“Hey, we can take her to my place. She can decide what to do from there. She ain’t gonna bother us, and if she try, who listen to a naked-assed white girl running around in the snow on Lenox Avenue? They just call Bellevue. One way ticket to Ward’s Island.”
She pulled her feet up onto the seat and started to nibble the coconut. She had the message.
They got the Caddy out of the snow and slush with a little shoving and rocking. Then they started back to Manhattan.
“One fucking ways, man. Pain in the ass.” Not wanting to be stopped, they turned the corner and started to weave their way out of Red Hook. Two minutes later, they passed a large lump in the snow. Toodles looked at it briefly.
“Asshole,” said Toodles to himself. He looked at his watch, happy in the knowledge that he could see his connection before he got to the dentist. Marbles found he was thinking about the girl waiting at home in his bedroom, which was giving him an enormous erection.
The girl in the chinchilla fell asleep in the close warmth of the Caddy’s plush back seat. The soft fur of the coat allowed it to fall open again. Coconut shreds had gathered at the corner of her mouth. A few bits of it fell on her little pink nipple. Ten minutes later they crossed the Brooklyn Bridge to Manhattan. It snowed like hell. Red Hook wasn’t plowed for three days.
Chinchilla Downs
“Some fuckin’ outfit for fuckin’ February in Brooklyn,” Frodo muttered. She was climbing down the front stoop in her stilettos from the little apartment he had rented for her in the PR section of Sunset Park. His dick started to wave a little at her from inside his pants. She was in gold pedal pushers, a caramel tube top with one vertical purple stripe over her left breast, a white down jacket and pink pumps with high heels. Her hair was piled high on her head and her makeup was perfect. Little ringlets of shining black hair framed her face and emphasized her huge almond eyes.
Frodo found her totally adorable. He crammed his plaid water-proof snap-brim cap onto the remaining strands of his hair. Then he worked his way around the battered Chevy Caprice to help her over the ridge of grey frozen slush. He gave her a kiss and gently patted the firm, round curve of her bottom. Her little white teeth were as shiny as the snowflakes that swirled out of the sky. She looked him in the eye warmly, having no idea what he had grumbled when she came down the stairs since it had been in English. He settled her in the front seat. When he got in the driver’s side, she smiled her serious smile, reached across the seat and gently squeezed his joint. She was a very gentle girl when she felt like it.
“Boys,” she said and giggled deep in her throat. It made good enough sense to Frodo for him not to care. He thought about her delectable ass in those thin pedal pushers and cranked up the heater as they headed toward the docks.
Once there, Frodo was wrestling with two problems and he could not get either one of them straight. He parked the crud-covered Caprice on 30th Street under the Gowanus Expressway. His girlfriend now had her head in his lap and was slowly sucking him with a circular licking motion. She was doing a very good job, which was making him lightheaded. As an experienced suckee, he could not deny that. But, at 72, he was having trouble keeping his mind on her ass crack, even though it was tantalizingly visible from the top of her gold hip huggers.
As with all Latin women, Frodo thought of her as “PR”. She was 27, but looked 18 to most men without them even having to squint. They hoped she was at least 19. She had been shipped to the States in a cargo container from Honduras along with fifteen other girls and two boys. Once in Jersey she was forcefully invited to work off her travel expenses by learning to be fucked in the ass four times an hour by customers.
She had proven less than meek with her Lithuanian owner/ pimp. He had two older women haul her pants down to her ankles in a warehouse near Newark Airport. One of them pointed to an oil drum lying on its side. The other whacked her across the mouth prison-yard style. She pressed her lip with her fingers to stop the blood. They figured she couldn’t do much with her pants around her feet, but she could do enough.
The pimp sauntered up to her pleasantly and threatened to ice her if she didn’t bend over and take it. He was busy scooping a handful of all-purpose grease out of a plastic tub. She saved them both the trouble by cutting his throat with a razor blade she had hidden in her cheek. As she squatted down to haul up her pants, she shoved the used blade into his mouth, slicing into his tongue. It took skill to stay out of the blood. There was a lot of it. The two older girls who worked for the dead pimp did not seem disappointed when she walked out of the warehouse.
Anytime Frodo watched her walk away, his heart would pound in his ears. He had picked her up outside a truck stop in Bayonne. She was hitching with no idea where she was going. Hers was a classic wonder of an ass, in his estimation, and he was a devoted and respectful follower of Latinas from all angles. It could be a risky habit, given their volatile male relatives and friends, but very exciting. If you could get a Latin girl to grace you with a smile, the sun belonged to you. She was also not a bigot about his being a little older. He liked small boobs with dark puckered nipples. He planned to marry her, if he could figure out how to ask her.
Even with those nips in mind, he figured it would be Yom Kippur before he came again because of his second problem. He had a cash flow emergency that needed solving right away or he would not be seeing 72 and a half. It was a question of hedging his profit and loss. Frodo did not like red ink. He made between a half and two million a year, but he was always invested up to his eyeballs. If interest rates dipped too far, he was cash poor and the nature of his relationship with the IRS did not allow for going to a bank. So he borrowed from a discreet Brooklyn associate named Tony.
He owed Tony (“the Crunch”) Cavallo 8 large for a two-week loan. It was nothing, but it kept Frodo from taking bigger losses. Tony had not gotten his name for his skill with opening filberts, but nuts were his specialty. Frodo had two nuts and two grand in his pocket and he needed both pairs. The vig was mounting and he would be tapped if he ponied up the other six. He did not like to be tapped, as it brought back unpleasant memories from his dismal childhood in Utica selling kosher food in his father’s store. Tony was from Bay Ridge, a place he had never once left. He had Bell’s Palsy on the right side of his face. On top of that he was mean and ugly, but he had money from gambling and a midnight Mercedes-to-order business he ran for select customers. Frodo did not want to excite his displeasure.
In the trunk was a big part of his second problem. It was a 60-thousand-dollar chinchilla coat from the many that hung in his warehouse in Jersey. He dealt in furs and gem stones whenever he could, as they were hard to trace. Besides, they seemed romantic. He had lots of these coats, but it was the off season for coats and the economy was on the skids. Who knew? All of a sudden the broads from Saddlebrook who had bought two fur coats a week were hooking in trailers.
His girlfriend was working his pants down a little, which was not such a good idea in broad daylight under an expressway, but undeniably racy. He had a buyer for the coat. The guy was a citizen who owned a condo in Red Hook. He wanted to buy the coat for ten cents on the dollar. So naturally Frodo had told him the coat was worth 80 thousand instead of 60. If he was going to get robbed, Frodo thought, he would pick up the extra two grand. It was only money, but there was a principle here. This way he could cover the vig and a lot of the loan from Tony C. and still have some cash.
The problem was that he was sure Sylva, the girl now sucking his dick, would want the coat once she saw it. He was mistaken in that, but he had no way of knowing it. She saw a future in Frodo that extended beyond evening wear. She started sucking harder which made his vision blur and then she began to cradle his balls in her hand. She rolled them gently in her dark little fingers. Then she tickled the skin just at the point where his balls met his crotch. Frodo thought that was an idea with a future.
He had the impression she really liked him, even though he had not the slightest idea why, since she spoke no
English and he spoke nothing else. He was not even quite sure of her name, which sounded like “Wilma”, like the broad in the Flintstones, but then again it sound like “Sylva”, too. He liked Sylva better, so he called her that. When he did, she would sit next to him and hold his hand, so he figured he was close enough. It was very comforting to be close to her and quiet together while they listened to the slush melt on his apartment balcony. They shared things like overstuffed pastrami sandwiches. Of course, it was not so bad when she was sucking his brain out of his skull through his dick. He had developed a complex palate for her pussy, which changed flavor with her mood. Now and then they fucked, when he had time to deal with the headache the Viagra gave him.
She sensed that he was distracted in some worrisome way and so slowly began to wiggle her little fingers under his balls. Soon she was tickling the rim of his asshole. Just as she eased in her finger to the second knuckle, the Fur-Coat-Guy squealed his tires in three slots down in his “pre-owned” Lexus. The shining silver car was as inconspicuous as a fart in a confessional. The guy jumped out, wearing assorted rugged gear from L.L. Bean, and yelled, “Hi!” as he waved at Frodo. His hair flopped around like Hugh Grant’s and he had carefully not shaved in a day and a half. Frodo wondered if this was the guy’s idea of tough.
Frodo sat on her finger in the battered Chevy Caprice and thought, “Great. Now I got two assholes working here.” Just then she licked the hole in the head of his dick and gently wiggled her finger in his asshole. That turned the key to his heart and Frodo had an orgasm of supremely voluble pleasure, causing him to groan loudly. The guy dodged around the front of the Lexus and started running to the Chevy. The windows were a little steamed by now.
“You okay?” Asshole shouted. “You know older guys have to be careful of the cold.” In Frodo’s mind, his customer went from being The Guy in that instant to The Asshole. Frodo wondered where his nephew had found him. He could picture row upon row of assholes trying to look like fur trappers in downtown Manhattan. They had met at some bar in Tribeca where this guy was trying to impress him about how he wanted to buy a nice fur “under the table.” His nephew told Asshole he understood and would he like a deal on a fur coat (the nephew knowing that Frodo needed to get some cash moving).
Asshole leaned into the nephew breathing sushi into his face and said, “Yeah, Sport,” which sounded kind of faggoty to the nephew but the Asshole said he had cash for the coat. There were two problems with non-criminal citizens, civilians, or, as the pros called them, assholes. They wanted to tell you things you didn’t need or want to know, and they wanted to rip you off to make themselves feel smart.
“My name’s Aston—” said Asshole at the car window.
“Yeah, yeah,” said Frodo, “And my name is Dick Nixon, but I don’t want it to get around. I know who the fuck you are. Just a minute.”
At this point Sylva sat up and looked at Asshole, who she immediately dismissed quite rightly as an asshole. Then she turned to look out the windshield and lit a Marlboro while her fingers toyed absently with her left nipple under her coat. Frodo was very good at licking nipples and he would get around to doing that soon enough. Still, she was a little anxious to get started from all that sucking.
Frodo mopped up his wad and zipped while she dabbed a little come from the corner of her mouth. Then Frodo got out of the car. He buttoned his plaid polyester car coat and they walked to a pillar in back of the car. They confirmed the price and Frodo went back to the trunk. He undid a padlock that went through a chain in a hole in the trunk lid and hauled out a black garbage bag with the coat in it.
“Cash first,” he grumbled.
“Don’t I get a look?” asked Asshole.
“You want me to get a model? Try on a chinchilla coat under the expressway here, Sonny? There’s a cop shop about ten blocks that way. You think if they go by on a doughnut run, they might get some idea it’s a tax-free transaction? The rats around here are mean enough to steal the fuckin’ coat and eat it. Never mind the people.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, what was I thinking?” Asshole smiled at Frodo who looked at his customer like he was an old piece of cheese. Then the news got worse.
It seemed that Asshole only had 7,500 on hand, but was good for the rest in a couple of days. He pointed to his car like it was collateral. Frodo figured the guy leased the car, but he needed the seven and a half.
Once the bag was secured, the Guy drove back to his condo in Red Hook. Along the way he stopped under the Gowanus again and picked up fifty dollars’ worth of coke (generously laced with baby laxative) from a local Mexican dealer. The dealer waved at passing cars now and then. The guy figured they were regulars. The cars all looked the same to him as they were covered in salt and street grime, unlike his pristine Lexus. He chuckled about stiffing Frodo out of the cash he still had in his wallet. He hadn’t done pre-law and art history at Swarthmore for nothing.
His condo was not yet the swank chick trap it could become, owing to the nearby garbage treatment facility, but time and developers would fix that. He picked up a quart of Tanqueray gin on the way home. Once there, he placed his rubber paddle with fake fur glued to one side on the pillow and washed his orange and blue dildo. Then he put out various jars of lubes and creams.
Checking the clock, he ordered a round-the-world pizza delivered from Tony’s on Court Street. He and the guy on the phone chuckled over the name, they being two men of the world. He then put on a Sinatra disk and slipped into his midnight blue ultra-suede jumpsuit with the zippers going front, back and sideways. It drew attention to his dick. It never crossed his mind that most women already knew where it was. He was ready.
Shortly thereafter, Peaches McGuire got out of a cab and banged open the unlocked front door of his building. Every inch of Peaches was pale, creamy pink except her large brown eyes, her strawberry blonde hair and her rosy little cunt. Her nipples were a dark shade of pink. Her tongue was a captivating luminous pink and she liked the way men’s eyes fixed on it when she smiled and put the tip of it right between her teeth. She could be a very bad girl at times and she was still smart enough to stay clear of the flying drool.
After doing an MA upstate, Peaches had come to the City to work for a very hip urban planning firm in Chelsea. Two months later, the only planning the city was doing was how to keep from defaulting on its bonds. She was laid off. Rather than return to Poughkipsee and her boyfriend, Boxer Barton (heir to a once prosperous Chrysler dealership), she decided to plow a new furrow in a field where her pink endowments would not go to waste. She answered a classified ad and took employment as a fantasy escort. It was a concept developed by an unemployed epidemiologist from Bangkok. For five hundred bucks she would do whatever the geeks wanted as long as they didn’t touch her. She would touch them with anything from whips to oatmeal if they liked, but they had to sit on their hands.
She had assumed this arrangement would be no more lucrative than urban planning, but she was wrong. She soon found that the male population of New York City is so driven, exhausted, nervous, guilt-ridden, nipple-starved, delusional, terrified and perpetually, constantly horny, that they thought this was a hell of a deal. In fact, when she coolly removed all but her panties and bra, it would be hard to argue the point, and hard was the name of the game. She usually took off the rest if she was fairly sure they would pull a muscle.
She went through the Guy’s chosen repertoire of tricks, opening a zipper here and shoving in a dildo there. He got the chinchilla out of the garbage bag. She tried it on as requested. He studied her face. He seemed to like her getting the feel of this coat she could never have. Being a girl of insight, she saw that in him and wished she had a bigger dildo.
She did a modest amount of stroking and more spanking than he had expected. In time, he blew his lid while staring at her nipple from an inch and a half away. It was snowing hard by then. Getting a cab would be impossible and, having nothing else to do, she had got a little drunk. She dozed while the guy took a shower to wash
the Vaseline out of his ass. When he was under the water, Peaches checked his wallet. She was a forward-thinking young woman. He had asked her for a real date, which meant one of two things. Either he was falling in love with some idea of some other woman he had in his head, or he intended to stiff her. The question was, did he have the cash at all?
She rolled over onto a pillow with the coat pulled up to her waist. This allowed her to inspect the wallet in peace. She reasoned that men never thought about much else if they had a clear view of her ass and pussy. She looked in his wallet and found her five hundred along with another seven bucks left over after the gin, drugs and pizza. She took the five hundred.
At that moment, the front door of the apartment hit the floor as though it had been punched out by a concussion grenade. The biggest, hardest males she had ever seen clomped over the door and started talking to the guy in unhappy tones. He had come out of the john in his T-shirt with his dick hanging out. The look did not suggest dealing from strength. She deposited her five hundred in a zippered, hidden pocket in the coat and pretended to have passed out.
What the guy had not noticed was the grimy Chevy Caprice chugging along Third Avenue behind him. Frodo had seen him stop to pick up the coke. Frodo had known the dealer for quite some time as they had done some business together in hideous retro furniture from the sixties. Chairs that had cost 20 bucks new then were worth two thousand now, even beat to shit. Then too the dealer did evictions in the Bronx on the side, so he had a line on some choice pieces. Frodo did the brokerage, selling the stuff to art dealers in Manhattan who sold it to assholes.
Having seen the coke deal right on his turf, Frodo got angry. He had been stiffed by an asshole, because understandably enough he wanted to get busy and worship Sylva’s ass. He realized that you should not try to think about more than one asshole at a time. Distractions should be avoided, so it was sort of his own fault. Being stiffed, however, was out. So he called his nephew, the real estate broker in Manhattan. He had paid for his nephew to go to Yale, so a little favor would be reasonable in return regarding this guy now known as Asshole.
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