The Holy Bullet

60

The man sweated profusely. Perspiration stuck to his nude body. Pleasure required effort; with every lunge there was an answering moan. Sex is the mixing of bodies, in general two-but there is no limit to the human imagination-the exchange of fluids and sweat, saliva and one’s desires. During the coupling almost nothing exists but the one and the other; the fire has to be put out.

“I really needed that,” said the man.

“Me too. We’ve got to do it more often,” the other suggested, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from on top of the table.

“It’s dangerous,” the first one cautioned. “Our uniforms could give us away.”

“Don’t be so hardheaded, Paul. I don’t play when I’m on duty.”

“We can’t afford the luxury of being careless,” Paul reaffirmed. He got up and sat on the edge of the bed. “Give me one.”

His companion handed him the cigarette he’d already lit for himself and took another. He leaned against the bed board, almost sitting.

“They’re not going to give up,” Paul commented, exhaling smoke.

“Are you sure?”

“They already would have.”

“That’s not the impression I got when I contacted them,” the other said.

The cigarette smoke created a haze in the poorly ventilated room, forming a shadowy atmosphere around the two men.

“It wasn’t a good idea to call yourself the American,” Paul grumbled.

“It’s what popped into my head.”

“You have to be careful. They might get suspicious.”

“Let me worry about those things,” the other said complacently. “After all, why do you want the Turk out? He’s only going to create problems.”

“This doesn’t smell right to me. I heard the Pole was thinking about going to see him,” he answered circumspectly.

“And what could happen? He doesn’t know who he is,” the other reiterated.

“The two of them together in the same room. It’s not good.”

“In the same cell, you mean,” the other joked, getting a smile from Paul.

“I’d like to see the Pole in a cell. I have to find out his intentions. I think he’s suspicious.”

“It’s just in your mind. He has no reason to distrust you,” the other asserted.

“It must have been JC who carried out the plan. Hell. The Turk drew me in.”

“JC has other plans.”

“He only does what Licio tells him.”

“Licio doesn’t give any orders now.”

They were silent for a few moments. The sweat had dried. They’d recovered their energy.

“Did you get rid of the car?” Paul asked.

“It won’t be a problem for anyone now. It was sold up north. I’m going to have to buy another one.”

“Buy it. A different brand. I don’t like BMW.”

“I was thinking of a Mercedes.”

“Good idea. Buy a Mercedes,” Paul agreed.

Paul finished his cigarette and continued looking at the ceiling, his hand behind his head. He didn’t say anything for several minutes, just stared at the ceiling worn from the passage of years.

“I want you to find another one for me,” he finally said.

The other looked at him disapprovingly.

“Another? It’s dangerous, and it’s a lot of work.”

“Not if they’re from far away. I don’t want more from Rome or the Vatican. That was a mistake. I prefer one from Naples. They should be daring. Or even farther south. No more Romans,” he demanded.

“Really, I don’t ask them for their identifications ahead of time.”

“And don’t use the Avon trick again.”

“What do you think I am?” the other protested, looking insulted. “I don’t use the same trick twice.”

“A pope’s bodyguard should have no imagination,” Paul kidded him.

“Take back what you said.” The other got up. “Take back what you said.”

“And if I don’t?” Paul dared him.

The pope’s bodyguard laughed.