caressed his back, dragging her nails lightly across his muscular body while she moaned heavily. Her words were short and breathy, praising, pleading, blessing, begging.

Suddenly, Angela locked her legs around Nick’s and arched her back until her breasts were flat against his chest. She gave a tiny, gasping cry, begging him for more. Nick thrust his powerful hips again and again into Angela’s pulsating slit and suddenly froze, spurting his hot come inside her with a heavy moan.

They kissed again and fell away from each other, lying side by side in the big iron bed. Angela put her head upon Nick’s chest and kissed him; he kissed the top of her head and stroked the delicate line of her jaw. They fell asleep slowly, with little kisses and long, gentle caresses.

A manila envelope flopped on Nick Coffel’s desk, spilling a stack of 8x10 glossies.

“And keep those goons away from her apartment,” Nick said. “Any dope’ll spot ‘em in a minute.”

The man in front of the desk flipped thru the pics—pics that wouldn’t shock a granny: Angela coming out of the nightclub; Angela picking up her laundry; Angela eating lunch with a girlfriend in the park; Angela lugging a bag of groceries up to her apartment.

“Not one suspicious movement. Not a moment of odd behavior. No boyfriend? No suitors?”

“There is this maroon,” Nick offered, pointing out a photo of Angela talking with Salvatore Botalucci.

“No, no,” Antonne said dismissively. “He’s of no consequence. He...owns the firm that manages Miss Carro’s career.”

“If you say so,” Nick shrugged.

A thick white envelope fell on top of the photos. “We appreciate your promptness, Mr. Coffel.”

“I appreciate yours, Mr. Antonne,” Nick said, thumbing thru the contents of the white envelope—four hundred smackers, all double-sawbucks.

“Well, keep on the case, Mr. Coffel. We feel surely there must be a beau in the life of such a pretty girl.”

“I assure you, Mr. Antonne, Angela Carro is not seeing anyone I don’t know about. But if you like, I’ll stick close to her every night.”