by Lou Cameron
She stared down at her own empty hands as she sighed, “That is as he would have put it. May I tell you something, Dick? You remind me very much of my husband.”
“Hell, I thought you said he was good-looking.”
“Do not fish for the compliments. You know tres well you are a most handsome man. But you do not remind me of Jacques because you look like him. He was smaller, darker, and had the eyes of brown. The resemblance is in the way you smile, and something about your attitude. My Jacques, like yourself, gave the impression of quiet strength. Do you remember when we got on the train together and Sir Basil was rude?”
“Yeah, but we seem to have made up.”
“Perhaps. But when you looked down at him that way, as if he were a bug on the pin, and quietly told him off, I thought, mon Dieu, that is just how Jacques would have handled it!”
“Well, there are only so many ways anyone could have.”
“I know. Some men would have taken his abuse. Others would have blustered, called the conductor, made the scene. You simply sat me down across from those odd people, most firmly but most politely.”
“Yeah. Then I let them hit me on the head like a chump.”
She suddenly looked up at him and gasped, “Oh, I meant to ask about that, but I was so happy about my money and so delighted to see you. I noticed the new clothing. One must assume you are tres prosperous, non?”
“Yeah. Sir Basil’s pretty weird. I came here to make sure they meant what they said about seeing you safely home.”
“They did, as you observe. Before I left I insisted they show me you were alive and well. Sir Basil said he’d done it for your own good. You did say you’d been most naughty in Mexico and—”
“Marie, I don’t want to rehash that nutty little gun runner. When will you be going back to the Atlantic coast?”
“In a day or so. Why? Will you be on the train, in case we meet more bandits?”
“No. I’ll probably be here, if I can contact a pal of mine. The reason I asked is because there’s something brewing here in Panama. I’d like to see you safely out of the crazy place before it comes to a boil.”
“Oh, dear, are they having another revolution?”
“I think so, and this one figures to be a big one. You don’t see British Intelligence and international arms merchants involved in your average shoot-the-pigs-and-chickens.”
“I understand. You forget I have lived here for some time. Who do you suppose will win?”
“I don’t even know who’s fighting. Apparently Colombia can’t come to terms with the big-money boys who want to pick up the pieces of your French company. They probably have some dumb idea of being paid a fair price for the right of way. Sir Basil says at least three sets of local politicos are arguing over who gets to play liberator. At least one of ‘em will be armed with machine guns, this time. It’s going to be rougher than usual on the innocent bystanders.”
“Brrr! You, of course, will be manning one of these machine guns?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to anyone whose word I’d trust. Sir Basil wants me to work for him, but every time I ask him what the job is he talks silly.”
“Then why do you not come with me to Paris?”
He looked at her. She stared back unwinking, her small pale face unreadable in the shadowy light. He asked, “Just like that, Marie? You don’t know me. I told you I’m a hunted man on the run.”
“I know the sort of man you are. It came to me as I awoke on the train to find my head on your shoulder. I told myself to wake up and behave, but I knew it was right and so I let myself doze off again and didn’t wake up until those bandits started shooting at us.”
“Marie, you don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re a woman alone and—”
“Exactly! A woman who has been alone too long, waiting for the return of a man she feels safe with! You are not wanted in France and I am now a rich widow. I offer you no adventure with le machine gun, but I make a serviceable onion soup.”
He found one arm around her even as he said, “Honey, this is crazy. You have no business falling for a rascal like me.”
“Poof, what is this falling business? I am not in love. I am most practique. You could never take the place of mon Jacques. No doubt you have memories of someone prettier than me. But we, how you say, feel comfortable together, and neither of us has further business in this mad country. Come with me to Paris, and I will be most nice to you. Come with me to Paris and, for God’s sake, hold me, hold me, hold me and let me once more sleep at night!”
She started to cry. He pulled her closer and cuddled her like the lost kitten she was. He kissed the part of her hair, but meant it only to comfort her. His free hand had a mind of its own and began to run down the smooth satin curves until he commanded it to stop. He knew she only wanted to be held in a brotherly way.
Then her own hand was in his lap and he began to wonder just how sisterly she really felt. As her fingers began to fondle in the almost innocent way of old lovers, he put his own free hand under her chin, lifted it, and kissed her. She responded with a shuddering, contented sigh, and when she opened her eyes they were warm and dreamy.
He said, “Marie, I’m only human. A man could take this the wrong way.”
“Hush. Just hold me.”
“That’s all I’m trying to do, but you’d better stop fooling with my fly like that before I lose control.”
“Do you want to make love to me, Dick?”
“Can’t you feel?”
“Oh, yes, you are tres formidable. Carry me into the bed. Make me your own.”
“Honey, I want to so bad I can taste it. But you’ve got to understand I’m not going anywhere past bed with anybody! Your offer is tempting as hell, but I’d be trapped like a rat aboard a ship on the high seas and—”
“Oh, merde, we’ll talk about Paris another time! Do I have to hit you on the head to get you in bed, too?”
He laughed, aware she didn’t savor the full joke of her words, as he swept her off the sofa and carried her through another set of beaded curtains. As he lowered her to the satin sheets of her four-poster her kimono fell open, exposing a petite, perfect figure carved from ivory.
His own clothes landed in a heap on the rug as he saw she really meant it. She’d shucked off the blue satin and was working on him with her rosebud mouth before he had his socks off. He grinned and rolled her on her back to enter her with one sock off and one sock on. She gasped in wide-eyed wonder as he drove into her hungry, wet depths. Then she wrapped arms and legs around him like an octopus and sobbed, “Mon Dieu! I never knew I wanted it so badly!”
They made wild, abandoned love for a full hour, and despite the wild night before with Jenny, Captain Gringo was up to every bit of it. The tiny French widow was an exciting contrast to the lusher redhead, and Marie’s lovemaking, though every bit as sensuous, was sweeter and somehow more innocent. Jenny knew every trick of pleasing a man. Marie just let herself enjoy it, and her enthusiasm made up for anything she lacked as a mattress athlete. After repeated normal orgasms she moved into a sixty-nine position with neither coy nor lewd remarks, as if it were the most natural way for two friends to keep the pleasure going. The big American responded in kind, for her body was clean and scented with only the perfume she wore and the fresh muskiness of human sex. He came in her mouth as she shuddered and contracted on his tongue and for a time they simply lay there, floating among the stars together. Then she rose partly off him, turned around, and sank down on his half-staff with a contented sigh. She lowered her head to his shoulder and whispered, “Say nothing. Don’t move. Let me fall asleep this way.”
He relaxed and held her in his arms, her thighs hugging his ribs as their hearts beat in tempo. She murmured, “Oh, mon Jacques, mon cher—” and he could tell by her breathing she was asleep. It wasn’t easy, but he left her that way for a while. The kid had been running on nerves, worried, heartbroken, obviously frustrated as hell. A little loving and the feel
of friendly arms around her had knocked her cold.
After a while it got less comfortable. Her bare belly and breasts were a little sticky as it kept getting warmer outside, and he could do with a bit of sleep himself. He tried to move her off, very gently. But she responded by tightening her vaginal muscles and moving up and down, like a kitten snuggling closer. He found himself responding as his shaft began to swell again inside her. He didn’t want to wake her. But he was too hard, now, to stop. He thrust gently and she began to move in time with him, still fast asleep. Old Jacques had sure as hell lost a good thing by dying of the yellow jack. Marie was better in her sleep than most gals were awake!
He slowly rolled her over, trying not to wake her up as he experimented with this new way of doing it. He’d had a couple of drunks like this, of course, and been a bit disgusted. But Marie was drunk on lovemaking and honest exhaustion. Her breath was fresh and her body responded with a will of its own. He found himself getting excited again and decided it might be a nice way for any gal to wake up. So he let himself go. He hooked an elbow under each of her knees and opened her wide to pound. She kept her eyes closed but he could see she was smiling, still fast asleep. It made him a little jealous to wonder what she must be dreaming. He let go and ejaculated hard as she rolled her head on the pillow and crooned French words he didn’t understand. He knew she’d come, in her dream, but she was still asleep as he rolled off, cradled her head again on his shoulder, and muttered, “That’s all right, Jacques. I probably owed you one.”
Then he slept, too, until the braying of a burro outside woke them both a little after three.
Chapter Six
Captain Gringo left Marie’s about five-thirty. She’d spoiled the first bath he’d taken after rising by remembering they’d left out one way he hadn’t come in her. Then they bathed again together, made love in the soapy water, and talked some more about Paris and her onion soup. He was too gallant to wonder aloud if any man could make it as far as Paris with a lady who seemed intent on making up for lost time. He assumed the late Jacques had really died of yellow jack. They couldn’t have been at it like that every siesta since they’d been married. He wouldn’t have had time to even start his fool canal.
She followed him to the door, still nude, and clung to him and his wilted linen for a long, lingering kiss as she asked, “Will I ever see you again, Dick?”
He ran his hands down over her smooth, firm buttocks and replied, “Of course. I’ll probably be tied up tonight, but I’ll try to join you for another siesta mañana.”
She giggled and said, “It was tres restful, non? You must think me a shameless hussy, but I do not care. For some reason, I find I have no shame around you.”
He told her they’d done nothing to feel ashamed about, kissed her again, and left. He left regretfully, because he knew better than Marie why she’d been so uninhibited. Despite her foolish entreaties to come with her to Paris, they were ships passing in the night and she knew it. The poor little gal would tighten up like a school-marm around any gent she knew who might meet her on the street where she really lived. He felt a little shitty about the way he’d used her. But he knew she’d used him, too. You couldn’t come with anyone without saying sweet lies, and all that bullshit about onion soup had been Marie’s way of saying she wasn’t just doing this ‘cause she needed a good fuck. She’d been brought up proper and bedded by a man who knew his way around the female form. She probably told herself fibs when she played with herself, too. A lot of dames were like that. A month from now she’d be glad he hadn’t followed her to wherever she was going. She’d no doubt tell herself he’d been a scoundrel and have her eye on some socially suitable Frenchman, the poor bastard.
He’d promised her he’d be back for second helpings, but he didn’t think he’d better. If she’d been kidding, by tonight she’d be wondering how in hell to get rid of him. If she were serious, it was best to break clean. He knew she was all right, and there was nothing he could do for her. Nothing that really mattered. Any man could service a gal, and most of them didn’t have a price on their heads. A soldier of fortune had no business dragging decent gals down with him.
He avoided the alley he’d been attacked in, so he didn’t know whether anything had been done about the two bodies or not. He didn’t think that was any of his business, either. His only real business was staying alive, these days. It had been tough enough in Mexico. But there, at least, he’d known what side everyone was on.
He went back to the bar. The blue table was still there, but the puta was gone and there was a new bartender. He saw the place was nearly empty. So he had a Cervesa and left, not sure just where he wanted to go. He had a wallet full of bills. Any number of ships tied up along the quay would take him aboard for a few bucks, if they didn’t simply rob him and dump his body in the bay. You had to be careful how you approached a strange skipper. It helped if you knew where you wanted to go.
He couldn’t go back to the States. He’d gotten used to that, and it didn’t hurt so much these days. His Spanish had improved with practice and he had nearly a thousand dollars and a loaded gun to work with. Was Panama the most sensible place for him to be? Yet how long would he last on a thousand, and where would he be safer? Sir Basil had fixed the local law for him. He might well be jumping from the pan to the fire if he lit out for parts unknown, and he was wanted in all the parts he knew of.
As he strolled under the arcade someone fell in beside him, and Captain Gringo braced for a hard-luck story from some vagrant. Then the man at his side said, “Clumsy, my old and rare. The puta was a part-time police informer.”
“I’m not surprised, Gaston. She obviously told you I was in town though, right?”
“Merde alors! Everyone in Panama knows the notorious Captain Gringo is here, plotting something most diabolic with Sir Basil Hakim. I prefer, myself, to keep the lower profile, hein?”
Gaston Verrier was a smaller, older, and more ruthless soldier of fortune. He’d come to the Western Hemisphere a generation back with the French Foreign Legion and deserted when the comic-opera empire of the French-backed Maximilian had gone under to Juarez in a brief outburst of Mexican democracy. The two of them had met as both were awaiting execution by a Mexican firing squad. Since then they’d been, if not trusted friends, at least not enemies. Captain Gringo knew Gaston would betray his mother for a reasonable cash offer, but, on the other hand, the’ Frenchman never acted like a prick just for practice. South of the border, this was saying a lot for any knock-around guy.
As they came to an alley, Gaston nudged the taller man and said, “In here. It’s safer to talk in my place, non?”
He led Captain Gringo to a rickety outside stairway and they went up to his digs. Gaston flicked on the lights in the darkly draped room and told the naked Negress on the brass bedstead to get dressed and go out for some wine. As she slipped sullenly into a cotton shift, Gaston told his guest to sit down and added, “She has a sister, if you enjoy unusual experiences.”
Captain Gringo took a seat on a bentwood chair near the one table and fished for a smoke as he said, “No, thanks. I’ve been having some unusual experiences.”
“Ah, it is true Sir Basil is perverse? I have never enjoyed men very much. It is not the unusual plumbing so much as the silly way queers act.”
“You know me better than that, Gaston. What else can you tell me about the old goat?”
Gaston waited until the Negress had left before he put a finger to the side of his nose and said, “You must learn not to speak so freely in front of women, my young friend. Bebe is a police informant, too.”
“She is? How do you know?”
“Merde, he asks me how I know. The girl says she loves me and makes la zig-zig for nothing. I ask you, is that reasonable?”
“How should I know? There’s no accounting for tastes.”
“I am not bad-looking, and a tiger in bed, but one develops the instincts for such matters. Bebe is from the French West Indies. She says it is f
ate that brought us together. I suspect fate works for the Colombian Military Police.”
“Then why is she staying here with you, Gaston?”
Gaston chuckled and said, “Fortunately, while Bebe is a most clumsy spy, she is formidable in the dark. If I got rid of her they would think I was impotent— or worse, that I was on to them. This way, I feed her information my friends desire the government to believe and Bebe, ah, Bebe is tres fantastique! She really has a sister, by the way. Pure ebony and moves le derriere like the saloon door on payday. One night we played the game of three in a boat and—”
“Gaston, what the hell is going on down here?”
“Bah, you spoilsport Yankees always want to talk about business. Very well. First you tell me what you are doing for Sir Basil Hakim.”
Captain Gringo told him, leaving out only the bit about his recent siesta. Gaston studied his guest with a blank expression but they knew each other well enough for the American to see he was sincerely puzzled. When he’d finished, Gaston said, “It makes no sense.”
“I agree. He’s gone out of his way to be nice to me, in his own crazy way, but, so far, he hasn’t asked me to do anything but eat his food, spend his money, and screw his mistress.”
“He needs no hired guns. They say he has a private army.”
“I noticed. I’ve got a rating as a small-arms expert.”
“Poof, Sir Basil buys machine guns direct from Maxim and Spandau. He needs no expert machine gunners. He is one himself. They say he can disassemble and put together any weapon made, blindfolded. He does this to impress clients. He also has, how you say, salesmen, who willingly demonstrate his weapons by mowing down truculent tribesmen on demand. In Africa they once bombarded a native village for the Emperor of Abyssinia, and contracted to supply His Majesty’s fully equipped artillery battalion. Oh, by the way, Hakim then made sure the Italians heard about it. They bought two artillery trains. They lost anyway, when the Emperor Menelik beat them at Dogali. Did he tell you about his submarines?”