“If you did that to Snuggles she’d be so frightened that she’d hide from you as long as her folks kept her in Paris,” Tania says. “You must promise not to fuck her that way if I get her for you.”
I still have a hard on, and Tania plays with my dong to try to keep it that way.
She lies on her back and diddles me, and I can see the jism and juice squeezing out of her bald figlet. Clam broth… . .
Tania wants to know all about Snuggles’ mother and me. I have fucked her, haven’t I? No answer to that. Well, do I fuck her the way I have just fucked Tania? Does she suck me off? Have we played tete-beche? Does she have as nice a shape as Tania’s mother? But I’m not talking… Tania can make enough of a mess without any information. Very well, she says … . but I needn’t think that it’s a secret. Snuggles is keeping her eyes open; she’ll know things soon enough.
“Does she know that you’ve been fucking around with her father?” I ask.
Tania’s astonished to find that I know about that. How did I find out? Through Ann? Tania grabs my dong as though she might tear it off …
“Did he tell his wife about it?” she demands. “Does she know what we did?”
I’m not talking about that, either, and Tania is annoyed. How is she to know how to act if she doesn’t know these things?
“He gave me a check, just as though I were a whore,” Tania says. “But I didn’t cash it yet because I didn’t want to buy anything.”
Then she wants me to have the check. She’ll pass it right over, so that I can buy something I want. If she’s to be paid off like one of those girls from the hotels she might as well act like them and hand her money over to some man, she sighs. And wouldn’t I have a time trying to explain that to Sam … . my signature on that check! I suppose that what I ought to do is try to get it away from her and give it back to Sam … but the money doesn’t mean anything to him, and he has eased his conscience a little, so to hell with it. I tell Tania to shove it up her ass and paste it there, the first money she ever earned. She will, she says, if I’ll wrap it around my cock and do the shoving.
Still I want to know if Snuggles understands about Tania and her father.
Tania takes a long time in getting to the point, which is that she hasn’t said anything about it yet. She’s saying it, she smiles, saying it to find out just how Snuggles feels about her father. If he wants to screw Tania, he must have a certain feeling abut Snuggles too, don’t I think so? Who knows … perhaps they’re pining away for each other… .
That bitch! I can see that she’s already engineering another mix-up there. I feel sorry for the Backers … if this filthy cuntlet gets on their tail there’s no telling what may happen. They’ll take more than Backer’s art collection back to America with them…
Tania’s tickling her tail with my dong. She’d have it in herself in a minute, but I pull her to the edge of the couch. She lies there on the edge, with her ass balanced and her thin legs out straight and apart. Her feet are on the floor and her fig as wide as a barn door. She doesn’t move … she stays that way and lets me put my prick in and screw her… . .
“Snuggles is going to be jealous when I tell her,” she says … .
“Why in Jesus’ name do you have to tell her?”
Tania doesn’t say … . perhaps she doesn’t know the answer herself. She wiggles closer to the edge of the couch in order to get my cock all the way in, and she plays with her teats, shaking them under my nose… …
“I’m going to see later … I think I’ll take her to my room and make her lick me.
Yes, that’s what I’ll do… . . I’ll make her suck my con, and I’ll rub all that jism in her face and on her nose, and I won’t tell her what it is until later, after she’s sucked me. Then I’ll tell her that you were screwing me and that she’s been eating your jism. Oh, big Jean Jeudi … get in, get far in … and make lots of jism in me, because I’m going to make a pretty little girl eat it all up later… .”
At Backer’s hotel … . the bell-boy doing his best with his kitchen English!
“We not ‘ave the Humanity, sir We have the Intransigeant and Paris-Soir.”
“No,” says Backer, “I want the Humanity, it has a good name. Humanity, it means, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I like its name; I want that paper. Order it for me tomorrow. “
Off goes the boy, hugging his tip, and in a minute the porter is saluting us.
The porter is very dignified, very certain that he can handle the situation.
“Excuse me, sir. The boy tells me that you want the Humanité. You will not like that paper, sir. Will I order the Matin?”
“No, I want the Humanité. I like the name. The French are admirable people, a great revolutionary people… . I came here because I admire their free spirit. I want to get your paper about humanity.”
The porter looks cautiously, heavily, about. It’s impossible to tell what he imagines Backer to be, but I know he doesn’t approve of me or Carl.
“Je vous demande pardon, monsieur, but it is not about humanity … . it is about politique. It is for working people.”
“Well, I work, you work … get it. Get it in the morning.”
“Monsieur!” the porter cries desperately, “you don’t understand! It is the journal of the reds!”
This could go on for hours, but Carl catches sight of Severin, the bozo we are here to meet. He represents, so Carl has told me, various large and unnamed interests. Through Carl he’s been trying to jockey some scheme with Backer, and Carl is beside himself. All his life Carl has been waiting to be in on one of these deals, the scandalous money-making schemes of which you hear whispers and speculation in the Bourse cafes.
Severin is really the man that Carl would like to be. Handmade shoes, a beautiful dental plate, a pocket full of Corona-Coronas and a gold lighter to touch them off with, the ruddy complexion of a man who eats and drinks well and reestablishes the balance with months spent bobsleighing at St. Moritz. He and Sam spent twenty minutes in feeling each other out, sizing each other up … .
they’re like two people tactfully trying to decide if they should spend a weekend someplace or simply run to a hotel for a quick fuck… …
Perhaps they’re showing off a bit for Carl. At any rate, he’s left completely in the cold while they’re establishing a common plane to work on. Severin, since he heard the last part of Backer’s little joke with the porter, begins to talk about recent riots. They called out the Republican Guard and two Negro regiments, he tells Backer.
“The old Roman way … . suppress the Romans with provincials, the barbarians with Romans. Oh, the French are wise in their way as the British in their particular brand of politics. Usually an attempted coup d’état is sufficient to rout the questions in the French mind. Lagny and Stavisky almost brought the state down … . the coup of the sixth of February was nicely managed to make people forget about both. But now … . the people are beginning to feel that Stavisky wasn’t the only speculator in France, merely the most exhibitionistic.
And the French, like all Latins, are mad gamblers … . . one-tenth lottery tickets when they’re poor, Bayonne bonds when they’re rich.”
Backer and Severin agree on the venality of the French press soon after that beginning, and Severin’s plan begins to shape.
“The point is,” says Severin, “everyone nowadays wants to get something for nothing … . that’s why there’ll never be communism anyhow. But the French are the only people who study how to lose money on the Stock Exchange. Every newspaper here runs its financial page, and there are dozens and dozens of little daily and weekly sheets giving Bourse tips and notations. But take the English …
they’re mad about horse-racing… .”
“Even the workshops have their weekly sweepstakes,” Carl interrupts eagerly.
It’s pitiful to see him trying to edge his way into this thing, and I don’t see why he doesn’t either leave or shut up.
“You see chalked up in a few places,” Severin continues, “‘Shining Light to win the 2:30,’ but what do you have for information sheets? The tipsters’ envelopes, very dear, and a couple of bi-weekly or weekly sheets. In France the local financial news comes out every day.”
“You do the Teutonic countries an injustice,” Backer puts in. “You forget that they can’t read or write … if they could, they’d undoubtedly read the newspapers.
I tell you they’re smart. When you hear a bus conductor figuring out how he’ll win fifty
