Renegade 21

by Lou Cameron

  Captain Gringo braced the Maxim over a fallen log, stuck the point of his machete in said log, and then sat on it, wearily, as he watched the others file through the gap onto more or less dry land. He spotted old Nogales, called him over, and said, “We’re camping here. Fires first, to dry everyone out before sunset turns the tap to cold. Make sure you scrape the forest duff away before building the fires. I don’t like surprises, and that shit can smolder pretty good under the surface, once it warms up some.”

  Nogales looked injured and said he’d been building fires on the surface of Nicaragua for some time. He said to leave everything to him. That was the trouble with giving a peon a gun and other authority. Captain Gringo just nodded and said, “Bueno.” With luck, nobody would start to plot against him before they won a few firefights with those Krags and started feeling more important.

  Vallejo wandered off to take a leak, smoke a violet cheroot, or something. Little Florita joined him on the log and snuggled close, to warm her chilled hips, to show off for the other mujeres, or both. He absentmindedly put an arm around her waist. It felt better than resting his bare palm on the somewhat gluggy log.

  Gaston was last through the gap, of course. The Frenchman now had a rifle slung as well as his pack on his back. He unloaded and sat down on the far side of Florita with a sigh. He said, “Eh bien. Let’s claim this place as a private republic and just stay here. I have been thinking as you led us through that evil-smelling puddle, Dick. I know it’s a nasty habit, but I was thinking anyway. Has it occurred to you this whole trés ridicule expedition is a feint?”

  In English, Captain Gringo replied, “What was your first clue? Portola knew Granadine guerrillas were just south of him. He wouldn’t have issued us this Maxim if he wanted them to kill us for sure. But he would have sent us with some decent fighting men and materiel if he was really concerned about our health. I just found out how Vallejo got his so-called commission. It was a political favor. Portola had longer than us to find out that the jerk-off was useless, and it only took us a day.”

  “Eh bien, the only question before the house is what are we to do now. I don’t think Portola gives a fart at the moon about that dam and his damned Indians. I find it trés difficult to work up even that much concern. On the other hand, the dam site is right on the Costa Rican border, non?”

  Captain Gringo patted Florita’s wet rump and told her to take the machete and build them a nice little house of twigs before it started to rain again. As she scampered off, waving the machete proudly, Captain Gringo said, “Never discuss strategy in front of anyone, even in English. You never know how much of the drift may be getting through.”

  “True. I once managed to anticipate a droll incident in a North African alley that way, and I still don’t know enough Arabic to matter. But, now that we are free to plot in any language, and all shit of the bull aside, the certified check I carry next to my heart is probably going to bounce whether its wrapped in rubber or not. If we forgot the carrot on the stick and just scampered on to Costa Rica, we would be no worse off than we were before we met all these sneaky people, non?”

  “What about our campesinos?”

  Gaston shrugged and asked, “Did either of us give birth to them? The poor bastards will suffer either way. El Generale may not be about to follow through on his threat to their home village. If he sent us this way to make noise and attract attention, he doubtless has plans to march his army somewhere else as we distract the Granadines with machine-gun fire, non?”

  Captain Gringo nodded and said, “Yeah, that works. It explains why he’d see fit to issue us a Maxim and plenty of ammo without handing out one lousy rifle.”

  “Eh bien, he knew your reputation for sounding like a whole army on occasion. As I said, this expedition is merely a feint. Portola’s not expecting us even to make it to that dam site. Merde alors, for all we know, he could be in league with that British construction company. How much would it take to bribe anyone on either side here?”

  Captain Gringo smiled thinly and said, “Not much. But aren’t you sort of curious about the third or fourth side in this charade? C.C., Limited, sent a snazzy blonde to recruit us. She may or may not have offered something as nice to Portola. But somebody else tried to stop you in that alley after you talked to Portola’s man, and somebody killed Portola’s guys in Grey town as well.”

  He reached for a smoke as he added, “I wish I knew who the good guys and bad guys were around here. The only way to find out is to find out.”

  Gaston said, “Merde alors, me and my big mouth! I might have known I would provoke your catlike curiosity by stating the trés obvious. Let me put it another way, Dick. It does not matter who is fucking whom, with what, for whatever reason! We owe nothing to any side involved, and every side is trés sneaky and trés dangerous!”

  Captain Gringo lit his soggy cigar and said, “It’s about to start raining again. Meanwhile, we’re forted up safe and reasonably dry where nobody on any side can possibly jump us. Let’s sleep on the deal.”

  “Merde alors, what deal could we possibly have with anyone? Portola sent us out with a rubber check and not enough weaponry to do anything at all important. You told the blonde you did not wish to work for her side, and the third side, whoever they may be, keeps trying to kill us!”

  Captain Gringo blew a thoughtful smoke ring and said, “Portola’s a prick, but he’s a pro with a reputation to consider. If we do the job we agreed to do, he has to make good on the check and the bonus. He’d never be able to hire any other knock-around guys like us if we spread the word in San Jose that we’d been stiffed on a contract.”

  “True, but to do that, we would have to get back to San Jose alive! The triple-crossing general has loaded the dice so that we can hardly do that if we even try to keep our end of the bargain, hein?”

  Something warm and wet hit Captain Gringo between the shoulder blades and ran down his back. He stood up, gripping the cigar between the teeth of a defiant smile, and said, “Yeah, El Generale will probably shit his pants when he has to pay us off. We’d better take cover. A monkey just shit on me or it’s starting to rain some more.”

  Gaston rose too, protesting, “It’s impossible, dammit! Even with the guns out pobrecitos weren’t supposed to have, we don’t have the manpower to attack even a modest construction gang, and that blonde was running all over recruiting professional gunslicks as well!”

  “Big deal, I said no, didn’t I? That British outfit’s running scared or they wouldn’t be acting so anxious. I’ll tell you what they’re so worried about when I scout the site and find out. Meanwhile, we’ve got this Maxim, plenty of dynamite, and eleven half-ass fighting men, not counting the worthless shavetail and his cook.”

  “Merde alors, you are trés nuts. But you are right about the weather, and at least you can’t get us killed here and now, thank God!”

  People stayed up late in the tropics when it wasn’t raining. But after supper on a soggy night there was nothing to do but go to bed early, and Captain Gringo had neither reading nor screwing material handy in his soggy thatched shelter. Florita had built them a pretty neat little hut, so he had to let her share it with him. They had to hang their wet clothes up to dry. So it should have been lot cozier under the flannel top sheet than it really felt. But damp tobacco tasted lousy, and lying there with a hard-on next to a frigid little dame felt even worse. He knew that most of the other good-looking stuff in camp was taken. But at least Gaston got to Jerk off in private in his own shelter. He decided that if Florita made any more dumb remarks about his abusing her, he’d take her up on it. There was no sense in both of them suffering, and even a cold slab remarking on what beasts men were would probably feel better than his hand, so what the hell.

  He waited, listening to the rain on the thatch above them. In the dark, he tried to picture her as ugly. It didn’t work. Her warm naked hip was against his thigh and he could smell the musky odor of her femininity. He wondered if she noticed how gamy he was, after
a long steam bath with no soap. She must have felt a certain tension in the darkness, because he’d just about decided she must be asleep when she murmured, “Are you very angry with me, Señor Deek?”

  “No,” he lied. “I said I understood your, ah, problem.”

  She sighed and said, “I wish I did. I am no longer sick from eating palmetto berries, and I wish very much for to have you like me. But when I think about what you wish for to do to me, I feel all sick inside.”

  “There went a great idea,” he muttered half to himself. Then he said, “Go to sleep. I don’t want to disgust you. As a matter of fact, the whole thing sounds pretty boring. A bird or a salmon would probably wonder what in the hell we humans got out of acting so silly.”

  “Si, I have never understood it myself. When I was little, I used to watch my mamacita do naughty things in her hammock when she thought I was asleep. I could never understand why she did it. She moaned and groaned and said the men were killing her, but the next night—”

  “Hold it,” he cut in with a frown. “Did you say men, plural? How many lovers did your mama have, Florita?”

  “Oh, many. Mamacita was most popular. You see, my papacito was a charcoal burner who was away a lot and had a drinking problem when he was at home. But I still worried about my poor momacita when she sobbed and gasped under all those brutal men who came for to visit her at night.”

  “Hmm, how old were you when mamacita was undergoing all this torture, kitten?”

  “I don’t know. Very little. Mamacita was only thirty or so when she died. The padre said she died of sin. I always thought one of those men she entertained in her hammock at night must have done something bad to her with his … you know.”

  He put a comforting arm around her bare shoulders, snuggled her head against his chest, and said, “I can see how your wedding night could have been a bust for all concerned. How old was the guy you married?”

  She thought and said, “Seventeen, I think. I was fourteen and most afraid, even though my relatives said I had to marry someone lest I become an old maid. I tried to be brave, Señor Deek, but he hurt me and made me cry. We were not married long. As I told you, he called me bad names and left me for a wicked older woman of sixteen.”

  He chuckled and said, “He sounds like a real Don Juan.”

  He felt a tear on his bare chest. He patted her shoulder and said, “Hey, I was only teasing, Florita. I really feel sorry for the both of you. You must have been desirable as hell to him, and he was just a kid who probably didn’t know how to warm a woman up first.”

  “Well, in fairness, my husband did not know about eating palmetto berries first. Do you think that was what we should have done, Señor Deek?”

  “No. Getting poisoned or even drunk isn’t the answer, querida. You’d have been a problem for an experienced lover, once you’d been scared that way by things you were too young to understand.”

  “Si, I was most uneasy when my husband tore my clothes off and threw me on the bedding. What would this experienced man have done, Señor Deek?”

  He ran an exploratory hand over her breasts, gently, as he explained, “Well, he’d have let you get used to the idea first. Does this feel very frightening?”

  She said, “Si, it makes my heart pound very hard. Are you going to attack me now?”

  He said, “No,” as he started gently massaging her slightly smaller left breast. He didn’t know why the smallest one was usually the most sensitive, but why fight nature? He moved into a better position and as he played with her now turgid nipple he kissed her cheek, moved his lips to her ear, and tongued it teasingly. She giggled and said, “Oh, that makes me feel so funny! For why are you kissing me there?”

  He moved farther aboard to kiss her lush lips. She kissed back lousy. He kissed down her chin and throat as she protested that he was tickling her, and as he took her breast in his open mouth he slid the hand he’d aroused it with down her smooth belly to home plate.

  She stiffened and crossed her thighs on his wrist as he soothed, “Easy, easy, just seeing if you’re all there.”

  She opened her thighs with a resigned sigh and said, “Now you are going to have your way with me, no?”

  He kissed his way back up to her mouth as he began massaging her between her trembling thighs. He kept his lips touching hers as he murmured, “No, You’re not ready for that. Relax, Florida. I’m not going to do anything yet.”

  She giggled and unconsciously moved her pelvis to a more welcoming angle as she asked, “What do you call what you are doing to me, if it is not anything?”

  “It’s called foreplay. Old exotic custom I learned from Yanqui brujas in mysterious porch swings. You can yell if I’m hurting you.”

  She said, “It does not hurt. It just feels silly. What are you getting out of playing with me so? Don’t you wish for to shove more important matters in and out of me? I told you I did not really mind anymore.”

  He kissed her some more to shut her up. He noticed her kisses, while still unskilled, were improving as she relaxed and warmed to the occasion. He had her clit standing at attention as he rocked it in the boat, too, and she was starting to lubricate pretty good down there as she started to squirm in his arms, still more confused than passionate.

  They came up for air and she murmured, “I don’t think I would mind very much if you went all the way now. Your gentle hand has made me feel, ah, less frightened.”

  A boor would have mounted her now. He knew better. This wasn’t really what you could call breaking in a virgin, even though the poor little dope had no idea what it was supposed to feel like. In a way, she was a tougher challenge than a willing virgin would have been. He knew he had to overcome more than inexperience. The poor little dame knew sex only as a frightening duty to which women were required to submit.

  So he finger-fucked her all the way to climax as she squirmed, moaned, and acted a lot like her mamacita must have in times gone by. He kept his frightening parts clear of her writhing flesh as he kissed her and tongued her at her moment of orgasm. Then, as she went limp with a shuddering sigh of astounded contentment, he murmured, “Now I’m going to do it some more, with just a little of me helping my fingers, all right?”

  She agreed, but started to stiffen up as he eased into the saddle. He said, “Easy now. I’m not going in until you want me to,” as he rubbed the tip up and down in her love-slicked opening. She gasped and asked, “Is that your … you know? It feels even better than your fingers and your fingers felt ever so nicer than anything else I have ever felt down there. Was that what the other women call coming, Señor Deek?”

  “Yeah. Did you like it?”

  “It felt better than anything I have ever felt in my life. I can see, now, that mamacita was not really in pain after all! But why did I moan so when it felt so good, Señor Deek?”

  “Beats me. Some dames laugh. I guess you’re just supposed to make some damn sound at such times, and you’d sound even dumber reciting a poem.”

  She started moving her hips as he toyed with them both until he was hurting bad, too. Then, as he started moving it in a fraction of an inch with each of her responding thrusts, Florita suddenly sobbed, “Oh, stop teasing me and do it, Señor Deek!”

  So he did. She hissed in mingled fear and passion as she felt him fill her to the brim. And then she raised her knees, locked her ankles atop his naked buttocks, and gasped, “I am getting that marvelous feeling again. I do not feel disgusted. I feel wonderful! Is this what fucking is supposed to feel like, Señor Deek?”

  That was too dumb a question to answer orally. So he replied by coming with her. As they went limp in each other’s arms, Florita said, “You have made me so happy. That felt lovely and I am so glad you have made a real woman out of me at last. I only wish it did not have to end so soon.”

  He kissed her and asked, “What’s this soon crap? It’s not eight o’clock yet and we’ve got all night ahead of us.”

  “My God, is it possible to do it more than once?”


  “Why not? You’ve already come twice and I’m just getting started. Let’s stop for a smoke and then we’ll try some other positions.”

  They did. They didn’t run out of positions until well after midnight, and she would have tried it flying, if they’d had wings. But he knew the sun would rise at six o’clock, and a guy needed at least six hours’ sleep if he meant to carry a machine gun far enough to matter through a hot sticky jungle. So he told her they’d get to do it all over again the following night, and, once she stopped, Florita fell right to sleep, limp and puny as a well-stroked pussy cat.

  He had a little more trouble falling asleep. She hadn’t been bad, but it was beginning to look like he’d created a monster. He wondered what would become of Florita when the time came to ditch her. It was hard to fall asleep with a guilty conscience. And the poor little creature was going to feel betrayed, now that she’d told him more than once how much she loved him and how she meant to be his adelita forever.

  Of course, a lot of people said dumb things when they were coming. He didn’t remember making any promises in return. But, on the other hand, he sure hadn’t told her he hated her while she’d been giving him her all and then some.

  He told himself to forget it as the rain pattered down around them in the warm darkness. He tried to tell himself Florita was at best as deep a thinker as a friendly dog, and that none of the other pobrecitos El Generale had issued them to lose in the jungle expected to be treated as well as a valuable horse. But it wouldn’t work. He couldn’t help thinking of them all as human beings who trusted and depended on him.