Color Him Gay: The Further Adventures of the Man from C. A. M. P. (3 page)

They clung tightly to one another, gasping and panting, and Jackie's belly was suddenly flooded with Stark's warm moistness. He answered it in kind; the two on them drenched with the success of their actions.

“Time for another shower,” Stark said finally. In the pale light that filtered through the window, he was smiling up at Jackie, no longer shy and awkward.

“I'll join you,” Jackie agreed, standing and offering his companion a hand.

They shared a long, stimulating shower together, affectionately soaping one another's backs and taking frequent time out for horseplay. Stark seemed even younger than his years, a carefree young man playfully happy with someone he liked, and Jackie was not sorry he had promised to help him.

They left the shower finally. Stark donned his robe and watched with regretful eyes as Jackie dressed.

“Was I…?” Stark hesitated, dropping his eyes shyly, “Was I all right?”

“You were great,” Jackie reassured him, retrieving the diary from the dresser. “I hope you aren't suffering any regrets.”

Stark shook his head and looked up again. “No, it was even more fun than I remembered with Steve.”

“Maybe we can try it again,” Jackie said hopefully. “I think Steve neglected a few points. Maybe I can show you some of them.”

Stark was timid again. “We'll see. I don't know if I want to. Not that I didn't like it, but I'm wondering if I didn't like it too much.”

Jackie left the statement unchallenged. This was always a hard thing for some males to face and many of them preferred to take the easy course by foregoing what, to their way of thinking, were sinful pleasures.

“I'll be in touch,” Jackie told him, opening the door into the hall. “As soon as I can learn anything. And I'll look after these memoirs for you.”

He paused, smiling, and added, “It's too bad you won't get to record tonight in it.”

“I'll add it when this is all over,” Stark told him. “And don't worry, I won't be likely to forget any of the details.”

Jackie grinned broadly and went out, closing the door after himself. Singing, he decided as he went down in the elevator, was far from the only talent Dingo Stark possessed. All in all, he couldn't really regret missing his rendezvous with the redhead from the bar. Anyway it was likely he would see the redhead again. Stark, however, might not be in the same mood the next time.

The Alfa Romeo was waiting for him across the street.

With the diary under his arm, Jackie started toward it. Behind him there was the sound of running feet. The alarm sounded in his mind a split second too late. He tried to duck but his attacker was faster.

He head seemed to explode with the burst of fireworks that dimmed quickly into an impenetrable blackness as he fell to the sidewalk.

He came to slowly, his head throbbing painfully. Memory swept over him and he opened his eyes, shaking his head to shrug off the clinging blackness.

He was lying on the sidewalk. His watch informed him that he had not been out for long after all, no more than a few minutes. There was no sign of his attacker, however, who had had ample time to make a getaway.

He remembered the diary finally and bolted to his feet, his eyes sweeping the sidewalk about him. It was gone, of course. The book had been the reason for the bump on his head. No doubt the blackmailers had their eye on this place. They might even have heard his parting comment to Dingo, regarding the “memoirs,” or they might somehow have already known about them. In any event they now had in their hands the most powerful tool they could use against Stark, a guaranteed fortune, if not from Stark, then from some unscrupulous publisher who would pay handsomely for the handwritten and scandalous document.

Stark would have to be told, of course. Jackie considered returning to the hotel room but decided instead to allow his new friend a few minutes of peace. There would be time enough to phone him later, from his office. He climbed into the roadster and drove away, piloting the car with grim recklessness.

He reached the downtown area of Hollywood, making his way down the famed Hollywood Boulevard, past theaters of pseudo-oriental design and offbeat nightspots. Multiple streams of cars moved by on either side, crowding together as the nighttime activity of the area rushed toward its peak.

Twin figures of light, klieg lights for some “grand opening” in the city, probed the sky overhead. The sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians. Among them, obvious homosexuals strolled up and down, casting hungry eyes upon one another.

Young men, some of them scarcely more than children, stood or walked, their trousers bulging with lewd displays of the wares they offered to any and all purchasers. It was a city of cars and searchlights, and furtive-eyed males, a Mecca for the homosexual.

It was a city too of stars, some of whom would soar high into the sky, flaming brilliantly. Often the brilliance would be brief, the fall sudden. For some of them the fall would result from a brief moment of indiscretion. For Dingo Stark, whose flame was at its zenith now, it had been two years.

Where had they met for their clandestine adventures, those two youths of London—on rooftops, perhaps, or in parks? How often, and with what tenderness had they clung together, perhaps even with genuine affection? And those two years now threatened to extinguish Stark's career, unless Jackie could somehow prevent it from happening.

Jackie turned off the boulevard, making his way a few blocks down a street, then across another. At last a faded neon proclaimed the location of the Round-Up, one of the many bars in the city that provided a refuge for the homosexuals, and one of the least glamorous.

Jackie parked outside, grimacing at the howl of the brakes, and entered the bar. The patrons here, and there were a surprising number of them, were the less discreet, the less careful, members of the homosexual society. No one here was likely to snicker, or sniff coolly, at the appearance or behavior of anyone else.

Jackie went past the bar to the rear. Beyond a musty drape he entered a short hallway and finally the room marked MEN.

To his disappointment there was someone in the room. Another time he would have gone on by the cold white fixtures that stood at the wall. Now he would have to pretend, and stall for time until the stranger left. Fumbling with his trousers, Jackie stepped up to the receptacle.

It was not an unpleasant diversion. At least he was treated to a view of exposed flesh that would ordinarily have aroused his interest, but he had other things on his mind now. He looked up, recognizing the question in the eyes that studied him. He smiled apologetically and shook his head. The stranger shrugged, and stepped back from the wall. A minute later he was gone.

Jackie too went toward the door, opening it and allowing it to swing closed as though he had left. Then, crouching low, he retraced his steps toward the rear of the restroom. He knew that the mirror along the wall was a two-way affair, and beyond it a member of the local vice squad watched the room for any homosexual activity. It was a form of entrapment common to the local police and for this reason Jackie remained below the line of vision afforded by the mirror.

He reached the second of the two enclosed stalls provided, one bearing an OUT OF ORDER sign on the door. Stepping inside, he slid away the top of the water closet and put his hand into the water, feeling for a concealed button. A second later the wall slid open. He stepped inside. The panel closed after him and a second door opened on to a spacious and luxurious living room.

This was one of the many offices of C.A.M.P., the one from which he most frequently worked. Here, in one of the rooms beyond this one, was an elaborate accumulation of electronic equipment beyond description, one of the centers from which C.A.M.P. conducted its activities. The equipment was related and linked to the nerve center of High Camp, their highly secret and efficient headquarters.

He was met by a towering giant of a man, a six-foot-five-inch figure, handsome in a bullish, muscle-bulging way.

“Hi, Rich,” Jackie greeted him, closing the second panel after himself.

Rich returned the greeting, not in the least surprised by Jackie's arrival. Indeed, there was no reason for him to be surprised, as Jackie well knew. A large and detailed map of the city of Los Angeles and the surrounding areas dominated one of the walls of the inner office. At the moment a red dot of light would be shining on the map, at the exact location of this room, because he was here. The light was a signal from the miniature homing device imbedded in an artificial thumbnail Jackie wore on one hand. Day and night, wherever he went, the light followed his movements on the map, showing his exact location at all times. He might be out of touch with C.A.M.P. occasionally but C.A.M.P. was never out of touch with him.

“You look sore,” Rich commented, pouring a drink for the blond agent.

“I am,” Jackie told him. “Mentally and physically.”

“What's up?” Rich asked.

Jackie seated himself at a sofa before the fireplace and tasted his drink, nodding his approval. He described the fight that he had interrupted earlier. When he said who he had rescued Rich's eyes widened.

“Dingo Stark! Did you get his autograph?” Rich asked.

Jackie smiled faintly. “I don't know if you could call it that, exactly,” he answered.

Rich frowned and grew silent again. Jackie knew that the dark giant felt more than a little affection for him and he knew that Rich was always slightly hurt to know that Jackie engaged in sexual combat with someone else. For his own part however, Jackie had never tried to pretend he was any different from what he was. Variety, in his case, was virtually a necessity and although he was admittedly fond of Rich he knew he could never give up his pursuit of other conquests.

He went on, explaining the rest of the evening, although omitting the more intimate activities. His story held Rich's attention throughout.

“And they got the diary after all,” Rich asked when Jackie had finished.

“They got the diary and I got a lump on the head,” Jackie assured him, rubbing the spot gingerly.

“You're right, it sounds like a job for C.A.M.P.,” Rich agreed.

“More than that,” Jackie said, “I have a personal score to settle now. I gave my word that I'd keep that book safe and I failed. I intend to get it back before it causes any harm.”

“Where do we start?” Rich asked, standing as though preparing to go into action at once. He was not, like Jackie, an outside agent. His job was to man the office, to provide Jackie with whatever form of assistance or protection he needed when working on any case.

Jackie frowned thoughtfully. “I'm going to have to call Dingo Stark and tell him the bad news. But I have a hunch there's more involved than just one star's career. This sounds to me like a careful, well-planned setup, something done on a big scale.”

“Could be a blackmail ring, maybe,” Rich said, nodding. “I'll see what we have on file that might give us any clues.”

He left the room, heading for the inner office. Reluctantly Jackie crossed to the phone at the desk. The phone was little more than an extra extension of the one in his own apartment, one of many precautions. If ever a call should be traced by anyone it would lead him to Jackie's apartment rather than to this secret office.

Stark sounded as though he had been asleep when he answered the phone. He was instantly alert, however, as Jackie identified himself and began to explain about the loss of the diary.

Stark took it calmly, considering the implications the news held for him.

“Do you think you can get it back?” he asked over the phone.

“I'm going to,” Jackie assured him.

There was a brief pause. “I'll be very grateful if you can,” Stark said finally, in a lower voice. “I think you know what I mean.”

Despite his low spirits, Jackie smiled at the receiver. He knew only too well just how grateful the singer star could be. If he had needed a reward to encourage his efforts, Stark had picked exactly the right one to offer.

“I'll get it back,” he said firmly.

Rich was back in the room within a few minutes, carrying a small stack of papers, the information that had been hurriedly relayed to him from the files of High Camp.

“Looks like we may have something here,” he said, handing the reports over to Jackie. “High Camp's very interested in this matter. In case there was any doubt in your mind you're assigned to look into it thoroughly. I'm to assist.”

“Good, I have a personal interest in this one,” Jackie told him. He began to read through the brief reports, his lips moving wordlessly as he read. “Interesting. A suicide here in Los Angeles, prominent banker, no logical reason for the suicide, except that our files listed him as a homosexual. Prior to his death, six weeks ago he was known to have spent large sums of money, although the expenditures were never traced.”

He turned to the next report. “Movie actress, just starting on her way up to the top. Contract canceled after scandal regarding her Lesbian activities. Devotes her time to drinking since then.”

The third report was even more interesting. “Prominent San Francisco architect, another suicide. Police found some evidence of a blackmail, possibly involving homosexual activities.”

He turned to the fourth and last report. “What's this one? High level diplomat retires in Washington. Oh yes, he had recently visited the San Francisco area. No reason given for his retirement. C.A.M.P. suspects he may have been engaged in occasional homosexual activities.”

“It does look big,” he said, looking up at Rich. “This could all be coincidence of course. Or it could be the trail of a full-fledged and top-level blackmail ring preying on those who are not only especially vulnerable with a lot to lose but can afford to pay highly.”

“And operating out of this area,” Rich offered. “Or out of San Francisco.”

Jackie was thoughtful for a moment, glancing back over the reports. “More likely San Francisco,” he said.

He stood abruptly and went to the phone, once again calling the hotel at which Dingo Stark was staying under another name. This time Stark did not sound as though he had been asleep. Poor fellow, Jackie thought sympathetically, he's probably been sitting there worrying about that diary.

“I haven't been to San Francisco in years,” Stark answered his question. “Just once, on a tour early in my career.”

Jackie left the number of his apartment where Stark could reach him if anything came up and hung up the phone again. “Nothing here,” he announced. “That actress, Chris Langley. She's still alive and if she was being blackmailed we might convince her to tell us about it. Get me a current address on her. I'll contact her in the morning.”

“What about the three who were working over Stark when you arrived? Can you identify any of them?”

“I was just getting to that. Let's have a look at the files on blackmailers, see if any of them look familiar.”

It was already well after midnight and it would take hours for even a hurried examination of the extensive files maintained by C.A.M.P. Both men, however, had long since accustomed themselves to keeping inconvenient hours. Sleep was a luxury when they were working on a case.

Jackie seated himself again on the sofa while Rich opened a special cabinet nearby, operating switches. A minute later the lights dimmed and the wall opposite began to glow. A large double picture of a face, not unlike the mug shots employed by police, appeared on the wall.

“Nope,” Jackie said quickly. The next face appeared and produced the same comment.

For two hours he studied face after face, rejecting some of them quickly, examining others for a few minutes before giving the negative answer.

“Hold onto that one,” he said finally. He scowled and studied the picture before him. “It was dark,” he said. “And I didn't have much time to look them over. But he looks like one of them.”

The next hour was uneventful. At last, however, Jackie sat forward excitedly. “That one,” he said quickly and without uncertainty. “That's the big brute, the ape I told you about.”

They went on, studying the remaining files, without any further success. When they were finished the lights came up again and the wall returned to its normal appearance.

“I'll check these two out,” Rich told him. He took the slides with him into the inner office. Here their code numbers would be fed into a transmitter, forwarded to High Camp. Within minutes they would have all of the information that was on file regarding the two suspects.

While they waited for the reply Rich brought coffee for the both of them and they sat in silence, individually contemplating the situation. A soft tinkle of chimes, much like the glass wind chimes of the Orient—although there was no movement of the air in the apartment—announced the answer from High Camp.