Always Faithful Pt. 01 by Legio_Patria_Nostra
Discover the tantalizing tale of desire and devotion in 'Always Faithful Pt. 01.' This erotic sex story explores forbidden love and passionate encounters that will ignite your imagination. Dive into a world of seduction and loyalty—read now for an unforgettable experience!<br/>
–oOo–This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or deceased is purely coincidental. Some events are entirely fictional, though I strove for accuracy concerning these events’ historical context.
Set in late 1940s America, certain words, behaviors, slang, and attitudes may be offensive to contemporary readers; therefore, reader discretion is advised. Some of the themes and subjects contained in this work are of an adult nature, so unless you’re 18 or older, do not read this.
This work is part of a larger project, but as written and edited, it is a standalone story. Everything from ‘Aftermath’ to the end was summarized from the larger work. I’ve used a full version of Grammarly. Thanks to my tireless editor, a published and gifted author (she edited the rest of my glowing praise from this paragraph).
While not a classic trench coat detective noir story, it’s about a post-war private investigator who is compelled to choose. As always, I appreciate your honest and constructive feedback. It will be especially helpful as we expand this work.
Finally, thanks to the family and friends who were United States Marines of the Greatest Generation, whose accounts enriched my youth. Later, I spent countless hours editing raw audio tapes for a well-known oral history project. Some of what I was told to edit out and clean up were those awful recollections that naturally spilled out, including the raw emotions, tears, and guilt that lingered for decades. I always worked from a dupe tape, so those unedited interviews still exist, many so raw that they’re made available to researchers without the interviewee’s full name. The expression, ‘Hell in the Pacific,’ truly describes a war without quarter, mercy, or surrender. For many, it never truly ended.
0>>ALWAYS FAITHFULHouston, Texas – Late Spring 1947
Tailing him from a rooming house in the Houston Heights neighborhood went smoothly, but that’s normal in my work as a private investigator. Most people aren’t aware of their surroundings, especially what’s behind them or at a distance. The darkness and bad street lighting also helped me follow him through the dark, quiet residential streets. Walking head down with his hands deep in his pockets, he only looked up when crossing streets and facing down a barking dog.
‘He feels secure, making my job easier.’ Not feeling overconfident proved difficult because the most significant payday to date loomed large. ‘Don’t get too cocky. This might not be him,’ I cautioned myself without conviction.
Before the war, we all had iceboxes and needed a block every few days. Ice houses made and sold block ice, and that’s often where folks ran into and visited with their friends and neighbors. They are dying out now that nearly everyone has a home refrigerator, but in Houston, some ice houses survive by also acting as meeting places. They’re similar to a neighborhood bar selling beer, snacks, and BYOB set-ups.
I followed him into an ice house on West 20th, just off Shepherd. Watching him enter, I felt 90% positive this was the Paul Smith I hunted, but I needed to see him up close.
After stalling for a few minutes, I slipped through the side door from the old loading dock and settled onto a bar stool under a burned-out light at the end of the L-shaped bar. The bartender looked over, and I pointed at the Grand Prize Beer sign behind him, and he acknowledged with a wink and a nod.
While waiting, I eased the high-quality 5X7 studio photo his wife provided out of my battered war surplus dispatch rider’s case. Shaking out a Lucky Strike, I fired up my old Ronson, and by its flickering light, I compared the photo to the fair-complected man standing in good light about fifteen feet away. I lit up, thumbed the lighter closed, and dropped the warm metal back into my pants pocket.
He amiably conversed with the bartender, whom he called Pete. Then a fortyish man in overalls and a work shirt sidled over and asked, “How ya doin’, Paul?”
‘Bingo! That’s Paul Smith! A whole team of private dicks are chasing shadows half a continent away, and I found him!’ I exhaled contentedly and relaxed for the first time in three weeks. There’s no feeling like tracking down a man, especially one as elusive as Paul Smith.
“Real swell, Chet!” Smith responded with a sincere smile. Over their sweating beers, the pair shared a quiet joke.
Smith had been around here long enough to be known. That could be as long as the six weeks and some odd days since he’d walked out on his wife, Christine, back in Fort Worth. She said he left three days after a particularly heated argument.
Smith’s easy manner exuded confidence and charisma. Seeing the real person helped explain why Christine wanted him back and also why he rose from Marine PFC to first lieutenant during the war. I recalled all the fellas like Smith and wondered if our paths might’ve crossed.
Until then, Paul Smith existed as a man I knew only through what others told me and what I gleaned from studying his life. Methodically chasing leads, questioning people, and using some intuition, Smith took shape, and a trail emerged. I discovered him in Houston, Texas’ biggest city. Now, before me, stood the fully formed, flesh-and-blood man.
We’re both about 5’10”, but Smith is stouter and had me by about ten, maybe a dozen, pounds. I’d put him around 165. He played end at SMU before the war and still carried his weight well.
Where I am jet-black and brown-eyed, he is blonde and blue. Smith looked better in person than in the professionally posed and lighted photo I carried. The pulps describe guys like him as ‘matinee idol handsome.’ Observing him, it wasn’t just his good looks–he possessed that quality which sets some men apart.
Professionally, I was proud to have found him where the others failed. Strangely, though, the elation felt hollow. I knew why but buried it under the promise of my employer’s reward.
As Pete replaced my empty beer and dropped a dish of salted peanuts before me, I recalled my first meeting with Ft. Worth socialite and heiress Christine Norton Smith. She is one of two daughters of widower Delbert J. Norton, a man of great wealth heavily involved in diversified industries, agriculture, and commerce. He was also a minor mover and shaker in North Texas politics.
0>>Fort Worth, Texas – Twenty-Three Days Earlier
She called my office and got straight to the point: “Mr. Winters? This is Christine Norton Smith.” I ignored the ‘s’ added to my last name. “My father’s attorney, Rusk Jameson, tells me you are the best skip tracer in Texas. I need your services right now!”
Getting a call from one of Fort Worth’s well-known Norton sisters, who cooly invokes the praise of a former Tarrant County DA, chased away the lingering effects of a late-night Highway 80 motel adultery stakeout. This slapped me wide awake.
“Well… ah, yes, ma’am,” I spluttered. “I worked for Cy Brown and Ewell Vickers finding people who’d skipped on loans, and when…”