A Hard Act To Follow

by Troy Conway

  So that’s what they meant by pasa doble!

  It wasn’t a new method

  If I remembered correctly, the Roman historian, suetonius, had mentioned in Lives of the Twelve Caesars that Emperor Tiberius used to conscript peasant children to perform it on him.

  Also, I’d had it performed on me once during the course of a sexual study I was conducting at a brothel m Havana, where my partners had referred to it by a Spanish term considerably less delicate than pasa doble.

  But that had been way back in 1958, and my memory of the occasion was dim. Now Chiquita and Carla were giving me a second chance to see what it was all about I propped myself up on my elbows to get a better look.

  What I saw made me even more excited than what I felt. The two coppertone cuties had their pretty faces together. While tonguing me, they also were-kissing each other. Their eyes were squeezed shut. The soft, smooth akin of their cheeks pressed tenderly against my loins. Their coal black hair fell behind them, covering the deed like a curtain.

  My hips automatically began moving slowly back and forth In reply, the girls released their grip on my manhood. Then their mouths moved into place when their fingers had been. Still kissing each other as much as they were kissing me, they raced wildly over the d e n organ’s entire surface.

  Electric tongues of sensation tore through me. My body was taut, high-tension wire. I heard myself moan, and the boiling lava of my passion bubbled up inside me.

  The girls knew what was happening. They let go of me instantly. Carla, leaping to her feet impaled herself on me. Chiquita crawled between my leg and goaded me on with her tongue.

  I tried to keep a tight rein on myself. Carla had shown me a good time and I wanted to reciprocate. Biting my lip to take my mind off the sensations in my groin, I assaulted her with long, deep, body-jarring strokes. She jounced around on tap of me, her fingernails digging hungrily into my thighs her enormous breasts jiggling wildly before her.

  I knew I couldn’t hold on much longer. Every thrust d her hip set off a new spark inside me. The boiling lava bubbled higher. The earthshaking tremors of eruption were beginning.

  Carla jounced all the harder. Her head was tossed back. Her body was twisted into a tense spiral. Biting more deeply into my lip, I matched her stroke for stroke.

  Beneath me, Chiquita was still doing her bit. Her hot, wet tongue darted across whatever part of my fast-moving chassis she could get it on. Her fingers probed my buttock Her teeth dug into the soft flesh inside my thighs.

  I was at the edge of the ledge ledge. but fortunately, so was Carla For a moment we hovered there together. Then, with breasts shaking wildly and les scissoring frantically, she went off.

  That was all I needed. Like a thunderhead cracking across the sky, my body exploded into a spasm of over whelming sensation.

  Finally it was over. I stretched out on the bed, exhausted. Carla slid into place alongside me. Chiquita found a spot on the other side. For all of five minutes, we lay there without saying a word. Then Chiquita got up.

  “Well, Damon,” she smiled, “it really was a pleasure. Now, with your permission, my sister and I’ll be on our way.”

  I gulped. “Carla is your sister? She’s darker.”

  “Yes. Do you find that so unusual? Who knows who her Papa was?”

  I swallowed my astonishment. “Not really. The way things’ve been going lately, I don’t find anything unusual. But I’m rather surprised you’re leaving so soon. I thought you might like to stay and talk awhile.”

  “No. I promised The Big Head I’d get home early. Besides, what’s them to talk about?”

  My voice was dripping with sarcasm. “Well, there’s the weather. And the war in Vietnam. And civil rights. And the peace movement. And if we get tired of these topics, there’s always The Big Freak-Out.”

  “Sorry, Damon. I’m not much of a talker. But if you want to see me again, come over to The Big Head’s apartment tomorrow afternoon and I’ll play the piano for you.” She reached for the doorlatch.

  I blocked her. “’Now look, Chiquita Your boyfriend is in serious trouble. If—”

  She touched a finger to my lips. “Sorry, Damon,” she silenced me. “I don’t meddle in The Big Head’s business affairs—just like he doesn’t meddle in my sexual ones. Now will you let us out, or do you plan on keeping us prisoner tonight?”

  I shrugged. Unbelievable as it seemed, sex had been the only purpose of her visit—or, if there was another one, she had accomplished it without my knowing about it.

  I opened the door and ushered the swinging sisters into the living room. Holding my forty-five for good luck, I Watched them dress. Then I showed them out.

  Thanks, Damon,” said Chiquita at the threshold. “I enjoyed it immensely, and so did my sister. Are you going to visit me tomorrow?”

  “You were serious about that?”

  “Of course. I’d like very much to see you, and to play the piano for you. We could make love also, if you’d like.”

  “And what’ll The Big Head do while we’re making it? Watch?”

  She chuckled softly. ’He won’t be there. He plans to be out all afternoon on business.” She snapped open her purse, pulled out a notebook and scribbled down an address “This is where you’ll find me. Do come, won’t you?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  She flashed a warm smile, then mumbled something in Spanish to Carla. Giggling like two schoolgirls, they scamperd through the hall and down the stairs. I holstered my forty-five, double-locked the door and poured myself a stiff Scotch and soda. Then I flopped down on the couch and tried to make some sense out of what had happened.

  Someplace out there in The City That Never Sleeps, the local branch of The Hippies’ Ad Hoc Committee for The Big Freak-Out was putting the finishing touches on a plot to overthrow the United States government The man whom Walrus-moustache had pegged as their leader, The Big Head, was among them. Unless he had nerves of castiron, he was worried sick that I was going to upset his little applecart.

  Yet, his mistress had just spent a couple hours in bed with mewith his permission, so she said—claimed that her only motive was sexual satisfaction.

  She hadn’t tried to work out a deal on his behalf.

  She hadn’t pumped me for information.

  When I had mentioned The Big Freak- she had flatly refused to discuss it.

  And to top it all off she had invited me to The Big Head’s apartment the next afternoon to listen to her play the piano.

  I couldn’t believe that she had visited me only because she was passionate. But I couldn’t imagine what else might have impelled her to come calling.

  Had she just wanted to case my apartment for The Big Head? Maybe.. But I was betting against it If The Big Head wanted to know anything about my apartment, he could find out easily enough by asking Lola.

  Then, maybe the whole thing was just a way of setting me up for a meeting at The Big Head’s apartment the next afternoon. But if that was what Chiquita had in mind, she went about it in the worst possible way. She could’ve phoned and said she wanted to meet me there. I probably would’ve come running.

  By telling me after we had made love, she had destroyed the element of suspense. I really had no reason to go— unless I wanted to hear her play the piano.

  Which I didn’t.

  And now that I thought about it, why had she stressed the piano bit so much? All told, she had mentioned it on three different occasions. Did she think I was some kind of music nut? Or was she trying to tell me something else?

  Piano.

  Piano wire.

  An interesting avenue of speculation. But was there really a connection?

  If so, what was it?

  If Chiquita was trying to warn me that I shouldn’t visit The Big Head’s apartment, why did she invite me in the first place?

  Because The Big Head had told her to, and because he had sent Carla along to make sure she did?

  But Carla didn’t speak English.<
br />
  Or did she?

  If she didn’t, Chiquita wouldn’t have had to invite me.

  If she did, the piano bit would have been as obvious to her as it was to me.

  Carla.

  Where did she fit into the picture?

  Was she really Chiquita’s sister?

  They looked enough alike that she might have been.

  But wasn’t the para doble a rather odd enterprise for two sisters to pursue?

  They weren’t only kissing me when they went through their paces. They were kissing each other.

  Incest?

  Well, if yon incest—uh, insist.

  And homosexual incest to boot.

  HomosexuaL,

  Was Chiquita homosexual?

  Was The Big Head homosexual?

  The more I thought about it, the more confusing it became.

  But then, everything connected with The Big Freak-out confusing.

  When I went to the party with Lola, The Big Head had come on to me like a vacuum cleaner salesman coming on to a housewife.

  A day later he wouldn’t touch me with a foot stick of marijuana

  Egbert had cornered me in the kitchen and given me the lowdown on the whole plot.

  A day later he was giving me a fourteen-karat brushoff.

  Egbert’s brushoff I could understand. He had spilled the beans about The Big Freak-Out while he was on LSP. Then, remembering the four. hippies who had been garroted, he had tried to cover his tracks.

  But why had The Big Head gone cold on me?

  He hadn’t told me anything at the party.

  Or had he told me something while I was too high on LSP to realize it?

  Or had I said or done something during my LSP high— something I no lager remembered—which made him decide I shouldn’t be taken into his confidence?

  I could only guess.

  And my! guesses were leading me nowhere.

  Back to the party.

  Unless I had been hallucinating, I had seen Corinne LaBelle.

  What was she doing there?

  Was she a prisoner of the Red Chinese who were backing the plot?

  Unlikely. Since when do prisoners get invited to parties?

  But, if she wasn’t a prisoner, what was she doing there?

  Back to the Red Chinese.

  When did they fit into the picture?

  Walrus-moustache seemed to think that they were backing the plot.

  But what was their line of communication to the hippies?

  If there was one race of people I very definitely did not see in my travels through hippiedom, it was the oriental race.

  True, as Walrus-moustache had suggested, they might have been using American or European contact men.

  But who were these contact men?

  And where were they?

  For the moment, I couldn’t even guess. I wasn’t close enough to the scene to tell the players apart without a scorecard, let alone tell the coaches from the players!

  So much for the Red Chinese.

  What about James Hartley?

  He was a dead-end street if ever I’d come across one.

  And speaking of dead-end streets, what about that sweetly perfumed, miniskirted cutie I’d played sex games with the night Lola and I listened to The Big Head’s sermon?

  I was sure when I spotted her in the aisle after the sermon that I had seen her face somewhere before.

  But where?

  And why hadn’t I seen her since?

  The whole thing was more confusing than a Chinese box puzzle.

  And each new development made it more confusing still.

  For a moment I wondered if it was possible that there was no conspiracy after allthat The Big Freak-Out was some sort of grotesque non-phenomenon that came into being as a result of a few hallucinations by widely scattered acid-heads and an overzealous interpretation by Walrus-moustache and his crew.

  That, evidently, was exactly the impression of the high Cabinet officer who supervised the agency’s operations.

  And if he thought so, knowing what he knows, why shouldn’t I think so, knowing what I know?

  Then I remembered: I knew something he didn’t know.

  Egbert had so much as confessed to being part of the plot. Not only at the party where I had passed out the LSP, but also a few hours ago when I took him down off an acid high, told him I was a fellow conspirator and threatened to garrote him if he didn’t keep his nose clean.

  Yes, Egbert had confessed, when he had nothing to gain by doing so and a great deal to lose. And that, from where I sat, was evidence enough that the conspiracy was very real

  Now what to do about it?

  I glanced at my watch.

  Three fifteen.

  Not much to do about it at this hour, but dawn would bring another day, and who could tell what goodies the day might have in store?

  A meeting with The Big Head at seven in the evening.

  A meeting during the afternoon with his mistress, if I chose to take her up on her invitation.

  And a meeting earlier still with Egbert, if Walrus-moustache hadn’t let me down.

  I finished my drink, deposited the empty glass in the kitchen, and went to bed.

  CHAPTER 7

  Walrus-moustache hadn’t let me down. When I checked in with Aunt Matilda at noon, she informed me that Egbert was being held at the Federal Detention Unit on Foley Square. The charge was “unlawful possession of narcotics.” The G-Man who would serve as my contact was one Detective Marbello.

  I hailed a cab to the detention unit. Marbello did a doubletake when he caught sight of my beard and long hair, but he became very friendly after I told him who I was. We walked back to the cell area together. Leading me to the dingy cubicle which was Egbert’s home away from home, he locked the door and ushered me inside. “I’ll be right down the corridor if you want me,” he said.

  I gave Egbert my best Ipana smile. He didn’t smile back. His face was still frozen in the expression of astonishment which it had assumed when he first spotted me walking down the corridor with Marbello.

  “Hi, Eg,” I said amiably. “What’s new in the music business?”

  He managed to get his mouth and eyes back into working order. “Jeez, Damon,” he said softly. “What’re you doing here?”

  I played the moment for all it was worth. “I came to talk to you, Eg. You feel up to a little chat?”

  His eyes darted from my face to my fingers and back to my face. Evidently he was looking for piano wire. “Don’t try anything funny, Damon,” he warned feebly. “I’ll call a cop”

  “It won’t do you any good, Egbert They’re on my side.”

  Who’re you trying to kid? You might have the Big Head and some of the hippies in your pocket, but you don’t have the G-Men them.”

  “You miss the point I am a G-Man, baby. That’s the name of the game.”

  His eyes widened. A nervous tic tugged at the corner of his mouth. For a moment he said nothing. Then, under his breath, he murmured, “You gotta be kiddin’.”

  I flashed my I pana smile again ’You saw the detective bring me back here. They don’t do that, you know, if a guy just walks in off the street and asks to see somebody.”

  He lowered his head, and his shoulders slumped forward in a gesture of defeat. “I know,” he admitted softly. “I been busted before-in Brooklyn. My own mother couldn’t get in to see me.” His head slowly came up until his eyes were even with mine. “So you’re a G-Man,” he shrugged. ’What can I for you?”

  I paced the cell as I imagined Lee Marvin might it he were playing a G-Man in a movie. “You can do a lot for me, Egbert And I can do a lot for you. First let’s talk about what I can do for you”

  He watched, apparently very impressed with my routine, and waited for me to continue.

  “you’re in trouble, Egbert,” I told him. There’s a narcotics charge against you, and if I give the right people the word, there’ll be a lot of other charges against you. The main o
ne to think about is ‘conspiracy to overthrow the United States government.’ It carries a prison term of twenty to forty years, and federal judges aren’t as lenient as the ones at state and local levels. Dig the message?”

  “I dig,” he replied wearily.

  “And That’s only the start of your troubles. You know what happened to the four other hippies who talked.” I pantomimed a piano-wire garroting. “All I’ve got to do is leak word to the wrong people that you’re here in jail singing your brains out. When you walk out the door, your life won’t be worth a broken guitar pick. Dig?”

  “I dig.”

  “Now, here’s how I can help you. Number One: I can get you off the hook with Uncle Sam. On my say-so, the narcotics charge gets dropped and the other charges never get filed. As far as the United States Government is concerned, you remain an A-Number-One-First-Class Citizen. Clean. Clean as a whistle. Number Two: I can get you off the hook with The Big Head and the rest of your comrades. So far, no one but me knows that you said a word about the conspiracy. Play along with me, and That’s the way it’ll stay. Sound good?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Now here’s what you can do for me. I know a lot about The Big Freak-Out, but I want to know a lot more. You can tell me everything you know. Then, when you’ve told me, you can find out what else I want to know. Ill see to it that you’re protected, but you’ve got to play straight with me. And you’ve got to play straight right up till the end. Cross mc just once and I’ll throw you to the dogs.” I paced the floor long enough to let the message sink in. “Is it a deal?”

  His eyes were glued to his feet. His arms were draped across his knees, and his hands were nervously kneading each other. “Damon,” he said softly, “what you’re asking me to do is turn fink on my buddies.”

  “Precisely.”

  “you’re asking me to be a stoolie, Damon. And a spy.”

  “I couldn’t’ve put it better myself.”

  “you’re asking me to go back on all the principles I believe in, to turn traitor to my cause, to sell out!”

  “Exactly.”

  He looked up at me. “you’re really being rough on me, “Damon. you’re really being rough”