by Nick Johnson
Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Crime/Gangster · #1843718
Pulp Noir gets a bump in the night.
| “If you wanted me to give you a sound spanking, you could have just asked,' Tommy the Gun told the slinky blonde currently wrapped in his bed sheets and nothing else. She pouted at him as he put out his smoke and flipped his hat to the top hook of the coat rack.|
“I got tired of waiting and helped myself,' she told him
as she clutched the sheet with one hand and bit the tip of one finger on the other between her full wine red lips, “and if I had known you were going to spank me I would have broke into your apartment a lot sooner.”
“You got a style to ya, I'll give ya that.”
“Is it a style that you like?”
“I think it might be something a regular kinda Joe could get use to.”
“You saying you're not a regular Joe?” She swept to where her neat bourbon sat on top of the baby grand. She dipped her finger in and sucked the liquor off without taking her eyes off him.
“What happened to your clothes?' Tommy the Gun asked as he loosened his tie and rolled his shirt sleeves.
“Would you believe I ripped right out of them?”
“You are some kinda dame and I have to say working with you these passed few weeks has been a real treat, but I gotta tell ya, you're barking up the wrong tree.”
She dropped the sultry pose and pulled the extra folds of the sheet against her, 'You didn't strike me as being queer for the boys.”
“I ain't,' he told her and crossed to pour himself a couple fingers, 'and I would normally shoot anyone that suggested as much, but seeing as you're inconvenienced I won't hold it against you. Did you tell anyone you were coming here?”
“I don't see how that is any of your concern,' she replied, her chin held high and she moved to put the lounge chair between them.
“We was talking about what kind of Joe I am. I'm the kind of Joe that wants to know who might know you're here, but I don't think you're going to answer that. That's okay. I don't think anyone knows. This isn't the sort of thing you tell to your neighbor on the way out the door.”
“I think I should be going.” She moved for the door and he crossed to block her path.
“You shouldn't of came. We had a good thing going. A good working relationship, but now you've gone and spoiled that.' he picked up the current copy of Saturday Evening Post sitting on the coffee table and began rolling it tightly; tight enough the veins stood out on his forearms, 'Because now you have wet-ted my appetites and you want to know what kind of Joe I am? I'm the kind of Joe that doesn't like to go hungry.” Tommy the Gun moved in on her, wetting his lips with his tongue and testing his impromptu blackjack against his hand. He had her backed up against stone work of the fireplace and he just about trembled with the thought of it.
“What if I'm the kind of dame that doesn't mind?,' she asked and it stopped him in his tracks.
“I don't think you understand,' he told her, wondering why she was suddenly smiling, 'This ain't no slap and tickle offering. My tastes mean you ain't ever gonna worry about getting dressed again.”
“That sounds nice,' she said as she dropped the sheet and stepped towards him. He stepped back and looked around.
“You some kinda sick bitch?”
“That's right,' she said stepping towards him again, 'I'm a bitch.”
“Well fuck you bitch.” He pulled the revolver from his ankle holster and shot her in the stomach. She folded over clutching the wound. Blood splashing onto his marble floor. A low moan escaped her. “Not how I like to do it, but I'm guessing it'll be awhile before you actually die. I'll still get my play time,' he said as he turned and refilled his glass.
“Oh Tommy,' she said from behind him. Her voice, low and sultry. Then her clawed hand grasped his shoulder, 'Let me tell you what kind of dame I am.”