EXTRACT FOR
The House At The End Of Maple Street
(Author Unknown)

The man was big and black and he had a cock that was menacing. At least it was to me. The woman was pretty and blonde and she seemed to be enjoying what the black stud was doing to her. Enjoying what he had been doing to her for a long time. The DVD was full so it was over two hours and we had been watching them cavort for nearly an hour.

But wait a minute. I'm getting way ahead of the story. I need to drop back and start over at an earlier time.

***

      It was the fourth night I had watched the house. It was shitty duty but when you piss-off the powers, that be, you get shitty duty. 

      My name is Josiah Joshua Fox. Yeah, who but mean parents would pick two Biblical names for their son? The simple truth was my parents were not mean. They were great loving parents with little or no religious tendencies. My mother's father was named Josiah and dad's old man was Joshua so I suppose I was some sort of compromise. 

      My classmates in elementary school solved the problem of what to call me by calling me JJ. JJ stuck all the way through school and through the military service; I joined out of some kind of patriotism. Actually it wasn't so much patriotism as much as small town boredom.

      After a stint as a Military Policeman, I left the army and joined a big city police department. My service with the MPs got me into the police department and the fact I had more guts than good sense got me off the beat and into the detective division. 

      Because of my hard work and a fair amount of good luck I rose from detective third grade to detective first grade in only three years. Also some old-timers retired and that created vacancies at the top.

      Detective first carried the rank of sergeant and frankly, that was as high as I cared to go because I had no designs on anything above sergeant. Lieutenants and captains and chiefs make more money but they also have more headaches. 

      So why was a detective first staking out a whorehouse you ask? Watching a joy palace, that everyone in the vice squad knew about for over two years? The answer is simple. I made a slight miscalculation. I screwed an assistant chief's wife. Not just once but four times.

      Of course, since I'm not stupid, I wouldn't have bedded her if I had known. I didn't know she was married to anyone let alone one of my many bosses. I picked her up in a bar and we seemed to connect. Thinking back on it, more than likely it was she who picked me up but at the time I thought I was just getting lucky. 

      Her name, she told me, was Nancy Wingate. That was true as far as it went. I discovered later, much to my embarrassment, that her full name was Nancy Wingate Brock. Good ol' Nancy was the wife of Assistant Chief of Police Arnold P. Brock.

      Arnold Brock seemed vexed that I was fucking his old lady. Of course catching Nancy and I doing the nasty on his bed in his house may have added to his vexation. In fact, Chief Brock seemed to have a keen desire to shoot my ass.

      The funny thing about it was as pissed-off as Brock was; Nancy seemed to find the whole thing hilarious. While hubby pointed a short-barrel pistol at me, she laughed and told him not to be an ass. I'll give her credit. While Arnold pointed his gun at me, Nancy stayed between us all the way to the front door of their house and allowed me to escape without getting my hide ventilated by bullets.

      Two days went by without me hearing anything about the episode and I was about to become relaxed. I thought maybe he decided to let the whole thing go. I was wrong. He just needed the time to think of something nasty for me.

      I was transferred from robbery-homicide to the vice squad. Robbery-homicide is the crown jewel of the cop shop while vice is the armpit of the department. Very few cops like trying to police peoples' vices. In fact, it's impossible to do. The best you can do is try to control women, drinking, and gambling. You can't stop it.

      The squad leader of vice is a malicious man who hates everyone.  Lieutenant Conrad Wilkes had dreams of being the next chief of police and he was stuck in a dead-end job.  That made him even more evil and very dangerous.

      He was connected enough to make LT but not so well connected as to get out of vice. I would like to say Conrad Wilkes welcomed me warmly and with open arms but that would be a big ol' fat lie. He didn't welcome me at all.

      "So the golden boy stepped on his dick, huh," Wilkes said when I reported for duty. "I don't like prima donnas, Fox. I hate wise-asses with a passion and you are a wise-ass. I hate you and everything you stand for."

      "Damn, LT," I said. "It usually takes a few days for people to hate me and all I stand for. You, sir, are mighty quick."

      "You got the ten PM. to eight A.M. shift," Wilkes said with a sneer. "Starting tonight. I want to know who every john is that goes in that house at the end of Maple Street. You'll be doing a one man surveillance every night."

      So there I was sitting down the street from the house at the end of Maple Street copying down tag numbers that no one would ever check and most likely never see. I knew that I was there as punishment for screwing a chief's wife and there no point in fighting it. Roll with the punches is my philosophy. Shit comes to us all at some point and it always goes away sooner or later.

      Maple Street was in that area that was neither black, white, Asian nor Hispanic. It was far enough from the area known as the combat zone to be considered safe if there is a safe neighborhood anywhere.  The combat zone was a ten square block area that required cops to go in two or more. Part of the area was predominately black and a smaller part was Hispanic. In the zone you could get everything you might want and a whole lot of things you wouldn't want to catch.

      I counted five houses on Maple Street including the one at the end. Three of the houses were occupied by older people who were too stubborn to move as the mean streets moved closer to them. One house, I had determined, was vacant. I used that driveway to park my obvious cop car. The house at the end of the street was the only place that showed any activity after eight o'clock at night. 

      That was something else that bothered me. If the powers that be wanted surveillance on that house why send me or anyone there in a five-year-old Crown Victoria that still had the nest of antenna on it. It looked more like a cop car than the black and white prowl cars. Even a blind person could see it was a cop car.

      I knew what every cop in our precinct knew about the house at the end of Maple Street. It was a whorehouse for black men to go fuck white women. I also knew that no one gave a shit whether or not it opened or closed.

      Street whores can be a problem if allowed to work without checks. Women working out of a house usually caused no trouble. Most of the cops, vice included, figured whorehouses served a good purpose and were left alone unless we got calls. Unless the girls were rolling the johns or if a john beat the crap out of one of the whores, we usually left them alone. One exception was if the mayor got a bug up his ass and called for a crackdown on prostitution. That usually only happened when election time was getting close.

      The other exception was when a place was also involved in narcotics along with the sex.