Renegade 28

by Lou Cameron

  Gaston said, “This is not going to work, Dick. The no-questions posada I mentioned is just too far for this toddler to toddle, hein?”

  “Okay, what’s closer? You’re supposed to know this town like the back of your hand, right?”

  “Oui, but there is nothing on the back of my hand, less than ten blocks away, except the home of a certain widow I occasionally visit when I am truly desperate.”

  “Do you think she’ll take us in?”

  “Sacre Bleu, she’d take in Jack the Ripper, even if she knew it was him! But at least one of us would have to repay her hospitality. With a good screwing, and for some reason, a scrawny old woman with a mustache simply fails to appeal to me at the moment!”

  “You’d rather spend the next few nights of your life in jail? Get us to cover poco tiempo, you maniac!”

  “Listen to him, Mon Dieu, he calls me a maniac as we stagger down the street with a crazy lady with a rose in her hair between us! Mais very well, swing right at the next corner. You’re going to have to service our petite and antique hostess, though. I couldn’t get it up again tonight with a block and tackle!”

  *

  The Creole widow they awoke from her beauty rest wasn’t quite as ugly as Captain Gringo had expected, having heard Gaston’s bitching description of her for the last three blocks and an alleyway. One could see, as she came to the back door in her thin nightgown, that she hadn’t been built too bad, say thirty years ago. Her mustache wasn’t that thick; her long gray hair framed a face that, while wrinkled a bit, still had nice bone structure. Her brains left a lot to be desired, though. She hauled them in and bolted her back door behind them before Gaston had finished explaining what the hell he was doing there with two total strangers at this hour.

  Her name was Felicia. She seemed more interested in Manukai than in either soldier of fortune, but if she had lesbian leanings, they didn’t show as she shot daggers of suspicion at the younger and even less modestly dressed Kanaka girl. But when Gaston explained the poor thing was suffering from shock after almost being assassinated, old Felicia helped them get her to a guest room. So all might have turned out well had not Manukai, suffering from the early stages of sobriety and the rose in her hair, hung on to Gaston as they got her into bed. Captain Gringo told her to let go, adding, “You’re with me. Felicia here is Gaston’s date.”

  But the willful, and powerful, princess giggled girlishly and hauled poor Gaston down against her, insisting, “Bullshit, I want some more French loving, and this sweet little thing eats pussy better than anyone I’ve ever met!”

  The older woman gasped, “Oh!” as if she’d been slapped. Captain Gringo took her by one arm and moved her back out into the hall, explaining soothingly, “She’s out of her head. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. You’re still Gaston’s girl, Felicia.”

  The older Creole woman sobbed. “You are most gallant, Señor Deek. But I know all too well what I am to any man these days. It has been a long time since I have been anything but a how-you-say port in the storm, even for older men. That big mestiza is most attractive, once one recovers from the first surprise, no?”

  They both could now hear bedsprings groaning inside. He led her farther away, saying, “She’s some sort of crazy South Sea Islander, not a mestiza. Don’t blame Gaston. I don’t think he has much say in the matter; and, frankly, we have to keep her happy as well as safe right now. Come on. I’ll explain the whole setup to you.”

  He expected her to lead him to her kitchen. He felt more resigned than surprised when they wound up in another bedroom instead. Old Felicia sat him beside her on the bed she’d no doubt just woke up in—lonely as hell—and said, “I’m listening, but this had better be good. Gaston and me are old, ah, friends. But really, to bring another woman to my house and do wicked things to her right under my nose!”

  He took her hand and patted it as he gave her a short and not completely truthful rundown of the situation. When he got to the part about them both working for the princess for big money, Felicia sighed and said, “I might have known Gaston was after her money as well! I am sure that if our Gaston had been born a woman, he would have been a most rich whore by this time!”

  Captain Gringo chuckled and said, “No bet. I see we’ve both known him a while, Felicia. Funny, he never mentioned you to me before, though.”

  She shrugged, gave a defeated little sigh, and asked, “Why should he have mentioned me to anyone? It’s not as if I’m a conquest for any man to boast of, and, in truth, he’s only made love to me … let me see, seven times, spread out over almost as many years, of course.”

  “Good lord, do you keep score, Felicia?”

  “You will too, when you reach my age. While my late husband still lived, I was used to making love almost every night for many years, although it now seems such a short time I was young and beautiful. Now I count the rare occasions when some man who can find nothing better is willing to settle for an old sack of bones like me. It has been … exactly six months and twelve nights since I last made love, if that is what one wishes to call a fat drunk locked out of his own house by a fat wife.”

  He stared soberly down at her in the dim candlelight of her lonely room and almost meant it when he assured her, “Come on, you’re not a bad-looking woman, Felicia.”

  It was her turn to pat his hand as she said bitterly, “You don’t have to be kind to your grandmother, you sweet child. She looks in the mirror every time she combs her hair, and when she looks, she curses God and asks him why he treated her this way!”

  She lowered her gray head sadly to stare dully at the tile floor as she added, almost to herself, in a hurt, puzzled tone, “What did I do to deserve such punishment? I was a faithful wife, a good mother until my only sweet little nino died of the vomito negro. Before the saints treated me so cruelly, I lit candles to all of them, every feast day. Now I never go to church, and I sin every chance I get, for in God’s truth, one gets little chance to sin these days!”

  He answered, softly as well as awkwardly, “Well, everybody has to get older if they live long enough, right?”

  She said, “Just you wait and see how quickly it sneaks up on you! I am not as bitter about the years running through my fingers like grains of sand as I am the emptiness of each long night. I always knew I would be old someday. I did not know I would still feel passion. Why do I still feel passion now that L am so old and withered, on the outside at least?”

  “Maybe you’re just healthy?”

  She heaved a vast sigh and said, “I fear I may be. It’s a funny thing. But as we get older, we fail to feel older. Old is always twenty years in the future, never where we are!” He frowned thoughtfully, trying to understand. She knew he didn’t. So she explained, “When one is twenty, forty sounds old. But by the time one reaches thirty, forty does not sound really old. At thirty, one is sure that fifty is when one will start feeling old; but then, by the time one is forty, sixty seems a more reasonable date for the beginning of one’s old age; and yet, when one reaches fifty—”

  He cut in. “I follow you,” he said, not wanting to know just how old she really was. What he wanted right now was a graceful exit from this confusing conversation. The night was shot. He still hadn’t gotten any sleep. It seemed like a good idea to get some. She was obviously up for the day. So how did you ask a lady in a nightie to show you to bed? He decided the direct approach was as good as anything else he could come up with. So he yawned and said, “I have to get the princess some duds and dinero by noon, at least. I know we’re imposing on you a lot, Felicia, but I sure could use some shut-eye.”

  She sighed and said, “Of course. I have but one guest room. Our Gaston and that big brown pig are abusing my hospitality indeed in it. But if you wish for to stretch out here, I assure you I will not attack you in your sleep.” He chuckled and said, “Oh, that wouldn’t bother me at all,”

  He’d meant it as innocent gallantry. He realized he shouldn’t have said a thing like that to a sex-starved wid
ow when Felicia gasped, “Oh, por favor, God, make him mean that!” while, suiting actions to prayer, she proceeded to shuck her nightgown over her gray head!

  He gulped in dismay as she exposed her somewhat withered charms by candlelight. Then, either because the candlelight was kinder by far than Mr. Edison, or perhaps because of the contrast between her petite white body and the last one he’d been paying any attention to, he began to wonder what on earth he was dismayed about!

  She seemed to be gray-haired all over. But other than that, Felicia was built like a sixteen-year-old. So he took her into his arms and kissed her as they fell back together across the mattress. He couldn’t tell, as she kissed back desperately, whether she still had all her teeth or a damned fine set of dentures. It didn’t seem to matter, if a guy kept his eyes shut and just went on kissing while they both got his clothes out of the way. But he had to rise above her to get into position to do anything more important; and as he did so, Felicia covered her face with her hands and said, “Oh, don’t look at me! Don’t spoil the magic, Deek!”

  So he didn’t. He rolled up and out to snuff the candle. Then, in the merciful darkness, he found a once-more young and beautiful girl waiting for him, trembling with desire, and as he entered her, he didn’t have to feel so noble after all. He’d always thought dirty old women were supposed to have dried-up prunes or something between their thighs. This one had the moist, pulsating vagina of a passionate, maybe thirty-year-old, woman of adventurous tastes. Her thighs felt great too, as she locked her legs around his bare waist, gasping, “Oh, Jesus, Maria y José, if heaven feels any better than this, let me die right now!”

  He had to admit she had a point as he got down to serious business in her sweet old business. Thanks to earlier excitement, the sharp edge of his virility had been dulled. But keeping it up in such pleasant surroundings didn’t seem to be as big a problem as he’d thought it might be when Gaston first suggested this crazy notion. Poor old Felicia came almost at once, moaning in pent-up ecstasy, and since he of course was still getting used to this unplanned if not obscene adventure, he naturally just kept humping away as she came down from the stars in a series of contented contractions, gasping, “You wish more! I can’t believe it! Most men, once they have had their way with me—”

  He said, “Shut up about other men, querida. This is a private orgy we’re having, right?”

  She giggled in a surprisingly girlish way. Apparently the knack never left one, in bed at least, so she giggled again and said, “Es verdad, you are not like other men at all, querido. But are you sure you are not just being kind to an old woman out of respect for her age?”

  He laughed and thrust harder in her as he asked, “Does this feel like respect?” And she moaned, “Oh, Cristo, no! It feels like cock, a big one! Faster, faster, I am coming againnnnnnn!”

  She sure was, and the hell of it was, he couldn’t. He knew it wasn’t her fault. In the dark, old Felicia was yummy enough to make a guy come in her fast. Or she would have been if he hadn’t just been raped by a sex-mad Kanaka. But at least the princess had done all the work. So while his shaft was sort of weary, his back and wind were still in good enough shape to keep going and, what the hell, there was no telling when this poor old broad was going to get laid again.

  She sure seemed to be enjoying this one as she moved her smaller body in time with his thrusts, panting, “I am so happy and so grateful, Deek!”

  He said, “Don’t talk silly. You’re fantastic in bed and you know it.”

  “Oh God, do you really like for to make love to me, Deek? You are not just being kind?”

  He was, sort of, now that he was starting to sweat and it was starting to look as though he just weren’t meant to ever come again. But he made himself pound harder as he replied, “Hell, if I wasn’t kind, I’d really hurt you. It’s all I can do to keep from letting myself go really crazy in you.”

  “Oh, please do! I wish for you to possess me most completely, my lovely young bull! Do not hold back, Deek! Pound me! Hurt me! Make me feel like a frightened virgin again!”

  Now, that sounded a little silly, even with the, candle snuffed; but now that he’d gotten himself into this dumb situation, the only polite way out seemed to be some macho bullshit, even if he had to fake it. So he growled deep in his throat, kissed her roughly to keep her from saying something that might make him laugh at the wrong time, and moved in and out of her wildly before the stupid, tired dong could go soft in there until, as he knew it was about to, he collapsed weakly on her, gasping, “Jeeee-zuss!” in English. He’d found Latin dames found English groaning as exotic as Yankee gals found the rumbling of Latin lovers. She held him tightly to her little chest, asking gently, “Did I satisfy you, querido?”

  He chuckled and said, “No. I always fake it. Couldn’t you tell?”

  It worked. She giggled and replied, “The only thing to be said for the state my hair is in these days is that I don’t have to worry about all that sweet love liquid you have filled me to the brim with. Oh, it’s running out of me now, and it feels so friendly!”

  He didn’t answer. He hadn’t come once in her. But she was sort of juicy now. It did feel friendly. So he saw no reason to withdraw. He knew he’d never get it back in now if he did.

  Felicia took that as a compliment, too. She crooned, “Oh, you feel so nice, just snuggled up inside me like that. Could we just lie like this for a time? I know you will come to your senses any moment, but let me feel like a woman a little longer, por favor?”

  That sounded fair. In fact, as he got his second wind, it felt pretty good. So he started moving in’ her again, in slow, teasing thrusts. She began to move the same way, but asked, “Is this possible, Deek?”

  He said, “Probably not. But it doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t hurt me, at least. Am I getting heavy for you?” And she said, “Si, I love it!” as she began to move faster, asking, “Maybe if I got on top?”

  It would have been a good idea if he’d really intended to come in her at this late date. But though he wanted to, he knew he couldn’t, so why make a big deal out of it? He said, “Just take it easy, and let’s see what happens. A man doesn’t need acrobatics with a muchacha as sweet as you.”

  She sobbed. “Oh, what a nice thing to say!” she managed, and started crying in his arms as he kissed her soothingly, comforting her with polite, faked passion until, all of a sudden, it felt real enough and, yeah, if he really pounded harder, before the treacherous little bastard could poop out on him again …

  “Madre de Dios!” gasped Felicia as he started to let himself go, not worrying about his performance now that he had a good excuse for failing to ejaculate. So, of course, he came in her, in a long, shuddering orgasm she shared with a surprised scream of sheer animal lust.

  That did it, for him at least. When she shyly suggested they try and get some sleep, he wasn’t about to argue. He rolled off to flop across the mattress spread-eagle, and to hell with where the pillows were. Felicia hesitated before she asked him shyly, “Would it distress you if I lay my head upon your big strong shoulder, Deek?”

  He said it sounded like a hell of a good idea. So, as he dozed off, the sweet old broad snuggled against him like the shy bride she must have been before he was born; and when he thought about it, that old fairy tale about Sir Gawain and Lady Greensleeves was a crock of shit. Old Gawain may have taken credit for more sacrifice than he’d really felt when he agreed to marry that old crone for King Arthur. If Lady Greensleeves had been half as good in the dark as good old Felicia, the slob hadn’t suffered all that much.

  *

  Felicia must have been telling the truth about not getting much excitement these days. For when Captain Gringo woke up to see sunlight streaming through the shutter slats of her bedroom, she was still fast asleep. He eased out of bed to avoid waking her. He tried not to look at her as he quickly dressed. Sir Gawain had probably been anxious to put on his armor and go fight a dragon every time he woke up with Lady Greensleeves or, wait, it had
n’t been that bad in the fairy tale. Old Greensleeves had been a nice-looking young broad in the daytime. Those fucking knights got all the breaks.

  He didn’t look in on Gaston and the princess. He knew what they both looked like with their duds off, and he didn’t want to wrestle with another dame in the foreseeable future.

  As he let himself out of Felicia’s house and got his bearings he told himself he probably should have gotten Princess Manukai’s permission for what he was hoping to get away with. But, what the hell, it was probably illegal anyway, and it wasn’t as if he were out to rob the big dumb broad.

  He saw it was later than he’d thought, damn it. The tropic sun was frying any eggs anyone might be dumb enough to leave on the sidewalks of San José; and if he didn’t hurry, the office would be closing for La Siesta and another day would be about shot.

  He’d have to forgo the steam bath he’d intended before approaching good old Olivia at International Express. He’d wiped himself clean on Felicia’s sheets before sneaking out of her bed. But one never knew how one’s own body might smell to others. So on the way to the main drag, he stopped to pick up some bay rum, ducked into a public latrine, and doused himself where it might matter most. The bay rum burned his balls like hell. But at least they might smell as though they’d just enjoyed a hot shave instead of two hot women in a row.

  He made it to the big bronze doors of International Express just as they were about to get locked and stay that way until at least three. There were no other customers inside. Olivia Ascot, the English dame that really ran the joint no matter what the office letterheads might say, invited him into her private office, saying, “Long time no see, Dick. What can I do for you, assuming you’re here on business, you mean old thing?”

  He laughed lightly and took a seat by her desk, fishing out a claro as she sat down behind it and tried to look imposing. If there was one thing Olivia Ascot didn’t look, it was imposing. Snooty, perhaps. The ash-blond London lady had long since given up her Proper Cockney accent in favor of one more suited to a Mayfair shop girl—in a shop the queen bought her hats in.