Don Pendleton - Continental Contract

"Hell," he said.

"I suppose you're wondering about me. That is, about my... activities."

"None of my business," he assured her.

"I'm a writer."

"Congratulations. Direct research, eh?"

"Not exactly. Call it direct living. After years and years of schooling, I found that I had learned all the clever ways of saying things, but that I had nothing to be said,"

"Yeah." He took her hand off his hip and held it. This was certainly the most unlikely conversation of his unlikely life.

"You don't believe a word of it, do you?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes. I didn't come to Paris for... for this. I mean... prostitution. I came to taste life."

"How's the taste?"

"Horrible. And, at the same time, wonderful. You should understand, though. In Paris, prostitution isn't... well, it's not all that... well, many girls in Paris supplement their income in this manner. But it's dangerous for amateurs... in many ways, only one of which is the police."

"And Celeste offered you protection."

"Yes. I'm a... an extra. Well dammit! Whether you approve of it or not, it's the most logical way for a foreigner in Paris to keep from starving. At least this way I am free to come and go as I please. No one man is keeping me, I owe nothing to anyone."

Bolan smiled. "Hey, I'm no one to judge."

"Yes, that's true, isn't it."

He told her, "Some day you can write The Confessions of J, or something."

"Yes, and I'll get filthy rich."

"Your name isn't really Jones, is it?"

"No."

His smile broadened. "Pen name, eh?"

"No." She giggled. "Bed name."

Bolan started to say something in the same light vein, then he checked himself and his eyes tracked to the door. He whispered, "Okay, this is it."

The girl had heard not a thing but moments later knuckles rapped lightly on the door and the voice of the hotel manager softly called, "Monsieur Martin?"

Bolan counted to five, then gruffly replied, "Hey, dammit, do not disturb! Can't you read your own damn signs?"

"Excusez-moi, Monsieur. The police wish to enter."

"Goddammit, you told me this was a quiet hotel!"

"M'sieur — s'il vous plait. The police..."

Bolan yelled, "Go to hell!"

A key turned in the lock, the door swung open, and Bolan raised belligerently to a seated position on the bed. The girl came up to an elbow and drew the covers about her shoulders. From the hallway the manager spluttered, "A thousand pardons, M'sieur Martin."

A plainclothes cop stepped cautiously into the room, then another. They gazed around, glanced skitteringly at the couple on the bed, then said something in rapid French to the manager. He advanced into the room and told Bolan, "There 'as been another shooting, M'sieur. The police desire to question you. They do not speak the English. I will translate."

Bolan growled, "You translate their asses right out of here! The American consul will hear about this, you bet on it!"

One of the detectives had gone to the window. The other was standing rather uncomfortably at the foot of the bed, darting quick glances at the girl. The one at the window said, "Passeport, s'il vous plait."

"And what if I don't please?" Bolan replied sulkily.

"Passeport!"

Bolan told the manager, "Inside coat pocket, in the — I'll get it." He threw back the covers and swung his feet to the floor.

The detective quickly waved him back. "I speak English," he told Bolan. "Never mind the passport. We regret this invasion of your privacy, Monsieur, Madame. Just a few questions, please, and we will leave you alone."

Bolan said, "Fair enough."

"You heard the shooting of course."

"We heard something. Little while ago. By the time I got up to look, it was all over. We, uh, weren't really interested... comprenez-vous?"

The detective's lips moved in a suggestion of a smile and he replied, "Yes, I understand. You saw nothing, then?"

Bolan's eyes flashed deliberately to the girl. "Inspector,'' he said in a confidential tone, "I wouldn't have seen King Kong if he'd been climbing in my window."

The corner had obviously been turned. Several routine questions followed, obviously of the breakaway variety, and the police made a graceful retreat.

The door closed behind them and the girl let out her breath in a soft whoosh. "They did not speak directly to me once," she whispered.

"Homicide cops," Bolan explained. "You have to understand the French. See no evil, know none, that's the philosophy. They didn't want to get sucked into a morals case. That's why he didn't look at my passport. He knew the manager already had. He would have been required to ask for yours, too, and he might have learned something he didn't want to know about."

"Then you handled it beautifully," she told him.

"Thanks. There simply was no other way."

"You handle all things beautifully, don't you?"

"I try."

"How are you going to handle this?"

"This what?"

"Well... here we are, aren't we?"

Yes, there they were. Bolan took her in his arms and told her of that very special sanctuary found only in a woman's embrace. She explained to him the very special difference between professional love and the spontaneous variety. Together they found that human bond that temporarily erases anxieties, placates mortal fears, and reaffirms the joys of being alive and young and together. And some time later, when their stories were fully told, she was lying languidly on the disarrayed bed and watching him with half-closed eyes as he quietly got into his clothes.

"Yes, you handle things beautifully," she murmured.

He told her, "That isn't hard when you're handling beautiful things."

"Mack... don't waste yourself on an insane war."

"It isn't insane," he replied. "You said something about tasting life, Judy. Listen... I don't know about women... but a man hasn't begun to live until he's found something to die for."

"I... guess I understand that. And I think I'm... ready to try my novel again, Mack."

He smiled at her, his teeth gleaming in the subdued light. "I'm glad to hear that." He went to the closet for the rest of his things.

"It isn't going to be The Confessions of J, either."

Bolan placed his gear at the door and went over to kneel at the bed. He kissed her lightly on the lips and said, "No?"

"No. I think I shall call it No More To Die."

"What's that mean?" he asked, smiling solemnly.

"I don't know, except that I've been dying for years, and for no good reason whatever. I suppose I'll have to write the book to find out what it means."

He kissed her again and quickly stood up. "You'll find out," he said gruffly.

"Do you realize how very profound you are, Mr. Bolan? You've found the mystical secret of paradoxical logic. You are truly alive, aren't you?"

He went to the door without replying, opened it, picked up his things, then said, "Au revoir, Judy."

"Don't say that. Say a tout a l'heure — see you later."

"I hope so," he said.

"Me too," she whispered.

He went out and down the stairs and onto the street. It was shortly past two o'clock. All was quietly deserted out there now. He went up the street without challenge, got into his car, and headed for Champs d'Elysees.

Sure, he was truly alive. A man who lives in the constant shadow of death is always very much aware of being alive. He knew nothing of paradoxical logic or the strange workings of psyche that led a refined English girl into French joie service, but he did know that he had made a possibly fatal mistake of weakness back at that house of death.

He had left a survivor. He had humbled the guy and allowed him to beg for his life, then compounded the shame by walking away and leaving him alive. No man who was tough enough inside to survive in the world of Mafia could live for long with that kind of humiliation eating at him. The Rudolfi guy would have to vindicate his own aliveness now. He would have to answer to his own high priest of human pride and manliness, and the reply would undoubtedly be along the lines of what the English girl had termed paradoxical logic. Rudolfi would have to kill because he regarded himself as unfit to live. Of such questionable fodder were born the world's holy wars. Bolan understood this. Rudolfi would have to kill Bolan, or else lose his own right to live. This type were the enemies who mattered. Bolan understood this, also.