Scene 6: 1981/1984 - Chicago/Boston

Marisol had always been transparent with Phil. Only one thing in her life had she concealed besides her whereabouts, and it was the most important. In Chicago she let her pregnancy progress as she worked as a maid at a large mansion overlooking Lake Michigan. Her employers, a gentleman in his early fifties, handsome and blond with a developing belly on his medium sized frame, of British heritage, and his second wife, a green eyed, mocha skinned beauty in her mid thirties with black and white parentage, treated her respectfully despite her condition.

The couple and their children, a second generation from the man who had two sons in their twenties, one conceiving a granddaughter, provided her with warmth and intelligence, letting her participate in lively discussions at dinner when she shyly added an opinion early on, surprising the family. She never felt so at home.

She met Julio, a mechanic at the garage her employers used to maintain their three cars, when she brought the cars in for oil changes. The man, a rugged face from bare fisted boxing in the Mexican ghetto protecting gang turf, studied her like a big cat his defenseless prey. For Marisol, speaking Spanish with the man provided relief from continuous English. Though uneducated, he possessed street smarts. She let him talk and encouraged his battle stories. Perhaps it was his brutal presence or the surprisingly unrestrained smile which attracted her. The brutishness she found dangerously sexy. In a place beyond the porous screen of consciousness, she wished punishment, a hard rape-like fucking for misplaced love and heartbreak she caused her only true love. And her present circumstances in a loving and accepting family did anything but punish. She had it too good.

During one visit, noticing the bulge divulging the growing embryo and knowing she had no wedding band, Julio asked her, "Who's the father?"

"Nobody," she replied, rubbing her belly.

"That's impossible," smirked Julio.

"Nobody in my life anymore."

"He needs a father."

Marisol asked wryly, "Are you applying?"

"What if I were?"

Stunned at his seriousness, Marisol sighed. "I have plans for the child."

"You mean adoption?"

"I have a sister. She accepted it. She can provide riches."

"I could love the tyke like my own."

Marisol shook her head. "I want what's best."

"Because I'm not good enough?"

"Do you own a mansion in Westchester County in New York and a big apartment in New York City?"

Julio grumbled. His glance contained frightening heat. It didn't scare her. She deserved it. "This owner, is he a white guy?" Marisol nodded. "Your son should be raised by his mother."

"You know it's a son?"

"A son is better. I can tell he'll be a big baby."

"I'm sure he will. The father's a big man. Not like the owner, I mean large."

"You like large men?" asked the swarthy man only a couple inches taller than Marisol. "I'm large where it counts."

She watched his hand rub his groin and laughed. The laughter made him angry. "No Julio, I believe you. It's just..." She didn't want to say what made her laugh: his crudity. He seemed too defensive as it was. She could tell him she never met anyone like him and liked that. She could tell him it turned her on for some reason. Instead she leaned into him and rubbed him where he rubbed and whispered, "I'm sure you'd fill me up real good. I bet you'd fuck me hard like I like it."

He pushed her away and slapped her face hard. "Puta!" he grumbled. If they hadn't been out behind the garage, Julio would have been fired on the spot. He looked around to be sure no one saw. He looked at her and saw the redness. "Shit."

Rubbing her sore cheek, Marisol whispered, "If they notice, I'll say I got clumsy and tripped. But you're right, Julio. I am a puta. And I want your cock. I'll be your whore. I won't even have another john."

Studying her, he swallowed. He'd had his fair share of girlfriends. They never looked as good as Marisol and they didn't have the kind of intelligence she had. He loved their little conversations and the way she seemed to hang on his every word without any pretense. "I can keep her in line," he thought to himself. "She'd love me and want to keep the child."

Out loud he asked, "You really want to fuck me?" She nodded. "You'd have to marry me first." She nodded. Suddenly he felt like a lesser man. Despite being a maid to some fancy couple and their family, she had a bearing to her that made her seem somehow refined, of a far higher class than he could ever even sniff at, let alone join. "Are you sure?"

"If you are."

"Look at me. I'm a fucking grease monkey. I'm covered in grease proposing to a princess."

"I have Thursday off," she hinted.

"Uhm." It took him a few seconds, but he figured it out. "I'll pick you up at six. It won't be anything like the car you brought in," referring to the family's year old Cadillac.

"I don't care about the car, Julio. I only care who drives it."

It took two and a half years, but Phil finally found Marisol. Phil pleaded with Luisa's owner to help again in hiring a PI, but Luisa wouldn't allow it. It saddened Luisa, but her sister's only request to her had been never to allow Phil to find her. They argued on the phone. Luisa knew her sister lost a large piece of her soul when she lost Phil. She could hear the loss in her sister's voice. She could see also how much Phil suffered, and she loved Phil like ... a brother, or at least a brother-in-law.

His inquiries into hiring a private investigator, using the one Luisa's owner had used to find Oona's daughter for instance, frustrated him. Even a less expensive detective agency presented figures beyond his means. It appeared to be a needle in a haystack sort of investigation and would take too long. His parents, probably his mother more than his dad, restricted his allowance after the affair had been discovered so that he had barely enough to eat and pay for gas. Jobs available to him never could accumulate the funds needed. So he saved what he could.

Ironically it only took a week once he had the retainer paid. "I found her," said the woman over the phone.

"Already!" shouted Phil.

"Ow!"

"Sorry."

"You're forgiven," chuckled Sandy, the exotic dancer turned PI.

"Tell me."

"Patience, young man. You still owe me."

A shock of fear struck his heart. "How much?" he asked tremulously.

Sandy chuckled. "Not to worry. You can take it in trade."

"What?" he shouted.

"You do that again and I'll never tell you."

"I thought I'd..."

"That was an advance, lover. Am I that unappealing?"

"Are you kidding? You're like what kids fantasize about masturbating to Playboy. You could find anybody..."

"Not anyone like you my handsome bear. I like you and I love your big cock."

Phil shook his head and smiled. The subject of her love hardened. "Okay."

"Great. I can't wait. I'm still in Chicago so..."

"Is that where she is?"

"Yes. No more info until..."

"When?"

"Meet me at the club tomorrow night at 2 am. Come early. I'll inspire you."

"Just looking at you would inspire any man," said Phil.

"Thanks. I wish it was true."

Phil had contacted her husband Mike on the advice of a teacher of private investigation, a night school course which would have taken too long to gain him a license in the business.

The tall lanky Jewish man in his mid thirties who taught the class recommended Mike after Phil told him his frustration. "He's semi-retired, but has an amazing success rate in tracking down missing persons. His partner's even better. They're very reasonable and," the instructor winked, "I think Sandy will like you."

Puzzled by the lascivious wink, he learned its reason.

Abel Investigations, housed in a small office in a marginal neighborhood, lacked confidence building in their success. "You look disappointed," said Mike Abel, a short, round man in his late forties with a tough looking bulldog face, a mix of Irish and Jewish, that somehow showed charm, especially when he smiled. The handshake ended and Phil shrugged. "Unfortunately the PI business isn't the most lucrative, especially us independents. We do alright though."

"Myron suggested you do better than alright."

"Yes Mr. Phillips, we do."

After sitting in the padded office chair Mike gestured to, he started explaining his predicament.

"Wait," said Mike. "Do you mind if I record this? My partner's not here, and she'll want to hear it."

"Of course not."

Phil began again, handing him a photo of his love at the end. Nodding and smiling, Mike said, "She's beautiful. Sandy will love this. She's a sucker for romance. Oops." Mike shut off the tape. "I think I'll let her hear that," he smiled.

"So you'll take it?"

"Sure."

Phil placed the envelope stuffed with 15 hundred dollar bills. Mike slipped a contract with carbon copies into his old Burroughs typewriter and typed out Phil's personal information in the appropriate spots. Once finished, he handed it to Phil. Phil read the contract carefully, his rudimentary classes in pre-law providing a little insight, causing a couple phrases to jump out and make him uncomfortable, but he signed it. Mike ripped off a copy, handing it to him. He also handed back three of the hundred dollar bills Phil had given him.

"What's this for?" Phil asked, confused.

"Have you been to the Foxy Lady?"

"Uhm, once. Why?"

"Good. You know where it is. Go there tonight after midnight. Take these hundreds and give them to a hot blonde named Shanda. Not all at once. Ask her for a private dance. Tell her Mike sent you."

"So who recommended us?" muttered Sandy, her delicious tight round ass covered in a g-string pressing down onto Phil's lap, her tight little breasts with quarter inch cylindrical pink nipples sliding across Phil's mouth.

"Myron," Phil replied, his thickness lifting against her pussy which rubbed.

Sandy chuckled seductively. Her sensuous brown eyes glittered in the dark private booth. "Mmm, Myron. Long and narrow, just like him."

"Hunh?"

"His cock, silly," whispered Sandy, her breath against his ear heating Phil even more. "Yours feels like you, tall and thick," she muttered excitedly.

"Yeah."

"How big?"

"Eight inches I think. Maybe three inches in circumference."

"A goddamn bat," she warbled, rubbing hard against it. She kept at it until he came. "Oh god!" she moaned as if she had cum too. She had. The dampness of his pants had not just been from him. She rested her forehead against his. "Too good. Tonight's going to be fun." Her golden eyes stared into his blue eyes. "Pay me a hundred. Change a hundred at the bar. In fact, buy me a diet coke. Then come sit with me. We'll talk." She stuffed her breasts in a lacy black bra and her hips in matching panties and a gold miniskirt, not quite concealing her butt. Putting on her three inch heels, raising her height to about six feet, still half a foot shorter than him, she hugged him. He hugged hard back. Both felt good in the hug.

"I met Mike here about 10 years ago," Sandy explained over the loud music as they sat and sipped. They had talked about Phil for several minutes and Phil wanted to know about her. "He was a regular."

"How old are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

"35."

"You look great."

"Thanks. Dancing helps. And plenty of liquid protein." She grinned seductively and pinched his penis. "Just kidding, sort of. No I work out and eat carefully and keep the sun from my skin."

"You really are beautiful."

"Yes. Isn't it lucky," the beauty smiled. "It's an Ingrid Bergman quote. She's my favorite actress."

"You have a similar shape. I mean your overall face. And your eyes. Only the other features, your nose and mouth are more delicate." He touched each one as he mentioned them. She didn't mind, in fact leaning into the touch like a cat.

"You're sweet."

"I like you too."

Her eyes shimmered happily. She kissed the side of his mouth. "Now I gotta dance. Throw me the twenties one at a time. You get to evaluate all of me." She kissed him again and strutted off, Phil watching the twitch of her butt.

"Hi Phil, I'm Lana," said the black woman sitting herself in Sandy's seat. "Shanda has a treat for you. Me too, actually." Phil's eyes travelled over the svelte body of the young woman. A little bustier, her figure otherwise resembled Sandy's. Her face was lean. It reminded him a little of Marisol's only with smaller and happier eyes.

During Sandy's amazing dance, graceful, athletic and sexy, Lana caressed Phil's shoulder with her breasts, her hand rubbing at his penis which soon revived. As ordered, Phil flung individual twenties onto the stage. Each time Sandy focused on him. The more she revealed, the more she exposed to him and rubbed against him. She removed the g-string and showed him her pussy and ass, making the pussy move with remarkable ability. Then she leaned across him and kissed Lana. Lana removed her bra and they played with each other's breasts. The audience loved the bit, tossing dollars and fives onto the stage. When Sandy offered her pussy to Lana, Lana licked. Much more dollars flew onto the stage. Sandy caressed her breasts and held Lana to her cunt. It seemed like she came. She didn't.

Rising to great applause, sliding her cunt an inch from Phil's face in the process, she gathered the money and her clothes and walked sensuously off.

"Hey Phil," said Lana. He turned to her. She kissed him. He tasted Sandy's nectar. "Delicious, hunh?" Phil could only nod. Lana giggled and strutted off. Phil watched her ass sway.

"Delicious," he murmured to himself, licking his lips.

During the second private dance, Sandy told Phil the rest of her story. Her teasing kept him hard but not orgasmic. "I was Mike's favorite, and he was mine. We'd come back here and mostly talk. He told me about the business. I lapped up every story. I wanted in. One night he came in drunk. He told me Velda left."

"Velda?"

"Yeah, like Mike Hammer. Her name's really Shirley, but he liked calling her Velda. Actually there had been a few Veldas. He couldn't keep his naughty paws off them. They either split right away or became his lovers. But of course that creates problems too. Velda, Shirley found some guy she wanted not to cheat on, so she quit. Mike even promised he'd keep his paws off, but they both knew that wouldn't last. Anyway, I volunteered, except I told him I wanted to be an investigator too. He asked if I ever slept with a customer. I never had.

"The next time he came in, he proposed to me right here in this booth. He gave me this cute ring," she showed him the 1 carat diamond solitaire, "and promised to hire me. I asked if he wanted me to quit. He said I probably made a lot more dancing. He's right, although we've been doing pretty good.

"I had a boyfriend then, but it of course ended. He was a bouncer at another club and had a dick ... like yours. Maybe not quite as impressive. He was a dick though. I stayed with him for the dick. I trained him to use it to get me off instead of just for his own stupid pleasure. It took awhile.

"Things were great. Mike's the best in the business, and he's just as good of a teacher. I'm as good as him. But his dick is..." She showed about five or so inches with her hands, like the fish that got away. "Don't get me wrong, he knows how to use it. But I like getting well stuffed, you know? I made do for about six years. Then he got some chest pains and went on medication and getting him hard became a challenge. I'd get bitchy after not getting any for weeks. Finally he suggested bringing men in the bedroom. I could tell he was reluctant, so I told him I wouldn't cheat on him. He said he'd be there, so it wouldn't be cheating. Tell you the truth, I really wanted to get fucked by a big hard cock, so it didn't take much to convince me.

"Trouble was, I didn't want to bring clients home. It would be like prostitution. So I seduced friends, fellow PIs."

"Myron."

"Yeah. He had a nice dick. A little on the thin side, but nice. But that proved inadequate a resource. We didn't want the guys to be too regular, like maybe a month or two of occasional fucks. So I decided to include clients from the PI business. We had to be careful. Clients, especially ones with spouses or children disappearing, are pretty distraught. We didn't want a spouse feeling guilty of cheating on top of everything else, you know? And they had to be men we both could stand being with, especially me. In other words, well endowed and nice."