Rhodesia

Chapter One

From the mezzanine of New York's East Side Air Terminal Nick looked down, following Hawk's murmured directions. "At the left of the second pillar. The one with the painting of a stagecoach on it. The energetic lad in gray tweeds with the four girls."

"I see them."

"That's Gus Boyd. Watch them for a while. We may see something interesting." They settled back in the green, two-seater lounge facing the rail.

A very attractive blonde in a yellow knit suit that she filled beautifully was talking with Boyd. Nick reviewed the pictures and names he had studied. She would be Booty DeLong, three months out of Texas State, and according to the smug intimation of the CIF — Consolidated Intelligence File — prone to support radical causes. Nick placed little credence in such data. The snoopery network was so swollen and uncritical that the files of half the college students in the country contained misinformation — raw, misleading, and useless. Booty's father was H. F. DeLong, who had high-jumped in his lifetime from a dump truck to unrecorded millions in construction, oil, and finance. Someday men like H. F. would hear about the files and the explosion would be memorable.

Hawk said, "Your appreciative eye is caught, Nicholas. Which one?"

"They all look like fine young Americans."

"I'm sure the eight more who join you in Frankfurt are just as charming. You're a lucky man. Thirty days to get — well acquainted."

"I had other plans," Nick answered. "You can't pretend this is a vacation." Some of the grouch left his voice. It was always this way when he walked into a case. His senses sharpened, his reflexes alerted like a fencer en garde, he felt obligated and committed.

Yesterday David Hawk had played his cards cleverly — asking instead of ordering. "If you protest overwork or bad nerves, N3, I'll accept it. You're not the only man I have. You are — the best."

The adamant protests Nick had formed in his mind on his way to the Bard Art Galleries — an AXE cover operation — melted. He had listened and Hawk went on, the wise, kindly eyes under the gray brows grimly firm. "It's Rhodesia. One of the few places you've never been. You know about the sanctions. They're not working. The Rhodesians are shipping copper, chromite, asbestos, and other materials by the shipload out of Portuguese Beira with odd bills of lading. Four shiploads of copper reached Japan last month. We protested. The Japanese said, The bills of lading say South African. It is South African.' By now some of that copper is in mainland China.

"The Rhodesians are smart. Valiant. I've been there. They're outnumbered by the blacks twenty to one but they claim they've done more for the natives than they could ever have done for themselves. That led to the rupture with Britain and the sanctions. I'll leave the moral right or wrong of it to the economists and sociologists. But now we come to gold — and big China."

He had Nick and he knew it He went on, "The country has produced gold almost since the day Cecil Rhodes opened it up. Now we hear of tremendous new strikes extending under some of their famous gold reefs. Veins perhaps hidden by the ancient Zimbabwe workings or new discoveries, I don't know. You'll find out."

Caught and fascinated, Nick had observed, "King Solomon's Mines? I remember — was it Rider Haggard? The lost cities and mines..."

"The Queen of Sheba's treasure house? Perhaps." Then Hawk revealed the real depth of his knowledge. "What does the Bible say? I Kings, 9:26, 28. 'And King Solomon made a navy of ships... and they came to Ophir and fetched from thence gold and brought it to King Solomon.' The African words Sabi and Aufur may be the ancient Sheba and Ophir. We'll leave that to the archaeologists. We know gold has poured out of the region ever since, and suddenly we hear there's a great deal more in the reserves. You realize what this means in the current world situation. Especially if big China can accumulate a handsome pile."

Nick frowned. "But — the free world will buy it as fast as they mine it. We have the exchange. The manufacturing economies have the leverage."

"Ordinarily, yes." Hawk handed Nick a plump file and he knew he was hooked. "But we mustn't, in the first place, discount the production wealth of eight hundred million Chinese. Or the possibility that after they stockpile the price shoots up from thirty-five dollars an ounce. Or the way Chinese influence is surrounding Rhodesia like tendrils from a giant banyan tree. Or — Judas."

"Judas! Is he in there?"

"Perhaps. There has been talk of a strange organization of assassins, headed by a man with claws for hands. Read that file when you have time, Nicholas. And you won't have much. As I mentioned, the Rhodesians are shrewd. They've tossed out most of the British agents. They read James Bond and all that over there. Four of ours have been ejected without fanfare and the two men our big firm has in there are evidently watched. So if Judas is behind the problem, we're in trouble. Especially since his associate seems to be Si C'sian Kalgan."

"Si Kalgan!" Nick had exclaimed. "I was sure he was dead when he wasn't involved in those Indonesian kidnappings."[1]

"We think Si is with Judas, and probably Heinrich Muller too if he's alive after that shooting in the Java Sea. China allegedly has backed Judas again and he's weaving his web in Rhodesia. His cover companies and front men are wonderfully organized, as usual. He must be providing Odessa with a fortune. Somebody is — a lot of the old Nazis we're watching are financially well again. Incidentally, several good copper men in their club have dropped out of sight in Chile. They may have joined Judas. Their histories and pictures are in the file but it's not part of your objective to look for them. You just look and listen. Get proof if you can that Judas is developing a grip on the Rhodesian export traffic, but if you can't get proof your word is good enough. Of course, Nick, if you get a clean chance — the order is still the same on Judas. Use your own judgment..."

Hawk's voice had trailed off. Nick knew that he was thinking of the scarred and battered Judas, who had lived ten lives in one and evaded death more than that. It was whispered that his name was once Martin Bormann, and it was possible. If so the holocaust through which he had lived in 1944–1945 had tempered his hard iron to steel, sharpened his cunning, and made him oblivious to pain and death in wholesale quantities. Nick would not credit him with courage. Experience had taught him that the bravest are usually the kindest. The cruel and ruthless are yellow Jell-O underneath. Rut of Judas' ingenious generalship, lightning tactical judgment, and swift skill in combat there was no question.

Nick had said, "I'll read the file. What's my cover?"

Hawk's firm, thin mouth had softened for a moment. The crinkly lines at the corners of his keen eyes relaxed, looked less like a cluster of deep V's on edge. "Thank you, Nicholas. I won't forget. We'll arrange that vacation for you when you get back. You'll travel as Andrew Grant, an assistant tour escort with an Edman Educational Tour. You'll help conduct twelve young ladies around the country. Isn't it the most interesting cover you've ever had? The senior escort is an experienced man named Gus Boyd. He and the girls think you're an Edman official surveying a new tour. Manning Edman has told them about you."

"What does he know?"

"He thinks you're CIA but he's actually been told nothing. He's helped before."

"Boyd may catch on."

"It won't make much difference. Odd types often travel as escorts. Junkets are part of the travel business. Free trips with low pay."

"I ought to know about the country..."

"Whitney will be waiting for you at American Express at seven tonight. He'll show you a couple of hours of color film and brief you."

The films of Rhodesia had been impressive. So beautiful that Nick discounted them. No country could really be put together with the most striking vegetation of Florida and features of California and Colorado's Grand Canyon strewn through the landscape of the Painted Desert He had concluded that the film-makers had used superlative footage, slipped in some shots from botanical gardens, and retouched everything. Whitney had given him a packet of color folders and extensive verbal tips.

Now, sitting slouched with his eyes below the level of the barrier rail, he studied the blonde in the yellow suit Might as well make the best of everything. She was alert, easily the prettiest girl on the concourse. Boyd was trying to pay attention to them all What in the world did he find to talk about in this place? It was less interesting than a railroad station. The brunette with the sailor-like beret was striking. She would be Teddy Northway, from Philadelphia. The other black-haired girl would be Ruth Crossman, very pretty in an intense way; she was the only one with a poker face, but perhaps it was the black-rimmed glasses. The second blonde was something: tall, long hair, not nearly as eyecatching as Booty and yet... She would be Janet Olson.

Hawk's hand fell lightly on his arm and stopped his pleasant evaluation. There. Coming in from the far gate, medium-size, neatly dressed Negro."

"I see him."

"He's John J. Johnson. He can bring gutbucket folk blues out of a horn so mellow it can make you cry. He's an artist with talent as great as Armstrong's. But he's more interested in politics. He's not a Brother X — more of a nonaligned Malcolm X admirer and a Socialist. Not a Black Power booster. He is friendly with all of them, which may make him more dangerous than the ones that bicker among themselves."

"Dangerous how?" Nick asked, watching the slim black man weave through the throng.

"He's intelligent," Hawk murmured without emotion. "The kind society from top to bottom fears most. The man with brains who sees through."

Nick nodded impassively. It was a typical Hawk statement. You wondered about the man and philosophy behind it and then you realized he had really revealed nothing. It was his way of drawing a precise picture of a man in juxtaposition to the world at the moment. He watched Johnson pause when he saw Boyd and the four girls. He had known exactly where to find them. He used a pillar as a barrier between himself and Boyd.

Booty DeLong saw him, wandered away from the group, pretending to read an arrival-departure panel. She went past Johnson, turned. For a moment the white and black skins showed in contrast like the focal point in a painting by Brueghel. Johnson gave her something and turned away at once, going back toward the 38th Street entrance. Booty tucked something into the big leather bag that hung from her shoulder and drifted back into the little group.

"What was it?" Nick asked.

"I don't know," Hawk replied. "We have an inside man in the civil rights group they both belong to. A college thing. You saw its name in the file. He knew Johnson was coming here but not why." He paused, then added wryly, "Johnson is really smart. He doesn't trust our man."

"Propaganda for the brothers and sisters in Rhodesia?"

"Perhaps. I think, Nicholas, you ought to try to find out."

Nick glanced at his watch. It was two minutes before the time he was supposed to join the group. "Anything else going to happen?"

"That's it, Nick. Sorry there isn't more. If we get anything vital at this end that you must know I'll send a courier. Code word 'biltong' repeated three times."

They stood up, turning their backs at once to the concourse. Hawk's hand gripped Nick's, squeezed his hard arm once below the biceps. Then the older man vanished around the corner into a corridor of offices. Nick went down the escalator.

Nick introduced himself to Boyd, was presented to the girls. He used his light handshake and shy grin. Close up, Gus Boyd looked very fit His tan was not as deep as Nick's, but there wasn't an ounce of fat on him, and he was efficient "Welcome aboard," he said as Nick let go of Janet Olson s slim, cool hand. "Luggage?"

"Checked to Kennedy."

"Good. Girls, if you'll excuse us a second well just double-clear at the Lufthansa counter. The limousines are waiting outside."

As the clerk riffled through their tickets Boyd said, "Have you worked tours before?"

"With American Express. Once. Many years ago."

"It hasn't changed. These dolls ought to be no trouble. We get eight more at Frankfurt They've been doing Europe. They tell you about em?"

"Yes."

"You know Manny long?"

"No. Just joined the outfit."

"O.K Just follow my leads."

The ticket clerk handed back the package of tickets. "All okay. You didn't have to check in here..."

"I know," Boyd said. "Just being careful."

Booty DeLong and Teddy Northway drew a few steps away from the other two girls as they waited. Teddy murmured, "Wow. Whatta man — Grant! Did you see those shoulders? Where'd they dig up that handsome swinger?"

Booty watched the broad backs of "Andrew Grant" and Boyd go toward the counter. "They dug deeply, maybe." Her green eyes were slightly closed, thoughtful and reflective. The soft curve of her red lips was for a moment very firm, almost hard. "Those two look like finks to me. I hope not. That Andy Grant is just too good to be true. Boyd is more the CIA type. A lightweight who loves the easy life. But Grant is a government man if I ever smelled one."

Teddy giggled. "They do all look alike, don't they? Like the FBI men lined up for the peace parade — remember? But — I don't know, Booty. Grant looks — different"

"Well find out," Booty promised.

The first-class section of the Lufthansa 707 was only half-full. The big season was over. Nick reminded himself that although winter was coming to the United States and Europe, it was ending in Rhodesia. He was chatting with Booty when the group distributed themselves, and it was natural to follow her and take the aisle seat beside her. She seemed to welcome his company. Boyd graciously checked on everyone's comfort, like a bull stewardess, and then joined Janet Olson. Teddy Northway and Ruth Crossman sat together.

First class. Four hundred seventy-eight dollars for this leg of the trip alone. All the fathers must be financially fat. From the corner of his eye he admired the round curve of Booty's cheek and the pert, straight nose. There was no baby fat on her jaw. It was very firm to be so pretty.

Over the beer she asked, "Have you been to Rhodesia before, Andy?"

"No, Gus is the expert." Some girl, he thought. She put her finger right on the catch question. Why send an assistant who didn't know the country? He went on, "I'm along to carry bags and back up Gus. And learn. We re making up more tours into the area and I'll probably handle some of them. It s a bonus for your group, in a way. If you recall — the tour only called for one escort."

Booty's hand holding the glass came to rest on his leg as she leaned toward him. "No complaints. Two good-looking men are better than one any day. Have you been with Edman long?"

Damn the girl! "No. I came over from American Express." Stick to the truth. He wondered if Janet was pumping Boyd so that the girls could compare notes later.

"I love to travel. Although I get a funny little guilt feeling..."

"Why?"

"Look at us. Up here in the lap of luxury. Probably fifty people watching our comfort and safety right now. While down below.." She sighed, drank, the hand came back on his leg. "You know — bombs, murder, hunger, poverty. Don't you ever get that sensation? You escorts live the good life. Fine food. Beautiful women. I've heard all about it"

He grinned into the green eyes. She smelled good, looked good, felt good. You could go far astray with a cuddly little sweetie like this and enjoy the trip until one day the bills came in- Swing Now — Pay Later — Weep at Leisure. She was as naive as a regular-party Chicago district attorney with an alderman brother.

"It's a complex job," he said politely. It would be fun to take the needle out of her cute hand and jab it in her lovely rump.

"For complex men? Ill bet you and Boyd break hearts month in, month out I can see you in the moonlight on the Riviera with the older, lonesome types. The L. A. widows with a million in blue chips dead daddy killed himself to get. The ones in the front row at Birch meetings who wave the pamphlets."

"They've all been sucked into the gaming tables."

"Not with you and Gus around. I'm a woman. I know."

"I'm not sure if you're reminding me or yourself, Booty. But there are a few things you don't know about an escort He is an underpaid, overworked, feverish gypsy. He's prone to frequent dysentery from the strange foods because you can't dodge all the bugs. He's afraid to drink water or eat fresh vegetables or ice cream even in the U.SA. Avoiding them has become a conditioned reflex. His luggage is usually filled with dirty shirts and impressed suits. His watch is in a repair shop in San Francisco, his new suit was missed at a Hong Kong tailor, and he's trying to get along on two pairs of shoes with holes in the soles till he gets to Rome where he has two new pair. They were made six months ago."

They were silent for a moment. Then Booty said doubtfully, "You're putting me on."

"Listen to this — his skin has itched ever since he picked up something mysterious in Calcutta. The doctors have given him seven versions of antihistamines and recommend a year's session of allergy tests, meaning they're mystified. He buys little odd lots of stocks by living like a beggar when he's in the States because he can't resist the true-blue, sure-fire tips his rich travelers give him. But he's out of the country so much he can't watch the market and all his buys go down. He's lost touch with all the friends he likes. He'd like to own a dog but you can see how impossible that is. As for hobbies and interests, he can forget them unless he collects match covers from hotels he hopes hell never see again or restaurants that have made him sick."

"Urrf." Booty made a growly sound and Nick stopped. "I know you re teasing me, but a lot of it sounds as if it could be true. If you and Gus show signs of living like that during the nest month, I'm starting a society for the prevention of cruelty to."

"Just watch."

Lufthansa served the usual magnificent dinner. Over the brandy and coffee the green eyes locked onto Nick's again. He felt the hairs on his neck tighten pleasantly. It's the perfume, he told himself, but he always had been susceptible to the alert blonde type. She said, "You made a mistake.'*

"How?"

"You told me all about an escort's life in the third person. You never said I or we. You guessed at a lot of that and made some up."

Nick sighed, kept his face expressionless. A Chicago DA all the way. "You'll see for yourself."

The stewardess took the cups away and tendrils of golden hair were tickling his cheek. Booty said, "If it is true, you poor man, I'll feel so sorry for you I'll just have to cheer you up and try and make you happy. I mean, you can ask me for anything. I think it's horrible in this day and age that fine young men like you and Gus have to live like galley slaves."

He saw the twinkle in the emerald orbs, felt the hand — no glass in it now — on his leg. Some of the cabin lights had been turned off and the aisle was empty for the moment- He turned his head and fastened his lips to the soft red ones. She had been building up to it, he was sure, half in mockery, half shaping her woman's weapon, yet her head gave a tiny jerk as their lips met — but it did not retreat It was a nice, well-fitted, aromatic, and pliable molding of flesh. He had meant it to be a five-second thing. It was like stepping into sweet, cushiony quicksand with the menace hidden — or eating peanuts. The first move was the trap. He closed his eyes for a moment to savor the soft, tingly sensations that shot across to his lips and teeth and tongue like discharges from a powered circuit He opened one eye, saw that her lids were down, and shut out the world again for just a few seconds.

A hand tapped his shoulder and he snapped alert and drew back. "Janet doesn't feel well," Gus Boyd said softly. "Not serious. Just a touch of air sickness. She says she's prone to it I've given her a couple of pills. But she'd like to see you for a minute please. Booty."

Booty climbed out of the seat and Gus joined Nick. The younger man looked more relaxed, his attitude more friendly, as if what he had just seen guaranteed Nick's professional status. "That's a curie," he said. "Janet is a doll, but I can't keep my eyes off Teddy. She has the playful look. Glad to see you're getting acquainted. That Booty looks like speed with class."

"Plus brains. She started a third degree. I gave her a sad story about an escort's hard life and need for kindness."

Gus laughed. "That's a new approach. And it might work. Most of the boys blow themselves up, and hell, anybody with an ounce of sense knows they're just Grey Line guides without the megaphones. Janet pumped me pretty good, too. I talked about the wonders well see in Rhodesia."

"This is not a cheap tour. All their families loaded?"

"Except Ruth's, I think. She's on some sort of a scholarship deal or gift financed by her college. Washburn in accounting keeps me advised so I'll have an idea who to work for tips. Doesn't matter much with this bunch. Young gals are rotten. Selfish bitches."

Nick's eyebrows rose in the gloom. "I used to prefer the older girls," he replied "Some of them would be very grateful."

"Of course. Chuck Aforzio made a wonderful score last year. Married this old gal from Arizona. With homes in five or six other places. Supposed to be worth forty or fifty million. He's a cool cat Did you know him?"

"No."

"How long were you at American Express, Andy?"

"Off and on for four, five years. I handled a lot of the special F. I. T. tours. But I never happened to touch Rhodesia although I've been in most of the rest of Africa. So don't forget you're the senior escort, Gus, and I won't. You can order me around wherever you need a hole plugged in the line. I know Manning probably told you I have a piece of the action and I'm along for the ride and may leave you for a few days. But if I do, I'll try and tell you in advance. Meanwhile — you're the boss."

Boyd nodded. "Thanks. I knew the minute I saw you you're regular. If you take hold of Edman I imagine you'll be a good guy to work for. I was afraid I'd get another gay blade. I don't mind the sweethearts, but they can be a damn nuisance when there's real work to be done or the box gets tight You know about the troubles in Rhodesia? A bunch of blacks chased a Triggs and Son group right out of the marketplace. Scratched up a couple. I don't imagine it'll happen again. The Rhodesians are methodical and tough. Chances are we'll get a cop assigned to us. Anyway, I know the contractor. He'll give us a guard or two along with the cars if it looks like well need it."

Nick thanked Boyd for the briefing and then asked casually, "How about side money? With all the sanctions and such are there any really good angles? They mine a lot of gold. Any available for us?"

Although no one was close enough to hear them, and they had been talking in very low tones, Gus dropped his voice to an even softer level. "You ever deal in it, Andy?"

"Yes. Some. All I'd ask out of life was the chance to buy at the rate in the U. S. or Europe and have a foolproof pipeline to India. I've heard there are good channels from Rhodesia to India so I was wondering..."

"I might have an angle. I'm going to have to know you better."

"You just said you knew the minute you saw me I'm a regular. What's wrong now?"

Gus snorted impatiently. "If you're regular you know what I mean. I don't give a good damn about this job with Edman. But a gold operation is another story. A lot of the boys have made fortunes. I mean escorts, pilots, stewards, airline officials. But quite a few have wound up in barred furnished rooms. And in some of the countries they got busted in, the service where they're staying is real lousy." Gus paused and made a little shiver. "It ain't nice — five years with the lice. I worked hard for that pun but it tells you what I mean. If you've got a man on the scene working with you, say a customs guy in for a slice, you're home free if he's a hot operator. But if you're pushing in cold, you take some long chances. You can buy most of those Asian boys for a sliver off the cake, but they need victims all the time to show they're doing their jobs and cover up the deals they are getting cut in on. So if they make you, you can fall hard."

"I have a friend in Calcutta," Nick revealed. "He's got enough weight to help us but the riming has to be set up in advance."

"Maybe we'll get a chance," Gus answered. "Keep in touch with him if you can. It's a gamble operation unless you've got a smooth lock. The boys who run the stuff in in dhows figure automatically on a ten percent loss to let the government boys look like they're doing their job, and ten percent more for grease. That's off the gross, mind. Sometimes you go in, especially with a badge on that says Amex or Edman Tours or some such, and you're passed right by. They never even look under your spare shirts. Other times you get a full check and it's sudden death."

"I handled quarter-bars once. We were very lucky."

Gus was interested. "No sweat, huh? How much did you make on a bar?"

Nick smiled briefly. His new associate was using the admission to check his knowledge and thus his truthfulness. "Figure for yourself. We had five. A hundred ounces each. Profit thirty-one dollars an ounce and grease expense fifteen percent. There were two of us. We split about $11,000 for three days' work and two hours' worry."

"Macao?"

"Now Gus, I already mentioned Calcutta and you haven't told me much. As you say, let's get acquainted and see how we feel about each other. I'd say the main angle is this. If you can help set up a source in Rhodesia, I have the gate to India. One or both of us can travel the route on a pretended tour or en route to join a party in Delhi or what-have-you. Our cute badges and my connection will take us right in."

"Let's give it plenty of thought."

Nick told him he would. He would be thinking every moment, because a pipeline to illegal gold from Rhodesian mines should, somewhere along its joints and connections, reach into the world of Judas and Si Kalgan.

Booty returned to the seat beside him and Gus rejoined Janet. The stewardess gave them pillows and offered blankets as they tilted their seats to the almost horizontal level. Nick accepted one blanket, and switched off the single reading light that had been aglow.

They entered the odd quiet of a dry womb. The monotonous roar of the body that contained them, their own lightweight iron lung. Booty had made no protest when he took only one blanket, so he made a little ceremony of tucking it in over them both. If you could ignore the projections, you could fancy yourselves in a cozy double bed.

Nick looked up at the ceiling and recalled Trixie Skidmore, a Pan Am stewardess he had once spent a few cultural days with in London. Trixie had said, "I was raised in Ocala, Florida, and I used to go back and forth to Jax on the Greyhound and believe me I thought I saw everything in the sex world done on those back seats. You know, the long ones that go right across the bus. Well, honey, I just never had an education hardly at all till I hit the air. I've seen fornication, hand jobs, blow jobs, sidewinders, spoon tucks, down the Y, and whip dillies."

Nick had laughed heartily. "What do you do when you catch them?"

"I wish em luck, darlin'. If they need another blanket or pillow or if knockin' out another light or two will help, I help." He recalled how Trixie had pressed her plump, full lips against his bare chest and murmured, "I love lovers, honey — because I love love and I need a whole lot of it"

He felt Booty's soft breath against his jaw. "Andy — are you very sleepy?"

"No, not especially. Just drowsy, Booty. Well fed — and it's been a busy day. I'm pleased with it."

"Pleased? How?"

"Meeting you. I know you're going to be good company. You've no idea how deadly a trip can be with nobody who is interesting. I don't mean because you're — very pretty and you've got beautiful bulges. You're a smart girl. You have ideas and thoughts that you hide."

Nick was glad she could not see his expression in the semidarkness. He meant what he said, but there was so much he left out. She had ideas and thoughts that she hid, all right, and they might be interesting and valuable — or warped and deadly. He wished he knew exactly what her connection was with John J. Johnson and what the Negro had given her.

"You're a strange man, Andy. Have you ever been in any other business than travel? I can imagine you as an executive of some kind. Not insurance or finance but some kind of business with action in it"

"I've done a few things in other lines. Like most everybody. But the travel business appeals to me. An associate and I may buy a piece of Edman's operation." He could not tell if she was pumping him or just interested in his background. "What are your hopes, now that college is over?"

"Work at something. Create. Live." She sighed and stretched and squirmed and snuggled, a rearranging of her soft curves that distributed them along his body, touching at many points. She kissed his chin.

He ran his hand between her arm and body. There was no resistance; when he drew it up and back he felt the soft breast push at him. He caressed it gently, a slow Braille reading of the smooth wool. When his tactile fingertips detected the stiffening of the nipple he concentrated, reading the stirring phrase over and over and over again. Booty gave a small purring sound and he felt light, slim fingers explore his tie clip, unfasten shirt buttons, pull up his undershirt He thought the pads of her hand might be cool, but they were like warm feathers above his navel. He drew up the yellow sweater and her skin felt like warm silk.

She fastened her lips to his and it was better than before, their flesh molding like ductile, buttery taffy into one sweet mass. He solved the brief puzzle of her bra catch and the Braille became alive and real, his senses rejoicing in the ancient contact, subconscious memories of well-being and nourishment stirred by the warm thrust of her firm breast.

Her manipulations sent the memories and anticipations coursing along his backbone. She was deft, creative, patient. Just as he found the zipper on the side of her skirt she whispered, "Tell me what it is..."

It's the nicest thing that has happened to me for a long, long time," he answered softly.

"That's nice. But I mean the other thing."

Her hand was a magnet, a vibrator without wires, a milkmaid's cloying persuasion, a tender giant's paw containing all of him, the clutch of a butterfly on a throbbing leaf. What did she want him to say? She knew what she was doing. "It's delicious," he said. "A swim in cotton candy. Being able to fly on moonbeams. A roller coaster ride in a good dream. How would you describe it when you..."

"I mean the thing under your left arm," she murmured clearly. "You've been keeping it away from me ever since we sat down. Why are you carrying a gun?"