Date: Sat, 13 Jul 2002 11:41:24 +0200
From: Andrej Koymasky <andrej@andrejkoymasky.com>
Subject: Infamous Trade 09/17

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INFAMOUS TRADE
by Andrej Koymasky
(C) 1998 - 2002
written the 20th of July, 1995
translated by the author
English text kindly revised by Jer

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USUAL DISCLAIMER

"INFAMOUS TRADE" is a gay story, with some parts containing graphic scenes
of sex between males. So, if in your land, religion, family, opinion and so
on this is not good for you, it will be better not to read this story. But
if you really want, or because YOU don't care, or because you think you
really want to read it, please be my welcomed guest.

-----------------------------

NINETH

It was almost noon when Dan Firestone opened the door of the little villa
that Jacques Roux owned in Greenwich Village. Behind him was Oscar who
sniffed his master's worn out briefcase, wagging his almost hairless small
tail. Among the various things in the briefcase were also the dog's mint
flavored biscuits, Oscar's preferred food.

In his briefcase, he also had expensive drugs for Jacques, that he bought
on the black market because they were not legal in the States. Before
discovering his illness, Jacques, a small twenty eight year old Frenchman,
with a quiet and smiling air, had been a man gifted with a strong charisma
and energy that swept away any obstacle from his path. He carried out his
activity as a psychologist-psychiatrist in his small villa in Greenwich
Village. He also enjoyed growing roses, winning several prizes in
international competitions. In the past, he even found the time to keep
himself slender and muscled thanks a regular training schedule. He
regularly alternated between horseback riding, tennis, cycling and fencing
every day.

They felt attracted to each other at first sight -- Dan from the
intelligence and instinctive elegance of Jacques, and this one from the
primitive force of the man. Too, the fifteen years difference in age played
its role -- Dan preferred younger men and Jacques mature men. They both
were gay. Both gifted with a strong sense of order and the continuous need
to taste new exciting experiences, that they always managed to obtain. When
their desires became powerful, both could even destroy a human being
without any guilty feelings. What most impressed Dan about Jacques was his
ability to control and direct others, something that he himself was proud
to be able to do very well.

Jacques' red brick building was in Washington Square South, a few blocks
from the house where Eugene O'Neill had lived. It faced Washington Park, an
area that the compilers of tourist guides stubbornly continued to call the
heart of Greenwich Village, even if for a long time ceased to be so. Now
the park was just the meeting place of smugglers, students from the nearby
New York University, street people, folk singers, street magicians and
mentally disturbed people.

Entering the mahogany panel lined entrance to the little villa, Dan
Firestone pulled off his hat and coat hanging them inside the entry closet.
Then remained for several seconds to admire a splendid floral decoration
that was on a nearby small Malacca table. It was an Ikebana composition
that he himself made and titled "future message". Three tall withered white
branches, almost vertical, a low slanting green branch in which were half
hidden and peeking out five buds of red roses. When they opened, they would
tell Jacques all of his love for him. It had been him pushing Dan to go to
the Ikebana lessons to find relief from the stress of his job. That
composition was one of the most beautiful that Dan had made. Before meeting
Jacques, Dan would never have thought he had the talent to create something
aesthetically valuable, beautiful. Jacques changed many things in his life,
and all of them for the better.

With his briefcase in hand, he crossed the drawing room and the living
room. In both rooms were bookshelves from ceiling to floor, fireplaces,
white wooden doors and furniture expressly designed for those two rooms by
a famous Italian designer -- Tobia Scarpa. These two rooms very simple and
yet of an incredible beauty and elegance.

Reaching the wide kitchen with tall racks filled with very colorful tools,
Dan filled a pan with water and opened the door to the back garden.
Pressing his tongue on his lower lip, he emitted a really sharp whistle --
Oscar sprang near him passing through the open door and landing in the
small garden almost completely occupied by a greenhouse full of blooming
roses. Outside the icy December wind ruffled Dan's hair. He looked around
looking for Oscar's bowl. He found it and after putting in it the mint
biscuits, he put it near the pan filled with water.

While the limping dog consumed his meal, Dan sat near him staring at the
greenhouse.

At the beginning of their relationship Jacques told him: "You have more
talents than the majority of men, you are more intelligent, reliable and
destructive. Therefore you have also to be more creative than the others.
You are unhappy enough to be creative."

Unhappy? Certainly, Dan thought. The years spent dealing with bastards,
criminals and filthy people, made any policeman unhappy. But he was not a
creative. He was a hard but efficient policeman, cold, self-assured, and
stubborn. He was used to little refinement. He read the New York Times, at
times he went to the Opera and was affiliated with the Metropolitan Museum.
He collected travel books, a habit he cultivated through the years spent in
the Navy, where he enlisted when fifteen, faking his birth date.

But, he said to Jacques, for sure he was not a Leonardo Da Vinci.

On the other hand, he enjoyed wandering in Jacques greenhouse. The
fragrance and the beauty of his roses opened for him a new and gratifying
universe. It was so far from the stark apartment in the Bronx he shared
with his widowed father and his uncle who both abused of him up to the day
he ran away from home and enlisted in the Navy. And there also he was
brusquely introduced again to the world of the sex among men, not to love,
of course. To a crude sex but not without passion. Those men desired him,
but didn't take advantage of him as his father and uncle did. They treated
him as an equal. And there he started to learn to manipulate men,
skillfully conceding or denying his graces.

But the greenhouse, Jacques decided, touched something so deep in his heart
that Dan was unable to tell. Something buried under the wall that the
policeman built to shelter from the contempt that society reserves to
homosexual policemen. Encouraged by his lover, Dan developed his interest
for music and art of composing flowers. He even started to dress better.
His lively intelligence allowed him to perceive all these things just in
one stroke. But it was the love he shared with Jacques that allowed him to
make the learning process agreeable and exciting at once. Dan started to
refer himself to the French psychologist as he never before had with
anybody. He felt that the young man was shaping him and he was happy being
molded.

Jacques had been conquered by the sensuality and unpredictability of the
big policeman. No lover before made him feel so much excitement like the
man he with affection called "my noble savage". Dan, because of his huge
sexual appetite, seldom had been faithful to only one man for a long period
of time. He praised himself having fucked as much as seven boys on the same
night, even if he admitted that, on the following morning, he felt somewhat
weakened. But, he added, in the evening he was again ready for a good, long
ride session.

The sentimental bond, lasting already three years, with Jacques,
represented a milestone in the life of the ex policeman. It favored a
psychic, beside physical, communion. Not only had Dan never cheated on
Jacques, but he never got upset with him. After a life of useless
searching, he finally found somebody in which to have complete trust, and
who really, deeply loved him. And who, also physically gave him full and
complete satisfaction as nobody never before had been able of giving him.

They met the same night that Dan killed Spike Rowe, a twenty-two year old
hustler who refused to pay him the rake-off and who put the other hustlers
against him. Almost each evening Dan, going back home, passed to retrieve
from the boys the fixed quota that each of them had to pay him. He was
understanding -- when the boys complained they didn't have enough johns, he
allowed them to pay him on the following day, and for that evening he just
put them down and merrily fucked them. If also on the day after they didn't
pay him, he waited one more day, fucked them again and warned them that
they owed him one more fuck. On the third day, after fucking them once
more, he beat them as he was able to do, without leaving any mark, but
making them sorry they didn't busy themselves to raise money for him. And
that boy owed him four more fucks. Very seldom he had to beat them. Also
because the third time he called the other hustlers to assist both at the
fuck and then at the beating. It was always a very good lesson.

But Spike became a problem. When he passed he just didn't show up. He had
him warned by the other hustlers "you owe me nine fucks and three beatings,
beware!" "you owe me thirteen fucks and five beatings, be careful, I'm not
joking..." And finally he had to set in action. The boy played too smart.
He knew what time Dan passed and wasn't around. So he decided to ask an
evening of leave and lay in wait. But Spike got word of him and ran away
with his bike. Dan was informed later that Spike changed his hustling area.
The boys didn't want to tell him where he was now. But after he beat a
couple of them, the third one confessed. Dan went to look for Spike, found
him bent at the window of a car of a client, contracting. Dan silently
arrived at his back, seized him by his scruff pulling him brusquely back.
The guy in the car, feeling danger and seeing a policeman's uniform, just
run away in his car, disappearing. Spike reacted but Dan got soon the
better of him, especially when the boy realized who assaulted him. The
policeman dragged him in his car, handcuffed him to the seat and started
the car.

"Where are you taking me? What are you going to do?" The boy, scared but
not tamed, asked.

Dan liked the rebel air of the boy -- he liked having to deal with people
with guts. He didn't answer.

The boy kept silent for a while, then said with a low, self-assured voice:
"You can't continue to play the boss, Firestone. We are not your slaves.
Alright, you fuck me, beat me, and then?"

"I protect you from bad encounters, you have to pay me."

"We can protect ourselves, we don't need you."

"This, is for me to decide, not you."

"You are a bastard."

"I know." Dan cut short.

He entered the old port with his car, drove among the abandoned warehouses.
Nobody was around, nobody in sight. He stopped the car behind a shed.
Pulled out the boy.

"Undress! Stark naked!"

"No."

"Undress!"

"No." Spike repeated, looking around for a way to escape.

Dan, with a lightning move seized him and held him fast: "You tire me,
boy!" he said with a bored voice.

He started to undress him methodically, keeping him imprisoned and handling
him like a rag doll. When the boy tried to escape him, he gave him a
violent stroke, now on his legs, now on his back, now on his chest,
systematically, weakening little by little his resistance. And continued to
pull off his clothes, without haste. He was more and more excited, mainly
because Spike was a virile type, a young bull who always took pride that he
never took it in his ass by anybody, not even as a kid -- in a short while
he would no more have this pride. Or rather, he would not boast that any
more. The boy was in his complete power.

When Spike was naked, wearing absolutely nothing, not even his watch, Dan
dragged him to a cast iron balustrade, where he handcuffed his wrists and
ankles so that he was bent in half and his kegs were widespread. Spike,
broken in but not tamed, continued to abuse him with a low voice. Dan
caressed his ass, then his soft genitals with evident lust.

"Dirty depraved pig, faggot full of shit!" Spike said in a low voice.

"Do you want it in your mouth or in your ass, as a starter?" Dan asked him,
amused.

"Just try to put it in my mouth, and I'll cut it away with a bite!"

"What did you understand, foolish baby? I was talking about this." Dan said
making his cudgel pass under his eyes.

He slowly caressed with it his cheeks, his lips, then very slowly all his
body. Then he pushed its tip between the tight buttocks.

"Fucking turd of a bastard!" the boy said.

Dan, fast, seized his nose and squeezed and twisted it until the boy had
tears of pain and screamed. Then he hurriedly pushed the cudgel in the
boy's mouth, making his scream die off.

He slowly pushed it to the boy's throat: "You really tired me with your
vulgarity, Spike. You really tired me." The man said with excited voice.

With his other hand he unbuttoned the fly of his uniform trousers and
pulled out his member, already fully erect. He lubed it with his spit, and
also the boy's hole. Continuing to move the cudgel in the boy's mouth as if
it was a rubber dildo, he went on him trying to penetrate him. Spike
resisted tightening his ass muscles, but Dan pushed the cudgel into his
throat preventing him from breathing, until the boy, purple and trembling,
became still. Then he withdrew the cudgel to allow him to breath again, and
resumed pushing with his member. Now Spike was all a tremble and from his
wide-open mouth came a heavy breathing, a panting similar to a wheeze. Dan
pushed with a set of strokes where he put all his energy. Each time the boy
stiffened and tried to resist the penetration, he again pushed the cudgel
down the throat, until at last he managed to violate also the last
defenses, and sank completely inside the boy's tight hole. The boy tried to
scream, but the cudgel prevented him to do so and just a long choked moan
came out.

Then Dan Firestone started to hammer inside the boy with violence. He
wanted to enjoy that still virgin ass of the boy, but he also wanted to
hurt him. He never fucked a boy with such violence -- after all he also
liked making them enjoy the fuck. But now he was feeling a new, weird
sensation, a wild joy, a sense of unlimited power. He fucked his ass with
his big flesh cudgel and his mouth with the leather and lead cudgel. He
controlled himself so that he could enjoy the fuck for a long, long time,
avoiding to cum soon. He had all the time he wanted. He knew that evening
no police patrol was due to go there. Yes, he wanted to fully enjoy as long
as possible that formidable fuck of a twenty-two years old virgin hustler.
At times he pulled out his meat from the hole, to then push it all inside
again with force, enjoying the jolts and desperate moans of Spike

When at last he decided he had enough fun, he cummed with a triumphant
yell. He remained embedded deeply inside the boy for a while, trembling
with the intensity of his orgasm, with a wild joy. Then he slowly withdrew,
cleaned himself with the boy's clothes, put back in his trousers his still
half erect member. He took from his pocket a pistol with silencer he had
requisitioned from a previous offender and that he didn't turn in, and shot
the boy five times. Five shots well distanced, looking at him jolting at
each shot, Five shots well aimed, all in the right spot. All five mortal.
He then put away the pistol, pulled off the handcuffs from the corpse, took
some iron wire and tied again his ankles and wrists in a very tight way --
this would hide the handcuffs marks. Then he pulled out from the pockets of
the boy's clothes his wallet, pulled out and pocketed all the money and
spread around the other papers. He pulled off his gloves and slipped gloves
and pistol into a plastic supermarket bag and tied it. He started his car
and left. At the waterside road he opened the window and threw the bag in
the open sea. Thanks to the pistol weight, it sank immediately. Nobody
would find it any more, and even if it happened, nobody could connect it
with him.

The other hustlers would understand. But could not report him, do nothing
against him, as he had for that evening an unassailable alibi -- he would
now go at the party of three of his colleagues, his accomplices in various
little things not really clean, who would swear he was with them from five
in the afternoon to two in the morning. He reached the home of the
colleague who organized the little party and joined the merry company. No
one of them asked him what he did, from where he came -- he was with them
for at least seven hours, And he remained there, this time for real for
four hours. The day after certainly there would be a short notice in the
newspapers about the boy found naked, raped and killed at the old port. And
then Dan would do his usual tour, the newspaper well in sight. Yes. the
hustlers would understand. And behave.

At one thirty, from the neighboring Italian quarter, the parties of Italian
descendants, their friends and curious people that gathered for the
festival of the Carmel Virgin, started to leave. At two 'o clock Dan
Firestone, forcing his way through the crowd without hurry, feeling more
relaxed than he was all the day long, went away from the quarter of poor
houses. With the pretext he drank a little too much, he left his car near
the house of his colleague who would take it back to him on the following
day. He walked to the city center, towards East Hudson Street. He was
asking himself when Spike's corpse would be found, when his policeman's
instinct made him understand that there was something odd happening. He
moved to his left and remained still, hiding in the shadows of a warehouse.
His eyes reduced to a slit, he carefully scanned the surrounding darkness.
At the end of the block four Spanish boys were coming out from a buckled
blue Ford. Shoulder to shoulder, they were waiting for three men who were
crossing the street in their direction.

"What should I do?" Firestone asked to himself.

The Spaniards would attack the three passerby, there was no doubt about
that. One of them had in his hand a chain that he made lazily swing,
another had a knife or perhaps a screw driver, he couldn't clearly see. The
third one had leaning on his shoulder a machete held like if it was a gun.
He could not see the hands of the fourth one. Unaware of the danger the
three dandies were engrossed in their conversation. One of them was small,
and had a big gray hairdo with a suit of the same color that had to cost a
fortune. Near him was walking a tall blond man with tweed trousers a blue
blazer and a spotless white shirt open on the neck, with a tied silk scarf
of a tobacco color, The third potential victim, holding the biggest part of
the conversation, was a thin young man, with frameless glasses. The young
man accompanied his words with feminine gestures.

"Three idiots asking just to be robbed." Dan thought.

His first reaction was to leave and to let the robbery happen without
problems. Moreover he was in plain clothes. as he did change at his
colleague's home. If those three men wanted to harm themselves, walking at
that time of the night in an ill-famed quarter, it was only fair they got
what they deserved. If Dan played to do the policeman, he had then to
explain to his superiors if he was drunk or not -- if he was, why did he
intervene, if he was not, why did he leave his car at his colleague's
place... Lot better to leave the three manage the situation by themselves.
At the next occasion they would think twice before going in that sewer at
night time. If they survived, of course.

But even with these thoughts, Dan found himself walking towards the four
tacos who were surrounding their victims near a street lamp. Such a
situation recalled to him memories, all bound to the abuse he underwent as
a child. Each time he had the occasion to kick in the ass that kind of scum
he felt like taking a return match on his father and uncle. That's why he
became a policeman. That's why he never ceased to hate the two men that in
the Bronx transformed his life in a hell. Another thing possibly pushed him
to intervene, even if then he was not aware it. Only later he thought about
it -- he possibly guessed that the three men were gay, especially the
taller one.

When he was almost in touch with the hoodlums, he pulled out from his bag
his regulation Smith & Wesson and held it with his left hand, Then he took
out also his black leather and lead cudgel, a real bone breaker absolutely
lethal. Slipping his hand in the loop of the hilt Dan fixed it around his
wrist. The red fever, that blind rage full of hate that forever gilled him,
almost gave him real fever.

Killing Spike had been fun, he had no grudge against the boy. He had to be
eliminated to give a lesson to the others and he just did it. But the clash
with these four Latin was something different, something personal. Seeing
these tacos attacking the three dandies recalled to Firestone that he too
had been once a victim. That's why it was unthinkable just slinking off. If
he feared something, that something were his memories. His hands hidden at
his back, leaving his bag in the shadow, he went under the street lamp
light. He was almost foaming at the mouth. His cold eyes didn't move an
eyelid. The red fever made him mad.

Like any pack of wolves, that one that Dan was preparing to face didn't
want only loot. They wanted power. Like his father and uncle, who,
differently from the sailors, didn't want to enjoy with him, but wanted to
dominate him, use him, own him. The tall blond was the target of the squat
Dominican who, with the tip of his machete, was toying with the buttons of
the blue blazer. Stiff with terror, the man was trying to maintain a
dignified attitude.

Talking with an English accent, he was trying to show a calm that in
reality he didn't have. "Take all you want, boys, but don't do silly
things." He was saying.

The Dominican brushed between his legs with the flat of the blade. When the
man stepped back, the hoodlum said with a menacing smile: "I want possibly
also something else, daddy. Possibly I'll take you with me, so we can drink
and also take some good stuff. A party, all the night long. I'll be nice
with you, daddy, really nice. I bet that the young one here is who put it
in your ass, isn't he? Hey, boys, someone wants to have fun with the short
one? To thank them for the donations they so willingly will give us? And
what about the young one? Who wants to entertain him?"

While two of the Dominicans were stripping the other two of all their
belongings, the one who seemed to be the boss, pushed his machete between
the legs of the tall man who shut his eyes and shook his head, seized by
panic. It was then that the fourth Dominican, a young man with a pocked
face who had in his fist a bicycle chain, became aware that there was
somebody at their back. He turned back and Dan hurled himself on him
hitting him on his collarbone with his cudgel. The young man fell on the
ground screaming.

The thin hoodlum with a dark skin, that until then was busy rummaging in
the wallet of the man in gray, didn't either have the time to turn around.
Attacking him at his back, Dan hit him at his right elbow. The hoodlum
yelled, let the wallet fall on the ground and seized his wounded elbow. A
few moments later he rolled forward, kicking his legs and slipped on his
knees in a puddle. The one with the machete was caught unaware.

After a fast glance to his beaten companions, he stared at Dan for a couple
of seconds before exclaiming: "You rotten turd! I'll break your ass,
friend! I'll really break your ass!"

With his blade again leaning on his shoulder he took two steps towards the
policeman in plain clothes, but remained petrified when Dan raised his arm
and aimed at him with his Smith & Wesson. He tightened his hold on his
machete.

"Would you leave it, please?" Dan said with a voice falsely quiet.

His eyes filled with hate, the Dominican hesitated. At the end he left the
hold and the machete slipped down on the pavement and resounded with a
metallic clang. Dan rotated his pistol barrel to face the fourth hoodlum,
the classical type of drug addict with rotten teeth. Nothing to fear on
that side, that guy didn't have enough "cojones" to take part in the clash.
He was too frightened, or else he had too much faith in the ability of his
companion to use his machete.

When the red fever subdued, Dan spoke with a sharp but quiet voice: "Turn
around and take your position." He said to the drug addict, who readily
complied positioning himself in front to the street lamp, his legs
widespread and his arms on the pillar -- he had to be used, he at once
understood what Dan wanted from him.

The machete hoodlum, anyway, was still furious: "There must be a cop around
here! If I had with me my gun, you'll be dead. You can swear on that, dirty
bastard cop, that you'd be dead." He said and spit missing for a hair the
left shoe of Dan.

The policeman answered with a smile: "There is a time and a place to play
the though, chico." Then he threw a kick at the Dominican's genitals.

He put his Smith & Wesson in his pocket then with his cudgel hit the head
of the hoodlum who fell on the ground unconscious. Then he turned to look
at the victims, thinking that if they were just passerby, just audience to
the scene, and not the attacked people, they would for sure spoke about the
police brutality, violation of civil rights, racism towards representatives
of an ethnic minority, and other similar bullshit. But he didn't notice any
indignant expression for his brutal treatment of the "Latin brothers". The
blond with an English accent nodded to express his full assent. The younger
looked at Dan with sheer and deep interest. There was something sensual in
his expression, in his glance. It was as if the young man's eyes were
caressing Dan.

Dan crouched near the drug addict boy who had, slipped under his belt, a
carefully sharpened screw driver -- a lethal weapon. He searched him and
found a wallet containing three one dollar notes, two condom bags, and two
tickets of the underground. He also found three crack vials, that he
crushed under his heel, provoking a pain moan on the boy. He took his fun
also fingering for a while the boy's soft genitals through his jeans
fabric. Now came the most difficult part -- avoiding that the little clash
forced him to take the hoodlums at the police station.

The young man, who had beautiful soft hair and two eyes so clear and yet
deep, stepped forward and talked in the others' behalf.

Seized Dan's hand between his own, he said: "You rescued our lives. I can't
express how much grateful we are to you!"

The touch of his hands was extremely gentle and his glance didn't ever
leave him. He spoke perfect English but with a light French accent, very
agreeable.

The English man, who was not so young as he seemed from afar, added: "If
you didn't arrive... I dare not think what could have happened. My name is
Rowland Preston. Good Lord, I am still trembling. You have been
magnificent, absolutely magnificent!"

Dan lit a cigarette. He liked hearing that man with his wonderful English
accent, something he heard just at the TV or at the movies. If they told
him he was the personal secretary of the Queen, he would have believed it.
He had an intense, magnetic look. And a refined elegance.

The most scared of the three was the small man with gray hair who, even if
he probably was somewhat younger that the English man, seemed to be much
older. Wiping the sweat from his forehead with a light blue silk
handkerchief, he was grumbling with himself in Italian, as if he was not
yet convinced that the bad adventure was ended. Dan didn't like his smile,
it was too empty. Empty smiles are smiles of scared men, and scared men are
weaklings you cannot trust. Also the English man had been scared, but he
was not smiling while he was scared -- he started to smile only when he
understood that he was now safe. The English man had balls, not the Italian
one.

Giving his hand, the Italian introduced himself: "Alberto Sacchi. Thank
you, thank you, thank you! I am grateful, sir, infinitely grateful, believe
me."

"You are not people of this neighborhood. People like you in this area are,
for hoodlums like these, just an invitation to a robbery." Dan said.

The empty smile of the Italian became even more idiotic: "Ah, sir, we were
coming back from the festival of the Carmel Virgin in the Italian quarter
and we were going to visit a club, a night bar I would like to buy to
transform it in an Italian restaurant... I thought that cutting through
here we would reach it earlier, thus... I didn't guess there was a
danger..."

"And you were wrong." Dan said with forced kindness.

Why these three didn't go away leaving him in peace? He was considering
what would have been better to do, when he noticed something odd. The three
men were looking at each other as if they had something to hide. He was a
policeman for too long, not to understand on the fly such situations.

The French man was looking at Dan who at last understood -- all three men
were gay. But the most interesting thing was that the young French man had
been aroused by the violent scene he'd witnessed. It was evident by his
fitting trousers now generously swollen on the right spot...

The Frenchman said: "Am I wrong, or you really are a policeman?"

"Yes, I am a policeman. Would you like to make a report against these
people?"

Again the three men consulted with a glance. Dan had to hold back from
bursting in laughter -- it was evident that, for some reason, the three had
no intention at all of doing it.

Again the young man spoke: "We don't need to make any report, sir. Thanks
to you we recovered all our belongings and we didn't suffer any harm."

"As you like." Dan said hiding his relief. He let his cigarette fall down
and crushed it.

The Frenchman pointed at the Dominicans: "What will become of them?"

"I feel they are engrossed in their thoughts. I think we have not to
disturb them." Dan answered with a light air,

Shaking his head, the English man burst in a loud laughter: "Marvelous!
Absolutely marvelous! I like you, sir!"

"Can we possibly invite you to have a drink with us? You are not on duty, I
presume. Forgive me if I didn't introduce myself. I am Jacques Roux. Doctor
Jacques Roux." The young Frenchman said drawing nearer to Dan, and lightly
touching Dan Firestone's biceps.

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CONTINUES IN CHAPTER TENTH

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In my home page I've put some of my stories. If someone wants to read them,
the URL is

http://andrejkoymasky.com

If you want to send me feed-back, please e-mail at

andrej@andrejkoymasky.com

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