Whatever Goes Up

by Troy Conway

  Wanda Weaver Yule was an attractive woman in her forties.

  She sat in a blue velvet wingback chair with her legs crossed, and let her wide green eyes insult me. Her slim body was encased in a white satin Geno of California pajama dress, strings of beads hung from her neck. The beads were black, her hair was silver, her mouth was a dark red.

  “Are you sure?” she was asking in a controlled coloratura voice. “It really doesn’t make any sense at all to me.”

  “I’m quite sure,” I replied. “Wanda Weaver Yule, the name was. It came out slurred as ‘wander wherever you will.’ ”

  She looked at Walrus-moustache with those green eyes that seemed to tell him I was a mongoloid idiot. The Old Man cleared his throat

  “He is correct, madam. I’ll stake my life on it.”

  “We don’t want to stake your life,” I said to Mrs. Yule. She threw up her hands in exasperation. There were half a dozen diamond rings on her fingers. Maybe a hundred thousand dollars worth of diamonds. The sunlight streaming in through the patio door of her living room reflected prismatic rainbows from the jewels.

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” she exclaimed, looking around the room. “Two girls want to kill me, you say. You can’t tell me why, and I know I certainly cannot tell you. Yet you both believe it.”

  “We don’t want them to kill you,” I pointed out.

  “Otherwise we wouldn’t be here. We have only your best interests in mind.”

  “The item in the newspaper about your accident, when your motor exploded, may have been an attempt on your life. The girls who thought they’d killed me had a try at killing you themselves. It failed, so they’ll have another go at it.”

  “I think you’re high on speed,” she murmured. She seemed to brighten at the thought. “Are you? I’ve never dared try speed. Marijuana, yes. I’ve smoked pot for ages. Love the effect it gives. These modern messiahs of the mind drugs—I think they’re so brave, so daring. Columbuses of the chemical cult, I call them. I wish I could be one of the ‘inner people’ who get down inside their minds and take trips. But I read about the terrible effects these drugs have and I chicken out.”

  The Chief was staring at her like she’d grown another head. His was a sturdy, sane world, with no place for hippies, yippies or speedsters.

  I thought I understood Wanda Weaver Yule. She was hung up on something, she yearned for a lost youth, perhaps, which is why she liked to consider herself a mod, mod doll. The beads, the ultra-sophisticated white satin lounging pajamas, all added up.

  She wanted to be an acidhead, she read everything she could get her hands on about smoking grass, about the new STP that sends you on a three or four-day trip instead of the eight to twelve-hour trip of LSD. She believed firmly in the ‘turn on, tune in, drop out’ philosophy, but she was too innately cautious—or too chicken, as she phrased it—to take chances on ruining her mind and body by indulging in her beliefs.

  Maybe I knew what she was hung up on.

  I said softly, “Somebody wants to kill you, ma’am.”

  “Utter nonsense! I have enemies, of course. What rich woman without a husband hasn’t? A lot of people around here think I’m a freak, just because I believe in the new social attitudes sweeping the world. Why must there be war? Why can’t people love one another?”

  “Human nature is—“ I began.

  “—is a catchword, no more!” she flared. “Mankind itself has been reaching for its own Utopia for thousands of years. There used to be slavery, now there is slavery only in the Arab world. Can’t you see? Man himself is striving to obey that Christian law, to love his neighbor.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more,” I said. “Love is the universal language. I teach love for your fellow-man in courses at the university where I am a sociology professor. All through Time, man has been struggling to know himself. Maybe one day he will achieve that knowledge. Until then, however, there are a number of people who don’t go along with your flowers for fists doctrine. Those are the people we’re dealing with right now.”

  “Well, I certainly don’t want to die,” she muttered. “I have too much to live for.”

  Her hand made a swing through the air, to indicate the luxurious furnishings of the room. Wanda Weaver Yule fitted into this background.

  I felt out of place; so did Walrus-moustache, because he kept squirming uneasily in a pink armchair. His eyes glared at me, as if to tell me to go on carrying the ball. He was out of his depth with this woman.

  She said slowly, “I haven’t always had this wealth, you understand. I was a trick rider and roper in the rodeo when my husband saw me and fell in love. He was miles above me in education and culture, but I employed tutors after he married me, to get where I am today.” She sighed and her slippered foot swung back and forth.

  “I suppose I shall have to permit it,” she murmured. “Some sort of personal bodyguard, that is. But it seems ridiculous.”

  I smiled in my most agreeable way. “We don’t want to intrude on your privacy, but we feel someone must be with you at all times, for your protection.”

  Her thin eyebrows arched again. “At all times?”

  “If you’d rather have a Foundation girl—”

  “No, no. I wouldn’t feel as safe with a girl as I would with you. But what excuse will I give for your presence?”

  “I’ll be your chauffeur, your butler.”

  “I have a chauffeur and a butler, but I suppose I could give them a holiday. Oh, what nonsense. Nobody wants to kill me. I just don’t believe this fairy tale for one moment.”

  “But just suppose it isn’t a fairy tale. Suppose it were true. You would be in great danger. You are too young, too lovely a woman to throw her life away because the idea of someone trying to kill you seems ridiculous.”

  Wanda Weaver Yule preened a little for me, smiling for the first time and patting the back of her silver hair with a carefully manicured hand.

  I went on. “Surely, you must admit that my superior and myself are not getting anything out of this, except the knowledge of your safety. Why should we go to all of this bother unless we actually believe you are in danger?”

  “Very well, you’ll be my chauffeur. My butler I insist on retaining. You shall accompany me everywhere. You will even sleep in my bedroom.”

  Walrus-moustache harrumphed. Wanda Weaver Yule turned to him. “Don’t you agree? Should I not be safer that way—with this man right there to protect me?”

  This was quite a change coming over our hostess. If she had disliked the idea of her privacy being invaded before, now she was all for it. I wondered what kind of thoughts she was having behind her carefully contrived exterior. Apparently the flint of my words had struck the steel of her opposition and produced a spark somewhere. She was enjoying that spark more than somewhat.

  Walrus-moustache got to his feet. “If you don’t mind, then, I’ll be running along. I’ll leave Professor Damon to work out the details.”

  I went out to the gravel circle fronting the house with him, where he got into his big black limousine, chauffeur-driven. When I went back into the house, she was admiring herself in front of a standing mirror in the hall, twirling her strands of beads and glancing at me over her white satin shoulder, as if to make sure I had a good look at her. She was worth looking at all right. She was slim but she had mature curves. The white satin pajama-dress set them off perfectly.

  “Well, now,” she said after a while. “I suppose you’ll need a uniform. To be my chauffeur, I mean. We have some spares, I think. One of them ought to fit you. Shall we go and see?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said like a chauffeur should.

  We walked upstairs, Wanda Weaver Yule first. I could see her buttocks pressing into white satin, moving gently to her walk. I tried not to look but I am only human, and she had a nice behind.

  To get my mind off her cheeks, I asked. “Why’d you change your mind back there, Mrs. Yule? You were fighting me for all you were
worth, then all of a sudden you got enthusiastic about the idea of my being here with you.”

  Her laughter woke echoes in the big hall where the winding staircase made a carpeted spiral to the second floor. The Yule home had been a Southern mansion before and during the Civil War. It was as spit-polished today as it had been during the era when slaves had done the work.

  I was impressed with this lavish living. I admit it I might not have fitted into such luxury—hell! I’m only a university professor—but I sure would have enjoyed it. There was a crystal chandelier hanging in the lower hallway that must have been worth ten thousand dollars, at least.

  “I realized who you are,” she murmured, stopping on the landing and turning with a ringed hand gripping the mahogany rail. “You are Professor Rod Damon, the founder of the League for Sexual Dynamics, aren’t you?”

  I had stopped on the stair below her on the landing. My head was level with her head, and her lipsticked mouth was within kissing distance. She had kissing in her eyes too. As a sexpert, I get to know the signs.

  “I am. I also work for the Coxe Foundation as a kind of sideline. But why should this knowledge change your mind?”

  “Oh, Professor! You ask a silly question, you’ll get a silly answer. I know Mary Lou Talbot, who, shall we say, studied under you.”

  “Ah,” I nodded, remembering Mary Lou Talbot as a bit of delicious Southern-fried chick who really dug my

  L.S.D. lectures. I asked thoughtfully, “And this makes a difference?”

  She beamed on me with her kissable lips; she laughed at me with her green eyes; I guess she had me tabbed for a schnook. A stupid schnook, at that. She leaned closer and whispered, “I’ve been a widow for seven years, Professor. I thought having you around might cure my loneliness.”

  “As well as save your life,” I nodded, still playing it stupid, trying to ignore the way her white satin pajama blouse clung to her breasts. The breasts were full and heavy, judging by their outlines.

  She put a fingertip on my lips and traced them. Her eyes were green fires. She nodded, and her tonguetip came out to run about her lips. “Maybe you can teach me why I want to stay alive.”

  “I’m sure I can,” I nodded.

  There are times when my dual personality as founder of L.S.D. and as a Coxeman overlap. This was to be one of them. By means of my sex expertise, I might improve my secret service image.

  I did not hurry things. I simply put a palm on her leg behind the knee and ran it up to her pouting buttock. Under the white satin her flesh felt smooth, well-cared-for. She shivered and her mouth fell open.

  “Here?” she breathed.

  My hand patted her behind, making the cheeks jiggle. “Certainly not. We’re going to look at uniforms.”

  I turned her around and gave her backside a little push. She half-laughed, ruefully, and said, “I thought you were a real expert, Professor. Is this how you do your thing?”

  “The first rule of loving is never to rush,” I admonished her gently, trailing her up the stairs to the second floor. “Take your time, enjoy it. You’ll discover I mean what I say—a little later on.”

  She glanced at me archly over her shoulder, sighing, “If you say so. But I must admit to a sense of disappointment.”

  “Tell me that before you fall asleep,” I chided her.

  The room with the spare uniforms was at the end of the hall. It held maids’ uniforms, chauffeurs’ uniforms, mops and pails and dust rags. Spare drapes, extra bedcovers, curtains and shades, were piled in here as neatly as possible.

  She lifted a coat, held it out to me. It was of blue serge. Pale blue trousers went with it. I slipped the coat on while Wanda Yule held the trousers over an arm. The jacket fitted to perfection.

  “Now the pants,” she nodded.

  I removed the jacket, then unbuckled my belt, casting an inquiring look at my employer. She smiled blandly back at me.

  “I’ve seen men in their shorts before,” she said.

  So I shrugged and pushed my pants down, showing my lean middle and the more or less tight jockey shorts. She put her eyes to the reinforced cup and her tongue came out to lick her lips. There was a yearning in her green eyes that I recognized as the call of the wanting widow.

  My manhood was responding by automatic reflex to the heat in her stare. I had to get those trousers on before I got embarrassed. She was having none of it. She pulled the pants away with a jerk of her ringed hands.

  “Wait,” she breathed. “You’re built like a stallion.”

  “But this is no place for horseplay.”

  “I know, I know,” she sighed. “Just let me look.”

  So she looked and longed and when I responded as she knew I would, from what Mary Lou Talbot had told her, her hands began shaking. But she was a lady, or she thought she was; at the moment, there might have been some doubt about that, and about her role in life as a culture vulture. All she knew for certain was that she was ready, willing and able to have a roll in the hay with me.

  Her hands cupped the pouch of my briefs lovingly.

  “Later,” I reminded her, thrusting her hands away.

  She sighed and handed over the trousers. They fit reasonably well, they were slightly baggy at the waist, so she said I’d have to go to the tailor and have them fitted properly.

  “I’d better go now, then,” I said.

  “But hurry back. It’s a warm day and I want to go for a swim in the pool.” Her lips smiled, her eyes filled with gleeful hunger. “You’ll want to take a swim with me too, to prevent anybody from killing me, so you’d better get yourself a pair of swim trunks.”

  I would do that, I promised.

  She let me borrow a gold Shelby Cobra GT 500-KR which she used to race around the country roads. It was a beautiful machine. Driving it, I really did feel like a king of the road, as the Ford people say in their advertisements.

  I braked before a complex of Tudor buildings which was the local shopping center. There was a department store, a hobby crafts shop, a boutique where the girls bought their glamour goodies, a stationery store, a tailor shop, a laundry, a jewelry store.

  I went to visit the tailor.

  While he was measuring me, the little man with the goatee and the balding head informed me that Wanda Weaver Yule was an angel. It was her money that had given him and the jeweler and the man who owned the laundromat the chance to make a go of things in the shopping compound.

  “Ah never saw her like,” he murmured, rubbing the wax marker along the back of the pants. “Charges three puhcent int’rest. Never presses for it, neither.”

  “Makes loans, does she?” I asked, not at all curious, but anxious to have him go on talking.

  “To little people, to big people, to anybody who needs cash. She’s an angel, an uttuh angel. Helps everybody.”

  I wondered if somebody she had loaned money to was anxious to write her off as a creditor. I asked, “Anyone around here owe her so much money he might kill her?”

  The man was shocked. “Kill Missus Yule? Never!”

  Maybe not. Maybe so. “How are you doing financially?”

  “Never better. I’m fixin’ to buy a house, ‘stead of the apartment where my missus and I live.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Ah never charge her for my services. It’s a mattuh of pride with me. These pants, foh example. Ah’ll have them for you tonight, you wan ‘em that fast. Be a pleasure too.”

  Tomorrow will do,” I grinned.

  I drove back to Heather Haven, the name of the Yule estate, in a very thoughtful mood. Could be one of her generosities was backfiring on Wanda Weaver Yule. However, this made little sense. Nobody who owed her money would have enough capital to go around hiring girls to employ professional assassins. If a debtor had that much cash on hand, he could pay back what he owed.

  Or would he? I decided to ask Wanda about it.

  She was at poolside as I parked the car in the graveled drive, yoohooing at me and waving a tanned arm. I c
ame around the side of a brick retaining wall to see a sloping lawn leading down onto a flat stretch of grass in which a kidney–shaped pool was set The water in the pool was a pale blue that made the whole thing resemble a giant sapphire surrounded by the white satin of the poolside tiling and the green velvet of the neatly clipped lawn.

  “I’m already out,” she caroled, getting to her feet.

  She was wearing a skimpy black bikini, the bottom section of which just about covered her front and bared more than half her behind, while the upper part consisted of two tiny cups supporting the somewhat heavy breasts nestling and jiggling inside them.

  She saw the package in my hands. “You bought a swim-suit? Good! Go put it on—oh, not inside. There, by the hydrangea bush—there’s a sort of trellis.”

  The trellis would hide me from the house, it would not shield me from Wanda Weaver Yule. I looked from the trellis to her almost naked body, and chuckled. “So much for your voyeuristic tendencies.’

  I slid out of my clothes while my hostess lighted a cigarette and stood beside the pool staring at my nakedness. Since she was so interested, I didn’t bother to turn my back. If she wanted a private sneak peek, let her look. She stared, forgetting to puff on her cigarette. I tried to cram myself into the swim trunks I’d bought back at the shopping center. They were no more than a posing strap. It was a tough job, and the green eyes admiring my long-sized manhood didn’t help.

  Of course the suit hid very little so I ran down the grassy slope and out onto the diving board. The board gave under my weight as I took off in a high jack-knife. The water came up to swallow me but not before I heard Mrs. Yule applauding my performance.

  I went through the water like a dolphin. To one side of me there was a flash of flesh and black bikini, and my employer bumped into me as I rose to the surface. My arms went about her to prevent her from getting hurt, but she misunderstood my gesture.

  “Mmmmm,” she hummed, rubbing against me, locking her wet arms about my neck. “This is the life.”

  It was indeed. She was a needing female and I had been on a starvation diet since that afternoon with Laura Ogden and Midge Priest. I let my palms slip down her naked back to her curving hips, outward across them to the buttocks covered only by the thin spaghetti straps of her bikini bottom. My fingers tightened in the soft flesh.