Odds On: A Novel Read online

  But Jencks wasn’t in. Shrugging, Miguel continued down the hall. He’d discuss it at the meeting tonight. As he reached the elevator, the door opened and the blond stepped out, the one that was spending so much time with Jencks.

  “Good afternoon,” he said.

  She gave him an icy nod and walked quickly away. She wore high heels and a steel-blue dress of light wool, rather tight and thin. He could see her rear end move enticingly through the cloth; the twin hemispheres of her buttocks were clearly defined, with none of the blurred smoothness that comes from a girdle; She was wearing nothing under that dress.

  “Down, sir?” the elevator boy asked.

  Miguel looked over, startled by the interruption of his thoughts. Usually the hotel didn’t bother with elevator boys. It wasn’t really necessary, since the elevators were all automatic. He stared at the operator, a short dark boy of perhaps twelve or thirteen. He had an impertinent, obnoxious look on his face.

  “Down,” Miguel said, stepping in. The motor came softly to life, and they began to drop. He looked at his watch. It was almost 3 p.m. Time was running out.

  What were they going to do about these cops?

  Jencks had walked upstairs, looking down through the well at the black and white checked floor of the lobby below. He was still thinking, still revising his plans, still considering possibilities.

  He had forgotten Jenny until he came to his door and found her standing outside, impatiently tapping her foot on the floor. They had arranged to meet at three, he remembered now. Seeing her, he felt the tension of the last half hour rise in him, and he knew that he needed something to take his mind off the project.

  “Sorry,” he said, unlocking the door.

  “Your humble servant,” she said. “On schedule as ordered.”

  “I merely asked you if you would like to come up this afternoon,” he said. “And as I remember, you considered refusing for a very long time.”

  “Don’t be impossible,” she said, entering the room and throwing a copy of Elle on the bed. She flopped down next to it. “Is there anything to drink?”

  “Water,” Jencks said.

  “Fine,” she replied, to his surprise. He went into the bathroom and ran her a glass from the tap. When he came back, he found her sitting with an opened half-pint bottle which she had apparently brought in her purse. She took the glass, drank half the water, grimaced, and replenished it with clear liquid.

  “Vodka?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I take my pleasure strong,” she said, sipping the drink and kicking off her sling-back heels. She scratched one bare foot. Jencks watched each move carefully, judging her mood.

  Today was the day, all right. He had promised himself that if conditions were right, he would conclude the treatment. The business with the police had reinforced that conviction, and so far, everything seemed excellent. Jenny was acting contrarily, but was strangely relaxed. She was reacting out of habit, now. She no longer felt such a strong sense of frustration. She was beginning to see that he was indomitable.

  “Why did you ask me here today?” she said.

  “To make love to you.”

  Jenny said nothing, but gulped back her drink and set the glass on the floor beside her. “Don’t I have a say in this?”

  “Of course you do.”

  “Well, I say no. Not on your life. You’ve got the chance of a snowball in hell.”

  “We’ll see,” Jencks said. “Would you like more water?”

  “Trying to get me drunk, huh?”

  “Don’t be foolish. I can have you without getting you drunk.”

  “Talk is cheap.”

  “Are you asking me to prove it?”

  She looked at him carefully, trying to understand what he was doing. She lit a cigarette, then said, “No, I don’t want you to prove it. You’re the last man in the world that I would want to go to bed with. Peter is infinitely preferable.”

  “How interesting. You never gave that impression before.”

  “Oh, shut up and get me some more water. No, never mind. I’ll take it straight.”

  He moved quickly across the room and snatched the bottle from her fingers. “Sorry. I think you’ve had enough.”

  “Listen,” she said, “who the hell do you think you are, anyway? You don’t own me. You don’t control me.”

  “Yes I do.”

  “Well then, you can control me from a distance, because I’m leaving.”

  She got up, collected her purse and magazine and started for the door.

  “Don’t bother,” Jencks said, wearily.

  Her hand hesitated. She did not reach for the knob. “You’ve locked us in here. You’re a real bastard.”

  She returned to the bed and sat down.

  “The door isn’t locked,” he said.

  “Like hell. It’s just the sort of sneaky thing you’d pull.”

  Jencks shrugged. “If you don’t believe me, why don’t you check?”

  “I don’t have to check. I know it’s locked—it’s just like you.”

  “You’re very trusting.”

  “Go to hell. I hate you. You’re detestable. You’re scum. You’re nothing but a rotten, stinking—”

  “That’s the way I like my women—fiery.”

  She stopped. “Go to hell,” she said again.

  “Of course,” Jencks said, “if you don’t want to leave—”

  “And maybe I don’t. What of it?”

  “Nothing. I just wish you’d say what you mean.”

  She lit another cigarette, puffed twice on it, and stubbed it out angrily. She looked at her watch, adjusted the hem of her skirt, scratched her elbow. Her breathing was harsh; Jencks knew that it was time to end these little games.

  He stood, went to the door, and opened it. A cool breeze blew in from the hallway.

  “Last chance,” he said.

  She shook her head. He shut the door. It was very quiet in the room.

  “Come here,” he said.

  She walked over to him, excited and slightly afraid. She stood inches from him, not touching him, her soft blue eyes looking into his.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” she said.

  He kissed her. He could feel a ripple of pleasure pass through her. Reaching to her back, he unfastened the snap at her neckline and drew down the zipper that ran along her spine. He slipped one hand into the dress, feeling for the bra, but encountered only flesh.

  “No bra?” he asked.

  She shook her head. Her eyes were wide and bright. She looked steadily at him as he slid the dress off her shoulders. It bunched around her hips. He admired her breasts. They were very large, beautifully shaped, and extremely firm for their size. The nipples were pink buds.

  He reached forward and pulled the dress down over her hips.

  “No pants, either,” she said, a little unnecessarily. She kicked the dress away and stepped back from him, slightly defiant but still afraid. It must be a new experience for her, he thought, to lack confidence in the power of her body.

  “Do you like me?” she asked.

  He did not reply but scooped her up in his arms. He lifted her effortlessly, as if she were a child. She seemed to enjoy it and wrapped her arms around him and kissed him, her mouth open, her tongue probing. Her kiss was wet, cushiony, and full.

  He carried her to the bed and set her gently down. She lay on her back, one leg stretched out, one knee bent, and watched while he undressed. Neither said anything. When finally he was through, she appraised his body. “You’re a big man,” she said. There was no mockery in her voice, only wonder and desire. He lay down beside her.

  “You’re a big girl,” he said. He kissed her and ran a finger along her jaw, up to her ear. He kissed her ear, then the soft spot at the base of her neck. She shivered with delight.

  “Steve,” she said. “I have to tell you something. I have a hard time. I mean, I don’t make it easily. Do you—”

  He put his hand over her mouth, and kissed her
nose. “You won’t have any trouble,” he said,

  Her fingers ran across his chest, then down to his member. She held it lightly, feeling it. “I think you’re right,” she said.

  He put his lips to her breasts and licked her nipples with his tongue. They stiffened immediately, and she sighed. His fingers ran along her side, down to her loins, and then to her legs. She had beautiful legs, soft but strong. He caressed her knees, then the tops of her thighs. Her hands were in his hair, drawing his head to her, but still he continued to stroke her legs. Finally he slipped his hand between her thighs, and her legs parted slightly. His forefinger reached between her lips and found her moist and ready. At the touch of his finger, she moaned again.

  “Don’t wait too long,” she said breathlessly. “I want to feel you in me.”

  Her legs opened wider, then wider still. He came over her, and entered her with one long, powerful stroke. He felt himself reach her depths, and her legs came up and locked around him. He placed his hands beneath her, holding her clenched buttocks.

  “Take me,” she whispered, “take me hard.”

  He increased his rhythm until he was pounding into her, slapping against her. She offered no resistance, only willing help in the penetration which occurred again and again. She bit his tongue, and he felt her body tense beneath him, slightly at first, and then with increasing force until her back was arched and her hips thrust forward to receive him. Her breath came in short gasps, then little flutters, and suddenly she clutched him in a spasm of desire, and he felt her muscles grip him, relax, and grip again.

  For a long time, they lay spent together, catching their breath. Then he got up and lit her a cigarette. She took it with a shy smile.

  “You’re right,” he said. “You take your pleasure strong.”

  “Just the way you give it,” she said, and smiled. “It’s never been so easy for me. You’re ruining me for other men. I won’t be able to marry a man unless he can do this to me, and I don’t think there are many in the world.”

  “Maybe you’ve never allowed another man to do it,” he said, and instinctively she realized it was true. To surrender like this, to place yourself in the hands of another person and release your consciousness into his care for any period of time, no matter how brief, was a fearsome thing. Steve had forced her to submit. Nobody else had been able to. But there was such a thing as submitting of your own free will.

  “I understand,” she said.

  “Had enough?”

  “I’m sure of it. Have you?”

  He nodded, and she kissed him. The fire inside her was turning pleasantly cool. She felt happy, and relaxed, and satisfied.

  “I’m ready for that drink,” Annette said, stepping into Bryan’s room. “What a day!”

  “As a matter of fact, they’re already made up,” he said, pouring one from the pitcher. “Try that for size.”

  She sipped it and sat down. “Very good. Where were you all day? I didn’t see you.”

  “I was water-skiing,” he said.

  “You missed quite a commotion. Just before two o’clock, a half-dozen motorcycles pulled up in the circle and the policia stomped into the lobby. They took over the place. One went off to see Mr. Bonnard, another started checking the register, and the rest snooped around, frightening the guests. And I had to calm the guests down afterward. They were so excited, you’d think they were all crooks.”

  “What was going on?”

  “It seems the deputy mayor of Lerida is holding his daughter’s wedding reception here Saturday. He’s a distant cousin of you-know-who, so he rates all sorts of fanfare and protection.”

  “One days’ notice? Isn’t that rather irregular?”

  “Spain,” she said, “has its own rules for everything. You should have seen those policemen stomp in with their big boots and uniforms. The staff was terrified, of course; oh, it was dreadful. And to top it off, they left black streaks all over the lobby floor. Those boots.” She frowned.

  Bryan understood. Once, in Malaga, he had attended a very good corrida; El Cordobes was the third toreador, and the tickets were selling at a scalper’s dream—twenty dollars apiece. At one point during the bullfight, a fight had broken out in the stands, in the sunny section, the cheap section. Two policemen came in to break it up, and suddenly 20,000 people began to hiss. The sound, magnified by the circular arena, was so loud it was almost a roar. It came from nowhere, from no one; the faces of the spectators were impassive, but the sound was there. It did not cease until the police left.

  That was Spain. It was a police state and an oppressive dictatorship. The people did not like it, and they vented their resentment whenever they could, which was seldom. The anonymity of a hiss in a bullring was one of their few opportunities.

  “What finally happened?”

  “They roared off in their motorcycles, apparently satisfied that nobody was out to get the deputy mayor or his daughter. I was furious. It was like—”

  “Germany,” Bryan said.

  “Yes.” She finished her drink, and he gave her another. “When I finally leave Spain,” she said, “I won’t have many regrets.”

  “I know,” he said. He also knew that she was saying something else, something to do with them. Did she want him to take her with him? Impossible.

  “Well,” he said. “Tell me all about this official reception. It sounds terribly interesting.”

  It was 9 p.m. when Bryan entered the room. “Hello, Steve,” he said. “You get into a scrape? You look done in.”

  Jencks made an irritable grunting noise, and said, “You’re not exactly fresh yourself, Romeo. I could store walnuts in those bags under your eyes.”

  “Women,” Bryan sighed, dropping into a chair. “Devastating creatures, in every sense of the word. Was it the blond?”

  Jencks nodded.

  “Well, it’s one way to stay fit, I suppose. She looked like a vigorous sparring partner.”

  “Are we going to exchange reminiscences?” Jencks asked.

  “No,” Bryan replied. “I got the information about the cops, and—”

  Miguel burst into the room. He was dressed in bathing trunks and a baggy terry cloth bathrobe. His trunks were still wet. A rolled towel was under his arm. “Ah,” he said, “the pleasures of a quick dip before bed.” He tossed the towel on the bed, and it unrolled to reveal five sticks of dynamite. From his pockets, he withdrew the timers and blasting caps, which he treated more respectfully, setting them down gently on the writing table. “All there, ready to go. I brought along an extra cap, just in case.” He glanced over at Bryan and Jencks. “Well, you two are certainly dead-looking. Steamroller, or dames?”

  “Dames,” Jencks said wearily. “Sit down. Just watching your energy is tiring.”

  Miguel produced his list of rooms, handed it to Jencks, and sat on the bed.

  “Not on the bed. You’re dripping wet.” Miguel clucked good-naturedly, as if amused by some private thought, and moved to a chair. He looked at Jencks, who had collected Bryan’s list and was checking the two lists against the master sheet. The room was quiet. The others waited tensely while Jencks made the final tabulation.

  “Sixty-three rooms,” Jencks said, his voice triumphant. “Good, solid odds.”

  The tension in the room eased. Bryan and Miguel lit cigarettes.

  “About the police,” Bryan said.

  “I found out about them,” Miguel said. “There’s a bigwig party here tomorrow.”

  “What time?” Jencks asked. This was crucial. If it were to be held at night, they would have to postpone the operation. It wouldn’t do to be stranded on an island with a small police force.

  “Afternoon,” Bryan said. “Three to seven. Then they all move off to Barcelona or Tossa or someplace.”

  “It’s being held in the small dining room,” Miguel said.

  “All right,” Jencks said. “Then we proceed as planned.” He went to his closet, bringing out the pack of Chesterfields. He handed them to Bry
an. “You want to review the priming technique again?”

  “No. I’ve got it.”

  “Okay. Then there’s nothing left to do but give you the keys.” He dug in his pocket and produced two bunches. He handed one bunch to each man, then returned to the desk and made out two lists. “These are the rooms you can skip as you make your rounds,” Jencks said. “Memorize the lists tonight, and then burn them. They’re on a special paper that leaves practically no ash.”

  They took the lists. Jencks examined the dynamite and blasting caps. He held one up, a small plastic tube with a metal tip and two fine wires leading out. “How are these rated?”

  “Fifteen grains of fulminating powder,” Miguel said. “They’ll set off anything.”

  “And the sticks are fresh?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right.” He looked at them both. “Any final questions?”

  “I’d like to go over the canceling procedure again,” Miguel said.

  “Three steps,” Jencks said, holding up his fingers. “I am the only person who can cancel the project. If something goes wrong, I’ll telephone Bryan on the hotel phone and say I can’t meet him for dinner, but would he be agreeable to drinks in the bar. If I mention the word ‘bar,’ it means the operation is off, and we are to meet in my room immediately. If I say anything else, it means the operation is off and stay the hell away from me. Got it?”

  “Yes,” Miguel said.

  “When Bryan gets the call, he will telephone you and say something that will sound logical to the switchboard operator who may be listening in. Again, the key word will be ‘bar.’ If it is mentioned, get to my room as fast as you can. If it isn’t mentioned, dump anything you’ve collected in a trash can in the hall and play stupid for the next day or so.”

  Miguel nodded.

  “Just remember, no calls means no cancellations. And you can rest assured that I am very unlikely to call it off. This thing is sure-fire, wedding reception or not. We can’t slip, we can’t lose, we can’t miss.”