my fingers into her thighs.
'OH YEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSS!!!' Elvira was not be outdone. She came with a howl that would have guided ocean liners through fog then uncoupled and twisted round to take the last of my offering deep in her mouth.
'Oh yes…' I leaned against the door jamb to catch my breath.
On the dance floor Miss Lawrence was reaching the same point of no return with the help of the athletic sailor pounding in and out at hundred-yard dash pace. From the contortions Alvira was going through, I guessed that she had a finger in the Lawrence ass, guaranteed to send her over the edge. I hardened again at the thought of spread-eagling my wife on a queen size bed and parting her tight buttocks…
Elvira sucked ferociously as she sensed her mouthful growing, but it was not to be. Harry needs a little rest between encounters. I pulled her up by her hair and kissed her sweet-tasting mouth.
'Look at 'em go! T'ree way ear'tquake any second' now!' opined Elvira as she caught sight of the frenetic action on the stage.
Sure enough, Alvira's spare hand was between her legs and the sound effects, vibration and general enthusiasm indicated the end was nigh.
'Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesssssssssssss!!!'
'Ooooooooooooooogggggghhhhhhhh!!!'
'Wubbbawubbbawubbba!!!'
I leave it to the gentle reader to sort out which exclamation belonged to which of the climaxing trio. As the grunts and groans fell below the level of the pounding boom box the trio fell apart. My wife crawled across the floor toward me.
'Harry! Take me home!'
'Not without your frock, my dear. And anyway, we have Mrs. Goldmine to rescue from the clutches of Margaritas in the Lobster Pot.'
Alvira was still reconstructing her sense of reality, but Elvira rescued Jay's summer frock and buttoned her into it. I managed my buttons all on my own.
Jay leaned heavily on me then stiffened.
'Oh, that poor boy! All dressed up and nowhere to go!'
I turned and saw the bashful Biggin lurking in the shadows, still holding his monster dong and dripping lubricant.
A hopeful look started to appear on Biggin's face and Jay hurriedly hid behind me.
'Oh no! We've got to go!'
As Jay dragged me out into the fresh air the last thing I saw was Elvira and Alvira each with two hands around Biggin's shaft with plenty of room to spare.
'Phew!'
Jay looked as though she had had a lucky escape, and she could well have been right. I know babies' heads get out of that place, but with a certain amount of screaming and yelling on the part of the passage owner, so I imagine something the same size going the other way would similarly turn ecstasy to agony. Were I a shirt-lifter I would definitely be a stabber not a bender.
'Taxi!'
The familiar Caribbean imprecation led us to a typical Caribbean taxi. Take the word 'decrepit,' add the two words 'beaten up,' and round them off with 'disreputable.' Like I said, a typical Caribbean taxi.
'The Lobster Pot, my friend, at a sedate pace and without killing too many civilians.'
'Yes, boss!'
We set off at mach two.
The landscape became a blur as we careened out of dockland and back into the commercial district. Jay had a firm grip on the seat with one hand and me with the other. She stared ahead with wide eyes and white face as pedestrians, other vehicles, livestock and occasional lampposts magically evaded our headlong rush.
Like I said, a typical Caribbean taxi. I crossed my legs and relaxed. This was Miss Lawrence's first visit to the West Indies, after all. Not even Boston is adequate preparation.
'I say!'
I twisted in my seat and stuck my head out of the window to look back the way we had come. I pulled my head back in.
'It's them! Coming out of a bank! What are they doing there? A bit out of the way to be cashing traveler's checks!'
'What? Who?' Miss Lawrence kept her eyes fixed ahead but managed a contribution to the conversation.
'Dunnett and Swat, that's who. Coming out of the Greater Antilles National Bank. Sniggering.'
'Sniggering?'
'Yes, sniggering. Arm in arm. What the hell are they up to?'
'Robbery. Rehearsing a pantomime. Smoking ganja. Who the hell cares!'
Jay looked as though the rum might repeat itself on her as we negotiated a roundabout the wrong way and won a battle of wills with a lorry load of cement.
'We care, that's who! Detectives, remember? We are sworn to discover who put poor Raoul in a body bag, and the way to do that is to track down mysteries. Here is a mystery. Let us track.'
It seemed simple enough to me, but from the word Miss Lawrence used, it was apparent she had other priorities. Never mind, she would feel more like it when her feet were on terra firma again. I patted her hand and got another rude word in reward.
'Da Lobster Pot!'
Our driver seemed very pleased with himself to not only have found our declared destination but also to have delivered us alive. So he should be.
I paid in U.S. dollars with a moderately generous tip – we were after all indubitably alive – and handed my wife down onto the road. Sidewalks are a luxury largely unknown in this part of the old town of Sint Maarten.
Mrs. Neptune took a deep breath, forwent kissing the ground in gratitude, and rapidly resumed her normal demeanor. It would take more than a first Caribbean taxi ride to faze her for very long. She would be ready for the next one.
We stepped over the storm drain and into a shady, comfortably furnished restaurant and bar. A ceiling fan wafted cooling air. A couple of tall cold cocktails were called for.
'Coo-ee!!'
CHAPTER EIGHT: THE PLOT THICKENS
Mrs. Goldfinkel was elegantly ensconced on a rattan sofa, several glossy shopping bags propped against its turquoise cushions. Nearby, French doors revealed a charming, sun-dappled courtyard, bright with dazzling flamboyant hibiscus. Finches chattered in the little oasis and the silvery jets of a small fountain danced against the vivid green of the lush shrubs. The restaurant's clientele were all rather smartly dressed and I looked around for the ladies room, painfully aware of my somewhat disheveled appearance. Harry plonked himself down in a peacock-back chair and wiped his glistening forehead with a large white handkerchief.
'Phew! Now, that's what I call a liquid lunch!'
The Black Widow looked me up and down with thinly disguised disapproval. I had received such a look before, from a straight-laced bed and breakfast proprietress in rural Spain, when I turned up fresh from a dip in the Mediterranean. It was the 'you're a mess!' look.
'Jay, honey. You really should take more care with your complexion! And what have you done to that pretty dress? I knew I shouldn't have left you alone, you bad girl! Never mind – Gigi has been shopping! I have a little surprise for you both.'
Harry and I exchanged a slightly worried glance. I suspected the B.W. had more money than sense or good taste, as is often the case. With childish glee, our benefactress rummaged in the packages by her side, swiftly retrieving two smartly wrapped boxes. I wondered at how she had managed to pick up so many items in such a
