The shore line at Newport diminished into a tiny thin gray line speckled here and there with white as the Desire moved out to sea under diesel power. The 56-hp motor throbbed easily as the screw turned under water leaving a fair wake behind the double-ender. Rambo Burke stood at the tiller, looking out to sea, sniffing the air. Twin tattletales on the shrouds blew at an angle, showing him where the true wind was. He looked back at the receding shore and took a deep breath. It was always good to leave Newport Beach, his home port, and sail south. He looked forward, a smile playing around his dark eyes, tanned wrinkles. Dixie stood at the fore staysail in shorts that were cut-off jeans, deck shoes, and a tight-fitting, see-through shell. As always, she was braless and her breasts shimmered underneath like warm living things, still firm despite her thirty-eight somewhat hard years.
The forty-foot sloop moved easily through the calm afternoon waters. Rambo had eighty-odd gallons of diesel fuel aboard, the water tanks were full, the dry and wet ice in the locker full of fresh meat and beer. The mainsail had been set and was luffing gently on the course he made. Dixie was ready to secure the foresail as soon as he gave the order. He watched Dixie standing there, barelegged, and the good feeling he had grew bigger in his veins. She was a good woman to ride the waves with, had been for the last year, and if it weren't for her one flaw ... but he didn't want to think about that now. Too many good things ahead for that right now.
He thought of Brenda Miller back at the dock, younger, bright and eager. Ten days from now she'd meet them in Ensenada and they'd start the next leg of the cruise south. He was glad she wasn't aboard now. There were some things he had to straighten out with Dixie before Brenda joined them. It was better this way, though he knew that Brenda had wanted to make the first leg with them. Better that Brenda should bring the supplies he'd need down by car and meet them later. Dixie would need these next days alone with him, he knew. She would feel much better for it when the long part of the cruise was underway.
Rambo used dead reckoning for his navigation. After another glance back to shore, all but out of sight by then, he set the tiller with pre-rigged line and hopped up on deck to go forward. Wordlessly they set the fore staysail, then Rambo ran his line through the pulley eye and secured it to the winch. He tightened it down and cleated it, then went back to the tiller. Dixie came behind him and gave him a squeeze on his arm as she stepped into the cockpit. He took her in his arms and kissed her warmly.
Dixie wore her hair long and straight with only a fashion band to keep it flowing back from her high forehead. Her hair was blonde and her eyes were sea green. Her model's body was still trim and only the whites of her eyes betrayed her problem. They were muddy brownish as though they had been touched with an artist's umber sometime during the night and had not yet cleared. Rambo pushed the tiller hard to port and the westerly filled the sails. He reached down, then, releasing Dixie, and pulled the gear lever up, brought it midway to neutral and let the handle fall back down. Then he reached over and pushed the kill button on the engine.
He tightened up the sails so that they'd move easily at three knots through the water. The Desire fell over into its groove and a peacefulness came aboard that was the sound of the wind and the water rushing past the hull and the creak of the twenty-year-old wood and the lines. He tightened up sails, letting the mainsail have play enough on the broad reach. His tanned face beamed with a grin that showed even white teeth. Dixie put her breasts against his broad chest and hugged him with one arm around his barrel-staves of ribs. The top of her head barely brushed against his thick dark beard.
"Man, we're out of the rat race now," she laughed.
"It feels good, doesn't it?" he said. "Mmmmm."
He sat down and pulled the tiller straight down till it was almost level with the boat. It had been cocked up when he stood and now was so that he could rest one arm on it and keep their course south on the reach. Dixie sat beside him, unwilling to go into the doghouse just then. They sat there together, quiet, listening to the good sounds of the boat and the sails, the water rushing by. Wood creaked, and 500 square feet of sail bloomed white in the sun. The swells were behind them and the Desire knifed through the water like a porpoise, leaned over from the weight of wind and sails.
"Ready, baby?" she asked him as she always did.
"It's about that time," he grinned. Rambo was thirty years old, tall and solid. He had owned the Desire for three years, but before that he'd raced, had smaller sloops. People knew little about this side of him, though. They knew him as a successful actor, hero of two television series, the last one extremely successful. He'd kept his hobby to himself, for the most part, because it was something he didn't want people to know about-especially the studios. They would have spoiled it. He'd worked for them, made their shows and socked the bread away, quietly with the help of his business manager, Bob Price. Now he had it all; five years of grueling work before the cameras in his series, The Running Man, beginning at three grand a week with option, seeing his salary climb to eleven grand a week with great big residuals waiting. They'd held up the reruns for two years, then the money had really begun to roll in-enough to buy Desire, enough to sink into land up around Santa Barbara, the Antelope Valley, and over near Victorville.
The Running Man would run for a hell of a long time, all over the world. Already Rambo had seen himself in Japanese, Spanish, and Italian, dubbed pretty well considering his deep voice was distinctive enough to have kept him in roles for ten years before he hit the first series, Agent Sam, a spy flick that had brought him fame and the better part of "Will Masters" in Running Man. Tecumseh Studios made a pile on that one, as did the network, the sponsors. Now it was all behind him and he had no desire to return to the mica-flecked streets of Hollywood, the neon lights of the Strip and cozy strangulation of Bel Air. No more of that for Rambo. He had his boat and his woman ... two of them if he counted Brenda and he was sure going to count her, later on.
He had not taken the last five series offered him. They were crap anyway, but that wasn't the only reason he'd turned them down. The world was the reason. He wanted to sail Desire around the world. Take his time. Take three years. Five. Ten. Who cared? That was the life he'd wanted and he was very tired of getting up at four in the morning only to drive down to the studios and spend a day sitting around. Most of the filming for television, if you were the star as Rambo Burke was, was just sitting around waiting for the next take. He was a fast study and had his lines cold each day. Well, that was no life for someone like him. Not a life for a sailor.
Rambo was only thirty, but he'd been making films since he was in his teens. He'd been sailing since he was eleven, though, and finally the stronger urge had taken over. His father, Keith Bertelli (Rambo's real name was Umberto Francesco Bertelli), had been a yachtsman and builder of racing vessels, so they, the Hollywood boys, should have known Rambo'd do this. But he hadn't told anyone except Bob Price. Even Ted Bronson, the producer-director of his series, didn't know his plans, though they had been good pals for five years.
Rambo felt good now, thinking of all this. He'd arranged with Bob to send enough money to get along with at each port he intended touching. Ensenada first, then Puerta Vallarta, then ... well, he didn't know. South America first, then Australia. Australia! The sound of it made his blood run hot and fast. Ever since he'd read Chichester's account of his lone voyage on the Gypsy Moth IV, he'd had Australia in his mind. But that would come later. He was in no hurry. Now there were the California waters under his bow and the Desire, out of Newport Beach, moving ahead and south like a racehorse.
"Yes, Dixie," he said again, "it's time to celebrate."
Her sea-green eyes burned bright for a moment and widened. She'd been waiting for that. She got up and went below to the ice box and fished for the lone bottle of champagne. From a cupboard she brought out plastic champagne glasses and set them on the table in the roomy cabin. Accustomed by now to the roll of the boat, she found the uncorker and opened the bottle carefully so that it wouldn't foam. She worked the cork up until it was almost free, then put the opener away. She carried the bottle of California Cordon Bleu and the two glasses in one hand while she pulled herself up the ladder with the other.
Rambo watched his girl come up into the doghouse, carrying the ritual champagne. They always did this when they left port, and, according to Rambo's rules, they didn't drink again until they hit port again or anchored offshore as they sometimes did. Once in a great while, when the weather and sailing was especially good, he might bend that rule a bit and they'd have martinis, limit of two apiece, before supper. But the rule was there, nonetheless.
Rambo saw how eagerly Dixie's eyes sparkled as she set out the glasses on the vinyl cushions and handed him the bottle for the final breach. He took it and worked the cork free. It popped loudly and sailed up where the wind caught it and carried it into the water. They both laughed.
"That'll hit San Diego in the morning," he said.
"And they'll know we're on our way," she winked.
He handed her the bottle and she poured the sparkling golden fluid into the plastic glasses. She gave him his and held hers up for a toast.
"To us," she said.
"And to the cruise!"
They drank and she looked at him over the rim of her glass. She loved Rambo so much at that moment. She wanted to smother him with the love she felt for him. She was so grateful that she was with him. Drinking champagne. Alone in his boat. It was heady and she wished he knew how much she appreciated this moment. The moments before. The ones to follow. She took a deep breath and thanked her stars that Rambo had brought her along. After all that he knew about her, after all that she'd done. Yes, even to him. She was ashamed of those times. But ... it was hard and he didn't know how hard it was. To stay straight. Not to drink too much. Not to make a spectacle of herself.
Rambo had met Dixie in New York during a public appearance tour. She was a refreshing change after the Hollywood hustlers, the actresses. Dixie was no actress and that was a whole batch of points in her favor. Best of all, she had no ambitions for being one. She was a model, a cracker jack of one, and pretty damned good as an artist with oils, acrylics, gouache, tempera, what have you. That's really what had attracted him about her in the first place. At a party he'd seen a painting that he liked and Dixie had been one of the guests.
They had been introduced, he'd made a date for dinner and the next thing they'd been in the sack together.
Back in Hollywood, Rambo had missed Dixie and asked her to come out. He introduced her to sailing and she had loved it. He liked her in bed and he liked her differences ... she wasn't a phony and she wasn't ambitious. That was just about enough, but when he found that she would also go anywhere and do anything with him, that cinched it. Dixie was his companion, girl friend, lover, cook, sweetheart, first mate, gofer, confidante, mistress, common-law wife, hell, everything and anything. She was a buddy, a gal who didn't care what time he came in or where he'd been. No questions, no strings. It was hardly believable, but Rambo knew he had a good thing. He kept her to himself and aside from a few close friends, nobody knew a damn thing about Dixie, nee Darlene Aurora Cominsky, Cummings, first mate of the Desire.
Dixie was tall, slightly over 5', 8", and moved well. Rambo was nearly 6'2", but didn't appear so tall because of his bulk. They made a striking couple and he wished only that she didn't have the one serious flaw that hindered their relationship. Now, as he drank the toast, he was reminded of it again. It only surfaced now and then, but its enormity was evident enough at those times to make Rambo cringe with a combination of disgust, fear, and hatred. The problem with the beautiful Dixie Cummings was that she couldn't hold her liquor. She was, in fact, an incipient alcoholic, on the last stages of becoming a full-blown, fulltime, double ought six blowzy loudmouthed hysterical drunk.
Rambo kept her away from the booze as much as he could and so far it had seemed to work. He knew she sipped secretly but he had never actually caught her taking a drink. When she was drunk beyond his acceptance of her condition, he merely shut her off and out. He would withhold money, booze, and his presence, until she snapped out of it and dried out. This she would do, and he was grateful for the lucid intervals, and hoped, despite his knowledge to the contrary, that Dixie would snap out of it somehow and "go straight."
"It's going to be a great trip, Rambo," she said, her nose crinkling from the champagne.
"It ought to be," he said, jarred back to the present. The sea had a way of evening things out. Dixie had sailed enough with him now, short trips to be sure, but enough so that she knew you had to be alert under sail. "Yes," he added, looking at their streaming wake, "it ought to be one hell of a trip."
"I'm with you, baby," she said. "All the way."
He cracked his famous grin then, where his face lit up bronze and his mouth opened halfway to one side, showing the white-capped teeth. Dixie sucked in her breath and her eyes twinkled. Millions of women would give their husbands up for one five-minute quickie with Rambo Burke, she thought, and she had him. Rather, he had her, she amended, since she was completely in his power. She had given up her career, had no money, no family anymore, and, well, really nothing, except Rambo. He didn't give her a regular income ... just enough money to buy what they needed, and this only occasionally. He was not generous, but he was not exactly stingy either, she admitted.
Rambo noticed that Dixie's eyes seemed to clear up magically with the champagne. He liked her this way and he was glad he had her. He drained his glass and motioned for more. She followed suit and they drank a second glass together. Then the wind died. Rambo looked around and shrugged his broad, massive shoulders. "The fucking wind died," he said, more to himself than to anyone.
Dixie looked at the sails, which were all but limp. The foresail hung useless on the stays, the mainsail didn't even flap. They dropped off speed and Rambo worked the tiller both ways but they held there, in irons.
"So what?" he asked. "What's the hurry?"
"Right," said Dixie.
"Let's just drift. We're out far enough. Later on, we can start the engine if we need to."
"It's a beautiful afternoon out here," she said.
"It's happening right on," he smiled. "Come here, Dix."
He moved his finger in a beckoning gesture and she was beside him at the tiller in a breath.
"Did we make love this morning?" he asked.
"Nope. You had something to give me, but it went away," she replied.
"Well, it might come back again."
"It might."
"With help," he grinned.
That was another thing about Dixie that he liked. You didn't have to give her a copy of the Coast Pilot and a chart of the waters. She dug. "She kneweth," he was fond to say, "whereof it was at."
She unzipped his trousers deftly and as he leaned back, stretching out his legs, she put her hands inside his opened fly and worked his limp manroot out of its locker. Freeing it from his confinement, she stretched it out and kneeled between Rambo's legs. Her head went down to his lap, found his limp organ. Her mouth opened and she nibbled his cock so that it worked its way inside her wet mouth. Her suction brought his organ all the way in and then her tongue began its laving play.
"You're on the right track," said Rambo.
Dixie's muffled reply was unintelligible.
Under her deft oral caresses, Rambo's mast soon swelled in her moist mouth. She tasted the saltiness, the lemony seepings and exulted in the quick way her man responded to her. Deep in her loins she felt the first stirrings of desire, the beginnings of warmth. She sucked his cock and felt its pulse, the veins throbbing like diminutive unseen engines buried somehow in the flesh.
He looked down at her. This was one of the things he enjoyed about Dixie. She knew how to prime his pump. She sucked him in adoration, he knew, and the thought brought a tingle to his veins. He relaxed and looked out at the becalmed sea. It did him well to think of other things, but so deft was Dixie that he was soon brought back. The juices began to stir deep in his root, and he knew that if she persisted he would ejaculate in her mouth. She felt it too. She began to increase her rhythm, her mouth making strong watery noises.
"Dixie," he said to her. "Wait."
She stopped, withdrew her mouth from his wet cock and looked up at him. "Don't you want..." she began.
He put his hand on her lips. "Yes, but ... wouldn't you rather make love yourself?"
"Whatever pleases you," she said. Dixie would have had an orgasm if he had come, so she didn't care. But it would be better, more satisfying if they made love.
Rambo looped two lines on the tiller, so it would have play yet keep on course reasonably well. He lifted Dixie in his arms and laid her on the cushion in the doghouse. He took off his trousers and pulled off her shorts and panties. She slipped out of her shell and, except for deck shoes, was naked.
He slid atop her, easily finding her thatched sex cleft. His cock slid along her slit until it found the aperture then wormed its way inside where her love tunnel waited, dank and warm. He moved his hips to and fro, sending shivers up her spine each time the head of his cock touched the clit trigger.
She shuddered as ecstasy began to overtake her, seep into her bones, brush like feathers across her nerves. "That's so good, Rambo," she breathed.
He gave her all of it and watched her eyes glaze with pleasure. He drove deep, deeper, then held fast as her body bucked spasmodically with orgasm.
This was another thing he liked about Dixie. She did not have to work for or pretend about her pleasure. It was there and he had but to tap it. And, once she began to have the sensations, they increased in number until she was left limp and exhausted. He let it build within her, teasing her, driving in, then stopping, fucking her fast, then slow, until she screamed for him to give her all of it.
"You're driving me crazy, Rambo," she moaned at one of his pauses.
He pushed in a half an inch. Dixie shuddered, her mind spinning, dizzy. He pulled back two inches. She tensed. He sank his cock to the hilt inside her.
"Ooooh," she yelled, and buckled with a quick stab of orgasm.
In twenty minutes, Rambo let himself shoot over the falls. His juices boiled and shot through his tube and splashed deep in Dixie's womb. She held onto him for a long time, her fingers leaving white marks on his back. Her last orgasm was a gigantic thing that sang like electricity over high-tension wires. Rambo felt the sting of pain in the head of his cock as his sperm eked its last in her steamy depths.
"It was good, Dixie," he told her, after he got his trousers back on.
"Mmmmm," she said.
"How about some more champagne? Any left?"
"There is, darling," she told him, and filled his glass. "There is more of everything."
The way she said it sent a chill over him that raised the hackles on his neck. He knew damn well there was more of everything.
He wondered what Dixie would say if she knew that he was thinking of Brenda Miller at that moment. He had never had Brenda, but he knew it was there. He only hoped that he could find a way to keep both women happy. It would take some doing, but to Rambo, this challenge only added to his appetite for adventure. He got another hard-on thinking about the unlaid Brenda.
Dixie didn't even know anything about this one.
CHAPTER TWO
Brenda Miller watched the Desire sail away from Newport Beach, then saw it disappear over the horizon. It would be a matter of days, she knew, before she herself was aboard. She would drive to Ensenada and leave her car there which would be picked up and returned to the States. She had a lot to do before she left Newport, though. She turned finally and walked to her car in the parking lot.
She drove quickly to a small waterfront cocktail lounge. There were only two cars there. The sign on the marquee said "Closed Mondays." This was Monday. Brenda walked in, and found the two men who waited for her sitting at a table. They had a drink waiting for her. She walked across the room, her long dark hair, thick with ringlets, bouncing jauntily. She was slender, lean as a boy, except for her full breasts. She looked at the two men with smok-ey-gray eyes as she sat down opposite them in the black leather-lined booth.
"Rambo get off all right?" asked one of the men.
"He's sailing south under power," she said.
"Good. No problem then."
"You must be Braden," she said to the prematurely gray man. He was wearing a flowered print shirt and had a deep tan.
"I am. This is George Fluger, my partner."
"Hi. Thanks for the Collins."
"My pleasure, Miss Miller," said Roger Braden. Fluger was blonde, heavy and looked like he had once been a professional wrestler. He wore a straw cowboy hat and a faded blue shirt that looked expensive. He had hard blue eyes. So did Braden, who was lean and had delicate hands as though he were used to manicures and dealing cards for a living.
"We'll be fairly brief," said Braden. "There's a lot to do in a short time."
"I know," she said, her eyes smoky in the dim light. She was wearing a sleeveless shell and white capris, deck shoes. She was very sleek, confident. She didn't like Fluger much or Braden either, but she was doing business with them. She didn't have to like them.
Braden lit a small thin cigar. He didn't apologize for lighting it. His long fingers worked it around as the smoke rose upward frozen by the light.
"You remember when you contacted me, I told you it might be dangerous?" he said.
"Yes. I know."
"Here's your money in front, Brenda. Five hundred as agreed. Here's your piece. George, give her the gun and the bread."
Fluger handed her a small box. He opened it. Inside was a stack of new bills, a small automatic, a box of shells.
"I-I don't need the gun," she said.
"You might. Take it," said Braden. "You told me you were a good shot."
"I am. At targets. I never shot anyone before."
"Maybe you won't have to. Our contacts in Baja are not nice people, kid. Wear the gun. It's small enough to conceal. Try it out." He blew smoke up in the air and the three of them watched it swarm like dust in the dimness of the deserted nightclub.
Brenda took the pistol in her hand. It was small and it fit her hand very well. She pulled the clip and saw that it was loaded. She looked at the two men. They grinned at her. She aimed at a bottle behind the bar and flicked off the safety. She fired and the bottle shattered. Both men jumped.
"Jesus," said Fluger.
"Hey, take it easy, Brenda," said Roger, almost biting his cigar in two.
She put the weapon in her bag, then reached for the money and the box of .25 auto shells. She put those in her bag too.
"Just wanted to see if it worked," she said, with a wide bright smile.
"We checked you out, girl," said Braden. "We know you can shoot. Nicked your boyfriend once with a .357 Magnum."
Brenda's face drained of color.
"Don't worry. You got out of that one neat. You could have snuffed him."
"I didn't."
"We know. So does he. You made a Christian out of that mother."
Brenda frowned. She didn't want to think about Brad ever again. He was a no-good bastard who would have been better off dead. She was thinking how hard it was to make five thousand dollars. Braden and Fluger. What did she know about them? Almost nothing. They had put an ad in the Los Angeles Underground; she had answered it. They had hired her. Five hundred down, five hundred now and four grand more on delivery. For two weeks now she had worked hard to get to know Rambo, to get him to fall for her. Now she was in. She took a deep breath.
The previous contacts had all been by phone, to faceless people who now wore faces. Braden and Fluger. "Did she know how to sail."
"Yes."
"Did she know Rambo."
"I know who he is."
"Get to know him."
"Easy. I've crewed with most of the guys out of Newport."
"Yeah, we know."
Five hundred had arrived in the mail. She had sauntered down to Rambo's yacht, the Desire, and pitched him about crewing with him on his next trip. It was well-known in yachting circles that he always took women with him on his excursions, whether to Catalina or to Mazatlan. While Rambo was secretive to his studios, the yachtsmen knew him and his habits. They envied him. So, it had been easy. Two weeks and now she was set.
"I still don't know the other part of the proposition," she said.
"Before I tell you, Brenda, I have to make one thing perfectly clear," said Braden.
"You sound like the President."
"It's serious."
She knew it was. His look told her that. He stubbed out his cigar and told Fluger to make them another round of drinks. She tried hard to hide her curiosity. There had been no mention of the other part except that it would involve some risk. Brenda, twenty-six, had had her share of that. She had crewed in the Newport-Ensenada races, had hunted and fished all over the western part of the United States. She had been written up in a couple of Women's Lib magazines and was not exactly unknown. Then she had dropped out of sight after almost killing her boyfriend, Brad Hefley, a news camera-man who had turned pimp and drug pusher. She had gotten off scot-free on self-defense but she was still nervous about it. She could have killed him, almost did.
Evidently Braden and Fluger had checked up on her. The ad had brought her out of "hiding." She remembered it well as she sat there waiting for Fluger to return with their drinks. Braden was watching her and she tried to push his face out of her mind. The ad had read: Wanted, brave adventurous girl who knows sailing, yachts. Big money, easy work. No investment. Call (213) and a Newport Beach number.
Several calls later she had gone to work, not knowing the second part of the deal. Rambo was easy to get to know. Brenda knew several celebrities and they had introduced her to him. She had no trouble gaining his confidence. He loved sailing and he loved girls who loved sailing. Dixie was an absolute nut about it, even though she drank too much, Brenda thought, she was an experienced sailor. Rambo was crazy about her. Maybe that's why he couldn't see that her beauty was fading, her charm drowned in a sea of vodka-filled glasses. Brenda had been like a breath of fresh air to him. Now, it was set. She was meeting him in Ensenada. But there was a catch to it. She was about to learn what that catch was.
Fluger brought the drinks and Braden lit another cigar. Brenda took a sip of her Tom Collins. Fluger was drinking straight Scotch; Braden, whiskey and soda.
"I have to tell you the rest of it, Brenda, but first, you have to know that once I tell you, there's no backing out."
"I understand."
"Do you? There could be other jobs besides this one. Depends on how it works out. But this is a biggie and once I give you the dope you're mine. Okay?"
"Do I have to kill anyone?"
Braden laughed, a little too harshly, Brenda thought.
"No, I don't think so. You just have to talk to some people down in Ensenada. Then you have to help these people."
"What is it?"
"Are you committed to the project? No turning back, you know."
"I need the money."
"We know," said Fluger. Braden shot him a dirty look.
How much did they know, she wondered. She needed to get herself together, get back on the right track. Four thousand would do it.
"Here's the pitch," said Braden, satisfied that Brenda wouldn't back out now. "When you get down to Ensenada, you're to contact a man named Emilio Ortega at Alfredo's Bar on the corner of Ruiz and Primera. It's near Hussong's. You'll have no trouble finding it. He'll be waiting for you to make contact. He'll tell you what to do. It will involve keeping Rambo and that boozing broad of his off the Desire for a night. He's going to have some guys bring some contraband aboard."
Brenda's eyebrows raised.
"Don't worry. It's not dope. Something better than that. Anyway, then you'll have to do some sabotage work on the yacht. I want Rambo to get out of Ensenada but not very far. Understand?"
"Not really," she said, taking another sip of her drink.
"Let him get out a ways, then make sure he can't make it all the way to Puerta Vallarta or wherever in hell he's going. He'll be loaded down with a shipment of gold and I want him to head back this way. We'll take care of the rest. You won't have to worry about a thing."
"Hey man," she said, "this sounds like a very heavy scene."
Fluger laughed and sat back, his bulk seeming to mash in the leather of the booth.
"It's heavy enough," said Braden. "With gold up the way it is and the controls still in effect, this means a lot to us."
"Why Rambo's yacht?"
"No one would suspect him leaving Ensenada with this gold. There are a lot of people watching the shipping there. They know the stuff's in town. Rambo is heading south. He always heads south. But when he leaves he'll have the gold aboard. He'll come back in with legitimate problems but you'll have to make sure he can't get the parts he needs there. He'll have to come back here. Once he gets to San Diego, we're in. It'll all be worked out, to the letter, with you and Emilio. Don't worry."
"You've done this before?"
"Don't ask questions," warned Fluger. This time, Braden nodded.
"We might even give you a bonus if you do this right," Roger promised.
"It sounds like a lot of hassle."
"Emilio knows what he's doing. He gets a big enough cut."
"Damn. I guess I can do it, but I just don't want anyone to get hurt."
"They won't."
"Especially me," she said.
Both men laughed.
"Okay then?" asked Braden.
She looked at both of them. She knew it was too late to back out now. She wouldn't make it out the door if she refused. Braden's eyes were appraising her. They looked into hers and then traveled down to her breasts. She shuddered inside. No, there was no turning back now, she thought wryly. There was more to these men than met the eye, especially Braden. What he was saying with his eyes now had nothing to do with gold and smuggling. He was telling her that she was needed for something else, besides. She tossed her head and looked him straight in the eye. It was a time for boldness, for bluff. Otherwise....
"I'll do it, of course," she said. "Just so there are no other strings attached. I want to get it over with, get my money and get out."
"You'll be paid on the spot, as soon as Rambo pulls into port and leaves the Desire. My men will come out, extract the shipment, and you're in the clear."
"No rough stuff"
"No. We don't want that at all. It'll all be done quietly. You don't even have to be aboard. Meet us here; we'll do the rest."
She sighed deeply. , "Okay. It's complicated for me, but I know boats. I can fix it so he'll have to come back up here. I've been to Ensenada. It's hard to get certain parts there."
"We know," grinned Braden.
"Okay. I'll leave now," she said. "Tomorrow's soon enough. You have to pick up supplies for the boat, right."
"Right."
"Okay. Relax. We'll take your list. George take care of this stuff."
Brenda reached in her purse and handed George the list Rambo Burke had given her. He stuffed it in his pocket and rose from the table.
"This'll be at your motel in the morning," Fluger said. They had even put her up in a motel, all expenses paid. "Leave the car in Ensenada and it'll be taken care of. You tell Rambo you got a lift down." The car was even theirs, she thought. It was tough to be this broke. Damn Brad!
George left the cocktail lounge, walking across the big room until he disappeared in the shadows. It was very quiet after he left. Brenda coughed and drank the rest of her Collins. Braden was just staring at her, glassy-eyed. She could hear his breathing in the emptiness of the lounge. She knew she should just get up and walk away, but there was something that told her not to go. She didn't want to be hit again, to be hurt. That's what Brad had done to her. He had hit her and hit her and hit her until she couldn't stand it anymore. That's when she had turned against men, against society.
Now there was this man, this stranger, Braden. But he wasn't a stranger, not anymore. She had talked to him on the phone, dozens of times. She had listened to his voice, listened to his talk of money, of easy earnings. Now, here he was, and she knew what he wanted. There was a bigger string attached to this deal than any of the others. Braden wanted her and there was no getting away from it. She felt his pale blue eyes burning into her, stripping away her crew shell, prying at her braless breasts.
"Well?" she asked, her eyebrows arching.
"You're a very beautiful young lady. I've always admired athletes-female athletes especially."
"I'm not an athlete anymore," she said, suddenly weary. She remembered the tennis championships, then the sudden fame at trap shooting, and skeet, the first trophy in the Ward and Rowland game book, the subsequent hunting trips. She had a good eye and a good body. She could have been the best, but Brad had ruined her. She had loved him and he had turned into a junkie, a crazy bleary-eyed speed freak who hated her for what she was. She had met him on one of the filmed hunts, had fallen for him, and now was out of it, too shaky herself to ever trust her emotions again.
"You might be surprised at what you can do, Brenda, if you give it a try."
"Mr. Braden, if we're through with our business, I'd like to leave."
"Hey, now, Brenda, don't be that way. A woman like yourself, with so many obvious charms, it would be a sin to waste them. You've been in hiding for a long time. It's time you came out into the world again."
"Just what is it you want, Braden? My body? Because if that's what it is, you sure come on crude."
Braden's hand shot out across the table. He grabbed her wrist tightly with one hand, squeezed it while he looked into her smoky-gray eyes.
"Now listen, hot shot. You don't have to get smart with me. I don't want us seen together in public. So, I can't wine and dine you like you probably want. But I do know one thing, Brenda. You haven't had a man in a long time and that ain't normal, babe. Something like that could get to be a habit. I want you to warm up to Rambo a lot more'n you did here in Newport. I want to see if my investment in you is well-founded. See?"
"Well, Mr. Braden, you have a quaint way of putting it. You think I'm a frigid broad and you think you have the only key to unlock my heat. Well, you're full of shit, but I'm not going to argue. Your place or mine?"
Braden smiled. "Mine," he said. He jerked his head in the direction of the office. He got up and Brenda stood up as well. He put his arm in hers, winked at her and together they promenaded across the empty dance floor to the club office. Inside, another door led to a small, well-appointed lounge. Everything was in velvet, the walls, the ceiling, the hide-a-bed couch. Thick carpeting muffled the sounds of footsteps. There was even a small wet bar and a hot plate, cupboards, an icebox.
"Ummm. Very cozy," said Brenda.
"Glad you like it." He pulled out the hide-abed. Brenda shrugged her shoulders. He smiled at her. "Care for another drink?"
"No, not really."
"Fine." He began to remove his shirt. Brenda threw her bag on a small wrought-iron stool, velvet padded, and began to crawl out of her crew shell. Her breasts fell free, as tanned as the rest of her body. The nipples and areolas were very dark. There didn't seem to be any stretch marks on them. They were firm and pear-shaped. She slipped out of her capris and deck shoes. She stood there in her panties until Braden was finished undressing, then she slipped those off, too.
The two of them stood there, naked, appraising each other. Braden was thin, skeletal. His member was tucked up next to his sac, limp and small. He had no hair on his chest. His body was as smooth as a department-store mannequin. Brenda thought he looked emaciated, as though he hadn't had a good meal in a long time. He pulled back the covers and slid onto the white sheets of the bed.
Brenda walked over and lay down beside him. Her long dark ringlets looked very beautiful on the white pillow. Braden crawled over her and tried to kiss her. She turned her head instinctively.
"Be nice," he said.
She turned back to him. He kissed her. She felt nothing. He pried her lips open with his tongue, seeking the heat of her mouth. She was very tense, stiff. Braden didn't like her attitude. His tongue sought hers, found it, began to move in and out of her mouth in the rhythm of sexual intercourse. His hand found her breasts and began kneading them, working to arouse her in any way he could. He was disappointed. Brenda was beautiful, but she was stiff as a board.
Braden didn't like that. A girl as lovely as she should be a tigress in bed. It was a challenge to his manhood. He had to strike sparks from her or suffer humiliation and defeat on his own turf on his own terms.
"Relax, Brenda, will you? Give me some cooperation."
"It's your party, Braden." Her voice was full of leaden hostility.
He pried her legs apart and slipped his hand between them. He groped her pubic mound, feeling his own excitement mount.
"Touch me," he said. "Hold me in your hand."
She found his manhood, grasped its growing length. It had been a long time, she thought. There was something comfortingly familiar about holding Braden's penis in her hand. Its warmth served to weaken her resolve to be uncooperative. She spread her legs slightly and Roger's finger moved inside her honey-pot. She moved her hand up and down his organ, feeling it grow hard as blood rushed into its bulk, swelling it like a sausage.
Roger's finger probed for the clitoris, found it and Brenda jumped with the suddenness of the assault. Roger grinned and kissed her breast, tonguing the nipple to an acorn-like tumescence. Encouraged, he massaged her clit until she began to relax even more. Her legs came up, bent at the knees so that her feet were flat on the bed. He looked at the dark thatch of hair between her legs. She had a flat tummy and a prominent mound. He liked that.
Brenda closed her eyes, trying to shut out images of Brad. She had loved him so much at one time, before he began to hurt her, to teach her his cruelty. She couldn't take that anymore. She only wanted to hide from her own hatred. She knew she could hurt as much as she had been hurt and that frightened her. She prayed that Roger would get it over with as soon as possible.
He mounted her and she released her hold on his swollen cock. She lay there, waiting for his entrance, her eyes still closed. He slipped inside her, parting her lips with his prick. She gasped as he slid across her throbbing clitoris, striking sparks from the tuber-like member. She felt thin bony hands grab the cheeks of her ass, pull her upward until she was impaled. He stroked her deep and fast. She tightened up, the hatred spilling over despite her attempts to keep it back.
Roger slapped her face. Her eyes shot open like windows in an earthquake. Tears filled the grayish depths of them.
"Don't do that to me," he warned.
"I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to," she whispered, wondering at the change in herself.
He buried himself in her then, and slowly she began to respond. She closed her eyes again and let herself be taken up by his passion, hoping that it would wipe away her hatred.
She moved with him, opened to him. The first orgasm began to insinuate itself into her system, like a small flame that grows in a clump of brush. The fire spread and she went weak, her stomach aflutter. He pounded into her, pleased that she had the warmth he had hoped to find.
When she climaxed, Roger held her tightly. He increased his movements, wanting it for himself now that she had been gratified even this much. He took her faster and faster until he could no longer stem the tide of his own pleasure. He burst inside her like an oil gusher. She shuddered then climaxed again just as his passion was subsiding.
"Oh, Brad," she moaned. "Oh, Brad."
Braden misunderstood her. He thought she was calling his own name.
CHAPTER THREE
The Desire slipped past the muelle, the jetty and its lighthouse in the bay of Todos Santos and motored to a mooring near the Marine installation. The bay was glass calm as the sun peached the buildings of Ensenada, spread its fingers over Chapultapec Hill and Punta Ban-da, looking like Diamond Head in Hawaii where it ended the sprawl of the large bay. Rambo killed the engine and Dixie helped him set the anchor, scope it. The Desire swung on its chain as they wrapped the mainsail around the boom.
Rambo Burke looked at the city and took a deep breath. It felt good to be there, away from the phones, the studio people, the rat race. There were only one or two other sailing yachts at anchor. The Mexican minesweepers, converted to destroyers, stood at the muelle as always, and there were three foreign freighters in port. A water taxi began to move out from shore, headed for the Desire. They didn't miss a trick. Well, it was too early to go in. Hussong's wasn't even open yet. It was shortly after 8, they didn't open until 10.
He waved to his friend, Raphael, "Raffles," and the boat pulled alongside.
"Go to town, amigo?" Raffles asked, his sunburned face like purple leather. He reeked of tequila.
"Not yet, amigo. Dos horas. You come back, eh?"
"Okay. I come back, Capitan Burke." Raffles hit the tiller and his orange and blue boat wheeled back to shore, leaving a wide wake that quickly diminished until the harbor was calm again.
"Can't we go ashore, honey?" Dixie asked.
"I'm hungry and really want to eat."
"Fix breakfast, then. It's too early. I want to get my lists ready. Fix us some eggs and bacon, will you?"
"All right."
He knew why she wanted to go ashore. She wanted to have a straight shot of mezcal. Damn. Dixie thought only of the next shot, the next bottle, it seemed. She was beginning to show the ravages of alcohol. She never drank at sea, or almost never, but he was worried that she wouldn't even be able to do that anymore. She was like a comfortable old friend, though. He loved her in a special way. She thought of the boat first and saw to it that he was relieved of a lot of chores aboard. He just wished she didn't drink so damn much in port.
All during the preparation of breakfast, Dixie was sneaking drinks of straight vodka. She had a bottle stashed away in the condiment cupboard. Rambo never saw her take a drink but he knew she was getting loaded. That was always the way when she got in one of her moods. When breakfast was finally ready, a long time after she had begun preparing it, the blonde shipmate was comfortably stoned, her speech slurred, her movements erratic and awkward. Rambo didn't say anything this time because he didn't want to antagonize her. Still, trouble began, because there was something bothering Dixie, something that couldn't be expressed until she had screwed her courage up with vodka.
"I don't like this new crew member you've got coming down," she said, fiddling with her cold eggs. She had hardly eaten anything. Rambo was impatient to leave and had gulped his food while Dixie fiddled with hers.
"Well, I'm the captain, sweetheart. She goes. If she brings the supplies down."
"She's a bitch," the blonde woman said emphatically. "Trouble."
"Hey, come on, Dixie, it's all settled. Brenda's a good head, she'll be a lot of fun."
"For you, Rambo. Not for me. I don't trust her."
"Hell, you don't even know her. Drop it, huh?"
Dixie's temper flared then. She rose from the table spilling her plate. Her sea-green eyes blazed with anger.
"I don't have to know a bitch like that," she spat. "You just want a young broad on board. You don't give a damn about me anymore. Well, I don't like her, and I don't want her on the Desire."
She staggered against the top of the doghouse, her feet unsteady. Rambo felt like hitting her, but it would have been like hitting a cripple. Instead, he nodded and pushed his plate aside.
"Okay, honey, don't worry about it. If she doesn't work out in port, she won't go with us. I promise."
The blonde pouted, but sat down again.
"Well," she said, "if you put it that way. I just want you to know how I feel. I love you, Rambo. I love this boat."
"I know you do," he said, with compassion. "Now, let's not worry about it anymore today."
"All right."
She cleared up the breakfast dishes and took a few more belts in the process. By the time the actor was ready to leave, Dixie was very drunk. She lay on her bunk and passed out as she did so often lately. Rambo patted her back affectionately and went up on deck to wait for Raffles to pick him up. In a few minutes, the familiar boat taxi pulled up alongside. The big man stepped into the boat and they pulled away from the Desire. Rambo breathed a sigh of relief. At least he wouldn't have to have a drunken woman on his hands all day. There was much to accomplish and not much time to do all that had to be done before leaving.
Ashore, the handsome television star walked to Hussong's along Avenida Primera. He passed the boat shops, the leather craft and curio shops. Gordo's, the Caribe Club, El Charro, with its smell of barbecuing chicken and fresh tortillas made on a stone oven, jewelry stores and hamburger joints, the Plaza Hotel, the Union Hall and always through a sea of tourists and natives going their separate ways. He got the feeling of Ensenada, walking like that, looking at the faces of the Mexicans, feeling a kinship with them that he could never feel in Hollywood or Burbank or along Ventura Boulevard in the San Fernando Valley. These were people he could stop and talk to, who wouldn't recognize him or ask for an autograph. These were simple men and women who lived, loved, worked, and didn't give a damn about the drive for fame and fortune. They always made him feel a little guilty, but they also gave him a feeling of warmth and friendliness. He took a deep breath just before he stepped into Hussong's. It felt good to smell the Mexican air. It was distinctive. It had character.
Hussong's cantina is the oldest Ensenada, having been there since the 1800's or 1890's. Its denizens range from dirty hippies to immaculate yachtsmen in white trousers, from sodden Mexican peons to American pensioners. It's always busy from the time it opens at 10 in the morning until it closes its doors around 2 a.m. Now, near noon, it was already filled with tourists sipping tequila sunrises, shoeshine boys, vendors, and assorted Americans, some who lived south of the border and some who were hungover from the weekend bender and just couldn't get going without another marguerita.
Rambo headed for the long bar and was greeted by Pancho, the bartender, and Frank Sansonne, the Italian who had lived there longer than any other gringo. He always sat at the same place at the end of the bar near the front door, sipping either vermouth and orange juice or plain mineral water because his liver was going bad. He wore a beret and used a cigarette holder when he smoked Deli-cados.
The handsome actor ordered mezcal and Pancho poured him one in a thick-bottomed glass. He drank it neat and the Mexican bartender looked at the big man in admiration. He immediately poured another one and Rambo gave him a broad wink of approval.
"That's the stuff, Pancho, mezcal Gusano, the best," Rambo remarked.
"Si, Capitan Burke, el mejor."
Each bottle of Gusano had a worm in it. That was the trademark and Rambo had eaten many of the grubs that floated inside the light brown liquid. That was always good, for a free shot since most gringos wouldn't drink mezcal, much less eat the worm. Rambo loved to blow the tourists' minds when he was feeling good. He looked around the large barroom jiow and noticed a group of people in the back corner by "Rosie" Rosendo's office. Rosendo was the manager for the Hussong family and had married one of the daughters. He and Ricardo were well-liked by Mexicans and gringos alike.
Four of the people were playing dominoes, partners, and there was a group of young people watching the game, drinking and laughing. Rambo strolled over to have a look himself. The bearded and cadaverous man, with a beret on, nodded to him through rheumy eyes. His hands were shaking as he rattled the tiles for another draw. He recognized the actor and stood up, offering a palsied hand to Rambo.
"I'm Dexter Wingdom," he said, "and that's my wife, Moddie." He referred to a gray-haired woman who was dressed elegantly, compared to her husband who wore a foodstained old jacket and filthy shirt and pants. "This is Arturo here and my partner is Enrique."
"Rambo Burke," he said, shaking hands all around.
"I know," said Wingdom. "Did you just sail in?"
"Yep. Going south."
A freckle-faced young girl, one of the spectators, gave the actor a worshipping look. Normally, Rambo would have ignored it but there was something appealing about her big brown eyes, red hair, and freckles. He thought she looked like Little Orphan Annie with eyes instead of blank sockets as in the comic strip.
He couldn't see her figure, but he could look down her sweater. He saw that she was wearing no bra and the soft mounds of her breasts seemed barely contained by the button-front purple sweater she wore. When she smiled at him, he saw that she had even white teeth, dimples. Well, he thought, the day might turn out to be better than expected. He winked at the young girl and then turned back to watching the game which had started up again.
It was boring to watch and he walked back to the bar after a few moments, draining his mezcal as he went. At the bar, he asked Pancho who the people were he had just met. He spoke
Spanish in a low voice and Pancho answered in the same language. Rambo found out that the tall cadaverous gringo was an unpublished poet who drank every day there. He was reputedly supported by his wife, "Moddie," who had a little money. The two Mexicans were locals who liked to play dominoes. Pancho didn't know who the onlookers were and didn't care since the bar was beginning to get busy with the noontime rush. The actor ordered another mezcal and began to sip it slowly, letting the warmth of the drink seep into his belly.
He didn't even notice the presence at his side, at first. It was just a feeling, then a faint musk that assailed his nostrils. When he turned slightly he was looking into a freckled face with big brown eyes staring back at him. The young girl! She had come over to the bar so silently he hadn't seen her. He smiled weakly, taken aback by the suddenness of her silent intrusion.
"Hi," she said and Rambo felt adrenalin pump into his veins. "I wanted to talk to you for a minute."
"Hello. Well, sure. Have a drink?"
"I'll have a Singapore sling," she said, her voice low and throaty.
"Pancho, a sling," he called. When it came, he paid for it and they moved to a small table where they both sat down. The freckled-faced girl kept staring at him, her eyes wide, the faint hint of a smile playing on her full lips. She wore no makeup, but the actor was conscious of the natural color she projected, with her red hair, her pale pink lips, her rust-colored freckles. She smiled that dazzling smile at him again and sipped her drink through a straw.
"I heard them say you. had a yacht," she said.
"A boat. Forty-foot, double-ender. I live on it when I can so it's like a second home. I wouldn't call it a yacht."
She laughed and he liked the sound of it. She was natural and ingenuous, very refreshing after the Hollywood types he was used to. Her laughter was as low as her speaking voice but it had a husky music to it, full of promise for a man. She looked to be no more than eighteen, but unless she were of age she would not be allowed in Hussong's. Still, a lot of girls under twenty-one came to the cantina with false IDs. He wondered if she were one of these. Her face and body looked young, but there was something in her eyes that told him she was not really as young as her appearance would suggest. She wore faded blue jeans and sandals, the purple shirt open at the front and an amulet made of wood or light stone, the uniform of the day, Rambo thought wryly. Her hair was the most striking thing about her. It was like burnished copper yet resplendent with a deep reddish color that shone through as though it had just been freshly washed.
"Anyway," she said, "boat or yacht, I wanted to talk to you. I heard that you were sailing south."
"Right on."
"Well, do you need another crew member."
"You know boats?"
"I've crewed a lot," she said seriously. "I dig sailing."
"Well, I don't know. I've got a crew, I think."
"Please, I can let you have some bread. I can contribute to the stores."
The actor found himself interested, after all. She wasn't trying to hustle him for a free ride, at least. She was willing to help. That was important to him in selecting a crew. He wondered how Dixie would take another chick aboard. She was all bent out of shape about Brenda as it was. He could use another crew member, though. It made the watches shorter, easier. The Desire was big enough to have a four-man (or girl) crew and besides, he was beginning to like this little redheaded waif.
"I'll give it some thought," he told her. "What's your name anyway?"
"Candy. Candy Casey."
"Great name. I'm Rambo Burke."
"I know. I've seen you on the tube."
"How long you been here in Ensenada?"
"A year. Almost. I sailed down here during the Newport races and liked it. So I stayed."
"How do you live?"
"Unemployment. I pick it up at San Ysidro once a week. I live. I lived in a cave for a while, out in the boonies."
"Too much," the actor grinned. She sounded honest, too. She could have given him some weird story and he probably would have bought it, but he knew she was telling the truth. "Where do you stay now?"
"Right now I'm kind of looking for a place to stay. I just got back from San Quintin. The car broke down on the way to La Paz. I hitchhiked back."
"Alone?"
"Alone," she grinned.
The freckled-faced girl told him she was eighteen, but that she carried a girl friend's driver's license. She said she had run away from home when she was sixteen because she liked adventure. She was from Los Angeles, but had traveled to New York, back through New Mexico, Arizona, and up to Las Vegas. She had wound up in Newport, then San Diego and finally Ensenada. She didn't care where she went as long as she saw something new. She wanted to see La Paz, and Mazatlan, Puerto Vallarta, and Mexico City someday.
Rambo liked her even more when she told him that.
"Let's go get something to eat," he said, "unless you want one of those slings."
"No. I'm hungry."
"I'll bet you've been eating bad food for a long time," he said. "Not the best."
"Come on, then."
He took the young girl to the ABC around the corner. Not the best place in town, but they served good tacos and beans. Over Carta Blanca beers and combination plates the two talked and at the end of the meal had good rapport with each other. Rambo already knew they were going to go to a motel. He was fascinated by this uncomplicated young woman. Dixie was stoned he knew, and he wanted some variety. He was surprised when she turned him down.
"You mean you won't go to bed with me?" he asked, incredulous.
"No, I didn't say that, Rambo. I said I wouldn't go to a motel with you. That's too easy, too pat. If that's all I wanted to do I could have a room in town all the time. A different room maybe, but one every day, every night."
"Jesus."
She laughed. "Don't get me wrong. I think you're quite a stud. But I'm trying to get aboard the Desire as crew, not because I'm good in the sack."
"Are you good in the sack?"
"Ha! Wouldn't you like to know? Maybe."
"Are you blackmailing your captain?" he asked.
"No. Not really. I just think you'll like me a lot better if you don't get me all at once. Am I right?"
"Jesus, I don't know. I never met a chick like you."
"And I never met a man like you either."
"You're not a virgin by any strange chance, are you?"
She veiled her eyes and pretended to be coy. "No, but I'm not exactly promiscuous either. Is that so strange?"
"I don't know," he said honestly. "Well, I'll tell you, Candy, be on board the Desire about ten tomorrow. Here's some bread for food and a place to stay tonight. But I'd better not see you with another dude or the deal's off."
She took the money with no self-consciousness, threw her leather sling bag over her shoulder and walked out. She didn't even look back and Rambo shook his head in disbelief. He'd met all kinds of girls, but this one took the proverbial cake. Was this just an act she was putting on, or was she serious? In a time of relaxed sexual mores, he found it hard to believe that there was a straight single girl, as Candy appeared to be, who would turn down an offer of sexual intercourse. From a television star especially! Well, he mused, that's what made life interesting.
The actor paid his bill at the ABC and walked over to Avenida Primera instead of going back to Hussong's. He hadn't noticed the swarthy Mexican at the corner table as he left the restaurant. Nor had he noticed the same man at the bar in Hussong's when he had been there. Now, as he walked up toward Primera, the Mexican followed at a safe distance. He was a man in his thirties, sharp-featured with high cheekbones and almond-shaped dark eyes.
He wore a faded captain's cap, blue t-shirt, sharkskin slacks and loafers. He was tall, for a Mexican, and lean as a cat. He was interested in Rambo's movements, his habits, and so he followed the American actor, observing him. The man's name was Emilio Ortega, an expert at being a shadow, an expert in dealing with contraband of all kinds. Ortega smiled when he saw the tall gringo go into a place called La Molina Roja, the Red Mill. It was a place where a lonely man could always pick up a beautiful Mexican girl, no matter that a small fee was involved, at least it was a matter of certainty.
Her name was Linda. It hadn't taken Rambo long to score. She was a dancer who worked late hours at the club, then liked to chat with her girl friends in the afternoon at the club. The actor had walked in, bought a round of drinks and then separated her from the group. Now they were undressing together in the motel America a mile away from La Molina Roja. Linda was young, only twenty-four, from Sonora, a widow with a two-year-old son. She wasn't a prostitute, she told herself, only a dancer. Yet they made her show friendliness to strangers with money, especially toward gringos with money.
The actor looked at the dark-skinned woman as she removed the last of her clothes. She was beautiful by anyone's standards. Her firm breasts stood up without the help of silicone, the nipples pert and doughy, her hips flared just right and the trim ample legs of a dancer gave her a proud look that was amplified by her high cheekbones and straight patrician nose. The dark thatch between her legs gave off a faint musk that excited the tall man as he came to her, naked and tumescent.
The lovely dancer took his manhood in her hands as he kissed her, stroking it in her grasping palm, squeezing its swollen mass with slender fingers. Rambo shoved his tongue inside the dark woman's mouth, consumed with a sudden heat. Her mouth responded to his as they came together, tongues meeting, her breasts soft and yielding against his chest. They stood there for several moments then glided to the bed as though with a pre-arranged signal, never breaking their passionate embrace.
They sat, then lay together on the bed, their twin passions mounting like a steam from a morning meadow as the sun rises. Rambo began kneading one of her breasts while his tongue inflamed her eager mouth. The nipple hardened like agate between his tweaking fingers. He excited the other breast then moved his hand down to her slightly mounded tummy. Her body began to respond with a gentle undulating rhythm. He found the dark furrow of her sex, plied the blood-engorged outer lips with his probing finger.
Linda spread her legs wider to receive his exploring finger as he prepared her for love. He treated all women the same. He was gentle and considerate, believed in ample foreplay, and he was never in a hurry to reach his own climax, not until he was sure the woman herself was ready to release his spent organ from her depths. The Mexican woman was surprised at the way he made love to her. She hadn't expected anything but a few fumbles at her breasts, then a quick kiss, and then a savage and short-lived sexual attack. Now, she found that warm waves of pleasure were seeping through her loins as his finger ventured inside her love tunnel. She began to move her hips in coital motions as her body exulted in the heat generated by this thoughtful gringo who knew how to make a woman happy.
The actor's finger found her tiny clit bud, rubbed its button face until it emerged from its hiding place. The tuberous organ soon swelled with blood and began to tingle with an electric eagerness that shot current through her whole body. Her hand on Rambo's cock moved up and down its length with a new urgency now. She wanted him, wanted him to fill her steaming cave with his throbbing manhood, to quench the fires that began to flow like lava through the volcano of her sex.
He mounted her then, easing into her lust-pulsing pussy while the first of a series of orgasms began to wrack her loins. The blood-engorged head of his prick slid across the tuber of her clit, jangling it to a frenzied throbbing. Her smooth brown legs went up in the air, wrapped around his trunk as he buried his cock into her up to the scrotum. His sperm-bloated sac bounced against the twin cheeks of her buttocks as he drove deep. Faster and faster he stroked the scalding tunnel of her sex, burrowing to the hungry mouth of her womb with ever-increasing ferocity.
Her pliant body buckled with the searing series of climaxes that ripped through her like a hurricane. She bit her lips until tiny seeplets of blood darkened them, mingled with his saliva. Garbled Spanish words flowed from her mouth as the actor pounded into her eager sucking flesh. Soft screams died on his ears. Her teeth sought his lips, nibbling at them to keep from yelling in the grip of a sexual hysteria that she had never experienced before.
Rambo was caught up in her sensual marathon. His seeds boiled and strained for release from their prison. He let himself go, let his semen explode, felt it explode in milky streams deep inside the Mexican woman's pulsating pussy. He felt caught in a millrace of heat as his sperm shot from his tender-headed cock, splashed against the throbbing walls of her cauldron.
"Oh, oh, hombre," Linda breathed. "Que bue-no, que bueno."
He held her tightly and for a long time after he spent himself, her cunt clutching at the dying remnants of his manhood, unwilling to release the object that had brought her so much pleasure. He looked down at her reddish-copper face. Tears flowed from beneath her long dark eyelashes, tears of happiness for the pleasure that was so fleeting, so profound and so terribly needed.
Outside, in the afternoon sun, Ortega waited like one of the shadows that stretched across the sidewalk.
CHAPTER FOUR
Brenda went straight to the Desire after arriving in Ensenada. She, Rambo, and Dixie were having coffee in the doghouse when Candy Casey climbed aboard. Brenda had already sensed the hostility from Dixie, but the air was thick with venomous zephyrs when the redheaded teenager stepped down into the doghouse. Rambo had already told Dixie about her but had neglected to mention Candy to Brenda.
"Welcome aboard," he said. "Have some coffee?"
"Sure," said Candy.
Rambo introduced the girls to each other then sat back enjoying the furtive hostility that flitted through the group. He had expected Dixie to get uptight about any new intrusion on "her" boat, but he was vaguely surprised at Brenda's reaction. The beautiful woman looked at the teenager as though she were a pile of fecal matter that had suddenly plopped down out of the skies.
"I've got to go into town," Brenda announced. "Anything I can get you?"
"No," said Rambo. "You brought all we need, I think. I'll ice up later, get the extra gas and we should be all set in a day or so. Some last-minute checks tomorrow and maybe we can get underway the day after."
"I'll show Candy around," announced Dixie, who had not yet started on the bottle of mezcal that Rambo had brought aboard last night. He knew he had to appease the woman or she would be full of questions about his excursion into town. He had stayed with Linda until she had gone to work and then had gone to Hussong's where he proceeded to get drunk with the Wingdoms and a thin emaciated American artist named Tony D'Agostino. Sometime before dawn he had been poured aboard the Desire by Raffles. His head was still fuzzy, his mouth just now getting back its normal taste-buds.
The captain blew the boat horn and in moments a taxi was alongside. Brenda, wearing a wine-colored sculptured Jacquard weekender, shirt-style jacket with cuffed sleeves and a welt-seamed yoke, gold-tone buttons, patch pockets, sash and straight-leg pants, looked like a fashion model. A silk scarf around her slender throat emphasized her femininity. Hush puppy-type boat loafers completed her striking ensemble. Dixie could barely contain her jealousy. Rambo knew it would only be a short time before her desire for a drink became too strong to resist.
The three of them watched Brenda sail to shore and then got busy with their various tasks. Dixie helped Candy stow her duffle bag and assigned her the forward bunk while Rambo checked the sails and rigging topside. The sun dazzled the blue waters of the harbor on a cloudless day. He began to feel good after a while. He knew that Dixie would side with Candy against the beautiful Brenda Miller and that was a point for his side. At sea, he knew, they would forget their petty jealousies and settle down to a carefree life of fun, even though the women would all be sharing him. In the past it had always brought them into close kinship with one another. In port, though, it could sometimes be pure hell.
Brenda's smoky-gray eyes smoldered as she thought of the redheaded waif that could put a kink in her plans. An extra person aboard just might throw a monkey wrench into her scheme of smuggling gold aboard the Desire. She would have to act fast, meet with Emilio Ortega and advise him of this new development. There would have been no problem in handling Dixie, but this Casey brat was an unknown factor in a tricky equation. As she stepped ashore, her dark hair glistening in the sun, she wondered if she might not have to use the gun that Braden had given her. She shuddered at the thought, but realized that she would not hesitate if that's what it took to achieve her goal.
She met Emilio Ortega at Alfredo's, on the corner of Ruiz and Primera as planned. The bar was quiet and dark at that time of day. There was only one American there, a writer who lived up the coast in a small villa. He was talking with the manager, Alfonso, when Brenda walked in, adjusting her eyes to the change in light. Emilio was at the opposite end of the bar, near the phone, waiting for her. She went directly to him and the Mexican's eyes flickered in recognition, even though he had never met her before. The bartender, Ramiro, set a napkin in front of the slender, dark-haired woman and waited for her order.
"A marguerita, please," she said.
Smiling, Ramiro mixed her drink while the writer, Jack Denver, looked her over. When he saw her turn and smile at Ortega, a frown shadowed his face. He went back to talking to Alfonso, but his mind was on the odd pair in the corner.
"Thanks," she said, when Ramiro poured her drink in a champagne glass. There was plenty of sobre, surplus, left over and the bartender left the mixer on the bar while he went in the back to continue stocking for the day's business. Brenda looked once more at Ortega and took a sip of her drink.
"Everything is going all right, Miss Miller?" the swarthy man asked, his voice low so that it wouldn't carry to Alfonso and Denver.
"Maybe. I'm not sure. Burke's got a new crew member, a little chippie with red hair."
"I have seen the girl. He was with her yesterday for a while. She is on board the boat?"
"Yes."
"You will have to arrange it so that no one is aboard when we load."
"When do you want to do that? May I call you Emilio?"
"Of course. I will call you Brenda. Braden said you were to be counted on."
"I am, Emilio. I just don't like mix ups or complications. Damn that little hussy!"
"Calm yourself. You can take care of her, I am sure." He lit a Mexican cigarette, offered one to Brenda who took it. He lit them and blew his smoke out over the bar as Ramiro returned. "When you finish your drink, we will talk some more outside."
"I understand," she said. She was beginning to relax. At least she had made contact. Now, all she had to do was get the boat emptied so that the gold could be loaded. She needed to know the exact time and then had to devise an unsuspicious means to accomplish her end of the bargain.
She and Ortega walked out into the bright sun several moments later. She had felt the eyes of the sandy-haired American on her back as she left. She wondered who he was and if his interest was more than casual sexual exploration. God, she was nervous. This was a dangerous thing to get involved in, with people she didn't know. But the money would make up for it, and if the planning was as good as it sounded, she should have no worries. Ortega filled her in as they walked up to the statue, out in the open, and talked.
"The gold must not go aboard until the night before the Desire sails," he told her. "You will have to keep everyone ashore."
"Burke is planning to sail in two days, three at the most."
"Good. You will take this piece of bright metallic paper," he said, handing her a strip of tinfoil with backing on it. "When you leave that night, you will see to it that this is stuck on the mainmast, high enough so that I can see it with my binoculars. We will be waiting to load as soon as it's dark. This material is luminous. Do not be discovered. Everyone must be ashore."
"I understand, Emilio. Don't worry. I'm sure everyone will want to celebrate the last night ashore."
"You must also sabotage the boat so that it can return to Ensenada, but will not be able to get repairs. This is most important. The boat must go back to the United States without local port inspection."
Brenda began to perspire. She knew that this was the trickiest part of the whole operation. She hoped she could do it right.
"I will do my best," she told the Mexican. "It will be an electrical problem, I think."
"Good. There are only a few electricians here. One good one only, Pepito, and he's deathly afraid of boats and water. He almost drowned in Veracruz when he was a boy. You should do this thing when you have cleared Punta Banda, no more than a day or two out. I will see to it that Senor Burke gets no help in Ensenada."
"I'm nervous right now, but don't worry, Emilio. Anything else?"
"No, not now. I will be waiting for your signal. Enjoy yourself. I think Senor Burke will be in Hussong's today. You will meet him there, gain his confidence, no?"
"Yes, he's coming ashore. If he's alone, no problem. I'm just worried about that Casey kid. She could be trouble, just by being in the way."
"You will handle that too, I am confident. Adios, Senorita Brenda. If you have any questions or there is any change in sailing plans, call this number. Give the code word "quereza" and I will meet you at Alfredo's one hour later."
"Quereza? What does that mean?
"It means 'desire', " he said, giving her a wave as he walked off. Brenda watched him go and then walked down Ruiz to Hussong's. She needed another marguerita to calm her jangling nerves. The first one had barely dulled the edges of her mounting excitement over the adventure that lay ahead.
True to form, Dixie waded into the bottle of mezcal that Rambo had bought her. By noon, she was sotted and had passed out on her bunk. Rambo asked Candy if she wanted to go ashore with him and was relieved when she said she'd stay aboard and look after things, meaning Dixie as well as the boat.
"You sure you don't want to go to my bunk with me?" he asked her.
"Not now. I wouldn't feel right. There'll be plenty of time, Rambo. It's a long cruise down there, right?"
"Right. But the opportunity seems to have arisen. For all practical purposes you and I are alone. I dig sex as much in the morning as I do at night. So, how about it?"
Candy was tempted, she had to admit. "No," she said finally. "I think I'll pass. Let me get acclimated first. I wouldn't want to have Dixie wake up while we're balling and lay me low with a skillet or something."
"She wouldn't," he laughed. "Dixie's got too much class for that. She's also sailed with me before-with an all-girl crew."
"You wicked man, you!"
"I know," he grinned. "Well, see you later, kid. Make yourself at home."
As he left, he winced at the pain in his gonads. He hadn't realized until then how much he wanted that little freckle-faced girl. He thought of Brenda all the way to Hussong's and thought that it was about time he gave a little more thought to her. It was there, he knew, but he just couldn't go up and pop the question to her. Or could he?
He found the slender woman at the bar, still on her second marguerita of the day. She looked like an incongruity there amid the grizzled and long-haired gringos with their crew shirts and grub clothes. Rambo ordered a straight shot of mezcal and toasted his lovely crew member.
"I know you're uptight about Candy," he said, "but I think she'll make a good shipmate. We can use her aboard the Desire. It'll make the watches easier, for one thing."
"Is that the only reason you took her on, because you thought she'd make a good sailor?" Brenda asked with a trace of sarcasm in her voice.
"Well, she's cute, too," Rambo grinned. "Touche."
"Now, Brenda, what about you? I told you in Newport that if you have any inhibitions then you shouldn't sail with me. When we're at sea, we don't wear clothes most of the time, we don't make bunk checks, we don't care who balls who. It's got to be that way, especially since I'm outnumbered by my all-girl crew."
"And I told you I would obey the captain. I'm no prude, Rambo."
"Okay, I just wanted to make my position perfectly clear, as the saying goes."
"I imagine you've balled every one of your crew except me. Isn't that a prerequisite for sailing on the Desire?"
"You have a vivid imagination, Brenda. Anyway, I'm not one to gossip."
Her eyebrows raised slightly.
"The quiet-type stud, I see," she said.
Rambo laughed.
"Well, I try to avoid unnecessary hassles," the actor said. "I believe in total freedom for the individual. The only rules I make are for the good of the boat and the good of the crew."
"I see," she said, liking the big man for his honesty and forthrightness.
They chatted that way for some time, getting to know each other through conversational thrusts and parries. Rambo had another mezcal, but Brenda continued to nurse her marguerita and its sobre.
She was fascinated by the tall handsome movie star. She had been fascinated by his strong performances, in The Running Man but found the real, live, flesh-and-blood Rambo infinitely more intriguing than the celluloid one. He was his own man, for one thing. He didn't kowtow to studio bigwigs or agents or business advisors. She knew that much from reading about his exploits off-camera and from listening to his manly talk now. She found herself wondering if she could pull off such a caper as had been planned, despite her determination to succeed. After all, Burke wasn't stupid. Gullible, maybe, but stupid, no.
Well, there was one thing in her favor, she told herself. Even if there was trouble, a slipup or something, he would never suspect her of any complicity in the deal. Rambo was too interested in her sexually to even think of her as part of a smuggling operation. She would see to it that he stayed interested until the Desire was safely back in the States and the gold unloaded. All she had to do, she knew, was to open her thighs to the handsome actor at the right time. Until then, he was virtually putty in her hands. Brenda was looking forward to an affair with Burke, actually. She just wanted to make it happen when she thought it would do the most good for her purposes. And, she reassured herself, that wouldn't be until the Desire was loaded with the contraband gold and out at sea. She smiled over her marguerita glass at the delicious prospect of having this man make love to her.
While they were talking, Jack Denver came into Hussong's. He saw Rambo and Brenda and made his way toward them, his face a mask. He was surprised to see his friend with the woman he had previously noticed in Alfredo's, but he said nothing. Instead, he put his arm around the actor's shoulder and gave him a hearty hello.
"Hey, you old salt, I wondered when you'd get in."
"Jack, you sonofabitch, I've been here for two days! Meet one of my crew, Brenda Miller. Brenda, this is Jack Denver, one of the best writers around. Left the TV rat race a year ago and now lives like a king up the coast. He helped solve a lot of problems for me my last trip through here."
"Hi, Brenda," said Jack. "Better watch out for this swabbie. He's mean on crew members, a regular Captain Queeg."
"I'll take my chances," she said, recognizing him as the man in Alfredo's, but feeling no suspicions about it. After all, he didn't know her and didn't hear any of her conversation with Emilio. They had talked outside, mostly. Still, it was disconcerting to see him here and find out that he was a friend of Rambo's. After a few minutes she excused herself to go to the restroom and that's when Jack began whispering earnestly to his friend.
"Where'd you pick that up?" he asked.
"Newport. Nice chick, huh?"
"I don't know, man. I saw her awhile ago in Alfredo's."
"So?"
"So, she looked like she had an appointment there. She met a guy. They had a quick drink and then they split."
"Hmmmm."
"Yeah, and the guy was no saint either. His name is Emilio something or other and as far as I know he's involved in so many illegal activities they can't keep track."
"Well, what's that supposed to mean?" Rambo was frankly puzzled.
"I don't know. I just wouldn't trust her, that's all."
"Jesus, Jack, she's just a healthy normal girl who digs my bod, and I can't see anything sinister in that."
"No, but her meeting with Emilio, damn, what's his last name, sure as hell isn't kosher. You better keep your eyes open, man."
"Thanks, buddy. I will. My fly, too."
"You sure as hell haven't changed, have you?"
"No, should I?"
"Well, have it your way. Just don't say I didn't warn you, okay?"
"Okay, Jack, now have a drink and be polite. I'm still trying to get into this young lady's britches and I don't want you queering the deal."
"No sweat, baby. How's Hollywood treating you?"
Jack had a beer and was chatting about the television business when Brenda returned from her feminine ablutions. She had no inkling that the two men had talked about anything other than "the industry." She found out that Denver had written several of the episodes for The Running Man and then had left Hollywood to write a novel south of the border. He was a young man, older than Rambo, tanned, obviously an outdoorsman. She listened while he and Rambo got up to date on old friends. She found out that a lot of celebrities visited Ensenada frequently, including the Coogan brothers, Jackie and Bob, Phil Harris, and others who were well-known in Hussong's and to Rambo and Jack. She felt more at home and ordered her third marguerita against her better judgment.
"Yes, live it up, kid," Rambo told her. "Jack, have another cerveza."
"No thinks, Rambo. I've got to get back to the typewriter."
"What's her name?"
Jack grinned.
"No, really. I just came down to soak up some atmosphere and now I've got to go back to my little room and pound out the rest of a chapter. Maybe I'll see you later on tonight. You remember what I told you, old bean."
"Yeah, I will, Jack. Good luck on the chapter." Rambo grinned his goodbye.
After Denver left, Brenda gave Rambo a funny look.
"What did he mean about remembering what he told you?" she asked.
"Oh, man talk. Nothing. About staying out of trouble. You know."
"Yes, I suppose so," she said, but something about his answer didn't ring true. She wondered if there was more to Jack Denver than she had surmised. He seemed just a happy-go-lucky guy talking about Variety stuff and inside dope, but maybe, just maybe, he had gotten suspicious of her because of seeing Emilio Ortega. She would have to be on her guard. She would just die if anything happened to her scheme. Damn! Why did that man have to be in Alfredo's and then turn out to be a friend of Rambo's? It wasn't fair!
Later on, Candy came into Hussong's and joined the couple at the bar.
"Dixie loaded?" Rambo asked.
"Yes, I'm afraid so. I straightened out everything I could. She's still passed out. Should I have stayed?"
"No, I wouldn't have. Join us in a drink, then we'll get something to eat."
"Thanks," said Candy, relieved. She didn't even notice the look that Brenda gave her. Actually, Rambo was peeved at Candy, not because she had left the boat, but because she had come along at this time. He felt he was beginning to make real progress with Brenda. He had been about to invite her to a motel when the freckle-faced girl had shown up. Now he was saddled with two women and unless he found a way to dump one or both of them it was going to be a sexless day for him. Well, he would have to make the best of it now. There was always the voyage, but damn he was getting excited about Brenda. That would have to wait a little while. And so would Candy Casey.
He took the two girls to Prieto's for a late lunch and there they dawdled the afternoon away. Both girls wanted to see a movie, so he promised them he would take them to the new Cinema '70 theatre that had just opened not too long ago. He knew Dixie would sleep for hours and he wasn't worried. The movie opened at 6 and they still had plenty of time for carousing before they had to go back aboard the Desire. Who knows, he thought. Maybe he would end up in the sack with both of them before the evening was out. Anything could happen in Ensenada!
Jack Denver drove his Bronco out of the parking lot at Hussong's, turned at the statue and drove along the embarcadero until he hit the highway to Tijuana. At Sauzal, three or four miles north of Ensenada, he turned left and went to his beach home. He didn't notice the old car with Mexican plates following him some distance behind.
Inside his comfortable, but spacious home, he went to his writing room, one that overlooked the beach and the sea. He began to type, slowly at first, finally faster and faster. The radio blared in his ear, tuned to a San Diego station. He didn't hear the car drive up into his compound, the door slam and footsteps crunch across the gravel.
He was oblivious to the sound of his back door opening, more footsteps across the tile floor of his living room. He typed away, unaware of the danger that had entered his house.
Suddenly, though, he was conscious of another's presence. He stopped typing and listened. That's when he turned and saw the figure standing in his door.
"What the hell?" he asked.
The figure stepped forward and Jack's eyes widened. He recognized the man, Emilio....
"Ortega," he said, finally remembering his last name with a stab of fear.
"Yes, senor, Emilio Ortega."
Jack's eyes saw the gun in the Mexican's hand. For a moment he thought that he had come to rob him, then it dawned on him that there was more to it than that. He thought of the girl, of Rambo, and then he knew. A split second before Emilio pulled the trigger, Jack Denver knew why the man had come.
"No, no!" the writer yelled.
Ortega squeezed the trigger. A stab of orange flame shot from the muzzle. Leaden death dotted Jack's forehead, ripping through bone and brain and flesh, emerging on the other side through a hole the size of a baseball. Pieces of brain matter stuck to the wall as the mortally wounded man crumpled before his typewriter, a vacant look on his face, his eyes staring at the last of life, the first of death.
The radio blared on as Ortega stepped out of the room and left the house. Outside, a long gull screamed like a lost soul as the afternoon sun began to pave a highway of gold and silver across the peaceful waters of the Pacific.
CHAPTER FIVE
Dixie Cummings awoke from her sweat-soaked bunk and listened to the sound of waves lapping at the hull of the Desire. There was an emptiness aboard the sloop and an emptiness inside of her. A quick look told her that the girl, Candy, had left and that she was alone. Her mind was still fuzzy with sleep but she was sober. She had slept a long time and, as she stepped out of the doghouse, she could see the afternoon had settled over Ensenada with pink and blue streamers. She took a deep breath of the still air and sat next to the tiller, wishing that Rambo were there with her.
The ex-model knew why he left her aboard in port. She got drunk too fast lately. She didn't know why. She used to be able to drink with impunity, all night long, for days in a row without getting loaded. Now, a drink or two put her into a blackout state from which she was useless to anyone, especially herself. Yet she was only in her late thirties. Why should it hit her this way? She had given up the drugs a long time ago, kicked the habit and switched to booze and grass. Now, when she was most in love with a wonderful man she didn't seem to be able to hold the alcohol anymore.
She had tried quitting, but the shakes and trembles got so bad she couldn't survive the mornings without a shot to calm her nerves. Lately, those shots had become more and more important but she had needed less and less alcohol to get high. In fact, she didn't even get high anymore. The good feeling was gone. There was only the memory of a need for that first swallow. Once that was accomplished, oblivion followed swiftly. The thrill was gone and only guilt and fear remained.
She thought of these terrible things while she sat out on the exposed part of the doghouse leaning against the tiller. If only there was someone to help her, to understand the feelings that swarmed through her. Something was wrong with her, she knew that. Was it the change of life coming early? She felt young when she was sober. Her figure was still that of a young girl's. She had a tremendous sex drive and when Rambo took her he satisfied as no man ever had. No, it must be the alcohol, she thought. She must have become allergic to it. Maybe, she thought, she was an alcoholic. But she couldn't face that thought. She couldn't admit such a thing to herself.
Dixie wasn't hungry, even after the sleep, but thinking about her situation had made her thirsty. The craving for alcohol gripped her in her loneliness. She looked back at the city that was getting drowsy as the evening shadows began to seep into its mass and felt a surge of longing for Rambo. She knew he was out there somewhere and that he would come back when he was ready. She half hesitated, wondering if he would be very angry if she went ashore. She had no money, she never did, but she knew she could find him if she wanted to. No, he would be mad. This was his time to have a fling and she could no longer stay on her feet, drinking with him.
She got up then and found her bottle of mezcal. She was surprised to see how little was gone out of it, another indication that the booze was getting to her, faster and faster. She poured herself a shot and forced herself to sip it. She couldn't do it. She poured another and gulped it. There! The warmth hit like a flood of lava in her veins. She felt better already. She didn't need to worry anymore. She felt wonderful. Just that quick. Strange and wonderful. Dark lava poured through her veins, lighting up her body, dimming her mind, pushing the bad things of the past way back into a gloomy corner, covering up the hurts and lonelinesses like so much dust shoved under a rug. It got darker and darker up there in her mind while her body glowed all over with a motherly heat. Finally it got so dark she didn't even notice the first few stars winking to life over the tranquil bay. She curled up on the doghouse couch and felt her whole body smile as peace and contentment, mezcal gold, warmed through her like an Indian summer breeze startled up from the dry desert sands, all golden, lit by a sun that flowed from a bottle like some genie of far-off Arabia....
The Mexican boy dipped his oars in the placid waters beneath his fishing boat and with strong muscular arms pulled the craft quietly along. It was dark and he was alone in the harbor, skirting the rocky shore until he was opposite the Desire. The boat sculled quietly over to the sloop, powered by the strength of youth. Brown corded arms, bare and sinewy, rippled with muscled movement as the boy tied up his boat and climbed aboard the double-ender. Stealthily, he moved along the deck, stepping down into the well by the tiller. His name was Juan Perez, a poor boy who had come to Ensenada from Sonora to seek his fortune. For two days now he had noticed the lone woman aboard the Desire and lust had foamed his loins at the thought of taking a gringo woman, one who seemed always to be alone, deserted by her companions.
Juan was only eighteen, handsome, virile and used to poverty. He had gone over things in his mind a hundred times. If he was discovered he would tell them that he thought the woman had called for a water taxi, then seduced him. He stepped closer to the sleeping form inside the doghouse. He leaned over her, naked to the waist, his body gleaming in the soft shrouds of moonlight. She reeked of alcohol and he knew she was borracha from mezcal. This made him happy. She could not resist too much. And if she did, well, he was strong enough for her. One feel of his cock would make her wild for him. Juan believed in his own machismo.
The woman didn't stir as he took off her boat shoes and began to undo her capris. He slipped them easily from her legs and felt a wild desire consume him as he looked at her bare legs, the pink panties enclosing the dark thatch of hair around her cunt. He slipped these off, ever so carefully, gloating at the dark furrow of her sex that was limned with moonlight. He lay her on her back and slipped out of his trousers. He was wearing no shorts because he was poor. His manhood stood at rigid attention. It was a narrow place to make love, but it would work for him. He leaned over her, reaching up under her blouse for the titties that he wanted to feel. He touched them. They were small and firm, like a girl's and he felt the seepings of his juices pour from the slit hole of his blood-swollen cock.
The woman looked so beautiful with her high cheekbones and symmetrical face, her hair tied back in a comely bun. He longed to kiss her, but at the same time was afraid of awakening her too soon. He brushed his lips over her cheeks and carefully spread her legs. Then he inserted his finger into her tight pussy-hole, opening the vaginal lips with his palm. He probed for the tiny clit bud of her womanhood, found the nodule and began to massage it until it grew like a tuberous root from the folds of her pink flesh. The oils of her unconscious excitement soon lubricated her love tunnel as he moved his finger back and forth over the clitoris.
The Mexican boy's excitement grew as he continued his foreplay with the sleeping American woman. She still lay there in the depths of sleep, unmoving, but the moon seemed to bring a glow to her face. He touched her lips with his, a puff of dandelion down wafted by a sudden light breeze and he lay his body close to hers, his leg generating heat from the intimate contact. His finger urged her dormant flesh to life and he felt her respond with a gentle, undulating movement in her hips. Excitedly, he rose over her, a dark shadow full of warmth, dangling a sword above her sheath, a purple-headed scepter awaiting entrance into the chalice of her womanhood.
When he was ready he withdrew his wet finger and pried her cunt lips apart with his hand while he swanned to her waiting body. His swollen cock slid along the slickened cleft of her pussy, then lodged its blood-engorged head in the portal. He moved quickly then, pumping into her with an eager motion. Heat and steaming dampness deluged his plundering organ and he felt himself being sucked into the pink-fleshed passage, effortlessly dovetailing his body with hers.
Somewhere in the deep layers of unconsciousness, Dixie's mind swam through clouds of sensation, struggling to define the dreams that carried her naked body into a woodland glen where a dark stranger coupled with it on soft ferns. She felt him smother her with his gleaming body, arc above her like an Ap-polonian shadow, knife into her flesh with the hugest of penises, filling her eager cunt with a swollen throbbing mass that burned like a poker deep in her pulsing loins....
A dream of dark horses and a dark man shimmering in the woodland moonlight, a dream of soft heat and aching womanhood, a dream of fireflies and molten swords, of female flesh gorging itself on a naked appendage, sucking, swallowing, devouring, absorbing, swelling with the plundering presence of something awesome, gigantic and agonizingly fulfilling ... dream, fruition and dream, all of it enveloping her mind like a handclasp, touching, closing around, soothing, caressing, fondling, holding her tighter and tighter, so tight her breath sinks in her chest, hovers like death and escapes only at the last moment before she plunges over a black and grassy precipice to her doom.
"Rambo," she called out in her stupor. "Rambo, darling."
And the Mexican plunged into her squeezing pneumatic cunthaven with renewed fervor at the strange sound on his silent and sleeping lover's lips, plunged to the very core of her sex, swelling within her like a root saturated by a floodtide of warm sensuous fluids. His body rose and fell over her as his organ buried itself in the pink folds of womanly flesh, conquering her mindless body with rapacious intensity while she cried out to him in a special language meant only for him and for the night itself.
"Fuck me, darling, fuck me," she whispered from her dark glade on the edge of a cliff, and the unknown words were thrilling to the Mexican boy who plumbed her somnolent depths with all the passion of the rapist and mendicant youth. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," she chanted from deep in the dream that warmed her in the envelope of its misty embrace.
The illiterate Mexican understood only the emotional content of the drunken woman's speech, the thickened speech of sex, and he drove his body into her so that she would be pleased at his coming, so that she would recognize and marvel at his glorious machismo, his fiery manliness that sang in her loins, that swam in her vagina like the silver fishes in the sea. He looked down at himself, saw his veined and swollen cock disappear into that opening flower, into that pink flower cunt, and wished now that the woman would awaken and welcome him with tropical kisses and summery embraces.
Dixie did not awaken just then.
But her arms reached out across the lonely chasm of dream and found his naked torso. They swarmed over his bare flesh like carnivorous vines, her fingernails raking his immense back. She seemed to him like some blinded feline seeking affection. Her whole body began to convulse in the throes of sexual intercourse, writhing and undulating beneath him as he rode her like a body surfer on a long slow curl of a wave.
The Mexican boy kissed her at the height of his passion, prying open her lips with his tongue, probing the depth of her mouth and throat with passionate fervor. He ground into her vagina with his bulbous cock buried to the scrotum in her scalding tunnel. Dixie moaned and twisted under the impact of the fresh assault, her body given up to this shadowy rapist whom she did not know, could not see.
In her dream, lightening like the sky at morning now, the stranger, once a chimeric centaur, manly torso, driving loins of a thoroughbred stallion, overwhelming presence of myth and primitive desires, morphosed into curly-headed Appollo, mingled with boys and men of girlhood. The rubbery maskface of the stranger was her father, then her brother, Rambo, an uncle, a hundred men in a hundred towns, all one, all different, all giving her their monstrous swollen cocks, shoving them up her young dress behind her tight pink panties and into that sucking eager cunt that tightened over them in fear and longing, everything mixed, mingled, changed, startled, frightening, eager, oh, Rambo, Rambo, is that you my darling, give it to me all of it right there, fuck me, man, fuck me like my father fucked me, like my brother, like all those fucking men oh jesus Rambo you're so good all inside me let me have it, more more more darling man I love you I love to be fucked like this oh please don't stop don't ever stop!
Juan could no longer stay his cum. The babbling of the drunken woman had stirred his seeds to the boiling point. He began fucking her very hard, pistoning into her juicy cunt with all his might, ripping into her tunnel with no thought of anything anymore but completing himself. To his surprise the half-naked woman began responding with a matching drive of her own. Her body bucked and buckled, squirmed and tossed in rhythmic counterpoint to his own. He felt himself caught up in the tides of her passion, swept along on the river-run of her wild animus. She seemed to be reaching out for him, trying to drag him down into the whirlpool of her sexual craving, to envelop him in the same hysteria of dream. He felt the suction, the compelling draw of her femaleness coming to life and he struggled to prevent himself from ejaculation.
Dixie moved up through stratums of sleep and drunken stupors, finding her way to reality through the pounding body that she had melded to her own. Her cunt flared with the prying cock that entered her in a pulsing rhythm, fumed with flames stirred by the passing of its length over her swollen and throbbing clit, suckled and pulsated with a shattering series of multiple orgasms that wrenched her body upward out of dream, up into a brilliant sunshot world of explosive sensations that strobed the darkness with stabs of phosphorous. The orgasms came so fast they blended into one shuddering volcanic climax, thundering in her flesh, electrifying her nerves. She screamed and screamed as consciousness overtook her, a consciousness that wavered like a technicolor movie out of sync, imbedded with a thousand shades of light, fragmented with glassy tones that rang in her brain like a million bright-colored bells.
Juan lost all control of his machismo. His seed spurted from his tender-headed cock in a savage rush, splashing against the mouth of her cervix, creaming the walls of her uterus with milky heat. He groaned in the throes of his own gratification, gasping for breath, straining to hold onto the last vestige of the sensations that poured from his fountainous cock. He squeezed the woman and saw her eyes open like startled windows, saw them fill with tears and dance with moonlight.
"Ali, ali, cabron," he muttered, "Que bueno, querida."
"What? Who are you?"
"Ali, que chinga," he answered, his mind befogged by the pleasant agony of ejaculation.
"Oh, my God, who is this?" Dixie wondered aloud, her body settling back into a blanket of love-downed warmth. "Beautiful, beautiful," she whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks.
The Mexican boy tumbled from her cunt, his cock losing its vigor, shrinking, dying in the cool air of the bay. He stood up and pulled his trousers on, still looking at the questioning woman, the weeping lady he had taken in rape. He couldn't understand her words and he was afraid she would scream again, this time for a different reason. He didn't want that. He didn't want to hurt her. He put his finger to his lips. Then he smiled.
Dixie smiled back at him. "Thank you," she whispered. "Whoever you are. Do you speak English?"
'Wo habloingles," he said. "No intiendoingles, senora. Calmate. Calmate."
"I don't understand," she told him, sitting up in her effort to reach him. "Ya me voy. Adios."
She understood that he was leaving. She reached out for him, and he jumped away, misreading her intentions. He waved to her and climbed up on deck. She scrambled after him, staggering, her naked loins obscene and scrawny in the odd light of the moon. She watched him get down into his boat, untie it and begin to row away. The tears came in floods then, and her loins felt cheated, bereft of his powerful presence. He waved to her again and she brought up a halfhearted arm, her hand waving slowly as the rowboat crawled away, carrying the dark boy out of her life. She turned, then, and went back inside the doghouse where she could hide from herself, where the tears could unite with the terrible wracking sobs that roared up from her trembling belly.
"My God, my God," she moaned. "What in hell has happened?"
And there was no answer. There was only the sound of the waves sadly sloshing against the side of the Desire.
She knew she would never see the boy again but he had left her with a strange feeling, a feeling mingled with fulfillment and loneliness.
She had never felt such power, such primitive passion before, even during her wildest days of youth. Yet it was an elusive feeling, half dream, half reality, caught up in the fog of alcoholism and unfulfilled promises. This was what she had wanted with Rambo, what she had thought she had, but now, because of the boy, she realized that she and the actor had only the exuberance of their bodies and none of the real passion that would meld them together.
For the first time in her life, she was afraid of losing Rambo, of losing him to another woman, a younger one, one with more fire, more raw sensuousness. She ran her hands over her ravished body and thought of what might have been. She looked at the half-filled bottle of mezcal and her eyes filled again with tears. The answer wasn't there, either. She had lost herself for a time in that bottle, in hundreds of other ones just like it. What had she lost? Hours, days, minutes, years? It didn't make any difference now. She couldn't get back what she had lost, couldn't even calculate its worth. Something of herself, something of her womanhood, something precious and wholesome, all of it lost. Was there a way back? Could she find herself before it was too late? Could she find herself and give Rambo what he had been looking for and thought he'd found? She didn't know. The boy who had taken her in rape had brought her to a shattering realization of herself, of her potential, but that could never be repeated. Still, there was that feeling that lingered in her bosom, between her legs, in the sweat drying there, the musk of his presence suddenly pervasive all over her body.
Dixie wiped her eyes and looked out at the bay. The other boats bobbed disconsolately on the gently rippling waters, distorted by her tears like pictures through a windowpane on a rainy day. It was no good feeling sorry for herself. Not anymore. She must try to fill her own sails, to sit proud in the sun, to laugh again, love her man in the old, yet new, way. She must try, she told herself.
And she would try, she vowed. Even if it killed her. With that thought, Dixie took the bottle of mezcal and threw it with all her might off the boat. She heard it splash somewhere in the darkness, then all was still once again. She heard a gull give its lost-soul cry far off in the gloom. She knew that cry, now, knew what it meant. She was that bird winging its way to an unknown destination, all alone in the sob-dark air of evening.
CHAPTER SIX
Dexter Wingdom knocked on the door a long time. He shouted drunkenly but still there was no answer. Yet he heard the radio playing and knew Jack must be at home. He and "Moddie" had been fighting and he needed someone to talk to so that's why he had driven over to Jack Denver's. Now, he couldn't raise him even though he knew he must be home. His car was there and the radio was blaring away. He tried the door. It opened and he walked in the beach house, carrying a bottle of sherry concealed in a paper sack.
"Hey, Jack," he yelled.
No answer.
He looked outside, thinking maybe the writer was out on the beach. It was getting late and wasn't really a safe time to go walking, but hell, writers were strange birds. Dexter pretended to be a writer, but he really wasn't. He didn't have the discipline necessary to stay at a typewriter when other people were out having fun. He could only drink sherry and play dominoes and live off his wife's pension while writing occasional doggeral that he tried to pass off as serious poetry. A long time ago he had begun to believe his own lies and now he was convinced of his own kinship with men like Jack Denver.
Moddie had raised hell with him that evening for not being like Jack. That's why he was here. Maybe Jack would understand that he meant to be a writer and wanted to be one, but that his wife just didn't help at all. A writer needed support, didn't he? Jack was divorced, Dexter knew, and maybe he lived alone because that was the only way to write.
"Hey, Jack," he called again. "Where are you?"
The tall thin man, his face mapped with purple veins, eyes bloodshot, walked through the house. He went to the den where the radio was playing. That's when he dropped the sack with the bottle of sherry in it. His legs buckled at the knees and he felt sick. Jack lay sprawled on the floor, his eyes staring blankly into space, a thick rivulet of dried blood splitting his dead face in half. The top of his head was gone and his neck was bent at a crazy angle.
"Jesus H. Christ," Dexter mumbled. "Goddamn!"
He vomited all over the floor because he couldn't help himself. Then he ran, frightened by the corpse that had been a living breathing man several hours ago. He ran because he didn't want to see himself in that vacant face or reflected in those staring eyes that could see no more.
After being questioned by the police, going with them to Denver's place and satisfying them that he had only discovered the body, not participated in murder, Dexter Wingdom went into Hussong's badly in need of a drink. He was shaking all over. His skin was blanched from the ordeal, stretched taut over his bony face. His hands trembled even worse than before.
"Ah, Kiki," he said to Enrique, an alcoholic bartender there who was dying of cirrhosis, "give me a double shot of tequila. Quick."
The shaky bartender poured the drink and Wingdom downed it in one gulp, the sickness fading with the warmth of the clear alcohol flooding his system. He was on his second double when he saw Rambo, Brenda, and Candy come into the cantina from the movies. He lurched toward them, drink in hand.
"Hey, Burke," he said, thick-tongued, "I-I got something bad to tell you, man."
Rambo tried to avoid the obviously drunken man, not understanding the import of the message at that point. "Later, man," he said, recognizing Wingdom as the one he had met yesterday in Hussong's.
"No, no, it's important. Jack, Jack Denver. He-he's dead," he blurted.
"Christ," said Rambo. Brenda's heart stopped in her chest. Candy just looked puzzled. She didn't know who Jack Denver was.
The foursome sat down at a table and Wingdom filled them in on the gruesome details. Rambo looked as if someone had clubbed him. Brenda said she was sorry and tried to act nonchalant but she knew why he was dead and who had killed him. Candy expressed quiet sympathy when she saw the way it hit Rambo.
"He was one of my best friends. God, who could have done something like this?"
"I don't know," said Wingdom, "but it wasn't a robber or burglar. It was just somebody who came in, blew his brains out and then split. Awful. Just awful. I need a drink. Lots of drinks."
"Yeah, we all do," said Rambo and he ordered a round while he listened to the story a second time. He thought of his last conversation with Denver and wondered if that had had anything to do with his death. But no, that was absurd. Besides, Brenda had been with him the whole time. It was just some kind of crazy mixed-up mistake, that's all. He looked at Brenda. She was beautiful and as innocent as any of them. Jack was just dealing with people he didn't understand, that was all. Maybe he was suspicious of people because he was working on a story down here, a story that someone didn't want published. It could be. What was the name of that man he had seen with Brenda? Auxilio? Aurelio? Something-o, he remembered. He filed that information back in a corner of his brain. When it came to him he would talk to the police.
In the meantime, he began to think of Dixie, all alone out there on the boat. Was she all right? A sudden apprehension gripped him. They'd had enough of carousing. It was time to go back to the boat and turn in. He was sure his girl was all right, but after this, after Jack, what could be all right?
"Come on, girls," he said, "Let's go back to the boat. I've had enough of Ensenada for one day."
"I'm with you," said Candy.
"Me too," said Brenda.
"Thanks, Wingdom. Here, drink this up and get some sleep yourself. You've had a bad time of it. See you."
"Thanks, man, oh, thanks. You don't know how bad I feel."
"I think I do," said the actor. "Come on, girls."
Wingdom watched them leave and ordered another drink. He wondered if he could pretend to be a writer after all. Suddenly it didn't seem so important anymore. Maybe he should just give up and admit that he was a ass, after all, supported by his wife, a failure in life like so many others who came south to drown their troubles in booze.
The next day Rambo announced that they would no longer mess around Ensenada. He said he would get the extra gas, check the systems, and stock the ice, if the girls would help do the last-minute shopping. When they all went ashore, they saw the headlines in El Mexicano about Jack Denver's murder, complete with a picture of the murder scene. Rambo could make out enough of it to know that there were no clues and no suspects. The caliber of the gun was mentioned and that Dexter Wingdom had discovered the body. It made him sick.
Brenda knew she had to work fast. As soon as they were all ashore, eating breakfast at the Villa Marina, she slipped up to the office and called the number Emilio had given her. "Quereza," she whispered into the phone.
"Bueno," said the disembodied voice on the other end of the line. She hung up and dashed back to the restaurant part of the motel without anyone the wiser. Now, she had to get away and meet Emilio at Alfredo's. That part was easy. Rambo gave them each an assignment. He and Dixie were going to get the dry ice and gas, while Candy was to shop for the extra canned goods and condiments they would need. He gave her a roll of bills.
"Brenda, you go to El Centro market on Ruiz and buy the meat, good cuts, some chicken, steaks, the works. We can carry about fifty pounds. We'll all meet aboard this afternoon and then I'll take you all out for a dinner this evening at La Cabana. Tomorrow, before dawn, we sail."
"We should drink a toast to that," said Brenda, relieved that things had worked out as they had.
"Save it for tonight," he said curtly. "Let's get it on. I'll feel better when all this stuff's aboard. Dixie and I have the rough job. Ever try to get dry ice in this town? It's a bitch. They keep changing the plant or else they lie about it. Every ice cream wagon has it but nobody will tell you where they got it. It's like tracking down lice on a grizzly bear."
Dixie had been silent all morning and sober. Rambo didn't want to get her started. He had been surprised to find her sober last night when they had all come aboard. She had been very cheerful and he hadn't had the heart to tell her about Jack, so he had let it wait until this morning, figuring she would immediately ask for a drink. But no, she hadn't. Even though she had been hit hard by the death of the writer, she had not gone to pieces. She didn't know him that well, but she liked all of Rambo's close friends and ordinarily she would have gotten very emotional over such news.
He still didn't know how to take this change in Dixie, but he wasn't going to jeopardize her attitude if he could help it. He paid the checks and said goodbye to everyone. He called cabs for all of them, and he and Dixie went in search of dry ice. Later on, he would have to load five gallon cans of water, fill the tanks, starboard and port, then carry spares. That would take him all day, at least.
Emilio was at Alfredo's as he had said he would be. Brenda just looked in, then waited outside until he came out. "I don't want to talk in front of people," she told him, "and I don't want to talk where we can be seen."
"Just tell me the time," he said, his face ugly.
"Tonight, Rambo's going to take us all to La Cabana for dinner. I'll beg off. When you see the tape on the mast, move!"
"You're giving orders?"
"I don't want any more bullshit from you, Ortega. I'll do my job, you do yours."
"Bueno. I'll have everything ready."
There was more she wanted to say but she didn't trust herself. That's why she didn't want to talk in Alfredo's or to even be seen with this man. She hated him for killing the writer, and she didn't trust Emilio Ortega for one minute. When she left him to walk down the street to El Centro, she put her hand in her bag and felt the .25 automatic Braden had given her. She was glad she had it now.
Emilio put down the binoculars, satisfied. The silver gleam of the tape told him the coast was clear. From atop Chapultapec Hill overlooking Ensenada he had a clear view of the harbor and the Desire. The gold had been loaded earlier, melted down hunks of it in all shapes and sizes, placed in Yuban coffee tins, one pound each, no more, no less, sealed just like at the factory, then sacked up with grocery bags from Erne Mercado and finally put in cardboard boxes, When he got to the dock, Emilio was wearing ordinary workman's clothes and was just bringing another load of groceries aboard the yacht if anyone had noticed. He got a water taxi and sailed out to the Desire as nonchalant as any legitimate delivery man would have been.
The boatman, Rueben, helped load the boxes aboard the yacht. He didn't even question that Emilio climbed aboard either. He had been well paid to keep his mouth shut, too. It wasn't the first time he had taken this man out to a yacht, under similar circumstances. He knew the value of silence. It was often considerable.
Brenda was anxious, but glad to get the gold aboard. She helped Emilio load it into the hold, bury it deep beneath other grocery items so that only someone who knew where to look would find it, unless they were out to sea for several days and that was her job to see that they weren't. She bit her lips the whole time to keep from confronting Emilio with the murder of Denver, but she wanted to see the gold safely stowed before she said anything. Finally, when there was no visible trace of its presence aboard, she went up to the doghouse, Emilio following.
"You did a good job," he told her. "You didn't have to stay. Just put the tape on the mast."
"I know," she said. "I wanted to be here. You killed that American writer. Why?"
"He saw you with me. He was an amigo of Rambo's. He had to be, ah, put to sleep."
"Hell, he didn't say anything to Rambo. He didn't say anything to me."
"Didn't he, senorita? They talked very close and quietly while you were going pee pee."
Brenda thought about that for a minute. "So? That was no call to kill him. He didn't know about the gold."
"Perhaps yes, perhaps no. I don't take chances. That's why I'm still in business."
"Well, I don't like it. Braden told me there'd be no rough stuff."
"We don't always like to do certain things," said Emilio. "But we have to do them. Now, let's speak no more of this unpleasantness. You know how to disable the boat?"
"I have it worked out. I was doing that before you came aboard. He'll have electrical problems a day or so out of port. He'll head back here to get the trouble fixed. It will be extensive damage."
"Good. He will get no cooperation here. He will have to head back to the States as planned."
"Yes. Now, you'd better call your taxi back. I think I'll go join the group. I told them I had a headache but I don't want them to get suspicious."
"Oh, now, Senorita Brenda, why spoil a perfectly lovely evening? They don't expect you and we are here, together."
She gave him a cold look.
He stared directly into her eyes, his gaze unwavering. A shudder coursed through her body. Emilio wasn't going to take no for an answer. Finally, she could look at him no longer. He had stared her down. She took a deep breath, her thoughts frantic. How could she get rid of this dangerous man before he became belligerent?
"I would prefer it if you would leave now that our part of this deal is over," she said, forcing a note of calmness in her voice even though her stomach was jelly inside.
"A beautiful woman like you," he said, "alone on a night like this. How unsuitable. I think you would be very happy woman if Emilio made love to you. No? Well, I think so, Linda. Come with Emilio. Let him make your heart sing in your breast."
"Cut it out, Ortega. Just get the hell off the boat and leave me alone. You want to spoil everything?" she lashed out at him.
His anger boiled to the surface. He wasn't used to being turned down by women, not the kind of women he propositioned. He knew there was time. Brenda Miller was a very beautiful and desirable woman. He had no intentions of wasting such an opportunity to sample her charms and his manner let her know it. He reached out strong arms for her even as she backed away, ready to run.
"Don't fight me, or you will be hurt," he told her. "Get below and we make love, then it's over. What could be so difficult about that?"
"I don't like you," she said.
"You will," he promised, rising, his arms outstretched.
Brenda realized the folly of her flight. There was just no place to run. If she screamed, the Marines might report it. There would be an investigation, ugliness. She might be tied in with Ortega as an accomplice to murder. Still, she didn't savor being raped by this animal, this Mexican killer who was crueler than any man she had ever known. She determined to fight and maybe he would consider her not worth the trouble.
A moment later she was sorry about her decision to resist. Emilio was strong and his fury made him even stronger. When Brenda tried to run up on deck, he reached out and grabbed her by the ankle, pulling her back into the doghouse. Then he threw her down into the living quarters of the Desire, following after her like a cat. She rose up and tried to kick him, but he deftly stepped aside before hitting her hard in the stomach.
With the wind knocked out of her, he pounced on her, ripping savagely at her clothes. Her blouse came away like shredded cheesecloth, exposing her pert dove-beaked breasts, the creamy mounds bouncing free of the rent material. Next his strong hands went to the waistband of her capris. He wrenched and the garment parted like tissue paper, cutting into her skin where it held in the back.
"Don't, please," the woman pleaded. "Don't!"
"You have insulted my manhood now," he panted. "There is no further use of your begging me to stop what I must do." With that, he stripped her naked, exposing her lithe body to his lustful gaze.
Brenda cringed while his eyes burned into her flesh, traveled from her breasts down to the triangle of pubic hair. She saw the bulge in his trousers, the feverish light in his eyes.
She was breathless from being knocked about and her eyes went all over the cabin, trying to find a weapon. Her purse! It hung on the bunk! But he was between it and her. If she only had her purse she could stop this nonsense once and for all! It was so close and yet so far!
Emilio thought she meant to try and run past him up the ladder, perhaps to dive into the bay in order to escape him. He had no more patience with this American witch! He slipped out of his trousers, exposing his tumescent organ jutting out of his thighs like some giant cudgel. He removed the rest of his clothing until he was as naked as Brenda, then he stalked her like some reincarnation of Pan, his eyes gleaming strangely in the light of the cabin.
The terrified woman tried once more to dart around the wiry Mexican, but that was all that Emilio needed. He caught her with one sinewy arm and whirled her onto the lower bunk. He pounced on her, pinning her to the bed while he maneuvered for position. Brenda kicked and flailed with her fists, but the smuggler batted her blows aside easily. Soon he was face to face with the dark-haired beauty, staring into her smoky eyes while his body crushed her into submission, completely at his command.
"Now, must Emilio hurt you more to make you understand? This thing is going to happen to you, senorita. It would be good if you allowed it to happen without further violence."
Brenda gritted her teeth and glared at him, her hatred blazing out of control.
"I see. The woman does not want to cooperate. Bueno. Vamos a ver!"
The burly Mexican cuffed her with his forearm across the jaw, then closed his hand over her windpipe. Brenda fought for air, her eyes bulging in her head. As his hand tightened around her neck she realized that Emilio had won. He had attacked her where she could offer no further resistance. She tried to nod her head, but it wouldn't move. She was suffocating and there was no way to cry out, to tell him to go ahead and take her, only please let her breathe, let her have the precious air back in her lungs again.
Just as the room began swimming around, Emilio released his hold on her windpipe. Then he doubled up his fist and struck her hard on the fleshy part of one leg. She winced and quick tears sprang to her eyes. Emilio's hand then pushed her legs apart and found its way to her sex cleft, probing eagerly the thick thatch of hair between her legs, the soft mound beneath. Her body jumped involuntarily as his rough hand touched her there, rudely spread her lips wide exposing the pink flesh of her pussy. A crude finger roughly found its way inside, triggering for the clit, finding it and sending an electric shock through Brenda's body that caught her completely by surprise. "Wow!" she jumped.
"Ah, the gringa has been stimulated," said Emilio, renewing his trigger finger tickling of her clit.
"You bastard," she breathed, admonishing herself as well for crying out in that way. She tightened up her body, determined not to show any response to this raping madman.
"I admire a woman who has fire," said the Mexican. "Spirit can be exciting to a man when properly controlled."
"You'll never know."
Emilio merely smiled and continued pressing his naked weight on Brenda while he stimulated her clitoris with his finger, starting up the oils that would smooth his passage once he entered her. Despite her unwillingness to cooperate with the Mexican, Brenda found that his rough manipulation was having the desired effect. Electric sensations, tiny at first, began to jolt her body. She fought to keep them from showing, holding herself rigid, not moving when the sparks galvanized her body into spasmodic movement. The juices of sex began to flow inside her, though, and she saw Emilio's smile begin to spread over his swarthy face.
"The senorita is beginning to experience the passion, no?"
"No, the senorita is beginning to be bored," she retorted.
"The mouth lies, but the body tells the truth."
She knew he was right. Despite her deep loathing for Ortega, his damned finger was striking sparks from her flint of flesh, she knew. Why was it always this way? Once a man touched her, something inside her melted and all of her resolves disappeared with the twanging sensations of clitoral stimulation. Did they all know about her? About this magic button tucked up inside her? Once it was touched, her willpower vanished like warm breath on cold glass. It was happening again and she knew that the Mexican knew it too. Damn the bastard! He was going to get to her even though she could kill him for this, could shoot him just like she did ... but she didn't want to think about that anymore. It was in the past and had to stay there if she was ever to know peace of mind!
The gloating Ortega was satisfied that he had found the key to unlock Brenda's passion. For despite her verbal protests, her body was beginning to spasm, ever so slightly at first, under the direct contact of his finger to her throbbing clit. He could feel the ripples of pleasure start up inside her and move through her body like small quakes. He withdrew his finger and mounted her, in a hurry now to enter her, feel the heat he had generated.
Brenda's eyes widened as the Mexican rose up over her. She looked down at his swollen cock, its purplish head glistening with precoi-tal fluid. She tightened up her legs, fighting a last-ditch battle to prevent his taking her in rape. When she saw him scowl, his face darken like a thundercloud, however, she thought better of it and pulled her legs apart once again. Maybe he was like the Mexicans she heard about, a quick pop and that was it-wham! bam! Thank you, ma'am!
He stabbed into her with his cock, smoothly and swiftly, diving deep on the first rapacious thrust.
Brenda let out an involuntary sigh. "Bueno. You will like this," said Ortega. "Relax, mi Linda, and let Emilio warm your heart. You will enjoy it."
She almost spit in his face, but his cock was distracting her, churning into her love tunnel with fiery force, burning across the tip of her clit bud. Her body began to writhe under the impalement of his throbbing hammer. Her body slapped against his as he drove deep. The weight of his body on hers pressed her into the bunk and she knew it was useless to even pretend further resistence to his forcible copulation.
She came almost immediately, in a series of firecrackery orgasms that left her weak and submissive. His probing prick made her mind light up with explosions as her body bucked in the spasmodic throes of multiple climaxes. The Mexican seemed to fill her up and empty her, all at once, as he sheathed and unsheathed his white-hot sword of flesh. She arched her back and let him go deep where she surrounded him with her warm wet pussy flesh, sucking at him as her legs flew high in the air in total abandonment of all protests against this violation of her body.
"Muy bueno," Emilio breathed. "Muy muy bueno."
Brenda was silent, gritting her teeth in sweet agony. She was cumming so fast she could scarcely breathe. The Mexican was caught up in the excitement and began to pound into her with hard hurting strokes that hammered out his lust. She locked her legs around his waist then and held him deep inside as his body began to surrender to the beginnings of his own climax. The Mexican felt himself going and tried to hold back his own orgasm, but her grip around his waist was relentless. She held him inside her while she pumped up and down on his cock until, in a rush of bright lights crashing on white mountain peaks, he exploded inside her. It was over as quickly as it had begun as his seminal vesicles emptied his seed.
He rolled off her, half drunk with the draining ecstasy of his orgasm and that's when Brenda saw her opportunity. Even though her body was tingling with the flushed excitement of her own series of climaxes, she was ready for this opportunity. She kicked, hard, her heel catching the Mexican in the jaw. His head rocked back against the galley table and for a moment he was too stunned to react against this sudden and unexpected attack.
Brenda sprang for her purse hanging on the bunk. Quickly, she reached inside and drew the gleaming .25 automatic out in one smooth movement. She clicked the safety off and
Emilio was staring into the small round hole of death. He gulped and croaked, trying to find his frozen voice.
"Now, you greasy Mexican bastard, get your fucking clothes on."
"St, don't shoot," he stammered. He dressed quickly and stood there as the naked woman held the gun on him.
"Up on deck, you prick," she ordered.
"But-but you liked it, Senorita Brenda, did you not?"
"I don't like to be raped, you scummy son-of-a-bitch. Move!"
The Mexican stood up on the deck, trembling, the automatic in his back.
"Jump overboard," she ordered.
"I can't swim, please," he pleaded.
"Jump or I'll blow your brains out like you did Denver's," she said, her voice steel. He knew she meant it. He jumped and then began flailing the water. He tried to scream, but the water gagged him as he went under for the second time. He surfaced spluttering, his eyes wide in panic. No, this was a humiliating way to die. Perhaps she would relent and let him climb aboard. But the tide was already in motion, sucking him out to sea while his legs kicked futilely beneath him. He sank again, barely seeing Brenda on deck, the gun aimed at his head. Below, the darkness smothered him as he gulped in water instead of oxygen. He sank as though chained to the bottom of the sea.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Desire slipped her moorings at dawn the next morning and chugged slowly out of the harbor. Rambo stood proudly at the tiller while the girls tended the sails, ready for hoisting. It was still black as pitch and the wake shone phosphorous as they passed the muelle and the stone jetty, moved smoothly into the Bahia de Todos Santos.
Dixie hoisted the job and Rambo made it secure with his special rigging through the blocks. Brenda and Candy helped set the mainsail and the actor shut off the engine when the sails were secure. The Desire creaked as the wind caught the sails and put tension on the lines. He set course for Punta Banda planning to clear land's end there, then roll for La Paz on a course thirty miles at sea. There was a fresh brisk breeze to bite into and Rambo exulted as his sails billowed out and they began to pick up speed. The girls scrambled back into the doghouse, chilled by the air on deck. They were all excited and laughing.
"Hey, crew, you were great," said the actor.
"Wow, this is really something," said Brenda. feeling better for the first time since last night. She had watched Emilio sink for the last time and stood on deck a long time listening until finally she had gone below and dressed. There were no traces of the Mexican aboard when finally Rambo, Dixie, and Candy had returned shortly after midnight, reasonably sober. They were sorry she hadn't gone and she had sure missed a good supper and did she feel better? They had all talked for a while then plopped wearily into their bunks waiting for this moment when they were finally underway, fully stocked for the trip south.
Now, for the first time in days, Brenda felt secure. There was more danger ahead, she knew, but this peace of being under sail did a lot for the soul and the body. She was grateful and calm, excited even. She was slightly sorry that it was too late to turn back. It would be fun, she thought, to just sail all the way with this handsome man standing so tall at the tiller.
They cleared Punta Banda, looking like a small Diamond Head, just as the sun began to pour peach flakes over Ensenada. The foursome looked back at the long curving coastline of the bay and waved in mock solemnity before breaking out in joyous laugher.
"Hey, break out the champagne, Dixie," Rambo shouted into the teeth of the wind. "Let's celebrate!"
"Right on!" the ex-model said, scrambling below for the chilled bottles they had set on top just for this special occasion. Brenda and Candy brought the plastic champagne glasses out and after Rambo popped the cork overboard to the sound of more laughter, Dixie poured four portions of the bubbling liquid into the hollow spaces.
"A toast!" cried Candy.
"Little Orphan Annie proposes a toast," said Rambo in glee.
"Right on!" answered the freckle-faced girl.
"Here's to Rambo Burke and his all-girl crew!" said Dixie, her smile infectious. Rambo thought she looked beautiful. They all raised their glasses to each other and then drank heartily of the champagne.
"More, more!" said Brenda, refilling the glasses. "And now I propose a toast."
"Give it!" said Dixie, warmed by her drink.
"Here's to the Desire! Long may she sail!"
"To the Desire!" they all shouted.
Two bottles of champagne later they were all half bombed, especially Dixie. The champagne had wiped her out inexplicably and she was again sad about her drinking problem. The last toast, from Rambo, had been to the success of his own mating desires and she knew he was going to ball either Brenda or Candy before she herself got the privilege. Well, she sometimes enjoyed watching or listening to him make love with someone else and she supposed it would be the same this trip. She wondered which girl would be the lucky one. Rambo was always horny when he got to sea, hornier than ashore, which was saying something.
The Desire cleared the coast and headed out to sea, away from the shipping lanes. Rambo navigated by dead reckoning and he knew this coast. He headed for an island where he sometimes traded vodka for lobster. Once his course was set, he let Dixie take the helm, while he went below, feeling the need for a woman.
He chose Brenda, partly because he was intrigued by her, partly because he was punishing Candy for holding out on him that day. Even though he admired the redheaded girl's integrity, he was still regretful that he had been turned down by her when they first met. He sent her topside to check all the gear while he grabbed another bottle of champagne and collared the slender Brenda, seating her at the galley table.
"More champagne for us, my dear," he smiled. "Then I'm going to make love to you as a kind of christening ceremony."
"Is that a tradition aboard the Desire?" she asked.
"It is," he said. "It is a hidebound tradition, one never broken by fainthearted maid."
"I'm sure. Well," she sighed, "if it's inevitable, I might as well earn my seaman's papers."
"Now, that's a girl."
Both of them were aware that there was no privacy aboard. They could hear Candy on deck, noisily arranging things so that they were secure. They could see Dixie's legs as she sat at the tiller. It made no difference to them. The champagne and Rambo's deep blue eyes worked their magic on Brenda. She gazed at him in rapt expression of frank hero worship as he talked love words to her. There was something exciting about being under sail and knowing that this handsome man was going to make love to her. She found herself getting excited, more excited than she had been in a long time. Her last two lovers had entered her despite her adverse wishes, but Rambo was different. She wanted him!
Naked together, Brenda became the aggressor, eager from the champagne and the thrill of being at sea, away from the conventions of shore. She lay beside the tall man, exulting in his nakedness and her own. She took his manhood in her hands and stroked it to a swollen scepter of love while he caressed her small firm breasts, tweaking the nipples with his fingers. They were both happy to be together and they paid no attention to the noises above. They only heard the whispering of the waves along the hull and the creak of the boat as she strained to hold her course in close-hauled speed, deftly handled by the experienced Dixie.
Brenda tasted the lemony seepings of his pre-coital fluid, licking his cock like an ice cream cone, delighting in the pulsing organ she held in her hand. Rambo's other hand was nuzzling her sex furrow, fingering the lips of her pussy with exciting dexterity. Overcome by the sight and feel of his massive organ, she took it inside her steaming mouth, laving it with a gentle tongue. It pulsed like a heart in her throat as she sucked it in and down, swallowing its throbbing bulk.
"Hey, that's wild, Brenda," he told her.
She mumbled and continued to suckle him, stroking the veins as his hard penis slid in and out of her throat. A fire began in her own loins as his finger slid inside her, stroked the tuberous tip of her clitoris. Her hips began to writhe in ecstatic response to his finger-nudging excitation. Soon she was ready for him to enter her and she spewed out his saliva-slickened prick. She slid him over, surprising him with her strength.
"Hey, what?" he asked.
"Quiet, you big brute. I'm going to get on top."
"That's not my style, baby," he said.
"I feel like it. Now shut up."
Grinning, he watched the slender woman as she slithered over his naked body. She straddled his form and held onto his cock as though it were a joystick in an old airplane. She positioned it, then lowered herself on the gleaming shaft, a long sigh escaping from her lips as his swollen member slid home. Then she began pumping up and down, long smooth strokes that triggered her clit every time she buried him inside her. Her wide-stretched cunt seemed to devour his cock, squeezing it with every stroke.
Rambo put his hands on Brenda's breasts, fondling them as she pumped up and down on his rod. She put her hands on his chest and began to quiver as the first tingle of orgasm shuddered through her lean sexy body. She was enjoying herself after the manhandling of the previous night when Ortega had sated himself with her body. She was glad she didn't have to shoot him, glad that his evilness was gone from the world. She felt in the clear at last, with only one more real hurdle to face before the final payoff.
Her first orgasm hit her with all the force of a pile driver, having built up slowly. She shook all over and Rambo smiled to see her eyes roll back in her head, the lids covering them finally until she rocked atop him in mindless satisfaction. As he watched, gently kneading her breasts and nipples, she shuddered again and again as the climaxes followed one another in chain reaction to her screwing. She skewered herself down on his knob, burying it to the scrotum, held herself there while she trembled in every fibre of her being.
"Ah, ah," she moaned, "that's sooooo good!"
"Yeah, Brenda, wild!"
But he sensed a hardness and a coldness beneath her pleasurable moanings. She was almost machine-like atop him, deriving pleasure for herself, but imparting very little to him. He was enjoying the variety, but he would rather have controlled the situation himself. Well, let her have what she wanted. When he was ready, he would take her and fuck her until she blew her mind. He let her pump up and down on his shaft a while longer, then urged her over on her back. Surprise registered on her face as he attacked the splayed pinkness of her wide-open cunt, ramming into her as deep as he could go.
At that moment, Candy came down the ladder and saw the two on the bunk fucking away. She felt a stab of bitterness, but found herself fascinated by the weird tangle of flesh. She could see the slick hard shaft of Rambo plundering the flared pink cunt of Brenda and she felt a heated stirring in her own loins.
"Well, man, you really are fucking her, aren't you?" she commented dryly.
"Yeah, go away, or shut up," he said, puffing from the exertion.
"I'd like a little of that myself," Candy said, pouting.
"Your turn will come," he promised.
With that, Candy went back topside to commiserate with Dixie. It was all she could do. She couldn't bear to watch any longer and not be satisfied herself.
Rambo finished off the slender girl quick, driving into her with a force that shattered her ravished body, spinning her up into orgasmic heights until she could scarcely catch her breath anymore. Her whole body seemed to be impaled on a fast-turning spit that hung over a searing fire. Waves of pleasure surged through her flesh as his hard cock touched every sensitive portion of her scalding cavern. She bucked and screamed, thrashing about on the bunk in the anguished throes of multiple explosions. She flowed juices all over his manhood and felt him tauten as his own climax approached. She held onto him, screaming in ecstasy, as he hurdled the point of no return, imploding his thick milky cum into the deepest part of her.
When it was over, they lay there sweat-soaked, while above there was the sound of applause. Brenda blushed and Rambo let a wide grin spread over his visage. He was happy. He had taken her plum and found a release for his libidinous yearnings. He was glad that he had taken Brenda in this way, because now he could concentrate on seducing Candy. He had a hunch that after seeing him ball Brenda that this would be no problem. This was the life he loved, under sail, free of constraining shore-side restrictions, and he lived it to the hilt. After he and Brenda had dressed, he took her topside where the four of them just stared at one another and laughed riotously.
"It's a good life," he said.
"For you it is," said Dixie, glad that her man was happy. She was still tipsy from the champagne as all of them were.
Rambo took a look at the morning sky and whistled. He could see a storm building up to the south. He showed Candy and Brenda how to manage the rigging on the sails and steer with the tiller. This took about a half hour. He checked the barometer later and saw that it was falling. Well, it would be at least a day before they ran into any weather, but he wanted to be prepared for it. He told his crew what they might expect and they didn't seem too worried.
"If we get into trouble, we can always throw out a sea anchor or haul to along the coast. From now on, let's keep a watch on the pennant flying on top of the mast. If the wind circles we'd better be on our guard."
"Sounds like fun," said Candy.
"It might be," Rambo agreed. "You never know."
The next morning the Desire ran into weather while Candy was on watch. Terrified, she called Rambo. The boat was hit by a sudden gust of wind that threatened to rip down the mainsail. Soon, heavy seas began to toss the forty-footer around like a cork. Rambo trimmed the sails and all hands turned to in order to secure everything that might roll around or break. Rains, buckets of water, drenched the sailboat, as the storm hit in all its violent fury. Rambo hauled down the mainsail and kept the spinnaker up for stability as he headed the Desire into the face of the winds.
"We won't make it unless we switch to power," he told the girls. "As soon as I kick the engine in, Dixie, haul in the jib, we're going to beat to weather and see if we can ride this sonofabitch out. Brenda and Candy, you see that everything loose is tied up secure and batten down the hatches. It looks like a hell of a blow and we're miles from shore!"
Everyone scrambled after he gave the orders and when he started the engine, Dixie brought in the jib sheet and they were wallowing under power right into the brunt of the storm. Brenda promptly got seasick down in the cabin and Rambo ordered her up on deck.
"In fact, all of you stay close. The air'll do you good and that way we won't lose anybody overboard or with their head stuck in the toilet." So the girls gathered in the doghouse, except for Brenda who sat outside with Rambo, her face chalk white until the color gradually returned. Wind and spray stung the faces of the captain and the girl but they loved it. Soon, they were both soaked. Dixie tuned the radio in for weather but the static was too much for the Hallicrafter and she soon gave it up.
"Nothing to do but ride it out," Rambo yelled into the wind, just as the yacht dove ten feet down into a trough only to rise again, its prow shaking water out of its teeth like a dunked dog coming out of a pond.
For two more hours it was touch and go as the storm crashed around them. Candy was visibly frightened and soon joined Rambo and Brenda at the tiller. The chug chug of the motors was the only security she could feel. Brenda realized that they were in a bad situation because she had fixed it so the electrical system would short out at any time. She began to regret ever tampering with it, but to open the hatch now and fix the wires would open up her part in a conspiracy that would prove to be her downfall. She had to sit there and grit her teeth and hope the storm would blow over before the engine failed. She prayed that this would happen, prayed that the short would hold off a while longer.
But then it happened.
There was a cough, a sputter, and the engine died, just as the Desire was caught broadside by a large wave. It almost broached, but Rambo maneuvered the boat out of difficulty through sheer handling dexterity. A few seconds later he noticed smoke pouring out of the engine housing and his nostrils were assailed by the acrid odor of burning wiring.
"Oh, shit," he exclaimed. "Take the tiller, Dixie. Hold her into the wind. Brenda, run up that jib. Quick! Candy, stand by to toss the sea anchor!"
In seconds he had given the important orders and opened the engine hatch. Billows of smoke poured out, blinding and choking him so that he had to stagger back or be overcome by the mass of heat and fume. He ripped a small fire extinguisher off the bulkhead but realized that it was useless in an electrical fire. The Desire looked like a ship of the line under attack as the heavy clouds of smoke poured out of the engine hatch. Somewhere down there was foam, he knew, and he groped blindly for it. That was the only thing that would smother the fire that, at this point, could destroy the boat.
Finally, choking and gasping, his hand found the foam extinguisher. He extracted it and began to spray the smoking wires. Soon he had the fire under control and there was only a trickle of smoke issuing from the housing when he finally sat back on the leatherette and drew a deep breath. The storm continued to thrash around them, but already he could sense that they had borne the brunt of its muscled attack. The Desire was holding well into the wind and the waves were smoothing out.
Soon, they spotted a clearing in the storm and after sailing farther out to sea, they left the weather behind them.
"Hoist the mainsail," he told Dixie and Brenda, while he took the tiller. As the wind took hold, he breathed easier, thankful that nothing serious had happened. The short in the wires could have meant End of the boat and all of them. He knew now that they would not be able to continue south with the engine out. He heeled the boat around and set course for Ensenada, cursing the fates.
"What happened?" Dixie asked him when she finished on deck.
"I don't know. A short of some kind. I just checked the wiring out, too."
"I know, it doesn't make sense."
"Well," he said, "these things happen."
But did they, he wondered. First Jack had tried to warn him about Brenda and then somebody had snuffed the poor bastard. Then this. Could there be a connection? He shot a furtive look at the slender woman who was in the cabin making a fresh pot of coffee. That was nonsense, he told himself. She was endangering herself. Still, it was funny how the wires burned out not long after he started the engine. Why didn't that happen as they were steaming out of port under power? Was it sabotage? If so, was it done after they sailed? And, if it was sabotage, why was it done? What the hell difference could it make to anyone whether he sailed south or not?
The whole idea was screwy and he rejected all of the thoughts that poured into his mind like water over a dam. There wasn't anything concrete to base any sort of suspicions on and he had no room for speculation. No, it was useless to follow a bunch of blind alleys in this way. Instead, he told himself he would keep his eyes open and his ears as well. Something was funny and he meant to find out what he could before it was too late.
"I've set course for Ensenada," he told the girls. "We have to head back in for repairs. I think we can bypass the storm, so we couldn't have any more trouble. You should know, though, that we don't have any power except our sails. If we get in trouble we're like the Kon Tiki or The Spray. We've got to sail through it."
"Man," said Candy, "I hope we can get back all right."
"We will," he said. "Brenda, how about you? Seasickness all gone?" He tried to hide a trace of sarcasm and apparently succeeded.
"Fine, Rambo. The fresh air did it."
"Good. Now, everybody relax and tomorrow, with this wind behind us, we should be back in old Ensenada. Then a quick electrical job and we're headed south again."
"Swell," said Candy, who went below then to pour out four steaming cups of coffee while they all stripped out of their wet clothes. They were all naked for a while, basking in the hot sun that soon reappeared. Candy could feel Rambo's eyes roaming over her naked body as she lay on deck warming herself as the boat sailed at six knots close-hauled before the wind. She turned to look at him once and their eyes met for a long instant. She sighed deeply and wished that he would come to her at that moment and do to her what he had done to Brenda. The warm breezes over her nude body caressed her as she lay back down, still feeling Rambo's eyes roaming over her breasts and down her legs, down to where she ached for him to be.
Brenda gloated with satisfaction. It was just as Emilio had told her it would be. There wasn't an electrician in town who would come out to the boat. They all told a similar story. "Manana. Next week. Too busy."
"Damn them!" Rambo said. He crawled down into the engine housing to inspect the damage and saw that two fires had fused, but he couldn't tell if they had been sabotaged or not. He bought wire and tried to rewire the system, but got lost in the maze of diagrams and finally gave it up. It was beyond his knowledge to repair the damage.
"We'll have to go to San Diego," he told the girls. "Shelter Cove, I guess. We can get it fixed up there. Another week shot to shit."
"When are we going to leave?" Dixie asked him.
"Tomorrow morning."
"Can I go ashore?" she asked. "Please?"
"I'm going ashore, Dixie. You can go with me," Brenda offered.
"Sure, Dixie. Go with Brenda. I'll stay here and see if I can figure this thing out one more time."
Dixie was exuberant. She was usually not allowed to go ashore in Ensenada because Rambo was embarrassed by her drinking. She didn't stop to think that he was letting her go ashore with Brenda because he wanted to be alone with Candy. She was so anxious to get away from the boat before he changed his mind that she blew the boat whistle immediately, calling a taxi out to the Desire. She and Brenda were gone within a half an hour, leaving Rambo and Candy alone aboard the yacht.
"You know what will happen now, don't you, Dixie?" Brenda said cruelly after they got off at the dock near the Kon-Tiki, a floating restaurant.
"What do you mean?" asked the ex-model.
"With Rambo and that Candy?"
"Oh, I never thought about it."
"Okay. But they'll be lovers, of course."
Dixie looked at Brenda with astonishment.
"Of course. I know that. Weren't you, too?" Her voice was sweetly malicious and Brenda had to turn away with bitterness.
"Touche," she said. "I guess I had that coming. Look, Dixie, what do you want to do ashore?"
"Oh, just walk around. Go to Hussong's. How about you?"
"I-I have a couple of errands to run. Why don't I meet you at Hussong's later on? In an hour or so. Okay?"
"Sure, Brenda. Want me to go with you?"
"Uh, no, that's all right. I-I'll meet you later on."
"Okay. I'll be at Hussong's." Dixie wanted a drink and that was her favorite spot. She was glad that Brenda was going her own way. They said goodbye and Brenda hailed a taxi which she ordered to take her to the Villa Marina, in the opposite direction of Hussong's, along Avenida Primera. Arriving there, she went to the bar and had a drink while she composed herself. She had to talk to Braden, but she was afraid of telling him the truth about Ortega. Yet, what other course was there? Maybe he already knew. Anyway, she had to call him anyway to tell him the sailing plans. She decided, when she finished her mar-guerita and called another cab that she would just play it by ear.
The taxi took her to the telephone company a couple of blocks behind Hussong's. There, she placed a call to the number Braden had given her. The operator called her booth several moments later to tell her that her "party was on the line."
"This is Brenda," she said into the mouthpiece.
"Braden here, Brenda," said the raspy voice in the telephone. "Everything cool?"
"Yes," she said, her voice quavering. "Tomorrow morning."
"Good. The coffee okay?"
"Yes, yes it is. Everything went fine."
"How about our Mexican friend?"
She paused a long time before answering.
"He-he's gone."
"Gone?"
"Long gone," she said, stifling the hysterical compulsion to giggle. "I-I had to kiss him goodbye. He-he sent someone else away before that."
"Yeah, Fluger and I heard about that. Too bad. Any problems, then?"
"No, Roger, no problems. I'll just be glad to get back home, though."
"Where's he headed?"
"Shelter Cove, San Diego. All right? He wants to get back on course right away."
Braden laughed on the other end of the line.
"We'll put him on course. You did all right, Brenda. We'll see you at the dock, sweetie."
"Okay. 'Bye."
" 'Bye, kid."
She hung up. Somehow she didn't like the tone of his voice when he said that last 'bye. According to the arrangements, the Desire would dock and they would unload the gold. Then she would be paid her final payment. Sounded simple, but now she was somehow suspicious. She couldn't put her finger on the reason why, but she was sure that Braden wasn't going to play fair anymore. He and Fluger were about as trustworthy as a couple of foxes in a henhouse. Yet they had been square with her before, about the money. Why not now? Well, maybe there was nothing wrong on the other end. Yet things had been right down here. Braden had said no rough stuff and now two men were dead. Hmmm.
She put her hands to her throat as she left the telephone office, feeling strangely chill in the hot afternoon sunlight. Maybe everything was all right, but maybe it wasn't. She had a hunch that Roger Braden knew a lot more about the last few days than she had given him credit for. In fact, she would bet that he knew a lot more about the next few days than she ever would.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The dazzling Ensenada sun glinted on the deck's bright work while Rambo stood looking out over the harbor. Something was wrong. He looked around him but could see nothing. He looked back at the harbor and the same thing struck him. A flash of light momentarily blinded him. He followed the pathway of his eyes and saw it. Puzzled, he walked over to the mainmast. Funny, he thought. That wasn't there before. He reached up and peeled off the strip of silvery tape that clung to the mast. He turned it over in his hands. Somebody had put that there. Recently. He stuck the tape in his pocket. Very strange, he thought. A lot of things were very strange. Jack Denver, a stranger talking to Brenda, the electrical fire, and now this. Well, there was no immediate solution to the puzzle. He went below, a frown on his face.
Candy was lying on her bunk reading a paperback. He stepped over to a closet and opened it. Inside, he pulled another handle and another closet slid out. There were rifles, pistols and ammunition in the concealed rack and closet. He checked every weapon, a .30-30 carbine, a .30-06 deer rifle, two .22 automatic rifles, a .45 automatic pistol, a .357 magnum and a .38 Special. He took the .38 out, a snub-nosed Colt Agent and put it under the pillow on his bunk. If there was something funny going on, and there was every indication that there was, he didn't want to be caught short changed if it erupted in violence aboard the Desire. Candy looked at him curiously.
"What's up?" she asked.
He walked back over to the closet, closed both doors and turned to face her.
"I don't know," he said. "Maybe nothing. I just want to make sure nothing happens later on."
Candy sat up on her bunk.
"Like what?"
"Like another murder."
The freckle-faced girl gasped. "Are you serious, Rambo?"
"Sort of. No one knows about that gun cabinet except you, me, and Dixie. Let's keep it that way."
"All right. What about Brenda?"
"Exactly. What about Brenda?"
"She seems okay to me. I don't know her that well."
"Yeah, well, neither do I. We'll just keep our eyes open, okay?"
"Okay." She looked as puzzled as Rambo was and he laughed at her pixie-like expression.
"Now, don't worry about anything right now, kid," he said soothingly. "Let's just keep this a secret between ourselves."
"Sure, Rambo. Nothing like a secret between buddies to make them close, huh?"
"Are you teasing me?"
"Maybe," she pouted. "I was just thinking.
That's the only secret you and I have together."
"Heh, heh."
"Don't you wish we had a bigger one to keep?"
"Hell, you can't keep big secrets aboard a boat this size."
"Well, we could try," she said. "Yes. We could try."
He went over to her bunk and sat down beside her. He looked into her brown eyes for a long time, tenderly, wondering what thoughts she had back of them. She looked so young and innocent sitting there, her hair the color of russet hills in autumn, burnished like dark old copper. He put out his hand and touched hers. She smiled at him, her eyes twinkling. Rambo squeezed her hand and then took her in his arms. He held her very tightly for a moment or two, feeling the warmth of her body through the thin sweater she wore. Her braless breasts seemed to snuggle into his chest as he held her.
"You're very sweet, you know," he told her.
"Thank you. So are you."
"Why did it take us so long to get together?"
"I don't know," she said. "Maybe that's the way it was supposed to be."
"Do you really believe that."
"I believe things are meant to happen. I think the best things happen naturally."
"Maybe."
"This seems very natural to me, Rambo."
"Yes," he said, "yes, it does."
He crushed her to him again and ran his fingers through her thick auburn hair, kneading her scalp with his fingertips. She seemed to purr like a kitten. She nestled closer to him as he tucked her in his arms. He liked the clean smell of hair, like the sea, and he knew she had washed it while he had been tinkering with the electrical system. He sniffed deep and squeezed her body with his arms. She moaned softly, like a kitten, and he closed his eyes thinking of her and how young she was. She felt good in his arms. She smelled good. He wanted her very much.
Something about her took him back a long ways. She conjured up images of fresh green grasses in the barefoot boyhood spring, of schoolyards and laughter ringing over the fences of a small town, of ribbons and bobby sox, bicycles singing along asphalt summer highways and hayfields stretching over into the next county, their smell heady and pungent, like stolen wine. He caressed her with his hands, thinking of these old gone things, wondering if she could ever know how he felt at this moment. He had lost them with the fame, with the money, the goal of success. Suddenly, the striving didn't seem so important anymore. He could have passed it all by if he could have seen into the future. Well, maybe he could go back there, to that small town where he grew up, where he loved and laughed all the happy heart day and where he heard and saw and smelled and felt, like now. He sighed deeply and held Candy so that he could look into her eyes again. They twinkled with the things he had just seen in his mind, and he pulled her head close to him, chucking her under the chin.
He kissed her as one would a child. Her response was slow, but warm, her lips faintly pulsing as he crushed them to his. She tingled all over, strangely delirious in the crush of the tall man's tenderly enfolding arms, heated through and through by his gentle kiss. She had never known anything quite like this before, this vagabond girl whom nobody seemed to really want. She had run away from an orphanage, Little Orphan Annie he called her, not guessing the truth, and had bummed from coast to coast, never feeling at home, always running, into this pad and that pad, crashing here, running there, smoking grass, drinking too much, fucking too many different guys, all colors, all breeds, hop on a motorcycle, thumb a ride through Colorado, Minnesota, Pennsylvania, on the run through all the lonely places of this great vast landscape that never stops for anyone, hungry most of the time, broke, friendless, San Francisco, L.A., Berdoo, Tijuana, Ensenada, up and down the California freeway hype, burning to love, having only a body to give in return for bread, a sleeping blanket in the corner of a bare room in Big Sur. Now this man, this famous man was kissing her, running his fingers through her hair, holding her tight, giving her a feeling that blotted out all the mad weeping running days and nights in so many crazy blurred towns.
She opened her mouth to him and slithered her tongue past his lips. Her thighs began to burn with a foxfire glow that seeped through her flesh and jeans. The dampness of desire oiled her honey pot between her legs as her tongue eagerly sought his. Tongue to tongue they spoke of their double heats, the fire in their loins. Madder and madder they kissed, caught up in the sultry sensuousness of each other, embraced in a preliminary expression of desire that flowed through their bodies like napalm coursing out of control.
"Oh, Rambo," she breathed. "Oh, Rambo, man."
"Jesus, Candy. You make it tough on a guy."
She laughed, a little more delirious than she was before. She kissed him on the lips and drew away, teasing. He went after her, tumbled her back on the bunk and began to kiss her harder, first on the lips, then the neck, ear lobes and chest. Her skin flamed like a spring peach. They tussled together, his hands finding her breasts and squeezing them like marshmallows, she reaching for the bulge in his trousers, squeezing him back.
The heat grew between them. They undressed like somnambulants, hurried, their eyes fixed in space. There was no time. They had to meld into one another, flesh to flesh. Naked, they continued their embracing, their caresses. like hypnotized subjects, they silently kissed. Rambo's hands were shadowy birds over the freckled landscape of her skin, fluttering from breast to breast, to the curve of her hips, the valley of her thighs, the gentle hillock of her tummy, the rising slope of her breasts. Heat between them growing.
Her hands, too, were busy. Butterflies in the garden of his flesh. Her hands buried in his thighs, pulling on the stalk, urging it to thickness and heat. The heat, growing, growing, between them. His cock, bulging now, engorged with fresh pulsing blood, seeping the juices of love, Candy eyeing its lone eye like a butterfly a flower. The reddish-purple head of it mushroomed into an instrument of penetration, ready for her as she bent to take it into her mouth as the heat grew and grew between them, cellular, neoplasm, growing, growing.
His kisses roamed from her lips again, roamed all over her body. She began to respond in the same way, kissing him everywhere, everywhere there was flesh and heat growing between them. His mouth traveled down the slope of her belly until it found the thicket of her sex cleft. They came together like ballet dancers in slow motion, mouths exploring the flesh-like organisms, protoplasmic creations that sought out the source of the heat. So it was that his mouth fastened on the furrow of her pussy, his tongue probing the soft flesh of the lips while hers locked on his swollen cock in a fellating caress. She sucked his prick into her mouth and throat, tongued its flared purplish head, lapped at its tart juices while he tongued her pink cunt, buried his face between her legs, found her clit bud hiding and urged it out, tingling, from its tiny cave until it grew with the same heat that had now grown between them, melded them together into one entity.
They sixty-nined each other in silence, absorbed with the pleasures of each other's flesh, gorging themselves on sensations. Candy's freckled head bobbed over Rambo's huge cock, swallowing its length as he lapped at her scalding cunt, setting up the first undulations of vaginal orgasm with the expert linguistics of sex and love. Each of them seemed mesmerized by the other's body.
They were slow and thoughtful with each other during this foreplay activity that had made them grow together in heat and passion. There was the absence of time or place, only the heat of them together. The young girl was stoned on the enormous cock she took into her mouth, the actor out of his mind on the yielding cunt he tongued. Drunk together on the musk of each other, they continued their oral lovemaking for a long sweet time, minutes, hours, years of delicious time that made no difference to either of them in their heat. They were locked to each other, stoned, hypnotized, blind to the world that basked on the edge of space far beyond their pallet of amorous delight. They exulted in the ambrosia of sex that they drank in the springs of each other, giddy on the aromas and the tastes of love they lapped from the places of heat.
When they were satisfied with this part of their yearning for each other, they came apart like gliding dancers in slow motion, locking into each other again, Rambo on top, Candy on the bottom, classical positioning, while his surging cock searched for the tiny cunt hole buried between honey lips underneath thick dark pubic hair. Her hand found his probing member, guided it to the hot damp hole, pushed with her hips, impaling herself on the swollen head of it as a gasp rushed from her lips.
"Oh, Rambo, Rambo, darling, you're in me, in my pussy. I love it, love it, man!"
"Candy, you're all woman, hot woman."
"Hot man!"
"Yes, yes," he breathed, pushing into her cunt, feeling it yield and flow around his manhood.
Once inside, Rambo became an essential part of her, like the heat that was now theirs together. There was no separation anymore. They were each other. He drove his cock to the core of her cunt and it was absorbed into her until they were one mass of flesh there on the bunk, pulsing, cunting and cocking together, throbbing with surging blood as they fucked.
They clawed and rolled, bucked and bounced together, one mass of fucking flesh, hands moving here and there like berserk swallows gone crazy from the heat. Her finger traced the pathway down the cleft of his buttocks, probed inside the tight anal opening, while his did the same. They pounded together, their flesh making big smacking sounds in the stillness of the cabin.
Candy threw her legs up in the air, wrapped them around the actor's neck. They rocked together back and forth while his cock pistoned in and out of her eagerly squeezing cunt. Wracked with the explosions of orgasms, her body convulsed with each stroke of his plundering cock. She moaned and screamed, seemed determined to bury his cock so far inside her womb he could never retrieve it. He humped her, straining for the same effect while she writhed in the delirious throes of serial orgasms, one following the other so quickly there was no longer any definition, merely one gigantic climax that was part of the awesome heat between them.
"You sweet girl, you're going out of your mind," he said.
"I-I love it so. Rambo, I've never been fucked like this before."
"Me neither."
"Oh, God, it's so good. So terribly good. Your cock is all the way up inside me. I'm cumming so much I'm soaked."
"I know," he grinned. "You're delicious."
"So are you."
"I don't want this to stop, ever," he told her.
"Umm, wouldn't that be nice? It is nice."
And then they looked into each other's eyes again. He took her even higher into delirium, plumbing her steamy depths with his ravishing cock so that once again her body bucked and thrashed with serial orgasmic explosions. He, too, felt himself caught on the same up and down roller coaster. The friction of his cock going in and out of her tight little pussy set his seeds to boiling in his scrotum. Soon he cried out as he ejaculated, spewing out his sperm while Candy held him very tightly inside her pussy. He came and came, thick strings of milky droplets that seemed never to end, spurting into the young girl's womb until he was drained, sated with her, completely fulfilled.
"I'm so happy, Rambo," she said, after they had both caught their breaths.
"Me, too. I'm glad you held me off, made me wait." He sighed with satisfaction.
"I did that because I didn't want you to be disappointed."
"Disappointed?"
"Don't, Rambo. I'm very shy about that."
"Well, let me tell you something, Candy, you don't have to worry about your sexual technique. You've got more to give than experience, kid. You've got warmth and feeling."
"Do you mean that?" she purred.
He looked at her earnestly. "Of course I mean it."
She reached out her hand for his. "You make me very happy when you say things like that."
He squeezed her hand.
"Well, I'm very full up today, Candy. I feel great. Shall we go into town? Our last fling for a while. I won't even hit Ensenada on the way back down. We'll head straight for La Paz, flat out."
"Okay. Let's go to town. I don't care what we do anymore, after this. We've done it all right there."
"I agree," he grinned, hopping out of the bunk.
She laughed with him, but as he dressed, her eyes were very pensive. She wanted him again, but she didn't want him to know. They might never get off the boat. And if they didn't, well, who cared? Certainly not she.
Rambo rowed the Desire's dinghy ashore instead of calling a taxi. He felt strong, exhilarated by the sex with the freckle-faced Little Orphan Annie. As they passed the first dock, he was conscious of a man's eyes on his neck. He moored at the second dock and they climbed ashore, walked up the ramp. Rambo looked over his shoulder as they started to walk away from the marina parking lot. There was no mistake now. The man who had been staring at them was walking their way. Rambo stopped, curious. He waited for the chunky, leather-skinned Mexican to catch up with them.
"Senor," the man said, when he came up. "I have a question for to ask you."
"Who are you?" Rambo asked. "Quien eres tu?"
"Me llamo Reuben. I speak English."
Rambo looked at the man. He recognized him. He more or less "owned" that first dock there and yet none of the other Mexicans ever had much to do with him. He was said to be a thief and very untrustworthy. He lived in a trailer there and cleaned fish for the tourists, had a water taxi, was a loner. Nobody seemed to like him much. His eyes were rheumy and bloodshot from too much drink, his face black from the constant sun.
"Okay, Reuben, what can I do for you?"
"I am looking for a friend, a man who came to your boat the other day?"
"Oh? I don't think so. You must be thinking about another boat."
"No, senor, it is your boat. I took this man there."
"You did?"
"Yes, and he has never returned. He never call me back."
"Gringo?" Rambo asked.
"No, Mexicano. He never come back."
"Who was he?"
"Emilio. Emilio Ortega. He brought some groceries to your boat."
"Oh, well, he probably got another taxi. Who was aboard when you took him?"
"A young woman."
"My woman? This one here?"
"No. The other one. Black hair, curls."
Brenda! Rambo's mind was working at high speed. He didn't want his thoughts to show, however, so he kept his face an impassive mask to hide his excitement.
"Okay. Well, I guess he took another boat back to shore."
"I don't think so. He owed me money. He always pay."
"Hey, Reuben, I don't know about this guy. He delivered some groceries, caught another taxi, quit worrying about it."
"He was out on the boat a long time. I waited. Then I had to take some people to their boats. When I come back I wait some more. Emilio never call me."
"Well, he'll turn up. We've got to go now. We're in a hurry."
"If I do not find Emilio...."
Rambo didn't know whether that was the beginning of a threat or not. He didn't want to be around to hear the finish of Reuben's statement. He took Candy by the arm and walked briskly away from the rotund man who was looking for Emilio. Emilio! That was the name that Jack Denver had mentioned. Emilio and Brenda!
Who the hell was this guy? And what was he doing delivering groceries to the Desire? Was he someone who worked at El Centro? Let's see, he reasoned, Brenda bought the meat. Emilio. A common name. He didn't even know what the guy looked like. But what was he doing aboard the Desire? Reuben said he stayed a long time.
"What was that all about?" Candy wanted to know, once they were on the pavement.
"I'm not sure, Candy, but I think it's part of that same secret I was telling you about back there on the boat. Let's add this to it."
"It's something to do with the wiring burnt out too, isn't it?"
He looked at her in admiration. "Maybe. There are a lot of funny things going on and we've just got to keep our eyes and ears open."
"Gives me an eerie feeling." she said. "Yeah, me too."
They found Brenda and Dixie at Hussong's. Dixie was feeling little pain but she wasn't totally wiped out yet. Brenda took one look at Rambo and Candy and knew that they had made love. It was written all over their faces in fresh blood underneath the skin. They glowed like two light bulbs and the slender girl felt a twinge of jealousy. Why? What was Rambo to her? Nothing, really. Just a meal ticket.
Rambo ordered drinks all around and they went to a table. Friends, including Dexter
Wingdom and his wife Moddie, came by. It was crowded and everyone wanted to hear why they were back in port. It was embarrassing to Rambo, but he took it all good-naturedly.
When there was a lull in the conversation, he leaned over to Brenda, whispered into her ear. "Who is Emilio?"
Her face drained of color. "Emilio?"
"Yeah, the guy you keep meeting here. The guy who delivered the groceries the other day."
Brenda almost panicked right then. How much did Rambo know? Was he just fishing or did he know the whole story? Or just part of it? She had to bluff it out. She couldn't blow up now, not when she was so close. She pasted a smile back on her face.
"Emilio. That Emilio. Just a guy I met in a bar. He happened to deliver the meats the other day."
"He stayed aboard a long time, Brenda."
"Are you checking on me? I thought there were no inhibitions allowed on the Desire."
Rambo had to laugh. "You got me there," he said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. This guy was pretty huffy with me, though, about his friend. He hasn't seen him since he came out to the boat."
"Who is this man?" she asked, controlling the quaver in her voice.
"Some guy named Reuben. He had the water taxi that brought Emilio out to the boat."
"Oh, yes. Well, I'm sorry he bothered you about it. Emilio caught another taxi back to shore."
"That's what I told him," said Rambo.
CHAPTER NINE
The Desire, rigged for sailing, caught the breeze in the harbor and Rambo maneuvered the boat safely out into the Bay of All Saints, headed north past the island. The .38 Agent was tucked in a back pocket behind his handkerchief. He wasn't at all satisfied with Brenda's answers of the afternoon before, but he had no way of checking on her. He had to admit that he had misgivings about the woman, but he had no proof that she was involved in anything other than being one of his crew members. There were a lot of things that didn't add up, but so far he had never seen anything remotely suspicious about her. So, she balled some Mexican guy. What was wrong with that?
A lot of American chicks, Rambo knew, came to Ensenada just to sample the local studs. One man he knew, who owned a bar there, made a career out of balling horny gringo broads. He just hung around, wearing a smile and a nice suit and he got more ass than anyone in town. The only problem was, he usually only balled these chicks once. The girl that Rambo had talked to had said that Carlos was "Lousy in the sack." But this was a south of the border syndrome that he had seen many times. Brenda was probably just as much a victim of that kind of curiosity as thousands of other broads. He couldn't very well condemn her for that.
But what about Jack's death? And the tape stuck to the mast? The electrical fire? As he stood at the tiller, angling north up the coast of Baja, Rambo followed several paths of reasoning, none of which led him anywhere. Somehow, though, all that had happened was connected with the boat. The groceries! Could that be it? Was Emilio really delivering meat, or something else. The first thought that crossed Rambo's mind was that dope had been smuggled aboard. Heroin, perhaps. What else could it be?
He looked at Brenda, sitting with Candy and Dixie in the doghouse. She didn't look like a doper or a pusher. Or did she? Pushers were usually very well dressed, good-looking, not at all suspicious-looking. At least the ones he had seen around the studios. Yeah, he admitted, Brenda could be a pusher. Still, what an elaborate bunch of bullshit to go through. Customs would find stuff like that anyway probably. No, it probably wasn't dope. In fact, maybe there wasn't anything smuggled aboard anyway. It seemed absurd when he thought about it. Still, he was going to be careful the rest of the trip, especially after they docked at Shelter Cove. That's when the proof of the pudding would materialize. Sure, after they docked.
Dixie was still loaded from the night before. There was no champagne passed around and she was badly in need of a drink. She knew that Rambo was against her drinking at sea, but now, more than ever, she needed one. She kept sending silent messages up to the helm, but so far Rambo had ignored her. Her hands were trembling and her face and body felt as though someone had stuck a thousand needles into her skin.
"Go ahead, Dixie, have a drink before you fall apart," he said finally. "This is a work trip and it looks like good weather all the way."
"Oh, thanks, Rambo, but I don't need it."
"Okay," he said. He knew she would begin sneaking tequila or mezcal though. She just couldn't come right out and say it.
Soon Dixie went below, ostensibly to make more coffee, but everyone aboard knew that she had started on her secret bottle. She would lace her own coffee with vodka, probably, and no one gave a damn. It wasn't very cheerful aboard. Everyone seemed to be thinking private thoughts, as indeed they were.
Brenda was worried. Rambo didn't seem to know anything concrete, but he was sure puzzling over a lot of things. He hadn't mentioned Jack Denver to her, but she was sure now that Jack had said something about seeing her with Emilio. Then that damned boatman! He had to open his mouth about Emilio too. She kept her purse in sight at all times. That .25 might have to be used after all. She didn't want to kill Rambo, but she had gone too far to turn back now. Once they were safely in port, she knew
Braden and Fluger would handle him, but if he got rough with her on the way up, well, she didn't know what she would do. It was frightening to think of the choices she had.
Candy was still walking in a haze of love. She kept looking at Rambo and thinking of his naked body next to her. She couldn't help herself. Never had she flipped so over a man. The tall actor was different, though. His charm was incredible! She sipped her coffee and chatted with Dixie and Brenda, but her thoughts were on Rambo. She felt the heat, even then, growing between them. It was strange. She was sure he felt it too.
The winds were variable and not very brisk. Rambo was not satisfied with the progress they were making. He tacked and tacked, trying to pick up enough wind to move them along. But they seemed almost to be drifting in a calm. They passed Salsipuedes and he shuddered. The little harbor beckoned and he tacked away from it. He knew what the name meant, why the place was called that.
In the old days, when the Spanish explorers were sailing up the coast of Baja to the Californias, they often put into this harbor. It was a beautiful spot, natural, offered safe haven from storms. The only problem was the ships sometimes had to wait a long time before getting out again. The harbor was a trap. Winds died there, never to return. It was a place of doldrums, of calm days of waiting for a breeze to venture there. That's why they called it Sal-sipuedes. Sal si puedes. "Leave if you can."
The Spanish, Rambo thought, had a way of naming a place so the name stuck for centuries. Even California. Calida fornax. "Hot furnace." Well, that's what it was at times. Here, he had always thought that the name came from a beautiful Spanish princess or something, but it meant hot furnace. The Chamber of Commerce wouldn't like that spread about, he bet.
So it was as they rolled along, Rambo tacking, watching the beautiful Baja coastline crawl by as they kept moving snail-like toward San Diego. Dixie got drunk and finally passed out. Everyone breathed easier after that. It was no fun being with a drunk when you were sober. The sun began to set, throwing shadows into the sails. Still, the Desire crawled along, unable to find a wind that would set her rigging to creaking, put teeth in her prow.
"Long haul," Rambo said, "but enjoyable."
"I like it," said Candy. "It makes me think of floating on a river in a raft."
"Did you ever do that?" he asked.
"No, but I read Tom Sawyer."
"Ha, so did I," he said. "That's probably why I like boats so much."
"Me too."
So it went as they inched along, the sun sinking finally over the Pacific horizon.
"Brenda, switch on the running lights, will you?" he asked finally, as the darkness began to move in on them fast.
The lights came on and the first stars began to wink on over the land to their starboard.
"Well, we didn't make it before dark," he said to Brenda and Candy. "We could have, if the winds were right, just about." They had left at four that morning, but they might as well have left at eight.
"How much longer do you figure we'll be?" asked Brenda, hiding the anxiousness in her voice.
"Not long. A couple of hours. Unless a chubasco blows down off the cliffs."
"Good."
"In a hurry?" he asked the slender woman. "No, just curious. I'm enjoying the leisurely sail."
He wondered, why had she asked about their ETA. There he was, though, getting suspicious again, over nothing. A simple question. One that people always asked the captain. Americans were always in a hurry, always wondering about what time a train or plane or bus or car arrived at a destination. If we could ever eliminate our present concept of time, Rambo thought, then civilization might really begin to progress!
The dark caught up with them just above Rosarita Beach. The lights of Tijuana were aglow in the night sky and along the coast beads of lights were strung out as far as they could see. A huge tanker lay off their starboard bow and they began to pick up a breeze finally.
"We're going to move now," Rambo yelled. "Yayyy!" yelled the girls. Dixie slept on.
Rambo captured the wind in the mainsail, trimmed the Desire on a close reach and the boat really began to surge through the black-silver waters. The star wealthy sky seemed to move for the first time that day, vaulting over the mainmast as the waves sang against the greyhound hull. Lights sped past them at six knots, eight knots, as the sail strained to pull them along with breathless speed compared to their former progress.
Yet something was wrong. Rambo looked around him. He stood up at the tiller, trying to figure out the incongruity of things. Then he saw it. A light moving very fast in the distance. Heading toward them. They were on a lonely stretch, near La Joya he figured. He thought he could see the tollgate on shore, the last one before Tijuana. Still the light came on. Soon he heard the drone of powerful engines. Now he knew what was bothering him. The light was a searchlight. There were no running lights on the fast boat.
"Candy," he said. "Come here a minute." Brenda was below, checking on Dixie for the seventeenth time.
"Yes? What is it?" She sensed an urgency in his voice.
"Remember that secret cabinet below."
"Yeah, sure."
"When Brenda comes back up to the doghouse, go down and open it. The guns are loaded. Can you shoot?"
"Yes. A little." She had learned that while crashing at a dude ranch in Arizona one time.
"Stand by the locker and when I tell you, wake Dixie up and give her the .30-30; you take the bigger rifle. Get your asses up here and stay low."
"Wow, man, is there going to be a shootout?" Candy asked in alarm.
"I don't know. See that boat coming with its single light?"
She looked. They both looked, and just then the light went out. "Wow," she said. "Coming fast."
"Yeah, and it looks like trouble."
"I'm hip."
Brenda came up the ladder. "Now!" he whispered.
Trying to act casual, Candy made her way below to the cabinet where the guns were kept.
"Brenda," Rambo called. "Come here a minute."
"Yes?"
"Any reason why a powerful speedboat should be on our ass?" he asked coolly.
Brenda looked out. She could hear the engines, but saw nothing at first. "I-I don't know. I don't see anything."
"Hear it?"
"Why, yes."
"Someone's moving up on us, very fast."
Her heart caught in her throat. What was this? Customs? The Coast Guard?
"No lights. That's bad," he told her.
No, it wasn't anything official. Who could it be? Hijackers? Braden? Her blood turned to ice. They both saw the dark shape, heard the engines slow down.
Before he could say anything more a powerful spotlight hit him in the face. "Duck!" he yelled. "Candy! Dixie!"
In seconds the two girls were on deck, carrying rifles. Brenda looked at them, bewildered. She raced for her bag. Rambo was too busy getting out of the light and drawing his .38 to pay attention to her. "Down, Dixie, Candy. Get those rifles ready."
A bullhorn trumpeted a voice through the blackness as the searchlight went out again. "Heave to, Desire. We're coming aboard!"
Brenda recognized Braden's voice. The doublecrossing bastard! He was supposed to wait until they docked! She fumbled for her .25 automatic, found it and held it ready in the palm of her hand. She peered out at the huge powerboat alongside.
Rambo fired a shot at the boat, the pistol spurting orange flame. He heard curses and the sound of splintering wood. He heeled the Desire over, trying to escape the boat.
The powerboat answered fire. Two guns. Glass shattered in the doghouse and Brenda crawled away from the splintering sounds of bullets ripping through the woodwork. Dixie stood up and fired blindly at the boat. Candy fired and the kick nearly knocked her down.
There was the sound of grappling hooks hitting the deck. The sails whipped as the Desire got caught in irons, dead in its tracks.
"Jesus!" Rambo exclaimed.
More firing from the powerboat. Dixie rose up to fire and a bullet caught her in the shoulder. She cried out and crumpled to the deck, her blood flowing in sticky profusion.
"Hold it!" Rambo ordered. "Candy, stay down."
"We're coming aboard," said the bullhorn voice. "Hold fast or die!"
"Okay, okay," said Rambo. He held his pistol at the ready. Brenda huddled in the doghouse, staring at the actor. Damn that sonofabitch Braden! He blew it!
Two figures started up the ladder on the side of the Desire. Rambo could see another figure at the wheel of the flying bridge of the powerboat. He calculated what he would have to do. He had four shells left in the pistol. They would have to count. He let the first man step aboard, then he fired.
His first bullet caught the second man, who screamed and fell back on the prow of his boat. The second one tore into the first man, who staggered forward into the well deck. With his third shot, Rambo splattered the helmsman, saw him tumble backward in a shower of glass. It was quiet.
Rambo pulled the man who had first stepped aboard close to him. He saw the blonde face contorted in pain. "Who the hell are you?" Rambo asked. "Talk!"
The man was blubbering in pain. Brenda stepped forward, her gun aimed at Rambo's chest. "His name is Fluger. George Fluger," she said, her voice husky. "Now, put your gun down, Rambo, or I'll blow a hole in your gut."
"You bitch!" he said.
Dixie was moaning in pain on the deck and Candy was standing slightly behind Brenda.
Rambo laid his pistol on the seat. "Okay, Brenda, what do you want?" he asked.
"Help me get this man on that powerboat. Then we've got some unloading to do."
Candy moved then and Rambo joined her. They hit Brenda high and low, knocking her sideways. A shot ripped off into the night, barely missing Rambo's head. He felt the angry buzzing of the bullet and the hackles rise on his neck. Close!
He hit her hard then, his fist smacking into her pretty mouth, crushing her lips. Brenda's hand opened and the small pistol clattered to the deck. Fluger tried to tackle Rambo, but the actor knead him in the throat. He heard bone crunch as he stepped on the man's leg. Fluger's scream tore at their eardrums.
"You okay, Candy?" Rambo asked.
She was shaken up. "Yeah. I-I think so."
"Help me tie this bitch up. Then take care of Dixie."
Rambo got some line and they tied Brenda's hands behind her back. All the fight was gone out of her. He picked up her pistol and shoved it in his pocket. They got Dixie to a bunk and Rambo checked Fluger. He had a broken leg and his arm had been pierced by a bullet. He would live. The actor climbed aboard the powerboat, noted its name, Catalan, and checked the man on the prow, who was Roger Braden. There was a hole in his chest and he was bubbling blood through it, dying with every shallow breath he took.
The helmsman was also dead, a bullet had torn his throat out.
It took Rambo nearly an hour to strike his mainsail and hook the Desire up to the Catalan. He started the motors and let them idle.
"I'm going to tow us to San Diego," he said. "What was this all about, Brenda?"
She looked at him sullenly. "How about it, Fluger? Want to talk? Your buddies are both dead and you need medical treatment. I'm towing us into port, calling ahead. It's all over."
"I-I'll talk," the wounded man babbled. "Then talk. Fast!"
Fluger told Rambo the whole story. Brenda crumpled, then.
"It's in the port storage bin. Coffee cans," she told him.
"Candy, check it out," he ordered. Dixie was unconscious, still, partly from loss of blood, partly from the booze. She lay on the bunk, wan and helpless, a tourniquet on her arm. Rambo was grateful to Candy for that.
"Here it is," the freckle-faced girl said, tossing a coffee can to Rambo.
He opened it and saw the gold underneath the grounds.
"Whew!" he said. Candy stacked all the cans on the sole of the cabin and Rambo whistled. "You really got yourself into something, Brenda. More than you could handle."
The woman glared at him.
"Okay, Candy. Got to go. Hold a gun on these two. They try to escape, shoot 'em."
"A-all right," the girl stammered.
"We'll be in San Diego in a jiffy," he promised.
Rambo radioed ahead, telling the port authorities the full story as he knew it. When he docked, he was swarmed over by police, harbor police, newsmen and detectives. It was a madhouse. Brenda and Fluger were taken away in handcuffs, the latter in an ambulance, and the two dead men were carried away on stretchers to the morgue. Lights flashed from news cameras and television units moved all over the dock, recording the arrival of the Desire and its gory story. Many people recognized Rambo. The gold was taken into custody and finally, Candy and the actor were ushered away for questioning. It was a long night for all of them. Dixie was sped away in an ambulance, waving bravely to Rambo.
Days later, when the headlines had died down, and Rambo had gotten rid of all the television and movie people who had flocked to see him, he and Candy quietly came aboard the Desire. Dawn was just beginning to lighten the waters of the cove. It was chilly but they both were warmed by coffee they had brought with them.
"Well, the wiring's fixed and we're stocked up, Candy," he said. "Ready?"
"I'm ready for anything," she said gleefully. "You've been through a lot," he said. "So have you."
"Let's go south then," he said, and they both unhitched lines to the dock. He started the engine and took the tiller. Slowly, they moved out over the still calm water, glad to be moving at last away from the hubbub of the past few days.
Dixie was recovering from her shoulder wound and after that planned to go to a sanitarium to dry out. Rambo was paying for everything. Their goodbye had been placid, warm.
"I-I've got to go south, Dixie. But I'd like to see you when I get back. Understand?"
"Yes, Rambo. I love you, but I know you've got to go. I have some things to do myself."
"You'll be all right."
"I know. Candy's a good kid. Very sweet. She'll take care of you."
He had grinned sheepishly and shuffled his feet by the hospital bed.
"We'll miss you. I'll miss you."
"Have fun," she said. "Rambo?"
"Uh-huh?" He replied hesitantly.
"We might have made it, you and I, if I had stayed away from the bottle."
"We made it," he said. "It was tough on you, I know."
"No, I didn't give you what I could have. I realize that now. I tried too hard, I guess. And I always knew in the back of my mind that someone would come along and take you away. I was afraid of that more than anything."
"No, you didn't know that."
"Yes, yes, I did. I knew Candy would come along."
"Goodbye, Dixie," he croaked. "See you."
"Goodbye, Rambo."
He had squeezed her hand and left before she could see the tears that stung his eyes. He would miss her, he knew. He missed her already, but he was grateful for Candy. Maybe Dixie was right. Maybe he had been waiting for Candy to come along. His life had seemed purposeless before now. Candy had found the right key. She had touched something inside him that no other woman ever had. He still didn't know what it was, but it was something that had gotten set aside a long time ago, lost in the Hollywood scramble and now had been rediscovered.
As the Desire cleared the last buoy, he tied the tiller in place. He and Candy scrambled on deck, hoisting the mainsail and the jib. He set the lines, caught the wind, and the boat leaped in response to the sudden tug. Together, they went back to the well deck and sat on the seat.
"No stops until we hit Cabo San Lucas," he said.
"I'm glad to hear that. I don't think I could take Ensenada again so soon."
"Ha, me neither," he laughed. "Rambo,". she said seriously. "Yeah?"
"What's going to happen to us?"
He looked at her tenderly. "Oh, I don't know. We're going to sail for a long, long time. We're going to hit new ports together and see a lot of sunrises and sunsets. Okay?"
"Okay. I just wanted to say that I don't expect anything. I never had anything before."
"Yes, you did, Candy. You had a lot, but you didn't know what it was or how to give it. I'm the same way. You mustn't put yourself down anymore. Not ever again."
She smiled at him. He took her hand in his.
"I won't," she promised.
"Hey, gloomypuss. You forgetting somethings?" he asked in a teasing tone.
"I don't know. Am I? I checked everything, I thought. Last night!"
"Oh, yeah? Did you put the champagne on to chill?" He grinned at her mischievously.
"The champagne! Oh, Rambo! I almost forgot. Of course, it's chilled. Wait! I'll get it!" like a little girl she bounded down the ladder and emerged a few seconds later with the champagne and two plastic glasses. She was smiling, radiant.
Rambo popped the cork and poured their glasses full. They drank a silent toast and hugged each other as the sun began to gild the sails. They were both giddy from the champagne as the sun rose high in the morning sky. The Desire sang through the silvery waters like some nymph of the sea, its sails proclaiming its freedom, its proudness.
"To a long voyage together," toasted Rambo.
"To a long voyage together," echoed Candy.
The Desire moved farther out to sea, carrying the hopes and dreams of the lovers with it. Neither of them looked back at the wake, but only into each other's eyes as the fresh sea breezes hummed a lover's song in the rigging.
