The Consummata

In the dim, soft light of the back room of the building where Pedro and Maria lived, I had been delivered to this lovely little chaperone with no ceremony, just quick, explicit instructions. The small dark-haired wench had a lithe, cuddly look, but when you touched her, there was no softness there at all.

She could have passed for one of those sudden-blooming Latin women who are mature at fifteen, at least until the light caught her face just right and illuminated her expression as she passed judgment on me, bringing her years into view.

She was thirty, easy.

Her eyes were black and challenging, framed under rounded V’s of brows that seemed like birds in startled flight. There was a natural high rise to her cheekbones and a mouth barren of lipstick, yet lush and blushed with a sensual red, courtesy of God, not Max Factor.

The clothes she wore were loose-fitting with a gypsy swirl to them, pastel greens and browns, though she was born to wear red. And those loose threads couldn’t hide the pert tilt of full breasts nor the tight, nipped-in waist that flared into miniature Madonna hips.

They called her Gaita, but I knew that wasn’t her name— kitten, it meant. But this was a sex kitten grown into fullscale cat, with the claws and purring intact—I hoped she had most of her nine lives left, for what lay ahead.

I was in greasy coveralls that had Farango Car Wash stitched across the back. I wore makeup and a spirit-gummedon gaucho mustache that wouldn’t work on Broadway but should do just fine in dark byways.

I had said to Pedro, “It’s not the local police I’m worried about. They’ve got no stake in this. By now, they’ll be pulled back to their normal duties.”

Pedro nodded. “It has been explained, my friend. This one, Gaita, knows where the local militia are posted. And we have spotted the outsiders who hunt you as well.”

“Good.”

“If necessary, others will help, too. Remember, we are all too familiar with authority’s perros de caza. They are true hunters. At nothing will they stop.” His brief smile was reassuring. “Nor will we.”

Under my breath I said, “This girl, she knows the drill? And understands the danger?”

“Oh yes. You may trust Gaita.”

But now, barely half an hour later, I was wondering just how far I could trust her, or how far she could trust me....

Six feet away two feds—their accents said Miami office— held the beams of flashlights on us, crossing like swords and piercing the darkness of our cover. In the side glow of the guy at right, I could make out a gun in his other hand.

And me still unarmed.

Every muscle in my body went hard except the part of me that should have been hard—Gaita and I had our clothes halfway off and lay entwined in what looked like a wild little sex party behind the packing crates only twenty feet away from the opening of an alley leading out of the area. And if that light hit me where I remained suspiciously limp, the flashlight guys might see I wasn’t laying her, we were playing them....

It hadn’t been my idea. Playing slightly inebriated lovers, we had flitted past the others stationed at strategic intervals; but these two held critical posts. I was all for charging them, knocking them over like bowling pins and taking a chance on the chase.

But Gaita had held me back.

“No,” she whispered, insistent, “they will have guns.”

“They won’t get a chance to use them,” I told her.

“Perhaps not. But if one discharged accidentally, the other militia, they would be alerted. And if they got to their feet while our backs were in view, then—”

“So I make sure they’re taking a nice nap, after I lay ’em out on the pavement.”

She shook her head, and dark curls bounced. “No, senor, two men with guns? No. If you fail, the game would be over.”

My fists unbunched slowly. “Okay, sugar—but they’re patrolling an area we can’t get by without being seen. Let’s hear your better idea....”

I caught the quick turn of her head in the darkness and the flash of even, white teeth. “Perhaps you will even like it,” she said.

I saw her hands move to the drawstring of the blouse by her throat. She moved one shoulder gently and let the dress fall away from her olive flesh. Then she reached behind my neck and pulled me down to the ground in a gentle spiral, took my hands, moved them to the swell of her naked breasts, at once soft and firm, and nestled me between silken bare legs while she busied her fingers with the zipper of my coveralls.

Her moan of delight came too soon and too loud and one leg thrashed out and kicked into something and— before I had a chance to move or even swear—her mouth closed on mine like a hungry trap, and I had a crazy instant of wondering what the hell I was doing here.

Under normal circumstances, I would have been hard as a rock with a vixen like this giving herself to me.

Under normal circumstances.

The flashlight beams lingered, then one snapped off and the guy behind it said, “Damn, they’ll do it anywhere, these people.”

Bare-breasted Gaita came out from under me, eyes wild and angry, nostrils flaring as she gave the two cops a Medusa stare, shrieking a stream of Spanish that was blistering even if you didn’t understand it. It was the most beautiful response to getting caught in the act I ever saw.

And all I could do was try to readjust myself in the greasy coveralls.

For a second, light splashed my face as I tried to disappear inside the clothes, hoping the makeup and mustache wouldn’t sweat off my face.

Gaita’s act carried it, though.

The first one grunted, said, “Shut it, muchacha,” then added, “Third pair of ’em tonight, and they all turn out the same way. The broad comes charging out like a tiger while the clown she’s with just cowers like a kid caught stealing candy.”

“These people,” the other one said dismissively.

His partner paused, then made a motion with the light, streaking the darkness like a drunk guiding a plane in. “All right, you two—get your tails outa here and keep ’em covered. We got public decency laws in this country.”

She spat at them and swore in her Cuban-dialect Spanish, and damned near kept it up too long. It was like she couldn’t stop swearing and every once in a while something would come out in English.

Finally I grabbed her arm and dragged her out of there while she was aiming air kicks at their increasingly distant shins, and Shakespeare himself, writing a sequel to The Taming of the Shrew, couldn’t have invented action any better suited to the scene.

Within minutes, we were outside their perimeter on a semi-darkened street, hugging the shadows while we headed west.

When I could, I said, “Fast thinking, querida.”

“It was nothing.” She sneered back at our long-gone audience. “It was what they expected and how they always react.”

“It’s always good when the other side underestimates you.” I drew in some humid night air. “But we have another problem.”

“Senor?”

“They may be bigots, but they aren’t dopes. They’ll report the incident or at least start thinking about it.”

She frowned, considering that.

I went on: “I’m a lot bigger than your average Cuban, and that’ll make me memorable. There’s a sharp boy named Walter Crowley that these locals will report up the ladder to. He’ll figure it out and widen the area of