'I'm a fighter too,' he said. 'It takes one to know one.'
She looked at him and laughed. She saw the solemnity in his blue eyes.
'I'd like to see more of you when you're settled in New York,' he said quietly.
'I would like that too,' she said quietly.
She looked at him and then rose unsteadily to her feet. He got up also. The deck lurched and she suddenly found herself in his arms.
'I've got you,' he said, holding her gently.
A warmth seemed to seep from her insides as she looked into his eyes. They were bright and intense, filled with an ocean of promises.
'I think I know a good way to weather this storm,' he said softly.
Hélène sank into the pale blue quilted satin spread. She rolled on her side and then settled on her back, feeling the sleek, sensual fabric beneath her. The cabin was lit by the glow coming from the sitting room and a single dim bedside lamp. The big square windows looked out onto the promenade deck. Chances were that nobody ventured out on deck in this weather, but the curtains were nevertheless drawn, ensuring full privacy and somewhat muting the lashings of the rain and the sea.
She could hear Siegfried's movements in the sitting room. There was a click as the light went out, and finally the whisper of his feet moving across the carpet. Slowly he entered, pulling the bedroom door shut behind him.
Hélène was stretched full length on the bed, the light casting shadows across the firm contours of her body. She had let her hair fall free from the chignon. It hung down her back, and would have seemed to be a single sheet of black silk in the dim light if it hadn't been for the one renegade tendril that caught on her breast.
He hesitated momentarily at the sight, and then moved toward her, unable to see her eyes until he stood a foot away. She raised her head and stared up at him, meeting his gaze. Her violet eyes moved down his tanned, muscular body. His chest was covered with small spirals of dark hair, his hips flat and narrow. From the thicket of hair at his groin, his penis pushed out, the veins sculptured in bold relief.
She reached out and took his hand, guiding it toward one of her breasts. Closing her eyes, she felt his gentle fingers kneading one nipple and his moist tongue flicking against the other. His free hand began slowly to stroke her perfumed flesh, gradually increasing momentum as it moved down to her navel and then found its way to her clitoris, one finger probing its wet, radiating warmth.
Hélène began to shudder as the pleasure began culminating toward pain. Just as she thought his stroking would overwhelm her, he stopped and moved over her. Straddling her gently, he pressed his lean hips down against hers. Her arms reached up, encircling his neck, and drew him fiercely downward. Siegfried's face was an inch from hers when suddenly he halted, and in that one silent moment Hélène's world stopped. Urgently her eyes flicked up to meet his, and there she saw a stare so determined, yet at the same time so unreadable. There was something fearful in the intense power she saw in those features, something that seemed to have gathered force like a dam ready to burst.
His face never moved, but she could feel his hips slowly, steadily lifting from hers. Up they rose until they stopped, seeming to hover, ready, yet hesitant. And then he drove down hard, plunging through her slick, wet walls. Hélène's body arched with the impact, as he reached her deepest recesses in that one, long-awaited drive. He then pulled away from her and began to quickly enter and withdraw, enter and withdraw in shallow, rapid thrusts.
She writhed beneath him, her legs firmly clasped around his waist, while her head moved back and forth. Hélène felt his pace slow, as if he feared he would hurt her.
'Don't slow down! Please. . .' she whispered, anxiety betraying her.
'Ssssssh.'
He pulled out gradually, and in a panic she felt he was abandoning her. But then he slowly entered her again, and the joys of relief and pure physical sensation brought breathless sounds from her. Over and over he repeated the maneuver, sometimes quickening his thrusts, then easing them. Hélène's body shuddered as she climaxed again and again, each orgasm rushing over her until he, too, finally cried out, slapping into her with all his force, bringing her to still another orgasm. Siegfried came, his muscles quivering with the release of vibrant liquid energy.
She lay back as his body collapsed against her, the still-muted sea now a comforting wash of sound in the air.
Siegfried Bavier and Hélène had many things in common, but of all their shared qualities there was one which stood out above the others. Their beginnings. Both of them had begun life penniless and worked their way up from the depths of poverty and despair. As a result, each recognized and respected the restless hunger which drove the other. In Bavier, Hélène saw a mind that was a mirror image of her own. He was cunning and ambitious and enjoyed his wealth and status. Yet it hadn't gone to his head. On the contrary, during his climb to success and power he had never lost touch with his simple beginnings. He liked the whole process of making money—the work and the struggle and the skill he had to employ in order to get it. There was no reason for him to continue working. Years ago, he could easily have retired in splendor for the rest of his life. But he kept adding to his riches. Mainly because he enjoyed exercising the skill and the gambling it involved. Had he possessed a different, less creative mind, Bavier might have spent his life playing cards or gambling on horses or numbers. But he recognized these as children's games. To him, the gambles that went on daily in big business were the Big Leagues. And the winning wasn't nearly as important as the Game. He was a gambler like no others. Forty-one years old, he had been a millionaire three times, and twice in between he had gone bankrupt.
'A man who can make a fortune once, lose it all, and make it all over again from scratch has nothing to worry about,' he was once quoted as saying. 'If success isn't a fluke, it can be repeated a hundred times over.'
And he proved it. Each time he lost a fortune, he not only regained it but also ended up with more than he had before. When Hélène met him, he was worth in the vicinity of twenty-two million dollars, was playing the stock market and investing heavily in futures and commodities. Wisely enough, he kept five million tied up in tax-free municipal bonds. The rest he used to play with.
His financial ups and downs had their roots during the war, when he had been an eighteen-year-old infantryman marching from France deep into Germany. By the time he was shipped stateside he was in one of the last waves of returning GI's. The first waves had gotten the heroes' welcomes and the ticker-tape parades. Victory had then been fresh in people's minds. But by the time he got back, there were no more parades. There were no more heroes' welcomes. There was a housing shortage and all the jobs were taken. Giancarlo Iacono, his old employer in Brooklyn, had slapped him on the back before he had been shipped off to Europe. 'Just Remember, Sigi-boy, you a got friends here,' Iacono had promised expansively. 'Your job will be a waiting for you when you a get back.'
But when Bavier got back, his job was held by one of Iacono's many nephews, and his girl had married someone else. His future had never looked bleaker. When he had boarded the Liberty Ship in France, he had been ready to grab the future by the balls. He had had twenty thousand dollars tucked inside his boots. By the time he got off the ship at the Brooklyn Naval Yard, he was dead broke.
For as long as he lived, Bavier would never forget the hellish march through Germany. Day after day, he and the other GI's in his platoon were met by the same ugly sights, smells, and sounds. Nothing but death, destruction, misery, hunger, and despair. As the march progressed, Bavier had watched as half his platoon was steadily decimated, either shot to pieces or blown up by land mines or falling bombs. Somehow, almost through sheer willpower, he managed to survive. He did his duty to the best of his ability, and tried to blot out all the ugliness. But that was difficult. For the GI's, there was no such thing as even a semblance of normalcy, even for a few hours. And no recreation of any sort. There was only the promise of more fighting, the constant specter of death, tasteless cold rations,
and perhaps a little much-needed sleep. But never enough. It was hard to sleep when bombs were falling all around you.
Bavier recognized the need for recreation better than anyone else, perhaps because he himself needed it so badly. More important, he recognized this as an opportunity.
It did not take long for him to begin the recreational program. When a pimply young boy from Idaho was shot down beside him, he lifted the deck of cards the boy carried and pocketed it. He traded his cigarettes and rations for more decks of cards. Soon he was the only person within miles who had them. Then he made a small portable roulette wheel out of junk he stumbled across. At first everyone laughed at him, but he knew that they would come around. And he was right. In the wet foxholes and the icy, windblown tents, the card games and gambling parties he organized became so popular that he had them solidly booked for a week in advance. The 'recreation' was, in fact, a traveling casino, and one of the best-kept secrets in the division.
Bavier was well aware that in gambling you had to make sure people paid their debts. He couldn't let anyone slide by owing him. Especially not if the debtor could be blown to bits that very night. So before he even started the enterprise, he got together with Hector Carras, a husky fellow soldier who also hailed from Brooklyn and who, before he was inducted, used to be a minor collector for the notorious Zanmatti family. Together, splitting the proceeds fifty-fifty, Bavier and Carras had the games in the division organized to an astonishingly sophisticated degree. By the time his tour of duty was over, Bavier's share of the loot amounted to over twenty thousand dollars, which he kept carefully stashed in a plastic bag tucked safely inside his boots.
When the war was over, Bavier and Carras found themselves steaming back to New York on the same troop ship. The passengers were a restless, impatient mass of GI's. The ship was cramped and everyone was anxious to get home; the trip would take nearly a week and a half. Everyone was boasting about the women who were waiting. And as the men lay in their swinging hammocks in the dark, the sounds of their restless hands and the moans of their self-induced orgasms filled the nights.
Once again Bavier recognized the opportunity for organizing some lucrative recreation. After all, the men had nothing but daydreams to occupy themselves. Together he and Carras came up with the idea for making one last killing.
There was a big GI aboard named Luis Gonzales who kept bragging how he had been a professional prizefighter before he was inducted. Carras, too, had fought quite a few rounds professionally before he joined up with the Zanmattis. He and Bavier approached Gonzales. The ex-prizefighter agreed to a match. Then they talked to the platoon sergeant, who in turn went to see the company commander, who welcomed the fight as a way to entertain the bored men. There was only one hitch. The company commander was adamant about allowing no betting.
That didn't deter Carras or Bavier. They simply did it quietly and in a roundabout way. They bought the services of four privates, and it was they who went around making book. Betting was rampant and everyone went at it feverishly. Bavier decided to bet his entire twenty thousand dollars on Carras. It was a gamble, but if Carras won. . .
The fight was held on deck and lasted more than an hour. In the last round, Carras knocked Gonzales unconscious. Carras came out of the fight with a broken nose, some minor contusions, and forty thousand dollars on top of his twenty. Bavier also came out with sixty thousand. As was his habit, he kept his money hidden in his boots, each bill carefully marked in the right-hand corner with a tiny inverted B. He slept with his boots and socks on and took every precaution safeguarding his loot. When he had to shower, he had Carras watch over it. If Carras was on duty elsewhere on the ship, Bavier hid the money in the air duct. That was where he had hidden it when, two nights from New York, he returned from showering only to find his money missing. And Gonzales, who hadn't had a penny to his name after losing the fight, was sitting in the smoke-filled hold playing cards and betting heavily with hundreds of dollars. Bavier recognized the money instantly. It was his. His unmistakable trademark was scrawled on the corner of each bill.
The men sitting around watching the game fell suddenly silent. It was as if a gust of danger had blown through the hold, and everyone was aware of it.
Bavier grabbed Gonzales roughly by the collar and yanked him to his feet. 'You stole my dough,' he accused belligerently, spinning the bigger man around. 'I want it back.'
Gonzales looked down at him, his black eyes flashing. 'I didn't steal nothing. I won it.' He pushed Bavier away, turned around, and casually sat back down.
Stubbornly Bavier stayed put. He was filled with a murderous rage. Gonzales was the thief. The marked bills proved that. And he wasn't about to let him get away with it. It had taken him two years to get the sixty thousand together, and he wasn't going to let anyone walk away with it now.
He clenched his fists, and when he spoke again, his voice trembled with rage. 'Come on, you thieving spic,' he challenged, raising his voice a little louder. 'I aim to get my dough back.'
The others stared at Bavier. Slowly they shuffled to their feet and drew silently back in a circle.
Only Gonzales didn't move. He didn't even bother turning around. 'I would watch who I called a spic if I was you,' he warned softly.
Bavier's eyes bore into the prizefighter's back. Then he suddenly threw himself at him. Both men went crashing to the floor, rolling over and over.
The other men drew back even farther, giving the two room to fight. Normally Gonzales would have had the advantage. He was by far the bigger man, and much more experienced as a fighter. But he was caught off guard and he was still weakened from the punches he'd taken in the fight with Carras two days ago. Bavier caught him around the throat, dug his hands into the flesh, and watched his swarthy face go purple.
'Where is it?' he screamed. He clamped his fingers even tighter and shook Gonzales by the neck so that the back of his head kept banging on the steel decking. 'God damn you! Where's my dough?'
At first Gonzales tried to push Bavier's face away with his hands. Then he attempted to rake his fingers across Bavier's eyes. Bavier saw what was happening and instinctively averted his face. Finally the big man felt himself weakening. In a desperate, last-ditch attempt to free himself, he tried to tear Bavier's hand loose, but to no avail. Bavier's hands were as steely as vise grips. All of his overwhelming rage was behind the choking hold.
Gonzales' frightened eyes flashed as he gasped uselessly for air, his throat making harsh noises.
Suddenly Bavier felt a pair of powerful arms around him, pulling him off Gonzales. He spun around angrily. It was Hector Carras.
Bavier's lungs were burning from the exertion of the fight and he swallowed huge mouthfuls of air. 'What in hell did you go and do that for?' he demanded in a surly voice. He pointed a trembling finger at Gonzales. 'That son-of-a-bitch spic stoled my dough.'
Carras looked at Bavier calmly and slapped him affectionately on the arm. 'Cool it,' he said quietly. 'The CO's on his way down here. Let's split.'
The other men heard it and studiously began busying themselves as if nothing had happened. Bavier glared at Gonzales, who was still sprawled on the floor. He was trying to sit up, his hands tenderly touching his swollen neck. He looked up at Bavier.
'I'm gonna kill you, you yellow-bellied thief,' Bavier spat from between his teeth.
'Shut up,' Carras said sharply. He pushed Bavier ahead of him through the watertight bulkhead door. 'Let's get outta here before we find ourselves in hot water.'
Reluctantly Bavier allowed himself to be led away. 'I'll kill that son of a bitch if it's the last thing I do,' he threatened.
''Tenshun!' Carras barked.
Both he and Bavier snapped smartly to attention and saluted as the company commander walked past. The CO returned the salute negligibly and continued walking.
Carras relaxed when they were out of earshot. He pulled Bavier into a corner. 'Listen, you dumb-fuck,' he hissed angrily. 'Don't ever go around spouting your mouth off l
ike that. It ain't healthy, you know? If you want to do something, just go ahead and do it. But quietly. The way things stand now, if something happened to the guy tonight, you'd be the leading suspect.'
Bavier stared at Carras. His friend was right. And smart, too. It was 'CYA' all over again. That was how the army was run. By making sure you Covered Your Ass. Well, in the future he'd be wiser.
But it turned out that his resolution didn't help much for the time being. The guard-duty roster put Gonzales up on deck for the night shift. When his relief came, he wasn't at his station. Nor did he show up for roll call in the morning. The entire ship was turned inside out, but there was neither hide nor hair to be found of him. The lifeboats and life preservers were counted, but none of them was missing. The dreaded alarm was sounded throughout the ship: Man Overboard! The captain promptly turned the ship around and steamed back in the direction from which they had come. He put the vessel into a pattern of ever-narrowing concentric circles. The sea was searched for four days, and a searchlight played upon the black waters for four nights, but not a trace was found of Luis Gonzales.
Bavier looked upon these four extra days as a blessing. It gave him the opportunity to search everywhere he could think of for his money. A ship of this size had a million crannies where you could hide things. If you didn't know where to start looking, chances were you'd never find it. Sixty thousand dollars can be rolled into a small bundle. And to make matters even worse, the company commander got wind of the fight between him and Gonzales and his threat to kill him. The CO decided to investigate the incident. Luckily for Bavier, it fizzled out almost before it began. He had never been out of sight that fateful night, and he was cleared of any suspicion of wrongdoing. He breathed a sigh of relief. Military justice wasn't at all like civilian justice. You weren't automatically considered innocent until proved guilty. He should have been pleased by the outcome, but he wasn't. By the time the ship docked at the Brooklyn Naval Yard, he still hadn't found his money.
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