Extract from ‘Blowjobs’
IT'S A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY
by FANON.
Part I
Foreword:
The world was different in the 1950s-70s. High-jacking and terrorism were not commonplace; there were no camcorders or mobile phones. Lake Powell at the north-east end of the Grand Canyon didn’t exist until the 1960s. The town of Page was a small community working on constructing the Glen Canyon Dam – but the world was still full of scum…
Following the Iberian caper, I delivered the Agent to my London contact, and started my vacation.
Prior to the jaunt – I’d sent my family on a “Queen Mary” Bahamas cruise. It would be ten days before we met up at our Lake Tahoe residence. A visit to Gloria who ran my USA ‘Escort’ business from Reno would fill the time in nicely. At Heathrow awaiting my flight, I read a small newspaper article: The spy I’d rescued days earlier had fallen under a train at Waterloo!
I’d no doubts it was a ‘blowjob’. Canceling my flight, I made other plans: I wanted to be in the background when the body was buried: In my line of business knowledge is power – and helps keep you alive. There was a good chance his killer would make an appearance at the ceremony. (Killers show up at their victim’s funerals oftener than one suspects!) I may well see a guy who’d be instructed to blow me at some point in the future. If I saw anyone present at the ceremony later, alarm bells would ring.
He was cremated. There was one mourner – a stunning young female. I figured she’d be the randy MI 6 girlfriend I’d heard about. So much for that! I caught a flight to Chicago thence on to Reno, and spent two days with Gloria.
Set to join my family, I made my routine contact with Room 47 and received new instructions: ‘Proceed to Flagstaff immediately, book in at the Dayton Motel on Route 66. A reservation’s been made in the name of Wilkins. A six pm flight ticket from Reno has been reserved in the name of Jenson. Your contact in Flagstaff is Rhona…’
The six miles from Flagstaff airport to the Dayton I did by taxi. On booking in, the receptionist handed me a letter. I read, ‘Whensome restaurant 9 am tomorrow. I’m the redhead. Rhona.’
Next morning, parking my rental, I entered the restaurant. As eating-places go, it was average. Same went for Rhona - a ‘Plain Jane’, mid-fifties, over-henna’d hair. I caught her eye, “Rhona?”
She arose, “Wilkins? Hi.” She indicated a seat. Waving the waiter away she continued – “Can’t stay, instructions from Mister Brown as follows: ‘Sesame Hotel, room twenty three. Immediate dispatch. Watch the fan.” She lit a cigarette, and hurried out. My brain-cogs whirred….
‘So! It’s a blowjob, and leave no traces’, I thought. However, alarm bells rang. Rising, I reached the door in time to see Rhona entering a cab. I noted the cab company, reasoning that the message could have been passed by phone or letter. Why deliver it in person! I could think of only one reason -so the messenger could recognize me again.
Why?
Resting my hand against my breast confirmed the presence of ‘Little Jessie’ – (my lethal .22 automatic). Re-entering, I ordered coffee. Ten minutes later I telephoned the cab company:
“Hi. One of your drivers just picked up a fare outside the Whensome – Redhead, green two-piece. She left a parcel. Any chance you can find where your Cabby dropped her? Could be worth a few bucks?” A lengthy pause, then – “One two eight Station Approach.”
Stopping the Pontiac just short of the building revealed ‘128’ as a cheap ‘bed-and-breakfast' joint. I entered. Giving a practiced flash of my wallet to the tired receptionist, I demanded: “The Redhead. Which room? Make it quick.”
He weighed me up quickly, “Room eight, second floor, right.” I took the stairs at a run, kicked in the door, surprising the occupant in the process of re-fitting his wig. His case lay on the bed ready packed. I motioned him with Little Jessie, “Stick that back on, grab your bag, we’re leaving. You walk out first. Not a word.”
I tossed the inquisitive receptionist at the bottom of the stairs a couple of hundred-dollar bills, advising “Shut it – and keep it shut.” Indicating the rental I told ‘Rhona’, “You drive.” Tossing him the keys I sat in the back, Jessie caressing his ear. “Head towards the Canyon.” He took Route 180, towards the South Rim. At the first opportunity I had him stop and get out. He never felt a thing. I hurled the body downwards to disappear in a crevice between rocks a hundred or more feet below.
I’d done him a favour. Another operator may have been less considerate and interrogated him by applying torture before blowing him.
Lighting the cigarette had been one giveaway: Striking the match towards him, Nine out of ten females strike it away from them. A less conspicuous wig may have helped. His falsies were too high too. No mid-fifties woman has them that up-thrusting. In displaying their femininity he’d also displayed his very male ‘Adam’s Apple. The voice had been good though – it was his male phraseology let him down.
Room 47 wouldn’t employ operators that dumb. MI 6 has it’s limits. I’d a shrewd idea it was ‘Mister Brown’ killing two birds with one stone, as it were: He’d had the information on the target passed to me by a ‘Patsy’ who’d outgrown his usefulness, assuming I’d blow him too as a safety precaution.
‘Damn’, I cursed, ‘Have I become that predictable?’ Whatever! Right now the Sesame Hotel in general – and room twenty three in particular – was the focus of my intention. Sorting through several ID cards I settled on George Rogers Junior, freelance Documentary Film producer, and booked into the hotel under that name.
The receptionist was a buxom young coloured wench. Noting the way she admired my size, torso, and blonde curls, as I approached dictated how I handled her. She asked: May I help you Sir?” My reply was flattering and teasing.
“Honey that’s without doubt the best offer I’ve had since Junior High. However, having a beautiful young lady like you helping me would sure as hell get us both into trouble.” She started to reply somewhat self-consciously, I cut her short – “You should have that smile registered as a lethal weapon,” I glanced as her bust, “and as for them –” I winked “I bet you don’t get many of those to the pound.”
“Sir–“ She tried to sound friendly yet professional. I cut in again, holding hands up in apology.
“I really am sorry, Miss. Truth is, a colleague of mine stopped by here some while back and sang your praises. Well, his idea of beauty is anything on two legs that’s female, so I was expecting a bit of a – Seeing you instead of some old – you straight took my breath away.”
Visibly pleased with my comments, subconsciously adjusting her pose the better to display her assets, she spoke firmly yet courteously,
“Did you wish to hire a room Sir?”
Sounding a little contrite I urged her, “Yes. Please forgive me for being so rude Miss. I was taken aback by your - I would like a room for two-three days. Maybe longer. Perhaps you’ll do me the honour of allowing me to make up by buying you lunch when you are off duty.” leaning forwards I proffered my hand, “George Rogers Junior. Am I forgiven?”
“Certainly Sir. If-“
I interrupted again, “Well in that case I insist you call me George. And if you can recommend the best spot to eat in this area -“ I read the name-tag on her left breast – “Miranda – lovely name for a delightful lady – I insist you accompany me there so I can make it up to you.”
I’m sure she felt impressed, honoured, even, but commented, “We are not allowed to be familiar with guests Mister Rogers.” She glanced down. “Room sixteen. Now if I could –“. Yet again I interrupted.
“Sorry to be an utter pest, Miranda, but is by chance room twenty-eight free? You see I have this thing – “
“Room twenty-eight it is then Mister Rogers. Now if I can just have some details…”
Arranging for my overnight bag to be placed in the room, I returned downtown to make some purchases: maps, brochures, two Cine-cameras, hearing aid, ammonium nitrate fertilizer, acetone cleaner, a couple of drugstore items, and large bunch of roses. The roses I presented to Miranda. The rest was for more nefarious purposes…
When signing the register I’d carefully noted the occupant of room twenty-three was a Miss S. A. Goodchild. Chances were she was in her twenties or thirties. I formulated my ‘Plan A’ on that assumption, and spent a while swatting up on the area. My room was only a couple of doors down from hers, on the other side. Removing the bathroom mirror, I propped it on a chair. With my door ajar I could observe anyone entering room twenty-three.
Around five thirty a lady entered the room – It was the MI 6 Agent I’d seen at the funeral. Minutes later she left in a jog-suit. I figured she was going to use the hotel’s facilities. This fitted my plan like she’d read the script. An hour later she returned… time for Plan A.
Waiting a couple of minutes, I moved to listen outside her door. Using a lock-pick I eased her door open. I could hear the shower running; there was no sign of Missy. Stripping, I marched into the bathroom, stopping – apparently shocked – when finding the shower occupied.
She was genuinely shocked. Far from screaming, she moved into a defensive self-defense pose demanding:
“What the hell are you doing in here?”
I indicated my ears. “Sorry. I’m deaf. What are you are doing in my bathroom?”
“Your bathroom? This is my room. Now get out before I call security.” She mouthed the words loudly, glaring straight at me. Just for a couple of instances her gaze flashed down to my thighs involuntarily.
“I’m sorry, this room is taken.” I spoke firmly yet apologetically. Her gaze dropped to my thighs again and quickly back up. Pretending to notice our nakedness for the first time, I hastily used my hands to cover my genitals, “Excuse me, I didn’t expect – I’ll wait outside until you - then we can sort this out.” I backed out modestly.
Barely had I gotten my trousers on when she entered draped in a bath towel, stating loudly with exaggerated lip action, “I’ve stayed here before. I particularly asked for room twenty-three as I like the view. I’ll find out just what’s going on.” She made for the telephone.
“Oh my God! I’m so sorry.” My outburst paused her, “I’ve just arrived; I must have mistaken the three for an eight.” Then looking puzzled, “Sorry about barging in, but the key fit!” I indicated my fitted hearing aid: “I can hear okay now. Damn, I’ll just finish dressing, then sort things out with Management immediately. I’m truly sorry for intruding.”
‘Plan A’ assumed my looks and naked torso would impress most females, and my apparent error and apology quickly appease them, so leading to some sort of rapport. My lower physical attributes in particular had been well noted by my quarry, arousing basic urges. Having recently been robbed of the partner supplying her very considerable carnal appetite, she was in no hurry to pass up a possible temporary replacement. This showed in her relaxed reply:
“You’re forgiven. Accidents happen.” Then, “You Canadian?”
“Half British.” I proffered a hand. “George Rogers Junior.” As she took it I held hers with both mine, offering, “I produce documentaries for TV. I’m doing one on the Grand Canyon for British television.” Still holding her hand I continued in confidence, “Look, I need someone to link the shots together. You know, appear as a tourist, and the audience see the sights through their eyes.” I looked down into her upturned eyes almost pleading: “It’s one hell of a cheek, but dare I ask if you’d be interested?” Adding hastily, “It’s a couple of hours for say two days. It pays really well, and someone with your beauty would really give the document class….?”
