"Al, as principal of Grayton junior high school, it has recently come to my attention.. . . "
Al Downing, the young janitor at Grayton, suppressed a yawn. He disliked the school principal. He considered Mr. Pfeiffer to be a fat, pompous fairy. It always irked him to be summoned here. And he's going to bitch about something, Al thought. He always does.
Now, as he sat across from Pfeiffer, disgustedly watching the man's double chin bob up and down against his lavender necktie, he remembered that all his stupid speeches began this way. Even if Pfeiffer were just ordering a bag of rock salt for the school driveway, the speech would still begin the same way. And as he spoke Al detested the effeminate nasal whine of his voice-Pfeiffer would invariably explore his thick manicured hands as though he were seeing them for the first time.
"...and it has recently come to my attention, Al, that we have a lesbian problem here at school."
The word "lesbian" jolted Al to the edge of his chair. He knew that some of the young girls carried on in the shower room, but he never dreamed that Pfeiffer also knew. Even more puzzling, why had the school principal drawn him in on the problem; he was only the janitor. He said, "That surprises me, sir. I always thought our girls were rather well-behaved."
"Do you consider 14-year-old lesbians well-behaved?"
Al disliked the defensive role he had suddenly assumed. He squirmed uncomfortably. "Well, no . . . what I meant was...."
"I never thought I'd see the day when something like this would happen at Grayton." He looked ready to cry. "Now it has and, frankly, I'm in a dither."
Al let the principal drone on, but he was still puzzled as to why Pfeiffer was telling him about it. Did blubber-face think he didn't know what went on here, that certain of the girls fondled each other in the darkness of the boiler room? Christ, he could tell this fat bastard plenty if he wanted to. "What are you going to do about it, Mr. Pfeiffer?"
The principal clasped his hands together. "I'm glad you asked that question, Al. That's why I called you up here. I need your help."
"My help?"
"Yes, Al. I need proof. I know it's going on here at Grayton, but without proof, my hands are tied. There's not a thing I can do."
"What sort of proof?"
"Well proof that the girls are doing these things. What else?"
Al wanted to slam the bastard. The big deal. Had to make you look like you were stupid. "You mean you want me to spy?"
"That's the general idea, Al. These kids behave like little angels when I come down the hallway, but with you . . . well, you're only the janitor and...."
Yes, only the lowly janitor, Al thought. The broom man. The emptier of wastebaskets. "That won't be easy, sir."
But Pfeiffer disagreed. The kids wouldn't pay that much attention to the janitor that word again he could move into their range more easily, listen and watch. "And then when you have something definite, I'll be able to act."
"What will you do?"
"Do? Why I'll bring the offenders into my office and have a firm talk with them. If the case warrants it, I may even go to their parents."
Al hid his disdain. Did this blubbery faced bastard think that a slap on the wrist would stop the girls from their evil practices? Was he so stupid as to believe that a scolding would prevent them from rubbing their hot bodies together in the privacy of the shower room? Was Pfeiffer really that stupid? "Don't you think that a more severe punishment is called for?" Al asked.
"That's for me to decide," Pfeiffer said haughtily.
Al fought back his anger. How hard would he have to smash Pfeiffer to knock his teeth out?
"The way I see it," the principal whined on, "if I throw a good scare into them, that should be enough."
But it won't, you dumb bastard. They'll go on and on, licking each other's breasts, putting their bodies together, squirming and feeling, poisoning themselves and poisoning the world.
"If I see anything," Al said, "I'll be sure to let you know." And to himself, he thought: Like hell, I will. I'll smash their goddamn faces in. That'll stop them.
"Last week," Pfeiffer continued, "someone rigged up a wire across the stairway and caused Elaine Stewart to fall down a flight of stairs. She broke her arm and it's a mystery that she wasn't killed." He picked up a mechanical pencil and flipped it over in his hand. "You did hear about it, didn't you?"
Al nodded. Indeed, he had heard about it. Hadn't it been he who had strung the wire, then watched from the floor above as the little bitch crashed down the concrete stairs? Wasn't her fate well-deserved?
"Elaine Stewart was mixed up in this mess. We found notes in her locker that gave indication of that."
"That's hard to believe," Al lied. "She's so cute."
"Cuteness has nothing to do with it," Pfeiffer snapped.
"I only meant...."
"This Stewart girl, I think, was fooling around with more than one girl. Somebody became jealous and...."
"Strung the wire?" Al finished.
"Exactly," Pfeiffer said. "And this is only one of a series of incidents that we've had lately. And when we get to the bottom of it, I think we'll find that it all goes back to this lesbian problem."
Pfeiffer was right, of course. The mysterious fire in Judy Holton's locker she was One of Them was scarcely spontaneous combustion. He, Al Downing, had inserted the oil-soaked kleenex between the louvres of her locker, then dropped the match. It had burned her new coat, ruined it; but wasn't this big-titted eighth-grader a lesbian? Hadn't he seen her behind the boilers, down on her knees, greedily kissing another girl between her trembling thighs?
"The week before," Pfeiffer went on, "someone rolled a 16-pound shot-put off those same stairs. Fortunately, no one was hurt. But if the ball had struck anyone . .
Well, he had goofed that one, he thought. Aimed for that Sylvia Kowalski girl, the one who wore the tight sweaters, but he had missed. She was One of Them, too; and how many more were there here at Grayton junior high school?
"...so if you hear of anything, Al, I'd certainly appreciate your telling me."
"I'll do that," Al promised. "If I hear anything...."
"And I wouldn't mention this little discussion to anyone, Al. No use tipping our hands, is there?"
"I'm sure you're right," he answered, and after reluctantly sealing their secret with one of Pfeiffer's flabby handshakes, Al left the principal's office and went to the basement.
Al's desk-one that had been discarded from the classrooms and also served as a work bench-was positioned along the cement wall below a grilled window. The window faced the girl's schoolyard, and when he stood back in the shadows behind this desk, it was possible to spy on the young girls, know them on their most intimate terms. For instance, after many months at the school, he not only knew many of the girls by their first names, but he also knew that some of them-the Orland girl was an example-came to school without panties. Certain of the other girls wore black girdles-they called themselves the Hi-Queens and Al was certain that this group was made up of lesbians.
Another girl-a seventh-grader, Al surmised-made a delightful display of herself on the playground swings. She had a strawberry mark on the inside of her left thigh; and many other observations had come to his attention while he hid in the shadows below this spectacle-filled window.
He stood there now, watching the schoolyard slowly fill up. Another day, and soon the fust-period bell would ring. Cigarettes would be squashed out, dirty stories crammed into purses, and then the young bitches would be hurrying through the portals of learning-but learning what? How to hide in the book storage room and rub their bodies together? Was this what they learned?
Thinking of it, he had to fight back the dark rage that burned inside him. And that fat bastard, Pfeiffer. So dumb he couldn't see beyond the end of his nose and wanting Al to spy. Well, that was just perfect. There'd been several things that he wanted to do; for instance, hide a microphone in the ventilator of the girl's restroom, and now he could do it with complete ease. If Pfeiffer somehow found out about it, he'd simply say he was only following instructions-spying, so to speak. And he would be, but not for Pfeiffer. And when Al found out who all these queer bitches were, he'd fix their clocks in his own way; not Pfeiffer's.
As these thoughts moved slowly through his mind, Debbie Harmon moved in front of the overhead window and lit a cigarette. Debbie was 15, a short-haired blonde girl who defied teachers with her short thigh-tickling skirts. The boys at school were fascinated by her abbreviated skirts; without realizing it, she was also fascinating Al. He couldn't turn away from the window, and stealing quietly closer, eyes skyward, he saw the elastic edging of her panties. A warm tingling sensation crept into his loins, and he wondered if Debbie let boys do it to her.
He supposed that the answer was yes. But he didn't blame the boys; nor could he blame Debbie. Boys and girls getting hot with each other was part of growing up, but the rest of it: girls feeling up other girls; that was poison. It was a crime against nature, a crime against boys and men; and many months ago, only a bitter memory now, it had been a crime against him, Al.
Blotting away the memory of a broken marriage, he again gazed up under Debbie's short plaid skirt. She had turned, her back was to him, and she was leaning against the building. Inching closer, still looking up, he could see the squeezed-in warmth of her buttocks protruding from her panties. His face began to perspire. His hands doubled into fists. If he could just reach through this grilled window, feel the hotness of her . . .
Suddenly, the bell rang. He cursed. Debbie and several dozen other students crowded toward the doors leading into the school; but he didn't leave the window until the last pair of flashing thighs and bouncing breasts had disappeared from sight. Then he slumped behind his desk and opened a thermos of coffee.
This would be a good place to bring a girl if that were his intention, he thought. And how long had it been since he and a woman had put their bodies together? Was it really almost a full year? Was his hate so great that he'd lost all desire for sex? If so, why had the sight of little Debbie Harmon excited him so greatly?
Turning slowly in his chair, he gazed into the dark corners beyond his desk. Had Debbie ever been down here? he wondered. The maze of boiler pipes had created dozens of perfect hiding places, and that was why the kids sneaked down here so often. They believed that their hot little pastimes went undetected. But they were wrong about that; Al knew these hiding places, knew the secret corners from which to watch them, knew the sounds of their labored breathing...the sounds of love.
When he finally finished his coffee, pushed those dark thoughts out of his mind, he began his daily inspection of the boilers. They were automatic, so there was but little for him to do, really-just make certain that the pressure of the intake was properly regulated, see that the safety valve was clean and functioning.
Later, there were other perfunctory chores to do: Empty the wastebaskets in all the classrooms, broom the hallways, assist the delivery man with an incoming shipment of new textbooks; but by noon, he was done.
Returning to the cool cemented darkness of the basement, he went directly to the paint locker, the secret project that he had begun over a week ago. In just a few more days the secret job would be finished, and he would have visible access to the girl's shower room. He first had to remove the remaining mortar that bonded the wall bricks together; then he would have to substitute a trick two-way mirror for the one that already hung in the shower room. However when that was done, he could look whenever he pleased; just slide the loose bricks out of place, stand in the darkness and watch.
If it pleased him-and it would-he could spy on them for hour after hour. And just thinking of it now, drove sparks of excitement into his loins. He would get to see them undress, watch them slide skin-hugging sweaters over their heads, drop skirts wantonly to their ankles, and then stand before his trick mirror in just wispy panties and lacy bras. He'd get to know them on their most intimate terms, which of them had large nipples, which of them had bouncing behinds-but of the greatest importance-which of these tempting teenage bitches was also queer. Yes, once the mirror was in place, no secret would be barred from his eyes. And if that fat bastard, Pfeiffer, discovered his trick mirror, he would again say: "Sure, I put it there. You wanted me to spy, didn't you?"
Elated with how easy Pfeiffer was making this for him, he set down his tools and turned on the small overhead light bulb. Latching the door, he went to his tools: an assortment of chisels, a brass hammer, and a broom and dustpan to clean up the telltale mortar chips. Previous observation had shown him that the lunch hour was the best time in which to work at his secret project; with nearly everyone in the school cafeteria, there was little likelihood that anyone would hear the continuous tapping of his tools.
First, several paint drums had to be moved; he had placed these on a small wooden table, thereby hiding his handiwork. It wasn't likely that any of the faculty would come down here, but he had to guard against that ever-present small chance.
With the paint drums now moved out of the way, he crouched over the table and positioned his chisel. Suddenly the light went out. Cursing, he groped through the darkness, found the pull-string, and yanked down. He tried it several times; the goddamn bulb was burned out. He fumbled in his pants pocket for a book of matches; then his shirt pocket. . .
"What if somebody comes down here, Mike. Then what?"
Al froze. The basement had some youthful visitors.
"I told you that creepy janitor goes out for lunch. We're alone."
"But what if he comes back early."
"Cmere."
Al held his breath. The boy and the girl had passed within inches of the paint locker door, and now he could hear their footsteps fading away; now he could confidently predict that they were moving through the darkness, reaching a small green cot behind the boilers. The cot was a hangover from the dispensary; Nurse Morrison had said that Al might keep it if he liked, and the students, knowing of its presence, had put it to frequent and enjoyable use.
They were quiet now, probably fumbling with their clothes, Al thought; and he slid softly toward the door, eased the latch out of its slot, then cracked the door enough to listen.
"Mjke, I'm scared."
"Of what? We're alone."
"But...."
It was suddenly silent here in the basement, and Al could imagine the young boy pushing the girl down on the cot, quieting her protests with a fevered kiss, feeling her up-maybe even going all the way.
With his curiosity stimulated even further, Al widened the gap in the door. He was not wrong; they were on the cot. He couldn't make out their faces, but he could see the boy's hand drawing the girl's skirt up her tender thighs.
"Mike, don't!" But she wanted him to.
"C'mon." His hand molded itself to the throbbing pear-like swelling between her outstretched thighs. His fingers moved slowly over the pink silk of her panties. Unconsciously, she arched upwards to meet the steady pressure of his fingers. "Does it feel good?" he asked.
"Sure it does, but. . . "
He kissed her and continued the steady circular rhythm of his hand. Now he was pulling the panties aside, fingering the hotness of girlhood.
She bit her lip and let out a small childlike moan. "Please, Mike . . . don't do it anymore . . . please...."
He rolled over on top of her and began pumping his lean small body against the girl's. This caused the girl to moan more desperately. She threw her arms around the boy and now began pumping with him.
"Do you want to?" he whispered. "Do you?"
"Oh, Mike...."
"Do you?"
Al held his breath, waited hotly for the girl to say "yes"; instead, she pushed upwards, grasped her panties, then guided them down. "Hurry, Mike! Do it fast!...."
CHAPTER TWO
Al was going wild from watching the kids. Without realizing it, he was pressing his own throbbing against the door, wishing that he, not the boy, was now opening his pants and lowering himself between the girl's widely spread thighs.
The girl moaned, and Al wondered if it was Debbie Harmon. Judging from the way the young teenager flounced her body around in the schoolyard, Al had guessed that she was looking for something like this. Now-and he assumed it was she-she was getting it; and getting it good! Yes, the boy might be lacking in experience, but he was certainly making up for it with the zealous, rabbit-like attack.
Debbie, or whoever she was, welcomed his attack. Her ivory thighs were spread widely apart, her knees bent and aimed toward the boiler pipes. The boy mounted her with a series of short pumping thrusts. He brought deep guttural moans from her throat.
"Ohhhh...."
"Feel good?"
"Won-wonderful . .
He went faster. "I wish you could take everything off."
"So do I." Her buttocks raised up to meet him. She wiggled. "Ohhhh . . . does that ever feel good."
"Debbie."
"Y-yes."
"C-can . . . can you . . . oh, Debbie!" His fingers dug deeply into the heaving flesh of her hot buttocks. He squeezed down hard.
"Ohhhh, Mike . . . Mike, I'm . . . I'm...."
He attacked her with renewed force. His feet braced the wooden ribbing of the cot, sought leverage. He drew back briefly, then sent himself hurtling inside her. She clawed at his back.
"Jesus Christ . . . oh, Mike . . . Mike!" Suddenly their bodies locked and they trembled with the sweet final spasms of love. Then, almost brutal in his abruptness, he withdrew from her and zipped up his trousers.
Debbie pulled down her skirt. Mike immediately pushed it up. "I wanna look some more," he whispered harshly.
"Why?"
"Cause."
"Somebody might come."
His hands stroked the warm flanks of her thighs. Slowly, those same hands crept upwards to toy with the curly, silken softness. "You're always 'fraid of something." he said. "I told you that janitor goes out for lunch."
"But he could still come back."
The boy chose to ignore her fright. His eyes gazed at the functions his hands were performing. "Debbie, could we do this again?"
"Not down here, we can't." She pushed his hands away and climbed off the cot.
"Where then?"
"How do I know?"
"How 'bout at your house?"
"You crazy?"
"Then where?"
The girl shrugged her shoulders. "You got a cigarette?" she asked the boy.
The boy handed her his pack, lit the cigarette "That bell is gonna ring pretty soon."
"I know."
"Debbie?"
"Yes."
"How 'bout when you baby sit? Couldn't I come there and . . . you know."
Again, she shrugged her shoulders. Fifteen-years-old, but wise enough to play it coy and keep him guessing.
"But didn't you like it?"
"It was okay," she said, blowing smoke in his face. "Just okay?"
"That's what I said, didn't I?" He lit a cigarette for himself, then asked, "Did you ever do it with other guys."
"Maybe," she said teasingly. "How come you won't tell."
"Cause."
"Cause why?"
Angrily, she snapped, "You ask too many questions."
"I just wanted to know," he said innocently.
"Well don't ask." And now she was the boss. She had given him a piece of her delicious candy-the juicy fruits of her body-and now she could ask for anything. "You got a quarter?" she said abruptly.
"A quarter! For what?"
"Cause I need it for after school, that's what."
He frowned. "You charging now, or something?"
"Well I could, you know."
"And you would, wouldn't you? You'd be just like Janice Porter."
"You think you know everything, don't you?"
"I know that Janice is a big whore."
"For your information, smarty, that isn't how Janice gets all her money. And if you wanna know, she never in her whole life let a boy touch her."
"Bullshit!"
"Okay, you ask Norma Seibert. She'll tell you. And if you knew as much as you say you do, you'd know that Janice gets her money from that old woman on Province street."
"That damn queer!"
"Well at least it doesn't hurt like a boy does. All she has to do is take off her clothes and let the old woman touch her, and things . .
Al's senses suddenly reeled. He thought he would vomit, but then the nausea exploded to hate. His fists balled up.
"So who wants some old hag fooling around with them?"
"For five-dollars, who doesn't?"
Suddenly, the bell rang. Al cursed. He heard, then saw, the two youngsters scurrying along under the boiler pipes, reaching and mounting the stairs.
For a minute, he stood perfectly still. A chill had settled over his body. Or was this trembling that had taken possession of his senses-was it hate? And now he remembered Debbie's words: An old woman , . . you take off your clothes . . . five-dollars . . . Province street.
It seemed impossible. Yet, didn't old men fool around with young girls in darkened theatres? Couldn't the same also be true for old women?
Thinking of it again, visualizing a haggy old woman kissing the soft white body of a young girl, drove him wild with rage. He drove his fist into the wooden door of the paint locker. The door rocketed back. One of the panels split. A stream of blood trickled from the knuckles on his right hand. Christ, if he could get his bare hands on whoever the old bitch was, squeeze the evil poison out of her gray, wrinkled body . . . and Province street; this was the same street on which he lived. It was happening right under his nose.
Slowly, with the murderous rage still burning hotly inside him, he emerged from the paint locker and came to the grilled overhead window. He saw the glowing, effervescent smiles of young girls, the virginal pink of flashing thighs as they ran past the window, and then he thought of the young boys who would fall in love with them.
But the lesbians would ruin all that. The stinking bitches would ruin it for the young boys just as they had ruined it for him. Yes, once the perfumed bitches got to your girl, lapped their greedy tongues over her innocent body, she was gone from your reach. And then your girl was also a lesbian, another of the leeches introduced to the world, another seducer of young girls; and maybe he couldn't stomp it out, but he was sure as hell going to try. The old hag-whoever she was-was next. All he had to learn was where she lived and what her name was. And then . . .
He came away from the window and slumped at his desk. If only that bell hadn't rung when it did, Debbie might have spoken her name. But didn't Debbie hang out in a pizza shop after school, one that was just down the street? He was certain that he had seen her there with a gang of girls, and if he stopped in today, shot her a flirting smile . . .
* * *
Leroy's Pizza House was jammed with young schoolgirls when he walked in. Some of them waved, others crowded around him to borrow a cigarette. Grinning at them-evidently, he was more popular than he had supposed-he found an empty table and sat down.
The waitress, a skinny dark-haired girl of about 20, brought him the coffee he had ordered. He would only be able to stay here for a few minutes, he thought; he had to lock up the school and re-set the boilers. But once he talked to Debbie . . .
His eyes located her in a corner booth. He watched her light a cigarette. She was with several other girls, seemingly the youngest of the group. Their attention for the moment was riveted on a gathering of young boys who stood at the pinball machine.
He waited several minutes, hoping to gain her glance, but she was too rapt in the boys. Her blue eyes-sensuous for someone so young-followed the snug lines of the boys' trousers as they shifted around the pinball machine. Christ, was she looking for more? Hadn't she had enough in the basement today? And apparently not, because she was anxious to have their attention; her short plaid skirt was hiked up over her thighs and she wanted them to look.
Al was accustomed to such sights here in the pizza house. Each of the girls seemed bent on showing as much as they could; however, the boys were youthfully indifferent and scarcely bothered to notice. This only infuriated the girls, whereupon they would let their shortie skirts go higher and higher.
It was this way now and even with his eyes stinging from the clouds of smoke that hung over the place, he could look in almost any direction and become excited by what he saw. He could see the bottom edge of panty girdles; nylon hose biting into the firm flesh of their thighs; and in the case of the girl sitting opposite his table-a little redhead-he could even see the pale green silk of her underpants. He guessed her to be about 14, and she was slumped down in her chair with her head resting on its back; her legs were spread slightly-perhaps for his benefit-and when his dark eyes focused on the promising valley between her legs, her wanton expression seemed to say: Go ahead and look if you want. I don't care. And it was part of the show at Leroy's, a regular matinee; and though the coffee was lousy, the repartee of free sights was more stimulating than an afternoon of burlesque.
Remembering why he had come here, he drew his eyes away from the young redhead who was coquettishly exhibiting her panties. He turned just as little Debbie Harmon climbed out of the booth and made her way toward the juke box. She made a special point of bumping his arm with her hip when she passed by.
"Oh, 'xcuse me . . . oh, Mr. Downing. I didn't see you."
"H'lo, Debbie," he said, and he knew she was lying. She'd seen him all right; she had bumped his arm for a reason.
"Do you come here often?" she asked, turning so that he could see the fruitful outline of the tight maroon slipover she wore.
"Pretty often."
She smiled, but what did she want? "Mr. Downing, do you . . . do you have a quarter I could borrow . . . just 'til tomorrow?"
He should have guessed, he thought. They always wanted to borrow. He grinned at her, then handed her a quarter.
"Thanks, Mr. Downing. I'll pay you back tomorrow."
Naturally, he'd never again see his quarter. "Going to play the juke box?" he asked.
"Yeah. Is there something you wanted to hear?"
He told her to play whatever she wanted, and then when she had moved to the music machine beside his table, stood there studying the typewritten selections, he said, "Did you have a good time in the basement today, Debbie?"
She was clever; she didn't even turn around, just nonchalantly pressed the selector buttons. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Downing."
"I saw you, Debbie. I saw the whole thing." And hadn't her body suddenly stiffened? Or was this the wrong approach?
"You must have seen somebody else, Mr. Downing."
"No. Debbie. It was you. You and Mike."
She hummed as one of her records dropped to the turntable, then ran her fingers up and down the rest of the selections. "D'ya like this new arrangement of Miss You So?"
"I don't know, Debbie." He watched her closely. Weren't her breasts heaving in and out more rapidly? Hadn't he finally broken that practiced guise of innocence? "Come here a minute."
She pressed the remaining two selections she had obtained with his quarter, then sat at his table. Her eyes were lowered. "What d'ya want?"
He suppressed his grin and offered her a cigarette. She turned it down, and said, "I'm not going to tell on you. You don't have to worry about that part."
She continued to stare sheepishly at the salt and pepper shakers in front of her. "Are you gonna make me do it with you, now?" she asked without looking at him.
"No."
"Then...."
"I want some information, Debbie. Just plain old information."
She straightened up. Her eyes leveled with his. "What kind of information?" she said suspiciously.
"Who's the old woman you were talking about down in the basement?"
"Huh?"
"The old woman . . . the one you said gives the girls money. Who is she?"
"You mean you didn't know about that?" Her eyes were amused. "That's been going on for ages."
"What's her name?"
"Who?"
"The old woman, dammit!" The anger had slipped out of control. Debbie shot him a querulous glance.
"How come you gotta know?"
He could no longer control his growing impatience. He hunched forward and whispered, "Did I ask you why you let that boy screw you?"
Her face colored and, for a moment, he thought she would rise and leave the table. She remained, and after a pause, she said, "Her name is Mrs. Hagerty.
Alma Hagerty. But that's all I know...." She pushed her chair back.
"Did you ever go there, Debbie?"
"You think I'm crazy?"
"What do you think of that kind of a woman, Debbie?"
"Think?" She shrugged her shoulders. "What should I think?"
His gaze was drawn to her breasts. Slowly, his eyes rose to the red fullness of her mouth. "Would you want that kind of a woman fooling around with you?"
"Hell, no . . . look, I have to go...."
He seized her wrist and held her. "I'm going to forget what I saw in the basement today, Debbie. But something else . . . I want you to forget what we just talked about. Do you understand?"
"I already forgot," she said, anxious to leave.
"See that you keep on forgetting." He flashed her a cold empty stare. "We wouldn't want the principal to know what goes on in the basement, would we Debbie?"
* * *
He hurried back to the school and went to the basement, sat at his desk. He had guessed as much about the Hagerty woman-an old widow who lived across the street from him-and the neighborhood rumors were apparently true. Debbie had verified it; Alma Hagerty was One of Them-a stinking lousy lesbian.
He was so consumed with hate that he lost his identity. He saw the old hag despoiling innocent young girls, plying them with five-dollar bills; and from the darkness behind her, he emerged and drove his fingers into her throat.
But the anger subsided; and now he sat here in the quiet darkness behind his desk, trembling, wondering why he was this way, why the violent hatred wouldn't leave him rest. He was just Al Downing, the janitor...oh, he'd been much more than that once upon a time, but now he was the janitor and tonight he had a date with a girl named Mary; and why in the hell was he letting himself get all worked up about the crazy lesbian bitches?
But rationalization didn't work. The throbbing hate in his brain returned, and the perfumed leeches were licking each other's bodies.
In the mad delirium of his hate, he visualized himself stumbling into their love nest. They were on the floor, naked, trying to merge their bodies, moaning, begging for release from their passion. And he was their Savior and their Destruction. He stood over them, stripped to the waist, wore tight-fitting khakis that outlined his brutish manhood yes, let them see a MAN-and now he drew the whip over his head . . .
And give it to 'em. Whip their naked, evil bodies. Let the black snake of pain draw blood from their squirming, constricting buttocks . . . whip 'em . . . whip 'em . . . whip 'em . . . whip 'em!
CHAPTER THREE
He mounted the cheap telescope on a tripod and moved it in front of the window, facing the tenement across the street. His shade was drawn so that it just touched the focusing ring; no one could possibly guess that he was watching, or why. But Debbie had told him about this old bitch across the street; now he had to see for himself.
The telescope had always given him a feeling of power; the instrument could draw him in on the humdrum existence beyond each and every window. He could, at will, watch a teenage girl preparing for a bath, spy on married couples making love, or . . . yes, he could also observe a certain lesbian bitch by the name of Alma Hagerty.
He moved away from the telescope-too early just yet-and walked sure-footedly through the darkness to the kitchen. He was proud of his ability to function in total darkness, but there wasn't that much to know about this wretched Province street furnished flat. He knew exactly where the table set; how many steps would then take him to the electric hotplate; where the humble stained couch was; so what else was there to avoid? No bed to fall over-he slept on the couch-but what more could he expect for eight-dollars a week?
The bath?-ah, yes. That was a beauty: A grimy tub and toilet out in the hallway that he shared with fifteen other third-floor simpletons no better than himself-perhaps worse. But he didn't have to live this way; it was a matter of choice, a constant reminder that things had once been better, that he'd been the town's leading real estate salesman; yes, watch Al Downing; he's going places. And he had. When he had caught his wife scissoring her pink thighs around another woman, he had gone places: Nearly out of his mind!
But that was over with, he told himself. Only the bitter hate remained. The hate and these seamy Living quarters called home. And if he needed a memento of luxury, a single item to remind him of days gone by, he had it: a telephone.
Now, and as he brought down a bottle of cheap wine from the kitchen cupboard, prepared to open it, the shrill alarm-like ring of that phone caused him to turn and stare at the darkness.
He poured out a large glass of port wine, letting the phone ring and ring, knowing that it was Mary, knowing that if he didn't answer it, she would continue phoning until he did.
Finally, and only after he had drunk the glass of cheap wine and a part of another, he reached under the cupboards and picked up the phone.
"Al?"
"H'lo, Mary." He spoke softly, tired.
"Did I wake you?"
"No."
There was a pause and he could visualize her in their small gray house down the street. Her father would be riveting her with stern, disapproving glances because she was phoning him; and Mary, a thin girl with dark straight hair, she'd be hovering nervously over the desk that was in their hallway; and her hauntingly tragic eyes would be filled with worry, worry for him-Al. Now, and speaking so softly that he scarcely heard her, she said, "Did you forget, Al? About tonight."
No. he had not forgotten. He knew about the date: a double feature at the corner theatre, maybe coffees afterward; and then a slow walk through the park with Mary holding his hand, and feeling-oh, so crazy happy; happy about him. But this was not what he said. So much simpler to say-and he did-"Mary, I should have phoned, but . . . look, would you care if we didn't go tonight?"
Another pause, and he could see her slender hands gripping the telephone tightly, see the eyes forever tragic, and then she said, "Is anything wrong, Al?"
Sure, he thought. The whole stinking world is wrong. "I just have a headache," he lied.
"Maybe if you took an aspirin...."
"I will," he promised. "As soon as I hang up, I'll take one."
"If you want me to come over...."
"No, I'm all right."
"Are you sure, Al?"
"Yes."
And now, that damning pause again, the awkward silence when he wished her to hang up and she didn't. "Al."
"Yes." More silence.
"Were you going to say something?" he asked.
"No . . . no, I guess not."
"I'll see you then, okay?"
"Will you be over later, Al?" The anxious hope.
"Later?" He held his breath. "I dunno, Mary. This headache...."
"I understand, Al." Was she crying? "Goodnight, Al."
"Goodnight." And now he sat in the damp darkness of his room and hated not only the world, but also himself. Mary was too sweet for the likes of him, he thought. Too sweet for this world, too sweet for everything.
During the next hour, he sat at the window and consumed the port wine. He had closely watched the squalid tenement across the street; however, he hadn't seen any young girls enter the building, and now he began to wonder if Debbie Harmon had been telling the truth.
Crouching in front of the cheap telescope, he double-checked the alignment of the lenses with Mrs. Hagerty's window. On target, he thought; but he continued to play with the instrument, sharpening the view until he could have counted the wrinkles in the tattered window shade of her apartment. Twice now he had. seen the fat widow pass her window, and he remembered his panic, linking: What if she lowers the shade?
Fortunately, that had not happened. The stupid bitch had left the shade half-way up, high enough so that he could see the ungodly lavender slip she wore; those flabby, fat-ridden arms; and finally, that sickeningly monstrous bra. But now his excitement mounted; so did his consuming hate.
Cold-the stinking landlady was always turning the heat down in the evening-he slipped into a baggy, gray coat-sweater and returned to the window. The chilling November air had helped to empty the streets; an occasional car drove by; a newsboy bicycled between two of the other tenements, but then it was still-that utter on-stage silence that precludes the unfolding of drama, a silence that was frighteningly unreal.
And he almost missed her!
She darted between two parked cars and reached the other side of the street before he saw her. There wasn't time to swing the telescope into her range, but in that brief pause when she stopped and looked up and down the street, a flickering neon beer sign lit her features; now he saw how very young she really was. No more than 15. he thought-and maybe less. She wore a green hooded shortie coat, and tufts of blond-ish hair teased her forehead. She was short, just over five-foot tall; and then, before he could sharpen the telescope, she turned and fled inside the tenement.
He drew a small stool in front of the telescope, straddled it and sat down. Alma Hagerty was seated on some kind of sofa; he could see the top of her head, the newspaper spread in front of her face. And now if there was a knock at the woman's door, she'd have to come off the sofa and then he would know . . .
Suddenly, the phone rang. He let it ring. Mary again. No one else would be phoning him. And more rings . . . but let the sonofabitch ring!
He pressed his face to the cold eyepiece of the telescope, waited . . . waited . . . and then . . . His senses exploded. The old bitch had thrown down her newspaper. Now she rose from the sofa. Moving now . . . moving toward her door . . . and . . . he saw the flash of green-the youngster's coat-a pretty teenager arriving to let a foul-mouthed lesbian contaminate the secret fruits of her body.
He almost blew up. He could feel his fist smashing into the lumpy softness of the bitch's fat face, and hear the whoosh of her breath when his knee exploded against her groin. And then the phone, the phone, the phone; the crazy, goddamn never-stop-ringing phone.
He picked it up. Mary.
"Are you feeling any better?"
He held back his temper, "Mary...."
"I didn't mean to wake you," she raced on, "but Dad wanted me to drive down to the bakery, and when I went past your place all the lights were out and...."
"I don't Like people checking on me," he snapped. "I told you I had a headache. Didn't you believe me? Did you have to come down here and find out?"
"Al...."
"Just leave me alone."
"I-Fm sorry, Al." She was crying. "Mary...." He sucked in his breath. "...look, I didn't mean to sound ungrateful, but . . . Mary, I just don't feel well." He paused, then went on. "Maybe I'll call you later, okay?"
"All right, Al," she said solemnly. "And if you want to come down, I'll leave the back porch light on."
He told her that would be fine, hung up, then hurried back to the telescope. Mary was getting more difficult all the time, he thought. He would have to discourage her; but hadn't he already tried in a dozen different ways? How did you kick loyalty and love in the face? Did you say: Mary, get lost. Or did you tell her that there was no room in your heart for love; that it was filled with hate?
Erasing his thoughts, he looked through the telescope. A frown of disappointment crossed his face. The damn bitch had lowered the shade slightly. Now he had to reset the telescope, alter its elevation; but seconds later, he was again peering into its tubular darkness.
His eyes swelled. The damn kid had taken her clothes off. All of them! Her face was out of the telescope's range, so were her legs; but he saw the bare flesh of her stomach and the haughty jounce of her breasts: pink risings that surged him with desire and hate all in the same instant.
And now the fat woman-the lousy bitch!-he saw her kneeling down. He could only see the top of her head, her wiry gray hair; but she was fondling the young girl, lapping, her with wet, slobbering kisses; clasping the youngster's trembling immature buttocks; dragging the teenager to the hot depths of hell.
He couldn't believe his eyes, and yet he had guessed all along that this was the way it would be: The gray-haired slob was One of Them, a lesbian bitch who poisoned the earth. His hatred fumed over. His hands formed a steel grip on the spindly tripod and squeezed. If only this were her throat, he thought.
Now the fat woman's bobbing head disappeared from sight; he knew the rest. Her rotten mouth would be laboring between the youngster's thighs, preferring greedy tongue kisses below the maidenly locks of girlhood; seeking the fruits of love and the perversions of the devil.
For a brief instant, he caught sight of the youngster's face and saw her hands reach down to cover the widow's shoulders. He saw the contortion of juvenile features: Pain and pleasure, ecstasy and abandon.
He had seen enough; he needed no further proof. A million images of hate flashed through his mind and he ran for the kitchen. He knew exactly where the knife was. Finish the bitch before she dragged down another youngster; she was One of Them.
He set the knife on the kitchen table and removed all his clothes. From under the sofa, he brought out the trouser legs that he had cut from another pair of pants. He pulled on the fake pants, fastened them in place with garters. Then he donned his trench coat, his shoes and socks. And now, almost ready . . .
Dark glasses hid his identity; this was going to be perfect. And when he flung this trench coat open to that fat, whoring bitch, let her see him in all his brazen nudity, let her gaze on a MAN-oh, how the old bitch would scream! But the butcher knife would stop the scream, wouldn't it? Yes, this butcher knife would stop everything . . .
CHAPTER FOUR
With the darkness masking his movements, he went down the back stairs, climbed a low wooden fence, and hurried to the next street. He traveled north until he reached Carleton avenue; then he turned right.
Eventually, he had circled his prey, coming up through the eternity of darkness and reaching the cold stillness behind her apartment. Here, he found three stairways; the center one would be hers.
Standing here in the guarded anonymity of night, he took time to study the building's layout. An iron ladder led to the roof; a fourth stairway submerged to the apartment's basement. And should it prove necessary, he could also leave the building by the front exit. So there was nothing to worry about; the teenager had already left-he had seen her leave-and the bitch was alone.
He mounted the stairs swiftly. At the third floor, he eased open the outside door and quietly entered a long rubber-carpeted hallway. A multitude of ambiguous odors assailed his nostrils; TV sets droned behind the rows of doors. And her flat? It would be the front one on the left side of the hallway, he thought.
Wakeup, Mrs. Hagerty. You have a visitor. A little girl wants to show you her . . .
He knocked lightly on her door. Presently, he heard her footsteps; and behind the rickety clapboard door, the mellowed sweetness of an old woman's voice: "Yes?"
He held his breath, knocked again. "Who is it?"
And the wait.. . the goddamn eternal wait. . .
Suddenly, the door opened. A shaft of light crossed his face. Perfumed air shot up through his nostrils.
"I'm afraid you have the wrong...."
He shoved her aside. Her brightly lip stick painted mouth formed a scream. His hand shot out and cuffed her across the face. She spun halfway around and stumbled against an end table. She mouthed a new scream. His fist exploded in her gut before the scream ever came out. She doubled over. His knee met and smacked the brittle bones of her aged face, and she went down like a blimp that had lost its helium.
He kicked the door shut and came back to her side. A trickle of blood seeped from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were glazed; she was conscious, but in stupor.
He stood over her, triumphant, gloating. All right, bitch. Now you'll feel a man. Now you'll know . . .
Bending over her, he ripped open her frayed chenille robe. Her hand came up weakly to ward him off. He slammed her rouge-stained cheek; her hand dropped to its side.
Now he straightened up and slowly unbuttoned his trench coat. Let the lesbian bitch see throbbing manhood, he thought. Let her . . .
"W-who are you?...."
He ignored her and yanked upwards on the thin nightie she wore. Blobs of perfumed flesh greeted his eyes. She was spread-eagled on the carpet, obscene and evil; he wanted to stomp on her, to jump up and down on this horrid, bloated stomach; to crush the evil out of her sick, old body; to feel his leather heels ripping through her rotten lesbian flesh . . .
Someone rapped at the door.
He froze. Instinctively, his hand dropped to the inside of his trench coat-the knife. He glanced down at the old woman, shot her a warning flash of his panicked eyes.
Another knock . . .
He broke suddenly for the door, knocking over the young girl who stood outside. She screamed and he ran down the narrow hallway and burst through the back door.
He went down the metal stairs two-at-a-time. Somebody called after him. He kept going. Snowflakes pelted his face, the cold night air flushed his naked thighs; and he ran, merging into the darkness, running as rapidly as his legs could carry him, scurrying into the night like a frightened rat.
* * *
A layer of cold sweat caused him to tremble. He let himself in his cheaply furnished flat and fell against the door. A great sigh rushed from his mouth; he closed his eyes and struggled to regain his breath.
When the agonizing exhaustion had passed, when he' was now again himself, he removed the trench coat and climbed out of the fake trousers. As he crossed the room, the butcher knife slipped from his coat and clattered to the floor. He gazed incredulously at it as though seeing it for the first time, as though about to say: Well, now where did this damn thing come from? But then realization set slowly upon him; he recognized the butcher knife for what it was: an instrument of destruction, and-my God! He was going to kill her. He was really really going to kill her.
The thought appalled him now that he had come face-to-face with it. Was he really this far gone? Was the hate in his heart this great? Suddenly, he turned and ran to the bathroom out in the hallway. He locked the door and switched on the naked light bulb.
Gazing at himself in the cracked mirror that hung over the wash basin, he pondered over his features like an amnesia victim, or perhaps a man who has just returned from plastic surgery. Was this really he? Was he a killer?
The watery blue eyes stared at him with a wild, haunting expression. His dark bushy hair was windblown, stood in the air as though held there by some unexplainable magnetic current. And the face was thin, gaunt; and now he was horrified with the realization that this was-Al Downing.
Christ, he had to see a doctor-something. Surely this hate wasn't normal. Or was it? And what doctor would he see? Would he say: Doc, it was like this. There was these two lesbians. One of 'em was my wife. And . . .
Suddenly, he remembered Emil Loring up in New York. Emil was one of the best damn head-shrinks in the business, an old school friend at that. Couldn't Emil set him straight? An idea began to form . . .
He splashed his face with cold water and returned to his room to dress. He put on dark trousers and a gray turtle-neck sweater, started for the phone, and then he heard sirens.
Quickly, he put the telescope away, hiding it under the sofa. He stood away from the window and watched the police cruiser halt across the street. Two officers rushed inside the building.
Minutes later, an ambulance arrived. Dropping back further into the shadows, he clutched the tattered window curtain, wondered with inward fear, was she . . . dead?
But now they were coming down the cement stairs, the old bitch huddled between two police officers, being aided to the waiting ambulance-yes, alive.
The ambulance soon sped off; the police cruiser remained in front. The officers were talking to a thin old man just inside the doorway. Later, he watched them questioning others, and it was thirty minutes-maybe more-before the policemen completed their investigation and drove off. The wave of fear passed and he went to the phone and called Mary. She answered on the third ring.
"I know I shouldn't be calling this late," he told her.
"It's all right, Al. I'm glad you called." And then: "Just a minute, Al." She cupped the mouthpiece.
Oh, he knew what was happening: Her old man was raising hell. Was it that creepy custodian fellow calling again? And why did he have to wake people up in the middle of the night? Didn't he know that it was past ten o'clock.
"Al?"
"Yes." And now he again told her how sorry he was for phoning-at least, so late.
"It's all right, Al." Sure, everything was all right with Mary. Always. "Is your headache better?" she asked.
"My headache? . . . y-yes. Yes, it's fine, Mary. Just fine." He paused, wondering how to ask her. "Mary, I have to see you."
Another pause. "Why don't you come over, then?"
"What about your father?"
"Don't worry about it."
"But I know how he feels about me. And it is late."
"Al Downing, I don't want to hear another word. You come over here this minute."
He almost laughed; he almost felt good. Humble Mary pretending to be Bossy Mary, worried about him-and wasn't she always?
"If you're sure it won't cause trouble...."
"Stop talking that way. Just come over. I'll leave the back light on."
"Well.. . "
"How soon, Al?"
"I guess I could come right away if you're sure...."
"Hurry, okay? . . . and, Al?"
"Yes."
"I love you." And said so softly.
"I love you, too," he said, but the words were hollow and wooden, the words of a parrot.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, he came up along the walk beside their small gray house on Timpkins avenue. He had been here before, but never this late at night. Her father hadn't been the easiest man to reckon with; he was convinced that mankind was out to screw his daughter, and Al had placatingly avoided the man whenever he could.
He rapped lightly at the back door now, and in a minute Mary was there, drawing him swiftly inside, gesturing him to the kitchen table, whispering that the coffee was very nearly ready.
She stretched upwards to the cupboards now, and it caused him to remember a day earlier this summer when he'd first met her. She'd been stretching that day, too; she worked in a small midtown bookstore and she had been stacking volumes on an upper shelf. When Al had run into the store to get out of the rain, she'd gazed into his eyes, then clumsily managed to drop several of the books. He had helped her restore them, and she was the first girl he had spoken to since his divorce. A conversation ensued, and for reasons he could never quite fathom, he asked her to lunch. Inevitably, this fragile-faced girl with the hauntingly tragic eyes was not only a lunch companion, she was also His Girl.
"How did it go today, Al?"
"Go?" And, of course, she meant his job at the school-how many wastebaskets had he emptied? were the boilers working all right? and were they soon going to get him a helper?
He told her that everything was fine.
"Y-you don't look well, Al." She studied him anxiously. "If your headache is not all right . .
"It went away, Mary." And now how would he ask her?
She went back to the sink, then the stove. She was not really attractive, he thought, so why do I bother with her? Too straight, too sad of face and . . .
"Would you like some donuts, Al?"
He told her no and when she returned with the coffee pot, he came right out with it: "Mary, I need some money. Do you have any?"
She almost dropped the pot. She set it down. "So that's why you didn't want to go to the movies." Her eyes brightened.
He decided not to disillusion her. He said, "That's part of it. Only I need a lot of money. My mom is sick and...."
"How much, Al?"
"A couple of hundred oughta be enough for my plane fare up there, and things." He waited, watching her face closely. "I know it's a lot, but I'd pay it back. You know that."
"How soon do you need it?"
"I'd like to have it by tomorrow," he said, and then he went on with the lie. The doctors weren't sure what was wrong with his mother. She was in New York; he wanted to get there as soon as possible.
"I could get it for you in the morning . . . say by ten. Would that be all right?" Her hand was trembling as she poured the coffee.
He told her that ten would be fine. Then he watched her draw a chair up close to him, gaze into his eyes-and so fondly-and now she wanted to know if there was anything else she could do to help.
But there was nothing more that he needed-that was what he told her-and he avoided the disconcerting fondness that grew in her eyes. He fastened his interest to a grease-stained calendar that hung near the stove, smiled when he had to, gave her hand a warm squeeze when she placed it limply in his own.
"Is the coffee all right, Al?"
Yes, it was just fine. Not too strong; just right. But now his free hand was balled up in a fist; the lesbian bitches were crawling around in his mind again, rubbing their naked titties against each other, flagrantly kissing each other's squirming bodies, killing love and killing the world.
"What's the matter, Al?"
"There's nothing the matter," he snapped at her. "Not a damn thing!" He drew his hand away from hers and stared at space.
"Sometimes you worry me," she whispered.
"I'm sorry," he said, slowly filling with compassion, wondering why in the hell he took it out on her. "I guess I just had things on my mind."
"If I can help, Al...."
He told her no. And the lesbian bitches wouldn't leave his mind. He saw himself standing quietly in the darkness, observing the mad drama before him; he was unbelieving and, yet, here it was . . .
"Does this feel good?" The voice that of a dark-haired girl he had never seen before.
"Mmmmmm, wonderful...." The other girl.
"Take everything off."
And then: "Kiss me."
"Where?"
"You know."
Giggles. Pink bodies working feverishly over each other. Moans. Heads at opposite ends of the beds. Wild tongues.
"Did you like that?"
"I like everything you do. Everything!"
"Am I better than Al?"
And now the other girl-his wife: "Al never felt this good. Not ever!" tie surged out of the darkness. Blind anger boiled inside his eyes. He swung his fists . . .
"More coffee, Al?"
"Huh?" Her voice had startled him. Was he really here in this kitchen, drinking coffee with this plain girl with the sad, dark eyes?
"I said do you want some more coffee?"
But he hadn't even finished the first cup and he told her no.
Now she was again holding his hand. He felt himself stiffen. "Do you want me to stop by the store for the money?"
"Could you?"
He said he would. And now he should take her in his arms and tell her he loved her. So simple to do this, he thought; and yet so preposterously difficult. There was no room for love; there was only room for hate. And even as she slid her chair quietly closer to his, even as she rubbed new warmth into his hands, came so close that he could feel her breath on his cheek, he still couldn't bring himself to hold her and kiss her. And it was because of the lesbian bitches, he told himself. They were coming back, lapping each other's rotten bodies, reeking of perfume, gasping in frenzied delight, hungering for the hot thrills of forbidden love . . .
"Al?...."
"Just get the money, Mary. I need it. . . "
CHAPTER FIVE
The giant silver-winged jet landed him at Newark airport just after one o'clock of the following afternoon. By two-thirty, he was checked in at a cheap Manhattan hotel. He ate sparingly in the lobby coffee shop, later purchased an inexpensive brief case, then stuffed it with several newspapers; by four, he was able to enter the plush offices of Dr. Emil P. Loring.
The reception room was momentarily deserted, and he seated himself on a low leather couch facing a stack of current magazines. He fumbled for a cigarette and as he lit it, he saw his reflection in a mirror on the opposite wall: Grayton Falls' successfully astute realtor up in New York on business; thought he would drop by and see how ol' Emil was doing, perhaps shoot the breeze for a while. And now he envisioned Emil clasping his hand in a warm manner, smiling over this unexpected reunion, desperately trying to remember how long it had been since that graduation night dance at Purdue. Was it really ten years? And how was the real estate game? And his wife, Doris? And, naturally, was Doris here with him? Could the two couples get together and have a night on the town?
Al frowned and wondered how he would contain the truth. Couldn't tell Emil that he and Doris were divorced; that would give him too many clues. Had to be clever about this thing, he thought; had to make the whole thing seem very casual. Just dropped in.
Suddenly, the inter-office door opened and a tall, willowy young receptionist emerged. She gave him a hasty professional smile, then seated herself at a small telephone desk that faced the door. Almost at once he found himself trying to guess the color of her hair. It was swept up on top, a mixture of blonde and silver and ash-chic, he supposed-and as always, he asked himself: Is she One of Them? And wasn't it too bad that he couldn't push her beige skirt above her nylons, feel her up? Yes, if a man could get a woman hot, wasn't that a reasonable guarantee that she was not a queer?
"Did you have an appointment, Mister?...."
"Downing," he finished, and his gaze dropped from her wide-set greenish eyes to the promising slope of her breasts. "This is sort of an informal visit, really."
She crossed her legs; in that fleeting instant, he saw the beckoning white of her thighs. "I'll tell him you're here," she said.
"I'd like to surprise him if you don't mind," he offered.
She removed her hand from the switch of the intercom. "Of course." She wrote something on her memo pad. "He'll be through in just a minute."
He thanked her, settled back on the leather couch to browse one of the magazines stacked before him. However, he was soon re-appraising himself in the mirror, searching for the unbalance that might liken him to a janitor, ruin the deception. He told himself that he was a successful seller of houses-and he had been in days that were better-and the brief case now aided his pretended image; even the suit, inexpensive but smart, would help. Loring would never guess that it had cost under forty dollars.
But now his attention returned to the receptionist. Had she ever been screwed? Or was she also a lesbian? Could it be that those softly ballooning breasts beneath her blouse were caressed by another woman? Could he put his hand between the hot stickiness of her thighs and find out?
Suddenly, the door opened. Emil Loring shot him an incredulous glance. "Al Downing!" He rushed toward him, eyes bright, smiling. "Talk about surprises...."
Al came off the couch and they shook hands. "I was in the neighborhood," he said woodenly, "and thought I'd drop by, kind of see how you were doing." He glanced at Emirs receptionist. "And I see you're doing quite well."
Emil grinned and drew him inside. He closed the door, bid Al to a chair. "Dammit, if this isn't one helluva pleasant surprise," he said, going for the whiskey cabinet. "And I was only telling the Missus last week: 'Carol,' I said, 'I wonder how Al Downing is doing these days?' " He poured two stiff drinks for them. "And now out of a blue sky, here you are." Emil handed him his drink.
"It has been a long time," he said with affected casualness. And now the small talk: How was Carol? was his practice growing? and would Emil care to buy a Grayton Falls' sub-division model home?
Emil polished his drink off with ease, poured himself another, then settled down behind his desk. The man had put on some weight, Al guessed-a natural groping for the 30's, Emil later agreed-and the crew-cut he sported, that was in keeping with his trade, he explained: Crew-cuts were worn by football players, hillbillies, and Fifth avenue psychiatrists; Emil laughingly admitted to being all three.
Finally, Emil asked, "Did you bring Doris, Al?"
Well, no. A man couldn't lug his wife just everywhere; this one was a rush business deal and he'd only be here for a day. Just thought he'd drop by-that phrase again.
"Well I'm sure glad you did, Al." He sampled his new drink. "You know, the medical society would never forgive me for saying this, but you interview these nuts all day long and pretty soon you start to feel like one yourself." His blue eyes crinkled with a warm smile. "So now tell me about yourself. Been selling houses like mad?"
And, of course, Al said he was. Business couldn't be better. Everyone with a dollar-down was buying.
"Any kids yet?"
None-and thank God for that! he thought. Didn't want little ones to know that their mother was a whoring lesbian bitch; hard enough to accept that truth, himself. "How about you and Carol?" he asked.
"One . . . a little girl . . . cute as a bug." He smiled proudly, then nodded toward Al's empty glass. "Ready for another stinger?"
He declined. Had to keep the head level, he thought. Too many drinks and there was the danger he would tip his hand. But how would he begin? How would he bridge the gap between Long Island taxes and lesbian embraces?
Eventually, Emil showed him the way. Emil was describing one of his more amusing cases.
Al cut in and said, "You know, Emil, that kind of reminds me of this fellow back in Grayton Falls. Now there's a classic case for you...."
He told it in short biting phrases, reliving it with a measure of bitterness; but he was careful to remain objective, narrating the episode as though it had happened to someone else-not him.
"This fellow was a house painter . . he intoned. And, naturally, this was a lie. He had been in real estate, doing well for himself; as far as he knew, he was among the ranks of the happily married. "...anyway, this house painter comes home from work early, see...." He'd been out on the west end. A hot prospect for the Dillard mansion. Only the prospect hadn't shown; Al had gone home early.
"He walked in," Al went on, and feigning laughter, he said, "you know that old gag about finding his wife in bed with another man? Well this joker found his wife in bed with another woman!" He managed to laugh some more, but the dreadful discovery was less than funny. He had been mummified by what he saw, rendered incapable of speech.
"I guess you know," Al continued, "that was the end of one honey of a marriage. And then he told Emil how the house painter had gone off the deep end, drunk himself into oblivion for several months, lost his work contracts-everything. But the fabrication of lies was close to the truth: He had lost everything. The real estate agency floundered briefly and died-died like his marriage, his life.
"Maybe the fellow was better off," Emil reasoned.
"But he loved her," Al argued, hoping that he wasn't betraying himself. "He loved her like no one else he had ever known."
"That's too bad," Emil said sadly.
"But here's the rub, Emil . . . now that this . . . this painter has quit drinking, now that he's got a hold of himself . . . and this is going to kill you . . . this kook wants to bash in the face of every lesbian he sees."
"I wouldn't call him a kook, Al. I'd say his reaction was fairly normal."
He gazed at the psychiatrist-friend in stunned surprise. "You would? You'd say he was normal?"
"Why certainly!" He crossed his legs. "And if this painter found his wife in bed with a red-haired man , . . just supposition . . . Well, from that day forward, the poor bastard would probably hate every red-headed man who confronted him. And you couldn't blame him. To him, every red-head would be the image of the man who stole his wife. It's only natural," he said perfunctorily.
"And you'd say this fellow is perfectly sane?"
"Within certain tolerances, and from what you've told me, I'd have to say yes." He extracted his pipe from the pocket of his jacket. "Of course, there are probably more constructive things that this fellow could do with his life than beating the shit out of every lesbian he meets . . . nobody would dispute that . . . but on the other hand, who can blame him for this hate he harbors?" He lit his pipe. "Certainly not me."
"Then you condone his actions?"
"I didn't say that. I wouldn't condone violence in any form. But neither can I condemn it. This fellow has to get the hate out of his system before he can learn to love again, and...."
"What did you say?"
"I said he has to get the hate out of his system before he can learn to love again." He exhaled a mouthful of smoke. "In time, I would suppose the subject would rid himself of his hostilities, he'd meet someone he liked . . . and if you'll excuse the expression . . . he'd get married, get screwed, and live happily ever after."
Al helped himself to another drink. He felt immensely relieved. For a while back there, he had feared that he was losing his mind, but listening to Emil's deep rich voice, hearing those words of medicinal solace, he now rationalized that he was completely normal. In short, Emil had given him a license to hate.
"What could they possibly find in each other?"
"You mean lesbians?"
"Yes."
"That would take many hours to discuss," Emil answered, "but stated for the layman, we could simply say it feels better."
Once again, he fought to control his inner rage. "But they're queer!" he said disdainfully.
"Because they don't prescribe to our norm?" Emil smiled patiently. "Who can say what is abnormal and what is not? Because you and I are in the majority, does that make our sexual pattern normal?"
AI's anger continued to grow. His eyes darkened. "Dammit, it isn't right! You know it isn't."
Emil shrugged. "I say live and let live." He paused, then added. "If that doesn't work for them, then they can come and see Emil. He'll change their wiring around, and they can try it another way." He laughed lightly. "Your friend can't beat 'em, Al. Lesbians are here to stay. He's better off to forget 'em."
"What if he can't forget?"
"He has to try."
"But if he can't?"
Emil shrugged again. "Then I guess he'll have to go on a lesbian safari, and that should prove pretty interesting, because . . . well, how in the hell is he going to know one when he sees her? You can't tell, you know . . . oh, maybe the extreme ones, the 'butches' as they call them."
Al held back his answer. He had a few ways of finding out: That mirror in the shower room at school; later, he'd hook in a hidden microphone . . .
"The only possible way to learn if a woman was truly a lesbian, aside from stumbling on two of them in action, would be to dress up like a woman and see if they made a pass at you. Frankly, it doesn't seem worth the effort."
Al was studiously silent, still clinging to Emil's passing phrase: dress up like a woman. Why hadn't he thought of that? he wondered. Wear their clothes, pass himself off as one of them, enter their perfumed restrooms and . . .
"Al?"
He jolted back to reality. "Just thinking about something," he said. "Didn't mean to wander away from you."
"I was just saying . . . and you'll have to excuse the expression, it's hardly academic . . . but I think this fellow would do himself a great favor if he went out and found himself a good hot piece of ass!"
The advice went over AI's head; he was too excited with his new plan. The clothes? Hell, the wardrobe room back of the auditorium was loaded with girl's costumes and wigs that were used in the school plays. After school was out, when the building was empty . . .
"Al, you're coming out to the house tonight, aren't you? Carol would never forgive me if I let you get away without even saying 'hello'. "
"Emil, I'd love to, but...." And then, of course, he explained that business exigencies made it impossible: A shopping plaza on the bidding sheet, a big thing; he had to be back in Grayton Falls by evening.
Emil was profoundly disappointed. "That's a shame, all that flying for just a few hours...."
"And I agree, Emil...." He rose stiffly out of his chair. "...but they say the first million is the hardest and . . . look, the very next time I'm up this way...." Yes, they would make plans in advance, get the womenfolk together, have a real swingeroo. And Emil was again inclined to say: "And hardly academic, eh?"
Al laughed and buttoned his coat. Emil insisted on one last drink for the road. They clicked their glasses in unison. "What shall we drink to?" Emil asked.
"I don't know."
Emil shot him a vacant stare. Suddenly, his eyes lit with merriment. "What say we drink to those lesbians we were discussing?"
Al held his anger in check. He managed a tight little smile, lifted his glass slowly to click against Emil's.
"May they live in peace," Emil said in his richly-textured nasal tone.
"I think I'd have to edit that," Al said.
"To what."
"It sounds like you're championing their cause."
"Then you make the toast."
"All right," he said tonelessly. "Here's to all the sweet, lovely lesbians in this old world . . . may they die in peace."
Emil eyed him suspiciously after they had finished the drinks. "You made that sound almost like a personal grudge, Al."
"It is," he said, this time making no effort to check his hate. "I kind of liked that house painter. He was once a pretty nice guy. But not now."
CHAPTER SIX
Pfeiffer was extremely happy to see Al back on the job. "Can't run a train without a coal-tender," he said good-naturedly, probably unaware that Diesels were now the order of the day, "so we're glad to have you back." And naturally: How was his mother? Better, the principal hoped. And it wasn't anything serious, was it?
Al told the principal that everything was fine. The illness was not as serious as had been first imagined; there would be no foreseeable absences.
"That's perfectly all right, Al. We only have one mother, you know. If she needs us, we have to come, don't we?"
"Yes, sir." He walked slowly toward the door of the principal's office. "And, Al?...."
"Yes, sir."
"That little business we talked about the other day . . . you haven't heard anything, have you."
"Not yet, sir."
"But you'll let me know?...."
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you, Al."
* * *
He spent the morning catching up on yesterday's work, decided to wait until tomorrow to continue his project in the paint locker, and called Mary during his lunch hour.
"When did you get in Al?"
He told her last night.
"You should have called."
He had wanted to, he said, but it was too late.
"How's your Mom?"
And he went through it again lies on top of lies told her that 'Mom' was just fine. He didn't add it would have been confusing that his mother had died some four years ago in a west coast tuberculosis sanitarium.
"I missed you, Al."
And he dittoed the message.
"Are we going to a show tonight?"
Why did she have to bug him? "I dunno. I'll call you."
"There's nothing wrong, is there?"
Dammit! "No. Nothing is wrong. Why do you have to keep asking?"
She sounded frightened. "Do you have to talk that way, Al? Are you mad about something?"
"No, I'm not mad. But you keep bugging me with that question all the time. Is there suppose to be something wrong with me?"
After a pause: "I'm sorry, Al."
"Don't be sorry. Just stop asking that same damn question."
"All right, Al."
"I'll phone you tonight," he said, his voice calming. "Okay?"
"Yes, Al." She hung up and he couldn't remember the last time that she'd terminated a phone conversation without saying 'I love you'. But he wouldn't worry about it. If her feeling was lessening and he wouldn't have blamed her maybe she was better off.
* * *
By four o'clock, the school building was empty, and this was the moment he had so anxiously waited for. Old lady Parkington first and second-year Latin had been the last person to leave the building; she could be counted upon to be last.
Bidding her 'goodbye', he slipped the locking arm into position, then hurried upstairs to the dramatics room, to the wardrobe section just beyond it.
This would be a dry run, he told himself; he would try on one of the girls' costumes, fit himself with a wig, then decide whether the masquerade was convincing. If it was . . .
A noise somewhere in the building startled him. He stood still, waiting for a repetition of the sound. Had he imagined it? Was the weight of his guilt so great that. . . now he heard more hollering, a raucous voice shouting 'throw the damn ball!'. A sigh broke from his lips. The voices were outside the building; here inside he was still very much alone.
He spent the next several minutes examining the racks of costumes. He finally decided that a cheer leader's uniform a short red corduroy skirt and a white turtle-neck sweater were best suited for his brief experiment. However, he would need some underclothes, he thought; some nylon panties like the girls wore, and a bra . . .
He ran downstairs to the girl's locker room. One of the girls was sure to have some extra underclothing in her locker; he knew that some of them put on fresh ones after a session of gym, and as long as he returned the garments, no one would ever know.
Opening several lockers with the master key that he carried with him, he spent more time at the lockers than he had planned upon. But he didn't care. He'd suddenly found a new and exciting pastime: the invasion of their privacy, the handling of their most intimate secrets. Their hidden treasures included love notes, crudely typed dirty stories these he paused to read comic books; in one locker he even discovered a package of rubbers.
Naturally, he also found the usual assortment of photographic fetishes: movie idols who smiled at him from the dark metal recesses of the lockers; swooning guitar strummers with tight pants lined many of the doors and did the girls get hot pants when they gazed at these long-haired pin-ups? he wondered. Did they get hot and want to do things with boys? They probably did, he decided; and now opening still another locker, he found what he was looking for: Panties and bra.
His hands trembled and he held the tiny panties to his waist. They were impossibly small, but maybe with all the elastic maybe he could stretch them to fit. He held them lingeringly to his face. So damn delicate, he thought. So soft, so stimulatingly fragrant. And had they been worn? he wondered. Had these delicious little panties caressed and lingered in those secret crevices of girlhood? Had these wispy blue nylon panties contained the fuzzy hotness of some young girl? Thinking about it made him hot, and realizing that he was frittering away his time, lingering with dynamite, he stuffed the panties and bra inside his shirt and hurried back upstairs.
There were several wigs up there; a blonde one suited him best. Of course he'd have to shave when he was ready for the real thing, but with some makeup, maybe some false eyelashes . . .
He stripped out of his clothing. With some fumbling, he adjusted the bra straps to the proper length, then brought the soft cushioned cups to his nipples. The spongy foam-rubber lining tickled his nipples. A sudden lust filled his body. He pressed the cups against his chest. He pictured a young girl doing the same thing . . . his lower body swelled and throbbed with desire. And hadn't this same bra cupped and squeezed the juicy, bouncing breasts of some young teenager?
And knowing this wasn't it just as though he were rubbing his nipples against the girl's nipples?
Visualizing the impact of such a scene, now feeling those wonderful cups rubbing his own nipples, he pulsated with a rising heady excitement; in that tide of frenzy, he reached down and touched himself. A wave of new thrills crept into his loins. His eyes glassed with passion. His hand closed tightly on the throbbing between his legs.
And now the panties a young girl's powder-blue unmentionables that he brought lovingly to his face. He kissed their soft, scented fluffiness; rubbed the panties across his chest, over his stomach; finally reaching the hot, twitching seat of his emotions.
He was suddenly very anxious to put them on. He stepped into them, then slowly drew them up his legs. Careful not to tear them, he let every square inch of his body linger on their silky delicate smoothness. Thrill after thrill coursed through his loins-eventually, he had them on.
He glided in front of the dressing room mirror. The wispy panties stood out from his body in front, distorted this way by the pounding passion between his legs. He was literally piercing the panties, he thought; and seemingly well, it was crazy, of course but didn't it feel like he was penetrating, not just the panties, but also the girl?
Suddenly, he saw himself pressing the young teenager against the cold, damp basement wall. And now he was pumping himself against her frail body, hearing her scream as he penetrated the glorious, wet warmth between her legs. He shuddered with renewed hotness. He again touched himself, tried to imagine that his hand was that of a curious teenager, an innocent girl boldly exploring the pulsating hardness of him.
Drawing his hand away hell, he'd ruin the panties if he didn't he turned his back to the mirror. He glanced over his shoulder and saw his buttocks protruding from the laced edge of the panties. Did the girl's behind look like this? Was it large and meaty? And did it bounce and shake when she hurried through the school hallways? Or less, was her backside coquettishly small, uninitiated to the touch of a boy's hand?
His wonderment increased and so did his ardor. Wouldn't it be fun, he thought, to watch the young owner of these panties put them on? Better, wouldn't it be a delicious thrill to watch her take them off? He closed his eyes and swooned with the visualization of a youngster bent over and removing her panties. He saw her pink-tipped boobies shaking in front of his face. He felt and heard the crackle of static electricity as the nylon panties rubbed their way down her slender thighs. And now the fantasy was running away with him . . .
The girl how old was she, 14? was bent slightly forward, her back toward him. He crept out of the darkness and gazed at the hillocks of her temptingly young buttocks, watched them quiver as he stole closer and closer.
His throbbing manhood pressed lightly between the moist depths of her behind. His hands encircled her small white body, searched and found the hot spongy warmth of her backside against his probing maleness; wordlessly, she was begging him to drive that hardness into her, to give her every goddamn thing he had. He grabbed at himself. Suddenly, he heard a titter of laughter.
Laughter? He whirled . . . a girl's head bobbed out of sight.
"Hey, you!" He bolted for the doorway, then caught himself. Christ! He heard footsteps scampering away. His face was hot; his heart boomed out of proportion. Someone had been watching and if Pfeiffer found out about this . . .
He tore off the underclothes and dressed. He ran ran down the stairs, checked all the doors, found them locked. He paused and listened. His heartbeat echoed back to him. But he'd heard something now . . . perhaps more footsteps? And didn't the sound come from the basement?
Cautiously, he began the slow descent to the basement. He stopped. "Is anyone down here?" The words echoed back to him; then it was silent, forebodingly silent. A fear closed in around him. Someone was in the building and that same someone had seen him up there.
Slowly, a step-at-a-time, he climbed down the remaining stairs. Cold sweat prickled his arms. A leaky faucet broke the still darkness of the basement. And who had turned off all the lights?
The light switch? Let's see, it was over here and . . .
A bolt of pain shot through his skull. Lightning zigzagged in front of his eyes. He went down . . .
CHAPTER SEVEN
When he finally returned to consciousness, blinked his eyes to slow awareness, he thought he was dreaming. He had been gagged and bound, dragged here to this small cubicle a tiny basement room that contained the school's auxiliary power plant. An air compressor droned in the darkness behind him; a girl of about 14 stood over him. From the waist up, she was naked.
At first, his mind refused to accept the image of the young girl standing lord over him. He thought his senses were playing tricks with him. But it was no trick. The dim light behind the girl outlined her hellish beauty, she moved closer to him, and he knew she was real.
Focusing his vision, blinking away the tears that coated his eyes, he saw that the girl wore a pair of cut-down levis. She was standing up, straddled above his face; and as he stared incredulously up into the wide V of her muscular thighs, he saw that she wore a rubber mask.
"Does the pretty man want some coffee?" she asked, bending down with a cup.
He gazed at the naked breasts that swung over his face. This had to be a nightmare. He had been searching for that light switch when . . . he struggled with the bonds that secured his hands behind him.
"Awwww, the pretty man is all tied up. He's all tied up and he can't drink his nice coffee. Now ain't that a shame...." She tilted the cup. Luke warm coffee drained down onto his face, stung his eyes. He jerked his head sideways. Laughter filled the warm darkness of the small room. Two more girls came out of the shadows. They were dressed exactly like the first girl slightly taller, though and what the hell was coming off here?
He tried to speak, but the gag in his mouth made it impossible. He squirmed against the bonds that secured his ankles and wrists, but they had been expertly knotted; he was captive in a weird nightmare that made no sense.
"Maybe the nice man wants some more coffee," one of the girls suggested. "Coffee makes you alert and if he's gonna be a good spy for Mr. Pfeiffer...."
Suddenly, he began to grasp the facts. Someone had overheard his conversation with the school principal . . .
"He doesn't look like a spy," the girl who had poured the coffee on him said. "He looks like a jerk." She smiled disdainfully. "James Bond the third." Now she laughed.
He tried to spit the gag out of his mouth. Coffee dribbled into his ears, puddled on the hard concrete beneath his head. The bitches!
"...and we thought," one of the girls was saying, "that if you wanna be a successful spy . . . well, we should help you. Huh, girls?"
They unanimously agreed, and as he stared at the incredible apparition that was unfolding before his eyes, he knew it was true: Kids were taking over the schools. Slugging teachers and overrunning the classrooms was just one chapter in the growing revolution. And now it had come to this . . .
"Maybe we oughta take his pants down," the smallest girl said. "If he's gonna spy on us, we oughta be allowed to spy on him."
"Right!" the other girls said in unison. They bent down and unfastened his pants and shorts, pulled and dragged them to his knees. He wrenched at the bonds on his wrists, smelled the perfumed sweaty bodies that lingered over him.
"Hey, he's kind of cute," the tallest of the three girls said. She placed her loafer on his groin, gradually pressed down on his maleness.
Pain shot through his loins. He arched upwards. An agonized scream died behind the gag, and tears stung his eyes. Now the girl removed her foot. "That's what we think of spies," she said threateningly. "You keep your goddamn nose out of our business."
The smaller girl came up behind her. Her small hands reached the larger girl's breasts, played with the nipples.
"Mmmmmm, I like."
The other girl joined in the play. Both girls were massaging the taller girl's proud breasts. A contented smile filled her face. She looked down at him. "Now you've got something to report to your sweet Mr. Pfeiffer. You can tell him that three girls tied you up in the basement and then they started playing with each other." She laughed cruelly. "Course, you don't know who we are, do you?" She laughed again. "So how are you gonna tell bean head anything?"
Anger flooded his body. Two of the young bitches were licking the third one's nipples, doing it right in front of his eyes. Suddenly, the girl pushed her two companions aside. "Maybe our queer janitor would like to have his little girl panties on again. Maybe then he could get his rocks off." The girls joined in laughter; Al felt his face glow with shame.
"How 'bout it, Mister? You go for that, don't you? You put those little panties in front of your face and sniff 'em and...." Suddenly, she jerked down on her levis and removed them. She wore panties pink ones and now she lowered them, too. Naked now, just in loafers and anklets, she dropped the panties onto his face. "You like?" she said.
He flung his head sideways. The panties fell from his face and dropped to the coffee-flooded floor. The girl grabbed them and pounded them into his groin. She twisted them against his maleness, bore down with all her weight. "Is that better?" she said through clenched teeth.
The pain almost threw him into unconsciousness. His fingernails dug into his palms. He squeezed his eyes shut.
"Hey, don't kill him," one of the girls said. "He won't be able to enjoy our show."
"Yeah," the other one agreed. "He's gotta be able to tell Mr. Pfeiffer what happened down here, so...." She and the other girl stripped themselves. "...let's make sure that something did happen."
The three girls engaged their bodies. Locked in a triple embrace, they performed a squirming, upright ritual that turned his stomach. Their naked bodies thrashed together, their hot hands traveled to moist areas of violation; lust was King.
He thought he was losing his mind. He knew these things went on in schools all over the country and in darkened bedrooms when parents were away. Girls that stayed overnight with each other did more than just study books and talk about boys they did things like this. But never, never in all his life had he been forced to be actual witness to such a disgusting performance. And even now, it seemed too incredible for his mind to accept; but the girls moaned, it was very real, indeed.
Two of them now knelt over him, one on each side of his body. Their juvenile nipples hung just over his face, and if he could have raised his head, if this damn gag wasn't stuffed in his mouth . . . yes, he would have bit the damn nipples clean off. If . . .
The smaller of the two girls bent forward. Her pink tongue lashed out at the other girl's breasts. The recipient leaned closer, held her breast up and eased it between the rosy lips of her partner. The third girl stood nearby, moaned, and rubbed her hand between her naked thighs.
Strangely, though filled with contempt, he felt himself begin to respond. The girl who was standing up, noticed it. "Hey, he's growing!"
The other two girls looked down at him. They giggled, then returned to their love play. The third girl walked to his side. She again pressed her foot this time, lightly to his groin. "Down, boy." His hardness throbbed against the leather sole of her loafer. She responded with a like pressure of her foot.
Now the other two girls were engaging each other between the thighs. They were so close to him, and still straddled over him, that he could even smell the musk-like odor of their bodies. Their hands went faster. The masks hid their eyes, but their expressions would be glazed, he thought. They were hot plenty hot.
A loathing, a bitter lust, filled his loins. He hated them, hated what they were doing; and yet he was excited. Why? And now the third girl was pressing down on him again with her foot, bringing him pain that was also pleasure. Desire throbbed to be satiated. With the girls, the feeling was the same the need to consummate something that had been started, now needed to be finished.
The girls fell away from him. They rolled to the concrete floor, sex-starved and insane with passion, they clasped each other's thrashing bodies. The smallest one was mounted between the thighs of her companion. Her head dipped down between the tanned outstretched thighs of the girl. Her tongue sought release in the dark trapping of the girl's forbidden fruit. The third girl became equally entangled in the dizzying growth of mounting passions.
"Ohhhh, God!"
"Faster!"
"Down lower . . . y-yes . . . ohhhh, God!"
He throbbed helplessly. The maleness of him betrayed his emotions. He was erect and hard, but the girls took no notice now. They were too interested in their own pastime, too anxious to please one another, and not the least concerned with him.
It was all too incredible for his civilized mind to accept. Had he been trapped on some desolate Pacific island, held prisoner by female cannibals, it might have been somehow credible. But here in the basement of a public school . . . but it was happening...really, really happening.
"Maybe we'd better clear out of here," one of the girls said suddenly. "Those cleaning ladies'll be around here pretty soon."
"What about him?"
"Piss on 'em!"
"Maybe we'd better untie him."
"You crazy?" She picked up the levis. "C'mon. Let's get dressed and get out of here." Two of them began to dress; the third stood over him.
"D'ya know what I feel like doing?" She was squatted over his face. "I feel like...."
The taller of three girls pulled her away. "We've got no time for any more games. If those cleaning women find us down here like this . . . c'mon!"
They dressed, looked down at him for one final time. "From now on," their apparent leader said, "you keep your goddamn nose out of our business." She set her mask in place. "And just so you'll remember that little warning...." She lashed out with the toe of her shoe and caught him along side the temple. He almost blacked out with the pain that accompanied the blow, but at least it was finally over or so he thought. The shortest of the unholy trio proved otherwise.
She bent over him, gave his naked groin an amused last-minute inspection. "He sure is cute," she smiled.
Then venting her hate, she slapped his throbbing organ with the back of her hand.
He moaned and writhed in agony. It felt like his in-sides had exploded. Cramps doubled him up and the girls spilled into the darkness and disappeared.
For another thirty minutes he struggled with the ropes that bound his wrists, finally managed to work loose. His head throbbed, he felt nauseated, and his wrists were raw from the struggle to get them free.
Climbing stiffly to his feet, he pulled up his pants. His hand went gingerly to the large lump that had formed at the side of his head. The dirty bitches! he thought. When he got his hands on them . . . Christ, he'd kill 'em. But had this crazy thing really happened? Had he dreamed this wild nightmarish experience?
Suddenly, he saw the coffee stained panties on the floor. He picked them up, examined them. No, he hadn't been dreaming. The goddamn panties told him that much, and when, he caught up with these bitches.. . .
He ran upstairs. The cleaning women had assembled in the front hallway. "D-did three girls just go out this door?"
A fat charwoman with a handkerchief wrapped around her head looked at him wonderingly. She started to mutter a reply, but he didn't wait for the answer. He'd lost all touch with time; those girls had left the building at least a half-hour ago.
He dashed for Pfeiffer's office-the phone. Damn-it, when Pfeiffer heard about this . . . he searched for the number, dialed. Pfeiffer picked it up on the second ring.
"Hello."
"Mr. Pfeiffer--? "
"Yes. Who is this?"
"Why it's...." The words froze in his throat. Why in the hell tell Pfeiffer? he thought. "Hello?"
Al dropped the phone into its cradle. That simple bastard wouldn't know up from down. Besides, this was his baby. He'd find out who they were. He'd fix their lousy clocks in his way. He'd make them sorry for the day they were born.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"We had a date tonight. The least you could have done if you didn't want to go, was call. Would that have hurt?"
He turned away from Mary and stood vacant-eyed at the window. He was tired of being badgered by her; when he hadn't shown up for their date, she had come straight to his room, knocked just once, then entered.
"You shouldn't have come here," he said softly.
"Why not? Don't I have a right to know what's happened to you? And you still didn't tell me how you got that lump on your head."
"I hit my head on one of the pipes," he lied. "Look, do we have to argue all the time?"
"You aren't going to tell me, are you?"
"There's nothing to tell," he said, trying to control his growing exasperation with her. "I had to work late at the school, and by the time I got home it was just too late for a movie. It's as simple as that."
She came beside him. Her small fragile breasts touched his forearm. "I don't know why I get this way, Al. Is it because I'm afraid of losing you? Is that why?"
"I don't know," he said, avoiding her eyes. "I just don't know."
"Maybe we could have supper here," she suggested, some of the cheerfulness returning to her voice. "I could go out and get a couple of steaks and...."
"On a hotplate?"
"Why not?"
He shrugged his shoulders and now, no longer afraid, he turned to look at her. She had taken a lot of preparations with her face, he thought; and she looked nice. The eye make-up hid some of the sadness in her eyes; a light layer of rouge somehow camouflaged the gauntness of her cheeks. Now dropping his gaze to the simple dark blue dress she wore, he couldn't avoid thinking: Well, there isn't much to this sad, plain girl; but it's all her. And it's nice, he thought. The dress articulated the doll-like curves of her body in just the right places, and she stayed up half the night setting her hair for him, he reasoned; so how could he act so toward her?
"Can you cook?" he said, remembering her suggestion about the steaks.
She broke out with a smile. "Can I cook? I've been cooking ever since my mother died, and if I can please my father...."
"Does he know you're here?"
"What if he finds out?"
"Are you going to tell him?" she asked, looking up at him.
"I might be crazy," he said with a cynical smile, "but I'm not stupid." He gazed intently into her eyes. "Only didn't your father ever warn you what happens to little girls who go to men's rooms?"
"He didn't have to tell me."
"Then how do you know I won't...."
"Take me to bed?" She smiled mischievously. "I don't know," she said coyly. "What's more, I don't care."
She's trying hard to be wicked, he thought. But she doesn't know how. And to take her, he mused, would be like taking candy from a baby. She loved him and she'd do just about anything he asked. He moved away from her, walked slowly to the cupboards. "Mary?"
"Yes." She came up behind him.
"Go get the steaks."
She pressed her body against his back, laid her head against his shoulders.
"Now," he said, feeling a warm surge in his loins. "Go get 'em now."
The roughness of his voice surprised her. When he turned around, she shot him a puzzled glance. "All right, Al. I'll go now." And then she was checking around his small kitchen, seeing what else might be needed; of course, everything was needed: Something for a salad, seasoning and how in the world was she going to broil steaks on a stinking hotplate?
"You could just get them from a diner," he suggested.
"But they wouldn't taste the same. Besides, if you're going to marry me, it's high time you tasted some of my cooking." She laughed lightly. "Maybe then you'll change your mind."
After he heard her running down the hallway stairs, he sat and wondered where the married bit had come in at. They'd never talked marriage he wouldn't even consider it so why did she have to say that? Was it because in weaker moments, moments of self-pity and loneliness, he had echoed the sentimentalities of her 'good nights', looked at her and whispered, "I love you."? Was this the reason she thought she owned him? Well, she had another guess coming, he thought. No one owned him. Not the lousy lesbians, not Mary no one.
Angrily, he came off the couch and went to the bathroom out in the hallway. He washed up, but cold water didn't placate his sudden rash of ill feeling. He felt unexplainably brutish toward her, and if she wanted love, then she'd take it on his terms. Maybe after he felt her up and he never had pulled that pretty blue dress off her body, gave her a good shafting; maybe then she'd forget her talk about love and marriage. Maybe then she'd get some sense; anyway, hadn't Emil said the lesbian-hater needed a hearty screwing in order to forget his hate? Wasn't that what Emil had said?
He returned to the room and pulled down the shades. There was some leftover port wine in the cupboard; a little bracer would do him good. He poured the remainder of the bottle into a tall glass, drank it down without a pause. A warmness crept into his face; the warmness spread to his throat, his stomach. He thought of Mary: the tragic eyes, the quivering redness of her mouth, all the nice things that must be hidden beneath that blue dress she wore. And were her titties warm? he wondered. Would she shiver when his thumb and forefinger rolled her nipple between them? Would she cry out? Suddenly, he heard her climbing the stairs. He hid the bottle, came away from the sink.
"Guess what?" she said, closing the door behind her. "No steaks." She set the bag of groceries on the kitchen table. "And you're going to hate me. All they had was ol' Hamburg."
He locked the door, turned to face her. "C'mere."
She shot him a suspicious glance. "And what's on your evil mind?"
"Does it show that badly?"
"Just slightly." She came into his arms.
The intensity of his feelings surged into his arms. He held her tightly, felt the warmth of her body. "Who the hell needs Hamburg?" he whispered hotly.
She sent him a mocking frown. "Well, if we're going to neck, you could let me take my coat off first."
He released her, but the minute she'd drawn her arms from the coat, he was pulling her back against him, pinning her body to his. His sudden ardor frightened her. She craned her head back, gazed wonderingly into his dark brooding eyes. "I never saw you act like this before," she said.
"And is it against the law to hold you like this?"
"No."
"And to kiss you."
"No."
"And to do other things?"
She giggled in his arms. "Well, that is against the law."
"Oh, yeah!" He mashed his lips down on her mouth. She squirmed, then relaxed, then went completely limp. His tongue darted between her lips, searched the hot, dark warmth of her mouth. She stiffened momentarily he had never French-kissed her before but when his hot tongue touched hers, sent thrills and chills into her body, her resistance subsided and died. And from that instant on, he forgot that this was Mary; Mary the one single girl he respected, perhaps loved. She was now just another woman, he told himself. A woman who would spread her legs for him, present her breasts for his sucking, despoil her body so that he could vent his passion maybe his hate.
He was rough perhaps crude in his directness. The flats of his palms cupped the squirming hotness of her buttocks. She wore a girdle, but it was a thin one and he felt the telltale divide of her behind. His hands explored the curvy depths of those cheeks, raised and lowered her dress, brought her pelvis surging against his maleness, clued her on that which was hers.
He continued to hold her in this same possessive embrace. And no matter how naive she might be, he thought, she had to know the meaning of the slow, gyrating movements of his lower body. He pressed his throbbing passion against the front of her dress. His lips found the warm hollow of her neck; he felt her shudder.
She sensed that strange things were happening to her body, that her emotions were running wild; she struggled to free herself before it was too late. "Al . . . please stop."
He released her. "What's the matter? Too much for you?"
She brushed her hair back out of her face. Her cheeks were flushed. "I'm just not used to that sort of thing, Al I-I guess it'll take some time, won't it? I mean...."
He seized her roughly and pulled her back into his arms. "Give in, Mary. Let it happen."
"Al . . . please." She arched her face back away from his. "The Hamburg...."
"The hell with it!" His mouth sought hers; he drove his tongue between her lips. Her breasts heaved against his chest, their tongues engaged.
"Al.. . "
He ignored her moaning pleas. His hand climbed under the front of her dress. She tried to squirm away, but his other arm had locked her in a nearly inescapable embrace. Now, with his darting tongue probing the hotness of her mouth, his fingers crawled up the curvy smoothness of her nylons. His hand reached and touched the bare skin above her hose. He kneaded the fleshy warmth of her thighs between his fingers. She sucked in her breath, tried to pull away.
"Al. . . Al, you've got to stop. You've...."
His hand persisted. His fingers wiggled their way under the elastic edge of the girdle.
"Ohhhh, Al. . . " She squirmed like a young schoolgirl. "Al, don-don't...."
His fingers nestled in the furry triangle between her legs. His other hand raised the back of her dress, slipped into the waistband of her girdle, roamed downward to the hot, constricting globes of her buttocks. "Don't fight it, Mary. C'mon," he urged.
"Al . . . no!" She grasped his wrist.
Her protests only surged him with renewed desire. His forefinger impaled her; found wetness, warmth, excitement. He drove his finger back and forth; his other hand struggled to lower the girdle. Nibbling kisses caused her to moan.
He worked the girdle slowly down the ivory smoothness of her naked thighs. She staggered away from him momentarily, but he was quickly after her, drawing her panties down to join the girdle, releasing her bouncing buttocks from their imprisonment, feeling her as God made her: naked and wonderful.
The palm of his hand massaged the pear-like swelling between her legs. She moaned with the delicious-ness of the feeling that was upon her; his other hand stroked and pinched the naked loveliness of her soft behind. Ecstasy throbbed between his legs. He guided her hand to the front of his trousers.
Shocked, she quickly withdrew it. She uttered a vain, final protest. "Al, it isn't right . . . we shouldn't . . . Al, ohhhh, Al.. . " She was helpless and he pushed her down on the couch. He unbuttoned the front of her dress, forced her bra up over her breasts. Her nipples popped into view blushingly pink, breathtakingly juvenile and he knelt over her; sucked one, then the other.
She was no match for the avalanche of passion that had overtaken her body; when he again guided her hand, her tiny fingers encircled . . . squeezed . . . with unrelenting pressure.
The sensation made him delirious with excitement. He flung her dress above her hips, then dropped down between her legs. He forced her to unzip his pants.
Kneeling over her, he let her glimpse the angry reddish throb of his manhood. Her face contorted in fright. She put her hands to his shoulders the goal-line last ditch stand. "Al . . . please don't. I'm scared. I never did anything like this before. Please?"
Her desperate protests went unheard. A mad frenzy had gripped his vitals; Mary was suddenly the composite of all the lesbians in the world, a lesbian bitch who needed a man thrusting inward to her guts, who had to be taught a lesson and taught well.
This was his weapon, he told himself; his saber of manliness, the prong that would enslave her. Like a maddened beast, he drove the quivering shaft of subjugation between her outstretched thighs and pierced the wet, hot fruit of virginity. She screamed. He clamped his hand down hard on her mouth, reared back, and plunged again.
The fragile tissue of chastity tore under his forceful thrusts. Her muffled scream died under the palm of his hand. He sank to her innards. A glorious thrill ran through his loins. Tears squeezed from her eyelids.
"Ohhh, Al . . . Al, it hurts...."
He drove faster, harder. Another scream escaped from her lips. Someone pounded on the wall. He went faster.
He couldn't stop. Their pelvic bones slammed together. He gave her everything he had. His hands sought and pinched her buttocks, lifted her up to receive the full benefit of his wild animal-like thrusts.
"Cmon, baby!"
"Al. . . Al, I can't. . . " She sobbed. "I can't!" Her scream tore the ceiling off, echoed through the cheap, squalid flat.
His nails dug into fleshy fullness of her buttocks. Pain and agony were written in her face. She bit down on her lips, closed her eyes. He rode her harder.
"M-Mary . . . Mary, I'm gonna . . . I'm gonna . . . ohhhh, Mary!" He exploded. The bursting damn of wild passion overflowed. The hot juices of love poured to her innards. He pulsated and throbbed with wave after wave of dizzying, pounding thrills; and then, at last, with an ecstasy-filled moan escaping from his lips, he withdrew and crept beside her. He held her close, tenderly; she sobbed quietly in his arms.
She had felt nothing but pain in the act, he thought bitterly. He had been like an animal with her, ruined any pleasing thoughts she might have harbored about sex. And now what could he say? What words of apology could erase the deed from her troubled mind? And would words of condolence restore that fragile tissue of chastity to her body? Could his utterly abject humility cleanse the bloodstains from her pretty blue dress? "Mary?"
She stared vacantly at the ceiling. Her lips trembled; the lower half of her body was still blatantly exposed. Growingly concerned, wanting her to speak, he reached under her and lowered her dress.
"What can I say, Mary?" He stroked her face. "Should I say I'm sorry? Would that be enough?"
She didn't answer him. Her eyes continued their sightless appraisal of the ceiling.
"Mary...."
Suddenly, there was a loud insistent knock at the door. Startled, they gazed at each other. Mary came to her senses. She rolled away from him, stood up, straightened her clothing. He did likewise, closing his trousers, straightening the cushions on the couch. He brushed the hair back out of his face, went to the door.
Two cops stood framed in the doorway. The landlady stood behind them.
"We got a call," the taller of the two cops began. "Someone screaming up here. You know anything about it?"
His face colored. Mary was standing behind the door and out of their range. He shot her a frightened glance. "I didn't hear anything," he said, knowing his voice betrayed his guilt.
"Well, we've got to be sure. There was an old woman attacked across the street the other night. The neighborhood is kind of edgy, so if you don't mind...." He gave the door a gentle nudge. "...we'll come in and look around."
Mary suddenly stepped into view. "There's nothing wrong, officer. I was here all the time and if anyone screamed, I'm sure I would have heard it."
Both of the officers shot her scrutinizing glances. From Mary, they looked back to him. "Okay," the taller one said with a tired sigh, "sorry to bother you."
He started to close the door on them. The landlady stuck her pointed nose in the crack of the door. Her dark beady eyes glowed with anger. "You know we don't allow this sort of thing, Mr. Downing. I run a respectable place...."
He slammed the door in her face. Screw her! he thought. The old bitch wouldn't know a respectable place when she saw one. He turned. Mary was putting on her coat.
"You're leaving?"
"I have to, Al." She lowered her eyes. "I don't feel well and I told my father I wouldn't be gone long...."
"You're mad, aren't you?"
"N-no, Al. I just don't feel well."
He tried to tilt her chin up. She turned away from him, walked slowly toward die door.
"I can walk you home," he offered.
"Please, no . . . I'll be all right." She managed a hasty smile, one that was frightfully insincere. Now she opened the door.
He felt the need to say something, something that would restore her original mood, bring her rushing back into his arms. But they were beyond communication, he thought. Their relationship had suffered irrevocable damage, and he knew it to be true when she silently turned from him, walked solemnly down the stairs and disappeared.
CHAPTER NINE
When she was gone, he glanced forlornly at the bag of groceries still sitting on the kitchen table. So he had screwed her so what? What did she expect, coming up here to his room like that? Did she think they were going to play marbles? Angry, wondering why he should have any misgivings, he put on his coat and went out.
He entered the first cafe he reached a seamy, foul-smelling hole-in-the-wall and ordered a double-whiskey. His image blinked back at him from the bar mirror; he turned disconsolately away. His gaze now fell on a wretched old hag at the end of the bar, a gray-haired witch who sipped from her wine and who cackled endlessly with the skinny bartender. The sight of her made him all the more miserable; he was soon lost in a hopeless reverie of drink and self-contempt.
The mournful strains of Born To Lose rapidly caused his spirits to sink still lower; hadn't he treated Mary like a goddamn animal? Probably ruined her chances of ever enjoying sex, he thought; and in all likelihood, she wouldn't even want to see him again. Well, Emil had warned him. Emil had said a man must rid himself of hate before he could love, and how right he was.
Angry because he had taken that hate out on Mary, he now proceeded to drink himself into oblivion. But it didn't work. The lesbian bitches couldn't be washed away with alcohol; he had to sink his leather shoes into their guts, bash their stinking faces in that was the only way to bury the hate.
After several more drinks, he turned and stalked out of the bar. Nobody turned to watch him leave; no one cared, he thought. And now, not even Mary.
Outside in the winter darkness, the cold wind knifed through his thin coat. He hunched over and walked against it, a lonely figure hurrying off into the night. And he had no destination, he thought. He didn't feel like being trapped by the utter solitude of his room, but where did lonely men go when they emerged from the myriad of rundown rooming houses throughout the city? He'd seen their tired lonely faces in all-night diners; was that where they went? And was he no more than this: A colorless and lonely figure who moved aimlessly through the night? Was this life?
Bitter, lost in an alcoholic haze of self-pity, he entered a small bowling alley. The warmth inside, the clatter of bowling pins, the presence of people all of this brought him slowly back to reality.
He went to the concession counter, bought some coffee, then sat down in the rows of seats behind the bowlers. His attention was soon taken ud by two high school girls. They were on the number seven lane which was slightly to his right, bright-eyed and young; and how cozy, he thought. How very, very cozy.
His fascination increased as he watched them. They wore matching brown skirts, tight ones that emphasized the bouncing roundness of their behinds; and their yellow pullovers whv did young high school girls feel the need to'show off their tits? Were they trying to attract boys or, more likely, were they trying to show off their breasts to other girls?
He played with that thought for a while, finally decided that the two girls were keenly interested in each other. Oh, it couldn't escape his eyes maybe they could fool the rest of the world, but not him. He'd seen too much of this crap: "Here, Corinne, I lit you a cigarette." And now the one called Corinne was bent over the other girl, pretending to be looking at the score sheet, but at the same time, pressing her firm breasts against her girlfriend's shoulders. No, they didn't fool Al. Al knew.
Bitterly, he continued to watch them. By listening to their conversation, he had learned their names. The little blonde was Corinne; the other one, a larger-boned girl with dark hair she was Marge. He judged them to be about 17, old enough to feel thrills, old enough to want them. And when the little blonde bowled, when she bent forward and the ball left her hand, didn't her skirt hike up in the rear, and didn't Marge watch excitedly, squeeze her soft thighs together and dream of what it would soon be like? Of course she did. He knew the black thoughts that roamed in her mind. She was going to seduce her blonde girlfriend when they left the bowling alley, take her home and do it to her. Now his anger surged back. In a pig's ass she was going to do anything! When he got through with her . . .
He waited until they had finished bowling and paid for their games. Their coats went on and then they disappeared to the restroom, so now there was more waiting. But he could guess the sights-one probably feeling the other one up, he thought. Getting hot, getting ready to go home to bed, in bed together.
When they finally emerged from the restroom, walked slowly outside, he fell in behind them. He let the distance between them grow; no point in arousing their suspicion, he thought. Not yet, anyway.
He followed them for three blocks, then they paused on a street comer and stood talking. Turning away from them, he pretended interest in the window display of a woman's dress shop. But what were they saying? he wondered. Was Corinne saying: Gee, you sure have nice titties. And was Marge now answering: Would you like to go to bed and lick 'em?
His madness ran away with him. For a moment, he almost turned and ran toward them. But the danger passed, he took a long breath of the cold night air, let the coldness surge into his lungs, and the anger subsided.
Now he turned. The girls were parting. Christ, he knew they were queer, so why were they going different ways? Had they already played with one another's bodies? Was this just goodnight and I'll play some more tomorrow? He decided it was and hurried after the dark-haired one called Marge. She was probably the aggressor, he thought. Emil said you couldn't know one when you saw one, but Emil was wrong. This big-boned bitch was One of Them, a stinking queer; a social malignancy that would one day ruin the world but not this one, he thought hatefully. No, not this one . . .
He overtook her at the mouth of an alleyway in the next block. She turned suddenly, saw him, and started to scream. He jammed his fist into her mouth and knocked her senseless. She fell and he dragged her between the buildings, taking her to a backyard and dropping her roughly to the ground.
When she fell, her skirt flared up above her ivory thighs, and he wondered how many girls had run their ruby lips up and down those thighs. A hundred? More? An evil grin broke out over his face. The toe of his shoe lanced out, landed on the meaty underside of her thighs. She groaned. He kicked her again, this time finding the vulnerable sweet softness of her crotch. She winced in pain, started to sit up.
Moonlight illuminated the hate that flooded his features. She opened her mouth to scream. He cuffed her with the back of his hand, sent her rolling over on her stomach. She scrambled away from him, and he dove through space, landing on top of her. Before he could get his hand over her mouth, she screampd. He cursed, bashed her nose with the hard heel of his hand. She groaned and sagged back to the ground. He tore at her clothes, ripped her light topcoat open.
"Bitch!" he spat. He found the neckline of her sweater, ripped it down the middle. Seconds later, he had also torn away her bra, bared her breasts for the whole world to see. And now her skirt and panties, he thought with a rush of anger.
Savagely, he yanked them from her body. The girl regained consciousness. She moaned loudly. A trickle of blood streamed from her nose, rolled slowly down her chin, leaked now to the softness of her chest.
"Please...." she begged.
Ruthlessly, he opened the front of his pants. Let her feel what it's like to get it from a MAN, he thought.
"No...." The back of her hand went to her mouth. "No!"
"You'll like it," he whispered hoarsely. "You need it!"
"Helpppppp!"
The bitch! The stupid screaming bitch! He stomped his shoe in her face. Lights flicked on in the tenement building above him. He kicked her in the ribs, turned and fled. Her screams echoed after him, and he ran five blocks before he finally found refuge between two buildings, paused and rested. He had been stupid not to fully knock her out in the beginning; but he had been confident that she would not scream, certain that he had frightened her into silence. But the next time . . .
He hugged the shadows while a police car screamed past. Did these stupid cops actually think that they could catch him? Didn't those empty-headed civil servants know that he was doing society a favor?
A hollow mocking laugh broke from his lips. "This is nothing, you cop bastards. I'm just getting warmed up." And then his mocking laughter again broke the silence of night, echoed until it was caught up by the wind and carried into space. Then, dipping back into the shadows, slipping furtively toward his room, he began to make plans-plans for tomorrow . . .
CHAPTER TEN
He dressed during the unreal stillness of pre-dawn; his memory of last night's street attack was vague, so vague that now it seemed only a weird trick of his imagination. To a degree, this lapse of uncertainty frightened him. He liked to be sure of things and his nightmarish inability to recall the event, to be able to say: "Well, I did this and I did that. . . " God, was his mind slipping? Was it possible that he had forgotten an experience of just seven short hours ago?
He splashed cold tap water on his face, briskly rubbed himself dry, then drank a steaming cup of black coffee. It was coming back to him now mere fragments; but the radio news program enabled him to string these fragments together, and by the time he had locked the flat and begun the slow, lonely walk toward the school, the picture was complete, his memory restored.
He felt immensely relieved; that temporary void of uncertainty had thrown a scare into him. Made a person worry about amnesia, he thought. And naturally it was last night's quick accumulation of drinks that had caused him to forget, so there was nothing to fret about. He was fine, just fine; that young lesbian bitch had received what she justly deserved; in time, he would also punish the rest of them. Now, and with a twisted grin working its way into his face, he lowered his head and quickened his pace toward Grayton junior high school.
When he arrived at the school, he discovered that the automatic thermostat had failed to kick on the heating system as scheduled. The building was uncomfortably cold and he spent the next thirty minutes repairing the failure, returning the temperature to some margin of normalcy.
With this chore finally completed, he inspected each of the first floor entrances, made certain that the doors were unlocked. The faculty would begin arriving at seven-thirty; first-period classes commenced at 8:10. And today especially, today he wanted to be on hand in the front hallway when these young girls began filtering into the building. He hadn't forgotten those three pigs who slugged him yesterday afternoon, performed their perverted acts in front of his very eyes; and if he watched their faces when they entered the building today, wasn't there a chance that their eyes would betray them? Christ, but he hoped so. If he could just get his bare hands on the bitches, tear their clothes off . . .
He returned to the basement. Plenty of time yet, he thought. Time for some coffee and time to read the morning paper he had purchased during his walk to school. There would undoubtedly be an account of last night's attack, and he was not disappointed in his guess. He found the story on page two of The Morning Herald.
Customarily, the Herald was conservative in its reports of muggings and rapes, prospering happily in the belief that Grayton Falls was free of the sensationalism that plagued companion cities; however, they had taken exception to last night's "unprovoked and brutal attack" upon a local teenager, according the narrative he counted them seven full paragraphs.
He read the newspaper account with great relish. They hadn't identified the victim by name mustn't tarnish their lily white bodies with sin and stated that she was attacked after she had separated from a schoolgirl companion, following an evening of bowling. They had failed to mention that the two girls were queers, constantly proclaiming her as the "innocent victim".
He read on, sipped desultorily at his coffee, and was disappointed by the lack of clinical data. The description of her condition was too succinct: superficial lacerations and shock. A more intrepid publication would have printed the raw truth: Shoe imprints of her assailant were discovered on her left breast! But this rag . . .
His eyes fell to the last two paragraphs comments from the local Gestapo chief, a prune-head by the name of Sheriff Elliott P. Calton. According to Sheriff Calton, this latest attack might be linked to the earlier beating of an aging widow in the same vicinity this time the name was included: Alma Hagerty. And forthright action could be expected why, naturally! an arrest at any moment.
When he was through reading this, he had to laugh at the unimaginative, stereotyped promises of Sheriff Calton; the only thing this simpleton was capable of catching was a common cold and even that might prove a chore, he thought. The fools knew nothing; there were no witnesses, no clues, no nothing. He was blissfully safe-safe to go on with his secret mirror, to spy on their naked interludes and learn who these lesbian bitches were. And then . . .
Shortly before eight o'clock, he stationed himself in the front hallway. He had stuffed some rags into his coveralls, also brought along a bottle of brass polish, and as long as he pretended to be working, no one would question his presence there.
His wait was a short one; he had only begun to polish the brass door handles when they started streaming into the building. Many of the kids knew him by name and greeted him; others simply waved and hurried past.
Watching all this in curious silence, he suddenly knew that it was impossible to pick out his attackers.
With over seven-hundred girls enrolled at the school, an equal number of boys, with them streaming into the building in such rapid hordes, he couldn't possibly screen them all. However, he still remained at the door and hoped.
But nothing was different. Nobody's glance lingered on him and nobody snickered. Blouses were just as revealing as ever; skirts just as short. And the sights were tantalizing, but weren't they always? Brightly-colored sweaters heralded their bouncing boobies; hip-hugging straight skirts boldly outlined the seductive wiggle of their young behinds. They cast away their smokes before they entered the building, and then they rushed past him with their books and cheap perfume; and sometimes he would see a boy grabbing a feel when they squeezed through the narrow doorways, but when it was done, when the bell had rung and the hallways were again empty, he realized that he knew no more than he had yesterday. The lesbians were here all right probably that gang of girls who called themselves the Hi-Queens but how would he know them when he did see them?
Puzzled, he returned to the basement. The trick mirror and a hidden microphone was his only solution, and today he would finish his removal of the bricks, conclude the project over the coming week-end.
At nine o'clock it was after he had re-checked the boilers he phoned Mary at the bookstore. He wasn't entirely surprised to learn that she hadn't reported to work; in fact, was ill and wouldn't be in for the remainder of the day.
He called her home then; she answered on the sixth ring.
"You're supposed to be at work," he said, trying to be pleasant.
She told him she wasn't going in; her manner was cool.
"Still mad at me?" he asked.
"I was never mad to begin with, Al. Just.. . "
"Disgusted?" he finished. "You said it. I didn't."
"But it's true, isn't it?"
"Al, do we have to talk about it? Can't we just forget it?"
He envisioned Mary's fragile body spread-eagled on his battered couch, saw himself penetrate the exquisite moistness between her legs, even heard her scream. "I am sorry," he said sheepishly. "If there's anything I can do...."
"I have to hang up now, Al."
Hang up? Mary? "How about a show tonight?" he said in a rush.
"I really can't, Al. My sister is coming in from out of town and there's so much cleaning to do...."
Who was she kidding? She didn't even have a sister at least, she'd never mentioned it. "Then tomorrow night?"
"Let's wait and see."
He knew the ax treatment when he heard it, and he said, "Mary, if you don't wanna go out with me any more, just say so."
"I didn't say that," she snapped. "But I've got this cleaning to do, I don't feel well...."
"Okay," he said solemnly, "I'll call you." He hung up and thought the hell with her. If she was going to get that put out over a lousy piece of tail, let her keep it. And maybe he was better off without her. As far as ass was concerned Christ, there were seven-hundred young asses right here at school! What more could he want?
He returned to the first floor, made sure he was in the corridors between classes. When the girls were running from one classroom to another, they enjoyed teasing him, bumping their hot bodies against him, making it seem oh, so very accidental.
Today was no exception. Lila Eberhardt, a surly 8th-grader from Miss Warwick's homeroom, rushed out of History class and ran smack into his side. Her heavy breasts touched him briefly, she looked at him in mock embarrassment, then rushed on down the hallway.
Another girl he thought her name was Charlene Masters stopped in front of him and boldly adjusted her hose. She took her time about it, pulled her skirt daringly high, knew he was looking, didn't even care.
He was accustomed to these sights these, and more. They liked to flaunt their bodies in front of him; they were at that tender age between children and young women, beginning to feel delicious urgings inside their panties, wanting someone to notice them and Al was a ready target for their juvenile flirtations. As such, he was forever receptive to them, smiling when they smiled, winking when they winked; or when they wanted him to take that extra-long gaze, standing beneath the stairway when they bounced their hot be-hinds upwards. So he saw plenty and today it was making him hot.
He pushed the growing excitement out of his mind. He had more important things to take care of those lesbians here at the school and physical urges could be taken care of later.
Stepping into one of the hallway supply closets, pretending to inventory the soaps and towels, he listened intently to the conversation that filtered past the tiny room. He hoped that he would hear some juicy bit of conversation that would clue him in on who these lesbians were; however, he learned nothing.
Disappointed, he emerged from the closet. The corridors were now empty; the five minutes of pandemonium between bells was over, order and quiet reigned once more.
He rounded a corner, then pulled himself back out of sight. Two girls were trying to drag a boy companion into the girl's restroom. He flattened himself against the wall, held his breath, and listened.
"C'mon, Harry. You wanted to find out."
"What if a teacher comes?"
"We can hide in a booth."
"I don't know...."
"Laura Jean is willing. Tell him, Laura."
"I ain't gonna beg him."
"C'mon, Harry. We don't even have to take our clothes off if you don't want to."
"Well...."
Suddenly, the hallway was silent. He leaned forward and looked down the corridor where the youngsters had stood talking. Now it was empty....
The boy and the two young girls had actually entered the restroom; in a minute they would be pulling down their clothes.
He turned and ran to the basement. That particular restroom was located just over the basement lavatory. If he could get his ears close enough to the ceiling . . .
He dragged a long crate into the tiled darkness, turned it up on end, then stood on it. He supported himself against the wall and squeezed up on his tiptoes. They were giggling up in the restroom. The boy was saying something, but Al couldn't make out the words.
Shifting the crate so that it now stood under one of the heating ducts, he listened again. The clarity of their conversation surprised him; ironically, he had stumbled on a perfect transmitter of sound. This same heating duct fed into the girl's restroom; their words were crisp and clear.
"Take it out, Harry. You promised."
More giggling.
"You want us to help you?"
Now silence. Al pictured the young blonde haired boy opening his pants, fumbling and reaching that curious pillar of masculinity.
"Hey, look!"
"Mmmmmm...."
The boy: "Are you gonna do what you said?"
Giggles.
"Are you?"
Now a girl: "Sure we are."
"Then c'mon."
"You first, Laura Jean."
"Oh, no. You said you'd do it first." Al heard the boy groan, envisioned a girl's hot mouth slobbering over the boy's quivering maleness. "You let me know when you're getting ready to...."
"Christ, don't stop!"
"Okay, but just remember I don't want that stuff all over me."
The boy was groaning again. Al pressed his ear against the opening in the heater duct. He could even hear the girl's mouth and the sound was that of a small infant greedily sucking on its bottle. Suddenly, Al's hand dropped to the swollen front of his coveralls. He touched himself.
"What are you doing up there?"
Al almost fell off the crate. He grabbed onto the heating duct and stared down at Debbie Harmon framed in the doorway. "I-I was fixing the...." He lowered himself to the floor. "...the ducts . . . they weren't working."
She shot him a curious glance. Her blue eyes danced with mischief. "You look scared," she said.
"Well I was. You startled me and . . . look, what are you doing here anyway? You're suppose to be in class, aren't you?"
'T cut out. That French is a drag and...."
"Well you can't stay down here."
She shrugged her shoulders, turned and walked slowly away from him. He followed her and she stopped in front of his desk. She turned abruptly, fed him a mocking smile, then slumped in the swivel chair behind his desk. "I can stay down here as long as I like," she said haughtily. "Now look here...."
"We've got some business to talk over, Mr. Downing. Just you and I." She crossed her legs, deliberately causing her skirt to ride up the soft white of her thighs. Her pink panties were brazenly exposed.
Al stared incredulously at the blonde teenager who had haughtily taken possession of his desk. Who the hell did she think she was? "Maybe you want me to call Mr. Pfeiffer, huh, Debbie?"
She was unperturbed by his threat. She grinned and drummed her fingers on his desk. "Go ahead. And when fat-ass comes down here, I've got a few things to tell him, too."
Al felt an indefinable coldness creep into the collar of his shirt. He trembled. "What d'ya mean?"
Her grin widened. She put her feet up on his desk, casually lit a cigarette while he awaited her reply. Then, apparently enjoying his uneasiness, but not wanting to prolong her purpose, she said, "I know that you beat up that old Mrs. Hagerty, Al. And I kind of figured the cops oughta know about it. Don't you agree?"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
He wanted to smash the cute smile off her face, backhand those proud breasts that she shoved in everyone's face, but instead he remained meekly silent. When he finally did speak, he said, "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, yes you do. You were the one who came to the pizza shop and wanted to know who she was, and I read about it in the newspapers, and you're the one who beat her up."
Some of his confidence returned. For a minute, he had been afraid that Debbie had somehow witnessed the beating; now he realized she was only guessing. He told her so.
"Then you won't care if I kind of telephone the cops?"
His alarm returned; then anger. Was this little bitch trying to blackmail him, or something? "I was just asking," he said. "If you think I go around beating up old widows...."
"Okay, so you didn't." She dragged on her cigarette. "But just the same, maybe the cops would wanna know, huh? I mean, so they could check your story out."
He held his temper in check. Then an idea filtered into the back of his mind. A grin crept into his face. "And are you going to also tell the police how you screw boys down here in the basement of the school? You know, so they can check your story out."
Some of the haughtiness drained from her expression. She removed her feet from his desk. "You wouldn't dare!"
"Oh, wouldn't I?" He felt supreme. He had the little bitch on the run. "And the judge would send you to reform school. Is that what you want?"
"They wouldn't believe you," she said, trying to regroup her defenses. "They'd say you made it up. But they'll believe me. When I tell 'em you were asking all kind of questions about that Hagerty woman...." She stood up and walked slowly past him. Her shoulders were drawn back, her breasts pressed against the confines of her white angora sweater. "...but then I don't have to tell 'em, do I?"
He suddenly felt like a fool. He had been out-bluffed by a little 15-year-old schoolgirl, left helpless to her whims. Maybe she lacked actual proof that he had beaten up the old bitch but, on the other hand, if she told the police what she knew and they began their damn-fool snooping . . .
"What is it you want, Debbie?"
She pivoted to face him. Her blue eyes burned with a sense of elation. Her proud breasts were just inches away from the front of his coveralls. "I need some money," she said.
He had expected this, but he frowned. He reached for his wallet and drew out a dollar bill. She laughed at it.
"How far d'ya think that's gonna go?" He shot her an angry glare. "I'm not made out of money."
"Five," she demanded. "Five dollars."
He started to protest, but saw the determined look on her face. She put her hand out and, no longer concealing his contempt, he counted out five singles.
"Don't bother to ask for any more," he said bitterly. "You won't get it."
She tucked the bills neatly inside her sweater, and she had probably aped that gesture from some TV movie she had seen. "And you don't have to act so mad about it," she whispered. "It's just a loan." She slowly advanced toward him. "If you want , . . " Her tongue licked the edges of her lower lip. "...I could even pay you back right now." Her breasts touched the front of his coveralls.
He stepped backwards, but his progress was impeded by the desk. Debbie wore an impish smile. She took two more steps; the firm ripeness of her breasts was again pressed against his chest. "Are you afraid of me, Mr. Downing?"
"I know trouble when I see it," he said hoarsely. He cleared his throat. "I think you'd better leave."
"Why, Mr. Downing...." She rotated her shoulders from side to side, causing her breasts to make a wiping motion across the front of his coveralls. "...someone might think you didn't like me if they heard the way you talk."
"Debbie...." He tried to squeeze past her, escape the touch of her breasts. His innards burned with excitement. "...you're not supposed to be down here."
"But Mr. Downing, we could still be friendsssssss." She gyrated her lower body suggestively against his pelvis. "What I mean is...." She leaned hotly against him. She made a slight pumping motion with her buttocks; the telltale pouch between her legs made delicate contact with the swollen front of his coveralls. A million wonderful thrills coursed through his body. "...really, Mr. Downing, I think we should get acquainted."
"Debbie...." He placed his hands on her shoulder, prepared to brush her away. But suddenly the cologne of her body haunted him with desire, her ruby lips were parted with the same desire, and now with her lower body rubbing demandingly against his own, caution went out the window. He swept the little teenager into his arms, there was no protest from her, and she welcomed the hot fury of his kiss.
The moment their lips were pressed together, Debbie's tongue darted into his mouth and sought his. He throbbed with renewed desire, their tongues touched, and he suddenly knew that his body was out of touch with law and order. His hands went under the teenager's sweater, slid up the smooth warmness of her skin, up and up, and now his fingers fumbled and worked their way into her bra.
She sighed ecstatically when his hands suddenly came to grips with her full hard nipples. His hands had set fire to her; she rubbed her lower body against his maleness with shameless abandon. "Could we go somewhere?" she moaned. "Just anywhere?"
The sudden verbal contact with the teenager jolted him back to a plateau of caution. His fingers had been massaging her nipples now they stopped. If somebody came down here and caught him feeling up a 15-year-old schoolgirl . . . Jesus, they'd lock him up for 20 years! Abruptly, he pulled his hands back out of her bra. "You'd better get on to your classes . . . I mean...."
Her hand rushed to the fly of his coveralls. She gripped his hardness and squeezed. "Do you really want me to go back to class?" Her hand worked feverishly back and forth over his throbbing member. "Do you?"
He was speechless. Dammit, he'd always wanted to lay one of these little teenage chicks, but he'd been too afraid of the consequences; and now . . .
"Doesn't this feel good?" she asked. Her hand continued to glide back and forth.
He swooned with thrills. Involuntarily, his hands flew to her slender waist, drew her in tight against his body. "You're gonna get your goddamn panties pulled off if you don't cut that out," he said through his clenched teeth.
"Promise?" She continued to stroke him.
"Your damn right it's a promise!"
The girl giggled. Her blonde hair fell rakishly over her eyes. Now her glance lingered on his lower body.
She was enraptured by the growth that her fingers had caused.
"You're a teasing little bitch," he growled.
She grinned. Her small hands continued to manipulate him. "I'm not a tease," she said softly. "A tease won't let you do anything. And d'ya know what?" Her eyes flicked mischievously over his body. "I don't care what you do."
Her reckless permissiveness drained him of all caution. His hands dove under her skirt and found the curvy warmth of her young behind. She wiggled backwards against the pressure of his hands. Then she rocked forward until her thin panties were pressed against his throbbing maleness. "Boy, do I like that.'"
His hands snaked inside the waistband of the flimsy panties. Now the hands descended-oh, the wonderful sleek hotness of her little behind! he thought. And now his eager fingers found the familiar hollow that divided the cheeks of love. He rubbed her urgently. She moaned. Her own hands squeezed him more demandingly. He couldn't take any more; what had been started had to be finished-finished now.
Suddenly, he lifted her up in his arms and carried her between the boiler pipes to the darkness beyond. He found the cot, set her down. In haste, he pulled down the straps of his coveralls, climbed out of them. Then he kicked off his loafers and removed his shorts. He moved toward her. Desire pounded and throbbed before the young teenager's anxious eyes. Gingerly, she reached out through the darkness and touched him. His erect tumescence responded with new pulsations. The teenager giggled and touched him again. "It jumps," she claimed. "Look!"
He surged toward her. Suddenly, she leaped from the cot and dodged past him. "I have to go now. G'bye." She laughed and ran for the books that were on his desk.
"You bitch!" he spat.
More laughing. "You said I shouldn't be down here." She waved at him and hurried toward the stairway.
"Dirty, rotten bitch!" he shouted. "Dirty lousy...."
The phone on his desk began to ring. He groped for his shorts, then the coveralls. More ringing. The sonofabitch wouldn't get away with this, he thought bitterly. That no good teasing whore was going to pay for that cute little trick, and pay dearly.
He reached for the phone. It was Pfeiffer.
"Al?"
"Yes." He pulled the straps over his shoulders.
"I was wondering if you could come up to my office for a minute."
And suppose he told the fairy bastard no. What then? "I'll be right up," he said. "Five minutes."
Actually, he supposed it was less than five minutes. And Pfeiffer was wearing the same lavender necktie he always did-a fitting insignia for his effeminate nature, Al thought-and the man's double chin bobbed him a wordless greeting.
"Close the door tightly, Al. I don't want anyone hearing what I have to say."
Al obeyed his order, wondered what the fat sonofabitch wanted now. He sat down before Pfeiffer climbed out of his chair and began pacing the floor behind him. His eyes looked troubled.
"Al, as principal of Grayton junior high school.. . "
The same old rot. The same old beginning.
"...the school is a team, Al. We have to pull together to make the organization work as a whole. Am I right?"
He nodded tiredly to Pfeiffer's grand soliloquy, but his mind was miles away. He was thinking of a certain little bitch by the name of Debbie Harmon, remembering how she had tricked him down there in the basement, made him look like such a damn fool. Actually had the nerve to sit there on that cot, her skirt pulled
M up over her thighs, and watch him strip to nakedness; and then when he was ready to give it to her, give her the whole damn waterworks, the little bitch had run off in the darkness and laughed. Laughed at him.
"You're listening to me, aren't you, Al?"
"Huh?"
"I said you're listening to me, aren't you?"
"Listening? Of course I'm listening. Why wouldn't I be listening?" He shot the principal an angry glance.
His harshness momentarily shocked Pfeiffer. The fat man's jowls went limp. His hands strayed nervously to the lavender necktie. "I didn't mean to upset you, Al...." He ventured a thin smile. "...I just wanted to be sure you heard me. This is pretty important." He drew a chair around to Al's side, sat down. "Al, I've always been pleased with your work here at the school. You know that."
Al nodded, wondered what the fat bastard was getting at.
"We've inherited this little lesbian problem here at the school, but I'm sure that will be cured in due time. But now something else has cropped up, and I'm not sure that I like it."
Unconsciously, his hand closed around the plastic inkwell on Pfeiffer's desk. "What is it?" he asked.
"Well I want you to try and take this good-naturedly, Al. I don't want you losing your temper."
"I won't lose my temper," he said with increasing suspicion. "What is it?"
"That's the spirit," Pfeiffer said, his thin smile coming on again. "You can't afford to let these kids get you down...." His flabby hand crept to Al's thigh, rested there. "...and no matter what they say...."
"Has somebody said something?" His hand closed tighter on the inkwell.
"More than that. They've mailed postcards here to the school, and you can't let that sort of thing get you down." His fat hand squeezed down on Al's thigh.
"You know I never got married and there was never a girl I really cared for, so I used to get a lot of the same kind of kidding. They'd say I was . . . well, queer. But I never let it get me down, Al. I just said to myself they must be jealous." His fingers probed higher on Al's thigh.
Now, and for the first time, he became conscious of Pfeiffer's hand on his leg, the slow upward movement that drew thrills and revulsion in the same instant. He wanted to push Pfeiffer's hand away, but he didn't want to risk a scene. "You say you received some postcards?"
"I don't even know if I should show them to you, Al. They're so obnoxious." Again, the hand moved.
"If they concern me, sir, I'd like to see them."
Pfeiffer met his gaze with an undefined curiosity. He was bent slightly forward, his hand still resting on Al's thigh. The movement of his hand had stopped. Now he reached inside his sport jacket and drew out a packet of postcards. He tossed them in Al's lap. "Don't let them get you down. Poison pen letters never bothered me. I made it my business to overlook it as gross ignorance."
With trembling hands, he held the postcards to his eyes and examined them one-by-one. Each of them was addressed to Pfeiffer; each of them scrawled with the same message:
The janitor is a fairy!
"But don't let it bother you, Al." His hand had very nearly reached Al's maleness. "They just don't know any better."
He flung the postcards across the room. Rage exploded inside him. He smashed the inkwell on Pfeiffer's desk. Ink spurted all over his hands.
"Al!"
"You believe them, don't you? You think I'm a goddamn queer."
"W-why no. I-I just said...." He drew his hand away from Al's thigh. "A-Al, you can't let this get you down."
Angrily, he shoved his chair away from Pfeiffer. He wiped his ink-stained hands on his coveralls. "This whole school is crazy," he shouted. "You get a bunch of goddamn postcards in the mail and right away...."
"Al, nobody is accusing you of anything. Why I think the world of you. You should know that."
Al remembered the thick pudgy hand on his thigh. "Yeah, I know exactly what you think of me." He watched Pfeiffer's face color. "And you're wrong."
"Now just a minute, Al...."
"I have to check the boilers," he said, knowing that if he didn't leave now, he'd be smashing this fairy bastard all over the damn office, in the bargain, losing his job. He started for the door.
Pfeiffer was beside him, arm draped paternally around Al's shoulders. "...and there's no hard feelings?"
He hid his rage. He avoided Pfeiffer's apologetic glance. "No. No hard feelings." He turned in the doorway and proffered the principal a menacing glance. "But I'll tell you something. I'm not any goddamn fairy! And I like tits. And the bigger and juicier they are, the more I like 'em." Then he slammed angrily out of the principal's office, knowing that that would be the last time Pfeiffer would ever rest his hand on his thigh. He wondered, too, how long it would be until Pfeiffer fired him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
He was breathing heavily when he reached the basement. The rage was still boiling inside him, the postcards had been the breaking point. But they weren't so smart, he thought. He knew the cards had come from the Hi-Queens, a bunch of stinking lesbians, and this was hardly the end of it. Somehow they had learned he was waging war on their kind, and this was their stupid retaliation. Sending lousy postcards to the principal. Well, he'd show them. Before he was through with them, he'd show them plenty.
He went directly to the paint locker and resumed his work on the brick wall. His caution about the noise dissolved; the project had to be completed. When he could at last see through the magic mirror, watch them prancing around naked in the shower room, then he'd know who these finking queers were and he could take care of them.
His anger was in every blow of the hammer. Mortar fell to the floor in large chips, tiny grains of dust filled the air. Perspiration stood put on his forehead in small droplets, but he didn't let up on his attack against the wall. He saw himself in gross fantasies, discovering who the queer ones were, somehow stepping through the wall to deliver their punishment. He'd twist their rosy, hardened nipples until the damn things fell from their bodies. He'd slap their bare behinds until they were streaked with blood, and then when they were helpless, screaming for mercy, he would let them feel the mercy between his legs. If the surging hardness of him didn't convert the little bitches, nothing would.
An hour later, the last of the mortar had been chiseled away. Each of the foundation bricks was loose; the only additional work necessary was the substitution of the fake mirror for the real one. That was something he would have to do over the weekend. Just tell Pfeiffer he had to do some repair work on the boilers. Nobody else would be in the building then; he could do it right.
During the afternoon, he was summoned to Miss Spencer's eighth-grade class to repair a student's desk that had become loosened from its moorings. Since a class was in progress, he'd pleasantly suggested that it might be better to wait until later in the afternoon when her classroom was empty. Miss Spencer, however, was an obstinate old woman. She had been with the school system too many years. Permitting a common janitor to give orders was unthinkable. The desk must be repaired now.
Suppressing his dislike for the gray-haired biddy, ignoring the titter of laughter that sprang from the students, he went to examine the desk. The mounting bolts were stripped; the holes would have to be enlarged and re-tapped. It would be a noisy business, at best, but if the old bitch wanted it repaired-repaired now-then the hell with the noise.
He used the electric power drill and a half-inch bit, and when the cutting tool burned into the wrought iron desk leg, the noise was deafening. However the racket didn't deter Miss Spencer; she continued the blackboard pointing, continued with her nasal intonation of plain geometry, and nobody could possibly hear a word of what she was saying. This delighted him no end.
He reamed out all eight holes, then secured a hand-tap to re-thread the holes for new bolts. Through most of the work, he had to be on his hands and knees. Had he been trying to see under the girls' dresses, this would have put him in a particularly advantageous position; however, he didn't have to try and look under their dresses; they parted their legs just for kicks. The little black haired girl across the aisle, for instance, was practically throwing her goodies in his face. She had performed a quarter-turn in her seat, crossed one leg high over the other; and as she sat innocently nibbling on the end of her pencil, pretending an avid interest in Miss Spencer's lecture, he found himself entranced with the thin transparent panties that bound her so lovingly. Her thighs were soft and full and when she realized he was looking-not only looking, but excited-she raised the level of her knee so that more light filtered under her skirt.
He forgot what he was doing. He could even make out the dim outline of her pubic hair, see the redness on her thighs where the panties had cut in and chafed her flesh.
"Are you done, Mr. Downing?" the teacher asked suddenly.
The girl promptly lowered her legs. From his hands-and-knees position, he looked over his shoulder at Miss Spencer. "Not quite, ma'am. Just a little more." He picked up the hand-tap and wondered if Miss Spencer had caught sight of the impromptu exhibition. If she had, the hell with her. He hadn't wanted to repair the stinking desk right now; it was her idea.
He went on with his chore, tapped through two of the holes and began a third. But his mind was soon on other things. Several of the teenagers were aping the little black haired girl that had started the show; they were deliberately teasing him, showing him pink panties, white panties, and no panties. They were grinning as they did, exchanging tight little smiles with one another, and he heard one of them whisper, "He's cute!"
The exhibition made it almost impossible for him to concentrate on his work-nor did he try. The little brunette who was directly in front of him trying to outdo the others; her legs were at least eight inches apart, her skirt short, and she was boldly showing him that she wore no panties.
The sight nearly overwhelmed him. Crouched on his hands and knees, he almost surged between her legs and started planting wet kisses up and down her ivory thighs. She would have liked that, he thought. Her legs would have parted all the way then. She would have grasped the sides of his head and drawn his wet tongue up to the moist hotness of her . . .
Suddenly, the bell rang. He frowned. Skirts went down. The students scrambled out of their seats, legs flew past him, and he had to crawl to one side to avoid being trampled on. The free show was over and he quickly finished up his chore with the desk.
Back in the basement, he couldn't forget the sights he had just seen. They had left him in an aroused state; the coffee from his thermos seemed oddly tasteless. He caught himself wondering about girls like that-were they just bitchy? Or worse, were some of them lesbians? It would be just like a lesbian to pull something like that, he thought. They'd sit there and taunt him, let him get all excited; secretly they would loathe him. And the more he thought about it, the more the rage began to re-kindle itself. He remembered Debbie Harmon giggling and running off in the darkness; he remembered three girls who had slugged him and dragged him to the auxiliary power room, there performed their perverted acts of love. And now he again visualized those little tarts up in Miss Spencer's class and all the hate his mind could command was suddenly reborn.
He back-handed the cup of coffee and sent it spilling to the other side of the basement. He wasn't going to wait until Monday to find out who these stinking lesbians were; he was going to find out tonight!
He waited until school was out and the building was empty; then he hurried to the wardrobe room and removed a brunet wig from its holder. He stuffed it into a paper sack, locked and secured all the doors, and hurried out into the street.
On the way home, he stopped off at a small department store and purchased a skirt and blouse, some underwear-he guessed at the size-high heel shoes and hose. The sales clerks didn't shoot him any suspicious glances; they were evidently accustomed to men buying clothes for their girlfriends and their wives. Only these clothes were for neither-these were for him.
He made one more stop before he reached home-this at a small corner drug store. Here, he purchased a cosmetic kit, the whole works, and also some cologne and underarm deodorant. This was going to be the night of nights, he thought excitedly. He'd get in those restrooms and find out what went on there. And if he ran across some lesbians . . . please let it happen, he thought. Let me find one. Just one.
* * *
He shaved his arms, legs and face of all traces of masculinity. Drawing the shades, he sprayed his body with cologne, heaped his skin with thick layers of perfumed talc. The further he went with the disguise, the more excited he became.
He began with the bra-a black satin one that would show readily through his blouse. He rested the cups up against his nipples and slipped the falsies inside to lend greater credence to his masquerade. When he then drew on the gauzy nylon panties, his excitement became known. The front of the panties bulged outward with something that was scarcely feminine, and it wasn't until he squeezed into a black rubberized panty girdle that the swelling disappeared.
He thought the imprisonment would kill him. He throbbed outward with desire, but the girdle pressed inward to contain him. The resulting pain was brutal. Tears came to his eyes. He winced and bit down on his lip. If he had finished what he had started with that Debbie Harmon-the little bitch-he wouldn't be in this condition. But tonight . . .
He pulled on the hose-sleek nylons that caressed his flesh and brought new waves of thrills to his body. He fastened the hose to the straps of the panty girdle. Not bad, he thought, looking over his shoulders to examine the seams. Not bad at all. And now the blouse and skirt . . .
Moments later, the illusion was completed. His guesses on sizes were lucky ones, indeed. The blouse was a little snug across the shoulders, the skirt a little tight in the hips; but the shoes-snappy patent leather skyscrapers-fit him expertly. Not only did they afford him greater height, but they imbued him with a kingliness that he had never known. He was lord and master now; those lesbian bitches would crawl at his feet.
And the make-up, he thought with a second appraisal in the kitchen mirror-hadn't he done a marvelous job? Just the right amount of eyebrow pencil and eye shadow; not too much lipstick, either; everything was perfect. He also noted that the foundation make-up had hid all traces of his beard, that, too, the wig was a fitting complement to the coloring if his features.
He slipped into the trench coat-not particularly feminine, but it would have to do-buttoned it and turned out the lights. Then the phone rang. The miserable always-at-the-wrong-time phone. He flicked the lights back on and answered it. It was Mary and he was surprised that she would call-especially, after last night.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Getting ready to go out."
"Would you like to come over for dinner?" He felt belligerent. "Is this your idea, or your father's?"
"Was it really necessary to say that? If you want to know, it was our idea. Daddy said...."
"I'd like to," he cut in, "but I've already made other plans. Some other time maybe."
His refusal had evidently surprised her. There was an embarrassed silence, then she said, "All right, Al. Some other time."
He started to say something further, but suddenly the line was dead. Mary had hung up. He slammed the receiver down, turned out the lights again, and went out. The hell with her, he thought. He didn't have time for that love crap. Right now there were more important things . . .
* * *
Balancing himself on the high heel shoes was no easy task. Twice, he had to lean against a building to catch himself from falling. However, by the time he had walked another three blocks, he began to get the feel of the shoes and his sense of balance matched his growing confidence. He was all woman, he told himself-at least, outwardly. But inwardly-well, that was something else. The nylon panties rubbed his swollen excitement and constantly reminded him that he was a man-all man.
His first stop was in a small dress shop up the street. He had forgotten to buy a purse to round out his disguise; this was his first opportunity to test the effectiveness of his masquerade.
He was pleased by the result. The matronly sales clerk who sold him the black leather purse never guessed-at least, she betrayed no suspicion.
He boarded a bus that carried him uptown and he was beginning to enjoy his new role as a woman. The aisle of the bus was crowded; several men brazenly rubbed against him. When he finally reached the rear of the bus, a meek-looking white-collar worker offered him his seat. He accepted the seat, flushed a wordless 'thank you', and the men who were seated on the opposite side of the bus promptly began gazing at his legs.
All this filled him with an inward pride. When the bus pulled and jerked and swayed, he knew the men were secretly, looking, hoping that the busses' off balance movements would throw his legs open. He was tempted to tease them, and just before he disembarked from the bus, he did exactly that. He turned in his seat, as though searching for his stop; when he did, his thighs were spread in a brazen V.
Cold air rushed between his naked thighs. He prolonged his look out the window; then turning, he glanced quickly at the men's faces. Their excitement could not be hidden. Faces were florid, eyes slightly bulged; one of the group-an older man-was openly touching himself.
He climbed off the bus at the next stop, walked a half-block, then entered a dimly-lit cafe called The Seven Deuces. He had heard that this place was a hangout for queers; however, he had never known whether the queers were male or female. But now he knew . . .
The minute he entered the place and the warm, dark air hit his face, he knew. He saw women dancing together on a tiny square in front of the bandstand. Their bodies were pressed close, words of endearment floated between them, and a four-piece combo provided music that was mellow and dreamy-bedtime stuff for women who craved women, a melody for perverts, blues rhythm for bitches in heat.
Hate hammered in his heart. His fists balled up. How lovely it would be, he thought, to smash their stinking faces in, to assert himself as a man. But he held it back. He wanted to see more of their sickening display, perhaps learn why he had lost his wife to one of these twisted creatures of inverted lust. Then, if he could separate one or two of them from the crowd, maybe get them outside . . .
He located an empty table and sat down. He was quite amazed by the frank exhibition of lesbianism; but the owner of the place had a gold mine, so he couldn't be blamed for catering to this type of trade. This was probably the only place of its kind in town, a fit gathering spot-and not only in the evening-for those who preferred illicit thrills and forbidden love.
In a few minutes, a waitress came to his table to take his order. She wore a skimpy costume: a black leather skater's outfit, with elbow-length black leather gloves, black opera hose, black high heeled shoes; even her eyes were dark.
He was so completely fascinated by her stark beauty that, for a moment, he simply stared. Her juicy breasts looked like they were ready to burst out of the top of her leather costume; her legs were divinely curvaceous, and he almost reached out and stroked their heavenly flanks. She was about 23-no more-and when she bent forward to wipe off his table, he could sec the pink beginnings of her nipples.
Excitement surged under his panties. A visual throbbing between his legs signalled his maleness. He gazed hungrily at her nipples, visualized his tongue tickling them to hardness. Now her breast was in his mouth and he was sucking . . .
"Darling, you don't have to beg with your eyes. I mean if you're stag...." The waitress flashed him a warm meaningful smile. "...I can fix you up with somebody."
His eyes lit up. He briefly forgot that he was masqueraded as a woman, almost spoke out and said, "Okay, lets go out in the alley and screw." But then he remembered where he was, remembered that she had addressed him as 'darling', that he was dressed as a woman.
"Just bring me a gin highball," he said, hiding his scorn.
"If you want anything else...." Her monstrous breasts swung in front of his face. "...just say the word."
He nodded, explained that he would just like to be alone for a while. But as she swung away from him, passed between the tables and shook her plump buttocks at him, he thought: "Yes, there is something else I'd like. I'd like to take you out in the alley and beat the shit out of you!"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Al had never given much thought as to how Doris had stumbled into a sick reverie of lesbian love, forsaken their marriage for another woman; in fact, he had bitterly tried to forget that warm summer night when he had accidentally walked in on their anguished naked embrace. But now, sitting in this crumby dive with its sick souls and lusting bodies, it occurred to him that this is where it might have all begun. Perhaps Doris had been out shopping; maybe she was flushed and warm, wanted a drink, entered The Seven Deuces.
Sipping his drink, avidly watching women's hands slipping under the tables to play with the inviting thighs of their female companions, he wondered if that's the way it had been with Doris. Had she stumbled into this dreary dive, then been joined by another woman? Was that the beginning of the end?
He pictured Doris sitting at one of the tables, having one drink, then two and three. The drinks would have hit her quickly; she never could drink very well, he thought. And then another woman would have invited herself to Doris's table, made her fitting prey. And were there more drinks then? Was Doris made helplessly drunk, taken to the other woman's apartment?
He flushed it out of his mind. It didn't make much difference how it had happened. The point was it did happen, and after that first time, it must have been like a drug-a stunning aphrodisiac that lulled Doris into a lifetime of lesbian love. How fortunate, he thought, that he had finally caught her. Otherwise, she might have carried on behind his back for-well, maybe 20 years. And maybe longer.
Remembering it, he was filled with growing revulsion. It seemed impossible that slimy creatures like these could steal away your wife, but his own broken marriage was fitting example of the truth. They could and they had.
Bewildered by the ugliness of these truths, he now observed new couples going onto the dance floor. But couples? Queers was a better expression, he thought. Lesbians who were rubbing their bodies together, using the dance floor as a mere excuse for their fervid embraces. He saw two of them kissing. Two more of them had dropped off into the shadows along the wall and were feeling up one another. And there was no limit to their age, he thought. Some of them were barely out of their teens-young secretaries, he supposed-and others were more matronly, perhaps middle-aged housewives.
He watched them through several drinks, and then his attention became riveted to a booth on the far side of the bandstand. An older woman and a much younger girl sat on the same side of the booth; to a stranger they might have been mother and daughter. The younger girl sat on the inside seat of the booth; her only escape would have been under the table, and judging from the frightened expression on her face, the young blonde-haired youngster was anxious for such an escape. However, she was not to be quite so fortunate. The elderly woman plied her with more drinks and as he looked on with increasing anger, he saw the old biddy prying her hot hands between the youngster's clenched knees.
For a moment, he thought the young girl was going to cry out. But the moment passed-that moment and other moments-and the next time he glanced at their booth, the young girl was no longer resisting her heavily-rouged, aged companion. Hot with anger, he saw that the old bitch had pushed up the young girl's plaid skirt and bared her full white thighs. She was openly rubbing the youngster's soft, hot flesh, causing the bewildered young girl to breathe in quick, passion-ridden gasps.
Maybe it was a first time for the youngster, he thought. Maybe she was just the older woman's babysitter, or a youngster who ran errands; but whatever the case, she was now at the mercy of the older woman's experienced hands.
Nobody seemed to be paying them any attention-they were too busy with their own conquests-and now the girl slumped further down in the booth, spreading her legs wider apart, making her moist fruits all the more available.
The old woman was quick to take advantage of her total surrender. She saw the youngster's eyes grow suddenly heavy with passion and drink; her hand darted to its target: a pair of white panties, the throbbing warmth within. Almost immediately, the young girl's rich red lips formed a perfect "O", and he knew that the old bitch had inserted her bony finger into the secret orifice meant for a boy or a man. He couldn't stand to watch it any longer. Rage boiled up inside him. He shoved his chair back, started to rise . . .
"Looking for company?" A short, dumpy-looking brunet stood in front of his table. She was in her 20's and maybe on better days, days when she had less to drink, she might have almost been pretty.
He considered her invitation briefly, then said, "I don't know. I-I was just leaving...."
"Mind if I join you?" She sat down before he could answer, then signalled for a round of drinks.
He didn't stop to consider that she might be One of Them; instead, his eyes were trained on the thin white nylon blouse she wore. How easy it would be to get into that thin fabric, he thought. And her breasts were not half bad. Heavy, but nice. And then he found no himself smiling and the drinks made him somehow forget his disguise.
"I never saw you in here before," the girl said. "You must be new."
He explained that the place was new to him, that he'd just flown in from Chicago.
"Then how did you know where to come?"
That one threw him for a second; then he guessed and said that a taxi driver had told him.
"What's your name?" she asked.
He almost blew the show with that question. He faltered, then managed to gasp, "T-T-Trixie...."
"Mine's Elsa," the girl said, bestowing the waitress with a five-dollar bill for the drinks. "Elsa Anderson."
He started to tell her to get lost, but once again his gaze came back to rest on the wide V of her nylon blouse. Nice boobies and now she was leaning forward to offer him a better view; but how much would she show him if she knew that he was really a man? And then the idea began to take form . . .
He let her do most of the talking, and the liquor had made her quite gabby. She had just broken up with her "butch"; now she was out to celebrate, she said, and this seemed like a likely place to start. And, of course, questions: Was he here alone? Was he attached to anyone at this time? And finally: Did he care if she moved a little closer?
He let himself be made. She was as obvious as a blackjack, he thought. Trying to turn a new trick, wanting him to take a drive in her new Impala that was parked just outside.
"Okay," he said, reaching under the table to run his hand under her skirt. "Only first, lets have a few more drinks."
She didn't balk at his suggestion; in fact, she insisted on buying those drinks, and he could tell she liked what he was doing with his hands-she had spread her legs further apart and she was smiling like a little girl with a new doll.
He ventured further with his hands and he liked the warm fleshy feeling of her thighs. If only she wasn't a lesbian, he thought bitterly; if only . . . and now he blotted out the truth. His fingers pulled aside the elastic ribbing of her thin panties. He found the thick warm growth of hair inside. He fondled her. Then his hand descended slowly and discovered the twitching lips of sin. She was moist with excitement.
Suddenly, she seized his wrist. "You work kind of fast for just a beginner," she moaned.
He felt a wry smile cross his face. He commenced a slow back-and-forth motion between her thighs.
"Maybe we'd better take that ride now," she sighed. "I've got plans for you. Big plans."
He contented himself with a broader smile. He had set her up, he thought. She didn't know it yet, but he had a few plans of his own.
"Why don't you go outside and warm up that car," he suggested. "I'll powder my nose...." He almost giggled when he said it. "...and be out in a couple of minutes."
Elation rode in his companion's eyes. The drink had made her silly; his hands had excited her; she expected an evening of fun. "Hurry, will you? I'm hot!"
"So am I," he said with a wink. "Just get that car warmed up."
She returned his wink. "I'll have everything warmed up, honey. Just hurry."
He waited until she left the table, then he rushed to the ladies' restroom. He wanted to re-check his makeup; he didn't want that dumb lesbian bitch tumbling to the fact that he was a man-at least, not yet.
The restroom was empty and after examining himself in the mirror, he decided to apply a fresh coat of lipstick. This was going to be good, he thought. Real good.
Chuckling to himself, planning what he was going to do to the little bitch outside, he was suddenly startled by the entrance of the mother-and-daughter team that he had observed earlier. Both of them were too drunk to be concerned over his presence; the girl was younger than he had at first suspected-maybe 17.
They staggered past him, fell to a brown leather chaise lounge; the old woman was still pawing the young girl, only now the youngster was protesting. But the liquor had made her very groggy; her weak, incoherent protests fell on deaf ears.
Continuing to play with his make-up, he observed the entire fiasco in the mirror before him. The old girl had had less to drink, she knew how to handle the stuff; more so, she was an expert at seducing young beginners-and the 17-year-old was obviously that.
"C'mon, sweets. Mama knows what's best for her little lambykins. Lookee here." She threw open the zipped black dress she wore. To his surprise, she wore nothing beneath the dress. And the teenager took one horror-filled look, her face flushed; and Al thought she was about to vomit.
"Honey, they're yours. You just reach out and touch 'em and see how nice and soft they are." She bent forward, letting the huge pendulous breasts drop and sway before the youngster's face. The girl tried to push her away.
"I feel sick, Mrs. Wilkins. Please take me home. Please."
The old woman began rubbing the young girl's boobies. "Now doesn't that feel good, my sweets? Just tell me you don't like that."
The girl moaned. She turned her face away.
"Sure you like it." She sat down beside the girl, pushed up her skirt. Now she began running her hands up and down the girl's shining bare thighs. "No boy ever made you feel that good, did he?"
"Honest, Mrs. Wilkins. I gotta go home. I'll get the lis dickens if I don't." She tried pushing the old woman's hands away, but the liquor had weakened her; her resistance was ineffectual.
And the old woman was not to be denied the scent and touch of such sweet innocent flesh-at least, not this late in the game. She had invested heavily in time and drink, the young girl was hers, the time was now.
Stupefied by the nightmarish scene that was taking place behind his back, he continued to gaze in the mirror and make feigning motions with his make-up.
The old woman's movements had suddenly taken on new resolution and strength. She unfastened the teenager's powder-blue button-down sweater Mother putting her tired baby doll to bed. The youngster made vain protests; she was helpless.
In another minute, the old woman had peeled down the sweater, removed the youngster's bra. Now she was standing over the kid, manipulating her pale pink nipples, causing them to swell, causing the youngster to moan; to moan not only in passion, but also in sickness.
He couldn't believe he was actually seeing this, that it was happening before his very eyes. The old woman was oblivious to his presence, either so bent on her conquest that she didn't know he was watching; or else so brazenly unconcerned that she simply didn't care.
"I know you like that, honey," she was saying. "I can tell by the way you're moaning. It feels good and you're just 'fraid to say so, aren't you?"
The youngster was silent, slumping deeper into the chaise lounge, nearly unconscious or-yes, maybe just pretending it to hide her guilt.
"Oh, I can make you feel so good, sweetheart." She began bouncing the youngster's breasts in her hands, squeezing them with bruising roughness, but the girl showed no sign of pain.
Now the old woman bent to her knees, grasped the girl by the hips and slid her forward. She pushed her in skirt above her pink panties, stroked the silk of the tiny undergarment, then rested her cheek against the teenager's crotch. "Oh, you sweet, sweet thing," she moaned. "You just let me take care of you and...." She pulled on the younger girl's panties.
For a moment-just a moment-he forgot he was suppose to be a woman. A throbbing of excitement welled up inside him. Gazing in this mirror, watching the pink panties being guided down the girl's slender hips, a million wonderful thrills surged into his body. A defining hardness pressed against the panty girdle he wore. He wanted to turn and fall all over the ripe teenager, to surprise her, to run his warm tongue over her bare breasts, to bathe his hands in the moistness.
But then the moment passed; instead, he felt compassion and overwhelming pity for the defenseless teenager. But the old woman had no pity. In spite of the young girl's moans, she pulled and tugged at the wispy panties; finally, lowered them to the girl's ankles.
Immediately, she straddled the stricken teenager. She lowered her nipples to those of the girl, pumped her broad pelvis into the teenager's curly locks of maidenhood. Her hands took possessive hold of the youngster's naked buttocks, squeezed and pulled. Now-and to his surprise and disappointment-the youngster began pumping back in earnest. She was enjoying it; she couldn't help herself.
"I told you that you'd like," the old woman whined victoriously. "It feels so good you can't stand it, doesn't it. Say so!"
"I like it," the young girl murmured. "I-I . . . ohhhhh!"
"And you'll like this even better," the aged tutor said, climbing off the teenager and falling to her knees. "You wait and see." And now the haggard old woman bent forward and her face dove between the youngster's thighs. He saw her tongue leap out, saw the contortion of ecstasy that was written on the young girl's face; and suddenly he had had enough.
He whirled around, leaped forward and seized the old woman by her hair. He yanked her to her feet. She screamed and swung out with her meaty arms. He ducked under the blows and sent his fist smashing against her mouth. She fell backwards. Her dental plate broke into little pieces when he hit her again; and now she was choking and gagging on the splintered remains. He pumped his knee into her gut; she began vomiting almost immediately.
Stunned by the rapid-action brawl that had taken place, the youngster now suddenly re-discovered her vocal chords. She let out a loud piercing scream. He slammed his elbow into her nose, watched blood spurt from her face, then she sagged to the floor.
He bolted past them and ran for the door. A crowd was surging toward the restroom; he battled his way around them. A fat mustached blonde blocked his escape to the front door; he slammed her in the face with his handbag and sent her catapulting into a musician's bass fiddle.
"You bastard!" she screamed.
He thumbed his finger at her and broke for the street. Elsa had the Impala humming; he leaped in beside her.
"What the hell was going on in there?" she asked. "Going on?"
"I thought I heard someone scream."
"You did," he said, fighting to regain his breath. "Couple of the girls were making out in the restroom. Guess one of 'em must have hit high-C." He gave her thigh an affectionate squeeze, smiled. "Now wouldn't you kind of like to hit high-C?"
She put her arms around him and gave him a short, but definitive, kiss. "Uh, uh, honey-chile. The note I want to hit-it isn't even on the scale." She smiled.
"But I'll give you a hint. It's down low. Real, real, low. You dig?"
He put his hand under her skirt, ran it up the exciting length of her nylon hose, reached the hot bareness of her thigh. "I dig," he said. "Just take me some place."
"A dark country road?"
"The darker the better," he whispered, and he meant every word of it, because if it was dark enough and desolate enough . . .
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Elsa wheeled the sleek Impala onto Riverton road. She maintained a steady 40 miles-per-hour, sped the car past the mills, past the low-income housing developments, and now she was cutting through the crop of rich, outlying suburbs.
With the dim light of the dashboard to illuminate his movements, he pushed up Elsa's skirt and stroked the quivering flanks of her thighs. Her face was flushed, she wiggled against the pressure of his fingers, and he knew she was hot and ready. But wasn't she in for a surprise, he thought. And wouldn't she scream her friggin' head off when she found out the truth about him? Christ, that moment of exploding discovery would be so delicious that he could almost savor its goodness before it happened. And the look in her eyes . . .
He pushed her skirt higher. New urgency found its way into his finger tips. He pinched the meaty hotness of her spreading thighs. Now his hand advanced to the narrow, moist crotch of her panty girdle.
"You want us to hit a telephone pole?" she said without looking at him. "You keep that up and we will."
He smiled, secretly elated that she was unable to detect his disguise. He had fooled her completely, he thought. The little lesbian tutti-fruity was ready to soar through the roof of the car, so hot she couldn't wait.
"This is my lucky night," he said, removing his hand from between her thighs and venturing to her breasts.
"You mean our lucky night," Elsa said, placing her hand lightly on his thigh.
"How'd you get into this sort of thing?" he asked quite suddenly.
"Now that's a helluva question."
"Why?"
"That sounds like something that some jerk of a man would ask."
"I was just curious," he said innocently.
"Well if you really want to know...." She shot him a quick glance, then returned her attention to the road. "...it was when I went to summer camp. I was just a kid and we had this girl instructor . . . well, she used to come into my tent at night, ask me if I was homesick and stuff like that.
"Then, pretty soon, she . . . well, you know. She just started doing things, kissing me and rubbing me and stuff like that and . . . I just liked it."
"Didn't you ever try boys? Not ever?"
"Are you kidding? Cripes, there wasn't many I didn't try. But what the hell does some raw-assed jerk of a kid know about how a girl feels? They throw on a drug store rubber, bounce up and down on you a couple of times, get their gun off, and then they think they're King Shit. Now what the hell is that suppose to prove?"
He was silent, but the rage had again begun to build; she had nothing but contempt for the male race. She was a born lesbian.
"You take my husband . . . he's the same way."
"Did you say your husband?"
"That's right-my husband."
"But.. . "
"It's easier that way," she explained. "I got tired of relatives always asking when I was gonna settle down and get married, so I did."
"But I thought you didn't. . . "
"Like men?" She stopped at a traffic light, glanced at him and said, "I hate 'em! But. . . " She put the car back into motion. "...this way, I've got no worries.
I don't have to work, I've got spending money, and I have a front. Respectability they call it." And now she laughed cynically. "Sure, I have to let the ol' man get his kicks once in a while, and I loathe every minute of it, but I figure it's worth it."
"Doesn't he know? Doesn't he even guess?"
"He's too stupid to guess the right time. Brilliant at work. A top-flight electrical engineer. But when it comes to women . . . brother!"
"I mean in bed. Can't he tell?"
"How's he going to know? If I pretend like I'm hot and he thinks he's pleasing me...." She sent him a sardonic grin. "Do you know, I've got him believing he's the world's greatest lover since Adam."
"But what about tonight? What does he say when you go out like this?"
"I told you he was stupid, didn't I? Anyway, he's busy working on some kind of a project for the government, and when he gets wrapped up in that kind of thing . . . I just told him I was going to a show." She slowed the car, turned down a narrow gravel road. "Let's not talk about him," she said. "Let's talk about us."
He had carefully concealed his anger up until now, but the task was growing more enormous by the second. She was making an utter fool out of probably the nicest guy in town, doing as Doris had done, using him for a floor mat-nothing more.
They reached a small cutoff, she braked the car, and switched off the lights. He glanced out the window and saw that they were nearly surrounded by trees; the nearest farmhouse was a mere pinpoint of light, maybe a mile away. And this made it perfect, he thought. Yes, just perfect.
"You wanna shot?" she asked, reaching for a flask in the glove compartment. He told her no, sat still while she took several swallows.
"Does that make it easier?" he asked.
"You gettin' smart, or something."
"I just asked."
"Well, I don't need this stuff to get hot. I'm hot and ready whenever you are." She melted into his arms.
He didn't waste any time with her, and she liked his animal aggressiveness.
"You be the boy," she whispered hotly, "and I'll be the girl."
He nodded his assent, thought how much this sounded like two youngsters out in the tall weeds behind the barn. And he knew what she wanted, too. Him on top, licking the cherry-tipped cones of her breasts, pumping his pelvis into hers, pinching her bouncing buttocks, bringing her to the wild edge of climax.
Drawing excitement just from thinking about it, he unbuttoned her blouse and flung it on the back seat. With his anxiousness increasing, he removed her black bra and sank his face between the ballooning mounds of her breasts. She groaned and he pressed her breasts inward on both sides of his face.
"Lick 'em!" she urged. "Hurry and lick em."
His tongue snaked out and teased the mellow pink-ness of her nipple. She wanted him to suck her nipples, but he preferred to tease for a while; so he let his tongue run over them lightly, then he paused and waited for her reaction.
"Ohhh, are you ever a tease!"
"I wasn't trying to be."
"You liar." She grinned at him, pushed his head down to her breast, now forced one of the tempting hot globes into his mouth. "That's better," she moaned. "Now suck!"
He did and she went into a hysterical frenzy. While he continued to feed on the hot mounds of her breasts, she tore frantically at her clothing, didn't stop until she had divested herself of the last garment.
"Take yours off," she urged.
"Let's get in the back seat," he suggested.
"And if somebody happens to drive by and stop...."
"We'll worry about that bridge when we get to it." He pulled back and helped her over the seat. "Hurry," she said, "I'm cold."
He followed after her. "I thought you said you were hot."
"Silly." She extended her arms to him. "Close your eyes," he said. "Why?"
"Cause I have a surprise for you."
"You've got one of those things, haven't you?" she asked excitedly.
He didn't answer her, but he knew what she meant. She thought he was going to put on a dildo, an artificial organ made out of hardened rubber, a favorite plaything in the bizarre world of the lesbian. "Are you going to close your eyes?" he said again.
"Trixie, you're a nut."
For a moment, he thought there was a third person in the car with them; but then he remembered he was Trixie. "You still haven't closed your eyes," he said.
"Okay, so they're closed. Now surprise me. But hurry!"
He raised his dress and pulled down his underclothes. His manhood sprang forth like a young sapling that had been tied to the "ground and was now cut loose. He knelt on the leather seat, gazed at the Venus-like proportions of her body. Why had he always thought that lesbians were hairy, flat-chested creatures whom no man would desire? That was so wrong, he reasoned. Elsa was beautiful-a little drunk-but her body was perfectly shaped; no man would ever guess what she really was, and no wonder she had fooled her husband.
"Can I open my eyes now?" she asked. "Don't you dare." He hunched over her, positioned himself between her outstretched thighs.
"Please don't make me wait any longer," she sighed. "I can't stand it."
The darkness hid the grin that crossed his mouth. He lowered himself slowly, gently. His hardness throbbed at the moist opening of creation. He grasped her buttocks, lowered his mouth to her nipples.
"Aren't you going to take off your clothes?" she whined.
"Later," he said. "Right now...." He eased himself into the hot recess of her body. "How's that?" he asked.
"Ohhhhh, my God!"
"You like?"
"I-it f-feels . . . almost real," she exclaimed. And then she opened her eyes, smiled dreamily. "But better," she sighed. "Better . . . better . . . better!"
He slowly shoved himself in and out of her body. His tongue labored over her breasts. She was breathing rapidly.
"Tell me how it feels," he said. "Tell me."
"Ohhh, how do you . . . how do you describe heaven?"
"That good?"
"Wonderful," she sighed. "Just wonderful." And then: "Can you go faster?"
"As fast as you like," he whispered. "And just as deep, too." He increased the rhythm of his body. Give it all to her, he thought. Jam her up, make her scream.
"It's even warm," she said. "Warm and hard and...."
He went faster. His stomach slammed against hers. He reared back and again rocketed into her body. She groaned.
"You're getting kind of rough."
"I know it," he said, and slammed her again and again. But it wasn't passion now; this time it was hate-hate for her and hate for her kind.
"Close your eyes," he ordered.
"Again?"
"I told you I had a surprise for you."
"Another one."
"Qose your eyes."
"You and your games." She closed her eyes tightly.
It was the triumphant moment he had awaited. He slid the wig off his head. Now he began pumping his body into hers with renewed zeal.
"C-can I open my eyes?"
"Sure," he said, making no further attempt to control the masculine tone of his voice. "Go ahead and open em."
She did and he kept right on pumping his body back and forth, thrusting his hardness deeper and deeper into the hot depths of her body.
She gazed at him in sudden horror. She blinked her eyes like someone coming out of a long sleep. "Y-you . . . you're a man!"
" He laughed. "Just pump, baby! Pump and pump hard."
She thrust her hands up to his chest. "Get off me, you sonofabitch!"
He dug his nails into the fleshy softness of her behind. He pressed his maleness in deeper, "Goddamn you!" Her nails raked his face.
He released one of her buttocks and cuffed her across the mouth. "Take it, sweetheart. Take it and like it."
"You bastard!" she spat. "You get off of me."
But her protests only excited him further. And he wouldn't release her-not now-not until he had consummated the bitter lust that filled his body; not until he heard her scream in utter agony and defeat.
He pounded her with new urgency. And now it was feeling good. And now better....
"You won't get away with this."
He slapped her in the mouth. "Move, goddamn you! Move that ass before I beat the hell out of you."
She pounded her fists on his chest, pulled at his hair.
His hollow laugh filled the car. "C'mon, baby! Give!" His high heels pressed against the car door, secured him greater leverage. He plummeted into her with all the strength of his body, reaching, he knew, depths that had never been touched.
"Ohhhh . . . please! . . . no more."
"But you like it, don't you? You like it and you want it."
"N-no! No, please."
"Yes, you do. And you're gonna come. You're gonna come now.'" He went faster.
"Ohhhhh . . . n-no . . . ohhhh!"
He shoved her everything he had. He grimaced with the mounting passion that gripped him. "C'mon, baby. This is it!"
"Don't . . . I'll get . . . I'll get pregnant."
And who the hell cares? he wondered. He hoped she had a hundred babies, a thousand. "Let it happen, bitch. Let it happen."
He rocked into her with all the force he could muster. Spasms of hot excitement welled up in his throat. Elsa screamed. Agony from his deep penetration was written on her face. He plunged again. She screamed louder. And then he unloaded, exploded, sweet blindness swept over him; and he gushed and squirmed and wiggled, felt the tumultuous rapture of lust both bitter and sweet.
The moment he relaxed, fell sighing across her body, she began to claw and bite him. It was wrong, he thought. It only renewed the venom of his hate.
He struggled up to a sitting position and flung the door open. She clawed at his eyes. He dodged back and seized her wrist.
"Lemme go, you bastard!"
He pulled her up, shoved her out the door. He flung her clothes after and slammed and locked the door. She beat on the window.
"Goddamn you! Lemme in!"
He laughed bitterly and crawled into the front seat.
"Lemme in!"
He glanced at her nakedness and started the engine. Revulsion filled him. Elsa had the clothes clutched in front of her breasts. She continued to beat on the window. He leaned forward, cracked the window an inch.
"Walk, baby. It'll do you good."
"You let me in that car!" It was an order, not a request; it only incensed him to greater laughter.
He shot her a disdainfully sour look. "See if you can find another lesbian," he shouted. "Maybe then you'll get a free ride." And now he laughed, threw the car into forward gear. She ran after him for several feet, and when he again glanced in the rear view mirror, she was still back there on that gravel road, naked, waving her clothes, begging him to come back.
"Die, you bitch!" he thought to himself. "Just die!"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
He drove within a mile of where he lived, then parked the Impala in a shopping center. He walked a block, hailed a taxi, had the driver take him three blocks, past his address. After he had paid the driver, he walked quickly back to his flat, disappeared between the buildings and hurried to his room.
He slept badly that night-too many nightmares-and when he listened to those first early-morning radio news bulletins, saw the morning paper, he felt fright.
According to the radio bulletin, a total of four women had been hospitalized as a result of last night's bizarre, unprovoked incident at The Seven Deuces, a downtown nightery. One of the victims-name withheld, the commentator said-was suffering from shock and exposure. She had been found wandering along the highway just outside of town by a cruiser from the local state patrol. Naked and badly beaten, she alleged that her attacker had stolen her 1964 blue-and-white Impala. The car had not yet been found; the attacker was thought to be a man disguised as a woman, quite possibly the same man responsible for earlier attacks. Indignant police officers promised fast action; an arrest could be expected in a matter of hours. And it was this last little ditty that frightened him so. They could be bluffing but, on the other hand, maybe they had a clue-a clue that would lead them straight to his flat.
He hid the woman's clothing and the wig; he would return the wig to the school building at the earliest opportunity. He brewed some coffee, then examined his face in the bathroom mirror. There were several scratches down the right side of his face, telltale marks that that pig had inflicted last night, but the police could make something out of them, he thought; none of this was good.
He tried to blot all this out of his mind-the crazy events of the last 24 hours-but it was Saturday and there was little to do; just sit here and listen to the radio bulletins and jump to the window every time he heard a police siren somewhere in the distance.
Finally, the fright was too much. He couldn't stand any more of it. He had to talk to someone-anyone-and he decided to phone Mary.
He was chilled to near silence when her father answered the phone.
"Is Mary there?"
"Mary's working," her father said with unmistakable irritation, "and if you don't have anything better to do than get people out of bed on their one single day off...."
"I'm sorry," he said softly.
"You oughta be," her father snapped, and then he hung up.
He dialed the bookstore. Mary answered on the third ring.
"It's me," he said. "H'lo, Al."
"I didn't think you'd be working. You said you were sick yesterday and...."
"I felt better today, so I thought I'd come in."
"Is the boss there?"
"Not yet. But he will be in a few minutes."
"Can you talk?"
"Sure, Al. And her voice sounded nice-nice, the way he remembered it.
And now it felt good to be talking to her again. Like old times, he thought. And he wasn't thinking of lesbians, or his ex-wife, or all the hate that burned inside him; he was thinking of Mary, the plain girl with the simple smile-probably the one person in this stinking world who really loved him. His fear was suddenly remote.
"I did want to apologize for the other night," he said boyishly.
"You already apologized once," she reminded him. And now there was a tinkle of laughter in her voice.
"But...."
"Please forget it, Al. I understand. Only...."
"Only what?"
She paused. "You worry me, Al." That was nothing, he thought. He even worried himself.
"What was she like, Al."
"She?"
"Your ex-wife."
"What made you bring that up?" he said, trying to hide the anger that lurked behind the words.
"You," she explained. "Sometimes . . . well, the way you act, Al . . . you know, all moody and everything . . . like the other night, for instance . . . i-it's like you were thinking of her and . . . well, do you remember when we were...." She struggled for less graphic words. "...we were on the couch and . . . Al, your eyes were all wild . . . Al, were you thinking of her? Is that why you were so rough?"
She had pinpointed the truth, but now he didn't want to talk about it; he didn't want to be reminded of what a fool he had been, how he had loved and how he had lost-worse, lost to another woman.
"Do you wanna go to a show tonight?" he said with sudden brusqueness.
"You're changing the subject."
"But I don't want to talk about it."
"Was she pretty, Al?"
He was momentarily silent. Then, his voice and mind strangely remote, he said, "She was beautiful. Beautiful beyond words."
Now it was Mary's turn to remain silent. After a pause, she said, "Did she like you to be rough with her in bed? Is that why . . . Al, were you pretending that I was her? Were you?"
His temper suddenly exploded. "Is that what you think?"
"I only asked," she answered innocently. "Okay, and I'm telling you. Quit bugging me about it. You got screwed and I said I was sorry...."
"Al!"
"Well what else do we call it? Do you want me to say I fornicated with you? Would that be better."
"Al?"
"Or maybe you'd rather we erected a shrine, huh? In fitting memory of Mary's cherry, lost on . . . what was the date sweetheart?"
The phone went dead.
"Hello?"
Still dead.
"Hello?" He slammed it down. The hell with her! And then the silence closed in on him. Silence and loneliness; finally, fear.
He puffed vacantly on a cigarette, suddenly wondered why he'd been so ill-tempered with her when she'd brought up his ex-wife. He decided to phone her back and apologize. He did.
"I can't talk to you now," she whispered, and then she hastily explained that her boss had arrived at the store.
He wanted to ask her about lunch, or maybe a show tonight. "And. Al."
"Yes."
"I hate to ask this," she whispered, "but do you suppose . . . Al, that money I loaned you. Could you pay some of it back today?"
Anger crept back. Was that why she had been so nice to him when he'd first phoned? Money? "I'll pay you back," he said coldly. "Don't worry about it."
"I hated to ask," she said in nearly a whisper.
Yes, I'll bet you did.
"I've gotta go now," she said faintly. "The boss is giving me dirty looks."
"Mary?" But it was too late; she'd already hung up.
* * *
He remained in his room until two in the afternoon. His bi-monthly check from the school board arrived in the Saturday mail; so he'd be able to pay Mary at least half of the loan, save her the danger of a heart attack. That was all that she was worried about, he told himself. Pay her back and forget her, he thought. Forget all of 'em. There wasn't a decent bitch on the face of the earth.
He went to an afternoon movie. No need to worry about the cops, he thought. They didn't really know anything; they were bluffing, making brash promises to an irate public; he was as safe as a babe in a cradle.
The movie didn't interest him and even if it had, he couldn't have heard the spoken lines. There were too many kids present, too much commotion.
After a spell, his interest switched to the juveniles in the audience. They spilled up and down the aisles when the screen action became dull; many of them openly necked in the dark corners along the walls. He was, at first, surprised that the management didn't put a stop to what some of the young girls were doing with their pick-ups; however, a bit of reasoning told him that the manager couldn't afford to stop them. The kids were the theatre's bread-and-butter. If he banned necking, the kids would pack up their black jackets and simply go to another theatre. In time, a mass exodus like that could wreck his business. So why complain?
To see more of what was going on, he moved down into the shadows along the right side of the theatre. His sudden presence went unnoticed; he felt he would have been mobbed even if he had said anything.
He noticed, too, that some of the girls were no more than 13-years-old. But that was old enough to know how to neck. And maybe there wasn't much to feel not on a 13-year-old but several of the boys were eagerly anxious to find out. The little girl in the row ahead of him, for instance, was being sought by two boys at the same time. One of the boys was kissing her, feeling her breasts; the other one was sliding her skirt back, rubbing her slender thighs.
The girl giggled, put up a mock protest really, no protest at all and they stopped only when the usher made a routine walk down the aisle. When the usher was out of their range, they giggled and started again; he properly guessed that the girl would be screwed by both of the boys before she reached the safety of her home.
Suddenly, two young girls squeezed into the row of seats just behind him. He didn't bother to turn around, but he could feel the pressure of their knees against the back of his seat, and he knew that if he did turn around, he'd be gazing straight down to the purposely exposed pink of their panties. They'd do that to a guy, he thought. Little girls. But they knew how to flirt, how to excite a guy. They'd sit next to him just for kicks, pull their skirts up, show off, just tease and just for the hell of it, and they were doing it now.
He resisted the temptation to turn around and see the free show that they'd almost certainly be offering; he wouldn't give them that satisfaction, he thought. So, instead, he simply sat there and listened to their conversation.
"...you should see how he kisses . . . just like an old fish."
"Did he touch you?"
"Sure, stupid."
"Where?"
"Why should I tell you?"
"Here?"
"That tickles."
"Is that where he touched you."
"Not so loud."
"Whatsa matter?"
"That man . . . d'ya want him to hear you?" Giggles. And now: "Do you know where else it feels good?"
"Sure. Do you think I'm a dummy, or something."
"Maybe you are." Laughter. "Oh, yeahhhhh."
"Yeahhhh!"
And now they were banging against his seat, wrestling, giggling, feeling each other's bodies.
"Shhhhh . . . he'll hear you."
There was more giggling. "Damn you, Sarah Jane. Stop pulling my dress up!"
And more giggling. "I see somebody's underpants." the one girl chanted.
"And I see yours'. " And more scuffling. And giggling.
He spun around in his seat. The two young girls were grappling at each other's underclothing. He saw their flushed faces, hands dipping into pink honey-boxes, heard their laughter.
Hate surged fresh and sharp in his mind. He jumped from his seat, ran up the aisle and fled through a side door exit. When he was in the alley, he bent over and retched. Then, miserable and angry, he stumbled back onto the street. There was no limit to when they began their sickening practices, he thought. As soon as they were in their teens, conscious of sex, they began. And that was the time to catch them, he thought. Catch them before their evil roots, had a chance to spread; before they took others along with them like the way an experienced lesbian had robbed him of his wife.
But he'd fix their evil asses, he thought. The junior high school where he was janitor was loaded with them. He'd fix 'em and fix 'em good.
He entered a drug store and looked up the principal's home phone number.
"Mr. Pfeiffer?"
"Yes."
"This is Al. Al Downing."
"Something is wrong at the school?"
"Well, not exactly. But there's some work that should be done on the boilers . . . I thought I'd go in on Sunday and do it and . . . well, I wanted to let you know."
"Of course, Al. In fact, giving up your day off . . . it can't wait until Monday?"
"It could," he explained, "but I didn't have anything planned for tomorrow, so...." s
"Well I'm certainly glad you called me, Al. And we'll certainly see that you're compensated. You know that."
"Thank you, Mr. Pfeiffer. Thank you very much."
He hurried out of the drug store and went to a radio supply shop.
"Can I help you?" the sales clerk asked.
"Yes," he said, stepping up to the counter. "I'd like an inexpensive speaker and about 50-foot of wire."
The clerk filled out an invoice. "Will that be all."
"No, I'll need some heavy-duty electrical wire and...."
"Yes?"
"A microphone. A good one."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
By Sunday night, everything was ready. He had spent most of the day rigging the microphone in the ventilator of the shower room, then hooking up the speaker inside the paint locker. He had also framed in the trick two-way mirror, put fresh mortar around its outer edges; and he was pleased with the professional competency of his project. No one would ever guess.
He washed up, brewed some coffee, then he heard the light rap at the door. It was Mary.
"I tried to get you on the phone," she said, standing in the doorway and seeming embarrassed.
"I was out," he explained. He opened the door wider. "Cmon in."
"I can't, Al. I don't have much time and . . . Al, could you pay me back some of that money now? My sister is coming to town...."
Without looking at her, he reached for his wallet.
"I wasn't going to tell you," she rattled on, "but I borrowed part of the money from the register at the bookstore and . .
He counted out fifty dollars. "I'll give you the rest of it next Friday, and if I ever borrow another goddamn cent from you, I'll have my head examined."
"Al!" Her eyes filled with despair.
"You got your money." And now he had no more to say.
"Al, if my sister wasn't coming in to town...."
"Is she a lesbian, too?" he asked.
Her expression changed from despair to puzzlement. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about the whole goddamn lousy world. Stinking lesbians, that's what."
"Air-He slammed the door in her face. The hell with her. The hell with all of 'em.
But she was pounding on the door again. "Al, let me in. I've got to talk to you."
"Go away," he shouted. "Just leave me alone."
And in another minute, he was alone completely alone. He stood at the window and watched her frail shadow disappear in the night; love was gone, but so what? Could he ever really trust her? Could he trust any woman? What the hell good was love?
He felt miserable. Hate didn't get rid of hate; it only made more hate. Beating up the lesbian bitches didn't soothe him for long. The more of them he attacked, the more he wanted to attack. And yet that was the only way to win, he thought. The only way.
He put on his coat and went out. He wasn't going to think of Mary. Maybe he'd been rough on her rough without a reason but now he'd ridded himself of her; in any case, she was better off. He could never love her, he thought. Love was for fools-fools and lesbians.
With his anger now requiring new appeasement, he located a pimp in a downtown bar. He was a little guy with a sickly white complexion. They had a drink and Al told him what he wanted: Two girls. He wanted to watch them goof around with each other.
"That's all?" the pimp asked. "Just goof around."
"That's what I said, isn't it?"
"Sure, chum. Just asking. Don't get huffy."
Al handed him twenty dollars. "Where at?"
"Just follow me," the pimp said, stuffing the twenty in his checkered coat. He shot Al an odd glance.
"What are you looking at? Did you see something that amused you?" His fists were balled up.
"Pal, you got me all wrong. I wasn't looking at you in any special way. I mean...."
"Lets get going," he said.
"Sure, pal. Right away."
* * *
The pimp led him to a tenement down in the factory district. They went up a narrow, dimly-lit stairway. Al waited outside in the hallway, while the pimp entered one of the flats to give instructions.
In another minute, the pimp came out, motioned him inside. "Have fun, pal."
"I will," he promised gravely. "I'll have all kinds of fun."
He entered a small perfumed two-room flat. The front room doubted as a bedroom, and the two whores were Sally and Betty.
He was unimpressed by them, but that was of no importance, he thought. They were the run-of-the-mill factory-town whores: Both of them were in their late 30's, bleached blondes who wore thick layers of make-up to cover the advent of wrinkles. He smelled a mixture of gin and cheap perfume, sat in the dumpy lounge chair they pointed out to him, and readied himself to watch them perform.
There was no waiting period. They wore thin kimonos-nothing underneath. Sally, the heavier of the two blondes, told him, "Twenty minutes, bud. That's all."
He didn't argue. Twenty minutes twenty dollars. But he wouldn't need that much time; two minutes would be quite enough.
They stood naked and faced each other. They had left on their spike-heeled shoes, but that was all. There were no spoken words, no smiles, no nothing. Their performance was routine they had probably enacted this same sickening scene a thousand times. Maybe they had even performed for stag movies; and they were skilled, but they were also bored.
They played with each other's heavy breasts, danced and squirmed their naked bodies together; finally, fell heavily to the wide bed that filled most of the small room.
The whole thing sickened and angered him. And when they reversed themselves, his rage hit the boiling point. Their pale tongues were probing deeply into each other's exposed love nests, stealing the precious fruit that belonged to man.
He bolted out of the chair, grabbed the one called Sally, by her hair. A scream boiled up in her throat; he smashed her in the mouth before it ever came out.
The other blonde struggled to her knees and encircled his neck. He drove two rapid-fire punches into her gut and watched her fold over and gag.
The other one kicked him in the groin with the sharp spike of her high heel shoe. He doubled over in pain. His eyes filled with tears. Sally jerked off the shoe and swung it at his head. He side-stepped the blow and seized her wrist. He gave a violent twist, heard the splinter of bone. She screamed. The pimp bolted through the door.
He spun around and caught the pimp savagely on the forehead. The pimp went down and he rabbit-punched him before he hit the floor. The whores screamed. He ran for the doorway, the hallway, then the street. And he didn't stop running until he had reached the dark safety of his flat. Then, bathed in sweat, he flung himself across the couch and cried.
It was a long and bitter cry, one that no one heard; and when it was at last over, when he sat up and stared vacantly at the shadows that played along the wall, he knew that this hatred was now something less than normal. It was an obsession, a mania to destroy them. And it wouldn't arrest itself, he thought, until he had removed the seed of the hate: those young tramps at school.
Once again, and all too clear, he envisioned the young teenagers rubbing each other's bodies. He heard their sighs, saw panties being slipped down their narrow thighs, smelled the musky scent of their hotness, and wasn't this the way he had lost his wife? And not just his wife, he thought bitterly. Everything.
But tomorrow . . . yes, tomorrow he would fix everything. He'd get behind that two-way mirror, find out who they were and then . . .
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was the greatest show on earth, he told himself. Standing within the enclosed darkness of the paint locker the following morning, he watched the seventh-grade girls' gym class undressing; the trick two-way mirror was as effective as a pane of ordinary window glass. They couldn't see him, but he could see them and plenty!
There were about 30 of them, he judged. All sizes and all shapes. A peculiar excitement leaped into his loins as he watched them stripping out of their street clothes. He couldn't decide which of them to watch; and it was like standing before a parade, gazing at the briefly-clad majorettes who marched by so quickly, wanting to glimpse all of them, but the speed of the march made it impossible.
It was that way now. Confusion reigned. They had a scant five minutes to disrobe, attire themselves in gym suits, then race upstairs to the gymnasium.
He was surprised by the maturity of their breasts. They didn't remove their bras there was no need; at least, not until they took their showers but he was still able to see the round lush beginnings of their breasts.
And now the skirts came off. Christ, 30 skirts, 30 girls, and who the hell was he supposed to watch? He touched himself and was not surprised by the throbbing presence of his maleness. Pink panties, white panties, black panties. Tanned thighs, buttocks that protruded from the rear end of those panties he was ready to blow sky-high.
But now they were scampering into the gym suits, HO blue cotton outfits that spoiled his excitement and hid the delights of their bodies. Only it wouldn't be for long, he thought excitedly. In 35-minutes, the gym class would be over; they'd be back here in the locker room, removing those same suits and this time they would take everything off. Then he would find out who the lesbians were; he'd find out everything.
Unfortunately, the happy event did not come off. Mr. Pfeiffer wanted to see him. He cursed his luck and hoped the talk would be a short one. However, with the constant interruptions, the talk took over an hour. Pfeiffer wanted to personally thank him for devoting his day off to repairing the boilers was everything now okay?
Al explained that he couldn't be certain. He wanted to watch the boilers closely; he would probably remain in the basement through much of the week.
Pfeiffer again thanked him, he was about to leave, and then word was sent down that a third-floor thermostat was not working properly. He repaired the faulty thermostat, but he was forced to forego the pleasure of spying on the first two gym classes taking their end-of-the-period showers. But all was not lost. In the chaos of class-changing, he saw Debbie Harmon spurting for the second floor stairway going down. With a clever maneuver that went apparently unseen, he managed to hook his shoe at the inside of her ankle. He heard her scream as she toppled down the stairs; then he merged into the hallway crowds and disappeared to the basement.
His success with Debbie Harmon called for a fresh cup of coffee a sort of toast to revenge. Maybe she had smashed her goddamn skull in, he thought hopefully, and it served her right.
He spent the rest of the morning in the paint locker, coming out only long enough to pour coffee from his thermos, then rushing back to the trick two-way mirror.
During the noon lunch hour, he worked on the wiring that led into the speaker it wasn't as clear as he would have liked but he was finally forced to give up. At least, he could see them and that was more important than hearing them.
The sixth-period gym class was composed of eighth-graders; the display of nakedness when they stripped for their showers was the best he had yet seen. There was less shyness than he had observed in the seventh-graders, they seemed almost eager to strip, and as he watched them prance and frolic toward the showers, he was consumed with a fiery excitement more wonderful than he had ever known. He felt like a Sultan in the midst of his teenage harem, a Peeping Tom who had the choice of sights.
Their breasts were noticeably more full. They jiggled more seductively, the nipples were a deeper pink, and when the girls emerged from the shower, he immediately saw how hard those nipples were. It made him want to reach through the fake mirror and touch them, to really and truly sample their hardness; yet that was quite impossible.
Instead, he watched them towel themselves. The joy and pleasures of this nearly drove him out of his mind. When the young girls reached over their heads to dry their backs, began the back-and-forth shoe shine movement, their upturned breasts bounced crazily in front of his eyes. And then the towels dropped to their curvy buttocks; it was like a slow motion hula.
But now-now the best part of all, he thought he saw them rubbing themselves between their legs. They must get dry, he thought. Don't catch cold down there, and one girl a short blonde was making very certain that she didn't catch cold. She was rubbing herself longer than necessary down there, and none of the others seemed to be noticing what she was really doing.
And now she was rubbing the towel faster, harder.
She shot a furtive glance at the girls beside her, then continued. In another minute, her lips parted, her face contorted; and then she pressed inward on the towel. Eyes closed, she sat down on the hard wooden bench and began to towel her legs.
It would be great to have that towel, he thought. Then when he, himself, took a shower he could dry himself with the same towel, touch himself with it; and now he made a mental note to steal it from her locker at the earliest opportunity.
He was disappointed now that he hadn't seen anything of a lesbian nature; that, after all, was the thing he had sought. But then he noticed that two of the girls closest to the mirror were taking more time dressing than any of the rest.
One of them had chestnut hair, pale blue eyes and very light skin. She was shorter than most of the others in her class; her tiny waist and fragile features lent an almost gargantuan quality to her top-heavy breasts. She had now climbed into her panties rose colored ones with green trim but she was fumbling with the straps of her bra and the delay seemed intentionally meant for the larger girl at her right.
She was much taller, large-boned and dark-haired; he thought she might have easily passed for 18. Her skin was more coarse than her companion's, all of her features were more garishly dramatic: heavy eyebrows, broad nostrils, spatulate fingers; the aura of masculinity was unmistakable.
One-by-one, the other girls filtered out of the shower room and hurried on to their classes, but the two he had been watching remained behind. The larger girl had dressed; the other one was still fumbling with her bra. Now she started to speak and he promptly increased the volume on the speaker and hidden microphone.
"We're gonna catch hell for cutting English. I already got six cut slips from old lady Yorkshire, and if I get one more...."
"Tell her you got sick."
"Both of us?"
"So who's worried." The larger girl circled the wooden bench and came up behind her companion. She placed her hands on the other girl's shoulders. "You can stop playing with that bra now." She reached downward and drove her hands inside her friend's bra.
The lighter-haired girl flinched. "Suppos'n somebody comes?"
"I already told you there's no seventh-period gym class."
"But Mrs. Burton could come down here and...."
"Mrs. Burton is at a faculty meeting. D'ya think I don't know what goes on around this dump?" She tweaked the nipples of her friend. "Feel good?"
"Sure . . . only...."
"You wanna get in the Hi-Queens, don't you?" Her hands became bolder, cupped and squeezed the generous offering of her teenage friend.
"You know I do, Diana. Cripes, I've been trying to get into your dopey club for almost the whole semester."
"It ain't dopey, Roberta, and if any of the other girls heard you say that, you wouldn't get in at all."
Diana was immediately apologetic. "You won't tell 'em, will you?"
"Not if you don't want me to." She pressed her pelvis against the brunet's back. She had peeled down the bra. Now she was rubbing the nipples between her fingers. '. 'Did-you ever do it with a boy?"
"No," she said shyly. "Not all the way."
"Did he do this?"
"Uh, huh."
"Did you like it?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "It was all right, I guess."
"But not as nice as this, huh?"
Roberta drew her shoulders together. She squeezed her eyes shut in a sudden abandonment to pleasure.
"You didn't answer me," the tall masculine aggressor said.
"I think it's wonderful," Roberta said. "It really sends you, you know."
"It's supposed to." Suddenly, she straddled the bench and sat piggy-back behind her companion. With one hand, she manipulated her companion's breasts; the other hand delved into her wispy nylon panties.
Al pressed his face against the trick two-way mirror. His eyes blazed, his chest swelled with hate. "The bitches!" he hissed.
"...and if I get you in the club," Diana was saying, "you just remember you belong to me. Nobody else lays their hands on you unless I give the word. Do you understand?"
"Sure, only...."
"What?"
"Do that some more," the younger girl urged. "You mean with my...."
"Yeah!" Roberta breathed dreamily. "Only do it faster."
The dark haired girl was quick to comply. Her hand dropped deeper into the younger girl's panties. Her strokes were rapid, intent. "I knew you'd like that. I just knew it."
The inexperienced younger girl's eyes swooned. Her hands clenched down on the wooden bench on which she sat. "I-it's terrific!"
"And this is nothing," her lesbian tutor said. "When you get in the club, then you'll find out about everything."
"Do you think they'll . . . ohhhh...."
"Whatsa matter?" Diana asked innocently. "Are you kidding?" the younger girl said, clamping her legs together on her companion's hands.
"D'ya want me to stop."
"I-I don't know . . . I . .
Suddenly, the older girl withdrew her hand from her partner's panties. She pulled her young friend to her feet. They locked in a feverish embrace. "That's just a sample, Roberta. Friday, after they let you in the club...."
"What if I don't get in?"
"You will. But you gotta be initiated."
"But what if I don't pass?"
"But you will that is, if you do what they tell you."
"Will I have to take off everything."
"Naturally, you drip."
"But I'm scared."
"You wanna get in the club, don'tcha."
"You know I do."
"All right, then. There's nothing to it. Friday, after your last period, you come down here to the shower room."
"What about the gym teacher."
"She leaves early on Friday. We'll have the whole place to ourselves."
"What about the janitor?"
"We've got plans for him. Big plans."
"But...."
"C'mere. I'll show you what they do at the initiation."
The younger girl obeyed. She followed her companion to the other side of the wooden benches.
"Now kneel down."
"Like this?" the younger girl said.
"That's right. Only when you get initiation, you won't have any pants on. None of us will." She approached her kneeling pupil. "Then you have to kiss us. One-by-one." She raised her skirt.
"There?" She shot her girlfriend an incredulous glance.
"You said you wanted to be in the club. And that's the rules." She lowered her panties, pushed her pubic region in the younger girl's face. "Kiss me, Roberta. Now!"
"Do I have to?"
The older girl's face filled with scorn. "Dammit, do as I say!"
Roberta swallowed. Her eyes brimmed with fear. Timidly, she puckered her lips, closed her eyes. Diana seized the back of her friend's head and forced her lips to make the vital contact of mouth against body. "Mmmmmm, that's good!" Diana's eyes swam. "And don't stop, Roberta. You need the practice. Lots of it!"
A noise in the basement startled him. He spun away from the trick two-way mirror and dropped to his knees. He heard footsteps. Now a pause. And then the footsteps again this time, hurrying in the opposite direction.
He waited a moment, then emerged from the paint locker. There was a note under his thermos bottle. He picked it up, read it.
"We know you tripped Debbie and made her fall down the steps. We'll get even with you, you sonofabitch! Just wait and see."
He crumpled the note up and threw it in the waste-basket. So they thought they could threaten him, huh? Well, he'd fix 'em. When they had their secret little initiation this Friday, he'd fix the whole stinking bunch of them. For good.
And now he sat down to think how it would be done; how, in one sweeping, dramatic act of destruction, he could finish their lot. This would be his salvation, he thought; it never occurred to him that it would also be mass murder. But even if it had even if the foulness of murder had risen from his mind, suddenly appalled him with its dire consequences, he would not have stopped with his evil plan. It was too late for that, now; too late for everything. And the wheels of destruction were already in motion. Now it was simply a matter of time and place and manner. And there would be no turning back, he thought. Not now . . .
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
He completed his plan that same night. And, Christ, wasn't it a beauty? So simple, too. So simple that he had almost overlooked it. A recipe for boiled lesbians.
Early Tuesday morning, he traced the lines in the school's plumbing system, made sure it would work. There was nothing to indicate to the contrary. He could malfunction the safety valve in the girl's shower room, exceed the maximum safety pressure . . . he would have to foul up the electrical relay, loosen one fitting, but . . . it had to work. And if he locked just one door the exit from that shower room those stinking lesbians would be trapped in there and boiled alive.
He was elated with the utter simplicity of the plan. Best of all, it would seem like an unfortunate accident. And toward that end, he laid all the pieces carefully in place.
On Wednesday afternoon, he stalked angrily into the principal's office. Making certain that others would hear and remember the angry conversation, he said, "Mr. Pfeiffer, that safety relay in the girl's shower room isn't worth a damn! I don't know how many times I've asked for a replacement. Why can't we get one?"
Pfeiffer's chins bobbed up and down. "Al, I had no idea...."
"I've been complaining about it for over two months," he lied, again making sure that others in the office heard his angry voice. "Do you realize how dangerous that is? Why if that boiler pressure went out of control and the safety mechanism failed Pfeiffer, those girls would be boiled alive!" if?
Pfeiffer's face colored. He was being bawled out before the others; he was obviously embarrassed. "Al, I'll personally attend to it at once. I'll make out a requisition, we'll get new parts . . . you know, I've so much on my mind and...." He reached into his desk for a requisition form. He glanced at others who were watching him. "...I'm sorry it slipped my memory, Al. I'll take care of it right away. Yes sir, right away."
Al smiled as he hurried out of Pfeiffer's office. It had been so simple to bluff the fairy bastard, he thought. And the requisition-it would take over a week for new parts to be shipped in and by that time . . . yes, it would all be over.
For the remainder of the afternoon, he studied the basement exits. There was only one slight hitch to be worked out. He wanted to watch the slaughter from behind the trick mirror. At the same time, he didn't want to be anywhere near the school. But how could he be at two places at once? It was important that he be off the premises when the accident occurred no way to tie him in but how could he also be on hand to enjoy their hysterical screaming and see their naked lesbian bodies boil to a lobster red? Yes, how?
He spent most of Wednesday night studying the problem. He sat in the cold darkness of his room, chain-smoked his way through two packs of cigarettes, but he was unable to come up with a plausible solution. He could hide in the paint locker, watch the show; but when the accident occurred, the authorities would want to know why he hadn't heard their screams and why he hadn't done something about it. On the other hand, if he simply slipped out of the building before the authorities arrived, there was a great likelihood that someone would see him. So he had to think of something else.
He continued to probe for an idea during the next day at school. He spent most of his hours in the basement, sipped coffee from the thermos that was always on top of his desk, wondered why his mind couldn't develop an idea. But how to be in two places at once? Yes, how, how, how, how, how?
And basically, it was simple.
The idea occurred to him on that same afternoon when he was leaving the building. Perhaps, its simplicity was the very quality which had caused him to overlook it. And now that his mind had finally given forth with this elusive plan, he saw that it was possible to be in two places at the same time. Very possible, indeed. The whole thing was a matter of optics optical illusion something that stupid cops would never dream of. Not in a million years.
* * *
Mary phoned him that same night. "I miss you, Al. Nothing is the same without you. Nothing."
It was good to hear her voice again. Surprised by her call, he now realized that he was glad she still cared enough to phone. It melted away some of his loneliness, almost made him forget his devilish scheme. "I kind of missed you, too, Mary. I-I...."
"Al, is it too late for us? Have we stopped loving?"
The word 'loving' put a brake on his emotions. Did he dare love another woman as long as lesbians strolled the city's streets, even haunted the school corridors where he worked? Did he dare?
"Mary...."
"Al, could we go out tomorrow night. Just any place? Could we?"
Like old times, he thought. Hold hands, walk slowly along the avenue; pause, now stand quietly in the darkness, exchange those wondrous, longing looks of love nobody ever looked at him like Mary did, except . . . , "I-I don't know. I mean...."
"Please, Al. Please."
He didn't like her to beg and if those memories of the past would just leave him alone . . . But wasn't it Emil who had said: A man has to rid himself of hate before he can again learn to love. And wasn't it true?
"Mary, I'll call you tomorrow night. Okay."
"You promise?"
"Yes," he said softly. "I promise."
"And make it the afternoon, Al. At the bookstore. Then, if we're going out, I can leave work early and be all ready."
"Okay," he said tiredly. "I'll call you in the afternoon."
"You promise?" she said again like a small girl. "I promise."
"Cross your heart and hope to die."
"Cross my heart and hope to die."
"I love you, Al."
"And I love you," he said, and this time it seemed sincere.
"Say it again."
"What?"
"What you just said."
He grinned at the mouthpiece of the phone. Then his face grew suddenly serious. "I love you, Mary. I really, really do." And then he said 'goodbye' and hung up.
And now? He had to purge himself of hate, he thought. And tomorrow afternoon he would. He would not only divest himself of hate; he would also rid the world at least, this town -of the lesbian cruds that fed on other women. And no one would ever steal Mary, he thought. No one!
He picked the phone back up and dialed Pfeiffer at his home. This was part of his plan for being in two places at once tomorrow; Pfeiffer was a stupid and gullible bastard who would believe anything Al told himself.
"Pfeiffer?"
"Yes, Al. I was just leaving...."
"I wanted you to know I'm leaving the building early tomorrow. I've a few things to attend to, so I'll come in a few hours early to make up for the time."
"Al, that's not necessary. You've already worked overtime without being paid for it, so if you want to leave early...."
"Just the same, Mr. Pfeiffer, I'd feel better about it if I came in early. That way, no one has got any kick coming."
"Well, if that's what you want...."
"That's what I prefer," he said, with dramatic emphasis on the verb. "I'll be in the building at five in the morning."
Pfeiffer agreed to his request, thanked him for the call, said that he'd see him at school. Now, Al hung up, whistled, made a fresh pot of coffee for tomorrow's thermos. It would be strong, setting overnight, but that was the way he liked it.
* * *
He arrived at the school building even earlier than planned some fifteen minutes before five. Every nerve fiber in his body was keyed to its peak. His mind was clear, his reflexes sharp; he was the cunning athlete who was trained and ready for the Big Event. Justice was finally his.
Entering the girl's shower room, he tampered with the safety valve on the main boiler outlet, bending the stem so that it couldn't possibly operate. He had brought pipe wrenches along; now he loosened one of the fittings on the overhead lines.
With this much of the project now completed, he stalked out of the shower room and made his way to the electrical boxes that controlled the boilers.
He aimed his flashlight inside the control box. Later today about noon he would loosen the electrical contact in the relay shut-off. This would jam the primary safety mechanism. In effect, it would be like a furnace without a thermostat. It would heat and heat and heat. By late afternoon, the pressure in the lines would exceed the danger point and seek the outlet of least resistance in this case, the fitting he had loosened in the girl's shower room. Hot, scalding steam would drench the girls during their lesbian orgy and by the time help arrived he burst out laughing. What help? The building would be empty. Just him behind that trick two-way mirror; that was all. And the best part of it: It wouldn't be he behind that mirror not really. Al Downing had left the building at two o'clock. Many would see him and many would remember. So being there and yet not being there this was the most artful phase in his entire plan.
Sitting at his desk, he calmly read the morning paper. The news of the mysterious street attacker had faded to the inside pages: the usual crap from the police bureau an arrest was imminent.
Laughing, he put the paper aside and opened his thermos. He drank two cups, preferring to save the rest until later; then he stood at the window and watched the first of the teenagers arriving at school.
Never had the sight of them so stimulated him. He found their boobies particularly pleasing to the eye, and when they swirled past in their short, tight skirts, he crept out of sight and gazed upward under their clothes. That area of flesh where the rolled up hose squeezed in on their young thighs wasn't that the most exciting thing in the world? And how many of them were lesbians? he wondered. How many of them would never see the fall of night? He hoped none of them.
Noon couldn't come quickly enough, and when it did he went directly to Pfeiffer's office to remind him that he was leaving early. He wanted to make certain that others heard it; he didn't fail.
When he returned to the basement, he loosened the contact in the electrical box. The boilers were now on their own, so to speak; the pressure would build and build. By four o'clock, the girl's shower room would explode with hell.
He skipped lunch; he was too excited to eat and there were still a few items to attend to. One of them was readying the paint locker. Now opening the padlock, he pulled back on the metal door and entered its darkness. He removed the paint cans, displaced the bricks and exposed the mirror. The stage was set.
He again locked up the small room; now he checked the time. Only 12:30, so he decided to phone Mary early, surprise her. He did, but she was out to lunch. Well, he'd call later, he thought. After IT was over. By then, he'd feel fine. Just fine.
At two o'clock, and as planned, he left the school building and hurried to his Providence street flat. He stripped out of his clothes; fifteen minutes later, he was disguised as a woman. That was the beauty of his plan, he thought. He could now re-enter the school building maybe a parent being called to school because of their unruly youngster and no one would guess it was he, Al.
He checked himself over in the mirror; everything was perfect: the wig, the dress, the make-up, the whole bit. And there was even time for a cup of coffee. He reached for his thermos, then panicked. He'd left the damn thing on his desk at school! Christ! If the police . . . what the hell was the matter with him? he wondered. So he'd forgotten the stupid thermos bottle. So what? There was nothing incriminating about that. He'd simply leave it there, bring it home Monday night.
He killed another thirty minutes waiting; he didn't want to get back there too soon. Besides, he kind of liked the feeling of the nylon panties on his bare thighs. It did something to him-something exciting.
At three o'clock maybe a little after he reentered the building and slipped quietly to the basement. He removed the keys to the paint locker from his purse and opened the door. If someone came down here unexpectedly, he could then jump out of sight.
Elated that the time was drawing near, he examined the pressure gauges on the main boiler. They were nearing the danger point; his timing was stupendous, he thought. Simply stupendous.
At three-thirty everything on schedule and why not? the school emptied out; all except the loiterers and, of course, the lesbian Hi-Queens. It would be another twenty minutes, or so, before they began congregating in the girl's shower room; that gave him time for the much wanted cup of coffee. His thermos was where he'd left it, of course, but the coffee was bitter and rancid just too many hours in that damn thermos, he supposed.
Nevertheless, he drank it down; then he sat quietly alert, taking those last final drags on his cigarette before he entered the locker and faced the trick two-way mirror.
In the background, he could hear the boilers hissing up more pressure, building steadily toward that climactic BOOM. And he was warm now the dress and the wig, he supposed and not only warm, but tired. But there was good reason for his fatigue. He'd been up much of the night, going over his plans; he'd arisen this morning before four and then there was all the tension . . .
He stood to his feet and felt miserably groggy. And too groggy all at once, he thought. And the thermos . . . his eyes rolled toward it. He steadied himself against his desk. Beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead. The coffee . . . the coffee was . . . it was drugged!
He staggered toward the chair, but he never made it. The room spun dizzily in front of his eyes, he heard wood splinter as he crashed across the folding chair, and then everything was quiet . . .
The unconsciousness seemed only temporary, but time was without definition. And he was being dragged along the floor now. Legs blurred in front of his eyes, voices were muddled and distant.
"I didn't think it worked when I saw him leave the building just like nothing."
"And he's nothing but a damn queer. Imagine, dressed up like a woman. What's his game?"
"Who cares? Just help me get him in this damn cubby hole."
Again, he was being dragged.
"How much of that stuff did you put in his thermos bottle?"
"Not much. Just enough to knock him out for a while."
"He sure is heavy . . . we just gonna leave him here?"
"Oh, maybe he can get out by Monday morning."
"He won't smother, will he."
"So who cares?"
"Hey! We don't want no big trouble."
"He won't smother, you dope! Gimme the lock." Blackness closed in around him. He heard the lock click shut.
"Happy week-end, you fink bastard." And then he heard laughter, footsteps trailing off, fading away.
For a moment, the wave of unconsciousness threatened him again, but he struggled against it, caught now in that thin band of half-sleep. His senses were numbed, but all was not lost, he thought. He'd rest a minute, then he would get to his feet and bash his way out of here. Those stupid lesbian bitches couldn't hold him here; didn't they know that?
The minute passed, then another. Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet. He couldn't break down a metal door; he wasn't going to try. But that cheap metal lock Christ, a goddamn kid could break that in two.
He braced himself and drove his shoulder against the door. He sagged to his knees. Too, too weak . . . the sleeping pills . . . too weak.
He tried again. He failed. And now he sat down, his back to the door. His vision blurred, but they couldn't keep him here. Not Al. And now his lone route to escape suddenly flashed to his mind.
He crawled to his feet, groped for one of the heavy construction blocks that had been removed from the wall in front of the trick mirror. With his senses reeling from the potent drug that he had consumed, he staggered and pitched the brick through the trick two-way mirror he had so cleverly devised.
The instant the brick left his hands and too late he realized he'd opened the window of hell. Glass splintered. Hot steam exploded in his face. He screamed and flung his hands up. Boiling vapor poured through the hole he had created.
New screams burst from his throat. He hammered his fists against the concrete wall. The deadly steam enveloped him, seared his flesh.
Anguish and torment bubbled from his lips. Pain racked his lungs. He coughed and gasped.
"H-Help! For Godssake, help me!"
He slumped to the floor. He opened his mouth to scream. Boiling vapors tore at his vocal chords. He choked.
And now the darkness was engulfing him, spinning him around and around, dropping him swiftly into a labyrinth of nothingness, bringing to a doom of no return.
