The Floating Outfit 47 Read online

  Feeling the garment being torn even more, Dawn inadvertently completed its destruction by releasing the hair she was grasping and jerking backwards to leave its remnants in the blonde’s clutching hands. Then she hurled herself on to Minna and they began a rolling, hair pulling, wildly struggling mill which took them across the floor.

  The furious and apparently mindless tussling they were engaged upon caused holes to burst in their stockings and saw the blonde lose her dress.

  For a few more minutes, the clientele of the Big Five Room watched a fight which they would long remember. What was more, accepting that the occupants of the V.I.P. table had no objection to it taking place, they began to show their appreciation verbally by rooting for the tawny haired girl and the blond giant. However, despite the display of support, nobody offered to rise and lend them physical assistance after a man who made an attempt was ordered to refrain by the nearest bouncer.

  Set upon by one or both of the big men, Bunduki defended himself with a skill in using his fists, feet, wrestling skill and ability at general roughhouse brawling against the best they could do. Nor was the fracas between the girls any less vigorous. In addition to the primitive feminine tussling, they proved they too could employ more effective tactics. On occasion, each proved she possessed considerable skill as a boxer and a wrestler. At one point, sent between them by a kick from Bunduki, Carl was set upon by Dawn and the blonde with a fury which saw his shirt ripped off to expose his hairy and much tattooed chest before he could escape.

  However, although none of the spectators attached any significance to the matter, there was no blood drawn from any of the combatants despite all that was being done. Nor, except for the loss of a ruined stocking apiece when they parted company with the straps of the suspender belts, did the furiously struggling distaff side of the brawl tear away any more of their skimpy remaining garments.

  Finally, having knocked Willie through the front entrance, Bunduki sent Carl after him with a kick to the ribs. As he did so Dawn and Minna, staggering and swaying uncertainly, launched punches which arrived on the other’s jaw simultaneously, and both went in a twirling dive to the floor. Having disposed of his second attacker, the blond giant crossed to where the girls were face down and trying to force themselves exhaustedly into a kneeling position. He picked up one under each arm and carried them, hanging limply across his crooked elbows and as if they were no weight at all, after the men.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman,’ Prince Simba Nyeuse called in excellent and accent free English, causing silence to descend on the room. Tall, slender and with the coppery-red skin pigmentation which emphasized he was of the Nilotic Ambaga nation, he was good looking and wore the smartly cut khaki uniform of a Field Marshal in his Army. ‘I hope you weren’t alarmed by what has just happened. It was merely a demonstration of the kind of action you will see when ‘Lorna, Ruler of the Jungle’ appears on the cinema screens.’ Gesturing to where, smiling and showing no animosity towards one another, the perspiring and heavily breathing ‘fighters’ returned through the door, he went on, ‘Please allow me to introduce you to the stunt team for the production, Minna Brownlow, Willie Dayton and Carl Strothers. They were assisted by my good friends, Dawn Drummond-Clayton and Bunduki Gunn.’ Waiting until the laughter and applause which greeted the announcement died away, he continued, ‘The performance was in aid of the Gazaliville School for the Blind and I trust you will all show your appreciation for it by donating generously. By the way, you were probably too engrossed in what was going on to notice, but we have had video-cameras filming it and, when the tapes have been edited, copies will be on sale for the same good cause.’

  ‘That was a most remarkable show you put on, Bunduki,’ King Latu Kham praised, his English as good as that of his host. Of medium height and in his early thirties, he was handsome in an Oriental fashion and had on black evening clothes of Occidental cut. ‘And you too, of course, Dawn.’

  ‘I have a feeling Latu found your part of the fight the more interesting, Dawn,’ small, petite and beautiful Queen Mei Kwei-Lo remarked with a smile.

  ‘I hope none of you are going to ask for a live action replay,’ Dawn Drummond-Clayton replied. ‘Minna might enjoy doing that sort of thing, but I prefer wrestling with pythons.’

  Half an hour had elapsed since the end of the staged fight which had been organized by Simba Nyeuse for the entertainment of his guests. All the ‘combatants’ had taken a shower and were now dressed in a fashion suitable for them to be presented to their royal audience. While they were cleaning up and changing their clothes, Cyrus B. Hollinger had explained that, in addition to working as technical advisers for the location and animals sequences, Dawn and Bunduki had volunteered their services when the other stunt team who were working on the movie contracted dysentery and could not participate in the climatic ‘fight’ between the heroine, the hero and the ‘baddies’. He also told how the performance that evening had come about.

  On hearing that his friends had proved most adept at picking up the fighting routines, Simba Nyeuse had requested a demonstration and, ever willing to obtain what he felt sure would serve as excellent publicity for his movie, the producer had suggested how this could be done to the best advantage. Wanting to help the film people, for whom they had formed a liking—also because they considered they would be giving support to a worthy cause—Dawn and Bunduki had agreed to play their part. Already having been taught how to ‘pull’ kicks and blows, or react when in receipt of similarly faked attacks, they had spent the past two days practicing the dialogue which provided the reason for the trouble and the moves which had made the ‘brawl’ appear so genuine.

  The outer clothing which was ripped off the ‘combatants’ of both sexes had been of a ‘tear-away’ variety specially designed for such a purpose. However, despite the ‘fight’ in the movie having ended with them both ‘topless’, Dawn had been disinclined to go that far when she knew there would be a number of friends and acquaintances present. To prevent the removal occurring by accident, Minna had produced the skimpy, but specially strengthened, undergarments. As a further precaution against accidental loss, the bras were secured by an adhesive coating which retained them in position regardless of them being well filled and subject to the strenuous activities in which the wearers were engaged.

  Because of the response from the other spectators, especially with regards to the size of donations made for the support of the Gazaliville School for the Blind and sales of the video-film, the five performers considered the time they had spent rehearsing the ‘brawl’ and the exertions expended producing it had been well worth the effort!

  ‘Be that as it may,’ the King said. ‘My own martial arts’ team couldn’t have bettered your show.’

  ‘But they always fight genuinely, don’t they?’ Dawn suggested, having seen the men and women in question perform on television newscasts and heard a statement to that effect.

  ‘They do not,’ the King denied with a grin. ‘After the money I spend having them trained, I’m not going to risk any of them being killed or seriously injured just to perform for a television camera.’

  ‘You’re giving away State secrets, dear,’ the Queen warned in a mock chiding fashion, then turned her gaze to Dawn and Bunduki. ‘And I’m sure you and your three friends all deserve some kind of award for your performance.’

  ‘So do I,’ the King seconded, but changed the subject as he saw the girl and the blond giant were showing embarrassment. ‘By the way, Bunduki, Simba has told us how you came by your nickname.’

  ‘Did he also tell you how, when I was young, they called me Totoya Bunduki?’ the blond giant inquired.

  ‘No,’ the King admitted. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Son of a gun,’ Simba Nyeuse supplied with a grin.

  ‘And if telling you that doesn’t deserve some sort of an award, say being thrown to the crocodiles in the Tangana River, I don’t know what does.’

  Part Two – A Smuggler … Or Is He?

>   Featuring

  Deputy Sheriff Bradford ‘Brad’ Counter

  ‘You know something, Tom,’ Deputy Sheriff Bradford ‘Brad’ Counter remarked sotto voce, his accent that of a well educated Texan. ‘Uncle Ranse was right!’

  ‘I’ve never known him to be,’ Deputy Sheriff Thomas Cord asserted, just as quietly. The timbre of his voice indicated he too had been born in the Lone Star State, albeit hailing from a lower stratum of society. Several years older than his companion and some six inches shorter, with auburn hair tinged gray at the temples, there were grin quirks at the corners of his mouth which belied the professional hardness of his darkly tanned face. He had a stocky, yet firmly fleshed, build which indicated he kept himself in excellent physical condition. ‘What’d he manage to get right at last?’

  ‘Stake-outs are the worst and most miserable duty any peace officer can draw,’ Brad replied, showing no offense at the apparently disparaging comment about a kinsman for whom he had the greatest respect as he knew his companion shared the sentiment. ‘He always told me so and, by cracky, he was right.’

  Such was the exceptional potency of the reproductive genes imparted by their great-grandfather, Mark Counter, anybody seeing the young peace officer and his cousin, James Allenvale ‘Bunduki’ Gunn, together for the first time might have been excused for believing that—despite the latter being a year older—they were twin brothers. The physical resemblance was remarkable, especially when considering it was shared by at least two more of Mark’s descendants.

  An undercover assignment Brad had recently undertaken for the Rockabye County Sheriff’s Office resulted in him having to have his golden blond hair given what an earlier generation called a ‘crew cut’, but he was just as classically handsome and had a ‘Mr. Universe’ type of physique matching that of Bunduki in almost every detail. There was, in fact, less than half an inch difference in their height and other bodily dimensions. What was more, the peace officer was the equal of his cousin in strength and agility. While their ability at bare-handed fighting was about the same, because of different needs in their respective ways of life, Brad had greater skill in the use of firearms—especially handguns—and Bunduki was better with other, more primitive, weapons.

  The Rockabye County Sheriff’s Office had county-wide jurisdiction and the Gusher City Police Department did not, so much of Brad and Cord’s work involved dealing with cases for both organizations which were usually the jurisdictional responsibility of detectives in the Homicide Bureau. Therefore, following the example of their predecessors in the Old West, they generally wore civilian clothing when carrying out their duties. However, the assignment upon which they were engaged that warm and moonlit June evening was not within the confines of Gusher City, seat of Rockabye County. Because of the need for them to be easily and immediately recognized as peace officers should the information upon which they were acting prove correct, they both were wearing the official uniform for their department.

  Both deputies wore the proscribed tan colored, low crowned and wide brimmed, J.B. Stetson hats, but they had removed the well polished gold and silver five-pointed star badges of office from the front of the crowns. Their khaki military style shirts had a dark blue shield with, ‘SHERIFF’S OFFICE, ROCKABYE COUNTY, TEXAS’, in white letters on each upper sleeve and a similar badge—albeit suitably dulled to prevent it glinting in the moonlight and possibly giving away their position amongst the bushes in which they were hiding—was pinned to the left breast pocket. Matching slacks, a black necktie and brown rubber-soled boots completed their clothing. Indicating length of service and his seniority as a deputy sheriff, there were three inverted chevrons on the sleeves of Cord’s shirt. Having a flashlight, instead of the long wooden ‘night stick’ occasionally carried in daytime, on a loop at the left side, a key-ring, pouches for spare ammunition and handcuffs were interspersed between it and the holster for their handguns on the right. Their black Sam Browne style waist belts did not have the shoulder strap of the original design.

  Being aware of how great a part individual choice played in such an essential matter, the policy of the Rockabye County Department of Public Safety allowed all the local peace officers to make their own selection of handguns and the rigs in which these were carried. Having taken a fancy to the Colt Government Model of 1911 automatic pistol, Brad had had the one he owned modified to increase its potential and wore it in a forward-raked Bianchi Cooper-Combat ‘bikini’ holster—so-called because of its small size—with a long-tanged Elden Carl ‘fly-off leather safety strap. Roughly pear-shaped, passing over the fully cocked hammer of the pistol and attached to the holster only by a press-stud, the strap retained the weapon securely for normal use while permitting a speed of withdrawal which his illustrious great grandfather—no slouch in such matters—would have been hard put to match. Cord’s four inch barreled Smith & Wesson Model 19 ‘Combat’.357 Magnum revolver was in a more conventional looking holster of the type made popular by Assistant Chief Patrol Officer William H. ‘Bill’ Jordan of the United States’ Border Patrol. 2

  However, because the assignment upon which they were engaged could entail dealing with armed men who were willing to fight back, the two peace officers were supplementing their basically defensive firearms with more potent weapons. Although there were more modern weapons available at the Sheriff’s Office, because of personal preference, Cord had chosen a .30 caliber U.S. M1A1 carbine with a folding skeleton stock and Brad had a Winchester Model of 1897 ‘trench gun’ across the crook of his left elbow.

  ‘I’ve known some who liked stake-outs,’ Cord commented, as if imparting information of the greatest importance. ‘But then, I’ve known some who liked beating themselves with birch twigs comes to that.’

  ‘You’re sure seen life,’ Brad declared, eyeing his older and far more experienced companion in a sardonic fashion which implied a genuine liking and admiration for one he knew to be a master of their trade. Then he returned to his earlier subject. ‘Hell, I’ve never known time to drag this bad.’

  ‘Shall I help pass it quicker by telling you some of my jokes?’ Cord suggested.

  ‘Why thank you ‘most to death,’ the blond giant replied, making a face as if he had bitten into a lemon. ‘But, with all due disrespect to my elders, I’d sooner let the time drag.’

  ‘That’s funny, boy,’ Cord drawled, sounding as if he believed such a contingency was impossible. ‘You’re not the first who’s told me the same.’

  ‘And I bet I’m not the last,’ Brad asserted, his partner having acquired a well deserved notoriety for telling “shaggy dog” stories and other jokes which the other members of the Sheriff’s Office claimed were the worst in the world. Then, having glanced at the luminous dial of his wristwatch, be became more serious as he went on, ‘Do you reckon Willie the Thief’s taken me for a sucker, Cord?’

  ‘Not if I know him,’ the older deputy assessed.

  ‘But why’d he contact me and not one of the old hands at the office?’ the blonde giant queried, worried by the possibility that the first information of its kind he had been able to supply to his superiors and upon which he, his partner and some of the other deputies from their Watch were acting might prove false.

  ‘He’s been away a fair spell and looked to be short of cash when we saw him down town,’ Cord answered. ‘Knowing him from back when, once he learned who you are, he’d figure, you being new to the Office and likely wanting to score points by making arrests, you’d be willing to pay more than the rest of us for what he had to offer.’

  ‘I remembered what you told me about dealing with stoolies,’ Brad declared. ‘When he let on he’d got something for me, I said that, seeing as it was the first time we’d done business, it would be pay by results.’

  ‘And he didn’t ask for something on account?’

  ‘Nope. He said that would suit him fine.’

  ‘Then he figures what he’s told you is true.’

  Despite nothing having happened so far, and th
e time approaching two o’clock in the morning, the blond giant was rendered less perturbed by his partner’s summation. Developed at the suggestion of his Uncle Ranse, one asset to his work of a peace officer which Brad possessed was the ability to remember faces and, more importantly, be able to connect them with the appropriate name. 3 While going to collect his imported M.G. MOB convertible from the parking lot of the Upton Heights Shopping Mall where he had been purchasing some underclothing the previous afternoon, Brad had been stopped by a man he recognized and who claimed this was mutual. Cord had pointed him out earlier in the week as being Willard ‘Willie the Thief’ Cosset, a stool pigeon who had left town about six months ago. The nickname had originated from his habit when accused of being an informer of responding in an injured tone, ‘A stoolie, me. Hell, everybody knows I’m a thief!’

  Introducing himself, after having looked around to make certain they were not being observed by anybody who might later remember the meeting to his disadvantage, Cosset had said he could supply information about a notorious Mexican smuggler—or rather a suspected smuggler, as guilt of this crime had never been established—who would be making a delivery of unspecified contraband across the Rio Grande. Having learned when and where this was to take place and settled the matter of payment, Brad had reported what he had been told to his partner and their Watch Commander. Although they had warned him that numerous attempts to catch Alonzo ‘Tricky Al’ Nevada in the act of handling contraband goods had failed, they had agreed to follow the information up. It would, First Deputy Angus ‘Mac’ McCall said with a suggestion of satisfaction in his dry Scottish burr, put the Sheriff’s Office one up on the Border Patrol and local Customs’ officers—with whom they would be cooperating—if they could achieve what their friendly rivals had repeatedly failed to do.