Topless Agenda

by Lyle Christie

  “Then you, my friend, have enough for two.”

  “Grazie signore—grazie!”

  “So, Giovanni, where in the hell are the police? Why hasn’t anybody called them yet?”

  “What do you mean? They are the police,” he said, pointing at our group of mustachioed antagonists.

  “Oh—shit.”

  I hoped I hadn’t heard Giovanni correctly, but, as I looked around, everything suddenly made sense. The camaraderie, the bad facial hair, and the bravado. Cops. They were the same the world over. Fuck. Now, we really needed to get the hell out of here. I told Lux the news, and she looked particularly unnerved as she grabbed Bridgette and Babineux and joined me in the procession for the front door. Fortunately, the restaurant fight had spread to other customers, and the entire place was in complete chaos, making it a hell of a lot easier for us to slip out and make a run for the car. We all took a seat in the Audi, and I fired up the ten cylinder engine, revving it before putting it into gear.

  “Any thoughts about which route we should take now that we’ve beaten up a bunch of Italian cops?”

  “Backroads. We should stay in the mountains, as there are fewer traffic cameras. We can be in Lake Como by dinner and spend the night at my villa then continue on to Sicily tomorrow,” Babineux said.

  “I like it. But won’t the bad guys be watching all your residences?”

  “Not this one. It’s an old family estate.”

  “Do you keep any of your delicious rum on hand?”

  “Of course, I have an entire cellar-full.”

  “Well then—Lake Como it is.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Italian Job

  IT WAS YET another spectacular sunset as we drove through the mountains, and I looked forward to the impending cover of darkness. The sooner we blended into the night, the better I would feel, as I had no idea what the repercussions would be for beating up a restaurant full of Italian cops. It sure as shit wasn’t going to make it any easier to get the hell out of Italy. I turned my attention back inside the car and took a moment to look at my compatriots and was surprised at how unscathed our strange little unit looked after the utter chaos of that restaurant brawl. Neither Babineux nor Bridgette had a mark on them, and Lux’s only visible reminder was her ever so slightly disheveled hair, which I thought looked rather sexy.

  “Well—that was fun,” I said.

  “Yeah, except that one fucker really copped a thorough feel,” Lux said, as she rubbed her breasts.

  “There are no winners in a quaint Italian restaurant brawl—except, perhaps, for the lucky fuckers who managed to get hold of the Vandenberg sisters’ yabbos.”

  “Still think Italian men are awesome?” Lux asked.

  “Well, not the ones in that restaurant, obviously. How are your boobs feeling?”

  “A little bit sore, but they’ll survive to fight another day.”

  “Yeah, I’ve always known you had a couple of fighters there, but, just so you know, I am the fucking Jedi master of acupressure, and these hands have the power of the force when it comes to healing,” I said, holding them up and wiggling my fingers.

  “Well, Yoda, considering our little moment in the dive room on the Sozo, I seriously doubt you’ll be able to keep your light saber in your pants,” Lux said.

  Lux was referring to a little moment in which struggling out of her wetsuit inadvertently pulled off her bikini top and left her beautiful breasts bare before my eyes—the view bringing about a particularly tenacious boner. Of course, it didn’t help that she placed my hands on her mams and proceeded to playfully fondle my pork products.

  “The bigger question is would you want me too?” I responded.

  “Wait, what happened in the dive room?” Bridgette asked.

  “Profound weakness,” Lux said, as she looked over at me.

  “More like profound cockteasing,” I said.

  As I tried to forget about Lux’s recounting of our moment on the Sozo, I thought back to our chaotic restaurant brawl and had a funny thought.

  “Sweet lord! That fight was like a scene from Cannonball Run,” I said.

  “Is that the one with Simon Pegg?” Bridgette asked.

  “No, that’s Run, Fatboy, Run. Cannonball Run is an old classic that came out in 1981,” I responded.

  “Oh, then I’ve never seen it.”

  “Me neither,” Lux added.

  “No fucking way you two have never seen it. Come on! It’s the one where everyone is in a cross country car race from New York to Los Angeles!”

  “Sorry, it’s still not ringing any bells.”

  “Seriously? You don’t remember a movie with a star studded cast that included Burt Reynolds, Dom Deluise, Roger Moore, Farah Fawcett, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., and even a young Jackie Chan?”

  “Answer is still no,” Lux said.

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t on our movie list as kids,” Bridgette added.

  Babineux gave a little chuckle.

  “Well, I hate to admit it, but I know the movie, and Asshole is correct on this point. It’s truly a classic.”

  “Yeah, and if you think about it, we’re actually living out our own wacky reimagining, only this one stars a man-whore, two hot sisters, and a Frenchman for comic relief.”

  “And the prize for winning the race is our lives,” Lux added.

  “Exactly, and I must say, it’s amazing how adversity brings people together. We all really gelled as a team during that scuffle. Lux, you and Bridgette fought like fucking tigresses, and, Babs, you definitely impressed me with your hand to hand skills. They were far and above what I expected from a soft French aristocrat.”

  “Aside from your time crawling around like a frightened little animal, I can see why you’ve managed to stay alive this long.”

  “A compliment cleverly concealed in an insult—well done.”

  “Thank you, and would you please not call me Babs.”

  “Well, now it’s official. Hating a nickname is the first and foremost way to make it stick.”

  “Wonderful—I don’t suppose you hate the name Asshole?”

  “Not enough to make it stick.”

  “How about cocksucker?”

  “Nope.”

  “Fine. I’ll just stick with Asshole until I can find one you hate.”

  I set my eyes back to the road ahead and focused on driving and covering the miles as quickly and efficiently as possible. That meant exceeding the speed limit, but not by enough to come under the scrutiny of the police or other drivers. Up ahead, we came upon a slow moving van, and I decided to pass it on the next straightaway. I downshifted, put the pedal to the metal, and slipped out into the oncoming lane and sped past the van to see see that it was full of middle eastern men all sporting beards and looking quite menacing as they gazed down at us. Of course, that was just my paranoia tainting my own perception, as they were probably just excited to see a sweet-ass V10 Audi sedan or perhaps the two exceptionally attractive female passengers. In either case, it got me thinking about our predicament.

  “So, Babs. I’m curious if you have any idea of the potential number of bad guys, beyond the Saudi hit team, that might be out there looking for you?”

  “I believe that the correct term is now us, and I should think that there are quite a few.”

  “Quite a few being?”

  “God only knows. It could be hundreds.”

  “That’s a lot of angry bearded people running around Europe.”

  “Yes, and thanks to you, they’re all pretty pissed off.”

  Technically, he was correct, though the entire scenario just happened to work perfectly into the Agency’s plans, which, of course, sucked major balls for all of us. Still, I would have been OK dealing with the bearded menace, even in large numbers, but I wasn’t too happy to have this rogue team also out there hunting us. They were professionals and, therefore, a far more dangerous foe, and their presence was not going to make it any easier to sleep at nigh
t. They could be tracking us right now via satellite, and we’d never have a clue until the hellfire missile hit the car. I should know, as I used to work on the other side of this equation—the good side.

  I kept a vigilante eye on the rearview mirror looking for any car that stayed with us for more than a few miles, but, fortunately, none stood out. We had been driving for at least two hours, and it was about time for a pit stop so that everyone could get out of the car, stretch their legs, and empty their bladders. Perhaps the girls would sneak off and take a shit. We’d never know. I looked ahead, saw a gas station, and decided to pull over to pee and hopefully get an espresso to help keep me alert for the rest of the drive. Fortunately, a lot of Italian gas stations served gourmet coffee and had been doing so long before America became inundated with corporate coffee shops along every highway.

  I’ll never forget an experience I had on my first trip to Italy. I had stopped at a gas station for coffee, and, just as I arrived at the counter, my attention was drawn outside to a red Ferrari as it came roaring in and parked beside my car. The door opened and a good looking middle aged Italian man emerged and began walking towards the café. He was tall, muscular in a lean kind of way, and had olive skin and dark wavy hair that fell just below his ears. His outfit, like his car, was also quite elegant and consisted of black slacks, a white button up shirt, and the obligatory Ray-Ban sunglasses. He came inside and joined me at the counter and said four simple words—uno espresso per favore. His drink arrived, and he downed it in one gulp then gave me a nod and a smile as he uttered a final ciao and headed for the door. He was soon back in his hot red chariot, the same signature roar of its engine filling my ears as he drove away—the entire interaction taking place before I had even had a single sip of my cappuccino. I might have been a spy, jumped out of planes in the middle of the night, and saved countless people’s lives, but that guy had me beat on the cool scale because of two obvious factors. The first one was beverage choice, something I learned only minutes after he left. Apparently, Italians generally only drank cappuccino in the morning and then switched to espresso for the rest of the day. To vary from this tradition was a bit—dainty. The second and most obvious factor that made him more cool was that he drove a red Ferrari while I had a metallic gold VW Golf. He was the king of cool, and I was a typical Turisti Americani.

  I pulled in to the center island and was relieved to see the café was still open. Perfetto! I also decided I might as well top off the beast’s tank while I could, as it would be better to have plenty of gas in the event we encountered some unforeseen circumstances on the road ahead—the potential for which seemed like a statistical likelihood considering recent events. I clicked the little release lever for the gas tank then walked around to the gas pump, and I used the agency credit card to pay. It might have been a big mistake leaving an electronic trail, but I assumed Corn had routed our expenses outside the usual Agency channels. Plus, it was a lot better than footing the bill when gas was well over six dollars a gallon in Italy. Meanwhile, the others exited the car, and Babs and Bridgette went inside the gas station while Lux came over and joined me at the pump.

  “Do you need to use the bathroom?” she asked.

  “Yeah, but I also want an espresso.”

  “Ohhhh—that sounds good. Let’s go get one.”

  “Yeah, but I’m thinking I should fill the tank first in case we run into more trouble and need to make a swift getaway.”

  “Fine, but hurry up. It’s freezing out here,” she said, rubbing her hands over the front of her sweater where both nipples were particularly pronounced and poking through the fabric.

  “Yeah, I can see that.”

  “It’s too bad that the cold doesn’t have the same effect on male anatomy.”

  “Oh, it does. My nipples are equally hard at the moment.”

  “I wasn’t talking about your nipples.”

  I knew she was referring to penises, but in deference to men everywhere, I ignored her insult and proceeded to reach over and hit the premium fuel button before clicking the pump’s locking lever onto the slowest setting. With the fuel flowing into the tank, I returned my gaze to Lux’s nipples, sighing quietly to myself as I enjoyed the view. They were lovely, and I couldn’t help but remember the quality time I spent with them during our little tryst on the beach on Soft Taco Island. She, of course, caught me staring and crossed her arms over her chest in that typical of female gestures. Now, the minutes ticked by even more slowly, and Lux, frustrated at how long it was taking, stepped closer to examine the pump and noticed that I had it locked in the slow position.

  “Why in the hell are you using the slowest setting?”

  “It reduces the amount of air bubbles and allows you to get more gas for your money.”

  “And why in the hell would you worry about that now?”

  “Because the oil companies get enough of our money.”

  “You’re not even paying with your own money, you jackass,” she said, as she reached over and clicked the pump onto the fastest setting.

  “I obviously care more about our sad reliance on foreign oil than you.”

  “The noble man-whore. And to think that I only thought you cared about the next woman you bedded.”

  “Clearly, you underestimate me, because I also care equally as much about the women I’ve already bedded—which now includes you, my darling.”

  “Just finish filling the car so we can get a cappuccino,” Lux said, testily.

  The pump clicked off, and I put the gas cap on, locked the car, and went with Lux into the café. It was fairly crowded with all the weekend skiing traffic heading up into the mountains, and the line at the counter was particularly long. Babs and Bridgette hadn’t bothered to wait for us and had already gotten their drinks and were enjoying them at one of the nearby tables. Not too surprisingly, they had gotten cappuccinos. Fucking tourists! We at last got to the front of the line to find the coffee jockey behind the counter was quite an Italian stallion. He was somewhere in his middle twenties, and, with his pronounced musculature, tan, and chiseled jaw, looked more like a male model than a barista. He smiled as he laid eyes on Lux, and she, of course, smiled back.

  “Ciao-ciao,” I said.

  “Ah, Americanos!”

  “Ci,” I said, slightly annoyed that my Italian once again didn’t pass muster.

  “Ahh, let me guess. Due cappuccini?” he asked, in a condescending tone.

  “No, due espressi.”

  “Ci,” he said, looking surprised.

  “But I wanted a cappuccino,” Lux said.

  “Don’t be such an Americana,” I responded.

  The Italian stallion butted in.

  “Oh, if my beautiful Americana wants a cappuccino, I’ll make it for her,” he said.

  “Well, in that case—fuck it. I’ll have one too.”

  “Ha! I figured you for a figa?” he said.

  “Well, if I’m a figa then what about that guy over there?” I asked, pointing at Babs, who was sipping his cappuccino with his pinky finger daintily extended out and away from the paper cup.

  “He doesn’t count. He’s French. They’re all kind of figas.”

  “Well, fuck it. This figa wants a cappuccino as well.”

  “OK, OK, figa! Don’t get your panties in a knot.”

  The coffee jockey laughed to himself as he turned and went to the espresso machine to make us our drinks. He added a little chocolate and cinnamon to Lux’s but left mine plain, and I wondered if perhaps it made me less of a figa. He came back to the counter and gave us our drinks, and I handed him the trusty Agency credit card. Lux, of course, frowned at me until her attention was suddenly drawn back to the counter, where the sassy coffee jockey had just placed a Torta la Cappuccino pastry. It was an Italian specialty where they soaked cake in espresso then added a layer of ricotta cheese and espresso beans. They were absolutely delicious, and Lux’s mouth was practically watering as she gazed longingly at the tasty treat.

 
“A gift from me to you. I just baked this batch this afternoon,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it—a lustful twinkling in his eyes as he looked at her from across the counter.

  “Grazie!” she said.

  “Prego! You speak Italian like a native. Magnifico!” he said, kissing his fingers and splaying them out in that most cliché of Italian hand gestures.

  Oh for Christ’s sake. I had studied French, Italian, and even German in college then went on to the Defense Language Institute in Monterey during my days in the Agency, and, only just now, realized it had all been a waste of time. Apparently, all you really needed were supermodel good looks and an ample bosom, and suddenly your language skills became magnifico. Lux leaned over to thank the Barista with a kiss on the cheek, but the Guido turned his head at the last moment and got her square on the lips. She was now attached to the six foot tall swarthy vacuum and had to pull with all her strength to break free of the suction. They parted lips, and she skittered back a few steps and smiled as she thanked her new favorite barista a last time, before we left the counter and joined Babs and Bridgette.

  “How’s your cappuccino, figa?” Babs asked.

  “It’s good, and no, I don’t hate that nickname enough for it to stick.”

  Bridgette gave Lux a sassy smile.

  “You know, Lux, it’s too bad we’re not sticking around, or you could have had one hell of a night with that sexy barista,” Bridgette said.

  “Oh, he’s just being nice.”

  “Yeah, he’s being nice all right, and I’m pretty sure that Bridgette’s correct, and, if given the chance, that sexy barista will gladly go balls deep in your figa in order to make a fresh batch of fettuccine man-fredo.”

  Lux gave me an annoyed look then lifted her pastry to her lips and took a delicate little bite, and suddenly looked so happy that I thought she was going to climax right there on the spot. Bridgette saw the pleasure in Lux’s eyes and swooped in hoping to get a taste, but Lux shooed her away.

  “Fuck off, you little traitor!”

  “Come on, give me a bite,” Bridgette pleaded.