Chapter 1

"Yo! Fuck me." The white woman skittered around the hotel room in the nude bitterly smoking juju, "Blow Bro. Cocksuck. Yo!"

The black man stood in the doorway, remaining where he had entered through the unlocked door after rapping in the hallway for unknown seconds.

"That supposed to be some routine of yours, gorgeous?" the man said. "Heard your singing before all the way down in the lobby."

"I was in the shower. Just having fun."

"Uh huh."

"You're the house dick. A black one."

"Maybe I haven't heard that one before. Not this evening or morning-I'm not sure. That your game?"

"I want to see it."

"My black dick."

"You got it. Strip."


"You're an actor, aren't you. Out of work?"

"This is my work these days. Work in several shifts a week as house security while I shuffle along through law school. Smart for a jigaboo."

"Nude. I want you nude."

"Like you?"

"Naked. Stark staring buck naked. Black buck naked in the flesh."

"And the rest."

"How much you want?"

"Any amount would do. You know I'd love you just to do it."

"I couldn't allow that."

She pulled a pile of large bills from a sack that looked filled with them. "Logos, phias."

"Come again? That's Greek."


"Word, sister. If you insist. Capice? Italian expression that asks you if you understand what I'm saying-"

"Know where I'm coming from? You know languages pretty well, then."

"Some. I sing opera."

"Should have known."

"You never by chance have played Othello?"

"He wasn't exactly my kind of fellow. Wasn't typecast as being noble anyway-so how could they play me in tragedy? That's why I'm here."

"Poetic in its own way."

She fluffed the mazuma across her face like a ruffed fan.

Extended her hand toward his sleek red-hardwood form with a trim thinlipped grin twisting across her mein that turned on a dime into a leer.

He took the money without a change of expression to his face and sat.

Pulled off his clothes.


As she reclined sublimely in a chair across from him. Sucking her own lips. Trembling.

Tremblant white flesh.

Voluptuousness in shades of white, ivory, and buff tones, with slices of red. He leaned back.

Mahogany cockhead tamped up at the tip of curved ebony shaft.

Blue-black bull shit puffed up. The white woman began to fan her fingers through her muff. Fleecy flocculence. Swollen succulence. "That's immense," she said. "Isn't it."

"You're keeping your distance."

"Maybe I'm afraid."

"Never had it in your head before."

"Oh, sure."

"Hair? Hands? Ever had black dick between the tits? In the armpits."

"And in the rest."

"You like it."


"Get with it, sister."

Her hand lurched up from her white snatch and out about his black prick. She flicked her wrist. Bent forward. Sucked black dick.

He fucked her white meat raw in the mouth, ass, and pussy with his mahogany hard-on.

Rinsed her down with freshly flowing white-chocolate jungle jizzom from mouth-cheek to ass-cheek like drawn palm wine.

The pair was human.

The fuck, divine.

The henna-headed spic him receptionist eyed the black house detective as he walked with apparent and studied diffidence through the hotel lobby at the ass end of his overnight tour of duty.

He always thought she-likely turned a few tricks. She always wished he would play some.

"Any messages, Chiquita?"

"You got exactly one."



"Say it isn't so."

"She says call Donovan."


"Hey, since it's none of my business I thought I'd ask. She an old flame? That dolly. Morrigana. You don't have to answer."

"You didn't have to ask."

Her deadened smile lingered for a while as her tits grew taut.

Pussy panted, hot.

She watched his ass flex brashly as he slipped inside a telephone stall, smiled, dialed.

"Who is that?" Donovan answered through a hazy crackle of line interference.

"Buckminster Black."

"Listen, spearchucker. We got a little hot nut dropped on us this morning. Hopped-up white chick phoned the office early ay-em babbling about a possible burglary involving jewelry out at Hood Cove Conservatory and Arboretum Environmental and World Cultural Center."


"You know it. When you see it you do."

Donovan's voice was again washed over in a cloudy wave of static that Buckminster knew to be a product of highly sensitive though short-circuited and overloaded telephone debugging monitors and secure-line apparatus.

"Whoa, Donovan. Can't understand a solitary syllable, dude. You aren't going to impress many of your chichi clients with your top-of-the-line high-tech security services if they get battered eardrums just gabbing with you over the yakker."

"Must be a thunderstorm coming in. Pretty expensive weather-forecasting equipment and not too accurate at that. I'll turn the fucking thing off and clear the line."

"Why not the police?"

"They want to keep it hushabye out there at the cove. Scandal and such. Going private, the media angle is controlled."

"Especially if it's an inside job. So why can't you take it?"

"Morrigana and I have a full-force security gig on for a cracked-out preppy-deb bitch in the industry-you know which one I mean-caught between blackmailers and tales about her equestrian sex life."

"So Shiv Donovan gets wind of this not-too-hairy number and out of the whiteness of his soul seeks to pass the goodness along to a little inexperienced shucking chuckler like me."

"Hey. It's your education. Take you sightseeing and out of highball hotels and law libraries. Plus you get to pick up a little extra dinero, which we can all use. Why don't you tool on down here to my offices? I'll be gone pronto but they all know who you are. Take a gander at the dossiers on Antoine Chevalier and L.L. Jebal Hood."

"Now I know what scene you mean. Not the sort of scheme a righteous black man would want to get himself mixed up in. You know, we're responsible for every crime committed by anyone of our race."

"Just like the other guys. Before we both go blind from cracking wise, I should inform you that major endowments for the park and cultural society come from those guys. You know them?"

"Antoine Chevalier used to stalk my neighborhood in plainclothes police hombo drag before he went glorious. L.L. Jebal Hood is the stud buck owns this hotel I'm sleuthing at-"

"As well as numerous discos and casinos. We did a little snoop work for them a couple years, back. Pay special attention in our files to any mention of wives, former wives, girlfriends-"

"Motives for crime?"

"Who needs motives these days? Just thought you'd like to thumb through some pictures of the dames you're going to meet."

"Aren't you sweet."

In the heat of the morning sun Buckminster Black gunned his vintage Corvette around the corner of a cliff road overlooking Gulf Beach's expanding oceanfront urban center. Highrise and bungalow condominiums glowed along the myriad coves.

Ranch-style estates on the inland side of the highway seemed to specialize in cactus and sagebrush. Suddenly jungle lushness swept both sides of the road. A thin waterfall glinted from a pussy-like gash in buff-colored rock.

Beyond the bend a long looming structure was cantilevered out from the cliffs. Domes and arches of stylized Spanish Moorish, Egyptian, Mayan, Abyssinian, Nubian, Carthaginian, and Creole-Colonial design were worked and warped in steel and glass, modeled in blown concrete stuccoed over and set with colored tiles. Thick wetland foliage went on for miles behind a slender silver beach.

Several sleek greenhouses loomed up on the left amidst unstructured semitropical gardens. There was a gigantic black-latex Olmecoid head embedded in the overhanging ledge of a reflecting pool.

An ellipsoid array of park and benches among stonework towers bearing a startling lack of resemblance to those of classical Zimbabwe served as architectural setting for a series of stone-and-metal sculptured busts looking not too much like Spike Lee, Malcolm X, and John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

Hood Cove Conservatory and Arboretum was what the tiny sign said. Concern for the environment and the furtherance of world culture for the benefit and future of all humankind seemed to be the pithy gist of all this display.

Buckminster recalled the dismay and subsequent uproar a few seasons back when it was found out a bunch of dinges had bought up all this imagine real estate and were opening a cultural retreat-just like white folk gentry.

Of course the jigs were going to name the digs after black gangsters.


A joke?

Buckminster figured that Antoine Chevalier and L.L. Jebal Hood had all their angles figured. Those two dudes wouldn't be in it if everything were straight up and all announced.

A hump in the road like a dead camel bounced the undercarriage of the Corvette. Buckminster in the midst of a line of rudely worked traffic bumps slumped in his bucket seat.

Bleakly worked the gears of his automotive machine as he backed, crunching over humps, down the road and then drove slowly through the tree-hidden gate to the Hood Cove estate.

Buckminster quirked the Corvette to a halt in a wide white flower-lined gravel drive running by a slashed-metal bronze-chromium gate fronting an opened double doorway inscribed with phony modernistic Arabic-English script identifying the wing as Chevalier Rotunda.

Stabbing out a damp unfiltered cigarette, Buckminster ejected himself from the Corvette. He rang a set of copper chimes by the gate and peeled his eyes inside. Peepers caught the flash of what looked like naked white ass off to the side.

He saw an art-littered interior of a fig-domed rotunda framed in ivory and ebony seams striped through panels of white peach marble and a lot of wickerwork and thin hardwood furniture and woven rugs in remorselessly large rooms and halls.

A loosely languid Jewesse grew up silently inside the doorjamb by Buckminster. He shuddered for no good reason as she extended her hand palm up.

"You like to sneak up on a guy."

He placed a card onto her palm.

With undead eyes she read it.


Said: "Come in. Please wait in the foyer while I announce your arrival."

Unconvincingly sexless and alien, she kept her gaze trained upon Buckminster's face.

Buckminster sensed a simmering kike cunt underneath the gossamer robes she wore.

His mouth went wet and dry at the same time. His lips both spasmed and locked.

He walked in past her, sniffing her rose-oil scent as he went through the door and she turned without looking back and disappeared through a vestibule.

Buckminster stepped into a silent shade steeped in refracted sunrays. Jagged sculptures jazzed and clashed with early American white bread paintings and those glorifying the slaughter of Indians.

A translucent mosaic backlit by the sun featured a dusky dude in dark combat clothes from another place and century who was undoing some vines entwined about the belly of a blonde white chick who was all tied up on the underside of a winged serpentine beast, most recently deceased.

Before Buckminster could ponder the symbolism, he swore he heard a giggling white girl out of sight and through the hall somewhere, but his actions were distracted by a hissing in his ear.

"Hello there," Buckminster said to a floral-skinned pixie with long piss-blonde hair and most vacant of stares.

"Niggerniggernigger," she tittered and belched. "Bet your cock is bigger."

"How do you figure?"

"I don't figure. I know."

"I don't figure you know either."

"Laugh? Thought I'd never start? The fuck are you, blood dude."

"Black. Buckminster."

"I get it."

Her mouth hung open. Tiny tongue pointed outward over a rack of small sharp teeth.

"You came here why?" she said without expression but as though motivated by an animal passion and tossed her head to the skylight.

"I needed an alibi."

"You're a criminal?"

"I'm here on business."

"Must be a criminal."

"Black, aren't I?"


"Everyone knows I'm criminal cause I'm black. Don't you know that? Whenever I go into a liquor store they all look me over cause I'm hombo. And cause I carry a gun. Remington."

She looked up.

"The gun, not the painter."

"Funny today, ain't we? You are carrying one, aren't you. A gun. Not a painting."

"No, doll. 'Fraid I'm not. Otherwise I'd take it out and show it to you."

Her hand snaggled out and a tiny red derringer pointed at Buckminster's face.

"Don't move, mother-fucker. You turn your blackhoy ass around slowly. Let me see those paws up all the way. And keep that bowling ball head of yours focused upon this body."

"Monkey fuck."


"You want to monkeyfuck."

"Sure. You can do it. Here's my twat. Screw it. And screw my ass too. When you're through with that you come down my throat."

"Don't gloat. I wouldn't do this at all if you didn't have a gun on me."

"Don't pull any funny stuff."

Buckminster turned slowly.


Pulled his black dick out.


She did twist and shout.


Her eyes narrowed to iridescent slits of green and gold and lead and clay. Mouth hung open halfway.

Tongue lolled out over reddened lips between canine incisors.

She shot her tits out.

Pumped rump up.

Allowed her lacy vestments to go liquid over her white shoulders and fall into a puddle at her high-heeled ankles.

She stared straight up into the insides of her skull, showing moon-like whites.

Tight tits, pink-tipped and taut, flaunted toward Buckminster's face.

Gold-brindled pussy pouted.

Pert white-rose fanny puckered and suckered. Crinkled pinkly, wrinkly in the cranny.

Slackjawed maw with claws dangling from paws placed beside her craw.

Red gun pointed at Buckminster just for fun. She danced the derringer across her face.

Slipped her hands inside his legs, prying them apart with hers.

Buckminster darted his head about.

Felt fingers at his waist.

"You know," she said. "You dress pretty straight. Almost like funky white."

"That meant as a compliment?"

She tore his tropical tie-dyed teeshirt over his head and the baggy pastel jacket along with it. Pants and shoes snapped off simultaneously.

Her mouth moved aimlessly.


Body athwart body, contrasting and yet subtle skintones crawling across cool peach marble amidst junkpiles of artwork.

She jerked her head up and down.


Taking long black dong deep into her throat.

Rotating pink Cupid's bow lips on the tip of mahogany twanger.

He slinked an ebony finger within her and she lost all semblance of rhythm.

"I feel that jungle jizzom juicing up in your jim-jam, my man."

His lips smiled like a line of hot liquid chocolate in a imagine lash all over his face. Dark lips holding blushed nippletip in embrace.

Purple-gray bull shit flew to work in their sacks. Brewing up fermented cream.

Buckminster reamed her mouth with his pullulating black peckerwood.

Her sinister biscuitgirl sneer snaking all over her face and turning her body into a wriggling fantasy of lobes and globes and undulating white flesh blushed with rose dust and glints of gold.

Her fucklust had taken hold.

"I waaaaant it. Black. Prick. Big. Black. Prick. To fuck. Fuck me."

In the hushed silence broken only by the squeaks of their rutting miscegenate bodies upon the marble floor, Buckminster sensed a queerness about all this. A sense of destiny.

As if he were a black knight in a romantic adventure. A taut modern fable set in Dudesville downtown near the City of Dark Angels not far from the place the devil resided.

He shuddered inside.

Felt her chin upon his balls.

Gnawing blackmeat hawg.

She jogged his jimjam with flat white palms as though giving alms.

Through prayerful grip, white-hot jizzom lanced toward her tongue.


Her finger snicked the trigger of the tiny red handgun. Flame cracked out. Whang-aaaaang!

"Blanks," Buckminster said frankly. Choked off his ejaculation, the blank gunshot had. Wasn't all bad, Buckminster reflected. She aimed and fired the derringer errantly. "Whiiiii-whiii-whin!. Din on the marble.

"Don't worry," she barfed, "no one will come in. They'll just know I'm here is all. Let's have us a black-and-blue ball."

She crawled upon Buckminster. Pawed him all over and randied her twat.

She sucked the joyjuice from his tightly napped nougats. Drew a line around his anus with her quick pointed tongue.

Drilled in a thumb.


Purple balls blew out.

Dangling dusky dingdong refilled with dark blood and snapped to rapt attention.

He rolled all over her. Lanced fresh white tits with his lingam in a welter of rutsweat. Panther-like prick prowled her underarms.

Blue-black bull shit whacked against her rose-blushed white ass.

Ebony shaft hafted into gold-streaked pussy. Red-mahogany hard-on head embedded in webbed russet and gilt peachfuzz.


Her pink-tipped titties were tight and hard against his proud pectoral muscles.

His caramel ass-cheeks hustled.

Drove dinge dick between carmine-lined twatlips swollen for the occasion.

"Fuck me, black man. Fuck your peckerwood all the way up my can if you can-can."

She whammed her white tits into his face.

Embraced his waist with her legs.

Rode her clit up his belly as his prowler slinked panther-like from her gumbo. She frictioned her clitoris upon his bulleted nips.

Rubbed her ass-hole over his navel.

Sat back.

Blackmeat hawg oinked up her ass. Puckering rim stretched out over cockhead. Glistening white fanny. Sleek lean darkmeat.

"Pleased to meet you," she suddenly said, face red and delirious after mounting a rising pyramid of orgasm.

"How do you do? Didn't we go through this before? Over by the door?"

"I never told you who I am. I'm Belladonna. My daddy owns this place. And he owns Club Disque au Go Go too. I work there when I feel like it. Come by when you do."

"I knew all along. I'm an investigator, doll. This dude has investigated you."

"I'll consider it true. Look who's watching you while we screw."

There was a framed three-dimensional portrait in metal and glass of a snazzy penis-pointed helmet-shaped dome the color of metallic eggplant. One knew at a glance it was a representation of the famed shaven head of L.L. Jebal Hood.

Belladonna leered and years passed through her animalistically, ritualistically to the wilds of human beginnings.

Buckminster felt his blood thinning.

He then caught a glimpse of the dandified portrayal of Antoine Chevalier modeled in black-and-gilt metal latticework.

Quirked grin.

Snicked chin.

The artist had really caught him. More than the law could ever do. Buckminster strung a load of jizzom up into Belladonna's ass.

Black pecker blasted white shanks as hardwood dong sprung from her blowhole.

A chink of jungle jizz fizzed onto Belladonna's nectarine poontang.

Slime slinked in a twisted nacreous cord across Belladonna's face. Leaving traces of scum as latex lacework writhing upon her bangs.

White-chocolate lather slathered between her rose-dusted titties.

Blue-black bull shit squished on top of her bellybutton. He continued his blind rut between the turrets of her nippletips.

"Finished," she said. "My mind's blipped."

She gave him the slip.