LITMIR.BIZ

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attempt anything more in the way of ice-breakers. Better not push his luck too far, he decided, at least not right away. If by chance they were together for a while...well, that might be a different matter. There was no denying that Mathews was attractive. His complexion was inclined to be ruddy, although a faint shadow of freckles could be seen at the bridge of his nose. Beneath thick eyebrows, his wide eyes were a bright Kelly green. His nose, just avoiding being too large, tilted upward at the tip, and his mouth was a sharply etched and wide design above an angular chin. Boyish, handsome, and Irish as County Cork—except for the Mathews name. He made a mental note to ask about that later.

      As for Craig’s resentment—well, it was not hard to understand. Jackie had encountered it often enough, as did most homosexuals. Of course, he could have saved himself a certain degree of embarrassment by acting more masculine and less noticeably homosexual. But his effeminate mannerisms were essential, a mask that he wore in public as a part of his job.

      Like Mathews, Jackie too was an agent, although not for the United States or any other government. His organization was international, and underground, a highly efficient network of agencies and people, dedicated to a common cause—the protection and advancement of homosexuals. It was called C.A.M.P., and there were few who knew of its existence, although many benefited from its work. Throughout the world, agents of different sections within the organization worked tirelessly—some of them attempting to improve the lot of the homosexual politically, some socially; some worked with medicine and others with the mind.

      Jackie’s field was protection, the super police activities necessary to protect and save homosexuals from the dangers of blackmail and violence. He had come to the field young, after an unfortunate experience, and he was one of C.A.M.P.’s top men. Although he appeared to be only an effeminate and probably helpless faggot, small, blond, and comfortably pretty, he was in fact a man of awesome feats and capabilities. His aim with a gun was so perfect that neither he nor anyone else could remember a single shot within the last five years that had not hit its intended target. Although he was slender, he was not at all weak. With a wiry strength that belied his size, and a full understanding of nearly all the arts of self-defense, from judo to karate, from wrestling to sword fighting, he was a match for any adversary.

      Craig Mathews, however, could not know any of this, for his files would have little to say about C.A.M.P., and less about Jackie Holmes. Mathews would know only that Jackie was a homosexual, working for a homosexual outfit, and that Ted Summers, the T-man who knew Jackie, had passed on a message and warned that Jackie’s suggestions were not to be taken lightly.

      Staring out the window on his own side of the car, Mathews was thinking exactly those thoughts. He did not like the assignment at all, nor his companion. Summers had indicated that Holmes was a sharp individual, but Mathews could see little to admire about the nelly queen sitting next to him. Chances were, fortunately, that there would be little to the assignment.

      It was not likely that some zany relative of this fairy’s had actually stumbled upon anything connected with Butterfly, the super-secret, world-wide spy organization that was a source of fear to most of the world governments.

      The top agents of two dozen nations, to say nothing of the U.N. and Interpol, were rarely able to come up with any information as to their activities—so although he could not afford to pass up the lead, Mathews had little hope for the outcome. In the meantime, he hoped to hell that the blond faggot next to him would just keep his hands to himself.

      CHAPTER THREE

      If Craig Mathews was unenthusiastic about Jackie’s presence, he was totally unprepared for the creature who greeted them at the door of the house to which they had gone. Gladiola had the large bones, the sculptured features and the ebony skin that make many Negro women ravishing.

      Gladiola was not ravishing, however. For one thing, she was past the “ravishing” age. For another, there was just too much of her. She was immense of figure, and unlike some large women, who carry themselves with such grace of movement that one is hardly aware of their size, Gladiola seemed determined to make herself look even bigger with her brightly printed dress—a mass of oversize flowers of every imaginable hue, against a white background.

      “Mr. Jackie,” she cried loudly, grinning broadly. “How wonderful to see you.” The word came out sounding like wunnraful, and it was Jackie’s guess that Gladiola was more than a little intoxicated, not an unusual condition for her.

      He knew her well enough, however, to know that her drinking was essentially harmless, and a vice ordinarily overlooked by the family, in favor of her virtues. She had been with the family more years than she would allow anyone to mention, and when at one time the finances of the family had slipped so that Aunt Lily had been unable to pay her wages, Gladiola had not only stayed on, but pitched in with her savings to help out until things had gotten better. She was as kind and generous as she was fat, which was saying a great deal.

      “Hello, Gladiola,” Jackie greeted her warmly, allowing her to hug him with all the tenderness of an angry grizzly. One whiff of her breath was enough to confirm his suspicions about her condition. “This is Mr. Mathews, of the government. He’s come with me to see Aunt Lily.”

      “Oh, she’s practically birthing babies over your visit,” Gladiola informed him. She shook hands with Craig Mathews, leaving him shaking his pained fingers afterward and glancing at them in search of bone damage as Gladiola led them down the hall to the parlor.

      “She’s in the kitchen,” Gladiola said, ushering them into the parlor. “I’ll go tell her you’re here.”

      “I’ll come along,” Jackie said, starting after her. “Make yourself at home, Mr. Mathews, we’ll be right back.”

      Left alone, Craig Mathews could only stand and puzzle over the odd situation. From the moment he had entered the house, it was as though he had stepped back in time, to the turn of the century. The house was a study in antiquity, the rooms musty with faded velvet and tarnished gilt.

      He scowled and cocked his head to one side, listening. Had he only imagined it, or had he heard a whispered “psst?”

      There it was again, and decidedly not imagined. Puzzled, he turned, his eyes widening as he did so. He had not heard the elderly woman enter the room from the other door, although he was sure she had not been there when he came in. Nor was he any more prepared for her than he had been for Gladiola. In appearance, this one was more conventional. In a photograph, she would have appeared as the model for someone’s grandmother—gray haired and blatantly aging, a short, plumpish little creature who was to be imagined knitting and rocking, with a contented smile on her face.

      She was not, however, knitting and rocking now. She was leaning against the door frame in what, so far as he could judge, was intended as a seductive pose, although it fell far short of that goal. Her over-long skirt had been hiked up to reveal one bony, misshapen knee. One rheumatic hip was thrust out, a hand upon it. The top three buttons of her high-collared dress had been undone, and the dress pulled over one shoulder, a la a movie siren. All in all, the sight was both ludicrous and appalling.

      As he stared at her in amazement, she winked lecherously and clicked her tongue. “Hello, handsome,” she greeted him with a cracked voice. “How’s about you and me having a little romp before the others get here.”

      “I beg your pardon?” Mathews could scarcely believe he had heard her correctly. This sweet-looking old lady could not really be propositioning him.

      “You know,” she told him with a leer, wriggling the knee. “Tear off a little joy.”

      Mathews swallowed and shook his head numbly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

      “What’s a matter?” she asked, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You got no guts?”

      “Aunt Nasturtia,” A voice behind him said sharply. “Don’t scare him off.”

      Mathews jumped and whirled about again, slightly relieved to see someone who looked at least normal. In fact, the buxom blonde before him was not bad, although a little vulgar and earthy for his taste. Her ample breasts were all

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