A Hard Act To Follow

by Troy Conway

  She smiled back. “You don’t have to. I’ll give him your message when he gets home.”

  My smile broadened. “No, I think I’ll stop by The Church anyway. You see, I have to work out a few more details with him.”

  Her smile broadened. “You don’t have to, Damon. You can tell me what you want worked out and I’ll arrange it for you.”

  My smile got even broader. It was rapidly becoming a grimace. “I think I’ll stop by The Church anyway, Chiquita. You see, there are a few complications and I have to get answers about them now. I don’t have time to work through an intermediary.”

  She stopped playing the smiling game. Her eyes found mine. Her voice was low and even. “The Big Head isn’t the only person who can give you immediate answers, Damon. I’m working very closely with him on this thing. You might say that I have his power of attorney.”

  “I thought you said last night that you didn’t meddle in his business affairs.”

  “That was last night. Today I’m telling you otherwise.”

  I grimed sardonically. “Maybe I’m just an overly suspicious type, Chiquita, but I get the impression that you’re trying very hard to keep me away from The Church of the Sacred Acid tonight.”

  She grinned back. “How could I do that, Damon? I have to be there myself, remember? I’m part of the show.” Then suddenly her grin vanished. “No,” she said softly, “I was lying. I am trying to keep you away—not away from The Church, but away from The Big Head. As you might realize, you gave him quite a scare last night. he’s a peaceful man and not at all accustomed to violent treatment. He was trembling for hours after you left. That’s why he arranged the meeting for you. His partners were reluctant, but he talked than into it. You see, he’s frightened to death of you.” Her hands found one of mine and she squeezed it desperately. “That’s why I don’t want you to see The Big Head tonight. I don’t want him to become upset again. You may not know it, but he has a heart condition. Another shock like the one last night could kill him.” Her eyes pleaded with me. “Stay away from him, Damon. Please. I’m begging you. Stay away.”

  The story obviously was as phony as a pair of falsies. It left me more determined than ever to make my date with The Big Head, but I didn’t let Chiquita know what I was thinking. “Okay, I’ll leave him alone,” I said “Now let’s work out the details”

  She leaned against me, and her lingers grabbed me. They worked gently up and down, while her breasts pressed lovingly against my chest “Okay, Damon. What do you have in mind?”

  “Sex,” I said suddenly. “No, strike that What I mean is, it you keep on fingering me that way, I’m going to stop thinking about the conspiracy for a while.”

  “Okay, stop thinking about it. I’d rather think about sex.”

  “But if I stop thinking about the conspiracy we won’t have our details worked out before it’s time for you to leave for The Church of the Sacred Acid. Then you’ll miss your performance, and——“

  Her hand was off my manhood before I could finish the sentence. “you’re right,” she said. “let’s work out the details. But first let me get us a couple more drinks.”

  She pirouetted into the kitchen and returned with a fresh Scotch-and-soda for me and a gin-and-something for herself.

  “Shall I taste yours first?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Damon, Damon, Damon. you’re so suspicious. Scoo-oooo suspicious.” She hoisted the glass to her mouth and polished off half of it with a single gulp.

  “Thirsty aren’t you?” I quipped.

  “Just trying to show you that my heart’s in the right place.”

  It was a cornball stunt, but I couldn’t resist it. My hand cupped her left breast, and I grinned and said, “it’s in the right place.”

  “The details, Damon. The details.”

  I released her. “The details.”

  We sat on separate chairs-the better to concentrate, m’dear—and I thought up a few details for us to work out.

  “it’s unnecessary,” I began, “for my partners to be brought in on the meeting. I have authority to speak for them, and I can make a firm decision on any question that may arise.”

  “No good, Damon. They have to attend. The Big Head’s partners are frankly very skeptical that you have partners. They think you’re a freelance operator trying to horn in on their caper. Unless they meet your partners, they won’t talk.”

  I stared at her, astonished. The Chiquita I now was talking to was as different from the Chiquita of a few minutes ago as I was different from The Big Head. Somehow or other, once we had started talking business she underwent a strange transformation not only of attitude but also of appearance. Her sexiness was gone. In its place was the hard look of a cold, calculating female executive.

  I put on my best executive manners. “But,” I argued, “if I were a free-lance operator, all they’d have to do is garrote me. Their troubles would be over.”

  “True,” she replied coldly. “And they haven’t discounted that possibility. What it boils down to right now is that they don’t know whether or not you’re bluffing,and unless you give them some indication of the cards you’re holding, they’re liable to call your bluff.”

  “They’d be playing with fire if they did.”

  “And you’d be playing with fire if you forced them to. Show one or two of your cards, Damon. That way no one will have to call any anyone’s bluff.”

  My astonishment continued to grow. Chiquita certainly knew how to handle herself. I’d met a lot of Puerto Rican immigrants in my time, but she was the first recent-arrival in the batch who acted as though she could hold her own in the board room of any corporation in the country. I became more and more suspicious of her alleged immigrant status.

  “Okay,” I said, “you win. I’ll produce my partners. But, like your partners, they’re scattered all over the country. It would be pointless for them to come to New York en route to Washington Why don’t we just set the meeting for Washington and let everyone get there by the most direct route.”

  She smiled. Not her warm, effervescent smile of old. Rather, a cold, thin-lipped smile that was strictly business. “I”ll accept that. Arrange to meet with your partners some where in Washington a short time before the meeting with The Big Head’s partners. The Big Head and you can pick them up wherever they happen to be and bring them to the place where our-The Big Head’s partners will be.”

  I let the our-his slip go by without comment. “Why can’t we just designate a meeting place and let everyone arrive them on his own?”

  “you’re a security-conscious fellow, Damon. Surely you realize that The Big Head’s partners have to take certain precautions also. How are they to know that some of your people aren’t being spied on by federal agents? By keeping the meeting place secret, they can insure that no dragnet will sweep them an up at the same time.”

  “But, if my people are being spied on, the Feds can pick up The Big Head easily enough now, and isn’t he the figurehead in the plot?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss his role or the roles of other conspirators. Suffice it to say that we want to maintain as tight security as we can. we’ll meet you halfway by consenting to a pick-up in Washington rather than in New York, but we won’t go any farther.”

  I noticed that this time she hadn’t even bothered to correct the reference to the conspiracy in the first, rather than the third, person. Again I let it pass without comment. I wasn’t interested in tripping her up. She’d already done that on her own. It would only hurt my case to call the matter to her attention.

  I told her that her proposition was acceptable, then tried to get the meeting scheduled twenty-four hours earlier. She turned thumbs down on the idea, explaining that The Big Freak-Out timetable—which I had claimed to know about back when I was threatening The Big Head—called for certain duties to be performed tomorrow without fail.

  I went along with her. Actually I wasn’t too concerned with the details anyway. Whe
ther the initial contact took place at The Big Head’s apartment or in Washington was inconsequential; my “partners” would be several of Walrus-moustache’s agents, and they’d play things the same no matter what the terrain. But I wanted to make a pretense of haggling, if only to justify my insistence upon meeting The Big Head after her and my little tete-a-tete.

  I haggled awhile longer. She haggled back. Finally we settled on a plan. I’d meet The Big Head at his apartment; we’d fly together to Washington and pick up my partners; the entire group would then proceed to the secret meeting place of The Big Head’s partners; we’d have our conference, then go our separate ways; the date would be the day after tomorrow.

  The haggling now done, Chiquita shed her business like pose as quickly as she had assumed it. Her face broke into a sexy smile. She squirmed deliciously on her chair.

  “Well, Damon,” she cooed, “are you going to make love to me? Or are we just going to sit hen all night and stare at each other?”

  I didn’t give her a chance to change her mind. I was as hungry for her as she was for me. Leaping out of my chair, I bounded across the room and took her in my arms. Then I charged into the bedroom.

  “Like, wow,” she gasped. “You really make a girl feel wanted. Do you mind if I take off my clothes first?”

  I dropped her onto the bed with a thud. As a matter of fact, the idea of making love to her while she was fully dressed—but of course panty-lesshad a certain charm to it. Only a few minutes earlier, wearing these same clothes, she had played the role of the stern, cold businesswoman. It would be exciting for me to warm her up until, still wearing the same clothes, she started begging for what I had to offer.

  But I chucked the idea I had a better one, one that wouldn’t excite me a whole lot but that very definitely would excite her.

  And I wanted her excited.

  I wanted her so excited that no matter what happened during the next few days she’d still thirst for my attentions, and thirst for them so desperately that she’d do anything to get them.

  I wasn’t being generous. I was just being practical

  From what I had seen while we were haggling, she was much more than a mere functionary in The Big Freak-Out. If the time ever came when I found myself in a tough spot with the conspirators, I’d want every friend I could get, and there’s no friend as loyal as a friend That’s hot for your body!

  I sat on the bed alongside her and gently stroked her thigh. “Take off your clothes,” I said. “But let me kiss you while you’re doing it.”

  She fumbled with the clasp on her dress. I brought my lips to her knee and began kissing my way upward. The closer I got to the top, the longer I took to get there.

  In seconds her dress was off. Per custom, she hadn’t been wearing anything underneath it. I glanced up at her gleaming, pink-tipped breasts. My spark of desire, smouldering all afternoon, suddenly burst into flame, but I held myself in check. I had a job to do and I was going to do it right. Ever so slowly, I continued to kiss my way up her thighs. My tongue played across her skin. My teeth bit gently into her firm, smooth flesh.

  Her hips began to move in slow, passionate circles. Her legs quivered under my touch. “That’s beautiful, Damon,” she murmured. “That’s soooo beautiful.”

  I inched higher. The sweet aroma of her excitement tantalized my nostrils. Her soft, silky down brushed against my face. My tongue caressed the contours of her woman-hood. She wriggled ecstatically.

  “Oh, Damon,” she moaned. “Oh, ohhhhhhhhh.. . .”

  I worked harder. My tongue darted wildly about her moist, pungent cavern. My finger pressed firmly against the tensed muscle which held it prisoner. Her hips thrashed about wildly. Her legs, thrown over my shoulders, swung like lashes. Her feet pounded against my back.

  Finally she couldn’t stand it any longer. “Damon,” she cried. “Take me. Please take me.”

  I planned to. But not quite yet. First I had to make a couple of adjustments.

  Reaching inside my trouser pocket, I pulled out a small envelope. From the envelope I took a milk-white latex device. It resembled a conventional condom, but there was something highly unconventional about it. In Tibet, where I had acquired it, it is called a ki-vi-mei. In American slang, it is known as a French tickler, although most people who know the term have never seen the object which it describes.

  Slipping my trousers and shorts over my hips, I fitted the device over my manhood. Its sides were studded with soft but firm rubber nipples, nipples which would rake the insides of my partner, spurring her to heights of excitement she never had dreamed existed. At its tip was a sturdy rubber prong, a quarter of an inch thick and an half inch high; with each thrust it would prod her deepest recesses, awakening sensations of pain-pleasure, igniting a fire that burned but did not consume.

  The ki-vi-mei in place, I began kissing my way up Chiquita’s body. She squirmed all the more furiously as I approached her breasts. Her legs scissored around my waist and sought to draw me to her. “Now, Damon,” she begged. “Now.”

  My tongue toyed with her nipples. They were hard and firm. I nibbled at them, and they grew even harder. “Now,” she pleaded.”Now!”

  I worked my way over the top of her breasts and onto her throat. Her legs were scissoring furiously. Her fingers clutched at my armpits and tried to pull me upward along her body. I held my ground, stoking the fire that was raging inside her.

  “Damon,” she begged. “Oh, I love you, Damon! Oh! Please make love to me!”

  My lips found her adam’s apple, her jaw and finally her lips. Her mouth parted and my tongue plunged inside. She sucked it hungrily, at the same time squeezing harder with her legs, trying desperately to pull me into place.

  My fingers played between her legs. She pressed against them eagerly, hungrily. I clutched the prong of the ki-vi-mei and inserted it experimentally between her frantically trembling legs. Then I lunged forward, letting her engulf me.

  Her body exploded in paroxysms of passion. Her hips ground furiously. Her legs coiled and uncoiled around mine. Her fingernails dug into my back. “Ohhhhhhh!!!” she groaned. I’ve never had it like this!!!”

  I hammered against her, each stroke driving her higher and higher up the spiral of pleasure. Her breath was hot in my ear.

  I speeded things up. A hot cone of passion took form inside me. I drove harder, burying my pillar deep in her hollow. Her sighs grew more and more frantic.

  The hot waves of excitement inside me came charging to the surface. I thrust once, twice. The eruption began.

  I heard myself groan in ecstasy. At the same time Chiquita’s body arched toward me. The spasms which took possession of her told me that she was sharing the moment Her fingers tore at my buttocks pressing me to her, pressing as desperately as if they had been trying to stuff my entire body into the pit of her passion.

  Then it was over. Slowly her grip loosened. She lay beneath me, panting wildly. Her fingers traced a gentle pattern up and down my back. “Damon,” she said feebly. “You killed me. I’m dead.”

  For minutes we lay there silently, our sweat-slick bodies pressed together, our breathing like the whistling of the wind. Then I remembered my appointment with The Big Head. I got up and went to the bathroom to remove the ki-vi-mei.

  When I came back, Chiquita was sitting on the edge of the bed. She was wearing a transparent blue shortie nightgown that was no sexy it made me want to do again what I had just done. In each hand she had a drink.

  “Here,” she said, handing me one. “The pause that refreshes.”

  “I just had the pause that refreshes,” I quipped.

  “Well, drink it anyway, and come on with me. I want to play the piano for you.”

  I took a healthy slug of Scotch, then followed her into the living room. I wasn’t really too eager to hear her play. But a glance at my watch told me that it was only six thirty. I still had half an hour before my appointment with The Big Head. I decided to humor her.

  She sat at the key
board and ripped off a very sloppy arpeggio. Then she ripped off another oneeven sloppier. I didn’t know what to make of it. Judging from the commotion she had made about her piano-playing, I had expected artistry just short of Horowitz’ or Van Cliburn’s, What I was hearing was technique that even a rank amateur shouldn’t be proud of.

  She ripped off another one. I had to look to convince myself that she wasn’t playing with her knuckles. Gazing up at me as if very much pleased with herself, she smiled prettily and asked, “What would you like me to play?”

  I was tempted to suggest drums But I curbed my devastating wit. “Whatever you like,” I said.

  “Do you have any favorites?” She executed another arpeggioreally executed it.

  I took another slug of Scotch. “Not really.”

  “How about a nice Spanish song?”

  “Fine,” I said, hoping she picked a brief one.

  “How about ‘Guantanamera’?”

  “Great,” I enthused. I knew the tune. It had a thirty-two bar chorus. With luck, my torture would be over in little more than a minute.

  She began to play, humming along as she did. It occurred to me that both of us would’ve enjoyed ourselves more if she’d just turned on the radio. At least that would’ve left her hands free for other pursuits. We might even have had time to knock off another quickie.

  But Chiquita wasn’t interested in quickiesnot the sexual kind, and not the musical kind either. She played and hummed her way through the first chorus, then began to sing a second. Having nothing better to do, I listened to her and tried to place her Spanish accent geographically.

  It wasn’t easy. Her A’s and I’s might have passed for Puerto Ricanor perhaps Colombian. But her R’s were closer to Cuban. And so were her N’s.

  I suddenly realized that her accent had sounded strange to me the previous night at my apartment with Carla. I hadn’t thought much about it then because it really didn’t seem important to me, but now it was beginning to seem very important. Very important indeed.

  She had told me she was a Puerto Rican, the oldest child in a family of five who had emigrated to the United States a year ago.