The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey (5 page)

She rose up over him again and, with deliberate slowness, sat once more on his tormented thickness. He sighed and began bucking
his hips, driving it into her. She let him continue for a moment, then whispered, “What’s his name? Her father?”

“Barnabas… Havelock…”

She frowned and bounced. “Never heard of him. What’s he look like?”

“I never saw him… only his men and the girl.” He fell to pumping silently.

“Has this Barnabas Havelock stayed here before?”

“No… please, let’s just fuck…”

“We
are
fucking. Where is this Havelock from?”

“I don’t know…” he wheezed.

“Did he leave a forwarding address?”

“I think so… I’d have to check.”

“You promised to tell me if he did?”

“Anything, yes… anything…”

“Of course, darling. Would you like to be on top?”

Ecstatically he rolled her over and, with renewed enthusiasm, began humping her like crazy. His cock was so hot, his urgency
so great, she soon found herself on a hurtling rollercoaster of lust, careening wildly to reach her ultimate goal together
with him. Intense flames consumed her consciousness, and with a loud squeal of joy she began to pop a firecracker string of
explosive climaxes. His cock contracted within her and suddenly burst, shooting a load of gism deep inside her. Moaning in
contentment, he collapsed on her full breasts.

She let him catch his breath, then made a move to extricate herself. “Up, up, Mr. Bell,” she said cheerily. “Let’s check for
that forwarding address.”

“Must we leave so soon?”

“Easy come, easy go,” she joshed, and reached for her panties.

Feeling energized by her early-morning sexual workout and by the ultimately helpful assistance of the obliging Evan Bell,
Honey returned to Dirk’s loft in lower Soho, letting herself in with her own key. She was eager to relay the information she
had tracked down—including Barnabas Havelock’s forwarding address. The large space was disturbingly silent, and no one answered
her calls. On the message board by the phone, Dirk had pinned a note that read,
Honey, play back tape on deck
.

Perplexed, she located the tape recorder, switched it on, and hit the play button. Dirk’s excited, boyish voice boomed out
over the speakers high in the corners, “Honey,
sorry I’m not here. I heard from a photographer pal of mine whoe saw my snap of the girl in the park. He swears on his mother’s
grave that there is an exact double of the girl dancing in a nightclub in Cartagena, Colombia. I know it sounds as weird as
hell, but since we’ve no other leads, I’ve got to follow it up. Leave a message here and let me know where you’ll be. I’ll
be in touch soonest. Love ya, Honey. You’re the best. ‘Bye for now.”

The tape fell silent and she switched it off, fighting the flood of disappointment and the bubble of anger pushing up her
throat. Damn, of all the rotten timing. She punched the record button and spoke crisply into the built-in condenser mike:
“Dirk, honestly, at least you could’ve waited until you heard from me. All I could find out is that the girl is traveling
with her father, who was registered as Barnabas Havelock, supposedly some sort of reclusive mega-millionaire. But I made a
quick check with Standard and Poors, and there is no one of that name registered on their worldwide directories. Sounds fishy,
no? Anyway, his forwarding address is the Taj Ganges Hotel in Varanasi, India. You’re lucky I’ve never been there, or you’d
have to take it from here. I’ll leave word with your lawyer as soon as I’ve learned anything. I love you too, baby brother.
Ta-ta…”

She arrived in Varanasi, India, exhausted by the long flight from New York to New Delhi and the short hop by a local airliner
to the ancient city once known as Benares. Located midway between New Delhi to the northwest and Calcutta on the Bay of Bengal,
to the southeast, Varanasi sat on the banks of the sacred Ganges River like a patient dowager empress.

As it was Honey’s first visit to Varanasi, her energy level picked up considerably on the frantic taxi ride from the small
airport through the teeming city streets, alive with masses of people. By the time she reached the Hotel Taj Ganges, all her
senses were once again alert, stimulated by the exotic, strange sights. New locales always affected her in this manner, and
her sparkling blue eyes swept expectantly over the grand entrance to the hotel, as if at any moment something so extraordinary
would
occur that she would be swept away, eagerly propelled into a new adventure.

Striding purposefully into the old-fashioned, Victorian-influenced lobby, she was only minimally conscious of the stir she
was creating among the staff and occupants sipping their afternoon tea in the lobby’s high, fan-backed chairs. White women
traveling by themselves were rare in this off-the-tourist-path city, let alone white women with alabaster skin and deep red
hair. Her smart Ralph Lauren traveling suit of raw aqua silk set off her striking coloring and clung tightly to her voluptuous
body. Dark eyes followed her with unabashed interest as she swept to the desk clerk and politely asked for a room.

She was informed that, alas, there were none available. Instantly she regretted that her trip had been so quickly planned
that she had not had time to wire ahead for reservations. She smiled graciously at the dark-skinned, middle-aged clerk. “Surely
there must be something available,” she said, and extracted a fifty-dollar bill from her green leather purse. Discreetly she
laid it on the counter next to the registration book. “I would be most indebted if you could locate accommodations for me.
If not here, perhaps elsewhere in the city.”

He folded the bill out of sight and replied in perfect English, “I will see what I can do.”

“You are most kind,” she said. “Meanwhile, I am trying to find a dear friend of mine—Barnabas Havelock. I have strong reason
to believe he is here in this hotel.”

“Barnabas Havelock,” the clerk repeated, as if mystified. “We have no one of that name registered.”

“Are you sure? He is traveling with his lovely young daughter.” Quickly, Honey pulled out of her purse Dirk’s photo of the
girl, and displayed it.

Immediately the clerk’s eyes narrowed in suspicion and
he pulled himself up formally. “So sorry, I am unable to help you.”

Smelling deception, she studied the man. His whole manner had changed; only moments before, he had been politely deferential.
Now he was coldly efficient. She turned on her considerable charms, flashing a disarming, genuine smile. “You do recognize
her, don’t you? It’s desperately urgent that I locate her and her father.”

“I have never encountered her,” he said crisply. “Now excuse me, I will see to finding you accommodations.” He turned and
disappeared through a swinging door into an office behind the check-in desk.

Her instincts told her the man was lying through his dazzling white teeth. The registration book caught her eye, and as the
desk was unattended, she turned the large book around and hurriedly scanned the signatures. There was no Barnabas Havelock
registered. Keenly disappointed, she righted the book and walked back to her bags, which the uniformed doorman had deposited
near the front entrance.

With one eye on the front desk, she signaled the doorman outside the large glass-and-iron doors. The turbaned man entered
with a subservient smile. “May I be of service?”

“I do hope so,” she said, and handed him the photo of the young blonde. “Is this girl staying here?”

“I cannot say…”

“Can not or will not?” she asked, her voice tinged with vexation.

“Perhaps if you inquire at the front desk?” He gave back the photo with an apologetic shrug.

At the moment the desk clerk reemerged from the back room and spotted her receiving the photo from the doorman. Immediately
the desk clerk frowned darkly and
dashed around the counter toward them. The doorman shrank from her and ducked outside the doors like a cowering puppy.

“I must request you to leave our premises at once,” the desk clerk huffed officiously.

“Leave? Aren’t you finding me a room?” she asked in surprise.

“There are no vacancies.”

“And the other hotels?”

“Check for yourself,” he replied, and handed back her fifty dollars. Before she could protest, he spun on his heel and marched
away. Her anger bubbling just underneath the surface, she snatched up her bags and exited the hotel.

The city was bathed in the saffron glow of the fast-sinking sun as Honey went from hotel to hotel, only to receive the same
reply: “Sorry, we’re booked solid.” With growing consternation she pressed her search through the narrow, crowded streets.
No amount of bribery or cajolery produced any results, even at the smallest, grimiest places of public lodging. Not believing
her misfortune, and appalled to be in a strange city with no place to stay and the night fast approaching, Honey strengthened
her resolve, determined that the next place would have a vacancy. Unfortunately, it too was full, according to the clerk on
duty.

Dejected, she stood on the sidewalk, thumbing forlornly through the tourist guidebook she’d picked up at the airport. The
air was sultry and still excessively hot. The smells of human refuse and rotting garbage wafted over her; the flies were thick
everywhere, annoyingly persistent. Longing for a bath and a cool place to lie down, she reached the sobering conclusion that
she had inquired at every hotel listed in the guidebook. She fought back tears of annoyance and, hefting her bags once again,
set off down the crowded street, her progress impeded by thousands of milling natives who looked at her with open curiosity.
Cunning beggars, peddlers, and fakirs waved their hands at her, jabbering unintelligently.

Ignoring them, she had no idea where she was headed, but she felt that something would have to turn up soon or she would lose
the firm resolve that was now the only thing holding her upright. A fresh breeze drew her on. She reached the steep, wide
stone steps leading down to the Ganges itself. A sea of black umbrellas and makeshift canopies stretched along the riverbank
as far as she could see in both directions. Beyond them, the murky green water floated slowly. Hundreds of devoted bathers
splashed in the water. Some of the men were naked except for G-strings, and the women were dressed in saris that clung to
their wet bodies. Bony sacred cows mingled on the bank with black-sari-clad women, youngish men in sparkling white cotton
Nehru shirts, and old men with unkempt hair, wearing dirty loincloths.

Staring at the press of humanity, Honey sank to sit on her luggage, unable to find the strength to continue her search. She
was thinking of returning to the airport terminal to wait for the next plane out, when a deep, rich male voice spoke beside
her: “Excuse me, may I be of assistance?”

Gratefully she looked up into a pair of kohl-black eyes shining with warmth and concern. The dark eyes were set in a face
of youthful handsomeness, topped by a complete bald head. She smiled wearily. “I need a place to stay the night, but all the
hotels are booked up.”

The young man, tall, lean, wrapped in saffron-colored robes, nodded reflectively. “You have been blackballed.”

“Blackballed? What do you mean? Why?”

He shrugged and squatted on his haunches beside her, speaking softly. “It is a very small city. Evidently you
upset the manager of the Taj Granges Hotel. At least that is what the streets whisper.”

“You mean
he
put out the word not to give me a room?”

Gravely the young Indian nodded. “A runner was sent ahead of you to warn the other hotels.”

“But why?” she asked incredulously. “All I did was ask after a friend.”

Again the handsome young man shrugged. “Privacy is deeply respected here. Perhaps you were too inquisitive.”

“Or asked after the wrong person,” she muttered, and dabbed at her perspiring face with a clean hankie. In spite of her predicament,
she felt at that moment a deep sexual pull toward the young man, and she smiled gamely at his sober countenance. “My name
is Honey Wildon. I am an American.”

“Mine is Pagala Baba. And I am a holy man.”

“A holy man?” she repeated, unable to cover her disappointment.

He stood, his long robes partially open, revealing a lean, firm thigh. “Your search is over. You may stay the night at my
humble abode if you would like.”

“I’d like,” she said sweetly.

The young priest took her bags and, without a word, set off down the wide stone steps. She followed, trying to match his long,
barefooted strides. When they reached the rocky shoreline, she had difficulty keeping up with him in her high heels. Slipping
them off, carrying them in one hand, she hurried after him over the smooth stones, terribly conscious of the pointed stares
of the thousands of curious onlookers who parted before them. On and on the young holy man walked, until she thought he would
never stop. Wearily she padded after his sturdy back, absorbed in the strange sights and smells in the last light of day.

Into the increasing darkness they trudged, far beyond
the outskirts of the city, until the crowds on the river-bank dwindled and faded far behind them. At last, just when she felt
she couldn’t walk another step, he stopped and set down her bags, announcing simply, “This is my resting spot.”

She looked around in the dim light, not seeing anything but a wide curve of the slow-moving river, a steep clay bank, and
several squat bushes. She turned back to her benefactor, but could not see him anywhere. “Hello?” she called out tentatively.

“I’m here,” came his echoed reply, and a softly glowing light suddenly appeared. He stood inside the mouth of a small cave,
and she stooped in to join him. The flickering light of a small kerosene lantern revealed the damp red-clay walls, the floor
covered with fresh straw, the untidy pallet of heaped clothes. The ceiling of the narrow cave was too close for them to stand
fully upright. He placed her bags at the far end, near some sort of altar, and returned to stand beside her. “I hope you will
rest peacefully here.”