Harry and the Bikini Bandits by Basil Heatter - Chapter 08
1971 Genre: Vintage Sleaze / Casino Heist
A wildly erotic novel of intrigue, suspense, and adventure...
There's a lot to be said for my Uncle Harry. Mostly unprintable. All my life I'd heard about him, and from a distance he was a kind of legend. But the moment I signed on as one-man crew to his beat-up old bucket, Jezebel, I found my hero of the sea was really a pirate. Broads and booze kept him afloat between capers—and so far, his luck was holding...
But this new harebrained scheme—to heist the loot from an island gambling casino—was the daffiest—and most dangerous yet.
And there I was. Right in the middle. Up to my virginal ears in naked nymphs and Nitrous oxide—with nothing between me and the future but a leaky getaway and a pot of gold that was fast disappearing behind Harry's private rainbow.
CHAPTER 8
It was nothing like Tahiti. No mountains coming down to the sea and no flowers and no waterfalls. From where we sat in the mud, all I could see was a flat strip of land with some scraggly vegetation and a couple of ugly, shocking-pink hotels. There were also a lot of wooden shacks, and a whole bunch of stores selling whiskey.
There was a concrete ramp leading up from the water and on it, like a duck in the sun, sat a fat yellow plane. A straw-roofed, open-sided building bore a sign reading AIRPORT. Where, I wondered, were all the beautiful black girls with no bras and flowers behind their ears?
Just then one came our way. She was wearing a purple bikini and a rubber diving mask, and she carried a spear gun. Attached to her waist by a piece of cord was a big ugly dead fish about six feet long. It had teeth like a wolf. It was a barracuda.
She came up beside us and raised her mask.
"That was a pretty original landing," she said.
"Wasn't it just?" Harry said. "Did you kill that awful-looking thing?"
"Mmm."
"Better come up and have a drink. You probably need one."
I bent down to give her a hand.
"Why hello, lover," she said.
Her fingers were long and cold and seemed to contain some kind of voltage. I felt the kind of tingle you get with an electric drill on a damp floor.
She came up easily but there was a lot of her. She kept coming like a shining black eel. When she stood up she was almost as tall as me. Long and elegant like a Watusi princess in the National Geographic.
"I'm McGee," she said.
She looked around at the boat and began to laugh. Her laughter was unbelievably great, busting out of her pipes like a high-pressure shower.
"What are you flipped-out cats up to anyway?" she said.
"We are a party of missionaries fleeing from the godless Red scourge on the Chinese mainland," Harry said without hesitation. "I am the Reverend J. Framson Getty and this is my wife and the muscular young man is my son Garble. We escaped down the Whangpoo by sampan and picked up this vessel on the coast. We have been one hundred and one days crossing the Pacific and have had very little food or water."
She shook the water out of her pretty black head. "You came from China in this?"
"With the Lord's help."
"You're putting me on, man."
"I beg your pardon, sister?"
I was trying to keep a straight face but the corners of my mouth were beginning to jump.
"Garble is giving the show away," she said. "Garble Getty. Down the Whangpoo. Like too much, man." The spurt of laughter shot out again as she clutched at her small hard breasts.
"Levity, sister. Levity."
"Oh levity my ass."
"Well I'll drink to that. To your beautiful black ass.
Let's have the rum on deck, Number Three. On the double."
I fetched up the rum.
"What are you doing here on the flats anyway?" said the black girl.
"The fucker was sinking beneath us," answered Harry. "Out of sight," she marveled. "So now what?"
"Now the chief engineer goes over the side to inspect the hull."
"Who dat?"
"Young Garble, of course."
"Ooo muscles. Luv-er-ly. Come on, Garble. I'll go with you."
"One question," I said.
"What?"
"Where did you shoot that barracuda?"
"Right here."
She was already in mid-air when she answered. She entered the water like a knife blade, leaving a wake of silver bubbles. I followed. When I came up she was nowhere. Something clawed my back. I became as rigid as a post and went up tail-walking like a sailfish. She was right behind me, raking fingernails down my spine. Then she wrapped her legs around me and bit my ear. If she had not been supporting me I might have drowned.
She blinked her wet eyelashes against my nose. "Kiss me, Garble."
To my surprise it was just like kissing a white girl. Lips very soft and salty and exciting. I was getting into the spirit of the thing. Tahiti after all. Carry on, Mr. Christian. I made a grab at her but she kicked spray into my face.
"Have you forgotten we got to inspect this way-out hull, man?"
I followed her down. There was nothing wrong with the hull that a brand-new boat couldn't cure. I mean it had more craters than the surface of the moon. At various times in the past half century it had been banged, puttied, painted, gouged, red-leaded and caulked with something I could swear was chewing gum. But they were all old wounds. So the water had been coming through the busted exhaust. Just replace the exhaust. Fun-ee . . .
I hung on to the bobstay. That crazy black girl came up and pressed herself against me. I could feel everything from her insteps to the top of her head. When I was nicely warmed she backed off and dug her toes inside the waistband of my shorts. To the casual observer it might have appeared that nothing much was going on. Our hands were in plain sight. But her toes were unbelievable.