Irene faltered. “For women? You mean…”
Alex lifted a hand to ward off the question. “Yes. As incredible as it sounds, he asked Ditz to work with the dog. Ditz was tight with Scirocco at the time and looked at the whole thing as an incredible joke. I caught her with the Brutus several times. She’d have a hand between the dog’s legs and be letting him sniff her. She thought it was funny.”
“Doesn’t sound funny. Sounds sick,” Irene said.
“It got sicker,” Alex put in. “We had just come back from a swim, Ditz and me. And the dog was acting strange; running around in circles. On reflection, I figure Ditz had been messing with the animal, getting him all worked up. I was on a lounger with my eyes closed when Brutus suddenly jumped on me. He had his paws on my hips and was ferociously licking at me between– well you know. I screamed and tried to force him off but he must have weighed a hundred pounds and he was pigheaded. I couldn’t get out from under him.”
“And Ditz didn’t help.” Irene said.
Alex scowled into her cup. “She was too busy taking photographs. I looked over and she was laughing and snapping pictures of me with the dog.”
“Oh Jesus.”
“Yeah. And when Scirocco showed me the photographs, I was surprised. In the photos, you can see little difference between the look of shock and the look of sexual…”
Alex focused on the overhead, her eyes brimming. “The look of sexual…”
“It’s okay. I get it,” Irene tried to relieve the tension and passed over the pack of tissues she kept next to the console.
Alex steadied herself. “He never threatened me outright but the implication was clear. Scirocco wanted more pictures of me with the dog and if I didn’t comply, he’d send the ones he had overseas to Rob. I couldn’t let that happen. The next time it was at his apartment. I got down on all fours and Ditz brought the dog in. Brutus had been trained and knew what was expected of him. And Scirocco videotaped the whole thing.”
Irene thought of Scirocco’s movie production company and had no doubt what had become of the video of Alex and Brutus.
“But worse, was the last time,” Alex continued. “Scirocco was entertaining some of his business associates and told me what he wanted. I couldn’t believe he would ask me to do that, in front of those men. But I did it. Can you understand that, Irene? I did it for Rob.”
Alex’s head dropped and she began to sob, her shoulders clenching under an onslaught of spasms, her hands trembling about the coffee cup. Irene pried the mug from Alex’s fingers and reached for her friend.
Alex got her hands up. “It’s okay.” She pushed Irene away, “Really. It’s okay,” she repeated, waving her fingers about her face as if to disperse a rotten smell. “When Rob gets back, everything will be okay again. I’ll go to Scirocco and sleep with him. Sleep with his dopey dog too, if that’s what it takes. I’ll persuade him to let me quit and then Rob and I will disappear into the Rocky Mountains and I’ll forget all about this place. Forever.”
Alex got to her feet and took an unsteady step toward the door. “I’ll be okay, now,” she said, forcing the control back into her voice. “I’ll just get myself cleaned up before sending your Mr. Namath forward. Won’t take a moment.”
“Thank you,” Irene’s words followed Alex out the door and echoed meaninglessly inside her head. She felt sad and inadequate. She needed to do something for her friend, but what?
As hundreds of testosterone-charged men cheered the sight of twenty bikini-clad athletes in the ballroom of the Grand Hilton, Cartagena; and as Irene and Jack Namath walked hand-in-hand along the Old City’s ramparts, admiring the stars, a meteorologist sat hunched in a darkened room at the National Hurricane Center. His face and rimless eye-glasses were awash in the blue light from his computer screen as he intently watched a tropical depression make a decisive turn toward the warm waters of the Caribbean Sea.
The effect was immediate. The swirling winds became more organized and he began to see the eye-wall form. “Son of a bitch,” he cursed under his breath as he checked and then re-checked the wind speeds. He was watching the birth of a hurricane; the first of the season. He named it Amelia.
Jack Namath took the bottle from the small duffle bag he wore slung over a shoulder and dribbled more wine into Irene’s glass. “It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it?”
Irene sipped and let out an audible sigh. “The extremes are incredible.”
Irene was leaning against the parapet at the top of the wall that had been built in the sixteenth century after British Naval Captain, Sir Francis Drake, leveled the town with his cannonballs and pilfered the Spaniards’ gold. Old Town, lay at her feet: A maze of cobbled streets alight with gas lamps and lined with perfectly preserved colonial churches, monasteries, plazas, and palazzos with balconies and patios.
And beyond, the dynamic skyline of the new Cartagena, or Bocagrande as the locals called it. The towers of steel and glass attested to the economic muscle of the country and was home to the rich and mighty. The bulk of the City’s tourist facilities could be found there: Posh hotels, high end shops and boutiques, restaurants, nightclubs and galleries. The new, sparkling in dazzling light, a backdrop to the old. And to the north, the Caribbean Sea heaved softly, the lights of the ferryboats moving between the reflected starlight.
Jack moved in behind and placed his arms around Irene’s waist. “You’ve never been before?”
“No. Never,” Irene confessed. “And you?”
“Several times, actually. I’ve sold some properties here,” he lied easily. A little too easily, Irene thought.
She shrugged it off and concentrated instead, on the soft sea breezes that tickled her legs. It was close to midnight and she was a little drunk. “You at the Hilton with the rest of us?”
“No,” Jack replied nuzzling her neck. “I’ve got a property; a villa in Getsemaní; a short walk from here. The owners are in Europe so I’m slumming it. Why don’t you take off your dress?”
Irene felt a lurch in her tummy and turned in his arms. “Wha-da-yah…?” He was grinning, looking a little like a weasel. “Just w-what the hell are you suggesting, Jack Namath?”
“Nothing– nothing– ” he spread his hands defensively, “just though it would be fun, is all.”
“You want me to undress for you? Here? In public?”
Jack looked around, still with the stupid smirk on his face. “It’s hardly public,” he said. “It’s dark and I don’t see anyone else about, except you.”
Irene started to giggle but her insides had begun to churn and the heat was lifting. She took a step to the edge of the wall and looked down at a deserted street. Then looked left and right along the ramparts. Jack was quite right; they were all alone at the top of the wall.
Irene turned back, the protest dying in her throat. “Okay. But just for a minute, understand? I can’t fly back to Florida if I’m incarcerated in the local hoosegow.”
Jack shrugged. “Come here. Stand by the wall.”
Irene giggled again, a little crazily, and reached behind to pull down the zipper of her cocktail dress. She slipped the silk from her shoulders and lowered it along her legs until she could step from within its confines.
“Give it here,” Jack reached for her dress. “Now the rest.”
The rest were a pair of black lace panties and with another quick look left and right, Irene hooked her thumbs into the elastic and dragged them from her legs. When she straightened she was dazzled by a burst of light.
“Jack!” She cried out as he lowered his camera. “What the hell?”
“Just a bit of fun,” he defended himself. “How about a profile?”
“If I find those on the internet…” she wagged a finger, but turned good-naturedly, tossed her hair and smiled into the flare of his camera’s flash.
“Fabulous. Now how about something a little raunchy…”
“Raunchy?” Irene’s chin came up.
“Yeah. C’mon. You know you want to.”
He was right. Irene was feeling all juiced and lifting herself with her arms, she hopped up, sitting with her bare bum on the stoney edge of the parapet. She lifted a leg suggestively and pulled back a vaginal lip with the fingers of her right hand. “How’s this?”
“Oh yeah!” Jack cried, stepping closer and adding another two shots to his collection. “Now a shot of that fine ass.”
Irene gingerly swung around onto all fours and raised her bottom. She glanced back over a shoulder just as the flash lit up her body. “Finished?” she called out as she eased her feet down.
She was still bent over when Jack moved in from behind. “No,” she yelped as the hardness came up between her legs. “Not here, Jack.” And she playfully swatted at him but he was already at the breech of her defenses and with an agonizingly delectable push, he slid into place. Irene gasped and leaning with her forearms on the stone, she eased back against the stiffness. “Bastard,” she seethed. “I’ll never trust you again.”
He laughed and made another thrust. But then, abruptly, he stopped. Irene had heard it too. Footsteps on the stone steps not twenty yards away. “Oh Christ!” He tore his penis from her and tossed the dress around her shoulders. “Quick. Someone’s coming!”
Irene didn’t need instructions. She hopped foot to foot, pulling the slinky dress into place. “Where’s this Getsemaní at; the place with the villa?”
“Just a short walk.”
“Good,” Irene sneered, yanking her zipper up. “Lead the way, bub. You got unfinished business to attend to.”