The Big Bang

The party girl had bad habits and she liked it rough—maybe too rough for private detective Tom Reilly.

 

(F, drug, MF, FF, FM) caution

By: Punchinello for Pulp Erotica

 

Chicago, 1945

“Mr. Reilly, Miss Veronica would like to see you before you go.”

“Where is she?” Reilly asked.

“In her bedroom, sir. I’ll see you up.”

“Thank you, Fulton,” Tom Reilly replied. He was an amiable man when he wanted to be, but it wasn’t his natural state; he was hardened. He was in his mid-thirties, good-looking—in a world-weary sort of way—and smoked and drank too much.

Fulton left Reilly at Veronica Steading’s bedroom door. He made a point to knock before returning to his other duties in the house, altho Reilly wondered what they included. Veronica Steading invited him in without bothering to open the door herself.

“So you’re the private detective? Well, you’re not as tall as I imagined,” she remarked. “On the other hand, you are cute.”

Veronica Steading wasn’t tall either, perhaps 5’ 3” in her bare feet, but more like 5’ 5” in the high heels she wore now. She was a little dish-water blond with big, dark eyes that could stare right thru a man if he wasn’t wearing a pistol. But Tom Reilly was wearing a pistol.

“I started getting cute when I realized I wasn’t going to get any taller.”

“Good for you, Mr. Reilly.” Veronica Steading wasn’t cute; she was beautiful. And aside from the heels, she wore little more than a silk dressing gown—and she was barely wearing that. Her breasts were weren’t large, but they were proud—proud enough to nearly poke thru the thin fabric of her gown. Her legs were athletic, and bare below the knee. She couldn’t have been more than 20 or 21.

“You didn’t ask me up here to tell me how cute I am.”

“Mr. Reilly, I’d like my father’s business with you kept very quiet. He isn’t at all well. You can appreciate discretion, can’t you?” She cozied up to him, close enough for him to see her big nipples thru the thin silk.

“Now who’s getting cute?” Reilly asked.

“What...exactly did my father talk to you about?” Veronica asked, looking up at him with her big brown eyes. She was so close now, Reilly could see down the front of her dressing gown. There was a deep cleft between her breasts, soft, pale skin begging to be kissed.

“Now, that would be privileged information between me and my client—except for the part where he offered me a drink.”

“I’m serious, Mr. Reilly. If he wants you to start following me around—” She played with the front of her gown suggestively, as if at any moment she might push it off her shoulders and let it slip to the floor.

“Oh, he didn’t ask me to start tailing you, Miss Steading, if that’s what you’re worried about. He had more important concerns.”

“David Van Dien.”

“Exactly what can you tell me about Mr. Van Dien’s disappearance?”

Veronica turned away to go to the wet bar. “Mr. Reilly, David Van Dien treated me badly and disappeared without a trace.” She poured them both a drink.

“That’s not exactly true, Miss. The police found Van Dien’s car in a ditch out in the country—only he wasn’t in it.”

“I say good riddance to bad rubbish.” She sauntered over to Reilly again, her breasts swaying enticingly under the expensive silk. “The police have given up on finding him. Why don’t you drop this case? I could make it worth your while.” Her nipples were clearly hard beneath her gown, and as she drank, one nipple peeked out from between the folds of silky fabric.

“I’ll bet you could, angel, ” Reilly said, downing the Scotch in one gulp. “But when I take a case, I stick to it.”

Veronica straightened and closed her gown with one tight fist. She glowered after him as he went out, still clenching her dressing gown closed. With the other, she threw back her drink and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand like a sailor.

 

Reilly went down to the police records department to have a look at their files. He had friends in the department who could get him just about anything he wanted. The police report on David Van Dien didn’t tell him anything new.

Later that afternoon, Reilly went out to the spot in the country where David Van Dien’s car had been found some weeks before. By evening, he had found no evidence of any kind, much less a dead body. But not far away, he came across a run-down cottage with its windows closed up tight. He slowed for a closer look at the perfect little hideaway and noticed the overgrown grass and weeds were tramped down by car tires leading around the back. He parked his car a ways away and approached the house from the rear, going quietly thru the orange twilight.

Two cars sat in back of the house: a dark sedan and a yellow convertible coupe with the top down. Reilly approached the coupe and checked for a registration: Veronica Steading.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Three quick gunshots rang out inside the darkened house. Reilly drew his pistol and rushed to the back door, but heard nothing inside. He tried the door and found it had been jimmied open. He went inside slowly, eyes wide and alert, heart pounding.

“Veronica!” he called. Then his eyes adjusted to the dim light of a lamp spilling in from another room. A man’s body lay on the floor in front of Reilly, two bullet holes in his chest and one in the eye. He was stone dead, but the blood was still pouring out of him.

Then Reilly heard noises toward the front of the house. He stepped over the body and went further in. Just then, he heard someone at the front door. He rushed thru the house to cut them off, but was too late: the front door slammed.

“Veronica!” he called after the fleeing figure.

“Reilly?” he heard from a bedroom. It was Veronica Steading’s voice. Reilly rushed into the bedroom to find a dim lamp spilling light across Veronica Steading, sprawled across the white sheets, stark naked but for an open silk Chinese print dress, squirming in sensual luxury. Her dark eyes were heavy, her motions sluggish; she could barely hold her head up. She lay back languidly, stroking the soft fur between her legs.

“Veronica, are you all right?” Reilly asked, going to her.

“I’m beautiful,” Veronica claimed, her voice a drugged slur. “Fucking beautiful, Reilly.” She opened her legs to him and slid a finger up and down her soft pink pussy lips.

“Jesus Christ, you’re high as a kite.” An opium pipe sat on the bedside table under the lamp.

Reilly heard the sound of a car engine and a door slamming. He rushed out the back door, nearly slipping in the pooled blood, only to see the sedan tearing away. It slid out onto the road and zoomed off, the high grass obscuring the license plate. He cursed himself for missing his chance earlier.

Back inside, Veronica was still fingering herself in a drugged stupor. Reilly stared as the girl slipped a finger in and out of her wet pink slit, moaning softly—oblivious to the trouble or his gaze.

“Oh, yeahhhh,” she murmured. “That’s so g-good.... Mmmmm, yeahhh. Ohhh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!”

Reilly had never watch a woman pleasure herself before. In spite of his agitation, his cock stiffened eagerly at the beautiful sight. Veronica frigged her pussy faster and harder, her whole body shaking, her firm tits jiggling. “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Oh! Bad girl! Bad girl!” she said suddenly, spanking her pussy roughly, pinching her nipple with her free hand. “Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Come, baby, come!” she cried, rubbing her clit madly.

Then, Veronica gave a tremendous groan and sank three fingers deep into her love hole, rubbing hard on her clit with her thumb. Her body trembled with orgasmic pleasure and at last collapsed flat on the bed, spent, her blond hair falling across her face.

Reilly’s cock was nearly bursting out of his pants, but he gathered himself together and said, “Veronica, we have to get out of here.”

She blew the hair out of her eyes. “I’m glad you’re back, handsome. What’s your name again?”

“It’s Reilly, you stupid girl—Tom Reilly.”

“Tommmm,” she mumbled. “Come over here and give it to me, Tom.” Jesus! She was ready for it again!

“Veronica, you’ve got to get out of here. There’s a dead man in the back hall, and the killer just escaped. You’re a witness, sweetheart; and that means you’re in danger.”

“You talk too much, Tom Reilly. Yak, yak, yak. Don’t you like girls? Here I am all ready for you—”

“Yeah, you’re a regular eager beaver.” Reilly tried to pick her up bodily, but she only embraced him, kissing his neck, his cheek, his mouth. He dropped her again and searched around for her things. He closed the Chinese print dress. Looking around, he found a pair of women’s shoes on the floor. No underclothes.

“You’re looking for my panties,” she mumbled. “I never wear panties.” She winked drunkenly. “I’m a bad girl.”

Reilly did up a couple of buttons on the dress, tho not without a struggle. He picked up the shoes and the opium pipe and then hoisted Veronica in his arms. She clung to him, kissing his neck and murmuring indistinctly as he carried her to her convertible. “Where are you taking me?” she mumbled.

“Home,” he replied, “where you can sleep off this opium drunk.” Along the way, he threw out the drug pipe.

At the Steading house, Fulton opened the door and helped get Veronica out of her car. As he took the girl up the stairs, he asked Fulton to put her car away and get another one ready to take him back to the cottage.

In Veronica’s bedroom, Reilly tossed the girl onto her bed. She gave a thrilled whoop as she landed, and spread out flat on the bed. “Help me take off my dress, Tom,” she said with heavy-lidded eyes. It was a tight little Chinese-style wrap that didn’t leave her much room to move.

Reilly set his coat and hat aside to help her with the buttons. In spite of her performance earlier, the girl blushed furiously as he gave up on the buttons and just pulled the dress over her head. She covered her breasts coyly as she watched him toss it over a chair. She seemed not to realize her furry snatch was naked to his gaze.

She looked up at him with her large, dark eyes. “Don’t go now,” she said quietly.

“I’ve got to go back and call the police in,” Reilly said.

“Hmmm. That can wait.” Veronica grabbed his arm and pulled Reilly down onto the bed, smothering him with wet kisses.

“Let me go,” he protested weakly. Her warm nakedness sent thrills thru him, stiffening his prick.

“Please,” she begged. “I know I’m a bad girl, but I need it now.” She rolled over on top of him and pressed her naked slender form against him, begging him quietly to satisfy her before he left.

“God, you’re a beautiful little minx,” he breathed.

She tugged his tie, opened his shirt, kissed his bare chest. She unbuttoned his pants, pushed them down, stroked his growing member thru his boxer shorts. “Oh God,” she breathed, nuzzling it against her cheek. “Please put it in me, Tom.”

“Slip it out, angel. It’s ready for you.”

Veronica pulled Reilly’s stiff prick out of his shorts and stroked it worshipfully. She bit her lip and breathed it in, inflamed. At last, she put her pretty lips to it and kissed and sucked the tip, tickling it with her tongue, sucking it eagerly.

“Now I’ve got to have it inside me,” she said, almost to herself.

She raised her naked form up and, holding firmly onto Reilly’s hard cock, plunged down on it in one smooth moment of passion. She rose up, tossed her hair, and gave a deep groan as she sank down again, taking all of him in a second time.

“Oh yes... Oh, God,” she moaned. “Mmmm. Your dick is good, Tom. Your dick is so good inside me. Oh yes! Oh ffffuck!”

“You beautiful little slut,” Reilly growled, thrusting up into her with every stroke, meeting her halfway. But soon, he could not keep up with the spitfire mounted on his throbbing cock. Veronica pounded down again and again, faster and faster, her young tits bouncing in front of Reilly’s eyes, until at last he gave a deep groan of his own and shot his load up in her. The girl paid no heed, banging relentlessly down on Reilly’s cock. She tugged her nipples and tossed her head in ecstasy, groaning hotly until at last she got herself off with a tremendous wailing moan of pleasure and collapsed on Reilly’s heaving chest with little kisses and murmuring.

 

As night approached, Reilly had Fulton drop him off at the cottage again. Reilly saw in the old manservant a real taste for conspiracy. He wondered how much other trouble Fulton had helped Veronica out of in the past.

Inside the cottage, Reilly called the police report the murder. In less than an hour, the place was crawling with boys in blue, going over every inch of the little house. Detective Sergeant Killabrew pulled Reilly aside.

“What were you really doing out here, Reilly?”

Reilly took a puff on his cigarette. “I told you, Kip; I was sniffing around the area for a client when I heard shots from this house. But by the time—”

“—by the time you got here, the killer had driven off. I know what you said, Reilly. But if you’re mixed up in this, you could be I for more than you bargained for. This cottage belong to Vic Leman.”

“Vic Leman,” Reilly mused. “Didn’t you put him up for racketeering a couple of years back?”

“You can bet I did, but it didn’t stick. He walked away Scot free and went right back to his racket. The dead man here is one of Leman’s thugs—a real prick named Carnegie. Watch your back from now on, Tom. If Leman thinks you wrote Mr. Carnegie’s swan song, you could find yourself cut up for fish bait.”

“Thanks for the tip, Kip,” Reilly muttered.

 

Vic Leman’s country house was well outside town where the long arm of the law couldn’t reach—at least not without making itself obvious. Reilly tipped the lookout boy to relay a message to his boss by radio phone.

Leman agreed to meet with Reilly right away, which meant the gumshoe could drive the rest of the way down the dirt road and into Leman’s private drive without being stopped by bent-nosed bouncers with bulges in their cheap suit jackets. Reilly walked into the sprawling house like a regular. He’d been there twice before with friends who had vouched for him.

The place was jumping: swing music playing in one room, piano in another. Everybody had a drink even tho there wasn’t any bar. He knew that things were looser still in the back rooms, where you had to know somebody who knew somebody who was already in: sports, poker, blackjack, even craps and roulette—a regular Monte Carlo in miniature.

Leman was guarded. He didn’t like people snooping around his business, even if they were trying to find the killer of one of his employees. He sat behind his desk in a white suit and a red tie that made him look like a resort owner; but the eyes of a killer and the smirk of an ex-con gave it all away.

“This guy Carnegie,” Reilly said casually. “Was there somebody holding something against him, something personal?”

“I don’t think so. He wasn’t a loudmouth, Mr. Reilly. He did his job and kept his yap shut.”

“Mr. Leman, do you know who killed Carnegie?”

“No,” Leman spat.

“Do you care?”

Leman smoothed his thin mustache. “Yes. Yes I do. And if I find out who did it, I’ll make it personal. But why do you care, Reilly?”

“Did you know a fellow by the name of Van Dien?”

“Never heard of him.”

Reilly started to rise. He wasn’t finished, but he wanted to make it seem that way. “He seems to have gone the way of Carnegie—and in the same general vicinity: that little cottage you own near the woods off the county road.”

“I get it. Thank you, Mr. Reilly,” Leman said, also rising. “I don’t know that I’ve helped you, and I don’t know that you’ve helped me, but it’s good talking with a man who knows things. You’re welcome back here, if you like.”

“I’ve got friend who comes out here. Veronica Steading. Maybe you know her.” Reilly went to the door.

“One of my wife’s friends.”

“I see,” Reilly said, and slipped out into the hall with an odd feeling growing in his gut.

Across the hall, in a small room with a few people chatting animatedly, sat Veronica Steading. She had a handful of betting chips in her hand. When she saw Reilly, she crossed over to him immediately, drawing him out of the shadows and into the harsh lamplight in the room.

“Tom, come and meet some of my friends,” she said. She introduced him to a couple of people Reilly wasn’t interested in. He waited for her to point out Vic Leman’s wife, but she didn’t.

“What’s Leman’s wife’s name, Angel?”

“Vera. What makes you ask?”

“I just met him. I thought I’d meet her too.”

“There she is. I’ll introduce you.”

“You’re sweet.”

Vera Leman was  red-hot number in a red print dress that hugged every dirty curve of her body and pushed her breasts up like a cocktail tray. She liked to provoke—that was clear. She had her dark hair tied up with a red ribbon and sported heart-stopping lipstick to match.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Reilly,” she cooed. “Veronica has told me about you. It’s a shame what all has happened recently. I hope it doesn’t spoil our fun.”

Reilly didn’t know what to make of her. She seemed as cool and smooth as Veronica on the surface, but Reilly knew people, and he could tell that Vera Leman was a tigress underneath. Veronica left them to talk so she could go gamble away her father’s money, and Vera quickly cozied up to Reilly.

“Mr. Reilly, you’re a detective, aren’t you?”

Reilly grinned and affected a bashful look. “I guess I am, Mrs. Leman. I investigate divorce cases, missing persons—that sort of thing. I’m not a police detective, if that’s what you mean.”

“No it’s not. I mean you detect things. You’re looking into this Carnegie business, aren’t you?”

“I can’t discuss what I may be investigating, Mrs. Leman.”

“Hmmm.” The sleek brunette came closer, pressing Reilly back into the shadows. “You have a Roman profile, Detective Reilly. Anyone ever tell you that you have a Roman profile?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that.”

She touched him lightly. He could see the generous swell of pale breast rise and fall evenly. “You’re screwed down pretty tight, aren’t you Mr. Reilly?”

“Sometimes I think maybe I’ve got a screw loose somewhere.”

The sleek brunette tossed back her head and laughed, then she made her play. “I like the look of you, Tom Reilly. Veronica says you’re quite a man.”

“Does she?”

Vera Leman pressed against him, crushing her soft breasts against his chest. “Would you like to go into the back room, Mr. Reilly? Just for a little while...?”

“Mrs. Leman, I think I ought to be going,” Reilly said.

“Is it because I’m married, detective?” Vera asked, adjusting the knot of his tie. “I assure you, my husband will be sticking it to some little waitress tonight. I’ll amuse myself, and if it isn’t you, Mr. Reilly, it will only be someone else.”

“Like...Carnegie?”

“Hmmmph,” she smirked. She sauntered away, all curves and angles.

Reilly had a feeling that if her husband found out how she amused herself while he was away he’d be pretty steamed—even if he was up to the same shenanigans. Vic didn’t seem like the sort of guy who would see both sides.

He went looking for Veronica, careful not to make himself too conspicuous. He found a spot where he could watch her playing craps—and losing on foolish bets, but enjoying the drinks and company. He heard someone behind him—unusual in the confined space he’d found—and started to turn around. Just then, he felt a heavy blow on the back of his head, blacking out the world and silencing all the music and laughter.

 

“Mmmmm, ooh. Yes....” a woman’s voice moaned. Reilly swam up thru a thick haze. He was tied up with his hands behind his back. His hat and jacket were gone.

“Oh, darling,” came another woman’s voice—a familiar one. The room smelled of sickly-sweet smoke; an opium pipe lay not far away. Reilly’s vision cleared a little more; his head ached fiercely, but he knew well enough what he was seeing: Vera Leman was poised atop Veronica Steading on a sofa. Both the beautiful women were absolutely nude, their smooth, lean bodies writhing together in passion.

Vera bent her head down to Veronica’s. Their open mouths met and tasted each other deeply. Their tongues darted in and out, teasing, testing. Their hands caressed one another’s body. The two naked bodies slid together, kissing and touching, rocking in a lusty rhythm.

Veronica’s hands slipped down to Vera’s bottom, cupping her soft, round buttocks in her palms. “Oh, yes, darling,” Vera moaned. “More.” Veronica moaned wordlessly, lost in lust—or drugged into complete surrender.

They slid their bodies up and down, against one another, entwining their legs, pressing their pelvises together. “Yes, yes, do me,” Vera begged. “Harder! Yes!”

Their slow grind worked into quick, hard pumping, their moans turning to groans of ecstasy, their tongues toying with each other hotly. “Oh, God, Vera!” Veronica cried. “Oh! Oh!”

In a moment, the two women drove one another over the brink of orgasm, their heads thrashing, their bodies clenched tightly together to wring every last spasm of ecstasy out of each other.

Vera rolled off Veronica and lay close beside her on the sofa. Their bodies glistened with perspiration. Their breathing was shallow and heavy. “I love it with you, Vera,” Veronica said softly. “It’s perfect with you.” In reply, the older woman kissed her lesbian lover softly.

“So it’s Veronica who is amusing you tonight,” Reilly said, breaking the silence.

“Look who’s come around,” Vera smirked. “Yes, Detective Reilly, Veronica is sharing my pleasure this evening—as she often does. Turns out she likes a woman’s touch even more than a man’s.”

“Angel, how could you?” Reilly taunted.

But Veronica was abashed. “I’m sorry, Tom. I can’t help it.” Her speech was slurred, but not like he’d seen her before in an opium drunk. “I can’t help myself.”

“And now you’re going to knock me off, eh, Vera?” Reilly asked. “Did you knock off Carnegie for horning in on Veronica? And Van Dien too?”

Vera stood up and left Veronica naked on the sofa. Her tits were marvelous, jutting torpedoes. Her narrow waist spread suddenly to generous hips that pointed down to the V of her vagina. She slipped into a bra and panties and turned back to him. “You’re half right, stud. David Van Dien was a horny little devil, and he had to go. But Carnegie was just hungry for money. He was going to tell Vic about your little angel and me.”

Reilly tried to sit up, but couldn’t. He shuffled a bit to get more comfortable in his bonds. “How’d you do it, Vera? How’d you slip away after you killed Carnegie? I was on the scene in a second.”

Vera laughed and sat down on a little stool next to him. “I just drove away in his car, Reilly. I went there with Veronica in hers. You really are a clod.”

“When I’m up against a criminal mastermind, I must look pretty small.”

Vera stood again and picked up her dress. Reilly was getting a better idea of where they were: a private sitting room in the back of the Leman country house, someplace Vic wasn’t likely to go when he was done with his waitress. “I’m going to go now, Mr. Reilly. I’ve got to get something ready for you. I don’t want them finding you and asking a lot of questions.”

“Just like you got rid of Van Dien’s body? And just like you would have gotten rid of Carnegie, if I hadn’t barged in?”

“That’s right, stud.” She kissed the naked Veronica sweetly. “Keep an eye on him, darling. Don’t let him talk too much. I don’t trust him.” She slipped on a pair of heels and finished buttoning her dress. “I’ll only be a little while, and then we’ll be rid of him.” Then she left.

“Angel, she’s gone,” Reilly hissed. “Come and untie me.”

But Veronica was sleepy and drug-addled. “Vera said not to listen to you, Tom. I’m sorry. It’s for the best. You’ll see.”

“Honey, she’s going to kill me—just like she killed Van Dien. You remember him? You liked him, didn’t you? And she killed him so she could have you for herself.”

“Don’t say that, Tom! Vera loves me!”

“Oh, angel. Vera only loves herself. Come and untie me so we can talk.”

Veronica came to him, naked and innocent, and kissed him on the mouth. “I like you, Tom. You’re a good lover.” She untied his legs. “Will you make love to me again?”

“Anything, sweetheart. Just untie my hands.” He was desperate now. He didn’t know if Vera would be gone for an hour or only a minute. Was she going to dig a hole or just to pull the car around?

Suddenly, Reilly was free. He leaped up and kissed Veronica. “You sweet little fool.” He cast around the room for something to use as a weapon. Where had his pistol gotten to?

“Vic!?”

Reilly whirled. Vic Leman stood in the doorway wearing a baffled—but angry—look. “What the fuck is going on?” he growled. He saw the ropes lying on the floor. “Where’s Vera?”

Reilly went to him, feigning a casual manner. “Mr. Leman, Veronica and I just got a little overcome....” But Leman was ready when Reilly swung. The two traded blows for a minute, Leman taking an unlucky shot to the kisser. He gave Reilly a good poke to the eye, but Reilly was tough enough to take it and give it back. Leman went down like a sack of potatoes.

It only took Reilly a few minutes to tie Leman up and gag him, but it was precious time stolen from his search for a weapon. He begged Veronica to tell him where to find his gun, but she would hardly move from the sofa. She didn’t even get dressed.

“Got it!” the detective exclaimed. His jacket, hat, and holster had been stuffed in a cabinet.

“You have to get tied up again,” Veronica said dully.

“Of course, angel,” Reilly said, taking her face in his hands and kissing her. “Tie me up.” He sat back down and wrapped the ropes around one wrist. Leman was out of the way in a closet, and Reilly’s automatic was tucked into his waistband behind his back.

“I want to make love to you again,” the naked Veronica said softly, kissing Reilly and running her hands over him.

“Oh, angel, we’ve got to hurry.” He wrapped the ropes loosely around his ankles.

“She’ll never know,” the beautiful, dull-eyed girl whispered. She opened his pants and stroked his dick. It responded reflexively to her gently, urgent hands.

“Oh, Veronica,” Reilly moaned. “Take it in your mouth.” If Vera came in, she might catch Veronica sucking him off, but would think he was still tied up.

The nude girl bent over him where he lay on the floor, his pants open and dick already jutting out like a spike. She loved it with her tongue, tasting its salty flavor, teasing it’s tender underside. “Oh, angel, oh!” the man groaned.

Veronica ran her hands up and down Reilly’s shaft, mouthing just the tip, moaning and rocking back and forth on her heel, apparently getting herself off at the same time. Reilly groaned and panted, his balls clenching up with a hot load of semen. Veronica’s lips slid deeper down his shaft, taking more of him inside her mouth, making him groan more at the feeling of being inside her warm, wet hole.

“Oh, suck it, honey! Oh fuck it with your mouth! Oh, God, angel! You’re gonna make me come! Oh God!” Reilly’s hot jism boiled up in his cock and shot out into Veronica’s eager mouth. She sucked the tip of his dick, intensifying the pleasure to a level he had never felt, making him buck and spasm, trying to stuff all of his cock inside her mouth and shoot his creamy load down her throat.

“Oh FUCK! SUCK IT, ANGEL! SUCK IT! UNH!” Gob after gob of hot jism spurted out of his cock and onto Veronica’s tongue. She sucked it down and swallowed like it was ambrosia of the gods, all the while rocking hard on her heel and getting her wet pussy all the way to orgasm for herself.

“Jesus Christ!” Vera cursed angrily.

“Oh!” cried Veronica, pulling away from Reilly’s dick. “I was just sucking his cock, honey!” she squealed.

But Vera raised a rod to shoot them both dead on the spot. “You Goddamned whore!”

Reilly rolled away and came up with his automatic. Vera turned from Veronica to him and aimed true, but Reilly was quicker. He pumped two shots of bad medicine into Vera Leman’s chest before she squeezed off one round.

“Vera!” Veronica screamed, lunging towards her and covering her body with her own. But it was too late. The blood poured out of her wounded heart and puddled all around her, soaking the poor, innocent, little rich girl. She sobbed uncontrollably, groping for the gun Vera had wielded at her only moments before. But Reilly was ahead of the hysterical girl and stepped firmly on the pistol before she could point it at herself—or at him.

Kip Killabrew accepted the story that Vera Leman killed Van Dien and Carnegie and would have killed Reilly. The fingerprint evidence would help establish her intent toward Reilly, at least. The detective sergeant shook his head in disbelief, tho, when Reilly told him it was all over an affair with an “unknown person” that she didn’t want her husband to find out about.

“You’re a better detective than that, Reilly. I think you know who else was involved.”

“All I know is who pointed the roscoe at me and what she said about Van Dien and Carnegie,” Reilly claimed. But Killabrew was happy enough to finally have Vic Leman delivered to him tied up in ribbons and bows—even tho most of the smaller fish had fled the operation when they realized that the cops were on their way in and Leman wasn’t around to tell them what to do.

“This is some big case, Reilly. I hope somebody’s payin’ your tab.”

Reilly’s thoughts went to old man Steading and his drug-addled, switch-hitting daughter. “I’ve got a client,” Reilly muttered. “But I don’t know how happy he’s going to be that I’ve wrapped up the case.”