turned instead to the blond, who had been felled also by a parting blow. To his amazement, however, the blond was no longer a blond. The golden mane had been a wig after all and it had been lost in the scuffle.
“Girl, you sure pick them tough,” Jackie said, helping the stranger to his feet.
“Watch how you address me, bloody hell,” the other snapped angrily. “For your information I’m not some blooming pansy.”
It was not a very grateful response from someone who had just been rescued and for a moment Jackie nearly resorted to anger himself. As the young man got to his feet, however, Jackie’s anger was swallowed up in his surprise. Without the covering of the wig, his hair was a cascade of unruly dark locks that tumbled about his face and reached to his shoulders. It would have been impossible for Jackie not to recognize the hair, the large, bright eyes, separated by a long, almost hawk-like nose, and the pouty curve of the mouth.
“Dingo Stark!” Jackie exclaimed in amazement. It was an unlikely place in which to be meeting the world famous rock-and-roll singer. He remembered reading somewhere that the young Englishman was visiting in the country but the gay bar they were outside of was not a place Jackie would have suspected as a part of his itinerary.
“Not so blooming loud,” Stark warned him, glancing anxiously about. “I don’t want to be recognized around this place.”
“That explains the wig,” Jackie said, in a lower voice. “And it’s none of my business what you’re doing here. But I don’t need to tell you those boys meant business. One of them was pulling a knife when I came up.”
“Yes, I know.” Stark looked back at him now and managed what Jackie assumed was a grateful smile. “I owe you a vote of thanks, mate.”
“That’s all right,” Jackie assured him, accepting the hand that was offered. “In a manner of speaking, protecting people is my business.”
Stark raised an eyebrow. “Well, now, that’s interesting, isn’t it? I’d say at the moment that I might need a bit of protecting.”
Jackie shook his head, “To be honest, I don’t think you fall into my category. Speaking bluntly, I’m usually concerned with helping out homosexuals.”
“I see.” Stark did not seem at all dissuaded by the statement. “As a matter of fact, that sounds all the more interesting. Tell me, Mr…?”
“Holmes, Jackie Holmes. Call me Jackie.”
“Tell me, Jackie, would you be interested in running up to my hotel with me? I have a feeling we might be able to do a little business together.”
Jackie hesitated for a moment, remembering the redhead, Bob, who by now was probably growing very impatient. He hated giving up the prospect of a torrid session, most especially since he couldn’t look forward to one with his new companion. Stark was not especially good looking, and yet there was something about him that was wildly attractive, especially when he was in action. Singing at the top of his lungs, his long hair flying about as he flailed his guitar and gyrated his narrow hips, Stark exuded an animal magnetism and vitality that set millions of young girls, and boys, afire. Too bad, Jackie thought quickly, that he was straight. On the other hand, this was business, and if there was a homosexual element involved, it was definitely right down his alley.
“Come on,” he said, reaching a decision. “I’ll drive you to your hotel.”
* * * *
“This is it,” Jackie said when they reached his car in the lot.
Stark stared at the vehicle in amazement. “I say, it is a wild-looking thing isn’t it?”
The roadster before them was finished in a pale shade of blue. The color, however, was the only docile thing about the car’s appearance. High cycle fenders arched gracefully over the huge wire wheels, encasing the side-mounted spare and reaching down and back to the wide running boards that were typically Italian, high off the ground.
“Alfa Romeo,” Jackie explained as they climbed inside. “1925 vintage, a 22-90 RLSS model.”
The six-cylinder, three-liter engine sprang to life. Jackie struggled with the four speed gearbox, a hard one to handle, and swung out of the parking lot at a fast clip. Despite its age and size the car was easy to handle, the steering quick and precise, the performance surprisingly muscular.
“Noisy brute, isn’t it?” Stark commented, enjoying the cool night winds that whipped over him.
“That it is. By the way, I hope you are not wearing rubber sole shoes.”
“I’m not,” Stark assured him, giving him a puzzled look. “But why do you ask?”
Jackie nodded his head down, toward the aluminum footboard. “It gets hot. First time I drove it, I wore rubber sole shoes and the damned thing melted the soles.”
Ahead of them a compact car pulled out from a side street. Jackie swore aloud and slammed his foot on the brake. The result was a blood-curdling howl from the wheels. Despite the noise, however, the action did rather little to stop the car. They came within inches of the compact before the frightened driver of that car, unnerved by the racket and the sight of the classic roadster roaring down upon him, finally accelerated out of their path.
Stark had turned somewhat paler. “What was all that about?” he asked finally.
Jackie giggled. “They hadn’t yet invented modern braking systems at the time this car was built. These are four-wheel brakes, but there are no linings. The noise you heard was the sound of cast iron shoes rubbing directly against the steel of the drums. Added to that, there’s an intricate system of chain, cable and steel tapes that was intended to transmit the pressure of your foot to the brake drums. By the time it does its work, you’ve usually hit whatever you were trying to miss.”
“I see,” Stark answered, in a none too enthusiastic tone.
If the rock-and-roll singer’s nerves had been rather abused by the peculiarities of the car, he had yet to suffer still more hardship. They had gone only a few blocks more when, with a gush of a small waterfall, the dash panel erupted before him. The seams gave way suddenly to release a river of warm oil over his lap.
Jackie brought the car to as hasty a stop as the braking system would allow, unable to suppress the gales of laughter that left him shaking.
“It’s not bloody funny,” Stark roared, viewing the results of the accident.
“Sorry,” Jackie apologized, growing more sober as he produced rags from beneath the seat and began mopping up the oil that had all but inundated his companion.
“I should have suspected trouble. The car has two oil tanks, one under the dash and the crankcase itself. The idea is to fill the dash tank, which automatically feeds the engine. I left my mechanic to service the car and he must have mistakenly filled both tanks. The overtaxed seams just gave up.”
Despite his ministrations to the other’s lap, which had been deliberately quite thorough, and more enjoyable for Jackie than for Stark, the damage to the slacks Stark was wearing was irreparable.
“I’ll see that they are replaced,” Jackie assured him. “And I am sorry, really.”
Stark
