by Troy Conway
I could smell her too.
A warm healthy, dizzying animal aroma that exuded from her body. I was rigid with desire. My male ego, as she had said, was challenged. And since sex is mainly a mental stimuli before the actual action begins, I was in a helluva bad way. I was big enough to scale Mount Everest, hard enough to ram a steel bank vault, thick enough to wade my way through a wall of human flesh, dragging my testicles behind me.
I gritted my teeth and tried not to cry. My jaws grated.
“Damon,” she said in the darkness, and my heart soared as cold and flat as her voice was. You can never be sure with dames.
“Yes?”
“I suppose you will lie there like a little boy all night and whine and whimper, so if you will allow me I shall relieve your suffering. All right?” She sounded almost amused but I didn’t care.
“Christina!”
“It’s nothing, and I see it is necessary, so don’t move and I will fix you up, as they say in your part of the world. Are we agreed?”
“Baby,” I chortled, sure of my charm and convinced that all I had to do was get her started, make her see I was the man with the power, and she’d be eating out of my hand all the rest of the way in. Oh, yeah. Little did I know.
But I was lying back; I pulled the covers down and the horse sprang to the post, high enough to hang a hat on. Christina Ketch moved like an animal from her side of the bed and both her strong hands reached out and fastened themselves around the family jewels. Thrills shot through me. Red-hot, hungry expectation. And then she woke me up with a savage, wrenching, twisting application of that brute strength she had shone me in the tavern. You would have thought she was winding a watch!
Believe me, I can’t explain the difference. You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink, the sages say. The canny sexologist will tell you: nothing will kill an erection faster than the slightest pain.
That’s how she did it.
In five fast seconds, with brutal pivots and turns of her strong hands, she wrung me and bruised me until I was spattering impotently into the air, away from the bed, and finally she let go and I was moaning like a banshee. I felt like pulverized grapes and smashed bananas.
“There,” she said flatly, triumphantly. “Now go wipe that mess off yourself, stop whining, and go to sleep. I warn you once again. I must get my rest or our stay here in Betchnika will be a complete waste of time. Understood?”
“Yeah,” I rasped, fighting back the tears of pain. “Sleep tight, you bitch. I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole.”
“Good.” She turned over on her side, away from me. “It’s settled then. Good night.”
She was breathing deeply in no time at all. Untroubled, undisturbed. Sure of herself. An iron butterfly. A brass cupcake. A steel-plated ice-cold Katie.
I lay there in the dark bruised, sore, madder than a wet rooster, and thinking up ways of killing her without leaving a trace. She hadn’t only sprained my wrist; she had damned near put my dick in a sling. It was throbbing like a banjo, humming with an agony I had never experienced, not even the time I ran into a door in a dark bedroom because I thought my naked target was standing there. That had been years ago when I was a kid, but I had never forgotten it. No man ever would. A dong has a memory like an elephant’s.
And dongs were made to be loved and handled with tender loving care.
Oh, how it hurt.
But all I could do was wait until the pain subsided and my anger calmed down. I would have to wait a little while longer, that was all. Oh, revenge would be sweet! There are many ways to skin a cat or trap a dame. I would just have to think of all them.
But first I would have to bury the notion of killing Christina Ketch. That would have to come later. First I would screw her until her ears flew off. And her eyeballs popped. That’s the only proper answer for a snot-nosed, big-assed broad.
I must have fallen asleep while my vendetta formed in my mind. Hell, I couldn’t stay up all night crying over spilled milk. Or misused semen. There was still tomorrow.
And I would never forgive Walrus-moustache for hitching my wagon to a cold star like Christina Ketch.
Never, never, never.
He should have known better!
Known me better.
In a world that practices oneupmanship, gamesmanship, and everybody is trying to put it up everybody else, there is one rule I follow with women. None of them ever get the best of me. I get to all of them—in the end.
And Christina Ketch was going to have the sorest rear end in town when I was through with her. Damon leads the pack in that individual skill known as sexmanship. Hell, I invented it.
Mrs. Emily Gotkin was going to find out that the man she had “married” had a lot of tricks in his bag. Not the least of which was the old ploy of an-eye-for-an-eye.
Silver pills, hell.
Betchnika, balls.
Damon, yes!
When my wrist got better and my shipping department restored to normal status, I had a few surprises for Miss Christina Ketch. Boy, was she in for it!
The only trouble with my kind of revenge is that it usually benefits the recipient of same. That’s the curse of it. When Ketch got her comeuppance, all that would happen was that she would wind up enjoying herself as she couldn’t possibly have had in her cold-fish lifetime.
But at least it would make a woman out of her.
I was willing to make the sacrifice for mankind.
There’s a lot of humanitarianism in sex, no matter what the prudes, bluenoses and dire prophets say. I mean —where the hell would we all be if Eve hadn’t dropped her fig leaf?
You see how it is.
A little piece of apple can go a long way.
Ask Adam.
He had 'em too'!
CHAPTER SEVEN
Three horrible days and nights went by.
Betchnika became my Waterloo, Little Big Horn, and Dunkirk, all in one. And it was all Christina Ketch’s fault. Not that she rubbed her supremacy in—she didn’t have to. But the morning sunlight that beamed down on Betchnika, showing the cottages, the gables and the terra-cotta buildings and the cobbled streets, did nothing for my peace of mind. We followed her plan all the way—Mr. and Mrs. Walter Gotkin in town for a visit—and she led me through the streets and to the shops and stores, putting on a fine front. She laughed in public, held my hand, playing the dutiful wife and she even went with me when I shopped for some clothes on Betchnika’s main drag, a street called Plotkin Boulevard. She stopped to talk to quaint village types and managed to keep me away from anything female and young that looked good in a peasant blouse and skirt. She was able to spout German, Czechoslovakian, Russian, and even a little Hungarian when it was needed. She didn’t miss a bet. Only thing was she didn’t realize that I could follow some of her foreign-language palaver. Especially the Russian and the German. She handled it like a pro, though. She would talk to barkeepers, shop merchants, make small talk, and idly refer to the mass lynchings. But then everybody would clam up and people would turn away, lowering their eyes and say no more. I got the distinct impression that once the formal pleasantries were over and Christina Ketch began to pry a little deeper that everyone was afraid of her; but to hear her tell it she had never been to Betchnika before, which was also odd, considering how well she knew her way around.
That was the way we spent the days—running into conversational stone walls, stopping to eat in odd little shops, and then by nightfall going back to the hotel. It was a real dead burg. Nothing went on. Even the upcoming flower festival, which was postered all over town, was going to take place about ten kilometers away at some hillside hamlet. Which figured. Betchnika’s folks were slow and poky, except for some lively young peasant girls I spotted now and then as Christina Ketch steered me down the narrow cobbled streets. There wasn’t much automobile traffic, either. You saw four carts or haywagons to every single car. The town was a century throwback. Like little old Germantown, New York.
&n
bsp; The way we spent the nights was worse.
Christina always slept in the buff in the big bed next to me and I had to remind myself about our first night and her threat of castration. She didn’t have to repeat her “wedding night” routine with me, because I behaved myself. Also, I was still recovering. I still felt as if I had been put through the wringer. Of course I was as Little-Big-Horny as ever, but I was smart enough to keep that to myself. I would just have to bide my time, and then— the punishment would fit the crime.
Naturally, in the evening, we would discuss the investigation. After all, we were spies on a mission. Our fact-finding project was producing nothing but goose eggs, though.
“So, Damon. You see how it is. No one wishes to discuss the lynchings. They all avoid me as soon as I mention it.”
“I know. So why stall around? Why not come right out and ask them about the silver pills? And that sex orgy that went on in this town when the old men had a ball?”
“No, that is not the way. I see you are not accustomed to this sort of job. One has to be delicate and careful. Or the game will run and hide.”
“If you say so. But I still think you ought to come right out and say: What do you know about the silver pills? What can you lose?”
“Fool!” She hissed at me in her own sweet way. “Are you forgetting what happened to the twenty-five old men? Somebody in this town murdered them. Perhaps the townspeople themselves—out of shame.”
“Applesauce,” I replied. “Why should they do that? I should think a real nice town would have been glad to see some old boys sowing their leftover oats. I wouldn’t hang anybody for that.”
“You wouldn’t, but maybe Betchnika would!”
“Maybe. You still want the right side of the bed tonight?”
“Yes. It is my wish.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll turn out the light. Pleasant nightmares, Mrs. Gotkin.”
The funny thing about that night—we slept three feet apart as usual—was that I awoke very late in the morning, feeling hung over. She was already out of the room, but I didn’t care. Her company bored me, as well as frightened me. You know what it’s like to be so close to a yummy broad who’s nothing but bad news? My wrist was getting better and my ball zone was okay again, but I was feeling too good to risk any more bruises. I did feel groggy, though. As if I had a hangover. But I hadn’t had a drop since The King’s Inn. Betchnika had nothing but a lousy pale beer I just didn’t dig. The water wasn’t of the best grade, either.
With Ketch out of the way, I dashed downstairs to try and raise Walrus-moustache on the transatlantic phone. The sleepy old desk clerk had had no luck for twenty-four hours trying to contact America. That didn’t surprise me. The old telephone at the desk was a leftover from the Roaring Twenties. The clerk didn’t speak anything but Czech, so I might as well have been alone.
Finally I did hook up with Walrus-moustache. His voice was faint but just as crackling and familiar as ever. He sounded very glad to hear from me. He likes me in his own pompous, thick-skinned way.
“Ah, there you are, Damon.”
“Here I am. And I wish I wasn’t.”
“What do you mean? Has something gone wrong?”
“Nothing’s right. And who is this bitch you saddled me with? Miss Ketch. B-I-T-C-H, with wheels and bells on.” He laughed and I went on to expand my complaint, but he kept pooh-poohing me all the while. He just didn’t know the dame, was all I could figure.
“Surely one woman can’t throw you, Damon. You who have handled hundreds? Come, come, my boy, I’ll wager she’ll be purring like your own private kitten before the week is out.”
“Wanna bet? Who the hell is she anyway?”
His voice got even lower.
“A very special agent. One of the best. All you need to know, and one of the finest career records in the organization.”
“Whose organization? The Russkys?” I snarled. “Listen, give me an emergency contact here, just in case. Never can tell what might happen. Ketch and I could get separated, or just go our own ways mutually, and I’d be high and dry in this jerkwater village. Come on, now. You must have an emergency contact for me.”
He grumbled. “I take it you have learned nothing in Betchnika?”
“You take it right. Everybody’s dumb. Saying nothing. It happened in another part of the world. Get me? It would be smart to give me a contact here in town, who’s been here awhile. He might be able to put me onto something.”
“I suppose you’re right. Very well. Just a moment.” It took him only seconds. He must sit in front of an IBM machine, wherever the hell he sits. “Katrina Walsky. The local commissar’s daughter. She seems to be about twenty-two, beautiful and blonde. Rather to your prescription, I imagine. In any event, she is the contact. She is a rock and roll singer with aspirations of a Hollywood career, which is how we got her into our net. We promised to help her if she would keep her eyes and ears open in Betchnika on this silver pill thing. She may be a silly impressionable female or a very serious one. I just don’t know. In any event, she does live in Betchnika and she may know something. Needless to say, her father, Commissar Walsky, knows nothing of this.”
“Needless, to say. Thanks, Walrus-moustache. I'll do as much for you sometime.”
“That I doubt. Really, Damon. Haven’t you learned anything about this enigma?”
“Not a blessed thing. Miss Ketch is running the show. She’s the bossy type. In fact, I’ve only learned one thing since I left America. But I shall take it with me to the grave.”
“Pray what is that?”
“Never Indian hand wrestle a big-assed broad with iron hands.”
“Oh. Clever. I won’t ask what you mean, but I suppose it has something to do with Miss Ketch. Well, do your best, my boy. We are counting on you to solve this mystery of the pill. It’s far more important than you think. Take my word for it.”
“I never doubted you for a minute,” I said solemnly, “but I still don’t see how world peace comes into the picture. Piece, yes, but not peace.”
“You will, Damon, you will. Anything else you wished to discuss with me?”
“Yeah. Where does a guy get laid in this town?”
He snorted angrily and hung up on me. He never did appreciate my sharp sense of humor. The old mud turtle. I placed the receiver on the hook and the sleepy old clerk smiled to himself. He was still half-dozing on his feet. I shook my head, still feeling dopey from so much sleep. If I didn’t know better I would have sworn somebody slipped me a Mickey. But if that was so—it could only be Christina Ketch. But why would she? All right, she was bossy and officious, but she still needed me in her town-spying game. What would be the sense of putting me out of circulation? Unless she had gone to see somebody she didn’t want me to see? No, it was too hare-brained and far-fetched. I’d just had a bad night’s sleep. Which didn’t surprise me. I was off my normal diet too. Not a broad in two whole nights. I was slipping.
Imagine the Playboy Club without a Bunny. In a nutshell, that is Rod Damon without some tail. Or rabbit warren.
Christina Ketch came back around noon. I was lying on the bed, doing nothing, but sunning myself and reading a copy of the Betchnika Bugle, which was all of six pages and just as newsworthy as the sinking of the Titanic. There was nothing in the dull rag to indicate anything went on in the small town. The biggest news was a runaway dog on Plotkin Boulevard. Nowhere would you have conceived that the burg had had a lynch party to top the KKK. Even on their worst nights, they never did twenty-five neckties.
“Where were you?” I asked suspiciously.
“Out.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.” That had a familiar ring. She was closed up tighter than a clam. Her usual custom at night, too. I scowled and started to light a cigarette but then I remembered her feelings about tobacco. I couldn’t win for losing.
It was hard to believe she was such a bitch on wheels, looking at her. The face was a poem, the breasts an essay, a
nd that rump deserved fifty novels at least. What a waste of girlpower!
“All right,” I said, trying to make friends. “What do we do today? Should I buy you a double chocolate malted, dear Mrs. Gotkin?”
“No joking,” she warned. She went to the closet and slipped off her sloppy trenchcoat. Her hips beckoned, but not to me. “Come. It is a warm day. We shall continue the investigation. There are many more shops and many more Betchnikians to see.”
“You betchnika your life,” I said sarcastically.
She winced. “Remember. Let me do the talking. And do stop leering at the women. The men resent it”
“Sure, sure. Anything you say.”
’Then get your clothes on. I am ready. Must I stand here looking at that disgusting appendage all day?”
That was her. My girl. Christina Ketch. How could I help hating her?
So away we went, out into the cobbled streets, to talk to some more natives. I felt better though. I had an ace in the hole now. Thanks to Walrus-moustache. One Katrina Walsky, commissar’s daughter. A funny thought struck me. Maybe she was a virgin too. Middle Europe seemed to be full of them, the way my luck had been going.
I didn’t know what the hell Christina Ketch was.
A funny thing happened on the way to the investigation.
This time we got the real cold shoulder. I didn’t have to follow all the languages to see it happening. From a word or two I knew what Christina Ketch was asking people but now they shuddered at sight of her, backed off and literally turned away from her. The same thing happened in shop after shop, on the street and in doorways when she approached townspeople. Not even the nice old ladies gave us the right time of day. We were left with egg all over our kissers. Mr. and Mrs. Walter Gotkin of West Berlin. We were, as they say in Show Biz, dead.
“What gives?” I asked. “You got bad breath?”
“Fool! Can’t you see? They are afraid of us.”
“I see. What did you ask that last old dame in the apron? She looked like she wanted to crawl into her fruit cart. I couldn’t follow your Russian, you talked so fast.”
