by Troy Conway
“Girls, girls,” I begged. “Please—” It was all too much for Gretchen. She started to cry. At the top of her big voice. That wouldn’t do. Christina Ketch liked it even less than I did. I tried to step in, but my new leader was way ahead of me. Way way ahead.
I never saw either of the punches. One had to be a right hook and the other a left cross, considering where Mamma Zimmer and her Gretchen were standing in the doorway. But all I could see was a blur and jet movement of the Ketch shoulders. And then, both Zimmer dollies were flat on their keisters in the doorway and Christina Ketch had grabbed my other wrist and was dragging me out to safety and freedom.
“Come on,” she snapped. “We’ll have to run now before those loyal customers come to the rescue. March!”
I didn’t need any urging.
Feeling like a criminal, a rat and three kinds of a stinker, I allowed Christina Ketch to bum’s rush me out of the inn. The darkness was new and inky-black. There was no moon and only the lights of the tavern guiding us. I spotted the Renault parked under a tree, next to a hay cart and a motorcycle. Behind us, there was a sudden uproar and tumult of confusion. The terrible deed had been discovered. Someone had put the slug on Mamma and her daughter—I could see and hear it all. But my leader was quick and efficient. In no time at all, she had leaped into the Renault, made room for me, had the machine in gear and racing in less time than it takes to open a pack of Sheiks.
I never did see the wild scene at the inn because the Renault was off to the races long before anyone could come out and shout at us or throw a bottle of Bavarian wine. There was no pursuit, of course. Those rummies couldn’t have found a tree in Central Park, the condition they had to be in. So I left The King’s Inn without regret. After all, dear Gretchen hadn’t done too badly for herself at that. She’d had the screw of a lifetime and now maybe the swains of her village would come to know what she really had to offer. Why waste it?
Mamma Marlene would survive somehow. The old dolls always do. And at thirty-nine, she had the world of sex by the balls. It’s got to be the best year of a woman’s life.
The night was cool and breezy. Darkened roads swept by, the shadowy peaks of the mountainous range loomed on the horizon. Christina Ketch drove with rare skill. She seemed to know every bump and sinkhole in the roadway. We didn’t hit a single one.
So there we were. Speeding in the dead of night for the Czech border. Toward who the hell knew what. And I was second-in-command of a two-person spy detail. What a life. All I had for a boss was a human robot of incredible strength, who could beat me at anything physical, I suspected, thought nothing of decking two harmless women, and drove a car like Stirling Moss. What a gorgeous deal I had got myself flummoxed into. At least on previous assignments for the Coxemen, I had been my own boss. Now I was less than that. *
With a sprained wrist, besides.
Suddenly Christina Ketch spoke up, without taking her eyes off the road.
“Did you really have intercourse with that dairymaid?”
“Yes, I did. Want to make something of it?”
She laughed harshly. “What a cow. How could you?”
“It’s very easy. Want me to show you how it’s done?” I inquired with sheer add and venom. “First you take off that trenchcoat—”
“You will never have me, Damon. I don’t need you. I am dedicated to the cause. All I want for us to have is a sensible, working relationship to uncover the enigma of these silver pills. Understood?”
“Ah,” I said, disgustedly, closing my eyes and slumping in my narrow seat. “Blow it out of your barracks bag, will you, lady? Just wake me up when we get to the Czech border.”
So that’s how Christina Ketch and I hit it off the first time we were alone. With sarcasm, scorn and mutual hatred and disrespect
Ain’t that a dandy way to go into battle to meet the enemy?
But I had a secret, anyway.
I was two up on my emotionless blonde colleague, whether she knew it or not. During my crowded career I have managed to pick up a few things besides all there is to know about the subject of Sex. I didn’t know where she got her information about me, but English is not my only language.
I speak French too.
And Russian.
Which meant I could curse her in all three languages.
And, boys and girls, I was saving up some pretty good ones.
All the way on the midnight ride toward the sleeping Czech border where you still need passports and luck to get in. Those damn Reds run a country pretty tight once they become landlords.
But my time would come with Christina Ketch. That I promised myself even as I tried to take a nap in the little car racing toward the mountains.
Visions of her trying to run away from me bare-assed with me in hot pursuit, ran around in my head. I know my women. I know sex. If the trenchcoat was hiding a decent figure to match the lovely face, I could sweeten her disposition up in no time at all with a little of my special whoopee brand of love-making. I’ve brought out the best in hundreds of broads. All I had to do was get her to where she had to look at the family jewels. If that didn’t make her mouth water, then she was a hopeless case altogether.
You bet your bippy!
CHAPTER SIX
It took us two and a half hours to get to Betchnika. That is, it took Christina Ketch that long. As fine a car as the Renault was, and as skilled a driver as Boss Lady might be, the roads to that town were winding, narrow and loaded with jughandle curves as the highway climbed up toward the mountains and beyond. She didn’t whimper or complain, either. Or talk a helluva lot to me except to bark out orders like, “Roll up your window; its cold.” or “Open the window; it’s muggy in here” or “do not smoke; I detest tobacco!” and last but not least, “if you try to touch my knee again, I’ll break your arm, Damon.” See? A real ace doll, all the way. A sweetheart. Kind, calm and delicious. Oh, yeah.
I’d had to give up trying to sleep. The Renault bounced on the rutted roads like a steer hopped up with loco weed. And the night was dark and unfriendly and considerably colder, the higher above sea level we got. Oh, it was a peachy journey.
When we hit the border and stopped in front of one of those striped roadway fences that goes up and down like an elevator with sentry box to match, Christina Ketch also did all the talking. I was past caring. The booted, uniformed, armed guards who sidled over with ugly faces to look at our papers weren’t the sort of heartwarming guys I like to chat with. So I sat and said nothing, trying to look stupid. But I listened in amazement as she rattled off what sounded like pure Czech dialogue, flashed an impressively thick set of leather visas and even made some small talk with the guards. They liked her, for some weird reason, and were laughing when they waved her on through. I had my suspicions. Not of the visas. Walrus-moustache and the Coxe Foundation prepare all assignments like field generals, but I did wonder what the guards had found to laugh about.
“What did you tell them?” I gritted as she ploughed on toward Betchnika, giving the Renault the gas. “That I’m your looney hubby and you’re taking me to Betchnika for the cure?”
She shook her head, almost smiling.
“No. But a good guess. I told them you had a cyst on your rump and were going to see Dr. Mandel in Betchnika to have it lanced.”
“I got one all right and you’re it” I snorted. “Is there a Dr. Mandel?”
“Of course not. What would they know? They are only guards on a border post Interested only in defectors trying to leave, contraband, and fugitives from justice.”
“I see. By the way, not that it is important, but since you have the visas and are running this show, who exactly are we supposed to be?”
Her eyes flew to the speedometer then back to the road. She was one business-like broad. It was almost midnight now, but lights were beginning to show like fireflies through the wall of trees. The town where the silver pill mystery had come to pass couldn’t be very far away. I was glad. I was tired, hungry and bored. An
d I was going to call Walrus-moustache on the hot line, first chance I got. Though I didn’t expect that to be until tomorrow morning.
“Well, answer my question,” I growled. “Who are we?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Walter Gotkin. I am Emily Gotkin. We are German citizens. West German, naturally. You are a clerk in the Diesmann Travel Agency. We have come to Betchnika to see about that cyst and to visit your dying mother.”
“Swell. Do we see this mother?”
“No. It is only a cover story. No one bothers much about Betchnika. It is a small town in the middle of nowhere. Rather like your little towns out West in America. Now keep quiet. I have just enough petrol to get us to town and I have to gauge it or you shall be getting out and pushing us all the way in.”
“Mrs. Gotkin, I have news for you.”
“Yes? What is it?”
“I want a divorce.”
There was no more to say. We were unfriendly enemies stuck in the same job. But none of my remarks ever got her goat. I could see that too. She had the upper hand in everything. She was in command; she knew the language; she obviously knew the town. What the hell could I do? I had to let her call the shots, whether I liked it or not—at least until I got in touch with Walrus-moustache.
Betchnika looked like a ghost village when we got in. There were hardly any lights, the roadway was far from improved or modern, and the tallest building was about four stories high. The street-corner lamps were dim and spooky. We seemed to be the only ones abroad. I guessed it was one of those towns where they roll the sidewalks up at nine o’clock and everybody goes to bed. It was hard to tell. Some fog had rolled down from the mountains and it was a pea-soup entrance. But somewhere, somehow, Christina Ketch knew exactly where she was going. She slowed the Renault down, eased into a driveway of sorts that was flanked by two rows of low trees, and braked to a halt. I was stiff all over and my sprained wrist hadn’t gotten much better. Nor had my masculine pride.
“Now what?” I asked.
“The Hotel Betchnika,” she said, curtly, climbing out her side of the car. “This is where we will stay to conduct our investigation. Come. I have a suitcase in the trunk. You will carry it in.”
It was then and only then did I realize that we had fled The King’s Inn, leaving my Jad bag and attaché case behind. The case with the thick report on the silver pill. Jeezis, that was clever. I almost groaned aloud. I felt like three kinds of a jackass.
“What is wrong now, Damon?”
“You hijacked me out of that tavern, and all that accomplished was to leave my luggage and everything important behind, get it? Swell, right? What do I do for clothes?”
“That’s no concern of mine. In expediency, one has to act fast. You have funds. Tomorrow you can shop in town. It will provide a good excuse for asking questions.”
“If you say so,” I shivered in my turtleneck shirt and light sportscoat. “Lead on, Macduff.”
“Remember to sign the register as Mr. and Mrs. Walter Gotkin. We must be careful now. This is enemy territory.”
“Don’t I know it?”
She would have been funny except for being so heartless. Chilled to the bone, I followed her into the Hotel Betchnika. I wasn’t expecting the Grand Hotel so I didn’t get it.
There was one potted plant, a wall poster that advertised some kind of flower festival for the next week, and a battered carpet and a wooden desk with lots of empty pigeonholes behind the counter. Also, one sleepy-faced old man trying to doze by the switchboard. The elevator, a real fly cage, was just hidden behind the potted plant. It was a hotel, all right, like from way back when, and smaller than a breadbox.
The old-timer wasn’t surprised to see us, or glad, or dismayed, or anything. Shuddering out of fatigue, he turned the register around for me to sign, indicated pen and ink, and kept on yawning. Then he handed me a key and went back to sleep. The register was an eye-opener. There were three people registered, all singles. Probably the town drunk, the sheriff and the bellboy.
But there wasn’t a bellboy.
I carried Christina Ketch’s luggage, which was no more than a wicker suitcase, as light as feathers, and we took the elevator up. To the top floor, which was the fourth one. We had Room 7. But it didn’t sound lucky to me, even though I had begun to wonder what the sleeping arrangements might be. After all, Ketch and I, to keep up the front, would have to share a room together all night. Maybe, one bed. Betchnika didn’t look like the sort of town that could afford double beds. It also didn’t seem like the sort of burg where twenty-five old-timers had been lynched, either. Or the road to silver pills.
Surprisingly, Number 7 was a large room that faced the street and lights, and was reasonably clean and airy. The wallpaper was atrocious and peeling a little, and a crock of pitcher water sat on the oaken bureau dresser where it reflected itself in a spidery-glassed mirror. Christina Ketch grunted something under her breath, locked the door and marched around to the other side of the bed. She didn’t say a word but began to undress quickly. Like a very business-like call girl in a cheap hotel.
I stared, dumbfounded—nay, fascinated.
She was behaving as if she were alone. I watched the trenchcoat fall away and blinked. She’d looked big in The King’s Inn but not even I was prepared for the Amazon standing revealed before me in a Sloppy Joe sweater, coarse wool skirt and knee-length stockings. She ruffled her golden-blonde bobbed hair and when she stretched her arms, her chest was fantastic. A forty-four, at least. This led down into hips that simply flared and flared and flared. I coughed.
She stopped taking off her stockings and stared at me, questioningly, again a call girl, wondering why her customer was surprised.
“Yes?” Like I said, her face was lovely, but it was too perfect to be real. The skin was supremely right, the mouth as red as tomatoes, the eyes as blue as the Mediterranean.
“About the bed,” I said. “I do not intend to sleep on the floor.”
“You don’t have to. We will share the bed. But I warn you. That is all we will share. I like the right so you shall have the left. But keep to your side. One gesture, one false move—and I will break your arm, I promise you.” I could see she meant it too. She was glaring.
“Don’t you believe in sex?”
“Yes, I do. But not with a fellow agent when there is work to be done. I do not wish to become interested in you as a man. Understand? It would cloud my mind, affect my reason. I warn you, Damon. Do not make the mistake of not taking me seriously. Or that sometime tonight you will arouse me in the dark as I sleep, with your fingers, or your lips, or your penis. If you do, you will regret it. It has all been tried on me before and I have been known to castrate a man. So be on your guard. Now, hurry and get to bed and turn out the lights. We have much to do tomorrow and we will need some sleep. It is already past midnight.”
With that, she turned her back on me and disrobed quickly. The sweater, the skirt and everything else. But she wore no bra or panties and before I went into the little bathroom off the bedroom to get a glass of water, I saw an ass that was out of this world. Out of this universe.
She had her own set of Bavarian Alps. And they weren’t snow-covered or cold-looking. I bit my lower lip in frustration. I have never gone to bed without getting my ashes hauled. But tonight looked like the night! I believed everything she had told me. She was as hard as nails and all I had to remember was the merciless, matter-of-fact way she had floored the Zimmer ladies. Pow! Pow!
So I undressed. Down to the buff.
I marched out to the bedroom, walked around to her side of the bed, where the light was, to turn them off. It was my last feeble attempt. I was riding high as I always was, standing out front and center and she couldn’t have missed the phenomenon. She was facing me, hugging her pillow, watching me as I reached for the light switch. Her naked shoulder gleamed up at me. But if I expected admiration and hunger in her eyes, I was sorely disappointed. Scorn shone there and her perfect mouth curled in a sneer of disgust. She
was sleeping in the raw too, but a helluva lot of good that was going to do me.
“Ugh,” she said. “You’re a freak. What a sickening thing to carry about one’s person all day long!”
“What’s wrong with it?” I blurted. “It’s all me!”
“I can see that and I feel sorry for you. Go sit in a cold tub of water or whatever you have to do. Masturbate or drop the window on that abomination. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. You call yourself an agent? Go to Denmark and have an operation. It would be better for everyone. But before you do all that, please turn out the lights. I am very tired.”
“Why, you, you—” I spluttered.
She closed her eyes, bored with me, indifferent to my charm or my soul. Or my desires.
“Just remember what I said. My body is tempting and pleasing, I know. But if you so much as touch me while we sleep, you will be a sorry, sorry man. I sprained your wrist, remember? Well, I can also break that rude thing off and make you eat it. Good night, Mr. Damon.”
She was through talking to me. She began to breathe deeply and the coverlet, just barely cresting her wondrous mammaries, began to rise and fall gently. For one terrible moment, rape found its way into my heart. I wanted to jump on her, spread her legs and pummel away for Old Glory, but I didn’t have a flag and, I must admit, I was afraid of her. What with my sprained wrist and all, she probably would be able to do exactly what she threatened. The mere idea made me break out into a cold sweat. What a bitch!
Christina Ketch. Well, she was going to ketch it all right. And I swore on a stack of my sexual manuals that I was going to be the guy who did the throwing. But not now. For a time, she had won. She was in control, but my day would come.
Her lay would come.
Meekly, I slid into the bed next to her. Fortunately it was a big bed for such a small hotel. I kept a good three feet away from her, but it was maddening to know that mere inches separated me from the biggest, creamiest derriére I had seen in years. Not even Gretchen Zimmer, for all her dairymaid largess, had had a behind to match the Ketch fanny. What a crying shame!