TeeHeeLawrence
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***The following shamefully long-overdue tickle tale is copyright 2008 by the author.
***It features a wee bit of m/f upper body tickling, a bit more f/f upper body and foot tickling, and a good taste of */ff foot tickling.
***This tale is not meant for readers less than 18 years of age, as it involves slapstick and mangling of the English language that developing minds should not be exposed to.
***All of the principals in this tale are 18 and older, as well…except for one with four feet.
Hard-boiled, soft-soled…she’s T.G. Abramowitz, private investigator, and…
SHE LAUGHS AT DANGER!
By Tee Hee Lawrence
(as it first appeared in Spicy Shamus Stories, May-Oct., 1937)
The story so far…
Silk stocking socialite Letitia Manning retains boop-a-doop blonde bombshell T.G. (Teresa Golda) Abramowitz to recover a salacious diary of ticklish affairs held by blackmailer Henrietta Bienstock. After taking ticklish measure of Letitia’s tootsies to establish her cootchy-coo credibility, T.G. decides to sniff out the hot diary undercover at the Bienstock mansion …
(Those who missed Chapter One are strongly encouraged to read it here: http://www.ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?t=119056)
Chapter Two: “Dogged Detectives”
My puppies were barkin’, hardly news ‘cuz they were crammed into way-too-small shiny black high heels an’ topped with bristly bows that tickled my ankles. But, then, the whole lacy black’n’white outfit, which wouldna been outta place on a dockside Annie, was tight at all the joints ‘n’ made me itch besides. All I needed was a feathered beret, tho’ what I got was a gauzy headpiece that kept slippin’ over my eyes.
But, I took the aches an’ the tickles wit’ the itches, ‘cuz the get-up—and a curly black wig—were the disguise that got me into Henrietta Bienstock’s Fifth Avenoo mansion this Saturday night. My pal Mo had got me the get-up an’ gig as one of the caterer’s cuties serving this swanky party. This gal gumshoe belonged there like a moose at the Met, but I figured, in all th’ hubbub, I might nose ‘round for the hot diary Henny was holdin’ over my new client, “Feathers.”
Mo was Maureen McMorin, a pal since Teddy Roosevelt High. Even then, dark-eyed, husky-voiced, full-figured, an’ auburn-haired Mo (barely five feet in ‘er petite bare feet) was a kewpie doll magnet for wannabe wolves, who soon learned that disrespectin’ her would get ‘em a kick in the head from me. (The funny thing was that some of those guys, likin’ my roughhousin’, turned their searchlights on me, so I wasn’t short of sport neither.)
While I went into the cops’ steno pool, Mo went on to City College an’ became traffic manager for an in-law’s catering service. A few years ago, she got engaged t’ some guy she met at Lake Placid. Like any pal wit’ police pull, I took the liberty of runnin’ a background check on the mug, who doused hisself wit’ rummy cologne. Sure enough, Rummy turned out ta be a bigamist from Buffalo. Mo is still grateful, so she makes wit’ inside dope on the Silk Stockin’ District swells her company caters to.
Feathers’ perfume was still lingerin’ in my office when sleepy Mo admitted that yeah, her company was providin’ party service for the Bienstock ta-do on Saturday. The Bienstocks were such picky so-and-so’s that Mo was slippin’ on a maid’s outfit herself to pitch in.
Still, when I asked if there was a spare maid’s get up so I could tag along “on bizness,” she squawked, “Terry, you’re NOT serious!” (Outside my folks, Mo’s the only one who c’n call me Terry ‘n’ live.) She piped down pronto, tho’, when I started hummin’ “Shuffle Off to Buffalo.”
That’s how I found myself tarted up, twitchin’ n’ itchin’ ‘n’ holdin’ a tray fulla crackers wit’ shmeers of stinky cheese on ‘em in Henny’s ballroom. On the El uptown, Mo had made me swear t’ be on my best behavior: no gum chewin’, smile a lot and watch my smart mouth. I crossed my heart, ‘cuz I needed a low profile to do some snoopin’.
Usually, in extortion cases like this, a PI’s hired ta be a go-between, a line ‘tween the fisherman and the hooked. Ticklish as her situation was, my client Lee was hell-bent on not turning over a nickel to Henny for the diary. So, that left me ta practice a riskier means o’ recovery, one that definitely put me on the shady side o’ the law. It’s not that I’m squeamish ‘bout burglary, but if I got caught, bein’ a PI, I could lose my license AND my freedom, no laughin’ matter.
I’d twisted Mo’s arm to get me the joint’s layout her boss used to plan this orgy, and which conveniently ID’d the private areas. Still, the map didn’t prepare me for how rich Henny’s digs were. It was huge—might as well have BEEN the Met--with high ceilin’s drippin’ with crystal, marble floors, paintin’s o’ fox hunts an’ frolickin’ fauns, vases on pedestals darin’ ya t’ knock ‘em off, statues o’ near nekkid guys ‘n’ dolls, and furniture I figured was looted from some Continental castle. You coulda moved a prizefight from the Garden t’ the ballroom, easy, an’ still had room for a dog show.
Roomy as it was, the joint was packed with so many swells in Paris originals and monkey suits that it was bustlin’ like Broadway when the shows let out. The band on the stand was runnin’ the Hit Parade, and I knew a few of the guys from much hotter, wee hour jam sessions in Harlem clubs. I was happy the mob an’ my mufti kept those razzmatazz Romeos from blowin’ my cover. I couldn’t miss one giant of a sax blower, tho—guy musta been just shy of seven feet—whose big mitts made his ax look like a kazoo. ‘Noticed he was eyein’ the crowd ‘stead of the bandleader or his music.
Luggin’ a silver tray with fancy eats, I tiptoed thru th’ throng on tender tootsies, offerin’ the chow, keepin’ an eye out for the hostess, whose pics I’d peeped on clippin’s a pal in the Trib morgue had rustled up for me. Believe me, it wasn’t easy eyeballin’ while keepin’ that tray level and smilin’ ‘til my jaw ached! Finally I found her, gabbin’ wit’ a group, includin’ some tiny Oriental doll dressed in red silk down to her white socks and wooden sandals. I planted myself by an armless marble dame so I could spy on Henny and sample her patter.
Henny was a pretty statuesque dame herself, prac’ly glowin’ in a silver lame gown flowin’ down her 5’ 9” curvy form like a glitterin’ Niagara to matchin’ high-heeled evenin’ slippers. The world-class sparklers she wore cast even more candlepower on her kinky brown hair, big hazel eyes, and rosy lips that guarded a tight smile. I figured her for 35—thanks to a few telltale lines even her salon couldn’t hide—the still handsome trophy wife of a gray round gent, much older, much shorter, who was, ‘ccordin’ to the Trib, the eleventh richest banker in town, and who stood by, sayin’ nothin’ while Henny chattered.
She was gushin’ over this pudgy little pug dog nestlin’ quiet in the crook of her arm.
“And THIS is Cyrano! Isn’t he JUST darling?”
Sure, he was “just darling,” if you liked a mutt what had its snout pushed in with a shovel and its bulgin’ eyes about to roll outta its shmooshed face. It snorted ev’ry other moment, and it drooled ‘tween snorts. The circle chatted about the mutt a while, before breakin’ up, leaving Henny ‘n’ hound alone wit’ the kimonoed cutie. Their voices got lower, so I left the statue to give ‘em a close pass.
Suddenly, I felt frisky fingers clutchin’ both my sides. I yelped, “Heyhehhehheh!” I let go of the tray and it fell with a crash, crackers flyin’ and landin’--goopy side down--all over Henny and her mutt.
“Oh, my! Awfully sorry, wot?” came a Limey voice, and I turned to bawl him out. He was a pale gent, late ‘30s, with thin sandy hair and wet, hazy blue eyes, his tie undone and tangled with his monocle. He was tryin’ hard to stand up tall, but he had a snootful for sure. Before I could lay into him, Mo appeared, caught my elbow, and yanked me back.
“Terry, I thought ya knew whatcha were doin’,” she muttered. “You wanna get us both bounced?” She was all over the stunned hostess, pickin’ crackers off her gown and daubin’ her with a damp cloth, apologizin’ away. “I’m sooo sorry, Mrs. Bienstock. Terry is new and she’s a little, ah, skittish.”
“Ahhehheh! I see,” Henny said through clenched teeth, she and her pop-eyed mutt givin’ me glares. “Oh, well, accidents will happen, hehheh. Please clean up the, ah, debris, miss.” Some low profile this was! She turned to Crimson Kimono, saying, “Please excuse me, Miss Fuyume. I’ll just dash upstairs and change.”
Mo handed me the tray and, kneeling, hissed, “C’mon, Ter’. Help me pick up this mess.”
I knelt down beside her, pickin’ up cheese blobs and busted crackers, when the English klutz whose rib tickle set me jumpin’ knelt next to me. We banged heads an’ I dropped the tray again. “Look, pal, lemme alone,” I grumbled.
“Haw haw! My, but you’re GOR-geous when you’re angry!” He was so plastered, even on his knees he nearly keeled over. “I was feeling a bit peckish and saw your comestibles and, reaching for them, QUITE accidentally grabbed you.” Somehow, his helpful hand slipped under my skirt an’ gave my right knee a squeeze.
Yelpin’ “Hey!” an’ standin’ tall, I lowered the tray on his noggin. I stepped over ‘im, mashin’ his toes wit’ my heel, beelinin’ for the kitchen. There, I had another tray foisted on me, this time piled wit’ a mess of chopped liver on rye toast. What I wouldna given for a swig of Ol’ Stonewall! I was heading back out, hopin’ Henny was back shmoozin’, when Mo met me. “Terry, you gotta be careful. If Mrs. Bienstock squawks at my boss, we’ll both be sitting out on the curb. I vouched for you.”
Henny had returned, wearin’ a sparklin’ blue silk number with matchin’ slippers. I figured I’d be scarce and scoped ‘er workin’ the room from a safe distance. She natch was meetin’ and greetin’ bunches. But I noticed that she would take an occasional guy or doll aside for a quick palaver, and sometimes a note would be passed, real furtive like. An’ Big Boy in the band, well, his eyes NEVER left her. I dunno what jazz his ax was playin’, but his eyes were followin’ a diff score.
I didn’t know if all this hugger mugger had anything to do with Feathers’ diary, but, when I’m onto somethin’, my toes wiggle, and, even in those high-heeled vises, my toes were jumpin’ an’ jivin’.
Another tray (this one gobs o’ fishy goop on black bread, yuck) later, Henny was havin’ a whisper fest wit’ a honey blonde wearin’ a green gauzy frock. Henny was smilin’. Blondie wasn’t. I decided to edge a little closer. Nearin’ Henny, I found myself in a clot of swells, so I lifted the tray high over my head to cut through.
That’s when I felt five fingers fandango under each arm and a knee push mine from behind. I cried, “Aiiieee!” like a banshee, but, worse, began fallin’ forward towards Henny and Blondie, the tray tiltin’ over. I knew that if my eats bulleseyed Henny again, I’d be hustled out and pitched out on my keister onto Fifth Ave--with Mo prob right behind me--my undercover crapped out an’ Feather’s diary bound for the front page.
I yanked my arms down and, closin’ my baby blues, landed face first on my tray of smelly fish right in front of Henny and the honey blonde.
Henny looked askance, but the blonde cooed, “I must say, my deah, you have the most AMUSING floor show.”
“Oh, my, my! How frightfully careless of me!”
Lifting my puss from the fish, I didn’t need to see him to know who it was behind me.
Smiling sheepishly, the Limey helped me ta my feet an’ began swabbin’ at me with a mammoth monogrammed hankie. “I was just reaching for one of your yummies when you lifted the tray, and, well, hehheh…oops!” He was getting’ mighty familiar brushin’ my front with that hankie.
Undercover or no, I was ready ta do murder, when Mo appeared, knelt an’ picked up the tray with one hand, while grabbin’ my elbow wit’ the other. As Henny and the blonde stared, she smiled at ‘em and gave me a shove, but not before I’d flicked a fishy wad onta the monocle of the Limey, who cried, “I say!” As Mo drew me away, I could hear Henny ask, “Wasn’t that the same girl who…?” an’ then, “Has she been drinking?” OK, the eavesdroppin’ parta my operation was kiboshed, but good.
Mo dragged me into the kitchen, tryin’ to clean me up. “Aw, we’ll NEVER get this caviar off your dress, Terry! Why couldn’t you be more careful?”
I was seething. “Look, Mo, you think I was tryin’ to audition for The Three Stooges? That—lousy Limey lush…he keeps findin’ me!”
“Well, you can’t go out there again. Look, lay low; if the boss comes in, grab a plate and start dryin’ it. I’ll be back soon.” She took a tray heavin’ wit’ more finger food from an impatient lookin’ chef. Before she hit the ballroom, I asked her to keep an eye on Henny, an’ lemme know if she seemed ‘specially chummy wit’ anyone. Mo sighed, but muttered, “Ooo-kay!” as she went through the swingin’ doors.
Well, if I couldn’t spy on Henny, I’d switch to a little breakin’ ‘n’ enterin’. One thing was for sure: in that slinky get-up, she wasn’t carryin’ no diary. I pulled outta my lacy pocket the li’l’ map of the joint Mo got for me. I zeroed in on “the Madame’s Bedroom,” a good bet as to where she stashed her valuables, blackmail booty included. The party was goin’ good. Henny was busy mixin’. ‘Time for me t’ do some dirty trixin’.
All hands were so busy cookin’, preppin’, and washin’ in the steamy kitchen, nobody paid me no mind as I snuck a coupla plates of food, a pair of champagne glasses, and a bottle o’ bubbly on a tray. It was my ticket to the livin’ quarters upstairs. I was figurin’ that most of the regular help was pitchin’ in downstairs. If anyone left above stopped me, I could say I was bringin’ up a late supper for the Bienstocks. That—an’ (if a guy) my helpless blonde act or (if a girl) my “Ain’t these rich folks silly?” smile—should see me t’ da boudoir in question.
One detail on the map made me grin. At the back of the kitchen was a handy little service elevator. The winding marble front stairway was prob covered, and slinkin’ up either of the back staircases wit’ a full tray and my pinchin’ heels seemed like scalin’ the Alps. Nah, the little ‘vator was my chariot to the fourth floor, where Henny slept an’, I hoped, stashed.
I got in the little elevator and pushed the button for four. Suddenly the door was pulled open. I figured someone noticed my sneakin’ in there an’ was gonna chew me out. It was Mo, red-faced and pullin’ the door shut behind her. The elevator started up, slow and kinda shaky.
“What are YOU doin’?
“Uh, I thought I’d, uh, y’know, nose ‘round for my client.”
“Aw, Terry, you’re gonna get us BOTH in the hoosegow.”
I hummed a few bar of “Shuffle Off To Buffalo.”
“Awright, awright! But I’m goin’ with you! If they pinch ya, it’s MY neck,
too!”
“OK, Mo, you can be my deputy.” I winked at ‘er, but she didn’t seem impressed.
Instead, as the ‘vator wobbled up, she muttered, “I was doin’ what you said…keepin’ an eye on the hostess as I served…when I felt ticklin’ on my sides. It was that pickled Brit.”
“Guy’s like an octopus, huh?”
“You’re not kiddin’. I managed to hang onto my tray, but I broke my heel.” She peered down at her heelless right shoe. “Limped back to the kitchen where the pastry chef told me he saw you duckin’ in here.”
The elevator stopped. Seein’ no one in the dim hall lined with spotlighted paintin’s an’ statues, we high stepped it to Henny’s bedroom door.
The bedroom door was locked, natch, but they ain’t made the lock that I couldn’t tease open wit’ my trusty reinforced hairpin. I handed Mo the tray an’ went t’ work. I tickled the latch, it gave, and I hustled Mo in, lockin’ the door behind us.
I pulled my palpitatin’ puppies outta them black leather torture chambers, sighin’, “Geez, that feels GOOD!” I wiggled my stockin’ toes in a plush carpet.
I stepped to the tall windows an’ drew closed the fancy curtains before clickin’ on the special compact police-issue flashlight I’d had in my lacy pocket. (My unks on the Force made cracks about “our niece the shamus,” but they were swell wit’ the latest gear.) I swept the light across the room, all done up in the latest Art Deco fashion. There was a huge white bed, next to which was a mirrored vanity with a jewel box, a white telephone, and a lotta perfume and nail polish bottles.
Balancin’ on her left foot, Mo was holdin’ the tray wit’ one hand as she examined the heelless shoe she was clutchin’ in t’other. I padded around her, my light catchin’ the ball of her pink foot peekin’ through a two-bit hole in her dark stockin’. At the vanity, me ‘n’ my hairpin began to tickle open the jewel box.
Unsteady, Mo blurted, “Terry, just what is it that you’re lookin’ for?” I heard her rattlin’ the tray.
“Shhh! Set that thing down, Mo, ‘fore you drop it!”
Mo hissed, “Huh! I’m NOT the butterfingers around here!” The rattlin’ stopped. She suddenly was right behind me, whisperin’ “Can’t ya even give me a clue so I can help ya?”
I handed her the light. “Here. Keep it steady.” Workin’ the tricky lock, I muttered, “Mo, don’t you have someplace you stash your secrets?”
She whispered, “You mean, like a diary?”
I heard a click, and grinned. “Give the Kewpie doll a Kewpie doll.” I opened the box, which began playin’ a lullaby. “Geez….” The box was crammed with sparklers. It was like a branch o’ Tiffany’s.
“Wow!” Mo said aloud.
“Shh! Yeah, good stuff, but it ain’t here.” I closed the lid. Takin’ the light from Mo, I swept it across the bed to the long mirrored closet. “Uh-huh!”
As I stepped towards the closet, Mo whispered, “Whose diary and what’s in it?”
By the foot of the bed, I stepped inta somethin’ sticky. “Augh! What th--!” I pointed the light down ‘n’ saw that I’d planted both my stockin’ feet on the tray—right inna plate fulla fatty chopped liver.
Rollin’ my eyes, I whispered, “Ah, Mo…where didja put that tray I handed you?
“I put it on the floor by the…oh…sorry!”
Grumblin’ words that woulda made my tough cop unks blush, I flashed my soles and saw that the gunk had seeped inta both my stockin’s from the tips o’ my toes near to m’ heels. My wigglin’ toes felt sticky, ‘specially ‘tween my big and second right toes, where a wad o’ liver had oozed through a dime-sized hole in m’ stockin’.
“Awww, Mo!” I hissed. “Gimme a towel from that bathroom.” I flashed a door and Mo, one shoe on, dashed in and came out with a pink hand towel monogrammed “H.”
Sittin’ on the bed, I wiped off the worst of the liver, but my stockin’s were still soaked an’ my toes stuck together. I handed Mo the towel, sighing, “Ain’t it bad enough I awready smell like a fishin’ boat?”
“I SAID I was sorry, Ter’,” she muttered.
“Ferget it!” I hissed. I jumped up, givin’ the closet the eye, when we heard a haughty voice right outside the room.
“Will you please give my regrets to our guests, dear? Suffering those nitwits serving tonight has SIMPLY exhausted me. I think Cyrano and I will retire early.”
“Holy--! We gotta hide!” Mo leaped to the closet ‘n’ tugged on the mirrored door. “It’s locked! Who locks a closet?”
Someone with somethin’ to hide, maybe, I thought. “Shhh! Com’ere!” I grabbed her and pulled her to the foot of the big bed. Somehow, she too managed to stick HER stocking foot right in the liver on the tray—STILL on the damn floor!
“Eeeww!” she gasped.
“’Serves you right,” I spat, holding up the frilly silk bed cover and hissed, “Get down there, grab the tray ‘n towel, and crawl under.”
“Aw, no! In there?” We heard a key rattling in the lock. “Yipe!” Mo dove and, pushing the tray before her, pulled herself in. with me adding some oomph to her cute tush.
Outside, I heard Henny say, “Leonard, I can’t seem to open this door. Can you help me?” Mo had stopped movin’, her legs below the knees still showin’. I scratched her upturned liverish sole. With a muffled “Hey!” she slipped completely under.
The key turned in the lock. “Oh, you got it! Thank you!”
Clutchin’ my shoes, I made like a snake and slithered under the bed beside her. It wasn’t the first time I’d hidden under a bed. It’s the part of a PI’s job--mostly in divorce cases--that ain’t in Black Mask. But I’d never had a full-figured floor mate. Add a whole lotta shoes ‘n’ hat boxes and it was a pretty tight squeeze. I just pulled my toes past that lacy edge when the lights came on.
I was under the head of the bed with Mo breathin’ on my neck behind me. There was enough of a view under the cover that I saw the glittering hem of Henny’s gown grazin’ her fancy evenin’ slippers as she locked the door.
“Ooooh, what a relief, my darling! I thought we’d never get away from ALL those people!”
Since her hubby hadn’t followed, either she was batty or she was talkin’ to that ugly mutt, still in her arms.
Those fancy blue evenin’ slippers walked past the bed. I heard a key rattlin’ and a door slidin’ followed by, “Mommy’s just getting the naughty book out of its hiding place.”
I almost groaned aloud. I KNEW that diary had been in the closet. If I’d only had a coupla minutes more...
Mo breathed in my ear, “Naughty? What’s in it?”
I mumbled back, “Ticklin’ ‘n’ … stuff!”
“Huh?” Mo prodded my back with her fingers, not realizin’ THAT kinda tickled, ’causin’ me to shimmy. “Cut it out, Mo!” I hissed.
“Now, we‘ll make one little phone call and see who wins this lovely diary.”
Henny stepped around the bed and sat right above me, makin’ the tight squeeze tighter.
She sighed, “Ooo, snookums, these new shoes have been just been TORTURING my feet.” First one, then the other shoe landed on the floor before me. Her stockin’ feet shoved them under the bed, pushin’ a pair of feathery pink bedroom slippers prac’ly under my nose. “Ah, that’s better! Mommy’s feet are so tender.” She crossed her legs, her toes wigglin’ happily. SHE had a hole at her right heel.
Mo fidgeted behind me, accidentally giving my ribs a poke. I jerked, pushin’ my nose inta the feathers toppin’ Henny’s slippers, ticklin’ my nostrils enough so I felt a sneeze comin’. It almost got out…I fought it…it fought back…my eyes shut…my mouth open…. “Ah…ah…!”
Mo nervously tickled my back. “Terry, NO!”
“Ah…ah…”
And Henny saved me. I heard her pick up the phone and tell the operator, “Murray Hill 2243.” Her hand came feelin’ under the bed, her fingers stoppin’ inches from my nose, and grabbed the tickly slippers. Relieved, I swallowed the sneeze.
Puttin’ on the slippers, she said, “This is Penny Serenade. Have you decided on your final bid?” I was hangin’ on every word. If I coulda stretched my ear, I woulda.
“Oh, come now, Madame Plume!” She was danglin’ her slipper off her jigglin’ left foot. “I’ve taken several very generous bids already this evening….” So THAT’S what she was doin’ workin’ the ballroom. The megillah was a cover for auction action, wit’ the notes bearin’ bids.
“Either make an offer, or someone else is going to get this book…and the formula. ”
Now, that floored me (not that it was hard at the time). Formula? Feathers HAD been holdin’ somethin’ back. This wasn’t JUST about some kitchey-coo cuddlin’.
“Ah, now THAT’s better…. Yes, I’m happy to say that is the largest figure bid…. Where can we make the, ah, exchange?”
The pooch began whinin’ and made with a snort and a high bark. “Now, Cyrano, Mommy is VERY busy.” She plopped the mutt on the floor. I held my breath, fearin’ he’d start barkin’ and rat us out. Instead, he growled a little, snufflin’ ‘n’ shovin’ his drooly puss inta my face.
Above, Henny said somethin’ that jolted me. “Wait? There’s someone here in the house already?” Had she heard us? “You presumed much…and HE has a blank personal check signed by you?” He? Check? What th--?
The mutt snorted ‘n’ I got a faceful of doggie drool. Tryin’ to push’im away, I reached past him an’ poked the bottom of Henny’s danglin’ foot. Above, she squealed, “Ahhahahaha! Bad boy! Mustn’t tickle Mommy!” Henny’s hand reached in, seekin’ Snorty. I held my breath, as Mo nervously tickled my back. Finally, Henny grabbed the mutt’s neck, and lifted him away. “Wicked little Cyrano! You know Mommy’s ticklish!” I exhaled, and behind me, heard Mo do the same.
“No, no! I’m not laughing at YOU! But, REALLY…a check! You must think me a tenderfoot….”
She dumped the mutt onna floor again. I was ready to slug’im, but this time, he buried his nose in the carpet and snuffled towards the foot of the bed.
“I suppose I’ll just have to accept one of the OTHER standing bids. They’ve all promised immediate cash payment here tonight….”
The mutt went outta sight, but I heard him growling at the foot of the bed.
“Quiet, Cyrano! WAIT! If I bring the diary to YOU, you GUARANTEE what amount... in cash? … Well--Quiet, sweetie! --For that amount—in CASH--I’ll GLADLY come to you. But, I warn you, if you don’t have that sum IN CASH ready upon my arrival…. Fine…. What’s the address? …Wait! I’ll write it down….”
I was really listenin’ hard then. I could even feel Mo listenin’ hard behind me. She was again unconsciously dancin’ her fingers on my back, but I wouldn’t let a little ticklin’ distract me.
“OK, repeat that….”
‘N’ that’s when I felt it! Somethin’ strokin’ across my upturned stockin’ toes, ticklin’em fierce! I jerked, bangin’ my head ‘gainst the bed frame. I bit my tongue, swallowin’ a curse. Giggles were bubblin’ up my throat, tryin’ t’ get out. I pressed my lips together hard! I tried movin’ my feet, but crammed under there ‘tween Mo and all that junk, I couldn’t move’m far. Back there, there was a snort, then a snuffle, then more toe ticklin’!
It was that ugly, runty mutt! He was lappin’ the pads of my stockin’ toes with his hot ‘n’ wet l’il’ tongue. The liver! That lousy lapdog was lickin’ up the liver lubin’ my ticklish toes. Like he was a starvin’ mongrel, he greedily licked ‘n’ licked, each rough, wet lick ticklin’ like hell. I dunno how I was keepin’ the giggles in. My tummy was flippin’ and I musta been turnin’ borscht purple.
After every meaty morsel, Poochie kept varyin’ his tastin’. He moved his tongue up and down along the middle of my greasy soles, the stockin’s makin’ each lick ticklin’ agony. The creepy cur then flicked his tongue fast ‘n’ feathery ACROSS my sauced soles, teasin’ every liverish tender wrinkle as I shivered ‘n’ quivered. Then, he worked over my toes more, pushin’ that scratchy tongue ‘tween ‘em. When his tongue snaked into the hole in my stockin’, I nearly lost it. The wet tip lapped at the blob of liver there, ticklin’ ‘tween my big and second toes so I had to push my fist inta my mouth.
An’ sometimes, he wasn’t satisfied ta just lick. He’d nibble at the sides of my feet with his tiny teeth, not breakin’ the stockin’s or skin but ticklin’ me awful. He gave my toes the toothy treatment, too, and that was plain MURDER!
“That’s not very far. A cab should have me there in minutes.” The address! Tickled silly, I was so busy chokin’ back my giggles that I missed what she said!
“Really…. It’s a shoe store? … What’s the name of the shop?”
Just then, Fido let up on lickin’ my toes, and, sighin’, I strained t’ hear.
Suddenly, Mo began REALLY diggin’ her fingernails inta my sides and I nearly yelped. What the hell was SHE ticklin’ me for? Clampin’ my hands over my mouth, I couldn’t help gigglin’. An' alla while I'm scared that Henny would stop talkin' an' hear ME squeakin’.
I DID hear an all too familiar snort at the rear. Even silly, I knew then I was still gettin’ tickled ‘cuz Pudgy had moved over to lick Mo’s smeared sole, makin’ her giggle inta my neck and blindly squeeze my sides. I was goin’ nuts again, doin’ everythin’ I could to keep from laughin’ out loud as Mo floundered behind me.
When I felt her nails REALLY dig inta my ribs, I knew that mutt musta found the bare ball of Mo’s foot, spicy slick with liver. His wet, scratchy tongue musta been lickin’ ‘n’ lickin’ that spot, over and over. I could hear Mo strainin’ then to swallow her helpless giggles as she was helplessly makin’ ME swallow mine.
And just like THAT—the torture stopped. Mo and I couldn’t help sighing simultaneous like.
Henny had pulled the pooch out from under—not carin’ what was ticklin’is fancy. She sang, “Come, my darling! Mommy has to go out, but I’ll bring you to Chef and see that you get a nice midnight snack.”
Midnight snack! The greedy mutt prac’ly chewed off my toes! ‘N’ worse, he kept me from hearin’ where Henny was about to sell Feathers’ book!
I saw her walk to the door an’ open it. “How does a nice big plate of chopped liver sound?”
Yeah, right, I thought. The little bastard NEVER gets THAT.
She locked the door behind her. I grunted as I pushed aside slippers ‘n’ boxes to crawl out from under. Standin’ woozy on my still tinglin’ feet, my sides achin’, I turned on the lamp on the bedside table and grabbed the pad and pencil below it.
“T-Terry,” Mo hissed from under the bed. “I-is that horrible little dog g-gone?”
“Yeah, Mo,” I muttered, busy rubbing the lead point of the pencil lightly over the marks Henny’s writing had left on the pad. “Get your tushie outta there.”
“I thought I’d DIE!” she bleated as she huffed’n’puffed her way to stand shakily beside me. “I was sure she’d hear us!”
“Yeah, well, you did good, partner…” I said, smilin’ cuz the name and address of the place Henny was headed was showin’ ‘neath m’tracin’. “…even if you tickled me almost as bad as that little creep.”
“I’m sorry, Ter’.” Mo moaned. “But I couldn’t STAND it! He was licking my foot and it tickled SO much!” She noticed the clock on the table. “Holy…! Is it THAT late? Oh, my boss is probably fuming looking for us! He’s my in-law, but he’ll probably fire me!”
“Forget about it, Mo! You’re workin’ wit’ me now! I need a secretary.”
“Huh?”
“Here.” I handed her my keys. “Put your shoe on and go down to my office and wait for my call. You can sleep there. Gotta cot folded in the closet.”
“A-all right! But what about that tray under the bed?”
“Leave it there! ‘Cyrano’ can clean it up! Huh!” I grunted as I shoved my still sticky and tingly feet into those shoes, tighter than ever.
“Wait! Where’re YOU goin’?”
“826 Madison.” My hairpin did its stuff and I peered out the door. “A joint called ‘Pieds de Paree’.” I led clueless Mo to the elevator. “I wonder if Henny really knows what’s in that diary.” We started down to the kitchen, where, I hoped, we could sneak out the back without bein’ roped into servin’ more slop to swells. I smirked, “If not, she could be walkin’ inta a real ticklish situation.”
(Yes, I fear it’s time to close with: TO BE CONTINUED!)
***It features a wee bit of m/f upper body tickling, a bit more f/f upper body and foot tickling, and a good taste of */ff foot tickling.
***This tale is not meant for readers less than 18 years of age, as it involves slapstick and mangling of the English language that developing minds should not be exposed to.
***All of the principals in this tale are 18 and older, as well…except for one with four feet.
Hard-boiled, soft-soled…she’s T.G. Abramowitz, private investigator, and…
SHE LAUGHS AT DANGER!
By Tee Hee Lawrence
(as it first appeared in Spicy Shamus Stories, May-Oct., 1937)
The story so far…
Silk stocking socialite Letitia Manning retains boop-a-doop blonde bombshell T.G. (Teresa Golda) Abramowitz to recover a salacious diary of ticklish affairs held by blackmailer Henrietta Bienstock. After taking ticklish measure of Letitia’s tootsies to establish her cootchy-coo credibility, T.G. decides to sniff out the hot diary undercover at the Bienstock mansion …
(Those who missed Chapter One are strongly encouraged to read it here: http://www.ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?t=119056)
Chapter Two: “Dogged Detectives”
My puppies were barkin’, hardly news ‘cuz they were crammed into way-too-small shiny black high heels an’ topped with bristly bows that tickled my ankles. But, then, the whole lacy black’n’white outfit, which wouldna been outta place on a dockside Annie, was tight at all the joints ‘n’ made me itch besides. All I needed was a feathered beret, tho’ what I got was a gauzy headpiece that kept slippin’ over my eyes.
But, I took the aches an’ the tickles wit’ the itches, ‘cuz the get-up—and a curly black wig—were the disguise that got me into Henrietta Bienstock’s Fifth Avenoo mansion this Saturday night. My pal Mo had got me the get-up an’ gig as one of the caterer’s cuties serving this swanky party. This gal gumshoe belonged there like a moose at the Met, but I figured, in all th’ hubbub, I might nose ‘round for the hot diary Henny was holdin’ over my new client, “Feathers.”
Mo was Maureen McMorin, a pal since Teddy Roosevelt High. Even then, dark-eyed, husky-voiced, full-figured, an’ auburn-haired Mo (barely five feet in ‘er petite bare feet) was a kewpie doll magnet for wannabe wolves, who soon learned that disrespectin’ her would get ‘em a kick in the head from me. (The funny thing was that some of those guys, likin’ my roughhousin’, turned their searchlights on me, so I wasn’t short of sport neither.)
While I went into the cops’ steno pool, Mo went on to City College an’ became traffic manager for an in-law’s catering service. A few years ago, she got engaged t’ some guy she met at Lake Placid. Like any pal wit’ police pull, I took the liberty of runnin’ a background check on the mug, who doused hisself wit’ rummy cologne. Sure enough, Rummy turned out ta be a bigamist from Buffalo. Mo is still grateful, so she makes wit’ inside dope on the Silk Stockin’ District swells her company caters to.
Feathers’ perfume was still lingerin’ in my office when sleepy Mo admitted that yeah, her company was providin’ party service for the Bienstock ta-do on Saturday. The Bienstocks were such picky so-and-so’s that Mo was slippin’ on a maid’s outfit herself to pitch in.
Still, when I asked if there was a spare maid’s get up so I could tag along “on bizness,” she squawked, “Terry, you’re NOT serious!” (Outside my folks, Mo’s the only one who c’n call me Terry ‘n’ live.) She piped down pronto, tho’, when I started hummin’ “Shuffle Off to Buffalo.”
That’s how I found myself tarted up, twitchin’ n’ itchin’ ‘n’ holdin’ a tray fulla crackers wit’ shmeers of stinky cheese on ‘em in Henny’s ballroom. On the El uptown, Mo had made me swear t’ be on my best behavior: no gum chewin’, smile a lot and watch my smart mouth. I crossed my heart, ‘cuz I needed a low profile to do some snoopin’.
Usually, in extortion cases like this, a PI’s hired ta be a go-between, a line ‘tween the fisherman and the hooked. Ticklish as her situation was, my client Lee was hell-bent on not turning over a nickel to Henny for the diary. So, that left me ta practice a riskier means o’ recovery, one that definitely put me on the shady side o’ the law. It’s not that I’m squeamish ‘bout burglary, but if I got caught, bein’ a PI, I could lose my license AND my freedom, no laughin’ matter.
I’d twisted Mo’s arm to get me the joint’s layout her boss used to plan this orgy, and which conveniently ID’d the private areas. Still, the map didn’t prepare me for how rich Henny’s digs were. It was huge—might as well have BEEN the Met--with high ceilin’s drippin’ with crystal, marble floors, paintin’s o’ fox hunts an’ frolickin’ fauns, vases on pedestals darin’ ya t’ knock ‘em off, statues o’ near nekkid guys ‘n’ dolls, and furniture I figured was looted from some Continental castle. You coulda moved a prizefight from the Garden t’ the ballroom, easy, an’ still had room for a dog show.
Roomy as it was, the joint was packed with so many swells in Paris originals and monkey suits that it was bustlin’ like Broadway when the shows let out. The band on the stand was runnin’ the Hit Parade, and I knew a few of the guys from much hotter, wee hour jam sessions in Harlem clubs. I was happy the mob an’ my mufti kept those razzmatazz Romeos from blowin’ my cover. I couldn’t miss one giant of a sax blower, tho—guy musta been just shy of seven feet—whose big mitts made his ax look like a kazoo. ‘Noticed he was eyein’ the crowd ‘stead of the bandleader or his music.
Luggin’ a silver tray with fancy eats, I tiptoed thru th’ throng on tender tootsies, offerin’ the chow, keepin’ an eye out for the hostess, whose pics I’d peeped on clippin’s a pal in the Trib morgue had rustled up for me. Believe me, it wasn’t easy eyeballin’ while keepin’ that tray level and smilin’ ‘til my jaw ached! Finally I found her, gabbin’ wit’ a group, includin’ some tiny Oriental doll dressed in red silk down to her white socks and wooden sandals. I planted myself by an armless marble dame so I could spy on Henny and sample her patter.
Henny was a pretty statuesque dame herself, prac’ly glowin’ in a silver lame gown flowin’ down her 5’ 9” curvy form like a glitterin’ Niagara to matchin’ high-heeled evenin’ slippers. The world-class sparklers she wore cast even more candlepower on her kinky brown hair, big hazel eyes, and rosy lips that guarded a tight smile. I figured her for 35—thanks to a few telltale lines even her salon couldn’t hide—the still handsome trophy wife of a gray round gent, much older, much shorter, who was, ‘ccordin’ to the Trib, the eleventh richest banker in town, and who stood by, sayin’ nothin’ while Henny chattered.
She was gushin’ over this pudgy little pug dog nestlin’ quiet in the crook of her arm.
“And THIS is Cyrano! Isn’t he JUST darling?”
Sure, he was “just darling,” if you liked a mutt what had its snout pushed in with a shovel and its bulgin’ eyes about to roll outta its shmooshed face. It snorted ev’ry other moment, and it drooled ‘tween snorts. The circle chatted about the mutt a while, before breakin’ up, leaving Henny ‘n’ hound alone wit’ the kimonoed cutie. Their voices got lower, so I left the statue to give ‘em a close pass.
Suddenly, I felt frisky fingers clutchin’ both my sides. I yelped, “Heyhehhehheh!” I let go of the tray and it fell with a crash, crackers flyin’ and landin’--goopy side down--all over Henny and her mutt.
“Oh, my! Awfully sorry, wot?” came a Limey voice, and I turned to bawl him out. He was a pale gent, late ‘30s, with thin sandy hair and wet, hazy blue eyes, his tie undone and tangled with his monocle. He was tryin’ hard to stand up tall, but he had a snootful for sure. Before I could lay into him, Mo appeared, caught my elbow, and yanked me back.
“Terry, I thought ya knew whatcha were doin’,” she muttered. “You wanna get us both bounced?” She was all over the stunned hostess, pickin’ crackers off her gown and daubin’ her with a damp cloth, apologizin’ away. “I’m sooo sorry, Mrs. Bienstock. Terry is new and she’s a little, ah, skittish.”
“Ahhehheh! I see,” Henny said through clenched teeth, she and her pop-eyed mutt givin’ me glares. “Oh, well, accidents will happen, hehheh. Please clean up the, ah, debris, miss.” Some low profile this was! She turned to Crimson Kimono, saying, “Please excuse me, Miss Fuyume. I’ll just dash upstairs and change.”
Mo handed me the tray and, kneeling, hissed, “C’mon, Ter’. Help me pick up this mess.”
I knelt down beside her, pickin’ up cheese blobs and busted crackers, when the English klutz whose rib tickle set me jumpin’ knelt next to me. We banged heads an’ I dropped the tray again. “Look, pal, lemme alone,” I grumbled.
“Haw haw! My, but you’re GOR-geous when you’re angry!” He was so plastered, even on his knees he nearly keeled over. “I was feeling a bit peckish and saw your comestibles and, reaching for them, QUITE accidentally grabbed you.” Somehow, his helpful hand slipped under my skirt an’ gave my right knee a squeeze.
Yelpin’ “Hey!” an’ standin’ tall, I lowered the tray on his noggin. I stepped over ‘im, mashin’ his toes wit’ my heel, beelinin’ for the kitchen. There, I had another tray foisted on me, this time piled wit’ a mess of chopped liver on rye toast. What I wouldna given for a swig of Ol’ Stonewall! I was heading back out, hopin’ Henny was back shmoozin’, when Mo met me. “Terry, you gotta be careful. If Mrs. Bienstock squawks at my boss, we’ll both be sitting out on the curb. I vouched for you.”
Henny had returned, wearin’ a sparklin’ blue silk number with matchin’ slippers. I figured I’d be scarce and scoped ‘er workin’ the room from a safe distance. She natch was meetin’ and greetin’ bunches. But I noticed that she would take an occasional guy or doll aside for a quick palaver, and sometimes a note would be passed, real furtive like. An’ Big Boy in the band, well, his eyes NEVER left her. I dunno what jazz his ax was playin’, but his eyes were followin’ a diff score.
I didn’t know if all this hugger mugger had anything to do with Feathers’ diary, but, when I’m onto somethin’, my toes wiggle, and, even in those high-heeled vises, my toes were jumpin’ an’ jivin’.
Another tray (this one gobs o’ fishy goop on black bread, yuck) later, Henny was havin’ a whisper fest wit’ a honey blonde wearin’ a green gauzy frock. Henny was smilin’. Blondie wasn’t. I decided to edge a little closer. Nearin’ Henny, I found myself in a clot of swells, so I lifted the tray high over my head to cut through.
That’s when I felt five fingers fandango under each arm and a knee push mine from behind. I cried, “Aiiieee!” like a banshee, but, worse, began fallin’ forward towards Henny and Blondie, the tray tiltin’ over. I knew that if my eats bulleseyed Henny again, I’d be hustled out and pitched out on my keister onto Fifth Ave--with Mo prob right behind me--my undercover crapped out an’ Feather’s diary bound for the front page.
I yanked my arms down and, closin’ my baby blues, landed face first on my tray of smelly fish right in front of Henny and the honey blonde.
Henny looked askance, but the blonde cooed, “I must say, my deah, you have the most AMUSING floor show.”
“Oh, my, my! How frightfully careless of me!”
Lifting my puss from the fish, I didn’t need to see him to know who it was behind me.
Smiling sheepishly, the Limey helped me ta my feet an’ began swabbin’ at me with a mammoth monogrammed hankie. “I was just reaching for one of your yummies when you lifted the tray, and, well, hehheh…oops!” He was getting’ mighty familiar brushin’ my front with that hankie.
Undercover or no, I was ready ta do murder, when Mo appeared, knelt an’ picked up the tray with one hand, while grabbin’ my elbow wit’ the other. As Henny and the blonde stared, she smiled at ‘em and gave me a shove, but not before I’d flicked a fishy wad onta the monocle of the Limey, who cried, “I say!” As Mo drew me away, I could hear Henny ask, “Wasn’t that the same girl who…?” an’ then, “Has she been drinking?” OK, the eavesdroppin’ parta my operation was kiboshed, but good.
Mo dragged me into the kitchen, tryin’ to clean me up. “Aw, we’ll NEVER get this caviar off your dress, Terry! Why couldn’t you be more careful?”
I was seething. “Look, Mo, you think I was tryin’ to audition for The Three Stooges? That—lousy Limey lush…he keeps findin’ me!”
“Well, you can’t go out there again. Look, lay low; if the boss comes in, grab a plate and start dryin’ it. I’ll be back soon.” She took a tray heavin’ wit’ more finger food from an impatient lookin’ chef. Before she hit the ballroom, I asked her to keep an eye on Henny, an’ lemme know if she seemed ‘specially chummy wit’ anyone. Mo sighed, but muttered, “Ooo-kay!” as she went through the swingin’ doors.
Well, if I couldn’t spy on Henny, I’d switch to a little breakin’ ‘n’ enterin’. One thing was for sure: in that slinky get-up, she wasn’t carryin’ no diary. I pulled outta my lacy pocket the li’l’ map of the joint Mo got for me. I zeroed in on “the Madame’s Bedroom,” a good bet as to where she stashed her valuables, blackmail booty included. The party was goin’ good. Henny was busy mixin’. ‘Time for me t’ do some dirty trixin’.
All hands were so busy cookin’, preppin’, and washin’ in the steamy kitchen, nobody paid me no mind as I snuck a coupla plates of food, a pair of champagne glasses, and a bottle o’ bubbly on a tray. It was my ticket to the livin’ quarters upstairs. I was figurin’ that most of the regular help was pitchin’ in downstairs. If anyone left above stopped me, I could say I was bringin’ up a late supper for the Bienstocks. That—an’ (if a guy) my helpless blonde act or (if a girl) my “Ain’t these rich folks silly?” smile—should see me t’ da boudoir in question.
One detail on the map made me grin. At the back of the kitchen was a handy little service elevator. The winding marble front stairway was prob covered, and slinkin’ up either of the back staircases wit’ a full tray and my pinchin’ heels seemed like scalin’ the Alps. Nah, the little ‘vator was my chariot to the fourth floor, where Henny slept an’, I hoped, stashed.
I got in the little elevator and pushed the button for four. Suddenly the door was pulled open. I figured someone noticed my sneakin’ in there an’ was gonna chew me out. It was Mo, red-faced and pullin’ the door shut behind her. The elevator started up, slow and kinda shaky.
“What are YOU doin’?
“Uh, I thought I’d, uh, y’know, nose ‘round for my client.”
“Aw, Terry, you’re gonna get us BOTH in the hoosegow.”
I hummed a few bar of “Shuffle Off To Buffalo.”
“Awright, awright! But I’m goin’ with you! If they pinch ya, it’s MY neck,
too!”
“OK, Mo, you can be my deputy.” I winked at ‘er, but she didn’t seem impressed.
Instead, as the ‘vator wobbled up, she muttered, “I was doin’ what you said…keepin’ an eye on the hostess as I served…when I felt ticklin’ on my sides. It was that pickled Brit.”
“Guy’s like an octopus, huh?”
“You’re not kiddin’. I managed to hang onto my tray, but I broke my heel.” She peered down at her heelless right shoe. “Limped back to the kitchen where the pastry chef told me he saw you duckin’ in here.”
The elevator stopped. Seein’ no one in the dim hall lined with spotlighted paintin’s an’ statues, we high stepped it to Henny’s bedroom door.
The bedroom door was locked, natch, but they ain’t made the lock that I couldn’t tease open wit’ my trusty reinforced hairpin. I handed Mo the tray an’ went t’ work. I tickled the latch, it gave, and I hustled Mo in, lockin’ the door behind us.
I pulled my palpitatin’ puppies outta them black leather torture chambers, sighin’, “Geez, that feels GOOD!” I wiggled my stockin’ toes in a plush carpet.
I stepped to the tall windows an’ drew closed the fancy curtains before clickin’ on the special compact police-issue flashlight I’d had in my lacy pocket. (My unks on the Force made cracks about “our niece the shamus,” but they were swell wit’ the latest gear.) I swept the light across the room, all done up in the latest Art Deco fashion. There was a huge white bed, next to which was a mirrored vanity with a jewel box, a white telephone, and a lotta perfume and nail polish bottles.
Balancin’ on her left foot, Mo was holdin’ the tray wit’ one hand as she examined the heelless shoe she was clutchin’ in t’other. I padded around her, my light catchin’ the ball of her pink foot peekin’ through a two-bit hole in her dark stockin’. At the vanity, me ‘n’ my hairpin began to tickle open the jewel box.
Unsteady, Mo blurted, “Terry, just what is it that you’re lookin’ for?” I heard her rattlin’ the tray.
“Shhh! Set that thing down, Mo, ‘fore you drop it!”
Mo hissed, “Huh! I’m NOT the butterfingers around here!” The rattlin’ stopped. She suddenly was right behind me, whisperin’ “Can’t ya even give me a clue so I can help ya?”
I handed her the light. “Here. Keep it steady.” Workin’ the tricky lock, I muttered, “Mo, don’t you have someplace you stash your secrets?”
She whispered, “You mean, like a diary?”
I heard a click, and grinned. “Give the Kewpie doll a Kewpie doll.” I opened the box, which began playin’ a lullaby. “Geez….” The box was crammed with sparklers. It was like a branch o’ Tiffany’s.
“Wow!” Mo said aloud.
“Shh! Yeah, good stuff, but it ain’t here.” I closed the lid. Takin’ the light from Mo, I swept it across the bed to the long mirrored closet. “Uh-huh!”
As I stepped towards the closet, Mo whispered, “Whose diary and what’s in it?”
By the foot of the bed, I stepped inta somethin’ sticky. “Augh! What th--!” I pointed the light down ‘n’ saw that I’d planted both my stockin’ feet on the tray—right inna plate fulla fatty chopped liver.
Rollin’ my eyes, I whispered, “Ah, Mo…where didja put that tray I handed you?
“I put it on the floor by the…oh…sorry!”
Grumblin’ words that woulda made my tough cop unks blush, I flashed my soles and saw that the gunk had seeped inta both my stockin’s from the tips o’ my toes near to m’ heels. My wigglin’ toes felt sticky, ‘specially ‘tween my big and second right toes, where a wad o’ liver had oozed through a dime-sized hole in m’ stockin’.
“Awww, Mo!” I hissed. “Gimme a towel from that bathroom.” I flashed a door and Mo, one shoe on, dashed in and came out with a pink hand towel monogrammed “H.”
Sittin’ on the bed, I wiped off the worst of the liver, but my stockin’s were still soaked an’ my toes stuck together. I handed Mo the towel, sighing, “Ain’t it bad enough I awready smell like a fishin’ boat?”
“I SAID I was sorry, Ter’,” she muttered.
“Ferget it!” I hissed. I jumped up, givin’ the closet the eye, when we heard a haughty voice right outside the room.
“Will you please give my regrets to our guests, dear? Suffering those nitwits serving tonight has SIMPLY exhausted me. I think Cyrano and I will retire early.”
“Holy--! We gotta hide!” Mo leaped to the closet ‘n’ tugged on the mirrored door. “It’s locked! Who locks a closet?”
Someone with somethin’ to hide, maybe, I thought. “Shhh! Com’ere!” I grabbed her and pulled her to the foot of the big bed. Somehow, she too managed to stick HER stocking foot right in the liver on the tray—STILL on the damn floor!
“Eeeww!” she gasped.
“’Serves you right,” I spat, holding up the frilly silk bed cover and hissed, “Get down there, grab the tray ‘n towel, and crawl under.”
“Aw, no! In there?” We heard a key rattling in the lock. “Yipe!” Mo dove and, pushing the tray before her, pulled herself in. with me adding some oomph to her cute tush.
Outside, I heard Henny say, “Leonard, I can’t seem to open this door. Can you help me?” Mo had stopped movin’, her legs below the knees still showin’. I scratched her upturned liverish sole. With a muffled “Hey!” she slipped completely under.
The key turned in the lock. “Oh, you got it! Thank you!”
Clutchin’ my shoes, I made like a snake and slithered under the bed beside her. It wasn’t the first time I’d hidden under a bed. It’s the part of a PI’s job--mostly in divorce cases--that ain’t in Black Mask. But I’d never had a full-figured floor mate. Add a whole lotta shoes ‘n’ hat boxes and it was a pretty tight squeeze. I just pulled my toes past that lacy edge when the lights came on.
I was under the head of the bed with Mo breathin’ on my neck behind me. There was enough of a view under the cover that I saw the glittering hem of Henny’s gown grazin’ her fancy evenin’ slippers as she locked the door.
“Ooooh, what a relief, my darling! I thought we’d never get away from ALL those people!”
Since her hubby hadn’t followed, either she was batty or she was talkin’ to that ugly mutt, still in her arms.
Those fancy blue evenin’ slippers walked past the bed. I heard a key rattlin’ and a door slidin’ followed by, “Mommy’s just getting the naughty book out of its hiding place.”
I almost groaned aloud. I KNEW that diary had been in the closet. If I’d only had a coupla minutes more...
Mo breathed in my ear, “Naughty? What’s in it?”
I mumbled back, “Ticklin’ ‘n’ … stuff!”
“Huh?” Mo prodded my back with her fingers, not realizin’ THAT kinda tickled, ’causin’ me to shimmy. “Cut it out, Mo!” I hissed.
“Now, we‘ll make one little phone call and see who wins this lovely diary.”
Henny stepped around the bed and sat right above me, makin’ the tight squeeze tighter.
She sighed, “Ooo, snookums, these new shoes have been just been TORTURING my feet.” First one, then the other shoe landed on the floor before me. Her stockin’ feet shoved them under the bed, pushin’ a pair of feathery pink bedroom slippers prac’ly under my nose. “Ah, that’s better! Mommy’s feet are so tender.” She crossed her legs, her toes wigglin’ happily. SHE had a hole at her right heel.
Mo fidgeted behind me, accidentally giving my ribs a poke. I jerked, pushin’ my nose inta the feathers toppin’ Henny’s slippers, ticklin’ my nostrils enough so I felt a sneeze comin’. It almost got out…I fought it…it fought back…my eyes shut…my mouth open…. “Ah…ah…!”
Mo nervously tickled my back. “Terry, NO!”
“Ah…ah…”
And Henny saved me. I heard her pick up the phone and tell the operator, “Murray Hill 2243.” Her hand came feelin’ under the bed, her fingers stoppin’ inches from my nose, and grabbed the tickly slippers. Relieved, I swallowed the sneeze.
Puttin’ on the slippers, she said, “This is Penny Serenade. Have you decided on your final bid?” I was hangin’ on every word. If I coulda stretched my ear, I woulda.
“Oh, come now, Madame Plume!” She was danglin’ her slipper off her jigglin’ left foot. “I’ve taken several very generous bids already this evening….” So THAT’S what she was doin’ workin’ the ballroom. The megillah was a cover for auction action, wit’ the notes bearin’ bids.
“Either make an offer, or someone else is going to get this book…and the formula. ”
Now, that floored me (not that it was hard at the time). Formula? Feathers HAD been holdin’ somethin’ back. This wasn’t JUST about some kitchey-coo cuddlin’.
“Ah, now THAT’s better…. Yes, I’m happy to say that is the largest figure bid…. Where can we make the, ah, exchange?”
The pooch began whinin’ and made with a snort and a high bark. “Now, Cyrano, Mommy is VERY busy.” She plopped the mutt on the floor. I held my breath, fearin’ he’d start barkin’ and rat us out. Instead, he growled a little, snufflin’ ‘n’ shovin’ his drooly puss inta my face.
Above, Henny said somethin’ that jolted me. “Wait? There’s someone here in the house already?” Had she heard us? “You presumed much…and HE has a blank personal check signed by you?” He? Check? What th--?
The mutt snorted ‘n’ I got a faceful of doggie drool. Tryin’ to push’im away, I reached past him an’ poked the bottom of Henny’s danglin’ foot. Above, she squealed, “Ahhahahaha! Bad boy! Mustn’t tickle Mommy!” Henny’s hand reached in, seekin’ Snorty. I held my breath, as Mo nervously tickled my back. Finally, Henny grabbed the mutt’s neck, and lifted him away. “Wicked little Cyrano! You know Mommy’s ticklish!” I exhaled, and behind me, heard Mo do the same.
“No, no! I’m not laughing at YOU! But, REALLY…a check! You must think me a tenderfoot….”
She dumped the mutt onna floor again. I was ready to slug’im, but this time, he buried his nose in the carpet and snuffled towards the foot of the bed.
“I suppose I’ll just have to accept one of the OTHER standing bids. They’ve all promised immediate cash payment here tonight….”
The mutt went outta sight, but I heard him growling at the foot of the bed.
“Quiet, Cyrano! WAIT! If I bring the diary to YOU, you GUARANTEE what amount... in cash? … Well--Quiet, sweetie! --For that amount—in CASH--I’ll GLADLY come to you. But, I warn you, if you don’t have that sum IN CASH ready upon my arrival…. Fine…. What’s the address? …Wait! I’ll write it down….”
I was really listenin’ hard then. I could even feel Mo listenin’ hard behind me. She was again unconsciously dancin’ her fingers on my back, but I wouldn’t let a little ticklin’ distract me.
“OK, repeat that….”
‘N’ that’s when I felt it! Somethin’ strokin’ across my upturned stockin’ toes, ticklin’em fierce! I jerked, bangin’ my head ‘gainst the bed frame. I bit my tongue, swallowin’ a curse. Giggles were bubblin’ up my throat, tryin’ t’ get out. I pressed my lips together hard! I tried movin’ my feet, but crammed under there ‘tween Mo and all that junk, I couldn’t move’m far. Back there, there was a snort, then a snuffle, then more toe ticklin’!
It was that ugly, runty mutt! He was lappin’ the pads of my stockin’ toes with his hot ‘n’ wet l’il’ tongue. The liver! That lousy lapdog was lickin’ up the liver lubin’ my ticklish toes. Like he was a starvin’ mongrel, he greedily licked ‘n’ licked, each rough, wet lick ticklin’ like hell. I dunno how I was keepin’ the giggles in. My tummy was flippin’ and I musta been turnin’ borscht purple.
After every meaty morsel, Poochie kept varyin’ his tastin’. He moved his tongue up and down along the middle of my greasy soles, the stockin’s makin’ each lick ticklin’ agony. The creepy cur then flicked his tongue fast ‘n’ feathery ACROSS my sauced soles, teasin’ every liverish tender wrinkle as I shivered ‘n’ quivered. Then, he worked over my toes more, pushin’ that scratchy tongue ‘tween ‘em. When his tongue snaked into the hole in my stockin’, I nearly lost it. The wet tip lapped at the blob of liver there, ticklin’ ‘tween my big and second toes so I had to push my fist inta my mouth.
An’ sometimes, he wasn’t satisfied ta just lick. He’d nibble at the sides of my feet with his tiny teeth, not breakin’ the stockin’s or skin but ticklin’ me awful. He gave my toes the toothy treatment, too, and that was plain MURDER!
“That’s not very far. A cab should have me there in minutes.” The address! Tickled silly, I was so busy chokin’ back my giggles that I missed what she said!
“Really…. It’s a shoe store? … What’s the name of the shop?”
Just then, Fido let up on lickin’ my toes, and, sighin’, I strained t’ hear.
Suddenly, Mo began REALLY diggin’ her fingernails inta my sides and I nearly yelped. What the hell was SHE ticklin’ me for? Clampin’ my hands over my mouth, I couldn’t help gigglin’. An' alla while I'm scared that Henny would stop talkin' an' hear ME squeakin’.
I DID hear an all too familiar snort at the rear. Even silly, I knew then I was still gettin’ tickled ‘cuz Pudgy had moved over to lick Mo’s smeared sole, makin’ her giggle inta my neck and blindly squeeze my sides. I was goin’ nuts again, doin’ everythin’ I could to keep from laughin’ out loud as Mo floundered behind me.
When I felt her nails REALLY dig inta my ribs, I knew that mutt musta found the bare ball of Mo’s foot, spicy slick with liver. His wet, scratchy tongue musta been lickin’ ‘n’ lickin’ that spot, over and over. I could hear Mo strainin’ then to swallow her helpless giggles as she was helplessly makin’ ME swallow mine.
And just like THAT—the torture stopped. Mo and I couldn’t help sighing simultaneous like.
Henny had pulled the pooch out from under—not carin’ what was ticklin’is fancy. She sang, “Come, my darling! Mommy has to go out, but I’ll bring you to Chef and see that you get a nice midnight snack.”
Midnight snack! The greedy mutt prac’ly chewed off my toes! ‘N’ worse, he kept me from hearin’ where Henny was about to sell Feathers’ book!
I saw her walk to the door an’ open it. “How does a nice big plate of chopped liver sound?”
Yeah, right, I thought. The little bastard NEVER gets THAT.
She locked the door behind her. I grunted as I pushed aside slippers ‘n’ boxes to crawl out from under. Standin’ woozy on my still tinglin’ feet, my sides achin’, I turned on the lamp on the bedside table and grabbed the pad and pencil below it.
“T-Terry,” Mo hissed from under the bed. “I-is that horrible little dog g-gone?”
“Yeah, Mo,” I muttered, busy rubbing the lead point of the pencil lightly over the marks Henny’s writing had left on the pad. “Get your tushie outta there.”
“I thought I’d DIE!” she bleated as she huffed’n’puffed her way to stand shakily beside me. “I was sure she’d hear us!”
“Yeah, well, you did good, partner…” I said, smilin’ cuz the name and address of the place Henny was headed was showin’ ‘neath m’tracin’. “…even if you tickled me almost as bad as that little creep.”
“I’m sorry, Ter’.” Mo moaned. “But I couldn’t STAND it! He was licking my foot and it tickled SO much!” She noticed the clock on the table. “Holy…! Is it THAT late? Oh, my boss is probably fuming looking for us! He’s my in-law, but he’ll probably fire me!”
“Forget about it, Mo! You’re workin’ wit’ me now! I need a secretary.”
“Huh?”
“Here.” I handed her my keys. “Put your shoe on and go down to my office and wait for my call. You can sleep there. Gotta cot folded in the closet.”
“A-all right! But what about that tray under the bed?”
“Leave it there! ‘Cyrano’ can clean it up! Huh!” I grunted as I shoved my still sticky and tingly feet into those shoes, tighter than ever.
“Wait! Where’re YOU goin’?”
“826 Madison.” My hairpin did its stuff and I peered out the door. “A joint called ‘Pieds de Paree’.” I led clueless Mo to the elevator. “I wonder if Henny really knows what’s in that diary.” We started down to the kitchen, where, I hoped, we could sneak out the back without bein’ roped into servin’ more slop to swells. I smirked, “If not, she could be walkin’ inta a real ticklish situation.”
(Yes, I fear it’s time to close with: TO BE CONTINUED!)
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