Part 10

Back in our upper berth, things were swinging. Dolores finally told the one-legged jockey joke. That rat Joe never could remember the whole joke, and the punch line has haunted me ever since then. If you know it, please contact me. Anyway, Dolores had him about to burst with giggles as she finally said, "...and the jockey said don't worry about me, baby. I ride sidesaddle!"

He laughed and jerked so hard that the bosoms tore loose again. Look, there have to be flat chested women who use as much padding as we did. You'd think someone would have come up with a better suspension system. Joe had to clap his arms over his chest to keep everything from going farther south than Miami.

Plus the laughing had given him the hiccups. Some of the girls decided that the cure for that would be to put some ice on 'her' neck. Well, Joe jumped, and swoop! Ice down the neck. When one of the girls tried to fish it out, he squirmed like the dickens. Well, if she'd gotten her hands on those strap-on bosoms there would've been a lot of explaining to do. Buuuut... It gave the girls an idea.

There was a squeal of "Hey! She's ticklish!" And Joe is ticklish. Joe was more or less attacked, tickled unmercifully. He thrashed and screamed in the tangle of laughing, tickling girls, close to panic. He was about to be discovered. This was an emergency. He pulled the emergency brake cord.

Bruh-ther.

The brakes locked, the train jerked to a halt, and everyone in the upper berth tumbled out into the aisle. It was a veritable cascade of pulchritude. In the ladies' room, Sugar was thrown into me, squealing, "What happened?"

"Search me." No, bad idea. I said hastily, "I mean, I'll go see." I peeked out. Girls were scrambling up and fleeing in every direction, diving behind curtains. Joe was scrambling up the ladder into his bunk. Just as everyone disappeared, Sweet Sue burst out of her bunk, glaring.

The car looked peaceful. Sue snarled, "What's going on here? Bienstock!"

The manager tumbled sleepily out of his berth. "Are we in Florida?"

The conductor came flying into the car, yelling, "All right! Who pulled the emergency brake? Who was it?"

Bienstock glared at the sedately closed curtains. "Come on girls. Who was it?"

I almost plotzed when Joe stuck his head out and said meekly, "I was it."

Sue scowled. "What's the big idea?"

"I'm sorry. I was having a nightmare." He hiccupped, holding a hand delicately over his mouth. "Something I ate. I'm not at all well." He held up the cocktail shaker. "See? Hot water bottle."

The conductor snorted in disgust. "Musicians! The last time we had some on the train, they started a wild, drunken brawl. Imagine, twelve of them in one berth!" Joe clucked disapprovingly. The conductor jerked on the emergency brake a couple of times to signal the engineer to start the train again, and we started up again. The conductor left, and Sue and Bienstock went back to bed. Joe gazed out forlornly, then sighed and went back behind the curtains.

In the lounge, I said. "All clear, Sugar. You better go back to bed."

She sighed. "I might as well stay here, anyway. With the way Bienstock snores, I won't be able to sleep. He's so bad that we cut cards to see who sleeps over him, and I always lose."

Poor kid. "Would you like to switch berths with me?"

"Would you mind?"

"Not at all." I led her back to my berth. "I can fall asleep anywhere, any time, over anybody." I moved the suitcase under the bunk.

She said, "Thanks, honey."

I started away. "Good night, Sugar."

"Good night, Daphne."

What you have to understand to know what happened next is the fact that Joe was listening to the last goodnight, but he couldn't see who went where. Sugar got in my lower bunk, and I went and got in her upper bunk, over Bienstock. She wasn't kidding about the snoring. Bandsaw. I put a pillow over my head.

Joe took a swig from the hot water bottle for courage. He took a peek down into the lower berth, saying softly, "Jerry, are you asleep?" Sugar was drifting off to sleep, and didn't hear, and all Joe could see was a dim outline. As far as he was concerned, I was in dreamland.

He snuck down, and snuck over to Sugar's old bunk, now my bunk. He poked his head in and whispered sweetly, "Sugar. Sugar, baby." My eyes snapped open. Uh-huh. I started to sit up, but he put a hand on my shoulder, pushing me back down. The light in that berth wasn't any better than it had been down the car. Guess who he thought I was?

He continued. "Sh. Don't get up. It's me--Josephine. We don't want to wake up Bienstock." He climbed in next to me, slipping under the covers, and addressed my back. I decided to wait and see just how far my Romeo would go, exactly how close to the edge of disaster he'd let his dick lead him. Over the precipice, it would seem.

"You know that surprise I promised you before? I better break it to you gently. In the first place, I'm not a natural blonde. As a matter of fact, there are all sorts of things about me that are not natural. You see, the reason my friend and I are on this train with you girls is sort of complicated. You know the holes in Daphne's bass fiddle? That wasn't mice. What I'm trying to say is my name isn't really Josephine, it's Joseph. I mean, Joe. And you know why it's Joe? Because I'm a boy." He pulled off his wig.

The louse. Ready to risk both of us to get into a blonde's pants. A spectacular blonde, I grant you. But still, shouldn't friendship count for something?

I had enough. I started to sit up, but the horny toad pushed me back, saying smoothly, "Don't scream, please." Scream? No. Yell my head off, possibly. "Don't spoil it. It's too beautiful. Just think of it, you and I--same berth, opposite sexes, male and female, he and she, the moth and the flame..." Oh, Aunt Gertrude. Was this the sort of mush he usually used?

He took my hand and pressed it against his heart (never stopping to remark on what large hands Sugar had for such a dainty woman). "Feel my heart--like a crazy drum." He started kissing my hand. The hair on the knuckles should have told him something. "I'm mad for you, Sugar." His breathing was heavy. "What are we going to do about it?"

That was the last orange that over-balanced the stack. I turned on him, grabbing his nightgown collar, and started shaking him. If he was a rat (and he was), then I was a terrier. He was surprised. "Sugar, what are you doing?" He reached up and turned on the berth light.

I had my fist cocked back. "Male and female, the moth and the flame! I ought to slug you!"

Joe quickly grabbed his wig and slapped it back on. "You wouldn't hit a girl, would you?"

"No, and I wouldn't fuck one, either." I jerked off his wig, and climbed on top of him. Okay, angry makes me horny. I can't explain it, but it sure as hell makes making up easier. I pulled down my pajama bottoms and pulled up his night shirt. He was already hard, the dog. Tell me, why do we call an unfaithful man a dog? Dogs are otherwise noted for their loyalty, aren't they? Man's best friend, and all that. Well, I was ready to be best friends with what Joe had between his legs, all right.

"Jerry!" Joe hissed. "What are you doing?"

"You're horny? I'll take care of it... in a way that won't get us pitched off this train and possibly into the clutches of Spats Columbo." I was hard now, too, and I began to rub against him. Boy, it felt good. Joe hadn't been to frisky lately. Well, not with me, anyway. Despite what you might have heard about gay guys, and despite how quickly I'd taken to Joe, not all of us are promiscuous. I don't throw myself around a lot. There hadn't been anyone but Joe since we'd moved in together, and there wasn't nearly enough of him. I had a lot of--er, energy stored up. Translation: that upper berth was seeing more humping than the last camel rider in a long Arabian caravan.

"But Jerry!" Joe gasped. "I always top with you."

"Not tonight, Josephine," I growled. I took hold of his hips and slammed against him. He arched up against me, groaning, and I kissed him to swallow the sound, then whispered, "Quiet! We don't know how much Bienstock can hear over his own noise." Joe was quiet except for a few whimpers and whines as we moved against each other. Despite that first objection, Joe had a good time. It certainly seemed that way from the way he grabbed my ass and hooked his legs around me.

At the end, as we both climaxed, he gasped, "Jerry, this isn't like you!"

"I'm not Jerry--I'm Daphne. Maybe Daphne is a dominatrix."

When we were done, Joe found a face cloth in Sugar's things and wiped us off. I indicated the spunk soaked cloth and whispered. "What the hell are we going to do with that? It's too risky to take it to the restroom to wash out." Joe looked around, then tucked it under the mattress. "Joe! That's disgusting, and it belongs to Sugar."

He shrugged, settling down. "So we'll buy her a new one in Florida. C'mere." Joe isn't much on snuggling after sex, but he didn't have much choice in the narrow bunk. I happen to love it, so I cuddled up to him.

He laughed softly, and I said, "Penny?"

"I was just wondering what the housekeeping staff is gonna think when they find that. They know this was a carload of girls."

I yawned. "They'll think Bienstock got him some. And considering the amount of sperm on that rag, they'll think he's a hell of a man. We've done wonders for his reputation. If he ever rides this particular rail again, he may get a few surprises." I drifted off to sleep peacefully. Joe wasn't going anywhere with my arm around him.

We arrived in Miami right on schedule the next day, and were loaded on a big bus for our trip to the resort. It was fun. We all ended up singing "Down Among the Sheltering Palms" as we pulled into the drive.

It was a huge, sprawling, gingerbread sort of affair. It basked in the sun, fanned by towering palm trees, lulled by waves breaking on its exclusive beach frontage. Yep, wintertime, and the livin' was easy. Fish were jumpin' and the market was high.

As we pulled up to the front entrance, I peered out the window. A porch stretched across the front of the building. It was spanned by a long line of rocking chairs. Each one was occupied by what was obviously a millionaire. They all wore resort clothes: white flannel pants, striped flannel pants, knickers, Panama hats, yachting caps--and they were all reading the Wall Street Journal. Every one of 'em, papers up in front of their faces.

Yeesh. Grandpas on parade. The combined age must've been somewhere around a thousand, but I expect the combined bank balance was close to that many million, too. That could make an elderly gent look a lot younger, if you know what I mean.

As we started to disembark, the papers lowered as one. I'm telling you, Flo Ziegfield never got such precision out of his chorus line. They were all wearing sunglasses, and they all leaned forward, peering at the Society Syncopaters. Smiles broke out on every face. The rich can afford lovely false teeth, I decided.

I helped Sugar down while Joe got our instruments out of the pile that was unloaded off the back of the bus. He handed me my fiddle case, and gave Sugar her uke. I took it, gallantly. "I'll carry the instruments."

Sugar smiled her thanks. Joe shoved the saxophone case into my arms, also, and grabbed Sugar's arm. "Thanks, Daphne. Isn't she a sweetheart?" He led her away while I stared after him, stunned. Damn, the man is quick!

Well, I was pissed, but I was also stuck, because no one else was going to volunteer to help me with the load, so I followed them. My high heels were giving me hell, trying to balance with that load.

On the steps, the rich old dodos removed their sunglasses to get a better look at the girl musicians waltzing by. They started tipping their hats. I saw Joe and Sugar pause, studying them. Joe said, "Well, there they are. More millionaires than you can shake a stick at."

Sugar sounded disappointed. "I bet there's not a one of them under seventy-five. I hope some of them brought their grandsons along." They passed the last one in line, and he jauntily lifted his Panama to them. Joe turned up his nose and swept Sugar past him. He didn't seem to mind. He just made a sort of clicking noise. Then he turned to inspect the next girl in line...

Which happened to be me, struggling with bass, sax, and ukelele. I wasn't paying too much attention to the men on the porch, I was too busy trying not to trip or drop anything, hoping that I wouldn't get a run in my best pair of stockings. It isn't too surprising that I tripped on the top step, losing one of my shoes. Crap! Now what was I going to do?

A smooth, cheerful voice said, "Just a moment, miss." One of the old duffers jumped up and picked up the shoe. "May I?"

Why not? I certainly couldn't get it on myself without looking like an utter fool. I did the fairytale bit, extending my bare foot. "Help yourself."

He knelt at my feet, and slipped the shoe on me gently. "I am Osgood Fielding the Third."

"I am Cinderella, the Second." I started to pull my foot away, but he had hold of my ankle. I took a closer look at him.

He was dressed as richly as any of the others: white plus-fours, argyle socks, a blazer, two toned shoes, a Panama, and a gleam in his eyes. Big, brown eyes, I noted. It meant nothing to me, of course. Just making note, giving a physical description.

He was younger than the other grandpas, maybe a son instead of a grandson. Still a good bit older than me, maybe by twenty years, in his late forties, early fifties. His face kind of reminded me of a handsome basset hound.

He still had hold of my ankle, and he was smiling up at me. "If there's one thing I admire, it's a girl with a shapely ankle."

"I'll let you know when I find one. Bye now." I pulled away.

He stood up, saying chivalrously. "Let me carry one of those instruments."

My mama didn't raise no fools. "Thank you!" I loaded them all into his arms. "Aren't you a sweetheart?" I cruised into the lobby, with Osgood Fielding, the Third struggling after me.

"It certainly is delightful to have some young blood around here."

"Personally, I'm type O."

"You know, I've always been fascinated by show business. It's cost my family quite a bit of money."

"You invest in shows?"

"No--showgirls. I've been married seven or eight times."

I stared at him. "You're not sure?"

"Mama is keeping score. Frankly, she's getting rather annoyed with me."

"I couldn't imagine why."

"My thoughts exactly. This year when George White's Scandals opened, she packed me off here. Right now she thinks I'm out on my yacht..." He gave a surprisingly deep chuckle. "Deep-sea fishing."

"Uh huh. Well, pull in your reel, Mr. Fielding." I figured I'd better head this off before it became a situation. I'd been teasing Bienstock, but I think this duffer meant business. "You're barking up the wrong fish."

We just missed the elevator, and had to wait for the next one. He leaned close to me and said, "If I promise not to be a naughty boy, how about dinner tonight?"

Whoa, he moved fast. Luckily I had a perfect excuse. "Sorry. I'll be on the bandstand."

"Oh, of course. Which of these instruments do you play?"

"Bull fiddle."

"Fascinating," he crooned. I had a feeling his reaction would have been the same if I'd said the kazoo. "Do you use a bow, or do you just--pluck it?"

I looked at him sharply. Yes, that tone had been suggestive. "Most of the time I slap it."

His look was openly admiring. "You must be quite a girl."

"Wanna bet?" Oh, man. Come on, elevator! This is getting out of hand.

"My last wife was an acrobatic dancer. You know, a sort of contortionist. She could smoke a cigarette while holding it between her toes." He sighed. "Zowie!" Huh, that dreamy expression suggested that wasn't the only stunt he was remembering. "But Mama broke it up. She doesn't approve of girls who smoke."

The doors opened on an elevator, empty except for the operator, and I grabbed at the cases. "Good-bye, Mr. Fielding."

"Good-bye?"

"This is where I get off."

Double uh-oh. He got that gleam in his eyes again. "Oh, you don't get off that easily." Before I knew what he was up to, he herded me back into the elevator, following and dropping the case. He said to the boy with his hand on the control lever, "All right, driver. Once around the park--slowly, and keep your eyes on the road."

"Look, Fielding..."

The doors started to close, and he pulled me into his arms. He was shorter than me, especially with the high heels, but he didn't seem to have any trouble. His mouth landed on mine squarely. I stiffened up in shock.

Did I say he was fast? It was an understatement. I'd been opening my mouth to tell him to get lost, and his tongue just sort of moved in and seemed like it intended to stay there, considering the rummaging around it was doing. I was so surprised I didn't react immediately. It wasn't until he grabbed a double handful of my butt that I snapped to.

I jerked back, hard, and laid a palm where it would do the most good, half knocking him across the car. Then I grabbed the uniform of the little weasel operating the car and growled. "Get this back to the ground floor--now!"

We dropped so fast that it's a good thing we hadn't gotten over the second floor. When the doors slid open, I slapped Fielding again for good measure. "What kind of a girl do you think I am, Mr. Fielding?" Then I grabbed the cases and flounced out.

"Please! It won't happen again." He was rubbing his cheek, gesturing at me to return to the elevator.

"No, thank you! I'll walk." I headed for the stairs.

He stood there, holding his cheek, and I heard him breathe softly, "Zowie!"