Rhodesia

by Nick Carter

  Booty and Ruth worked him over with questions. Nick decided they asked extra ones to hear his baritone and watch the moustache wave up and down.

  The "get-acquainted" dinner, in a private dining room at their hotel — Meikles — was a thorough success. Masters brought three of the big young men with him, resplendent in dinner jackets, and the stories, drinking, and dancing lasted till after midnight. Gus Boyd distributed his attentions properly among the girls, but he danced most often with Janet Olson. Nick played the part of the correct escort, talked mostly with the eight girls who had joined them in Germany, and felt an unusual resentment at the way Masters and Booty got along. He was dancing with Ruth Crossman when the two said good night and left.

  He couldn't help wondering — all the girls had separate rooms. He sat glumly with Ruth in a lounge divan with whiskey-soda nightcaps. Only brunette Teddy Northway was still with them, dancing snugly with one of Masters' men named Bruce Todd, a bronzed youth who was a local soccer star.

  "She'll take care of herself. She likes you."

  Nick blinked, looked at Ruth. The dark girl spoke so rarely you forgot she was with you. He looked at her. Without the dark-rimmed glasses her eyes had the misty, unfocused gentleness of the nearsighted — and made her grave, even features quite beautiful. You thought of her as quietly lovely — never disturbing — not to be disturbed?

  "Who?" Nick asked.

  "Booty, of course. Don't pretend. She's on your mind."

  "The girl I'm with is on my mind."

  "Okay, Andy."

  He escorted her up to her room in the east wing, paused in the doorway. "I hope you had a nice evening, Ruth. You dance very well."

  "Come in and close the door."

  He blinked again and obeyed. She turned off one of the two lamps the maid had left on, pulled wider the drapes that gave them a view of the city's lights, and poured two Cutty Sarks and added soda without asking him if he wanted a drink. He stood admiring the two double beds, on one of which the covers had been neatly turned down.

  She handed him a glass. "Sit down, Andy. Take off your jacket if you're warm."

  He slowly removed his pearl-gray dinner jacket and she hung it matter-of-factly in a closet and sauntered back to stand in front of him. "Are you just going to stand there all night?"

  He took her slowly in his arms, looking into the misty brown eyes. "I guess I should have told you before," he said, "you're beautiful when you open your eyes wide."

  "Thank you. Lots of people forget to look."

  He kissed her and discovered her firm-looking lips were astonishingly soft and pliable, her tongue bold and shocking amid little gusts of woman-and-alcohol breath. She molded her trim body against him and after a moment one padded thighbone and leg-and-knee fitted him like a jigsaw-puzzle fragment inserted in the correct slot.

  Later, as he removed her bra and admired the magnificent body extended on the smooth white sheet, he said, "The damn fools shouldn't, Ruth. And please forgive me"

  She had been kissing his ear, on the inside, and she made a little gulp before she asked throatily, "Shouldn't what?"

  "Forget to look."

  She made a little snorting sound like a chuckle. "I forgive you." She ran the tip of her tongue up his jawline, around the top of his ear, tickled his cheek, and he felt the warm, moist, shivery probe again. He forgot all about Booty.

  * * *

  When Nick stepped out of the elevator into the spacious lobby the next morning, Gus Boyd was waiting for him. The senior escort said, "Andy — good morning. Hold it a sec before we go in to breakfast. Five of the girls are in there already. Rugged darlings, aren't they? How do you feel after the opener?"

  "Just fine, Gus. Could have used a couple more hours' sleep."

  They strolled past the desk. "Me too. Janet is quite a demanding doll. Did you make it with Booty or did Masters complete his score?"

  "I wound up with Ruth. Very nice." Nick wished he'd slop this boy-to-boy chitchat. He had to be truthful, he needed Boyd's full confidence. Then he felt guilty — the lad was just trying to be friendly. Escorts no doubt exchanged these confidences as a matter of course. He himself, operating always as a loner behind invisible barriers, was losing touch with other men. Have to watch that.

  "I've got it fixed for us to be free today," Gus announced cheerfully. "Masters and his merry men are taking the girls to Ewanrigg Park. They'll have lunch with them and show them a couple of other sights. We won't have to pick them up till cocktail time. Want to look into the gold business?"

  "It's been on my mind since we talked."

  They reversed their course, went out, and strolled along the sidewalk under porticos that reminded Nick of Flagler Street in Miami. Two alert-looking young men getting a breath of morning air. "I'd like to know you better, Andy-but I guess you're straight. I'll introduce you to my contact. You got any cash with you? Real cash, I mean."

  "Sixteen thousand U. S."

  "That's almost double what I'm holding, but I think my credit is good. And if we convince this guy we can really operate hell go in with us. He's loaded."

  Nick asked casually, "Can you trust him? How much do you know about his background? No chance of a trap?"

  Gus chuckled. "You're a cautious one, Andy. I think I like that This guy's name is Alan Wilson. His father was a geologist who made some gold strikes — peggings they're called in Africa. Alan is a tough man. By that I mean he's served as a Merc in the Congo and I heard he was very fast and free with the lead and steel. Don't mention I told you that Wilson's father has retired, I think. Probably loaded. Alan deals in exports. Gold, asbestos, chromium. In big, big lots. He's for real. I checked on him in New York."

  Nick shuddered If Gus had described Wilson accurately the lad was sticking his neck out near a man who knew how to handle an axe. No wonder amateur smugglers and embezzlers so often wound up stretched out straight after fatal accidents, "How did you check on him?"

  "A banker friend of mine slid a query back to the First Rhodesian Commercial Bank. Alan is rated like middle seven figures."

  "He sounds too big and square to be interested in our little deals."

  "He's no square. You'll see. Do you think your Indian connection can handle a really big operation?"

  "I'm sure of it."

  "That's our in!" Gus gave a delighted snap to the in, lowered his voice again at once. "He told me last time I saw him he wanted to set up a really big operation. Let's try it with a small shipment. If we can set up a big pipeline, and I'll bet we can once we've got the stuff to operate with, we'll make fortunes."

  "Most of the world's gold output is spoken for, Gus. What makes you think Wilson can deliver in quantity? Has he opened new mines?"

  "From the way he talked I'm sure he has."

  * * *

  In an almost new Zodiac Executive, thoughtfully supplied by Ian Masters, Gus drove Nick out the Goromonzi Road. The landscape again reminded Nick of Arizona in its best season, although he noted that the vegetation appeared dry except where it was artificially watered. He recalled his briefing reports-Rhodesia was having a near-drought. The white population looked healthy and alert, many of the men, including the policemen, wearing spodess shorts that looked starched. The black-skinned natives went about their jobs with an unusual intentness.

  Something seemed odd here. He studied people thoughtfully as they rolled along the boulevard, and decided it was — tension. Under the crisp, busy attitude of the whites you could sense unease and doubt. Behind the friendly industry of the blacks you could guess there was watchful impatience, masked resentment.

  The sign said WILSON. It stood in front of a complex of warehouse-type buildings fronted by a long three-story office structure that might have belonged to one of the better-run corporations along U.S.1.

  The installation was neat and well-painted, the lush foliage forming colorful patterns on the brown-green expanse of lawn. As they circled the approach drive to a big parking lot Nick saw trucks parked at load
ing ramps in the rear, all of them large, the nearest a giant new International that dwarfed the Leyland Octopus eight-wheeler maneuvering beyond it.

  Alan Wilson was a great big man in a great big office. Nick guessed him at six-feet-three and 245 pounds — hardly an ounce of it fat He was tanned, moved easily, and the way he slammed his door and returned behind his desk after Boyd's brief introduction of Nick showed he wasn't glad to see them. Hostility glared from every plane of his face.

  Gus got the message and his words stumbled. "Alan... Mr. Wilson... I... we came to continue... the talk about the gold..."

  "Who in hell told you to?"

  "Last time you said... we agreed... I was going to..."

  "I said I'd sell you gold if you wanted it If you do, show your documents to Mr. Trizzle in the front office and make your arrangements. Anything else?"

  Nick pitied Boyd. Gus had spine but it would take a few more years to harden it for situations like this. When you spent your time giving orders to uneasy travelers who minded you because they wanted to believe you knew what you were doing, you weren't prepared for a big man you thought was friendly to turn and smack you in the face with a wet fish — hard. And that's what Wilson had done.

  "Mr. Grant has good connections in India," Gus said too loudly.

  "So have I."

  "Mr. Grant... ah... Andy is experienced. He's moved gold..."

  "Shut your stupid mouth. I don't want to hear about it. And I certainly didn't tell you to bring anyone like him here."

  "But you said..."

  "Who — you said. You do all the saying, Boyd. Too much of it to too many people. You're like most Yanks I've met You've got the disease. Perpetual diarrhea of the mouth."

  Nick winced in sympathy for Boyd. Smack — smack-smack. Wet fish in the face one after another could be horrible unless you knew the remedy. You should grab the first one and either cook it — or slam it back at the giver twice as hard. Gus was flushed a bright pink. Wilson's heavy face looked like something carved out of aged-brown beef, deep frozen until rock hard. Gus opened his mouth under Wilson's angry glare and nothing came out. He glanced at Nick.

  "Now get out of here," Wilson growled on. "And don't come back. If I hear that you've said anything about me I don't like, I'll look you up and smash your head."

  Gus looked at Nick again with an expression that asked, What in the world has gone wrong? What did I do? This man is mad.

  Nick coughed politely. Wilson's heavy glance swung to him. Nick said evenly, "I don't think Gus meant any harm. Not as much as you pretend he did. He has done you a favor. I have markets for up to ten million pounds in gold per month. At top prices. Any currencies. And if you could guarantee more, which of course you can't, I have a line to tap the IMF for more funds."

  "Ah!" Wilson straightened his oxlike shoulders and made a tent of his big hands. Nick thought they resembled hockey mitts brought to life. "The blabbermouth has brought me a liar. And how do you know how much gold I might deliver?"

  "Your whole country only produces that much in a year. Say about thirty million dollars? So come down out of your clouds, Wilson, and talk business with the peasants."

  "Well bless my soul and body! A blinking gold expert! Where did you get your figures, Yank?"

  Nick noted Wilson's interest with satisfaction. The man was no fool, he believed in listening and learning although he pretended to be impetuous.

  "When I'm in a business I like to know all about it," Nick said. "You're small beer when it comes to gold, Wilson. South Africa alone produces fifty-five times as much per year as Rhodesia does. Figuring at thirty-five dollars a fine troy ounce the world produces about two billion dollars worth annually, I'd say."

  "You're way high," Wilson disagreed.

  "No, the official figures are low. They don't figure in the U. S. S.R., big China, North Korea, Eastern Europe — and the amounts that are stolen or not reported."

  Wilson studied Nick in silence. Gus could not hold his tongue. He spoiled it by saying, "You see, Alan? Andy really knows his way around. He has operated..."

  One mittlike hand silenced him with a stop gesture. "How long have you known Grant?"

  "Uh? Well — not long. But in our business we learn..."

  "You learn how to pick old ladies' pocketbooks. Shut up. Grant — tell me about your channels to India, How solid? What arrangements..."

  Nick interrupted him. "Ill tell you nothing, Wilson. I just decided you're not in line with my policies."

  "What policies?"

  "I don't do business with loudmouths, show-offs, bullies, or Mercs. I prefer a black gentleman to a white shitheel any day. C'mon, Gus — now we're leaving."

  Wilson stood up slowly to his full height He looked gigantic, as if a display maker had taken a fine linen suit and stuffed it with muscles — size 52. Nick didn't like that When they moved quickly after a needle or their faces flushed you could figure their minds were getting out of control. Wilson moved deliberately, his wrath glowing primarily from his hot eyes and in the dour rigidity of his mouth. "You're a big man. Grant," he said softly.

  "Not piled as high as you."

  "Sense of humor. Too bad you're not bigger — and with some stomach. I like a bit of exercise."

  Nick grinned and appeared to stretch comfortably in his chair while actually getting a foot well under himself. "Don't let that stop you. Do they call you Windy Wilson?"

  The big man must have pressed a button with his foot — his hands had been in sight all along. A wiry man — tall but not broad — put his head into the big office. "Yes, Mr. Wilson?"

  "Come in and close the door, Maurice. After I throw out this big monkey you make sure Boyd leaves — one way or another."

  Maurice leaned against a wall. From the corner of an eye Nick noted that he folded his arms as if he didn't expect to be called on soon. A sports spectator. Wilson came around the big desk, moving smoothly, and reached for Nick's forearm with a swift grab. The arm departed — with Nick as he leaped sideways out of the leather armchair and twisted under Wilson's groping hands. Nick bounded past Maurice to the far wall. He said, "Gus — come over here."

  Boyd proved he could move. He skipped across the room so fast Wilson halted in surprise.

  Nick pushed the younger man into a niche between two ceiling-height bookcases and shoved Wilhelmina into his hand, snicking off the safety with a flick of a finger. "She's ready to bark. Be careful."

  He saw Maurice produce a small automatic, holding it pointed at the floor, looking doubtful but watchful. Wilson stood in the center of the office — a colossus in linen, "No shooting, Yank. You'll hang if you pop anyone in this country."

  Nick took four steps away from Gus. "That'll be up to you, bucko. What's Maurice holding — a squirt gun?"

  "No shooting, boys " Wilson repeated, and leaped at Nick.

  There was plenty of room. Nick back-pedaled and sidestepped, watched Wilson follow him efficiently and in balance, and then tapped the big man on the nose with a lightning left that was strictly experimental.

  The left jab he got back was fast, accurate, and if he hadn't slipped it would have shaken his teeth. It scraped skin off his left ear as he hooked another left to the big man's ribs and danced away. His fist felt as if he had pounded it on a leather vaulting horse, but he thought he saw Wilson wince. He did see the big man's right start — then the punch was pulled as the other decided to keep his balance and keep coming. Wilson had been around. Nick circled backwards, said, "Queensberry Rules?"

  "Sure, Yank. Unless you cheat. Better not. I know all the games."

  Wilson proved it by switching over to boxing, jabbing and looping lefts, some bouncing off Nick's arms and fists, others pulled as Nick countered or blocked. They circled like fighting cocks. The lefts that did get through brought grimaces to Gus Boyd's astonished face. Maurice' brown features were expressionless, but his left hand — the one not holding the gun — clenched in empathy with every blow that landed.

  Nick thou
ght he had his chance when a left came low, bounced off his armpit. He put steam from his right heel into a hard right counter aimed perfectly for the giant's jaw point — and lost his balance as Wilson fell into him, inside, taking the right on the side of his head. Lefts and rights pounded into Nick's ribs like mule kicks. He didn't dare go back and he couldn't get his arms inside to shield himself from the brutal punches. He clinched, wrestled, twisted, and turned, pushing into his opponent until he tied up those punishing arms. He got leverage, pushed, broke away fast.

  He knew he had done wrong before his left landed. His excellent vision caught the right in clear sight as it crossed over the outgoing punch and came at his face like a ram. He pulled the left and tried to fade but the fist was far faster than the retreat of his face. He went backward, caught his heel in the carpet, got another foot under himself, and hit the bookcase with a crash that shook the room. He went down in a welter of broken shelves and falling books. Even as he rolled over and bounced forward and up in a wrestler's recovery, volumes were still thumping onto the floor.

  Now! Nick commanded his aching arms. He went forward, got a long left in near the eyes, took a short right to the ribs, and felt jubilation as his own half-hooked right surprised Wilson as it skidded up his shoulder and smashed solidly into his cheek. Wilson couldn't get his right foot out in time to catch himself. He tilted sideways like a bombed statue, took one stumbling step, and crashed down on a table between two windows. The table's legs broke, a big squat vase of gorgeous flowers flew ten feet and shattered against the big desk. Magazines, ashtrays, and a tray and water carafe clattered under the big man's thrashing body.

  He rolled, got his hands under him, and bobbed up.

  Then the fight started.

  Chapter Three

  If you've never seen two good big men slug it out, "fighting fairly," you hold a lot of misconceptions about fistfighting. The staged mockeries on TV fool you. Those unguarded-against blows would break a man's jaw — but in real scraps they rarely land. TV fights are sucker-punch ballets.