My Flesh is Sweet by Day Keene

Book Details

My Flesh is Sweet (1951) – On the run in Mexico from the accidental killing of a drunken Mexican general, Ad Conners and Eleana Hayes must somehow make it back across the border to confront a decades-old secret that could destroy them both.

. . . Blinded with blood, stunned by the suddenness and fury of the attack, Connors reached out with numbed fingers, groping through the red film to find his assailant.

And his fingers found flesh, bare flesh, soft flesh, flesh for a man to dream on.

This woman he held was the murderer, Connors knew, and he felt a moment’s sadness. For even though his very life was at stake, Connors did not want to know that this woman had killed—once, twice, three times. She was a woman for a man to love, he thought, and then the red film washed through his head, and he knew no more . . .

My Flesh is Sweet is a seventeen chapter novel first published in 1951.

My Flesh is Sweet has 0 illustrations.

Gunard Hjertstedt (March 28, 1904 – January 9, 1969), better known by the pen name Day Keene, was an American novelist, short story writer and radio and television scriptwriter. Keene wrote over 50 novels and was the head writer for radio soap operas Little Orphan Annie and Kitty Keene, Inc. Several of his novels were adapted into movies, including Joy House (MGM, 1964) and Chautauqua, released as The Trouble with Girls (MGM, 1969).

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1. Keene-MyFleshIsSweet.epub

Excerpt: My Flesh is Sweet

Chapter One

HEAT lay a prickly, flower-studded, blanket on Mexico City. In an hour or so it would rain. At this season of the year it always did. After the rain the city would come to life again. Now, in the hour before siesta, pedestrian traffic was thinning. The cries of the beggars lining the Avenida Juarez had grown less shrill. Small merchants yawned in their doorways, eager to roll down their shutters. Sleeping Indians were already sprawled on the grass or nodding on the tree-shaded benches dotting the Alameda.

Hurrying across the east end of the Alameda to the post office to pick up a check for sixty-five thousand dollars in payment for the seven part serial he’d written for the Saturday Evening Post or, failing that, still be able to reach the National Pawn Shop before it closed, Ad Connors thought—

This is it. One way or another, I’m getting out of here. Today.

A big man, in his early thirties, his last clean white suit was sodden with perspiration. The frijoles he’d eaten for lunch lay heavy on his stomach. He had a sudden and a fierce nostalgia for the sight and smell of Broadway and a kosher corned-beef on rye. If he ever got back to New York he’d never again go farther south than 42nd Street. By hocking both his typewriter and his watch he should be able to raise the fare.

He was rounding the Palace of Fine Arts when he heard the crash. By the time he reached the corner the usual postoffice-corner-crowd of petty thieves, sidewalk merchants, and male and female lottery ticket vendors, were gathered around two cars in the intersection of Tacuba and Teatro Nacional. One of the cars was a ’50 gray Ford coupe with Illinois license plates. The other was a soldier-chauffeured army Cadillac.

In the back seat of the dented Cadillac a fat-faced, one star generale, the neck of his uniformed shirt unbuttoned, sat picking his lunch from his teeth as he admired the anatomical topography of the little brunette turista climbing out of the Ford coupe.

Connors didn’t blame him for looking. She was a little honey. She was a breath from home wearing Indian straw sandals on bare feet, white slacks so sheer the rolled hem of her scanties showed, and a V-necked bolero to match that left her tanned mid-riff bare. More, she was so mad she was willing to dig up Santa Anna’s bones and start the Mexican War all over.

Connors pushed his way up closer so he could hear what she was saying.

Eleana forced herself to be calm. After all accidents did happen. It wouldn’t do a bit of good to follow her first inclination to kick the chauffeur in the shins. Both of the policemen shouting at her in Spanish wore small American flags on their sleeves. According to the automobile club guide book that meant they spoke English.

She gave them her best school teacher look. “Stop that shouting right now. And if you want me to listen to you, speak English. It wasn’t my fault. I had the right of way.”

The policemen stopped shouting but neither of them spoke. Despite the Estados Unidos flags on their sleeves, both had lost their English. They wanted no part of the generale. All they wanted was to get the little turista and her car out of the intersection.

“The chauffeur got into the argument. The light might have just changed, true. But he had blown his horn and Generale Estaban was in a hurry. If the senorita hadn’t been driving faster than the law permitted she could have stopped. He shrugged his contempt. Besides, from the manner of her dress, she was obviously nothing but a Norte Americano baggage.

It wasn’t any of Connors’ business but it burned him to hear the chauffeur stamp the girl as something he doubted she was. Pushing the man in front of him aside, he stepped into the small opening around the two cars. “Now, just a minute, soldier. Let’s watch our language.”

Eleana clutched his arm. “You’re an American?”

“I am.”

“And you speak Spanish?”

“I do.”

The fingers on Connors’ arm tightened. “Then tell the police it wasn’t my fault and I demand they arrest the officer who owns the car unless he agrees to pay for the damage he’s done.”

Connors attempted to disillusion her. “Honey, you’re in Mexico and the guy is a general.”

She insisted. “Please.”

Connors set his portable typewriter case on the street and repeated what she’d said in Spanish.

The policemen looked at the generale. Taking the toothpick from his mouth he leaned both arms on the window sill and patted Eleana with his eyes. Then he turned on his Spanish charm. The fault was entirely that of his stupid chauffeur. He would be pleased to have her automobile made as good as new. More, if the beautiful young lady would be so kind as to give his chauffeur the name of her hotel he, Generale Estaban, would be happy to escort her to her room where they could discuss the matter further over a few drinks of something cool.

The onlookers laughed knowingly.

Eleana wanted to know what he’d said.

The back of his neck red, Connors gave her part of it. “He admits it was his chauffeur’s fault and he’s willing to pay the repair bill on your car.”

A wide smile on his fat face, Generale Estaban opened the door of the Cadillac. The palms of his hands sweating, Connors stuck his neck all the way out by closing the door. It could be he was wrong. It could be the little brunette would enjoy being tumbled by a Mexican generale. But he was damned if he would be a party to it.

“The senorita,” he told Estaban, “thanks you from the bottom of her heart. But as she has no one to whom she may entrust her car she must refuse your gracious offer to escort her to her hotel.”

The army man gave him a sour look. Eleana said, “Be sure to get his name and where to send the bill. And tell him my name is Eleana Hayes and I’m stopping at the Flamingo.”

One of the policemen wrote the name and address on the back of a charge slip and handed it to Generale Estaban. Me stuffed it in his shirt pocket and ordered his chauffeur to drive on.

Connors inspected the Ford. Outside of a broken bumper and a crumpled fender it seemingly was undamaged. He wrenched off the broken bumper and put it in the turtle back. “You’re all right now?” he asked the girl. “You can drive?”

Eleana smiled, “Of course.” She slid in behind the wheel and killed the motor three times just trying to put the car into gear.

Connors looked at her lips. They were quivering. Reaction was setting in. With traffic as thick as it was, he doubted she could drive a block without getting into another jam. He told her to slide over, reached for his typewriter and found that it was gone. Sighing, he slipped into the seat Eleana had vacated.

Eleana was concerned. “Weren’t you carrying something?”

“Yes,” Connors said. “I was. A ride on the B.M.T. and a kosher corned-beef on rye.”

“The crowd cheered as they drove away. Eleana was puzzled. “What are they cheering about?”

Connors told her. “Love.”

There was a parking space in the chained-off area in front of the Palace of Fine Arts. Connors parked in it. “Now look, Miss—”

“Hayes,” Eleana smiled. “Eleana Hayes.”

Her smile was as nice as the rest of her. Connors introduced himself. “My name is Ad Connors.” He waited a moment hoping she might recognize it. When she didn’t, he continued, “I’m an American citizen, reasonably respectable. And you’re still pretty shaky. So if you don’t mind waiting while I pick up my mail, I’ll be glad to drive you wherever you want to go.”

Eleana’s smile brightened. “You’re very kind, Mr. Connors. And if you don’t mind, I’ll take you up on that. I did have the green light. Believe me. But after driving those mountains between Laredo and here—”

“Yeah. I know what you mean,” Connors said.

He climbed the steps of the post office whistling. There were three letters for him but none of them meant a thing.

On the bottom of the rejection slip from the Post his agent had scribbled a few kind words. Shad still thought the novel was the best piece of work he’d done so he was sending it on to a book publisher. He mustn’t feel discouraged. The thing for him to do was sit right down and write another book. He was as good as the best. Sooner or later he couldn’t help but break into the big money.

Fingering the three pesos in his pocket, Connors was pleased to hear it. The other two letters were from lads still running pulp mills. Business was bad with them, too.

Excerpt From: Day Keene. “My Flesh is Sweet”