Understrike (6 page)

“
OK.” A thin smile. “Don’t you worry about it. I’ll call Joe now, and tell him myself.”

“
Oh no you ... !” The first man’s hand shot out. Boysie instinctively sidestepped and made a lucky lunge towards the outstretched arm, catching it just above the wrist. Reacting automatically to the long training he had endured when Mostyn first pressed him into the service with the Department, Boysie pulled down hard on the arm, then jerked outwards and upwards, ducking under the armpit, and twisting the limb up behind the ape’s back. At the same time he lifted his right knee, placing it above his opponent’s buttocks. There was a painful wrenching noise. Putting all his weight behind the push, Boysie sent the stocky figure bumping through the open doorway.

“
Ouroughoaw!” said the man loudly as he hit the corridor wall. At the same moment, Boysie felt a numbing flash of pain in his left shoulder. The other assailant had come from behind. There was a shout from outside, and the last thing Boysie remembered was a vision of blue and white with a tumble of yellow-brown hair framed in the doorway. Then a scream and the sound of hurrying footsteps. After that, a starless night closed around Boysie Oakes as he fell heavily to the floor.

He
was still on the floor a few moments later when consciousness began to return. A lot of people seemed to be talking at once, and he could distinguish two faces peering down at him. One was male, and obviously official. The other female and as palatable as they come—dark almond eyes set beautifully against a smooth complexion. A wide trembling mouth, and a soft fall of tawny hair. Even in this twilit state, Boysie could appreciate the glitter of concern in her eyes.

The
mist began to clear. The official gentleman, who was actually an assistant manager, clucked over him like a hen about to discharge an ostrich-size, quadruple-yolked egg:

“
Mr Oakes? You OK, Mr Oakes? That this should have happened here. A terrible thing. Truly terrible thing. Now are you OK, Mr Oakes?”

“
Receiving you strength two. No, I am not OK,” said Boysie, his eyes taking great bites out of the female who was now regarding him not only with concern but also with blatant sensual fascination. Together, the floor manager and the girl helped Boysie to his feet. The room did a stall turn, then began to fall into a spin. Boysie sat down on the bed, and with the fingertips of his right hand, gently felt the tender spot below his left ear. To the touch it was as though something large, round, and bristling with poisoned darts, had got under his skin.

“
Think we ought to call a doctor, Mr Oakes? We’ve got a physician right here in the hotel. You’re goin’ to have a nasty bruise there.”

“
Be all right.” Boysie tried to do a tough, gritted-teeth smile; but even that hurt, so he did a brave wince instead.

“
Er, I haven’t notified the police or anything yet, Mr Oakes, I mean. Well, I was wondering. The publicity. The hotel. It’s my job to see the guests are comfortable and that the hotel is protected. You. You wouldn’t sue the hotel, would you, Mr Oakes? You a Government guest and all. It’s terrible. New York, we get robberies and beatings, muggings all the time. Central Park you dare not go into alone at night, especially if you happen to be a lady.” The assistant manager looked at the tawny-haired wonder, pleading for confirmation. Boysie, beginning to feel a little better, could see the man was desperately embarrassed. An assault actually in the hotel could, he imagined, dent its reputation and buckle trade into an economic concertina. Very early in his professional life Boysie had learned that it was better to keep the police and other public bodies right out of the picture.

“
Don’t worry about it. Accident. Think no more about it—Ow!” He groaned as the swelling began to pulse out a fresh series of pain jerks.

“
It’s really lucky your friend turned up.”

Boysie
looked round for his friend, then realised that the hotel type meant the beauty who had, by this time, joined him on the edge of the bed. So far she had not said a word. Now she spoke, and, to Boysie, the whole string section of the New York Philharmonic seemed to come drifting into the room.

“
Poor baby,” she put a protective arm on Boysie’s shoulder. “Lucky I turned up, wasn’t it, honey?”

“
Well, if you’re sure it’s OK. I’ll send up an ice pack for that bruise.” The official was hovering.

“
I’ll look after him now.” Coming from those succulent lips, the phrase was one of distinct promise.

“
I’ll drop by later. Just to see if you need anything. OK, Mr Oakes?”

Boysie,
now almost himself, except for the pounding of a miniature pneumatic drill down the left side of his face, was about to tell the man not to bother, when the soft hunk of womanhood by his side cut in with:

“
How kind of you, but please don’t worry. Mr Oakes’ll call down if he wants anything.”

The
floor manager backed out of the room muttering soothing noises: “Anything the hotel can do. Last thing we would have had happen. Given us all quite a shock. And the Vassar Alumanae dinner coming up and all . .” The door shut out the man’s burblings and Boysie was left alone with his head, and the slim assembly of curves.

“
Hallo,” said the girl.

“
Hallo,” said Boysie. They looked at each other in candid appreciation.

“
You’re Boysie Oakes,” she said, moving a little closer.

“
Yes, I know. Who are you?”

“
Max sent me. Didn’t he tell you? We’re going to sunny California.”

Boysie
grinned with pleasure.

“
Someone did call to say my travelling companion would be over. But I didn’t really expect ...Well . . I ...” He paused. Somewhere in the rear of his mind there was a picture of himself doing obeisance to Mostyn: offering a garland of thanks for the goodies that were coming his way. For this, it was worth being physically assaulted.

“
Do you have a name, or a number, or do people just say ‘Wow’, or ‘Cor’ or something?” he asked, trying to forget the headache—a reasonably easy operation when the other parts of the body began taking one’s mind off the pain.

“
I’m Chicory.” She sounded like someone announcing the result of a charade.

“
Chicory,” repeated Boysie.

“
Chicory Triplehouse.”

“
Triplehouse.”

“
Yep. And don’t ask me where I got it. We didn’t come over with the Pilgrim Fathers. We weren’t pioneers of the old West. We aren’t an established Southern family, and none of my relatives are members of the Ivy League—yet with a name like Triplehouse they ought to be. I guess the Triplehouses just happened.”

“
Where did you happen?”

“
Joplin, Missouri—which is about as hick as you can get. No, our family tree seems to have withered just before my grandmammy and grandpappy were granted the faculty of memory. Someone turned over a stone and there they were—Triplehouses—equipped with a certain resilience and a warped sense of humour.”

Boysie
offered her a Chesterfield and lit the cigarettes. She smoked like a man, he noticed, holding the white tube confidently and close to her lips, taking draughts of smoke right down into the lungs and expelling them in a thin stream with her mouth in a whistling attitude.

“
Just to show you,” she continued. “My grandpappy had my daddy baptised Stephen Howard Ian. Stephen Howard Ian Triplehouse. Can you imagine? Never dared sign his initials, let alone have them engraved in gold on his briefcase or whatever.”

Boysie
gurgled, and a knock at the door announced the presence of a white-coated serf bearing an ice pack.

“
How about those two characters?” said Chicory when the servant had disappeared leaving Boysie clasping the ice to his lump. “They ran like blue hell when I screamed. What were they after?”

“
Haven’t the foggiest.”

“
New York can be a bit like that, but it doesn’t usually happen in hotels—except to film stars and all, with lots of loot. Or for publicity. Couldn’t be anything to do with your work, could it?”

Boysie
felt the whirlpool of anxiety begin to spin in his stomach. The lushness of Chicory Triplehouse had acted as a soporific, now he began to think more clearly about the brace of horror comics, their insistence that he should come with them to Siedler, his refusal, and the ultimate violence. Undoubtedly it was something to do with his work. The trip to San Diego, the lying in the sun, the starlets done to a turn on the beaches, the one solitary day to be spent watching a missile being fired: it had all sounded too easy. There had to be a catch somewhere. The palpitating, red prominence behind his ear was tangible proof of the catch.

“
Well, could it?” Chicory was looking at him, a tiny knot of worry marring the smooth area between her long pencilled eyebrows.

“
I suppose it might be.” Boysie felt his guts flap violently. “Think I’d better try and make it to the bathroom.” He hobbled over to the door. The floor swayed slightly for the first few steps, then became stable and firm.

When
he returned, Chicory was talking,
sotto
voce
, into the telephone: “Yes, Max, sure baby, but do you think it’s really necessary? What gives anyway? Sure he’s a dreamboat but what is he, like some crazy diplomat, royalty or something? OK if you say so. Sure, he’s just come back. He’s here now. You want to talk to him? OK, honey, and you.” To Boysie: “Boysie honey, Max wants to talk to you.”

Boysie
took the telephone from the cool hand. She moved away, allowing her fingers to brush lightly along the back of his arm. He could just feel the nails vaguely scratching through his shirt; giving him a shudder of pleasure.

“‘
L?’” He remembered the voice at the other end of the line.

“Y
es.”

“
USS
One
.”

“
Yes?” Boysie made a mental note to find out who the blazes
USS
One
was. Might be the President for all he knew.

“
Chicky tells me there’s been trouble.”

“
A little.” Boysie’s natural pride flared for a second. “We handled it,” he said casually.

“
The way I heard it you would have been clobbered good and proper if Chicky hadn’t turned up and done her celebrated impression of a screech-owl. This is a little disturbing, you know. Was it the opposition?”

“
Well, it could have been.”

A
silence. Then: “All right, we’ll just make a slight change in plan. In case they’re on to something. But I can’t honestly see what it has to do with the present operation. More likely it’s an organisation out to get you for your past affiliations. The old liquidation bit. You never had to bump a member of the Mafia, did you?”

The
whirlpool’s vortex increased its power, now situated somewhere just below the bile duct. Boysie could have screamed. Did that smooth bastard Mostyn tell everyone? Was he ever going to get away from the time when officially he was the Liquidator, the private executioner, for the Department of Special Security?

“
I suppose it could be the past,” he said weakly.

“
All right. We were going to fly you out. But I’ve told Chicky that we’ll fix alternative transport—for part of the way at least. If they are after you they’ll have a pretty good watch on the airfields and railroad depots. I think you’d better call your contact with the locals. See what he says about the situation. Chicky will give you the rest of the dope. You’re OK, aren’t you, ‘L’? No bones broken or anything?”

Boysie
was beginning to take the first steps into gloom. “I’m all right,” he said, sounding as disinterested as he felt. He replaced the receiver.

“
Hey, now what are you looking so miserable about, Boysie baby?” Chicory was back on the corner of the bed, her head cocked on one side, a seductive mouth lifted in an inviting smile. Boysie looked at her with relish. Ungentlemanly relish. She was wearing a navy crepe suit with bold chalk stripes slashing down the material, and had thrown off her jacket, revealing—to very full effect—the white blouse with a centrally embroidered sunburst design. Her legs were crossed, and the slim skirt affectionately hugged her thigh, then slid smoothly down the leg, ending in two sunny inches of nylon above the knee. She was the most delightful thing on which Boysie had set his lustful eyes. Since Priscilla Braddock-Fairchild, anyway.

“
Well ...” For a moment Boysie looked like a recalcitrant schoolboy. “Your mate, Max, says there are some changes in our schedule.”

“
Schedule, skedule, schmedule.” The sunburst design wiggled as she inhaled. “And it’s me that should be miserable. We’re doin’ the journey by bus. Some of it anyhow. By bus?” She made a disgusted, clucking noise, rolling her eyes upwards. “Max thinks it’ll be safer to mingle with the herd. We leave on the noon hour, he’s sending the tickets over, and they’re goin’ to let us know where we can change to a nice cool jet. But it’s about three days West—some horrible hot dump like Oklahoma City or Albuquerque.” She gave a heavy mock sigh. “It’s goin’ to be a long ride, boy, so pack yo deodorant, yo sure need it on them thar buses.” Chicory threw back her head and laughed. “Now come on, take me out to dinner and I’ll show you the sights.”