The Big Broad Jump by Troy Conway

Author:Troy Conway [CONWAY, TROY]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Erotica, FIC005000
ISBN: 9780446543262
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 1969-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

Meeting Katrina Walsky was easy.

I found her home number in the Betchnika directory, called up, found out she was out, but a maidservant of some kind answered the phone and I left a message sure to draw honey. I told the maidservant to tell Miss Walsky to meet me in two hours (she was expected back soon) in the Ice Cream Parlor on Plotkin Boulevard and Swann Street. I had seen it on my travels with Christina Ketch, so it was a good enough spot to rendezvous. I was sure the Walsky kid would show up. I told the maidservant my name was Damon and I was from Hollywood, California, and I had connections with Twentieth-Century Fox. I’m dumb like a fox, sometimes.

Before the two hours were up, I did some investigating of my own around town. It’s funny, but without my tall blonde terror in tow, I did a helluva lot better. I didn’t learn anything but nobody gave me the cold shoulder and no one ran away when they saw me coming.

After a fruitless hour of ‘No” and “What did you say?”, I parked myself in the Ice Cream Parlor, ordered some coffee and waited. It was a cozy little dump, with curtains, cane tables and chairs and a leitmotif of woodsiness and baroque wall paintings. The big plate glass window was comfortably curtained for semi-privacy. There were only a few customers on hand and everybody left me alone. Besides, the clothes I had bought in Betchnika were more in keeping with my surroundings. I could have been your favorite Alpine guide. Or Czech boyfriend. I had a Tyrolean hat, a tweedy sportscoat and short pants showing my nice legs. I was very much “in” for Betchnika.

Katrina Walsky showed up early. Breathless, excited, looking all around the place. I couldn’t miss her. When she saw me, a face she didn’t recognize, her face lit up and she came bouncing over. Whatever she was, she was the direct antithesis of Christina Ketch. She was very young, just as blonde with the ends of her long hair in two neat braids falling past her shoulders down her breasts. She was yummy, all right. Walrus-moustache had not lied. The blue skirt, tight sweater of elk-design, contained a bountifully curved shape. The skirt was mini, but Miss Walsky’s legs were manifold. Strongly muscled, tanned and sexy.

“Mr. Damon?” She was chewing gum and got right to the point, sounding more American than Judy Garland in one of those old Andy Hardy movies. Her face was pure pug-nosed but wholesomely bright and attractive. Everything was there except the freckles. “I got here as quick as I could—”

“Sit down. Want an ice cream soda?”

Her nose wrinkled. “Who can eat ice cream at a time like this? Say, if you’re really from Hollywood and Fox can it be because you heard some of the demos I cu with Roland’s Right-hand Men and maybe want to arrange a screen test?”

I had to smile. “Sorry. Not this trip.

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