Renegade 22 Read online

  She arched her spine cooperatively to take it a bit more comfortably as she replied, “It doesn’t hurt that way once it’s all the way in. But do you really have to bugger me, too? Haven’t you had enough yet?”

  He said, “No.” But slowly drew it out of her tight anal opening and rolled away to wipe himself clean as she sat up, smiling at him, and said, “I’ll try to get back tonight, if you promise to keep that big thing out of my poor arse, you brute. But now that we’ve finished coming for now, I really have to go. Ah, could I have my gun back, dear?”

  “I guess so. After I take the bullets out of it.”

  *

  Captain Gringo took another bath after the pale blonde dressed and left. The unexpected pleasure of her company had done more to take the travel kinks out of him than a mere nap would, now. So, finding that his clothes were dry again, he put them on. He’d just finished dressing and was lighting a smoke when Gaston knocked to be let in.

  The Frenchman sniffed and said, “How odd. There is a distinct scent of perfume and pussy in here, Dick.”

  Captain Gringo said, “I’ll tell you about that after you tell me what’s up.”

  So Gaston said, “Nothing is up. I find that trés curious too. It is getting late, and so far nobody has contacted us. I am sure they said the Hotel Alhambra. But it is still trés foggy outside and we did arrive at an ungodly hour. Do you suppose nobody knows we’ve arrived?”

  The tall American said, “Somebody knows we’ve arrived. Let’s go down and wait in the hotel bar. American spies may not be as good at reading hotel registers as other spies. I’ll tell you about my new perfume on the way.”

  He filled Gaston in on his visitor as they took the stairs down to the lobby and entered the dark, discreet, and nearly deserted bar room. They took a booth where they could be spotted by anyone with sense enough to look for them but that was private enough to talk.

  Gaston waited until their drinks had been served and it was safe to discuss mystery blondes before he observed with one eyebrow raised, “I smell something trés fishy about this species of Alice, Dick, and I am not referring to her cunt! Why would the British send spies to find out what their friends in Washington are up to regarding the Panama Canal project? Whitehall and Washington have been working together to see the damned ditch dug. I know our old friend Greystoke is a species of rosy bastard, but this makes no sense. As a Frenchman, I have never understood it, but it remains a simple fact of life that once you strange Americans won your revolution to be free of the British, you turned right around and proceeded to kiss the British ass, non?”

  “Well, that may be putting it a little strongly. Mother country and all that rot, I suppose.”

  “Merde alors, anyone who treated their mother like you Americans treat the British would be arrested for incest, Dick! Sometimes I feel you crazy Yankees admire the British government more than the British do! Regard how your countrymen reacted to that visit from the Prince of Wales, hein? In London His Fat Highness is considered a dull-witted bore who drinks like a fish, eats like a pig, and seduces other men’s wives with a lack of discretion that would get anyone but a crown prince killed! Yet, whenever he deigns to visit your proud independent republic, you fall all over one another in adoration of the fat moron!”

  Captain Gringo sipped his highball before he replied, “You’ve made your point. But it’s not important. The blonde wasn’t working for British Intelligence.”

  Gaston blinked and said, “But you just told me she confessed to you she was a British spy, non?”

  The tall American shrugged and said, “She had to say something when I got the drop on her. She probably heard about the Prince of Wales shaking hands with Buffalo Bill, too.”

  Gaston nodded knowingly and said, “Ah, the plot thickens. Since she knew who you were, she knew we’ve worked with Greystoke and company in the past and probably would not swat a British agent without discussing the matter calmly, hein?”

  “That’s about the size of it. She slipped up when she said she was working out of the British embassy here in Limón .“

  Gaston frowned and said, “There is no British embassy here in Limón. Only a consulate, over by the plaza.”

  The tall American nodded and said, “That’s what I just told you. She’d have known that, had she really been sent by Greystoke. But what the hell, she was making up her cover story on the fly.”

  Gaston laughed and asked, “Don’t you mean on the bed? Eh bien, she could not have been working for your American secret service. She was not from British Intelligence. How do you feel about that trés fatigue young Kaiser Willy, Dick? Germany is one of the few maritime nations I can think of who would not wish the canal built.”

  Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “She was blond enough to be German despite her Mayfair accent. But I dunno, the Germans train their spies pretty good, and she was strictly bush league. She tossed my room without checking to make sure I was out. She didn’t really know what the hell she was looking for. And when I caught her she took a pretty Latin way out. Somebody raised her never to argue with a guy who managed to catch her without a chaperon. And she knew this outfit we’re mixed up with by its local Hispanic title, too.”

  Gaston nodded and said, “Colombian. They grow plenty of blondes up in Bogota. But does that not mean the government we are out to overthrow is already onto us, Dick?”

  Captain Gringo took another sip of gin and tonic and said, “Sure. So what? If the rebel faction is already holding part of the Isthmus of Panama, Colombia would have to have noticed by this time. You and I are known soldiers of fortune. Soldiers of fortune go where there’s a war or revolution going on. Even a bush league intelligence outfit could add those figures up! The only question before the house now is do we hang around here until somebody contacts or shoots us, or do we quit while we’re ahead?”

  “I thought you couldn’t go back to San José, Dick?”

  “I probably shouldn’t, for a while. But now that I’ve had time to reconsider, there are lots of places that have to be safer than Panama.”

  He took out his pocket watch and added, “Let’s give it until siesta time. That’s the best time to move down here if we decide to make it bye-bye. It gives them all the fucking time anybody sensible could ask for, as well.”

  “What about your date this evening with adorable Alice?”

  “I lied. There’s no way I can take the bullets out of her gun before I meet her, and dumb spies make me nervous.”

  As if the remark about dump spies had been an entrance cue, a lean, hungry-looking guy in a loose-fitting Panama suit came in to join them without being invited and said, with a mid-western American accent, “I’m Bowman. My friends call me Jim. But you two can call me Mr. Bowman.”

  Captain Gringo muttered, “Up yours, too.” But Gaston smiled politely and asked, “To what do we owe this pleasure, M’sieur Bowman?”

  The other American said, “It’s not pleasure. It’s strictly business. I was against hiring either of you, but who listens? So, okay, here’s the deal. There’s a schooner down the quay. Steam aux, black sails, named the Nombre Nada. The skipper’s somebody I wouldn’t trust as far as I could toss her whole fucking boat, but ours is not to reason why. They want you guys aboard her. But you’d better wait until the siesta starts, so all the greasers will be beddy-bye when you board. Got it?”

  Bowman started to rise. Captain Gringo snapped, “Sit down, Bowman. You haven’t finished telling us who they might be. We haven’t seen any money, either.”

  The sarcastic Bowman said, “Never mind who they might be. Suffice it to say they’ve hired you to help some other thugs set up a Panamanian republic. Do it right and you know about the possible pardon even if you don’t deserve one as a murderer and renegade. You’ll be paid your first advance when you’re on the high seas, aboard the gunrunning tub. Any other dumb questions?”

  Captain Gringo said, “Yeah. How would you like to take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut? Th
e deal is off unless and until I see some front money, friend!”

  Bowman frowned and said, “I don’t have any money on me, damm it.”

  “So go and get it, then. But make it snappy. You’re so right about la siesta being a good time to cover ground without too many people noticing. You’ve got, oh, about twenty minutes.”

  The contact man didn’t move. He said, “I wouldn’t try to pull out this late in the game if I were you, Walker. The local cops don’t knock off for siesta and you two guys are wanted lots of places for lots of things, you know.”

  Then he froze and turned rather pale as he found himself staring down the muzzle of Captain Gringo’s .38. The tall American smiled pleasantly and asked, “Would you like to rephrase that last remark, friend?”

  Bowman licked his lips and said, “Oh, hell, everybody knows the Costa Rican cops don’t bother guys who haven’t done anything in Costa Rica.”

  Captain Gringo nodded and said, “You’ve got less than twenty minutes now. In case we don’t see you again, adios, motherfucker.”

  Bowman rose with a muttered curse and left, walking fast. Captain Gringo put the gun away with a dry chuckle and said,

  “I think we’re about to see some front money.”

  Gaston said, “He did seem in a hurry. Why didn’t we want him to know we know the Nombre Nada and its formidable female captain, Esperanza, Dick?”

  Captain Gringo shrugged and replied, “Why tell anything to a guy who won’t tell us anything?”

  “True, but if Esperanza has agreed to run the guns and supplies, the deal already commences to smell better, non? We both know your big Basque Amazon is too wise in the ways of the world to mix her adorable boat and body up in anything distinctly off-color. If she and her cutthroat crew have agreed to run guns to the rebels, it is a safe bet she has ‘ checked out the rather unpleasant people we seem to be working for.”

  Captain Gringo said, “We’re not working for anyone yet. If I know Esperanza, she already has her own front money. That’s why I called his bluff. I wouldn’t want her to think I’m getting soft in my old age.”

  Gaston chuckled and said, “I doubt she’ll leave you soft for: very long, once she has you aboard her boat and herself, hein. Ah, to be young and adored by big Basque brunettes. I wonder if she’ll have a friend for me this time?”

  Captain Gringo consulted his watch again without answering. He was sort of looking forward to another pleasure cruise and with one of the few old gal pals he could trust not to try to trap him either into wedding bells or jail. But business came before pleasure and he meant what he’d told the surly Bowman.

  He looked around for someone to serve him another highball. Their waiter had wandered off somewhere. He picked up his empty and Gaston’s almost empty glass and moved over to the bar for a, refill. As he moved back to the table, the waiter came out from the back and shot him a dirty look. He sat down again, muttering, “There goes half his tip. I’m sure getting sick of meeting unpleasant people in this fucking town.”

  Gaston said, “It must be the humidity. It is still foggy out, but now that the sun is near the zenith it feels more like a steam bath than your usual fog, non?”

  “Drink up. We’re getting out of here one damned way or the other, poco tiempo.”

  Bowman almost didn’t make it. The two soldiers of fortune had paid their tab and Captain Gringo was figuring the proper tip for a sullen waiter when the sullen American came in, sweating like a man who’d just run some through a steam bath.

  He handed Captain Gringo a fat envelope, saying, “It’s all there. They didn’t like it much. So you guys had better be as good as some say you are.”

  Captain Gringo opened the envelope and began to count the soggy bills. Bowman said, “Damm it, Walker, I told you it was all there, and you have to get aboard that fucking schooner on the double. They’ll be weighing anchor anytime now.”

  Captain Gringo didn’t answer until he’d counted it all, handed half to Gaston, and headed for the door, saying, “Okay. We know the Nombre Nada. It’s been nice talking to you, prick.”

  Bowman tagged along, saying, “Not so fast. I’m boarding the schooner with you.”

  Captain Gringo muttered, “Oh, shit,” and Gaston said, “Merde alors,” which meant the same thing. Bowman explained, “I’m acting as the liaison officer between, ah, us and El Criado Publico. You may as well know I’ve got orders to keep an eye on you two as well.”

  “I never would have guessed,” Captain Gringo said dryly. It wasn’t dry outside. The steamy fog was thick as hell and the pavement under them glistened wetly as they moved over to the waterfront.

  What they could see of the cobblestone quay was deserted because of la siesta. Bowman peered through the fog to get his bearings and said, ‘This way. The Nombre Nada’s about two city blocks down the quay.”

  One couldn’t have proven it by either soldier of fortune as they followed him. There was just enough visibility to keep from walking off the edge of the seawall, and from time to time they passed dark ghostly shapes that could have been moored sailing vessels or tall pines rooted in the fetid salt water of the harbor, for all one could really see of them. Bowman pointed at nothing much but a fuzzy double blotch in the fog ahead and said, “There she is,” just as all hell broke loose.

  There were eight or a dozen in the gang. It was hard to tell as they closed in from all sides in the swirling fog. They were armed with knives and clubs. One in the lead made the natural mistake of assuming Gaston was the easy target of the three. So Gaston drew first blood by kicking higher than most cancan dancers could have and removed the thug’s nose with the heel of his mosquito boot.

  As the mutilated attacker did an unconscious back flip one way, the wiry little Frenchman cartwheeled the other on one hand, drawing his double-edged dagger with his free hand from its sheath under the back of his collar, to land ten yards away in a knife fighter’s crouch. Since he found himself facing a startled knife fighter, Gaston knifed him.

  The two who’d closed in on Captain Gringo from either side were surprised too, when their intended victim moved with astounding speed for a man his size, grabbed each by the nape of the neck, and crashed their heads together like a cymbal player going for the crescendo of the 1812 Overture. The resultant sound was more a loud wet crunch than what he might have managed with brass instead of bone. But when he let go and spun away, they both hit the damp cobblestone pavement and just stayed there, limp as rag dolls with the stuffing knocked out of them.

  Captain Gringo had spun away because a third attacker had thrown a barrel stave end over end through the space where his head had just been. He saw two others had Bowman by each arm and were trying either to pull him down or to split him like a wishbone. Captain Gringo charged in before they could do either, and when he decked the one holding Bowman’s right arm, the one who’d been tugging on the left let go and tried to get away. He might have, had Bowman not swung his freed right fist and caught him at the base of the skull, dropping him like a pole axed steer.

  Then Bowman went down like another pole axed steer when somebody deeper back in the fog nailed him with a lucky cobblestone. Bowman’s fall was cushioned when he flopped face down across his own victim, bleeding at the hairline.

  A length of two-by-four whirled at Captain Gringo, but missed when the soldier of fortune crabbed to one side, into the path of another barrel stave coming at him end over end! He blocked it with his left elbow. It hurt like hell when it bounced off his funny bone. But the guy who really got hurt was the thug who’d thrown it. He was still staring at Captain Gringo when Gaston danced up behind him to plant a boot heel deep in his right kidney.

  After that the party started getting rougher.

  A sore loser between Captain Gringo and the seawall pegged a shot at him with an old single-action cap-and-ball conversion. He learned the hard way never to miss with one’s first shot when firing antiques at serious people. Captain Gringo whipped out his own gun and blew him off
the quay into the fetid harbor water before he could recock and aim.

  Another gun went off, giving away its owner’s position in the fog with its dull orange muzzle flash. So Captain Gringo fired back at it, and was still crabbing away from his own muzzle flash when he heard the satisfying sound of metal clanking on cobblestone.

  Gaston laughed boyishly and shouted, “Eh bien, I too shall take the gloves off, hein?”

  What he really meant was that he was tired of fooling around. He drew his own .38 and proceeded to spray bullets into the swirling fog as Captain Gringo reached down, grabbed the unconscious Bowman by the right wrist with his own left hand, and shouted, “Cover me! I’ll drag him to the schooner!”

  He did. It was rough on Bowman’s linen suit and he’d never see his hat again, but by the time they were close enough to the Nombre Nada to make out the gangplank, the gang that had attacked them had faded back into the fog to reconsider their options.

  As Captain Gringo keel hauled Bowman up the gangplank, a wary voice on board called out, “Parar! ¿Quien es?”

  The voice was female, albeit deep-throated, so Captain Gringo called back, “Hold your fire, Esperanza. It’s me, Dick Walker!”

  His challenger gave a delighted girlish squeal and moved down the gangplank to meet him. The gangplank sagged alarmingly. For aside from the combined weight of Captain Gringo, Bowman, and Gaston, Esperanza was one big dame.

  The buxom Basque brunette wasn’t fat. Esperanza led too active a life to accumulate much useless lard. But her figure was full and Junoesque, despite being mostly muscle, and Esperanza stood about six feet tall in her rope-soled sandals. As usual, the lady gunrunner was dressed to command a seagoing vessel, not to flirt. So she had on white duck seaman’s culottes instead of a skirt, and her full-breasted upper torso was covered, but hardly hidden, by a striped Basque sailor shirt a couple of sizes too small.