Cock of Ages Ch. 06

The Island that the Project had taken over was geographically remote, a bare, rocky spur of land not half a mile wide and only two miles long. It rose slightly at one end, where a few disheartened plants clung to small pockets of seagull poop disguised as soil. From the highest point on the island, there was nothing visible on the horizon but ocean and more ocean. The base was a fully-enclosed concrete building, powered by a wave motion generator, and was like a very utilitarian resort.

It was actually pretty spacious. Each of us had our own room, and the Casanovas each merited our own suite. The control room, class rooms, and computer bays were on the East side of the building, along with the transposition equipment ("time machine"), and the rest of the place was given over to storage, facilities, residence and recreation. There were at least seven or eight of us Casanova operatives working at any one time, each with a controller, plus a generous support and analysis staff and technicians who ran the time machine. The whole place had that government low-bid contract feel with just a hint of YMCA and a dollop of Stud Club. But when you arrived by time capsule, pretty much all you see are the pasty-faced technicians that ran the things.

I had become friendly with one of them, Nathan, a swarthy-looking fellow who had a wicked sense of humor and a knack for explaining complicated technical issues in small, bite-sized pieces. I waved at him as we arrived in the base, and he waved back.

"Whatcha bring me this time?" he asked, excitedly, when the transposition dome retracted. Each of us always brought back little souvenirs of our trysts – the common room in the residence hall was covered with authentic crap from half-a-dozen decades of American history. But I knew what little trinkets were near and dear to Nathan's heart, so I dug in my pocket and tossed him a tube.

"Brill-Kreme?" he asked, surprised.

" 'A little dab'l do yah!'" I agreed, singing the song. He looked up and grinned.

"Thanks, Tom!" he beamed. "How 'bout you, Corny?"

"Don't call me that," Cromwell said, grouchily. "I brought you him. That should be enough."

"Spoil sport. Next time, maybe you end up in prehistoric times. You guys, the PI wants to see you soonest."

"Dr. Weems?" I asked, concerned. "Anything wrong?"

"Nah, just some new goodies," he shrugged. "No big deal."

"Thanks, Nathan," I smiled, charmingly. Cromwell continued with his gruff act, and followed me obediently down the wide hall towards the Admin office in the East wing. The light was on. Dr. Weems was in.

"Gentlemen!" he said, approvingly. "Just got the updated figures from up-stream! Great foray, this time around. You saved about seventy-five thousand, according to our statistics. That's a record. Are you just fucking every woman with a vagina in your path?"

"As many as I can," I agreed, smugly. "That's SOP, unless it's changed."

"No, not at all, not at all. You do good work, Tom. You're headed for . . . Tampa, next? 1980s?"

"Sixties," I corrected. "March of sixty-three, to be exact."

"Ah, the Sixties!" he sighed, pleasantly. "Lovely era. The bleeding edge of the sexual revolution. JFK, Camelot, the whole romantic shmeer. You'll do well, there. And you'll be able to catch Spring Training."

I shrugged. I'm not a baseball nut. "How many on my list this time?"

"Nine. Oh, you'll have three weeks to do it, that's three a week. Well within your capacity. Plus we're offering incentives for going above-and-beyond. And a little extra help, too," he said, taking a small jewelry box out of his desk and snapping it open. Inside was a thick, gold man's ring.

"Doc, this is so sudden," I said, mockingly. "I like you, but . . . marriage?"

"Look closer, Tom," he said, snickering at the jibe. So I did. It was an Ivy League class ring, Harvard, no less, inscribed with a date of 1957.

"Pretty, I guess. But I don't need that to get pussy. That's amateurish," I said, indignantly.

"Oh, it's not a lure," he assured me. "Or, not really a lure. It's a device. When you wear it, and it comes into contact with a woman's skin, it takes some readings from her and determines whether or not she's ovulating or close to it. It should help you narrow your . . . extracurricular activities to those most receptive."

"Hey, that is neat," I agreed, taking the ring. "How do I tell?"

"It warms, slightly. The warmer it is, the closer to ovulation she is. It doesn't get so hot as to be noticed, but you should be aware of it. Oh, and we've been thinking about how to give you a better-disguised codex, too, so you don't have to keep running back to your handler every time you need a spare bit of data. This is what we've come up with."

He pulled out a handsome book, a leather-bound 1921 copy of The Wealth Of Nations, and opened it to the last page. He showed me how to run my finger along the spine while I was holding the book a certain way, and the back panel of the book turned black and displayed the ready-screen logo you see when you look something up in a computer.

"Works like a charm, and I had it loaded with everything you need. Historical information as far back as 1850. We're hoping this will allow you to extend your stay significantly, and help you stay fast on your feet. We had an . . . incident. One of our people didn't come back."

I winced. It happened, from time to time. "What happened?"

"Rogers, got shot in 1931. We suspect it was a farmer whose daughter he was fucking. The handler was able to clean up, but still . . . best you be as prepared as possible."

"Ouch," I agreed. "Pity. I liked Rogers."

"Well, he's not the only one. Billy Aldridge was knifed in a dark alley in 1944 in Pittsburgh, assailant unknown. He made it to a phone, though, and his handler brought him in. He's in the infirmary for a week or so. This is a dangerous business," he repeated, grimly.

"Anything else?" I asked, lightheartedly.

"Actually, yes," he said, suddenly remembering something. "Check with Medical before you go. Got some new aphrodisiacs. New and improved. Less waiting time, more right-to-the-point."

"That's cheating," I said, sourly. "I need that half-hour to make them think it's their own idea. Otherwise they start asking questions."

"Use your judgment, then," Weems shrugged. "And take a couple of days to learn about Tampa before you go. One good thing: we're setting you up right, this time. No more of this 'out of town businessman' thing. This time you'll be a wealthy bum living it up in one of Tampa's beachside resorts."

Cromwell snorted in disgust. Weems eyed him. "You too. Just three floors down in an 'economy' suite. Just stay ready to back up Tommy boy, here, and enjoy the beach."

"Thanks," Cromwell grunted. "I get anything helpful?"

"How about this?" Weems asked, and pushed a box at him. Cromwell opened it to reveal a .45 Army-issue 1911A automatic pistol. He took it, pulled the magazine, sighted the barrel, nodded approvingly. I remembered he had been in the Army. "We're having all of our handlers carry, now, timeline permitting. Since you will be Tom's mysterious valet, ostensibly with Mafia ties, no one will give you any trouble about it, I think. Just to mitigate the danger, you understand."

"Sure, sure," he agreed, happily. It disturbed me a little that packing heat made him happy. But Cromwell was a strange duck.

"And, finally, your list," Weems said, handing me a sheet of notebook paper. "We put their files into your book, but that's who they are. And in your book in the 'owner' file you'll find a complete dossier on who you are supposed to be: Michael Winslow, late of Chicago. But educated at Harvard. Spent some time in Europe. Filthy stinkin' rich playboy."

"It'll be a stretch . . . " I said, smiling.

"God, I hate you sometimes," Cromwell said, disgusted.

"That's it," Weems smiled ushering us out. "Go do your homework, relax, get ready. Let the coordinator know when you're ready."

I love my job.

Hanging out at the Island is a bit like a long cruise to no-where. Plenty to eat – the cafeteria is divine – plenty of electronic diversions, a full gym, and a big library. I mingled in the third-floor lounge we operatives had staked out as our own little cozy clubhouse and was reading my background papers when Billy Aldridge came in. He was using a cane and had a pad under one arm, and winced when he sat.

"Howdy, Billy," I said, casually. "Cut yourself shaving?"

"Something like that," he said, snidely. "Goddamn dark ages . . ."

"How did you get yourself into a mess like that?"

"Dunno," he shrugged. "One minute I was getting ready to meet my mark, the next minute some short little fucker has stuck a knife in me."

"Poor planning," I said, shaking my head sadly. "Maybe it was a mark unhappy with the service . . .?"

"Please, I could out-fuck you any day of the week," he bragged. "No, it was . . . I get the feeling it was a babe. Don't ask me why, I don't remember much about the experience. But it was real professional, and I'd swear it was a woman. And they didn't even bother with my wallet or watch."

That was strange. "Where you headed next?"

His face brightened. "Actually, Hawaii, 1943. I'll be Major Brown, Military Intelligence. Got a bunch of nurses and local lovelies to get to."

"Sounds like fun. Me, I got Tampa, '63. Michael Winslow, millionaire playboy."

"That could be a blast," he agreed. "How many?"

"Nine," I said, casually.

"Nine?" he asked, in awe. "You've got to fuck nine? How long?"

"Three weeks. Piece of cake."

"Well, you are at the top of the ratings board," he agreed, reluctantly. "When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow," I sighed. "I thought about milking a few more days before I get back to work, but . . . "

"Yeah, I get horny here, too," he said, miserably. "There are a few of the techs that look—"

"Don't shit where you eat, guy," I cautioned. "Fun is fun, but you should try to avoid entanglements at work."

"That's what I hear. Never was any good at it."

I sighed. Amateur.

Tampa in '63 was just deciding that it wasn't a farm town anymore, despite the miles of orange groves around it. We transposed into our site – an abandoned barn on one of those groves – and made our way up to the Esso station a mile away to call a cab. I started putting my Winslow persona together the moment we got there. I was already dressed the part – my suit was raw silk special ordered from Saville Row, and the rest of my clothes were likewise luxurious. Cromwell was in his usual menacing dark suit, and there was an unfriendly bulge in his left armpit. By the time the cab arrived, I was in full rich bastard mode. By the time we checked into the hotel (the Palms – I swear there's a Palms everywhere there's a beach) I was stoked.

I took the biggest suite they had, paying for it in cash for four weeks ahead. Throwing around that much scratch that early got me the attention I deserved, and the concierge was bending over backwards to kiss my ass. If I had told him I wanted a blowjob, I think he would have volunteered for the gig and shined my shoes while he was down there.

As it was, I let him know I wanted some companionship for me and my . . . associate. I dropped two fresh hundred-dollar bills on the counter and said I expected results by nightfall. Then I went upstairs to the suite and made myself a drink.

Why bag a whore the moment I got there? Two reasons. One, I wanted to treat Cromwell – he'd been watching my back for over six months, now, and as grumpy as he was, he was effective. Boy needed to get his oil changed, and I knew Tampa had a brisk and exciting reputation for illicit pleasures since it was a pirate port a few centuries ago. Two, I wanted to get in character, and nothing does that for a rich playboy like a greedy, skilled, no-holes-barred hooker.

A red-head named Cynthia appeared at my door by seven thirty, not looking particularly hookerish, but still amazingly attractive. I invited her in and she kissed me on the cheek.

"What can I do for you, sir?" she asked.

"Blowjob," I grunted. I parted my luxurious bathrobe, exposing my rising prick. "But tease me, first." She raised her eyebrows appreciatively and began her whore's dance.

I pumped a load down her throat, fucked her hard missionary style on the bed, and took her ass forcefully in the shower before I sent her on her way. Nothing special – just relieving a little pent-up tension. The Island does that to you, sometimes, and it's best to have a clear head when you're approaching your first mark of the run.

I never saw who Cromwell got, but he was in a much, much better mood the next morning at breakfast, which we had on the balcony of my suite. As he munched muffins and drank really good Jamaican coffee, I went over my itinerary.

"So what's the plan?" he asked, almost pleasantly. "More angel wings?"

"Maybe later," I shrugged. "Right now, after looking at what I've got in the pile, I'd say the Prince Charming routine ought to do it."

"How's that run?" he asked, only somewhat interested.

"Easy. Wealthy playboy seeks nasty beach slut to become Mrs. Wealthy Playboy and piss off his upper-class parents."

"Will that really work?" Cromwell asked, skeptically.

"Like honey to ants," I assured him. "This burg is full of young pussy who get to see the cream of American wealthy society sail by and stop for local color. Most of them have dreams of marrying some rich stud and living the glamorous life. Wave a pedigree and a big bank account around, they'll smell blood in the water. Make it known that you plan on marrying the biggest slut, and they'll come at you twat-first, ready to fuck you silly to keep your attention from wandering. They'll put up with all kinds of crazy shit for the chance at a five-carat ring and Christmas in the Hamptons."

Cromwell shrugged. "You're the boss. If you think this'll get your list—"

"The list is just the beginning. I want to hit five bystanders for everyone on my list. Last night was one – I've got nine – that means I need to bag forty five in the next few weeks."

He whistled appreciatively. "That's a lot of cooze, Mikey," he said, staying in character.

"First up," I announced, "Stephanie Anne Bristow. Age twenty-five. Brunette. Works at a marina for her uncle. Unmarried, but hungry. Looking to bag a rich one, apparently. Hangs out at the . . . Tiki Club? God, couldn't they come up with anything original?"

"It's a beach thing," Cromwell grunted, his mouth full of muffin.

"Must be. Well, little Miss Bristow will be easy, so I'll knock her out first. Then there's Mrs. Susan James, lower-middle-class housewife, just around the corner from the Club. A little plump, but no matter. And finally there's Daisy Lee Katherine Ramone, an art student at the local college."

"Sounds easy," Cromwell noted.

"It is. I could do them all in one night, if I put my mind to it. But I think I'll go for Bristow, first. The Tiki Club sounds tacky enough for my purposes."

I let him spend the day at the beach while I staked out the Tiki Club. It was a pretty typical high-end beach bar with coconut cups and lots of palms fronds and Don Ho on the Wurlitzer. The waitresses all wore leis and hula skirts. It was cheap and tacky, but trendy for the Camelot era.

I made a point to get to know the afternoon bartender, and let him know I was interested in an easy woman or three. He gave me a knowing smile and told me to return that night, and he could line them up for me. The bar was popular with rich tourists, apparently, and that attracted man-hungry girls who wanted to be a rich man's wife. He had seen my Harvard ring and my bankroll – he'd spread the word.

So I did a little banking while I waited for dusk.

The Project gives me all the money I need – I don't know how they do it, exactly, but counterfeiting those primitive greenbacks was a breeze for twenty-first century technology, for instance. As generous as they were, I've always liked to have a little extra cash to play with, and this time-travel thing gave me plenty of opportunities to make certain I could build up a fortune on my own, on the sly, without my bosses realizing it.

So I had opened a savings account early on – back in 1935, actually – and I made a point of making a deposit whenever I could. It's amazing what compounding interest will do, and I must be – or will be (time travel is so confusing!) doing it for a while, because when I checked my balance it was up well over a hundred thousand dollars. I made another generous deposit, moved some of the money to another account, and then did a little shopping. I could have fucked the teen-aged clerk at the souvenir stand near the bank, if I so desired, but I wanted to save my strength for the evening.

By the time it was nine o'clock or so, I was back at the Tiki Club, loaded for bear. It was a youngish crowd, well-dressed, dancing to "Negro music" and drinking heavily. Fun. Whether or not Stephanie Ann Bristow showed up that night, I was guaranteed a good time.

I had all my usual toys about my person, plus a few new ones. I had a sheaf of the new fast-acting aphros in my pocket, and a lovely little "love bomb" the boys in the lab had cooked up. One of the big draws of the Club was the air conditioning (still a novelty in 1963), and it didn't take long for me to find a main vent on my way back to the john and "detonate" the bomb. It was the size of a pack of matches, stuck to the ductwork with a magnate, and slowly released chemical stimulants into the airstream. In an hour or so, every woman in the joint would have wet panties and be ready to fuck her brains out. I liked those odds.

Me, I sat at the bar and let Donald the bartender spread the word that Mr. Rich Playboy was looking for a fun time. I talked to him loudly about how my parents were pressuring me to marry. I flashed a roll of bills big enough to choke an elephant. I even danced a bit, and a lot more smoothly than the white kids who were just discovering the joys of rhythm and blues.

My first potential conquest of the night came up and shyly asked where I went to school. I laughed cynically and told her. She was instantly impressed, and she had big boobs, so I bought her a drink. Her name was April, and I could see the tiny beads of sweat that stood out on her upper lip, the dilated pupils, the shallow, rapid breathing – this kid (18, she told me) was primed. I didn't even need to dose her.

She flirted a bit, and I played along until her drink was about half-way gone. I regaled her of tales of yachting in Maine, of the French Riviera, of gambling in Monaco. A casual touch on the arm brought my ring against her skin, and it warmed up nicely – if not ovulating, she was at least in the fertile zone. Then I dropped the bomb, crudely, as any rich bastard might have.

"So, do you suck cock?" I asked, bluntly. She blushed, but didn't run away. A lot had changed from the early 50s. While it seemed refreshing, it was also a little disappointing. I remembered sweet Sarah and how delicious it had been to crack through that wall of propriety and get her to act like a whore. April nervously looked me in the eye, looked away, looked down, and mumbled something.

"What was that?" I asked.

"I . . . I've done it before," she admitted, shamefully.

"Well, I need to get my cock sucked tonight. Are you the girl for the job? Daddy always said I shouldn't even bother fucking a girl until I knew how she sucked dick, much less marry her."

"I . . . well . . . I'm not . . . I . . ."

"Don't have all night," I growled. "If you can't do it, scram, and I'll find some one who can."

"I . . . haveagoodevening!" she said, and fled from the room. I chuckled, and the bartender joined me.

"I could have told you about her. April's a tease. That blonde over there, Cary? She's not. I've caught her in the men's room plenty of times."