I leave”—Damian started to raise his voice—“then Campbell and Harold Hill will come looking for us. Sooner or later they’ll find us. Suddenly a big black car will arrive at our villa somewhere or other. Their short-haired killers will come down on us like little Nazis. Kill us. Become heroes. Write books and make movies like
The French Connection.
“Look at how it’s growing.” Damian suddenly changed moods, smiled unexpectedly. “Irreverent little beast.
Big
beast.”
As he was talking, his penis had extended itself straight out and to the left. Blood had gone to its tip—which was just touching Carrie’s bare leg.
She pushed it away. “If I have to tell you everything explicitly, I’m frightened this time. You’re playing too many games this time. I don’t want us to end like this…. You mentioned little Nazis before. Well, we’re going to be searched for like Nazis.”
Damian threw up his arms like a Frenchman. “Let them search. Let them search. They looked for Eichmann for twenty years. They’re stupid, Carrie. Remember that. They are all stupid, bumbling idiots.”
Carrie just bowed her head. She let her long hair swing from side to side, brushing over her breasts.
For the next few minutes they walked along the lip of the cove in silence.
“If I were to lie down in the water there?” She finally spoke….
The two beautiful people walked to where the white sand was slicked-over wet. Damian put down the expensive terry-cloth suit, and Carrie lay on it. Damian kneeled over her—began to lower himself slowly. For a fleeting moment his clear blue eyes seemed almost gentle to her.
“So tell me, Carrie,” he said, “how was your handsome stockbroker?”
Saturday Evening.
The main coup de theatre was staged that night, Saturday, May 5.
At eleven o’clock automobile headlights appeared at Mercury Landing’s high, silver-painted front gates. Emerging from the shadowy gates, the Cuban waved the first car on.
Standing at the other end of the driveway, Damian Rose could hear gravel being crushed under heavy automobile tires.
One hour late, but they were coming, anyway.
The tall blond man checked a Smith & Wesson revolver under his suit jacket. A small snub-nosed .38. A very appropriate weapon for the evening’s performance, Rose thought… Tonight he was going to play Hammett for the locals.
As he continued to watch down the hill, a second and third set of headlights turned onto the pitch-black driveway. One pair of lights was outrageously cross-eyed. It exposed tall Bermuda grass on one side of the car, palm trees and purplish sky on the other.
The three cars completely disappeared for a moment. They passed behind bay trees and bushes called fire-of-the-forest, where six local gunmen had been told to wait. Just wait.
Then bright headlights sprayed all over the vined walls and windows of the whitewashed main house. The cars began to park in a glen of casuarinas in front of the villa.
Ready or not, Damian thought to himself, this is it. Curtain time.
He rehearsed all his lines one final time before he had to go on.
Out on a large flagstone terrace at the rear of the villa, Kingfish Toone could be heard speaking pidgin English with a French-Congolese accent.
“We are prepare to offer you cash only,” the broad-shouldered mercenary explained to the four guerrilla leaders who had just arrived. “One hundred twenty-five thousand. You could buy whatever you like with the money. Guns. Whatever you like. That is my final offer, Colonel.”
Dassie “Monkey” Dred let his pretty chocolate face fall between his long legs. His long cornbraids fell. He began to laugh in a loud, crude voice.
Then he started making bird noises out oh the terrace.
“Ayeee! S’mady take dis monkey-mahn away fram me,” Dred said to no one in particular. “Dis Africahn smell lak hairdresser fram Americah.”
Kingfish Toone smiled along with Dred’s men. The African had met and dealt with this type of
The French Connection.
“Look at how it’s growing.” Damian suddenly changed moods, smiled unexpectedly. “Irreverent little beast.
Big
beast.”
As he was talking, his penis had extended itself straight out and to the left. Blood had gone to its tip—which was just touching Carrie’s bare leg.
She pushed it away. “If I have to tell you everything explicitly, I’m frightened this time. You’re playing too many games this time. I don’t want us to end like this…. You mentioned little Nazis before. Well, we’re going to be searched for like Nazis.”
Damian threw up his arms like a Frenchman. “Let them search. Let them search. They looked for Eichmann for twenty years. They’re stupid, Carrie. Remember that. They are all stupid, bumbling idiots.”
Carrie just bowed her head. She let her long hair swing from side to side, brushing over her breasts.
For the next few minutes they walked along the lip of the cove in silence.
“If I were to lie down in the water there?” She finally spoke….
The two beautiful people walked to where the white sand was slicked-over wet. Damian put down the expensive terry-cloth suit, and Carrie lay on it. Damian kneeled over her—began to lower himself slowly. For a fleeting moment his clear blue eyes seemed almost gentle to her.
“So tell me, Carrie,” he said, “how was your handsome stockbroker?”
Saturday Evening.
The main coup de theatre was staged that night, Saturday, May 5.
At eleven o’clock automobile headlights appeared at Mercury Landing’s high, silver-painted front gates. Emerging from the shadowy gates, the Cuban waved the first car on.
Standing at the other end of the driveway, Damian Rose could hear gravel being crushed under heavy automobile tires.
One hour late, but they were coming, anyway.
The tall blond man checked a Smith & Wesson revolver under his suit jacket. A small snub-nosed .38. A very appropriate weapon for the evening’s performance, Rose thought… Tonight he was going to play Hammett for the locals.
As he continued to watch down the hill, a second and third set of headlights turned onto the pitch-black driveway. One pair of lights was outrageously cross-eyed. It exposed tall Bermuda grass on one side of the car, palm trees and purplish sky on the other.
The three cars completely disappeared for a moment. They passed behind bay trees and bushes called fire-of-the-forest, where six local gunmen had been told to wait. Just wait.
Then bright headlights sprayed all over the vined walls and windows of the whitewashed main house. The cars began to park in a glen of casuarinas in front of the villa.
Ready or not, Damian thought to himself, this is it. Curtain time.
He rehearsed all his lines one final time before he had to go on.
Out on a large flagstone terrace at the rear of the villa, Kingfish Toone could be heard speaking pidgin English with a French-Congolese accent.
“We are prepare to offer you cash only,” the broad-shouldered mercenary explained to the four guerrilla leaders who had just arrived. “One hundred twenty-five thousand. You could buy whatever you like with the money. Guns. Whatever you like. That is my final offer, Colonel.”
Dassie “Monkey” Dred let his pretty chocolate face fall between his long legs. His long cornbraids fell. He began to laugh in a loud, crude voice.
Then he started making bird noises out oh the terrace.
“Ayeee! S’mady take dis monkey-mahn away fram me,” Dred said to no one in particular. “Dis Africahn smell lak hairdresser fram Americah.”
Kingfish Toone smiled along with Dred’s men. The African had met and dealt with this type of
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