I awoke before 8 A.M. feeling great, my knee working okay and the black eye barely noticeable against my tan. I considered going for a swim, settled for a cold shower. I wanted to see the babe selling cakes on the beach … closing my eyes I pictured her as she’d been last night, the neat way she held the blackjack. She was my kind of babe.
But last night was merely a daydream, my immediate problem was — should I fly to Paris, take Valerie off that silly-ass tour and into the nearest bed? I had to admit I wanted her far more than I ever thought I’d desire any girl. But the thought of hurting Valerie — having her cry would be the messy end of something which had been really beautiful. True, I had a week off, but considering what about 12 hours with Valerie had done to me, seven days with her would be damn risky.
The way things broke in less than two hours I would forget Valerie — but of course I didn’t know that as I went down stairs, put away lots of eggs and orange juice, cups of frothy coffee expresso. I thought of facing Valerie across a breakfast table for the rest of my life — and almost bought the deal.
After the desk clerk phoned to learn when the auto-for-hire office in Pisa opened, I returned to my room to shave. The maid had already made up the room, the Marchony is a very efficient hotel. I was still debating whether to pack a bag, fly from Pisa to Paris. Taking out a large Swiss coin — my pocket was like an international bank — I tossed to see if I’d risk going to Valerie. Heads I’d fly to her.
The coin landed on the dresser top, heads up. My better judgment warned me this was far too important for heads/tails — that was kid stuff. In fact better judgment shouted to forget Valerie or I’d end up hooked for life.
I walked to the corner and caught the Pisa bus. Some 20 minutes later I was the only passenger who didn’t get off at the Leaning Tower stop, but went on to the center of town. It was going to be another hot day and I hoped to hell somebody in the car office spoke English, so I could be on the beach before noon. Or would I be in Paris by then?
Crossing the street to the auto shop I heard a man shout, “Hey, Kelly!”
My blond buddy of last night rushed toward me, small packages in his arms. Johnson was wearing a loud Hawaiian sport shirt, pale blue slacks, and moccasin casuals. In the daylight he was a tough-looking oscar, thick muscled and lean, big face having a rugged ugliness. I bet with his blue eyes the gals thought him handsome. The remains of his yellow hair were salted with grey and I figured he was reaching fifty, certainly in top shape. His upper lip was still swollen, there was a bruise on his thick neck.
Pumping my hand he said, “Man, I was going to drop in to see you this afternoon. Came to Pisa to buy a few crappy souvenirs for the folks back home. You been up to the Tower yet?”
“I’m here on business, my boss’ car was smashed. Come in with me, and then I’ll buy you a drink. After last night I owe you a bottle — at least.”
“Wasn’t that something? Best fight since Gordie Howe mixed with Lou Fontinato in the Garden, back in February ‘59.”
“What weight do they fight?”
Jimmy Johnson gave me a sly look. “They ain’t pugs. Hockey, man! Howe was with the Detroit Red Wings and Fontinato played on the New York Rangers. They put on a riot.”
“Yeah? I rarely see hockey,” I said, as we entered the car-rental shop. Several of the clerks spoke English and everybody seemed embarrassed by the accident. Pan-Texas obviously was a bigger customer than I knew. I was assured the insurance covered the wreck — and the Fiat was a total wreck — plus they had some claim papers for Moore to fill out; he might collect up to a million lire for his injuries. I asked if they had heard anything about the truck which hit Moore and was told they hadn’t — it didn’t make any difference, the insurance still covered everything.
I gave them the address of the hospital, had a clerk help me phone the London office — collect — and explained to a bored English voice about Moore being out for a week. I finished with a little brown-nosing, had the clerk phone the Viareggio hospital. Moore was sleeping but I left a message that I’d called, the insurance claims were on the way.
Johnson said all he wanted to drink was a beer and we had a couple under the awning of a sidewalk cafe near the bus terminal. I was still tossing my mind about: should I fly to Paris or return to Viareggio?
Jimmy Johnson said, “I couldn’t help but overhear, you have a week off with pay. What kind of jobs are there over here, for Americans?”
“Very few. I’ve been over for nearly ten months, but my pay comes from the States. I’m a private pilot for an American oil company executive. My boss was riding from the airport when …”
“Oh Lord, you’re a pilot?” Johnson cut in, hard face stupid with disbelief, lantern chin almost touching the table.
“Sure. I hop all over Europe, North Africa.”
“You mean you’ve been here, in Pisa, before, Kelly?”
“At least a dozen times. Why?”
Johnson took a fast gulp of his beer. “Great Gordon Gin, that we two should meet — makes me believe in Fate and all that mystic jazz! Kelly, you interested in taking a crack at a million bucks, maybe more, in the next few days?”
It was my turn to stare like an open-mouth idiot. “What crazy words your big flabby mouth makes! Jimmy, who are you?”
“Me? Back in Philly I’m a postal worker. Listen, does Dongo mean anything to you?” His voice slid to a whisper.
Before I could ask if he was talking about another hockey player, Johnson shook his bald dome, added, “No, you weren’t old enough to have been in World War Two.”
“I was too damn young even for Korea,” I said bitterly really talking to myself.
Johnson glanced around the cafe, bent over the table as he said in a low voice, “Italy’s trouble has always been a lack of natural resources, but there is wealth here which hasn’t been tapped — yet! Dongo is a village on a lake north of Milano and there’s supposed to be a hundred million bucks in that lake!”
“Oil?” I whispered, wondering if Jimmy was a nut — he didn’t look like an oil man. Nor like a post office clerk — unless he worked out daily with bar bells.
Johnson chuckled, whispered in his Kansas-like twang, “No man, I’m talking about gold, jewels … loot! A hundred cases dumped there by Mussolini as he was trying to reach Switzerland, and then on to South America. The windbag never made it, was killed by a band of partisans. But while they were chasing his convoy he’s supposed to have dumped his loot chests into the lake at Dongo. Kesselring, who commanded the German forces in Italy, is said to have abandoned some five million bucks in jewels and art works in a cave near Verona. The Desert Fox, Rommel, packed half a dozen great caskets full of swag from Africa. He got them far as Corsica, where an SS officer named Fleig was supposed to bring them by boat to La Spezia. The chests weighed so much they nearly capsized the boat in rough seas, so Fleig is said to have dumped them in a hundred feet of water, off the village of Bastia, on Corsica. There are reports of other hidden treasures — from the family silver small-fry Blackshirt officials buried in their back yards before following the Nazi army into Germany — to the tale of a plane flying gold from Hitler to Mussolini, which crashed some place in the Alps — never been found. Despite what the military experts write in their technical books, the real reason for war is always loot — in one form or another.”
My guts began to glow with excitement. “All this on the level, Jimmy?”
“Hard to say for sure. I’ve read every article I could find on this. In fact, it was a piece about the Dongo hoard a couple years ago which got me interested in….”
“But an article can be so many gassy words? The war ended almost … 18 years ago: if the loot really was there, wouldn’t it have been found by now?”
Johnson shrugged thick shoulders. “True, the stories probably are exaggerated, but also they must be based on some facts. Okay, perhaps there’s only a million or two — instead of a hundred million — buried. In the course of my reading I learned Fleig, the SS man who dumped Rommel’s loot, is alive, trying to raise money to go after ‘his’ treasure. There’s supposed to have been two Nazi officers with Mussolini and they’re still alive — some years ago they offered to show the Italian government where the hundred cases were — in exchange for a cut. The Italians said no dice, according to the article. Also a rumor some of the partisans were Communists, used the treasure to finance the Italian Red party. But forget rumors, the other treasure stories — I’m only interested in the Dongo loot. Are you?”
“I’m still ears! I’ve done some skin-diving, Jimmy, and …”
“Damnit, keep your voice down, Kelly!” Johnson cut in, glancing at the other cafe tables. The few customers weren’t paying us any mind. “Listen to me again, Kelly. Mussolini’s convoy of motor cars started for the Swiss border at night. They were being followed by the ‘partyjohns,’ as the partisans were called, so the convoy was in a hell of a hurry. Even a small casket of gold and jewels is heavy. How far into the lake could men running for their lives have tossed a box weighing at least three or four hundred pounds? Hell, even if they weren’t on the run, how far could they toss a heavy trunk?”
“Not more than 10 feet. If articles have been written about this and it’s not more than a dozen feet from shore, there’s something cockeyed, if it hasn’t been found during all these years!”
Johnson nodded, gave me a puffed-lip grin. “Exactly what I thought! So it adds up to this — the story is a lot of crap, the cases were never thrown into the lake! All of Mussolini’s party were gunned down, except those two Nazi officers who escaped. But they would have returned for the loot if it was that simple to find!”
“Johnson, what the hell you doing, turning me on? If it’s all a lot of gas, where does that leave us?”
For a split second his face turned mean with suspicion, the long jaw tight. Then he smiled and whispered, “Kelly, you’re not as sharp as I thought. Last night, and now — ordering these beers — you didn’t notice I speak good Italian. I was an orphan, raised by Italian foster parents on a chicken farm outside Philly. I grew up speaking Italian and when I was drafted, the army put me into the OSS, sent me to Italy — behind the lines north of Rome. Not only because I spoke the lingo, my foster folks had relatives around Milan. Most of the time I was on my own, working with partisan units and …”
“Were you in on the killing of Mussolini?”
“Not exactly. Listen to me, carefully. In 1945 when Musso was captured and strung up by his fat heels, the was was about over on the Italian front, with the super-race, the Nazis, on the run. Well, I was goofing off — told you I was on my own most of the time. I was shacking up with an Eye-tie broad not far from Dungo, the same night Musso was captured. Okay, I’m not in the woods, under a blanket with this girl, my mind far from war, when a small blast ripped the night some miles away. Being an OSS man, trained in guerrilla fighting, I recognized it as a dynamite charge. I wondered what the hell it was all about — but only vaguely, I was shaking the earth in my own little way at the time. Remember….”
“Stop the corn and come to the point.”
“Trying to, Kelly, so shut up. Remember, dynamite is hard to buy in a poor country, impossible to get during war time. I knew the partisans didn’t have much of the stuff and my intelligence reports didn’t have any partisan units operating in the area. I forgot about it, figured I’d made a mistake, either somebody had stepped on a land mine or a drunk found a grenade, pulled the ring. Kelly, is the picture coming into focus?”
“No. What did you do about the blast you heard?”
“Keep your voice down!” Johnson’s big kisser suddenly relaxed, he showed his strong teeth in another grin. “I did nothing, sat on the bench, didn’t bother to take a cut at the ball. Remember, I was busy making love, the war was about over here, so an isolated blast wasn’t of any importance. But — ” He held up his lumpy right hand like a ham actor — “about a dozen years later, when I first read of this Dongo treasure, I began wondering why the loot hadn’t been found if it was merely dumped in a few feet of water. Skin-diving is popular here in Italy, too. The rest of the story is simple — recalling that odd dynamite blast I figured Musso never had the loot dumped in the lake, but stashed it in some cave, then dynamited the entrance to close it! The bull about tossing the trunks into the lake was strictly a cover-up, to safeguard the real spot — the cave!”
“Italian hills and mountains are full of caves,” I said, losing some of my excitement.
“I have a good idea where it is. The morning after the blast, I scouted around, merely out of curiosity, found evidence of a blast on a hillside. Of course, at the time it didn’t mean a thing to me. But ever since I started reading these articles, I’ve had nothing on my mind except taking a crack at finding the treasure. This is why I came to Italy a week ago. I’ve a month’s vacation and …”
“Did you find the cave?”
“Yeah — I found the spot. I also ran up against a big hurdle, which is why I’m cutting you in — the Italian government will never allow me to take the loot from the country, or keep it. I figured the big seaports would be too risky, so I’ve been asking around Viareggio for a boat large enough to take me to France. But I don’t know anybody, haven’t much money, and naturally it’s dangerous to talk about what I have in mind. But you, man, you’re my answer! Customs men will never question or stop your oil company plane — it will all seem like one of your routine flights. We hop to Paris and once out of Italy — it’s all ours!
“How much do you think is there?”
“Don’t be greedy, Kelly. Keep in mind we’re playing an ‘iffy’ long shot. There might be too much digging for us — we’ll have to work fast and secretly, at night. Also, my entire theory can be wrong — there might not be any treasure at all, or perhaps it was done by some fleeing Italian official burying the family silver — worth a hundred bucks. But if I’m right, and even if only a few of the treasure caskets are there, splitting it 50-50, I figure we each ought to rack up a score of a million bucks, maybe five or six times a million — each! Buying it, Kelly?”
I gulped my beer to hide my excitement, damn glad I hadn’t fobbed-up, gone off to see Valerie. This was the bit a guy named Kent Kelly was born for! I asked, “What’s our next step, partner?”
Johnson threw back his bald head and laughed, under-slung chin aimed at me. “Second I saw you, I knew you had a taste for adventure, like me!” His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Our first step is to keep our traps shut! I can’t stress this too much, Kelly. Let the Italian officials even smell what we’re up to and they’ll tail us, take the treasure, boot our cans out of the country — if they don’t throw us under the jail. Our best bet is to act like a couple of hick American tourists. Anybody asks, at your hotel, you’re going sight-seeing. We’ll need a car. Can you rent one here, on the oil company’s account?”
“I could but I won’t — pay for it myself. When do we start?”
“Get the car, the usual small Fiat station wagon tourists hire. Tell ‘em you plan a camping trip to Rome, or Bari. We’ll return to Viareggio, it’s on our way north, and I have some tools at my place. If we leave by noon we can be in Milan at 6 P.M., at the cave by nine.”
“I only have a week off,” I said, realizing how dumb I sounded — with a million in sight I was worrying about my flying-chauffeur job. Still, as Johnson said, all we might end up with was a pain in the back from digging.
“Man, if things move for us, we should be in France this time tomorrow, with enough folding money to last a lifetime! Let’s get off the dime, Kelly old boy!”
Within a half hour I was driving a midget station wagon to Viareggio, Johnson talking baseball all the way. He was one of these nutty fans who memorize a record book. Did I know Whitey Ford’s pitching arm was two inches longer than his right hand, from all his years of pitching? Had I seen Al Gionfriddo’s impossible catch of DiMiggio’s homer, practically in the Dodger bullpen, with Stirnwess and Yogi Berra crossing home plate, the mighty Joe rounding second, as Gionfriddo fell down but still held on to the ball?
I couldn’t have cared less, my little brain was working like an adding machine. Hell, with his million buck cut Johnson could buy his own ball team. Me, I was dreaming of a villa along the Riviera, or cruising the South Seas.
Reaching my hotel, I said I’d pack in a few seconds, then drive Jimmy to where he was staying, but he suggested I lend him the car — he’d return by noon. He wanted to buy a few crowbars and two Yanks shopping for such a non-tourist item might look suspicious. I didn’t like the idea of giving up the car … had a flash of caution: was he pulling some kind of con game on me? But then I felt like a jerk — I’d seen his passport, Jimmy was okay. He was cutting me in on a million and I was worried about a rented car.
He drove off and I went up to my room, started to pack a small bag. I wondered if I’d ever return to the hotel, should I take all my clothes with me? I decided not to check out of the Marchony. Pan-Texas was footing the bill. I travel light, if we hit it, what the devil was a few suits? If it turned out we were on a fool’s errand, I’d return as if nothing had happened.
Having time to kill, I put on my trunks and went out to the beach — to see the gal who reminded me of Valerie, ask about last night. I had no trouble finding her, almost had a feeling she was waiting for me.
Filling the same old worn swim suit so well, the minute I stepped on the sand she left her kid brother with his tray of fried cakes, came over and said, “Hello. I was hoping to see you.”
“Two minds with a single thought. You speak English well. My name is Kelly — Kent Kelly.”
“I teach English in our school. I am Marisa.” She pointed toward the shade of the bathhouse porch. “We sit and talk, if you do not mind.” Her voice was throaty and everything about her — the feathery dark eyebrows, even the sweat of her hot body, had a sensuous sound, look, and smell: shouted sex. Yet I kept thinking about Valerie — didn’t know why Marisa reminded me of Valerie. On the surface, with her cute face, you’d never suspect what an explosion Valerie could be in bed. But one look at Marisa and you knew she had to be all heat.
I motioned for the attendant to bring canvas chairs, place them on the shady side of the porch, tossed a couple 100 lire bills his way. I asked Marisa if she wanted a cigarette but she shook her head impatiently — so many things shaking beside the long black hair. She asked, “Why did the fascists attack you last night?”
“Fascists? They were a gang of muggers.”
A frown crossed the warm features. “What means … muggers?”
“Thieves — small time punks.”
Marisa shook her head again, and what wonderful breasts she had. “Oh no. No. They were neo-fascists. I belong to the Left Democrats and we keep an eye on these fools. It is rare they have courage to attack in the open. One of our men saw them gathering near beach last night, I immediately rounded-up members of our party, came to see what was going on. You are in politics in the United States, Signore Kelly?”
“Kent’s the name, honey. Politics — I don’t even know how to spell the word. Hospital doc asked me the same question. No politics in this, they were either out to rob me, or mistook me for somebody else. I thought fascism died when they strung up Benito and his mistress?”
Marisa smiled, thick lips a delicious red against the white of her even teeth. “Unfortunately no. Things do not end so simply — not even nightmares. There are frustrated youngsters and ex-Blackshirts who still dream of Italy conquering the world — the same old stupid, and impossible, sales talk Mussolini sold. Their movement is not large, but well financed, of course, and always dangerous. They are strongest in Rome, Venice, and here — wherever the wealthy gather. You look so — so American, it is difficult to think they mistook you for somebody else.”
“It was pretty dark. Did you catch any of them?”
“No, we did not wish to, only to see what they were doing. When we saw them beating you two, we ran for them, of course. Have you been in Italy long, Kent? What a wonderful name, Kent Kelly, like a feelm star. You even look like Americano feelm star, tall and strong with nice wave in hair.”
I found myself actually blushing at her bold stare. “You could pass for a starlet yourself, Marisa honey. I fly for a U.S. oil company, plane all over Europe. I’ve been in Italy a lot of times, but only for a day or so each time. Marisa, you’re off on the wrong track, when it comes to politics I don’t know which end is up. Back in the States, I’ve never even voted.”
She kept staring at me, dark eyes all passion, then she laughed and it felt like a caress. “You are what they call in your slang, a real live doll, Kent.”
It was such an unexpected crack, and the comical way she pronounced it, made me laugh. “Marisa, you and I have to see lots more of each other.”
“I would like that.”
“Look, I … eh … have to leave Viareggio today, on business, but I’ll be back in a few days and then we’ll really ball, honey.”
“You can always find me on the beach, we have concession. Where you go on business?”
“Genoa, then over to Nice,” I said, lying smoothly, amused at her clumsy cross-examination. “Like to take a swim?”
“I am not much of a swimmer.”
“Fine, I’ll teach you,” I corned, jumping to my feet, hiding my cigarettes in the sand under the chair.
Marisa got to her feet, sailed her black hair into a turban. With her hands to her head each graceful movement seemed an invitation, even the cluster of damp dark hair under her armpits sent my temperature into orbit. I took her hand and we crossed the hot sand to the water, Marisa calling out something in Italian to her kid brother who grinned at us, waved his tray of cakes. The kid went over to the blind man, cooking the cakes at his stand, said a few words, pointed his skinny arm at us. The blind man turned his head so he faced the sea, nodded. I wondered how Marisa’s father had become blind.
Wading out until the salt water was up to my chest, and her chin, I showed off — swimming under water to pinch her neat thighs, standing on my hands. Marisa couldn’t swim at all but didn’t seem nervous as she jumped up and down to ride each wave.
I conned her out farther, over her head. She put her hands around my neck while my mitts were on her firm waist, lifting her over the wave tops, brushing her wonderful bosom against my chest. She calmly held on to me, the warm eyes studying my face and judging by the smile her lush lips formed, finding me okay. Her direct way of looking at me was embarrassing. I said, “Long as you stay relaxed, you’ll never drown. Tenseness somehow destroys human buoyancy. Did you know that bit of wisdom, Marisa?” I knew I was talking like a jerk.
“No. But I am relaxed, not afraid. For the first years of my life my favorite rattle was an empty hand grenade and I slept at my mother’s breast to din of bomb blasts, the firing of cannon. I am … how you say … a true child of war, and such a child does not live if she is afraid. Also, you live doll, stop rubbing me against you.”
I laughed, delighted with her frankness. Marisa had my feeling for adventure, living dangerously. I told her, “It’s the sea pushing you against me.”
“Then remember the sea is very strong, needs no help. Does your company sell oil for military use?”
“I don’t know, honey. I guess we sell it any place we can make a buck. What makes you ask?”
“I am still puzzled as why they singled you out for attack last night.”
“Keep telling you, they thought I was carrying a fat green bundle. Forget them and …”
“Fat green bundle? Of what?” Marisa asked sharply, spitting salt water.
“Money. They thought I was loaded with dollars.”
“No, they are stupid and vain, cruel as animals, but they are not outright thieves, surely not as a gang. And they do not lack lire or …”
“Forget ‘em. Let me show you how to swim. Simply lie on your belly, like this,” I said, laying her on the water — my fingers working up along the smooth stomach curve to her breasts, “and move your hands as if you were cupping the water. At the same time, kick your feet.”
“Like so?” Marisa asked, giving me a kick on my bum knee. She saw me wince, asked, “Did I hurt you, Kent? I only meant for you to stop being such a doll.”
“I’m okay. Since you live on the beach, I’m surprised you haven’t learned to swim.”
“Because I must work, have little time for play. I have lost too much time from work as is. Please take me ashore.”
“Sure. But you know the saying about all work and no play.”
“It is not a phrase which has meaning in a poor country, like my Italy.”
“Not so poor. Back in the States I read an article that this part of Italy is full of hidden treasure,” I said, playing it coy, as I carried her in until she could stand. “It said the Nazi generals, Mussolini, hid their war loot in lakes.”
“I have heard the murdering swine did that, but not around Viareggio — more north and at the base of the Alps. They were fleeing with their blood money and secret documents.”
“But since that was almost 20 years ago, hasn’t any of the loot been found?”
Marisa shrugged. “No. There was newspaper talk some years past of an SS brute and a Luftwaffe man, who had been Mussolini’s bodyguards, offering to show the Italian government where some treasure was, in return for a part of it. Of course, the government could not deal with war criminals. And if anybody did stumble on such treasure, they would hardly shout about it.”
“Imagine some joker diving into a lake, bumping his noggin on a million bucks!”
“Treasure is a fool’s dream; work is what keeps me alive.”
As we came ashore she loosened her hair, fluffed it in the strong sun. “What did your employers say of the attack on you?”
“Honey, I never told them. Pan-Texas has more to worry about than a black eye of one of its pilots.”
“What do they worry about, Kent?”
“Just an expression. Guess they don’t worry at all, business is A-okay.” I motioned for her kid brother, took two cakes from his tray, gave one to Marisa. When I dug into the pocket of my trunks for change, she held my hand.
The cakes were pastry-crisp and as we ate I told her, “Remember, I’ll be back in two days, then we’ll really do the town.”
“Good. You know where to find me. It is time I give my Rinaldo a rest. Ciaou, Kent.”
I watched her walk over to take the tray from the kid, send him back to the blind man sweating over his cooking. It was amazing the blind man could cook without burning himself. I kept my eyes on the sway of Marisa’s hips until she was lost among the other bathers, then returned to my beach chair, dug up my cigarettes. Lighting a butt, I walked about, drying off. I sure was going to return for Marisa: she and her kid brother were lucky to make more than a thousand lire a day — two bucks. With my cut of the loot I’d set her family up, then we’d take off — for any place in the world we wanted to see.
Taking my towel I headed for the hotel, walking slowly so as not to kick my knee out again. Marisa knew how to live…. Now if I told Valerie I’d come into a million bucks, she’d probably want me to invest in some lousy business. Valerie was a damn fine girl, but she had no sense of adventure, the feeling for excitement….
I’d first seen her in Nice, getting off one of those tourist group buses rushing people from city to city so they could brag — back in the States — of having ‘seen Europe.’ Spending an hour in this city, an exhausted night in the next, they really saw nothing — merely went through the motions. I’d been crossing from the park in front of the Hotel Plaza when Valerie stepped out of the bus. I suppose I would have noticed her anyway, she was the only blonde and only young person among the tired tourists, but what made me stare was — under the crumpled dress I saw the outline of her panties making a rousing V over her good hips.
Our eyes had met and then she vanished into the hotel lobby. Four days later I was amazed to see her sitting — alone — at a sidewalk cafe in Athens. Our eyes met again and I knew she remembered me. It turned out her tour had a ‘free’ afternoon and I wasn’t leaving Athens until morning. We swam, danced, and ended up in my hotel room. In the middle of the night Valerie shook me awake, the moonlight coming through the window to make her a pale blonde goddess sitting in my bed.
“Kent, when will I see you back in the States?”
Waking, seeing this dream, I wasn’t thinking of the States. I pulled her to me and later when we were searching the bed for a cool spot — pleasantly exhausted, Valerie and I were most compatible in the hay — she had asked again, “Kent, when will you return to the States?”
“Oh — that’s hard to say,” I’d said, hating to spoil my mood, knowing damn well what she meant, just as I knew Valerie wasn’t the type who slept around.
“Is this the end of things — for us?”
I’d reached over to play with her golden hair, pinched the cute pug nose, the delicate pink nipples. “Why don’t you stay in Europe with me?”
“But I have my nurse’s civil service job, back home?”
“As the man says, home is where you hang your head. Toss your job over, I make enough to keep us both. Always get another job as a nurse, any time you want.”
The blue eyes had really twinkled, “Are you proposing, fly-boy?”
“Valerie, honey, don’t play it cute. I like you — a great deal, perhaps as much as I can like anybody, but hon — don’t put the bit on the you-slept-with-me-marry-me level.”
She’d said coldly, “I’d smack you, except that would be as cliché as your asinine words. Certainly I’m in bed because I want to be with you. Perhaps I’m being naive, I’m not experienced in … but from the way we … went at … things, it must be more than mere sex between us. I nearly went out of my mind with joy …”
“We hit the heights, we exploded, honey.”
“Oh Kent, we have this … thing between us, if we can see each other, see how we make out in other ways … I’d like to marry you. I don’t mean in Europe, with you jumping around like homeless rabbit. Dearest, I’m sure you can find a job in the States.”
“You’re so right. Hon, any time I say the word there’s a slot as an airline co-pilot awaiting me. A buddy I knew in flying school is a wheel with one of the major lines. That what you want, Valerie, one of those split-level homes within driving distance of an airfield, like in Kew Gardens, with you working until the kids come, then I’ll fly a regular schedule, come down at Idlewild once or twice a week, rush home to watch TV, fix the screens, mow the lawn, show our neighbors what a bang-up dry martini I can toss together? You want that, baby?”
“Yes! Oh darling I’d like that! Kent, Kent, can we have it?”
“The house is always a little more than we can afford, there will be other things straining the budget, car, school for the kids, repairs on the oil burner, but on a pilot’s salary we could make it.”
“Kent, we’d manage very well! I have some money in the bank and … Darling, it’s wonderful! I don’t want a big family — we’ll be able to travel on your vacation …”
“Sure, my two week’s vacation!”
Valerie had thrown herself on top of me, kissed my lips hard. “Oh Kent, what a wonderful life we’ll have!”
“We could do it, but it stinks, a dull routine! I’d go nuts.”
Valerie had pulled away as if I’d turned into a rattler. After a long moment she’d asked, voice cool again, “I must be a trifle dumb, but what stinks about it, as you so splendidly put it?”
“It means we’ve given up, tossed the towel in for the rest of our lives.”
“Given up what, Kent? Would my waiting around some hotel room in Rome or Paris for you to fly in once a month, or trailing you around Europe, living out of a suitcase — would that be less dull, less of a routine? Would that be exciting living it up?”
I’d reached for her lips; Valerie had twisted away. So I’d held both her slim hands in my left, then casually placed
my right hand over her breast, holding her firmly — roughly, “Valerie, don’t dig me because I don’t know if I’d want that, either,” I had told her, speaking slowly, trying to pick the right words. “Hon, if you’ll forgive another spanking cliché — I’m not ready to settle down.”
“You’re about — 26, what’s bugging you, Kent?”
“Nothing: maybe everything. Take my name, when your handle is Kent Kelly, you’re born for action, adventure. When …”
“It’s a lovely name, Kent Kelly. I like the ring of it.”
“It’s a fighting name, hon! When I was a kid there would always be somebody saying, ‘Kent Kelly — you must go for tough.’ Then I’d have to lick ‘em, prove myself. Perhaps all that gave me the idea I was made for adventure, shaped my plans and dreams. But the truth is, I’ve missed out all down the damn line — so far! I was too young for Korea, measles floored me the night I reached the Golden Glove finals, my knee went out in my first season of varsity football. Even flying becomes merely a routine job. Valerie, don’t you see, once I’ settle’ down, it’s an admission I’ve had it, that I’m done!”
“I don’t mind your hand being a bra, but not now. Let go of me!”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Oh Kent, you don’t sound well. As they say, what’s in a name? Would you feel different if you changed your name to Moe Jones?”
“Clever, clever — very funny!” I snapped, taking my hand off her soft breast.
“I’m not clever, and I certainly don’t feel in a humorous mood. Kent, I don’t understand, just what is it you would have ‘had?’ Exactly what the devil is ‘adventure,’ fly-boy?”
“It isn’t something you can fence in with words. I want … top excitement, real action. I want to be a … a … freebooter. I’d fly guns to Cuba, Africa, for either side! I’d …”
“Either side?”
“That’s right, I’d do it for the sheer excitement. But the day of the soldier of fortune is over, now entire governments have become gun-runners. Honey, I don’t know what I’m seeking, but I do know damn well I’m not ready to spend my nights playing bridge, gassing over some back-yard fence about the next power move in PTA politics.”
“Moe … you sound immature.”
“Why? Because my ideas of living don’t jibe with yours?”
“Because you talk of pirates in a jet age. Because you don’t know there can be excitement in true happiness, the adventure of having each other, discovery in raising a family, action in all the daily little battles you’re afraid to face!”
“Sorry, Valerie, but I’m not ready to settle for that.”
“Settle? Lord I look forward to….! Well, I suppose I should at least say thanks for telling me, playing all cards face up, Moe … Kent. How I wish you were Moe Jones!”
There had been the pain of such downright despair in her voice I’d crushed her in my arms. Valerie held me tightly as I had whispered “Hon, I’m being honest, leveling with you. Any relationship must be built on what we really think. Sure, we can marry and maybe hit it fine — to be honest and above the belt again. Frankly, in my own way I’m kind of nuts about you, never had a girl turn me on like you do. I don’t know, maybe this is the real business for us, maybe I love you. Listen, Valerie, give me time. I’d be no good to you the way I am — full of wild hairs. Perhaps in a year or so, I’ll have found whatever I want, or think I want, be ready for your kind of living. Will you do that, for me? Understand, I’m not asking you to wait, but don’t … slam the door, lock me out, either.”
“Not necessary to fling me a bone of hope, Moe. There’s nothing much else I can do but wait, is there? But a year? No — I doubt if I can be apart from you that long…. I may come crawling back to Europe far sooner, settle for being your excess baggage. See what I can settle for? How you effect me, Moe the fly-boy? I don’t even have pride left. Still, when you boil pride down it’s a petty, shallow thing…. I guess.”
“Honey stop it, you’re making me feel like a slob of a monster. You’ll have me bawling, too, next.” The really tremendous thing — which almost made me admire Valerie as much as I desired her — she DIDN’T turn on the tears. There and then, if she had cried, I think I would have bought that house in Kew Gardens.
• • •
>Now, reaching my hotel room, I oiled and brushed my hair, started to dress. I was damn glad I was still single. The big adventure I always knew waited for me some place — was about to start. What a dummy I’d have been to ‘settle’ for the steady job, driving a lawn mower instead of my own yacht.
I took a few shirts, packed a small bag. Glancing around my room I grinned at the Swiss coin I’d tossed hours earlier — to decide if I’d fly up to see Valerie — lying on the dresser top.
The old coin must be a counterfeit, it had given me a bum steer, a … I was about to pocket it but my hand stopped in mid-air. I remembered, it had landed heads, heads I’d see Valerie and it had come up heads.
But now it was tails up.
The maid had finished the room before I tossed … somebody had been in here, somebody had searched my room.