The Big Broad Jump

by Troy Conway

  I felt marvelous. Other guys keep fit by making with the barbells, lifting weights or doing push-ups. Well, I like my own weapons. Nothing beats going the route with two or three women every day. That’s the way to stay in shape; anyhow, it is the Damon Physical Fitness Prescription. Try it some time. You’ll never have to watch the waistline or the calories, believe me. I’m programmed for sex.

  Gretchen didn’t wake up for a full hour, so I busied myself for the coming evening. Going over Walrus-moustache’s report, laying out my clothes, selecting a sports-coat, slacks and turtleneck shirt for the bar routine where I had to contact Christina Ketch. I never carry a gun of any kind. I believe in my own built-in weapon. Guns are okay but I don’t go in for killing. Like I told you, I’m a lover not a low serial number.

  It got to be about five o’clock and Gretchen stirred on the big bed. Mamma hadn’t come looking for her. Like I expected. The King’s Inn was like a peaceful, sleepy hamlet. Nothing but cocks crowing in the barn, cows mooing and chickens clucking. From the window, I couldn’t see any vehicles of any kind coming up the country road. All was quiet on the Munich front. The gray day was dying, fading into a dark, dark Bavarian night

  Gretchen didn’t say a word. She got up from the bed, staggered to the pile of clothes and began to dress slowly. Her movements were confused and dazed. Like a woman moving in a dream.

  “Okay, my strudel?” I asked. She nodded. When she finally got reasonably presentable for the outside world, she lurched into my arms and hugged me. Her body shuddered and her massive breasts rippled against me. For a second I thought she was going to raise her skirts.

  “You going to cry again?”

  “Nein! For why? You make me so happy!”

  “Good. What time do things get jumping downstairs?”

  “Seven o’clock. Everybody comes. The burgers. The teamsters. The villagers. Tourists too. I shall make you a glass of our wine. You will see. It goes to your head.”

  I held her off at arm’s length and looked at her. She blushed and lowered her eyes. Her full cheeks were flaming red.

  “You’re much woman, Gretchen. But don’t tell Mamma. Understand?”

  She wagged her head in a furious negative. “Damn right! I tell her, she want you for herself. Mamma is crazy for a good man—oh, Rod! Tell me. Was I really good?”

  “In a word, yes.”

  “And you will let me be good again? Before you go? You will show me some more of the three hundred ways in your book?”

  “If there is time—fifty at least.”

  She nearly swooned but I held her tight, kissed her again, patted her on the rump; and sighing, but happy as a lark with fifteen worms, she tripped gayly out of the room. This time she shot the bolt open with a defiant slam of sound. Then she winked, laughed out loud and was gone. But not forgotten.

  But she would keep until I needed her late that night.

  Meanwhile, I made myself ready for Christina Ketch, Girl Spy. I wondered what the hell she would be like.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The King’s Inn was really jumping when I sashayed downstairs after seven o’clock to get the lay of the land. The place was a sort of old-fashioned meeting place, after all. The eating and drinking that was going on was protean. Never have I seen so many village types, complete with pipes and tankards, having a helluva good time. Somebody was pumping away on an accordion, and several lusty, red-faced rubes were raising their voices in song. It wasn’t the Horst Wessel Song or Deutschland Uber Alles but even if it had been, I wouldn’t have been too surprised. Nazism isn’t that dead in the Rhineland.

  Nobody paid too much attention to me, so I parked myself in a corner booth, complete with lamplight and curtains and wooden table covered with a speakeasy-style cloth. As I figured, Gretchen Zimmer, all dolled up in ribbons and a cute peasant dress that barely concealed her whim-whams, was doubling in brass. Rushing back and forth, filling all orders for food and another peek-a-boo at her low-cut blouse. Mamma Marlene was doing what came naturally. Circulating among the paying customers, joking, laughing, adding her gusty voice to all the good humor and fun. Sort of a German Texas Guinan. I didn’t expect less from her. If she didn’t know how to turn a fast buck I would have been surprised. There was just too damn much Cabaret in her make-up. I would have bet she saw Dietrich in The Blue Angel a dozen times.

  The singing patrons had worked their way into Lili Marlene, that old World War Two goodie, when Gretchen came tripping over to my table. I was keeping an eye peeled for Christian Ketch. So far there was no one in the place that answered her description. Most of the dames already present were fat, over-blown and ruddy-pussed. My lady fair of skin had not shown up yet.

  “A glass of wine, my darling?” Gretchen whispered, bending over me so I could get a fine look at the hills of home.

  “Why not? Pour me your best.”

  She winked. “For you—the best. You deserve it.”

  “I agree. I’m thirsty. Hop to it”

  She sauntered off and Mamma Marlene, from a table nearby, flung me a knowing look. Her big smile was all teeth. Mamma figured the net was dropping fast. I waved back, the perfect fool. And while I was waving, a tall, very large, very beautiful specimen of femininity suddenly was in the crowded room, threading her way between the tables, looking for a quiet corner. My senses jangled to attention. This had to be the contact. The hair was flaxen-gold and long; the skin incredibly white. I couldn’t see all of the figure, for a loose, sloppy trench-coat covered the merchandise. A soft, battered Tyrolean cap rode jauntily on the golden head.

  As luck would have it, she had to pass my table.

  I waited for her to come. Nobody was paying much attention to her, either. In places like Munich, great-looking blondes are a dime a dozen.

  She had drawn abreast of my table, her fine blue eyes still trying to find an empty table. I looked up at her and for a moment, our eyes locked. She had regular features. Straight nose, strong chin and a tilt to her sullen red mouth. She hesitated, knowing I was going to say something. Or make a pass, at the very least.

  I quoted Walrus-moustache’s code line verbatim:

  “Whats a nice girl like you doing in a Bavarian joint like this?”

  She didn’t bat an eye.

  “Waiting for lightning to hit my rod,” she murmured.

  I stood up and she sat down. She did it quickly, without fuss. She squared her shoulders, pyramided her hands and waited for me to sit down again. I did. At best, anyone would have thought she was a nearsighted beauty who hadn’t recognized her date until she had practically stumbled over him.

  “Hi, Chris,” I said, trying to make friends right away.

  She scowled. “You will call me Miss Ketch, if you please.”

  “Is that really necessary? After all, being fellow-agents and all——”

  “Hush, you fool!” She hissed at me. “So. The great Damon hasn’t learned how to behave even at this late date. Don’t you realize what they do to spies? Be sensible, man, and mind your manners. This is not a lark.”

  “I groaned. A G.I. chicken-shit female was what Walrus-moustache had handed me for an ally. That I didn’t need. I mumbled something and stared at my hands.

  I tried to make the peace, though. I owed it to Walrus-moustache and the Thaddeus X. Coxe Foundation.

  “Have a wine,” I said. “They say this place is famous for——”

  “Order me a glass of milk,” she said flatly.

  “Okay. And some wieners and sauerkraut?”

  “Ugh. Disgusting food. Order me a sandwich. Two slices of bread, one thin sliver of cheese.”

  I controlled myself. Gretchen was coming back. Smiling, bearing a metal tray with my tall glass of red wine reflecting the lamps of the inn. When she saw I wasn’t alone, she almost crowned me with the tray. I hastened to make amends. Christina Ketch barely glanced up at her. She was tightening the stem on her wristwatch— I think.

  I ordered the milk and sandwich, winked at Gretchen t
o show her I was just being sociable and that assuaged her a little. But she gave me a furious warning look. Jealousy. All I needed. My new-found cold fish acquaintance didn’t have a jot of female warmth to spare.

  “Did you hear the one about the guy working in a pickle factory who was stuck with the boss’ wife in the basement and when he finds out she doesn’t like pickles, he has to—”

  My attempt to warm things up with a lively joke got me a response I couldn’t have expected. The creamy beauty of Christina Ketch’s lovely face flushed a beet red. Her lips compressed and her nostrils pinched. The look she shot across the table at me was sheer venom. As Gretchen walked away to fill the order, she hissed, “Do not tell me any jokes. Not ever. I find them disgusting and asinine. Understood?”

  I showed her my teeth. “You want me to salute and say, Yes, sir!?”

  “I want you to stop being silly and be an adult.”

  “All right.” I gave up. “Now, here’s my plan——”

  “No, here is my plan, she said evenly in clipped tones. “I have our orders. I also have a Renault parked outside. It will get us to the border, then to Betchnika. We will travel as man and wife. Tourists, ostensibly. I speak French, German and Czech. We shall be able to scour the town and make inquiries. All you have to do is accompany me and keep your mouth shut. I know you speak only English. I don’t know why they saddled me with a man like you, but I intend to make the best of it. You understand?”

  The hairs on the back of my neck rose. My feathers were ruffled, but good. Who the hell did this bitch think she was? A commissar?

  “Now, look here, you fugitive from a Greta Garbo movie,” I snarled. “I’ll have you know that I’m considered a top——”

  “Shut up,” she. commanded tersely. “Here comes that simple-faced waitress again. By the way, I will drive the car, I will make all the arrangements. Understood? You are second in command. I will work no other way. If this mystery about the silver pill is to be solved and we need to learn why those men were lynched, it will be necessary that I lead the investigation.”

  I was spluttering when Gretchen slammed the plates and glass down. She was mad too. She stalked off without saying anything or waiting for us to ask her anything. Christina Ketch calmly attacked her cheese on pumpernickel, sipped her milk with detachment, as unconcerned as the bird on the wing. I downed my Bavarian wine at a gulp, to stop the sputters and to keep from choking. Miss Christina Ketch simply went down the wrong way. She bugged me.

  “Any questions?” Christina Ketch asked tersely.

  I stared at her. It was unbelievable.

  “Why, you—you—” I couldn’t get to the right word to describe her.

  “Control yourself. I’ll bring you through this alive. But only if you obey me.”

  That did it. Not even the Coxe Foundation or threat of exposure as a carnal sexologist could make me put up with this kind of treatment at the hands of a mere, ordinary dame.

  “Listen, you steel-plated secret agent,” I snarled again. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I quit. Go get yourself another boy. Where I come from, dames know their place. Who the hell do you think you are? Better still, I’m firing you. You, I don’t need. I’ll take the waitress with me on this assignment, as dumb as she is. I didn’t come all the way to Germany to be bossed around by a modernday Ilse Koch. Screw you, sister. I’m getting out—”

  Christina Ketch sighed.

  “You are ridiculous. You can’t ‘fire’ me, as you call it. We are both under instructions. Top priority. You want to get shot?”

  “Better dead than led. Get me? Pack up, baby, and beat it.”

  She almost smiled.

  “All right. I have disturbed your male ego. Very well. I recognize that bourgeois instinct. I will not yield to it. But I shall challenge it. Are you game, Mr. Damon, for a test? Brute force against brute force? We shall see who is the stronger of us two?”

  “Are you for real, lady? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Christina Ketch froze me with a look.

  “You are a man, I suppose. You imagine yourself stronger than me. Very well, then. I say you are not, and to prove my claim, I challenge you to a test of strength.” She reached out and moved the breadsticks and plates away, leaving a clearing in the center of the table. “Give me your hand.” She was dead serious.

  I stared at her, mouth open. She was resting her elbow on the table, arm up, right hand extended. Unless I was nuts or already drunk on Gretchen Zimmer’s Bavarian wine special, she wanted to hand wrestle me, Indian style!

  I restrained a smirk and set my elbow next to hers. I grabbed her hand almost jubilantly. Right then and there it would have given me the greatest pleasure to break her arm. Her fingers were cool and pliable.

  “You’re sure now?” I teased. “You know what you’re giving up? You lose and I’m the boss of this enterprise. It’s only fair to warn you in advance, I was a four-letter man in college.”

  “Yes,” she sneered. “And I know what those letters are. F-U-C-K. You fool. Save your strength. You’re going to need it!”

  “Says who?”

  “Ready?” She ignored my sally, her eyes boring into mine. “Go!”

  Never in my life have I been so embarrassed. Not even when I was caught in the bedroom of the dean’s wife at that same college I was bragging about, helping her put in a light bulb. The fact that we were naked at the time did little to convince anyone of my innocence. But that red face was nothing compared to what happened now in The King’s Inn.

  Not only did I lose the Indian hand wrestling contest to Christina Ketch, I never even worked up a small bead of sweat on her marble brow!

  And it all happened so fast.

  One second I had her hand vised in mine, laughing on the inside, and the next, she merely flexed whatever secret weapon she had and I was straining like an old woman to keep from having my hand slammed down on the checkerboard table cloth. She had rippling steel in her fingertips. I could feel the muscles popping in my right arm. And then it was all over. Without a smile, her arm twitched and Bingo!—my hand shot down. Flat and out. I let out a howl. I had to. I felt something give in my wrist. As well as my Ego.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked acidly. “Did I hurt you?”

  “Geezis, you’re mean,” I blurted. “You damn near broke my wrist!”

  She almost had, too. I had a king-sized strain. No matter how much I wagged and wiggled my fingers and arm, my wrist ached. Which was just peachy. On top of losing to her, she had managed to cripple me, even if only temporarily.

  “There,” she said. “Then it’s all settled. I give the orders. Are we agreed?”

  “A bet’s a bet,” I said sullenly, the good loser. “I’ll keep my part of the bargain, but if I ever found out you cheated, watch out, sister! I’ll pound your poop into oblivion.”

  She wasn’t buffaloed, returning to the remains of her cheese on pumpernickel and the glass of milk.

  “There was no need to resort to wiles. I have nothing up my sleeve except my arm, I can assure you. I am strong. Stronger than you. Now I will lead. And my first set of instructions are these: as soon as we have finished dining, we will go out to the Renault and drive to the Czechoslovakian border.”

  “You said it, you tomboy, you.”

  We finished the meal in silence. I had no more to say to her. My wrist hurt, my ego was dented out of shape, and not even Gretchen’s dirty looks as she waited on the other tables, bothered me. Frau Marlene Zimmer was whooping it up with some of the villagers, laughing, singing, and whipping her skirts up, like any floozy. The singing of songs and playing of music went on, ad nauseum. I wanted Out in a hurry. The sooner we scrammed, the better. The wine in my system hadn’t had a chance to catch hold. I was too mad to feel good.

  Finally Christina Ketch was touching her red lips with a napkin, brushing crumbs from her fingers, and standing up. I got up too. I felt a little bit better about losing then, but not much. The broad was a
good five feet ten inches and as big as a big girl can be. I wondered exactly what the trenchcoat was hiding. I had a rough idea though. She was probably built like the Berlin Wall. She had to be. Nobody had ever beat me at Indian hand wrestling. Not ever.

  Surprisingly, nobody paid any attention to our leaving. That is, not until we were almost up to the Dutch door entrance. And then all hell broke loose. I thought we were slipping out as easy as pie but I did not reckon on Mamma Zimmer and her darling little Gretchen. Christina Ketch and I were just stepping through the entrance when a flurry of skirts and outraged cries made us turn around. And there was Mamma Marlene, in all her drunken glory, a little the worse for Bavarian wine intake, arms folded, face flushed and belligerently righteous. Behind her, a tearful Gretchen stared pleadingly at me over Mamma’s shoulder. But the rest of The King's Inn was too drunk and far gone to take any interest in the show going on up front. “Liebchen,” Gretchen whimpered, a lost soul.

  “So,” Mamma Marlene said in an ugly voice. “Bummer! Low-lifer! You kitchy-koo my Gretchen and then run off with another hussy. No, you don’t! You must stay and do the right thing!”

  “I already have,” I began lamely. “But you see I just inherited a million dollars because my old uncle died and this nice lady is taking me to the lawyer’s office and——”

  “You promised!” Gretchen suddenly wailed. “You said you would show me the three hundred ways to make love—” Woefully, she reddened.

  “Aha!” Mamma Zimmer whooped. “You see? Stay and be a man, Herr Damon!” In her excitement, she clutched her own breasts.

  Christina Ketch said quietly, “We are leaving. Do not try to stop us. Come, Damon. The car is just outside.”

  But hell hath no fury like an outraged Mamma trying to unload a daughter. Mamma Zimmer raced around us, dragging Gretchen with her and she blocked the Dutch door. Her eyes rolled to heaven, asking Judgment.

  “You are not going,” she panted. “Not until this man saves my daughter’s good name—”

  “Get out of the way,” Christina Ketch said coldly. “I’m warning you for the last time.”