She began wriggling, fish-like on the bed. Hurry and get me out of this thing before I suffocate," she said.
Kenyon grinned and moved next to her on the bed. Maybe he'd have another week or two of it, perhaps he could even prolong it after that, but things were beginning to move for him.
He sighed at the lushness of June's small body and gave himself over to desire as he felt her hands plunging at him, searching and probing. Giving her up would be hell, but he was going to take a lot of memories with him.
CHAPTER ONE
Every time Corinne looked at him this way lately, it seemed to Kenyon that his body would revolt and he'd have to stop, take stock of Corinne-and everything else in the set-up-and tell himself it really wasn't such a bad deal.
Bad deal, hell! It was exactly what he wanted.
Corinne crossed her excellent legs and rattled her near-empty highball glass impatiently, and Kenyon knew what she wanted. She wanted him to go through the motions of making another drink and bringing it to her. And then, bed, for a long, active spell.
Okay, he'd go through it again, try it once more and see if the technique would work. He turned his attention from the TV set and, in the silvery light of the big den, turned toward her, knowing in advance her pointed-toe pump would be dangling on her foot, precariously held on by her curling toes.
He wondered if she realized she did that when she got this way.
Kenyon blinked, taking in the smooth sweep of bare leg and found his breath coming a bit faster. It wasn't working, not yet. Absolutely nothing but a bit of apprehension.
Corinne drained her glass and set it down on the end table, her eyes boring into him.
He nodded and let his eyes rest on her large, taut bust, pushing hard against her summer dress, firm and erect. Kenyon spoke to himself. You've got a good thing going here. What in the living hell is the matter with you? The sweetest set-up in the world. Everything you wanted.
And that was putting it mildly. Corinne had gone for him so fast it made him wonder who was putting the con on whom. From the first date, they'd hit it off. From the first time in bed, he'd had to blink with awe and tell himself occasionally that even he couldn't have planned things this well. Corinne in bed knew how to be all things to him, a coquette, an innocent, a raging hungry woman. Never a bore.
A big woman, Corinne took excellent care of herself. Exercise and common sense kept her figure trim, her breasts in a high, jaunty erectness. There was little fat on her, even about the big thighs that were filled with long, loose-flowing muscle. Nearly everything she wore, from levis to her three-quarter length beaver coat looked small on her, but it was a smallness in the right way.
At thirty-three, she looked barely twenty-five and it was difficult for him to find a place to look at her where he didn't start getting ideas. That is, until lately.
"You want another drink?" he asked.
"It would be nice. A thin one."
He nodded and stood up, conscious of her watching him. He knew what a ritual it was with her. When she was in this mod, it gave her an animal energy of abandon to know that she could excite him with a word, a look, a pose. Even in the semi-darkness, he could see her full, moist lips curl, showing big beautiful teeth in an arch smile. She'd done it. She'd made him want her.
"I mean it," she whispered. "Very thin on the bourbon."
That was part of the ritual, too. It was a drink she wouldn't expect to finish. He'd have to hand it to her and there'd be a contact between them and then it would begin.
But lately, it was beginning to be difficult. Damned difficult.
He poured the drink and brought it to her, ready now for what was to come. All her pent-up anger and frustration with him for the past few months would come pouring out. It was her safety valve and, when he could be impersonal about it, he appreciated her efficiency and admired her for it.
She took the drink with a smile and he noticed the irony in her eyes as their hands touched. The hum of the air cooler grew louder in his ears as she used the remote control to switch off the TV.
"It's been a long time, Jeff."
He was startled. In this mood, Corinne liked to do her courting wordlessly.
"And you'll be gone a few days."
He took the drink out of her hand and set it on the end table. Dropping to his haunches, he placed a hand on her knee and felt her legs come together, squeezing hard on his hand. With his other hand, he reached for her breast, feeling the full extent of her eagerness from the firmness and the pounding underneath.
There were times when they were both very proper about their love making, even to the extent of tender endearments, but times like this, Corinne threw away all the rules. She moaned and leaned forward against him.
Kenyon had never been able to resist or ignore her this way. The strength of her outlet and desire for active release always spurred him beyond thought. Always, there was a newness and recklessness about these times and when he did think about it, Kenyon realized that these were the times when Corinne became even more than his most personal fantasies of desires.
Eagerly, he removed her brassiere, his hands moving at the large, ripe promise that came tumbling forth. She nibbled at his ear and he fell atop her, his senses tingling from the sound of her hoarse whispers and moaning.
"Not here," she said. "Bed."
He grunted agreement and lifted her, the very weight and bulk exciting him.
In the large, walnut-paneled bedroom, they didn't bother with lights. Breathless, he dropped her on the bed. She yanked him off balance and he fell next to her, his torso across hers. They lay there for a moment, breathing excited passion into each other's faces, then she began shouting.
At first, it irritated Kenyon. She was ordering, demanding. Angrily, he pushed at her, but then the demanding became pure, simple desire and want and Kenyon was overcome with his awareness of her.
They merged with a long sigh of relief. The feel of her made him gasp for a breath, and then it began, the arching and plunging, the deep, curious involvement that had every fibre of nerve in him aware and feeling, of bringing wave after wave of driving sensation over him until, for the thousanth time, he began wondering if it weren't love and what an irony it was that it had to be this way, where it was probably too far along to ever know for sure.
He heard her now, quickening her breath and then crying out. The sound was long and strained as though even her vocal cords wanted to pass off tension and know the excitement of release.
Other sounds came from her now and once he even thought he'd heard her utter the word comfort.
For a long moment, she clutched at him, bringing him away from the consuming awareness of only his own feelings. It was always at these times he feared her-and himself-most. She reminded him of a cat who had suddenly retracted claws. There was a tenderness and calmness about her. There was a hint of humor and kittenish playfulness.
Then they slid into each others arms, still breathing heavily, still intrigued and excited by each others touch. It frightened Kenyon because this moment was always the one he looked forward to most. It was sharper, clearer and more enduring in his memory than all the rest, the clawing and biting, the wrestling and tension of fury. It always brought with it the feeling that this moment, this feeling was what they'd strived for all along and that all the rest, the teasing, the swearing, the silences were all in the nature of jockeying for some position or advantage.
Kenyon pressed his face against her bosoms, inhaling the deep, salty, perfumed, tart odor of her body.
Then, as suddenly as it began, he felt her claws come out, felt the defenses and attitudes, the advantages and scores of old take hold.
"Well?" she said. Her voice had a barely restrained bitchiness to it.
He felt her foot brush his, gaze his shin and move against his thigh. She arched closer to him and the pressure of her firm, pointed breasts was no longer a comfort or a beauty, it was a challenge. She wanted more and more and more. It was a contest again.
"You're going to be gone a long time," Corinne said reluctantly.
"Only a few days."
"It will seen like a long time, Jeff. A very long time."
"Will it really?"
"And what," she said heavily, "is that supposed to mean?"
He winced and reached for a cigarette, steeling himself for the impending argument, senseless as usual, having only one real purpose behind it; the stirring up of that same wild, female passion.
"All I mean," he said, "is that I'm still only a man. In good condition, yes, but still subject to the reactions and capabilities that govern all but a very few of rare species. Your attractiveness and abilities are a damned good incentive, Corinne, but there are still certain limitations."
Corinne propped herself up on an elbow and took the cigarette from his hand. "Ho," she said, "my husband still thinks I'm attractive."
"Yes," he said acidly, conscious of her understatement and of her loins, already flashing against him so actively. And he began wondering if perhaps it wouldn't have made things easier for him if she hadn't been so beautiful.
CHAPTER TWO
Kenyon had selected Portsmouth with care. There was more wealth per capita in places like Santa Barbara, San Marino or Palm Springs and possibly Las Vegas. But there were big overheads to consider, too, and he had only the fifteen hundred left from doing the script on that low-budget science fiction monster film for his friend, Pearce Davies.
Portsmouth had been a good, logical choice, particularly when he realized the competition wouldn't be as rough.
He'd found a small apartment over a garage for sixty a month with utilities included. A little conversation with the librarian as he'd filled out an application for book borrowing privileges and the trick was turned. The librarian had done her part by spreading the word. A quick browse through Books in Print and the Reader's Guide and his identity had been established.
A new writer in town. Three years of honorable mention in the O. Henry short story awards. Just enough additional science fiction and detective stories to seal it on tight. Would Mr. Kenyon be kind enough to give a talk-nothing too formal or pretentious, mind you-before the library's city-wide culture committee?
Would he ever.
It was a golden opportunity.
like all small communities away from the main stem of influence on the big, booming cities like LA or San Diego and Sacramento, Portsmouth was acutely conscious of its own culture, a fact motivated by its own wealth.
Essentially a farming community, Portsmouth was in an ideal location for stream fishing, hunting in season, a certain amount of tourism and a large, artificial lake with a well equipped marina and boating facility. Just off to the northeast were foothills, foreshadowing deep slashes of hot valley, ideal for the hearty zinfandel and cabernet grapes that were such staples in California's gigantic wine industry. It was a rich area, a prosperous area, one that simply had not caught on in the extravagant land boom.
Kenyon spoke with great charm before the library culture group, neither talking down to them, as though they were a bunch of backcountry hicks, nor going overboard with the name dropping bit.
He began with a few Hollywood jokes, then moved out to an acquaintance of his, Dunder, who wrote book reviews for one of the LA papers while writing mystery stories under an assumed name.
"You realize, of course, who reviews his books," Kenyon said, dead-pan, "and what kind of reviews he gives himself."
They loved it, especially the older women and Kenyon was sure he'd fallen into a nice soft touch here in Portsmouth. Several of the matronly types swarmed and made to-do over him and he was invited for dinners enough to last him for a week and give him a foothold into the social life, the kind of social life he wanted. He hadn't begun to exhaust his topic. Following the time tested motto of offending everyone, he'd ripped into all the currently favorite authors, being careful to plant a few of his personal favorites, against the possibility of being classified as a bitter also-ran or, worse, an angry young man type or some other opprobrious stigma.
Of course, Kenyon didn't give the appearance of being a so-called literary type or stereotype. No tweed jackets or open collars on a thickly matted hairy chest. No bulldog pipe clenched between his teeth, no drivel about hacks or literary prostitutes. Just plain, down-to-earth humor and wit. Along with his personal appearance, it did well.
Barely over five ten, Kenyou had big, powerful shoulders and a barrel chest. His sketchy brows tended to meet over his nose and his lips had a fullness that women liked. He had big eyes, sincere eyes, a valuable tool of his trade.
"I'm not one of these types who knocks best sellers just for the fun of it," he told the audience. "Lord knows, I could use one. Find a place like Portsmouth and buy into some land. With good fishing, of course. Then the best sellers can go hang themselves while Jeff Kenyon types his three hours a day, fishes a few, drinks a few and-well, I'm partial to California women. Let's leave it at that."
He was invited back two weeks hence on the grounds that his honesty and frankness was refreshing. As he walked back to his apartment after the talk, he reflected how sweet the set-up really was. Sixty bucks a month for a small, cozy flat with a fireplace and utilities. The perfect excuse for a writer, away from social contacts. After all, he was here to work, not entertain.
At least, that was the story. He really did not like the idea of writing all that much. Too much chance, too much sweat, too much like anything else amounting to work. Besides, he really didn't believe he had that much to start with. He was simply playing it smart, like any other guy. He'd found something he could do reasonably well and, with some lucky breaks, he'd managed to milk the most out of it. That's what separated Jeff Kenyon from the herd. Most of the suckers spent a life time dreaming about a soft touch, not realizing that maybe they had something good all along. The smart part was knowing how to play it with what you had; not sitting around like a cranky kid bitching at all the other guy's good luck.
You make your own luck, anyway, he thought, breathing in the sharply clean night air of Portsmouth.
That was when his luck paid off again, almost immediately. Directly at his back, he heard the quickened tattoo of high heels on the comfortably old, thick sidewalk and a plaintive pleasant, "Mr. Kenyon-Mr. Kenyon-"
She pulled up alongside him, her face still flushed from the quickening stride and the extra push she'd needed to get up the courage to speak to him. "I heard your talk and I-I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."
Kenyon lit a cigarette after having her refuse one. She was not quite along the lines of his taste, but he appreciated women, no matter what the type. Barely over five two, she wore pumps with three inch heels. They were patent leather and slightly run over, suggesting they belonged to some uniform or that they were the one pair of heels she owned.
Her half length cloth coat was inconspicuous and neat, probably dyed to its present fuscia color as a desperate concession against buying a new one.
Her only jewelry was a single string of white pearls and a small, expensive ring, California moss jade mounted in a simple gold oblong. Her blouse was coarse weave cotton and, on closer inspection of it, Kenyou realized she hadn't disproved his theory that women, no matter how lean their situation in life, will endure all sorts of privation and bad times, but must indulge themselves in some fanciness.
Through the coarse weave of her blouse, Kenyon saw her small pert breasts, contained by a wispy, embroidered bra. He could make out the few rosettes and blue embroidery of flower petal design.
"I make it a matter of principal never to answer questions without a drink in hand and an introduction in the wind. Will you have a drink with me, Miss-"
"Wilson. Plain old June Wilson."
Kenyon understood completely the impulse that had made him invite June Wilson for a drink. Her delicate arms and slim, almost bony wrists foreshadowed the rest of her limbs, willowy, narrow legs and perfect ankles. Not much in the way of hips, but a cute, high-stacked buttocks, the sight of which made his palms itch. It had been a long time between women, and June Wilson could fill the bill nicely, very nicely.
"Okay, June, what about the drink?"
"I don't mind," she said. "There's a place around the corner and over two blocks. They have a good juke box and good tap beer."
Walking with her, Kenyon's mind began racing along. She was definitely showing signs of becoming a steady thing. A girl who can look like that, walk that way and think in terms of good tap beer-she'd do well until someone came along to satisfy the most important taste, the one for the champagne.
They entered the bar and found a small table away from the juke box. Kenyon liked the quiet atmosphere, noting that the arrangement was not like the typical small town drink spa.
The bar itself flanked one corner. Off to the sides, there was a coin operated billiard machine, a pin-ball machine, a dart board and a shuffleboard. Beyond this was a small room for meals, then another room with a stereo set-up from the juke box. The diversification kept interests from conflicting and, although there were nearly thirty people in the various rooms, there was an impression of quietness.
June Wilson ordered tap beer, but when Kenyon found out they carried bottled Olympia, he insisted on it and two sandwiches of Polish sausage.
Under the preliminary delay of Kenyon's surveying the bar and ordering, June lost some of her anxiety and settled down, watching him across the table. He turned to her, his eyes drawn again to her magnificently shaped small, taut breasts. Her eyes showed some of her fear and nervousness, still.
She had ragged good looks, bordering on hardness. The set of her mouth showed traces of cruelty, suggesting she'd been hurt or taken advantage of, once too often.
He knew the type. She had a manuscript somewhere, no doubt, or had a story she wanted to write. Depending on how serious she was, she would either want him to collaborate on it with her or tell her what he thought of it. After a few questions, he discovered it was the latter. Biting into his sandwich and washing the sausage down with a draught of the excellently, chilled Olympia, Kenyon reflected how unsurprised he'd have been if she were to delve into her big purse and produce the manuscript on the spot.
"You know, I'm no magician," he told her. "Even if I like your story, there's no guarantee that I can help you sell it."
"I understand all that," she told him anxiously. "I just want the opinion of someone who has done something. I get so fed up with all these people who think, just because I'm a waitress that I'm some sort of misty-eyed pretender. I've done other things, too."
"Then I take it you have the story with you?"
"No," she said, "it's back at my place. If you want, I can go over and get it while you're finishing."
Kenyon eyed her directly. "Why not go to your place when we finish here?"
She hesitated a moment. "I don't suppose there'll be any harm."
Kenyon noticed how, all through the remaining time it took them to finish the sandwiches and another round of beer. June Wilson appeared considerably more sullen and resigned. It was as though she recognized, for the thousandth time, that all things led directly to the inevitable pass. She was steeled to the invariable attempt her attractiveness must provoke in most of the men with whom she came in contact. And she was saying in an animal sort of way, "I know you're going to try, Mr. Kenyon; I can tell by the way you're looking at me. But this is important to me, so important it's worth the risk."
During the brief stroll to her apartment, June Wilson acted the same way. There was a resigned sullenness, as if she'd finally admitted to herself that she was trading on her looks and body to get Kenyon's time and attention, all the while gambling on the possibility that as much as he wanted to, he wouldn't touch her, not this time.
Of course, she was hopelessly wrong, Kenyon had already been reminded of how painfully long it had been since he'd had a woman, much less one so attractive as June. The sight of her lean smallness, moving forward with lean, precise strokes of her legs added to his excitement. With her chin out defiantly, her body had a resolute wriggle. If he could only get some of that cheap lipstick off ... and some of the overly dark eye shadow ... things could be perfect.
He already had his plan of action. He was going to look June in the eye and bluntly tell her her stuff was terrible. Cruel? Well, he guessed it was, but at least she couldn't accuse him of using phony sincerity as a come on. Besides, it was something she'd probably been used to hearing by now. And anyway, he was going to comfort her, wasn't he?
Her apartment was two small rooms with a Pullman kitchen, cheap gaudy furniture and an old hospital bed with peeling white enamel.
Some of June's touches were present in the room, burlap drapes, hanging light fixtures made from painted coffee cans and a rug sewn together from samples or remnants. like most of the aspiring writers Kenyon had seen, she had a romantically battered upright typewriter and a shelf full of writer's magazines and publications.
Her clothes closet was made from an old packing crate, probably something that had once held a refrigerator or freezer. Now it was painted brown and solved the additional function of anchoring part of a small, indoor clothesline. Glancing at it, Kenyon got confirmation of his theory about June. There was a lacy panty girdle, two pair of sheer black nylons and a lacy black bra. Everything else was makeshift.
She made him a cup of instant coffee and directed him to the one comfortable chair.
As Kenyon began reading, June sat on the edge of the high bed and removed her shoes with a sight of relief. Her hands began massaging a foot she had crooked up in her lap. Over the top of the manuscript paper, Kenyon's eye was drawn to the smooth long flash of leg and the narrow thigh. June Wilson's eyes met his with a blaze. Angrily, she curled both legs up under her, covered as much as possible with her skirt and tried to interest herself in reading a magazine.
As Kenyon read, he felt himself drawn strangely along by the girl's ability, making him begin to doubt his determination to tell her it was bad. Actually, that would take a good deal of lying. In her writing, June wasted few words and came to the point with a moody determination. It was none of the wish fulfillment writing or repayment of old guilts he'd come to associate with amateurs. This was about a girl with little or no education, who'd managed to get by largely on the promise of a lush body. Working for a dance studio in San Francisco, she tires of teasing shy men customers by a roll of her hips or accidental friction of thighs. Just for once, she wants something without sex as bait, and it seems to her that she's found it in the person of a young career man with a department store chain, sent to learn dancing as a part of the executive training program.
After a few dates, the girl begins to think she's finally found what she's been looking for. Long walks through Chinatown, dinners in little family style Italian restaurants in North Beach and a few impulsive kisses.
Then the young man's instruction course finishes. The girl asks him if he wants to sign up for more instruction, carefully avoiding all the little tricks, the implied favors, the accidental showing of a breast, of a stocking top, an arch wiggle of her buttock or a devastating friction across the thighs.
Another date after the dance course and the girl is waiting for an advance she wants. It never comes.
Two days later, she mistakenly bursts in on the dance cubicle of another girl at the studio. There, with almost melodramatic poise, is the young man with a signed contract. He's sitting on a couch with the new girl, his hand hotly clutching at her half-bared breast, her hand grappling eagerly at his belt.
To Kenyon's further surprise, there was no painful interior monolog, no "If I'd only known's," none of the breast beating techniques. Simple, pungent and ironic, the story stopped when it was told.
He set it down on his lap, shaken, and looked up at her, his mind racing. Somehow, he could not bring himself to tell her it was no damned good.
"This has the ring of truth to it," he said.
"It should," June told him bitterly, "I worked at the Marquez and Ravelli Studios in San Francisco for over a year. I am an expert at getting a man excited by dancing with him. I'm an expert at the accidental touch, the conveniently broken bra strap or the crooked stocking hem. I undoubtedly had over twenty men make love to me, in a way, without my even realizing it was happening ... if you follow the picture."
Kenyon shook his head in wonderment. "I follow," he said. "It's a damned shame. An experience like that can really sour a girl on men ... I mean having to do all those things."
June shifted uneasily on the bed. "It's influenced my thinking, I won't deny that. But my bitterness is mainly against men who can let that kind of thing happen to them, again and again. I've seen other types, too, the ones who don't care what they do with their money. They're just out for something new and different. I got one offer from a man, twenty-five dollars, to go to a party in a costume. I was suspicious, but I found out another of the girls did it and hadn't been touched. She just laughed and told me to go ahead. Well, twenty-five bucks is twenty-five bucks. It would pay for a course in night school. I went. What harm could there be in wearing a costume? Well, then I saw the costume. Knee-length leather boots, elbow-length leather gloves and a weird kind of harness. The man didn't lay a hand on me. He wasn't interested in that sort of thing. He just wanted me to stand there and pose for him."
Kenyon's nose wrinkled involuntarily.
"It's, funny," June said, "but I don't think that was disgusting. It's the way some people are. I feel sorry for them. But I suppose some people feel sorry for the way I am." She shrugged. "What ever I do, I seem to attract someone who has a use for my body, but nothing else."
"You didn't have to keep the job."
"Oh, I know. And finally, I quit and took a less paying job as a secretary. Within a week, my boss took me aside to tell me what lovely legs I had. A few days after that, flowers, an invitation to dinner and a little reminder that I had the nicest small-sized breast the boss had ever seen."
"You could have tried longer skirts and looser blouses."
June gave him an acid smirk. "I know what you're trying to do; build a case. Well, I've done it, too. Introspecting, I think it's called, looking for the reasons why I do things. But there's a slight catch here."
"The boss is a nasty old man who'd made passes at all the other girls."
June shook her head. "Wrong. The boss was one of the most attractive women I've ever seen. She could really turn on the charm. One day she called me into her office and told me some of the things she'd like to do for me. She didn't use any pressure and never laid a hand on me. Just sat there with her legs neatly crossed, smoking a cigarette and telling me the most impossible things with those cool, thin lips of hers. The thing that frightened me most was what happened to me while I was sitting there. At first, I couldn't believe it. My face turned bright red, but then I-I started to become excited. That did it. June, I thought, no wonder you haven't found Mr. Right, you've been looking in the wrong places. But you know something, Mr. Kenyon, a funny thing happened after that. When I admitted to myself how attractive I thought she really was and how afraid I was that I might go with her, I discovered I didn't have to worry anymore."
"Okay," Kenyon said, "it was just a thought."
She shifted her posture, leaning forward. "Now, tell me; give it to me without any kid gloves. You read the story. What do you think?"
Kenyon swallowed hard. June Wilson exuded an animal magnetism he couldn't deny. If he told her what he really thought, it would probably come out sounding like some of the suggestions that boss had made to her. But that wasn't what she wanted to hear. "Okay," he said, "I'll tell you. Your stuff isn't pretty. It isn't anything I can put my finger on. The composition's fine, you know all about commas and periods and sentences. There's never any doubt about what's going on. But it just isn't my kind of thing. It's damned good, but you've got a tiger by the tail. I don't know anyone who'd touch it, I don't have the vaguest idea what you can do with it. As far as I'm concerned, you're in a hell of a fix. If that's the way you write, it would be criminal to change it. But I can't think of a place where they'd consider it, even at a penny a word."
"Well," she said, "you are honest, that's something. Want more coffee?"
He stood up. "No, I'd better go or I'll be pretty blunt about something else, too."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning I'll make a pass at you right now, instead of just asking to see you again tomorrow night."
She tucked her legs even further under her skirt. "What's the difference? If I see you tomorrow night, we'll tussle then."
"The difference is, I'm lonely tonight and I'm willing to wait."
"A whole day! Big deal. Then I guess I'm supposed to melt in your arms and undress you out of gratitude."
"You're desirable. Have you something against a man wanting to make love to you?"
She shook her head, misty eyed. "I don't have anything against sex, but I can't take all the grabbing and conning."
"I haven't grabbed you or given you a con. I want a date with you. Maybe drinks and a movie or a walk. Something for laughs. Sure I'll be thinking about you in bed. I'll be thinking about kissing you, about touching you, about caressing you. I'll try to do any and all of these tomorrow. I'll try every time I see you until it happens or I get the notion that you want to keep it all to yourself or wait for some Prince Charming who either has a bad case of gland trouble or wants a nice, safe Platonic relationship."
"And all this because you're lonely?"
"Because I happen to like women. Hell, I could go to the pool hall and get into a nice game of rotation with the boys or watch the Portsmouth Class C baseball team beat its brains out against Bakersfield. But I'd rather be with you."
She seemed to melt a bit. "Well, at least you're honest. That's something."
"Will you see me tomorrow?"
"Yes, but please-be gentle."
Kenyon stood over the bed, watching her hungrily. Her tautness gradually subsided and slowly, her legs slid out from under the skirt, her arms extending toward him, her head tilted, her lips moist and parted. She was waiting to be kissed.
He wanted her so badly now that his deliberation became cool and contrived. Gently, he kissed the back of her hand, then pressed his lips hard against the inner crook of her elbow.
She moaned in surprise as he bent lower, brushing the side of her face to kiss the soft hollow of her neck. Her arms responded at once by touching his shoulders, then hanging on, almost with a desperation until the hands dug at his back and he could feel the urgency there, even through the jacket and shirt.
When his lips finally moved against hers, her entire body seemed to relax and open up like a trick Japanese paper flower that blooms on contact with water.
The bed was lumpy and creaky, but he leaned onto it, his body across hers and she began moaning as she arched against him, softly at first, then with more determination.
Her kiss was sweet and sincere, her breath tasting of a clean, cheap toothpaste in spite of the beer and sausage sandwich.
He was still tightly clasped in her arms as she hitched and manuvered about to bring his face in contact with her breasts, her skirt rode well up over her knees. Her skin was soft and warm, reminding him of once-expensive but now well worn linen at a hotel that had seen better days. The arching of her torso continued and he was given an image of her dancing with some customer, giving him less active variation of this very same treatment. But he didn't need it, already he was exploding with an aching want of her.
With one freed hand, he parted the buttons of her blouse and worked at the straps of her bra. Her small, plum-like breasts thrust eagerly forward at him and, preoccupied with their hard sensuality, kissed and caressed eagerly. June crooned her desire at his ear in a long, plaintive breaths countered with moans of eagerness.
He was aware of her beginning to undress, to hitch at his belt and then he felt her hands, firm and probing, moving along his waist and haunches.
In another moment, she arched against him wildly, the friction of lace and nylon and her warm skin centering the acute, tingling sensation.
"Don't," he gasped, "or I won't be able to stop."
"I can't help it," she said, quickening. "I just can't can't, can't ... Her voice trailed into a sob as she thrust again and cradled his head tightly towards her breasts. He tried to contain himself but it was useless against her plunging. The shimmering contact and friction was too much. He felt moisture appear on his forehead in tiny beads as a great pressure built, hit its zenith, then exploded. She brought it about that way for both of them, sobbing with relief and life in her voice. The force of passion diminished gradually and a calmness seemed to envelop him so completely that she could not be mad at him. All he could think of was how much he'd wanted her, how he still wanted her, how peaceful he felt now with his face so firm against her breasts.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. I didn't mean for it to happen that way."
"It's okay," he said.
"Really, I mean it. I'm not a tease. I wouldn't do that to tease. Especially not to you."
He started to move away. "It's okay. I'm not mad."
"Don't," she said, "you don't have to move. Let's just stay here for a while. I don't mind. It's so good and different now, as though the air's been cleared and everything's all right."
He relaxed and closed his eyes for a moment, conscious still of her legs pressed tightly against him, her breasts transmitting a slow, gentle tattoo into his senses.
"Golly," she said, her hand warm and reassuring on his shoulder, "did I say that? No wonder my story came off like a bomb. That's right out of a book I have on trite phrases and sayings." She squeezed tightly against him. "But I do like having you like this."
He dozed for a time, the warmth and beauty of her breasts intrudingly gently into his dreams. He awakened, wanting her. In the dim light, he could see her dozing, a contented part on her lips. Gently, he kissed her breasts in silent thankfulness. He liked June. She was damned fine, doing a great job of getting through life, trying to come out ahead. Watching her stir under his gentle caress of her thigh, he realized how glad he was it had begun like this between them. Wanting her the way he had, he'd have been determined and aggressive, perhaps even rough. She wouldn't have put up with it, not at first, not until he'd had time to get in some ground work.
No wonder he hadn't felt irritated with her.
At once, she opened her eyes and smiled down at him as he continued caressing her thigh and flat expanse of stomach. She moved to meet him and he knew it would be a steady thing with them now. It was perfect, it was the very thing he needed.
The way it went between them confirmed all this. Almost playfully, they undressed each other and than lay together for long moments, clasped in languid laziness. Then the same movements that had aroused them before seemed to come about on their own, at a slow, relaxed pace.
It was warm and acute; she no longer responded as though she knew too much technique and was trying to cover it up. They used every gesture and whim at their disposal and it brought them release in long, enjoyable waves that were so neatly matched and geared that he could not recall the exact moment when the delightful sensation of their love making died away and sleep began.
They slept together in each other's arms until early morning, when June arose for her waitress' job. Although he liked to sleep late, he found himself eager and playful over the prospects of crowding into her tiny, narrow stall shower and being able to scrub each other's back.
They breakfasted on coffee, canned orange juice, toast and eggs, Kenyon only in his shorts, June wearing only her terry-cloth robe.
As she stood up to clear the breakfast things, Kenyon yanked her onto his lap. They had a long, passionate kiss and he could feel her stiffen and arch with desire. She patted him affectionately. "There's no rush anymore," she said. "Didn't I tell you we have a date for tonight?"
"And tomorrow," he said.
"Well-"
"Well what?"
June couldn't keep her serious face, "I sort of had plans to cook a dinner for some writer I know tomorrow."
"That's different," Kenyon said.
It was an effort, but he managed to let her dress for work without causing any skirmishes or trouble. After June left, he smoked a cigarette and sat on the edge of the bed. He fell back to sleep for another hour, dressed and stopped for a second breakfast on his way back to his own home.
At a newsstand he bought a copy of the local paper and a Portsmouth city directory and the Writer's Year Book. He stopped at a stationery store and bought a ream of bond, a ream of second sheets, some scratch paper and a packet of carbons.
He returned to his apartment, ready to set up shop. He sat at his desk, smoking a cigarette and thinking a-bout how it had been with June, abstractedly sliding his thoughts toward the second speech he'd make in two weeks. It was only then that he realized how much thought he'd given to June and how little thought to what he was really here for.
He flicked open the city directory and had it ready at hand as he began turning through the Portsmouth Courier to the society pages.
like any small town paper, the Courier gave disproportionate coverage to society news. Next to advertising, it was bread and butter of the highest rank.
He found what he was after on the second page. It was so good, so damned good that he whistled with admiration. A one column, two inch photograph showed a woman, handsome, high cheeked and stylish. She appeared in her late thirties. The picture didn't end before revealing the beginning of what could be a vary promising bust line.
The adjacent story carried precisely the information Kenyon was looking for. Mrs. Roger Alton was returning to Portsmouth, at least for the summer, after a world tour following the death of her husband, Roger Alton, broker and financier.
The article listed some of Mrs. Alton's affiliations. She was a club woman, all right. Prominent in local affairs, the article said. "Well, she'd be active in an affair, all right. It was perfect. And if the picture were any accurate indication of her age, she'd be right at that vulnerable point, the point where the sex urge burns brightest in a woman, whether they realize it or not.
Kenyon smiled benevolently at the Portsmouth Courier. It was quite a break. Things were going perfectly. Bless you, Portsmouth, I'm going to do well here. And while it's being set up, there was June Wilson.
He chuckled to himself and got out the typewriter to begin working on the speech he'd commit to memory so perfectly that it would seem he was still talking off the top of his head.
"When things start to fall in place," he told himself happily, "they really fall. Luck, hell. I've got the same kind of luck a professional gambler has. That's not luck, that's knowing the odds."
When he met June that night, he was brimming over with self-confidence. They made love on the old hospital bed again with slightly more intensity. June flashed and twisted with gratitude and happiness. And Kenyon realized what a good thing she was. She just didn't want to be a one-time girl; she wanted something that would last. Trouble was, most of the characters she met couldn't see beyond that trim figure of hers and get the message that June wanted the very basic things in life, a steady guy and steady loving. When she couldn't get it, she got bitter. But that didn't get to her the way it hurt most attractive girls. June took her bitterness out on paper, writing stories that might sell because of their tawdriness and brutal frankness.
The next night was even better. Kenyon began pulling out the stops and letting his appreciation of that taut, compact body set the pace. June responded like a happy puppy. There were no holds barred. Kenyon realized how ironic it was that June was gladly doing some of the things she'd have never done without the right aproach. Finally, he had to admit it to himself, June was the most sexually responsive partner he'd ever known. And not because she knew tricks he didn't even know. No, it was because of what she put into it, something vital and driving, something that took sex out of the we-do-it-because-its-so-interesting category and put it into an occupation.
At the end of a week of dating June, Kenyon was conscious of having taken walks, of being shown bits of Portsmouth here and there, of eating some pretty fair cooking, of having watched a few TV shows. But they all seemed like things he'd known from the past. Outstanding in his mind was the memory of her body, snuggling or plunging up against him, loaded and triggered to deliver long, consuming, deeply satisfying sex. And the absolute joy of it all was, anything he said went, anything at all.
During the second week, he found Mrs. Alton at the Bon Marche, one of the two better department stores in Portsmouth. If anything, the newspaper photo had been unkind to her. Slightly over medium height, she had a handsome face and a voluminous bosom that moved with lively animation as she walked. She had graceful movement and, although the skin of her arm tended to sag a bit above the elbow, her legs were perfect.
He watched her at her shopping, trying to get used to the idea of her. She had a poised, reserved quality but he suspected a hidden depth of excitable passion waited, and he was just the one.
He tried to imagine her reactions in bed and thought of things that would probably scandalize her-or so she'd tell him. But once she knew, that would be her undoing.
When he went to June's that evening, she was waiting for him in a new black lace peignoir outfit. The rounded highlights of her small, lush body stood out in bold detail, quickening the pace of his pulse on sight. "I've been feeling-well, pretty good lately," she said as a slight flush crept into her cheeks and the base of her neck. "This is my way of indulging a secret vice and letting you reap some of the benefits you've sewn."
The peignoir was filmy and soft. Under it was a silk halter and shortie pants, tied at each side of her tiny waist with a long fluttery blue ribbon. Her skin was creamy and glistening in contrast. The top of the halter had a band of elastic shrewdly sewn across the top, making for a platform bra that served up her pert breasts invitingly. Kenyon clucked his tongue in admiration and congratulated himself. He was getting a lot of mileage out of life ... and June Wilson.
She couldn't contain herself. She stood there, posing for him a brief moment, her right foot and ankle hitching and twisting, giving her the appearance-but only from the knees down-of a slightly bashful tomboy. She bounded toward him, eager for his arms. He felt her breasts come to life as they pushed against him.
What a damned shame she'd been scared by so many cruddy experiences. The scar it left was an unfortunate one in this case: she was interested in the white house, green lawn bit, with kiddies and a dog and cat. She'd find dozens of dollar-stretching recipes and come up with handy household hints that could even be written up in women's magazines, but in the bed department, she'd come up with a few innovations, too. But all for one guy. With a little shrewd planning, the two of them could work out something. All she needed was the training and incentive. Hell, any gal who responded the way she did could pick up a few other tricks. With her looks and enthusiasm, she might not even have to go the phony marriage route, just find a good sized sucker with a good sized bank account and what he thought was a good-sized sex urge. June would give him plenty to think about.
But that was all by the boards, he could tell. She'd started out straight, allowed herself to come close to real business, then got her feelings burned. Turning her out to fatter pastures was virtually impossible now, there was a built-in catch; she'd do anything, absolutely anything in the fun and games department, but she had to believe it was for real.
"How was your day, darling," she said, rubbing against him with a playful enthusiasm in her hips.
He felt the tingle in his loins. What a miserable damned waste. "Not bad," he said, trying to control his voice.
"Get lots of work done?" She nibbled at his neck now.
He thought of Mrs. Roger Alton and the poise and coolness in her high-cheeked face. He thought of the way she moved so elegantly through the counters of the Elegante Shoppe, buying summer things. He thought of the stately Georgian mansion left to her by her husband and how all that could be his, if he played it right. Who knew, she might even turn out to be a good thing, so good that he wouldn't have to go looking for many a year. And she was still old enough to have children. One kid to cement things. He choked back a laugh. What the hell, in a set up like that, he might even get some writing done again.
"I was laying some important groundwork," he told her.
"A new project?"
"A new project." He-mashed June Wilson's body against him, cupped his hands over her high buttocks for a moment, then scooped her into his arms and started toward the bed.
"You know," she said, her legs kicking lazy arcs in the air, "I worked my little keester off today and I was all set to tell you our fun and games tonight were going to have to be very, very passive indeed. But a funny thing's happened. The minute you took me into your arms, I suddenly got my energy back. What do you think of that?"
Kenyon dumped her on the bed and watched the way her body sprawled before him, glistening and inviting. For a moment, he suffered a pang. It was going to be tough, losing her, but that was an inevitability. Even when she went on her undie buying sprees, she didn't touch the-likes of the best stores. Strictly small department store girl. And his tastes were a bit higher up on the scale.
She began wriggling, fish-like on the bed. "Hurry and get me out of this thing before I suffocate," she said.
Kenyon grinned and moved next to her on the bed. Maybe he'd have another week or two of it, perhaps he could even prolong it a bit after that, but things were beginning to move for him.
He sighed at the lushness of June's small body and gave himself over to desire as he felt her hands plunging at him, searching and probing. Giving her up would be hell, but he was going to take a lot of memories with him.
He yanked playfully at one of the ribbons holding the panties. June gave a yelp of delight and came rushing forward to clasp them together.
"Listen," he said, holding her hips against him, "things are starting to settle down for me. What I mean is, I won't be seeing you every night."
She thrust against him. "I know, I'm too much for you."
"It's a good way to go," he said dryly. "But I mean the work and all."
Suddenly, the playfulness left her. "I know," she said. "I've been counting this as a sort of-well, excuse the expression-honeymoon. But I understand."
He caught the sincerity and adoration in her smoky eyes. What a damned waste that she had to be so straight and sincere.
CHAPTER THREE
Kenyon got busy. The dinner invitations he'd cancelled because of June were re-activated with enthusiasm. Of course they all understood about writers getting into creative moods.
The first dinner went by without even a nibble. All married couples, all sincere and fairly boring, all content with their comfortable rut that kept them in drinking and new car money, a trip or two to LA or San Francisco every year and fine old status-type houses.
There was even a billiard table and Kenyon got himself in good with a banker by losing fifty dollars in a friendly game.
The next was better; a few gushy older type women who read everything the Book of the Month Club sent them, a few relieved men, happy to discover Kenyon hated neckties and liked Jack Daniels Black label in a chilled old-fashioned glass. There were a few of the young marrieds and a few of the local young girls, all brimming with poise, confidence and good looks, eager to have their summer fun and get back to schools ranging from Stanford and Berkeley to the University of Hawaii and Arizona State.
A tall, dark skinned girl with silvery blonde hair caught his attention with her bold good looks and smell of money. Her eyes regarded him with a curious frankness. While all of the women were dressed in style, this one wore the silken Hong Kong slit dress, the cheongsan with high, short collar, tight bodice and medium full skirt with slashes on each side, revealing long, smooth lengths of athletic leg.
Kenyon thought, what the hell and mentally put her down on the list as a possibility. She appeared to be in her twenties and from his impressions of the sensual strut of her fine body and the directness of her sensual eyes, she knew her way around the motels in Palo Alto.
The one trouble with them this young, he thought, was too much competition and the fact that Daddy still controlled all the assets. Still, if it looked promising...
There were a lot of drinks that night and a brief mention of Mrs. Alton. It was a glimmer of hope; he was traveling in the right direction.
Kenyon drank, made polite conversation and got himself talked into a bout with the host's favorite vice, gambling. In the rumpus room, Mr. Cake had a faro layout.
"Got it from an old gold rush saloon," Cake explained proudly.
In the space of half an hour, Kenyon saw nearly three thousand dollars change hands. By some judicious coppering and side bets on the soda card, Kenyou recouped the fifty he'd lost the night before and came out another hundred to the good.
As he played, he saw a few of the local young blades try their hand at the girl in the silk cheongsan. All good looking youths who could hold their hooch and manners well. The girl seemed to merely tolerate them.
At one point, as he reached for a refill on his Jack Daniels, he saw the latest attempt fail. The girl crossed her legs, perhaps from defiance. It made a lovely sight, showing she'd stayed with Oriental taste right up to her stocking tops, which were black mesh, embroidered with Oriental brocade. She sighed heavily and fumbled in her purse for a cigarette. It was then that Kenyon noticed she wore no jewelry, only a small black velvet bow, pinned to her dress with a gold collar pin.
"Curious custom," he said aloud. "I haven't seen a mouring band for ages, except in foreign films."
Ray Piazza, the affable, balding wine producer, put two chips down on the case card and calmly lost it. "You mean Dorothy Tyler?" he said in a low whisper. "No one can understand what she has to mourn about. She's worn that thing since she's been back from school."
"I see the young bucks with lust in their eyes, wildly striking out."
"My theory," Piazza said, "and her father's is that she prefers the older type. Now if you aren't attached--"
That conversation was halted when Sam Tyler wandered in from the terrace and took a seat at the faro lay-out, and ten minutes later, Kenyon was drawn away from the game by two pleasant women who wanted a literary argument settled for them.
"No," Kenyon said, wondering how he managed to keep a straight face, "It was Sanctuary where the girl was raped by a corn cob. Or perhaps I should say with a corn cob. Temple Drake was the unfortunate lady. Popeye was the perpetrator."
The women showed no signs of consternation.
"But why," one of them asked, "did he use a corncob instead of-well, you know?"
"Popeye was impotent," Kenyon explained. "It was all he could do. There's another scene where he hides, watching Temple in bed with her lover."
"That certainly is brutal," the other woman said, not blinking an eye. "I wonder what he had in mind, the author, I mean?"
"Well," Kenyon said, "it's been my theory that Faulkner liked symbolism and was showing the impotence of the American artist in the face of full, complete sexuality."
"Do you think so? Do you really think so?"
"It's only a theory, of course," Kenyon said wisely. "People read many different things into his books. Your guess is as good as mine."
"But I mean, a corn cob! Really!"
Kenyon got away as soon as he could on the pretext of freshening his drink. He wondered what had prompted the discussion in the first place and imagined how worldly the two women must consider themselves to be able to discuss such a "frank" subject.
New drink in hand, he moved out onto the terrace, looking over the dim landscape to small patches of light miles away in the distant hills. A voice at his back surprised him.
"But, I mean, a corn cob! Really!"
Turning, he saw Dorothy Tyler, her thin lips bared in a smile that showed traces of cruelty.
"Good mimicry," he said, "but undeserved. I think they meant well."
"The hell of it is, Mr. Kenyon, that you're right. They both mean very well. Without any hypocrisy, they simply want to keep up on things and not lead a shallow, rutted life. They both lead exemplary lives and I can say for sure that one of them has remained faithful to her husband for nearly thirty years and wouldn't care if he lost every cent he had tomorrow.
Kenyon felt stunned. "I-I don't know what to say, Miss Tyler."
Dorothy Tyler moved next to him, bringing the cool swish of silk and a faint trace of Ma Griffe scent. She exuded a brooding, turbulent sensuality that got under his skin and stayed there disturbingly. "Of course you don't, and it's rude of me. Sometimes, I get into moods like this and I mimic her. I've had practice. You see, she's my mother."
Nevertheless, Kenyon was still stunned.
"I hurt her a great deal, Mr. Kenyon. That's love, isn't it, when you have the power to hurt someone?"
Rapidly, his eyes skittered over her, taking in the cobalt eyes and handsomely chiseled facial features, climaxing on one of the most beautiful noses and pairs of lips he'd ever seen. The lips ranged from a gentle thinness to a moist swell, inviting curiosity and touch. She didn't appear drunk; he hadn't seen her take more than one drink all evening. She looked hungry and desperate for something. Again, Kenyon thought of motels outside Stanford, along the Camino Real in Palo Alto. But still, something didn't quite jibe. If she was aching, why pass up the local young men? Unless the little black ribbon had something to do with it. A dead lover?
"I've bowled you over, is that it? You don't know how to answer me. You wonder what such an attractive girl can possibly find to be so cynical about."
"Just as a guess, I'd say it had something to do with that black ribbon you're wearing. You've taken to mourning for someone."
Dorothy Tyler tilted her head back and laughed so loudly, the cords stood out on her neck. "Someday, perhaps I'll tell you how amusing that is. I'm not quite sure I trust you."
"That's understandable, I'm a stranger."
"Oh, I confide in strangers. You had me pretty well convinced until I heard you talking a few minutes ago about the good old corn cob. You do a lot of reading, don't you?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It's supposed to mean you'd better be careful when you pass theories off as your own, even clever theories that are carefully coppered, the way you were playing faro, not taking too many chances."
For a moment, Kenyon was stunned. After all, this girl had done nothing but pitch enigmatic curves at him, giving the impression she could see right through him. It made him uneasy, but he was damned if he was going to let this young girl, no matter how attractive, get him edgy and defensive.
"Honey," he said softly, "one of the things a man gets used to, being a writer, is being quoted and sometimes mimicked. If someone else saw fit to borrow my theory, it wouldn't do me any good to be mad, but it would and has done me a lot of good to feel flattered."
For the first time, the hostility and cruelty disappeared from the lines of her mouth. There was almost a pleading for further communication followed by a glint of admiration. "I've got to hand it to you, Kenyon, you've got brass. A lot of brass. I like that quality in a man." She gripped his shoulder for a moment, then turned and started inside.
He turned, breathing a sigh of relief as he watched the marvelous flash of her legs and the intriguing waggle of her buttocks, held tightly in place by the shiny silk of her dress. Another score for Portsmouth. It's going to be damned interesting here. And another score for Kenyon for not underestimating his prey. This was a sharp girl.
He had another drink then thanked his host and hostess for the evening. A few rounds of good-byes were in order and he was off into the large, circular drive, looking for his car. , He drove nearly a mile down the country lane that joined his host's home to the main road. Just before the turn, he saw the glare of two low-slung headlights, moving up on him fast. As he made the turn onto the main road, he recognized the roar of an Alfa-Romeo
Super Veloce, making a racing change in gears.
Instinctively, he slowed, hearing the Alfa's turn, casting a spray of dirt and gravel as it caught hold and came after him, headlights blinking.
He pulled over to the side and waited, his motor running. The Alfa waited directly behind him, lights off. Looking into the rear view mirror, he could see the outline of Dorothy Tyler, using the dash light to fire up a cigarette.
He waited a few more moments, determined that she was going to be the one to come to him. Hell, if she'd wanted to, there was enough room on the shoulder for her to pull up next to him. He lit up his own cigarette, saw her waiting in the car and shrugged. He eased his Corvair into first and pulled out sharply.
At once, the Alfa shot forward with a roar, pulling along side him in a matter of brief seconds. There was no question of contest. An Alfa could go through the gears and be hitting ninety with little effort.
Dorothy Tyler knew how to handle her car. She pulled broadside, cut over sharply, downshifted and spurted onto the shoulder. For a moment, Kenyon was flooded with fear.
The bitch! Her rear end was scant inches from his front fender. At that speed, a nudge would send her rolling. He swore and slammed on the brakes while swerving off to the shoulder. Dorothy brought the Alfa to an expert geared-down stop, carefully calculating the distance it would take Kenyon to halt the Corvair.
Angrily, he stormed out of the car. "You crazy broad, what were you trying to accomplish with a dumb stunt like that?"
"Exactly what I did accomplish, Mr. Kenyon. You're right here, where I can talk to you. I can play games, too."
He noticed the already short skirt had hiked well up on her legs, revealing pleasant knees and the glisten of her legs in the moonlight. The scroll and brocade work was once again visible on her stocking tops. She caught his interest and showed a smile. "It says good luck in Chinese."
"It should also say damned fool."
"Oh, come now, Mr. Kenyon, your anger is misplaced. You think I'm attractive and you're pleased I'm showing you such attention."
"No need to ask if you're a psychology major."
"No, because you'd be wrong. There's a gas station about two miles up the road. An eighth of a mile beyond, the shoulder really widens out and there's a cluster of oak trees. You can park there and the Highway Patrol won't think your car's been abandoned."
"Then what?"
"I'll be waiting. Then you get in Alfie, here and we look at the country side. "There was a determined glint to her eyes, Kenyon could also see she was scornful of men and used to having her way.
"I've seen most of the countryside."
"All right then, look at my legs. You've seen most, of them, too, but that hasn't seemed to stop you." She gave an inviting hitch with her knees.
Kenyon stirred. He was tempted all right. But why take unnecessary chances? Things were starting to move a-long nicely and for side action, June was difficult to beat. "Thanks all the same," he said, "but too much pleasant scenery, hillside or legs, can spoil a man. I've got a date with a cup of hot chocolate and a book."
"And a pipe full of fuck cut tobacco," she said scornfully. "The perfect image of the temperate writer who knows when he's had enough to drink and wants to get to bed early."
"Something like that."
"Bull, Mr. Kenyon. Pure unadulterated bull. I think you're afraid of me."
Not of you, Kenyon thought, of what could happen, of what could go wrong. He smiled and parried. "Maybe you should consider majoring in psychology. That approach of yours isn't very original."
"Look, Mr. Kenyon, I'm over twenty-one, so there's no trouble there. I've lost my virginity ages ago, so you won't be asked for that favor. And I don't bite-well, not very hard."
Kenyon felt trouble coming. Dammit, why couldn't he say no? Looking into her piercing blue eyes, he found the answer. Dorothy had a nice healthy, musty animal magnetism, and so did he.
"All right," he said. "The clump of oak trees."
She shot him a smile. "And I mean it about the scenery. If it gets boring, you're perfectly welcome to look at my-" she let out the clutch quickly on the last word, leaving Kenyon with the distinct impression she'd said something beside legs.
He watched the headlights of the Alfa grow smaller in the distance as the echo of engine roar bounced off the quiet fields and trees.
Five minutes later, he was in her car. Fifteen minutes later, he was hugged down comfortably as she pushed the Alfa through foothills, expertly negotiating tight hairpin turns as they spiraled away from the lights of Portsmouth and the outlying farms up toward a large, stone-encased reservoir.
Dorothy Tyler brought the car to a stop on a ledge some fifteen feet off the narrow road, stopping in the protective shadow cast by a large cairn.
He lit them cigarettes and tilted his head back to enjoy the night.
"You see," she said, "you did look at other things."
He finished his cigarette in silence, trying to fight off the liking he was developing for the girl. Somehow, it was contrary to his instincts, but in spite of all of the warning, he turned to her, took in her lithe beauty and waited, convinced now that she wanted to confide in him. There was a tension in the air between them and he felt as though he could hear the thoughts reeling past her mind, experience the effort of her inner struggle. Well, what the hell? Grist for the mill and possibly something useful.
He smiled encouragement at her and resolved to make things easier. "You're debating telling me something."
"Correct."
"Anything to do with your mourning ribbon?"
Again she laughed, tinged with bitter irony. "Very much so. But I'm not sure. Maybe after."
"Okay, I'll play along. After what?"
"This!" she said and shifted her weight forward, her breasts straining against the tight silk of her dress, her face extended, her lips pursed to be kissed.
From somewhere inside, Kenyon felt an alarm sounding, but equally strong was the conviction that if he was going to stop this, he'd better do it fast. Convictions or no, Dorothy Tyler's body carried enticements. "Listen," he said, "I mean it; I came here because I thought you wanted to talk."
"And because you weren't interested in that crap you gave me about a book and a cup of hot chocolate. You're interested in me, Mr. Kenyon, damned interested. Love at first sight? Well, I doubt that. But you're curious about me ... and I'm curious about you." Her lips found their mark and this time Kenyon lasted only a brief moment in his resolve to push her off and have the thing ended. It struck him with wry amusement as he felt her tongue flickering against her lips. Should he pull something silly and dramatic like threatening to get out and walk home if she didn't stop?
With a last searching of her face, Kenyon decided she was not the type to cause trouble later. She was haunted by some inner driving of her own and she knew the score too well to start hollering wolf later.
A man with a purpose could pass up something like Dorothy Tyler at a distance, maybe with a cluck of regret, but it could be done.
Not up close, though, not when it was being handed on a platter.
She didn't have to press the issue for long. The intensity of her kisses had him completely aroused.
"Feel me," she said, taking his hand and moving it over her breast. He felt the hardness and desire coursing through her body. "Kiss me," she said, "touch me, do everything to me. Go ahead. Please, please...." her voice trailed off into a low moan.
The touch of her breasts was like gripping an electric cable. She moaned and wiggled closer to him, trying to clamber up on his chest. It was awkward in the Alfa. For a moment, he felt surrounded by those long, beautiful legs. They were tight against him, knees pushing close to his chin. Then the weight of her became too uncomfortable.
Defiantly and, perhaps, mistakenly, she got the wrong idea when he shifted. She grabbed hard, her eyes tightened in a paroxysm of determination.
"All right, dammit," he said, "but not here, this is too crowded."
With difficulty, Dorothy stopped. "I have a car robe," she said. "In back, in the trunk compartment."
A few moments later, they used the large plaid robe down on the soft, dewy grass and immediately, Dorothy reached for him, pulling him against her with a frantic desperation.
Kenyon responded with eagerness, everything was perfect now, there was room and determination. It took him a few moments of anxious fumbling to unbutton the collar of her dress, but they everything became simple ... and fast. Dorothy flashed about him, unwilling to take the time and effort to remove the dress. The side slits made things easier, she simply pulled the flaring skirt high on her hips. Kenyon gasped in wonderment and admiration. The girl was really built-everywhere.
She brought them together with an acute groan. Kenyon felt waves of pleasure. This was not an ordinary girl, in any sense of the word. He could accept the idea of her looking desperately around for a man, then, when she found him, an end to looking. That ripe lush body would be there for all to admire but usage was restricted.
He stirred as he saw a look of disappointment flash across her eyes. "Wait a minute," he said defensively, "I haven't really started yet."
"It isn't that," she said almost tenderly. "You must know you're quite a man. It isn't that."
Kenyon was puzzled at her reaction, a strange sort of fatalism. Eagerly, he sought out the point on her body where she was more responsive. This was going to be a challenge.
A few experiments brought only mild results until he discovered it was obvious, her large, full breasts. Contact had her gasping with a more intense pleasure than she'd shown before. Firmly, he kneaded and kissed. She began a few motions of abandon and just as Kenyou felt sensation taking over and thought leaving off, she stiffened, breaking rhythm and intensity.
"What is it?" He asked her.
"Nothing," she said defensively.
A quick thought hit him. They'd taken no precautions. He knew how this fear of pregnancy could chill a woman.
"No," she said, "it isn't that. We picked the perfect time. Believe me, there's no possibility." Her eyes betrayed a plaintive longing. "Sometimes, I wonder if that isn't the answer though. It could make a lot of difference. With the right person, an understanding man..." Her voice trailed off moodily.
Kenyon didn't know what to make of it. Did Dorothy Tyler think she was frigid? Damned near impossible with an eagerness like hers. But why this odd speculation about an understanding man and a baby? Surely she was intelligent enough not to believe the old wives' tale that having a baby would remove frigidity in a woman.
His mind began racing. She might be the one, after all. She might want a child so badly, she'd do anything for it. It still didn't jibe. With a body like that, she could have her choice of men. It was that, an understanding man, business that disturbed him. Understanding about what? Somewhere, there was a glaring puzzle. Surely she was worldly enough not to expect perfection.
"It isn't that," she said almost scornfully. "It would have to be a man who was really sure of himself-of his masculinity. I might make a slip and ... oh, forget it, Kenyon, forget everything now. Just make love to me. Please, please. More, more...."
It couldn't be possible. Was she so concerned about slipping off and perhaps having a brief affair? That all boiled down to guilt. Well, maybe that's what she meant. Maybe that's why she wanted a man who was sure of himself. Someone who'd be able to take an affair in stride and not have to go rushing off to the nearest divorce court. That's what she was looking for? Well, maybe he could be the one. He could take it in stride for a very simple reason, he wouldn't give a damn. And let's face it, there was a lot more mileage on Dorothy than there was on Mrs. Roger Alton.
All he had to do, Kenyon reasoned was get Dorothy to think she was in love with him. All he had to do was be very casual and stand-offish and disinterested. And good in the sack. That would really do it.
It would be riskier than Mrs. Alton, but what the hell, if a chance came dropping right into his lap-or should he say bed?-why not give it a try?
He leaned forward with determination. Jeff Kenyon, the opportunist. Why not? Why the hell not?
With an intensity aided by business-like detachment, he soon had Dorothy clinging to him hard, her hands digging into him as he plunged against her. She cried out several times and he felt the torrent of energy within her, loosened upon him and their common goal.
Kenyon worked at it until he felt the perspiration erupt on his forehead, but he knew he was still not in command of the situation. It was damned difficult maintaining the pace. He felt Dorothy Tyler quicken for a time but it was only for a moment, a precarious moment in which he lost himself and became completely and totally involved with his own senses.
Afterwards, he tried, tried hard and with a near savage determination, but he could bring her only so far along and that was that. The fact that it had become a challenge now did not lessen his appreciation of her. Lord, talk about June Wilson being a waste of talent in the con man's game, Dorothy Tyler was a waste of grand female flesh in the sex game. Somehow, some way, that was her problem. She could be brought along only so far, excited so much-but not all the way. And she tried her damnedest, with motions and techniques a hundred dollar a night call girl could view with jealousy. A great, abundant willing body and plucky determination, but no go.
He renewed his efforts, but it was already at the point where it was costing him. What irony. One of the most desirable young women he'd ever known, completely, energetically willing ... yet no dice. This was a job for a headshrinker. Or, he thought, breathlessly and tiring, someone who could use some psychology. Play all the angles, Kenyon, then take the best.
For a moment, it amused him to think that this was more work than he'd done in ages, but it could still pay off. If she realized how hard he was trying ... if she compared him with some of the other's she'd tried, perhaps, then she'd make the association herself.
Of course, this was why she wanted an understanding man, a man who could rely on his masculinity and not take this as a sign of his own ineptness or weakness. Well, by golly, Jeff Kenyon was going to start things right now.
"Honey," he said, "it didn't go this time."
"You don't have to tell me that. I know it didn't."
He patted her shoulder comfortably. "These things happen."
"Too often," she said, bitterly.
"Well, by golly, we'll see about that. Next time, we'll
She shook her head sadly. "There isn't going to be a next time."
"Why not? I thought we got along well. I thought we understood each other. You can't expect these things to happen overnight. Why, good lord, what do you think honeymoons are for? All this business about men and women being so perfectly suited the first time is a lot of bunk. It takes work and effort."
Dorothy gave him a bitter laugh. "You sound like some ridiculous marriage manual, written by some men who's remained a bachelor all his life."
"Lord, Dorothy, given better circumstances, we can make a go of it and "really get along well You-you're nervous and upset, we're not inside on a nice bed, we-"
"You've got all the answers except the right one."
"I've got that, too. That black mourning ribbon, you can't forget that. No wonder you're edgy. If someone you care for passes away-"
Dorothy Tyler tilted her head back in bitter laughter. "Kenyon, I was way off base with you. You're really a square. No, for sure we won't try again. I don't think you can do it. I don't think you can give me what I'm after."
He gripped her shoulders. "You just try me. What ever you say goes."
A look of mockery played into her eyes. "I did just try you, Kenyon, and look what it's done to you; you're worn out. Anything goes, you say? Well, it goes alright; it's gone, Kenyon. It came and went. You worked your tail off. I was good for you, I could tell, but that isn't the problem. You couldn't do what I wanted. I'm not really sure anyone can."
"Then why spend a life of misery, looking for something that doesn't exist?"
She laughed again. "Could you cut the sex right out of your life forever? I guess the answer is clear enough. I know what to do and what channels to go through. It might even work out better than I expected. Babies! They're always a badge of respectability. You take a nice, attractive girl from a well-off family. If she has three or four kids, no one could question her respectability or motives."
"That's a pretty cruddy reason for having kids, using them as a passport for respectability."
"Kenyon, every time you open your yap, I get more convinced you're a square. You just don't understand, so let's drop it. To set your mind at ease, I'd be ahead of the game. I want children; all I can have. They'll be well loved and cared for. They'll be taught to respect their father and mother. They'll get love. They'll learn that the man's the boss of the family and that it's the mother's job to keep the father so well-loved and cared for that he won't have time to think of playing around. I'll be able to do all that and still have what I want."
She uttered an ironic laugh. "In fact, you could almost say, I'll be having the best of everything."
"If you'd tell me, maybe we could put our heads together."
"Sweetheart, we've already put more than that together and it added up to a big zero. If I tell you-well, why tell anyone? No, I don't have to say a word."
"This is all over my head. In a way, I'm glad. You think I'm a boob, so let's keep it this way." The law of the fox, he thought. One less person to blow the whistle on him. A pass that failed and no one the wiser. In the jungle, if you act dumb, you're treated that way ... and not given credit for any shrewd planning. Kenyon didn't have to prove a thing to this girl. In fact, it was to his advantage, now that things had turned out this way, to let it stay right where it was.
To his surprise, Dorothy softened considerably. She drew away from him, her lanky body drawn up into a ball for warmth, her arms clasping her knees tightly under her chin, her toes wiggling. He could sense the change in attitude, even as she inspected a stocking for traces of a snag. She moved a hand away from her legs and gently began kneading his shoulder.
"I'm sorry to take on like that, Kenyon. No sense my dumping everything on you. What I do from now on will be my business and, I guess, that's a good way to keep it. But I owe you some apology. After all, I set out deliberately to excite you."
"My pleasure," he said.
"I'm glad of that, at least. I hope it was good for you. Maybe we-" she shook her head. "No, let sleeping dogs lie. I get into these moods and there's no telling what I'll do. I'm sorry it had to work out this way, Kenyon.
And truly, don't let any of this bother you. As a man, you've got a lot going for you." She leaned closer and kissed his cheek. It had a startling effect on him and before he realized it, he was kissing her back. She was docile and sweet now and the lingering kiss was tinged with affection and tenderness.
She uttered a soft sigh and spread out next to him. Without realizing what was happening, Kenyon touched breast again and felt a twinge of desire run thru her.
What a fantastic difference. Already, amazing as it seemed, he felt his own awareness of the change in her attitude translate itself into more desire for her. He wanted to feel that taut, thrilling cushioning of her thighs and hips, yearned for the feel of her strong legs.
"Oh, if only-" she said and trailed off again, moaning at the feel of his hand between her breasts. She jerked almost convulsively as he ran his hands down her sides and moved her skirt again. "Maybe," she said, and was silent again.
Kenyon was the aggressor completely this time. He brought them together and moved with slow deliberation, working her to a pitch where the sweetness and young girlishness stopped abruptly and the animal came out again. Feverishly, she stayed with him, moaning and writhing until, with a deep gasp, her body twisted and spun.
She tore free with another moan. "No," she said, "you have nothing to worry about when it comes to virility, nothing at all."
Again, Kenyon was bewildered. They shared a cigarette and she stood to rearrange her clothing. This time, her stockings were in for it. She unclipped them from her garter belt. "Well, I can have the tops stitched on to another pair," she said flatly, making Kenyon sure this was the most important thing in her life at the moment. The niceness was gone, leaving a bittersweet reaction. She'd had the thing she'd been after, but somehow, it was all paled. Everything seemed dim and uncertain, even that first frantic effort. It was all distant, compared to that brief few moments when she'd kneaded his shoulder, kissed him and reacted to his hand on her breasts. That was the most vivid and promising of all.
Now she sat in the car, racing the motor, her face stony, her attitude distant. He didn't know what to believe. What had she been about to say those two times. "If only-" and "perhaps."
If only what?
Perhaps what?
"It's cold," she said. "Come on, I'll drive you back to your car."
When they reached the clump of oaks where the Corvair was parked, she stared straight ahead, scarcely noticing him.
"Look, you got what you wanted," Kenyon said. He wasn't convinced he really believed this. "It took us a while but we made it."
"If we meet each other at parties, we'll be very cordial and friendly," she said, distantly. "Now get out, I want to go home."
CHAPTER FOUR
He did not see Mrs. Alton until two nights before his second scheduled talk before the library group. He'd put in two days work on that, jotting notes and committing them to memory. A trip to the library for some quotes and a little paper work would give it just the right touch; dignified, reserved and witty. And underneath, a strong current of controversy. Just keep two things in mind: remain the image of the handsome young man and don't sound too bitter. Then they can't nail you for a thing.
A ten dollar load of groceries took care of breakfasts and lunches. His dinner rounds and June took care of the rest.
Now, at another of the semi-country estates, this time the home of Ray Piazza and his wife, Kenyon saw Mrs. Alton and got his first surprise.
She was charming, accessible and could really hold the hooch. She drank J and B scotch on the rocks and after six, there was no appreciable dent in her appearance. She wore a red taffeta dress with billowy petticoats, shiny red satin pumps and no jewelry except for her wedding ring.
At close range, he was even more impressed with his target. She had beautiful, evenly spaced teeth, a jaw that showed pride and lively, manish eyes. A small gold chain called his attention to one of her neat ankles and Kenyon thought to himself, let's face it, this is going to be better than you thought.
After brief conversation, they were on a first name basis. She was Louise and he was Jeff. It remained that way all evening. Before dinner, Kenyon got off a few good jokes and Louise Alton assured the hostess in a bubbly voice, "You pick good guests. This man is funny, genuinely funny."
When the excellent dinner was served, Kenyon was pleased to notice Louise Alton seated directly across from him. He was attentive as possible, secretly happy that the woman seated at his right was a talkative old biddy, one who kept coming up with the most improbable literary questions. The usual, what are your best working hours? How many drafts do you make? Do you write in pen and ink first? What did you think of Sommerset Maugham?
On this question, Kenyon happened to notice Mrs. Alton listening during a lull. No time like the present, he thought. "To tell you the truth, Mrs. Frisbie, author's today haven't enough sex for me. I like to judge writers with a term used in bullfighting. Cojones. Frankly, it means balls, and I can't stand a writer who hasn't balls. Sex is a strong factor in our lives, why pass it up? There are women writers who have them too, although I think the more proper way to identify them also comes in Spanish, muy mujer; much woman. But it means the same thing."
His eyes lifted to Louise Alton's and held for a long moment. She returned the interest, then lowered her eyes. He noticed a slight cast of red come into her cheeks. Score one for Jeff Kenyon. That was the way to do it. When you were after a woman, think sex and nothing else. Even if you're talking about the weather, how the Giants did yesterday, what the prospects are for another split on Litton Industries stock or what kind of champagne you like the best, think sex. It comes across and reaches its mark.
This was not a difficult thing for Kenyon to do with Louise Alton. He simply kept a very vivid image in mind, the one he'd come up with when he first seen her at the Bon Shoppe, the image of himself in bed with her and what a great surprise and delight it was to her.
Two or three times during dinner, their eyes met and he brought this image to his mind while staring frankly at her. And damned if it wasn't getting to her, making her a bit shaky.
After dinner, someone suggested bridge. Kenyon noticed Louise Alton make a point of requesting him as a partner. "You do play, don't you?"
"I'm a bit rusty, but if you'll be tolerant-"
"My dear, at my age, tolerance is all a woman has."
"At your age, Louise, beauty and charm override everything." He was immediately sorry after he'd said t. It hadn't been a very original nor good remark. But once again, his arrow found its mark. She blushed.
After two games of bridge, Kenyon and Mrs. Alton lost. "I'll have to polish my game a bit," he said. "I've always enjoyed cards after a day's work. Takes my mind off what I'm doing."
"I could help," Louise said. "Not that I'm so good, but at least you'll have someone to practice with."
Score another for Kenyon. He could scarcely keep from laughing aloud over his triumph.
"We're coming to hear you talk," Mrs. Piazza said. "How about if we all come back here afterwards for a little midnight snack?"
Score another for Jeff Kenyon. He'd made it; he'd become accepted in this friendly but tight-knit group. 'Why, I'd like that, I'd like it very much." He felt a brief moment of regret for June, who'd be getting the short end of things from now on, but who knew, maybe he could get that going again later. It was all going his way now and the smile Louise Alton was flashing at him now was enough to make June remain in the background.
Kenyon moved over to the bar to build himself and
Louise Alton new drinks. There, he had his first serious run-in since arriving in Portsmouth.
Gary Cregar, a big, hefty man with thinning black hair and the trim of an ex-marine sergeant, moved in next to him, none too lightly. He nearly caused Kenyon to spill both drinks.
"Hey!" he protested, his anger rising sharply. Something in Cregar's manner and the sharpness with which he'd bumped had convinced Kenyon he meant business. "What gives?"
"I'll tell you, pally," Cregar said. His voice was soft, but once again, the marine sergeant personality was there. "I wanted to be sure and get your attention. You've been moving around a lot and I didn't want to lose sight of you."
"Okay," Kenyon said, "I'm here. You've got my attention. Now what's with this pro-football business?"
"I noticed you making a fuss over Louise Alton," Cregar said, tight lipped.
"Fuss?" We had a few laughs, played a game of bridge, had a few drinks. Is that a fuss? And if it is, is it your business?"
"I make it my business."
"That makes you sound like a rejected suitor," Kenyon said. "As they say in England, that's hard cheese on you."
"We'll skip the personal details, friend," Cregar said, taking Kenyon's arm in a pincers. "Louise is a friendly person. People who don't know her often mistake friendliness for a come on. You follow me? They think because she's friendly and-likes to smile, she's making with the bedroom eyes. More than once, I've had to use a little persuasion on guys who mistook friendliness for a come on.
Kenyon shrugged his arm from Cregar's grip. He didn't like people grabbing or prodding him. "You? You handled it?"
"I know it isn't considered protocol," Cregar said, "but let's say I'm not bragging now. Let's just say we're discussing my black belt in judo as man to man, the way a couple of guys will talk over a ball game. So okay, in that spirit, I've a black belt degree and can hold my own."
"Judo," Kenyon said, feeling his anger boil over. "That's close in-fighting, isn't it?"
"You get the picture. Leverages and take-downs. A guy can get a nasty spill. Pressure points. like the way I was holding your arm. No offense meant, but just out of curiosity, I'd like you to tell me, the next time you see me, how long the black and blue mark lasted. Think you can do that?"
"Sure," Kenyon said. "Glad to. And for your edification, judo depends on closeness for effectiveness, right? Well, suppose a fellow met a guy somewhere, a big ball of blob who talked like a cheap hood? Now suppose this nerd was pretty pleased with himself for knowing judo. Think it would cut any ice with him if his acquaintance was maybe smaller, but knew karate? You know karate. Man can break bricks in half with a well aimed blow. Kick through boards using his bare feet."
"I'd say, man to man, that a little meeting to settle things would be in order, Kenyon. Guys who know judo, they're a peaceful bunch, by and large. They get that way from confidence They don't bluff easily. They usually call the other guy's play. Now, any time you say, Kenyon." Cregar's eyes moved about the room. In an instant, his hand flashed out, his fist slamming hard into the muscle of Kenyon's thigh.
Sharp, jabbing pain bunched through his leg. Involuntarily, he groaned. A drink fell out of his hand.
The only comment or notice the entire event drew was from the host, Piazza, who called over, "Oh, hell there's more where that came from. Besides, whisky's good for the rug."
Kenyon was still in pain as he bent for the dropped glass. Cregar, playing it smoothly, leaned a hand on the bar and looked solicitous, feigning interest.
Kenyon saw his chance. As he stood, his right hand flashed out in a short arc. Making a blade of his hand, he brought it down with a wrist snap, catching Cregar right across the hand. He heard the bones in two fingers snap. Cregar bit off a yelp and withdrew his hand it pain. Black belt he might have been, but he'd com mitted himself to a fight and then looked away from his opponent; not a very good survival tactic.
"You sonofabitch,'" he hissed. "You'll pay for this."
Kenyon looked at the hand. Already, it was beginnin to swell and puff. Two broken fingers would keep the big ox busy for a while.
"Sorry, old man," he said. "Guess I missed my footing or something. How clumsy of me. I was aiming for your big, fat neck."
Cregar jammed the damaged hand into his coat pocket. "I mean it, Kenyon. This will cost you."
"You know something, Cregar? I think you're bluffing." He turned on his heels, built another drink an carried it to Louise Alton, conscious of the tightening of muscles in his leg. He knew it would take more than a hot bath to get rid of the charley horse. Louise Alton took her drink with a look of concern. "There was a bit of a disagreement there with Gary, wasn't there?"
"Nothing I couldn't handle. He seems to think he should play Sir Galahad for you."
"And because of that you argued?"
"Well, I didn't think I need a police force."
"Gary's a hothead. I'd like to apologize. I'll see to it that nothing more happens. If he tries anything-anything at all, I want you to promise to tell me. He has some strange notion about protecting the interests of my late husband. I know he means well, but-"
Kenyon held up a hand. "I don't think hell do anything more."
A flicker of interest shone in her yellow-brown eyes. It was hard to describe. Kenyon had seen women with that look at bullfights. "What makes you so sure he won't--? "
"I hit him, Louise."
"You hit him? I didn't see a thing."
"You weren't meant to. When I dropped that drink, he-"
"He knows judo. Always bragging."
"Well, he won't brag for a time. He has two broken fingers."
Her eyes moved slowly over his face. Kenyon knew she was scanning carefully. He thought of taking her to bed, thought of it hard, of all the way's he'd surprise her and take care of her and tried to transmit this into substance as his eyes returned the scanning. "You're quite a man, Kenyon, in every way. I'll be looking forward to tomorrow."
Kenyon touched her arm. "So will I?"
He contrived to drive her home when the evening was ended. She lived closer to town in a rambling Spanish stucco estate that fronted lush natural grass and a well landscaped patch of rocks, gentle slopes and clumps of trees.
"It's a bit senseless now that Roger's gone. Our son Kent is at military school. I'm putting it on the market and taking a house closer in, temporarily."
"Temporarily?"
"Well, a good deal of my life is here and I keep busy with Roger's interests, but still-well, there are other things."
Kenyon grinned. That was very nearly a confession that she was husband hunting, he thought.
"You mean you'd prefer city life?"
"Oh, the city's nice to visit. But given the right circumstances, Portsmouth could be excellent." She invited him in for a nightcap. He accepted with alacrity.
She led him into a walnut paneled den with cross-beamed ceiling and a large, Spanish-type bay window. Kenyon took in the Indian blankets and thick substantial furniture. He couldn't help totaling some of the costs, The long sofa alone probably went for five hundred dollars. Someone with taste had done the room, however, presumably Louise, and it was not expensive for show. He could see having a room like that. He could see a lot of things about this set-up.
She showed him a picture of Kent, her nine year old son. He was properly enthusiastic and concerned, bringing forth the very question he'd hoped she'd ask.
"How is it a man like you hasn't married?"
"I tried it once, Louise and it didn't work," he lied
I'm sold on the institution, but she had ideas about money and status that were beyond me. Don't get me wrong, I prefer steak to beans, champagne to beer. But if the cost is too dear, what's left to enjoy."
She kicked off her shoes and wriggled her toes, enjoying the freedom. "One of the things I like about you, Jeff, is your matter-of-factness."
"One of the things I like about you-"
Her eyes flashed warning signals. "Please," she said, "don't tell me you think I'm witty and vivacious and brave and young looking for my age. I've had that up to here since Roger died."
"I wasn't going to say that. I was going to say that I liked your sex appeal. It, too, is matter-of-fact. You know you've got it."
Louise Alton laughed nervously before turning her eyes away from him. Her face flushed pink. She laughed again. Before she could recover, Kenyon kissed her with a deliberately chaste but reverent kiss. It worked by throwing her off guard. He seized the advantage and kissed her again, full on the lips.
"Well," she said, "this is news."
He took his cue from the fact that she made no move to push away. Again, he leaned closer. Her defenses came up, but he took her shoulders and held firmly, this time letting his lips part as they kissed. Her tongue brushed his lips and for a long moment, she responded by pressing tightly against him.
Hoping for perfect timing, Kenyon lurched away. "Wow! I-I think I got carried away. Another moment and-"
"And what?" Her face crinkled in interest.
"And I'd have been really carried away. As it is-"
"Yes? Go on, Kenyon."
He did. He grabbed her, almost roughly this time, pulling her against him. He was aware of the necessary response in himself; so much depended on it and what would happen next. He moved his hand to hers, directing her slowly, so that she was unmistakably aware of his desire.
She completely surprised him by not reacting in either of the manners he'd been prepared for. The awareness of him did not excite her so that she was all over him, nor did it shock her and cause her to withdraw. Instead, she laughed, almost as though she were back at the dinner party, in the den laughing at some ribald joke.
"Why Jeff, this is priceless. I really do all this to you, don't I? You've got a crush on me."
That last comment really threw him, had him at a loss, put her one up on him. "You excite me, Louise," he said, suddenly aware that everything was going wrong. It sounded like some kid, trying to make out. Where had he misfired? What had gone wrong?
Still, Louise held him, almost clinically, it seemed, as though she were watching the reaction of some animal in experiment or hoping the stud arrangement between two selected livestock would "take" for the results.
Trying desperately to overcome this shadowing of ludicrousness, Kenyon moved closer to her, his hand moving for her breast.
"Darling," she said, "I believe you mean it. And unlike some I know, I take this as a-a grand compliment." Swiftly, she was next to him, her hand moving rapidly almost expertly. By the time Kenyon realized what she was doing, it was far too late to consider moving away. He felt release swarm him and as it happened, she moved against him very tenderly, her arm about his neck, cradling his head to her breasts.
When it was over, she gave an extra hug, drawing his face even closer against her bosom, then she kissed him. Suddenly, he was angry, but even that faded when she took his face in both her hands. "Jeff," she said, "I like you." She did not seem the slightest bit disturbed. "I mean it, I'm flattered. You were rushing things a bit, taking a lot for granted, but you really do mean it, don't you? You're taken with me. I excite you. You can't name me a woman who doesn't like to hear that. Now be a good boy and don't try to rush me." She stood up, smiling at him. "Let's be patient and see what tomorrow brings." She was conscious of him, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of her breasts and the sheen-of the dim light on her stockings. He felt a raging frustration and it became a matter of principle now. He wanted her, and he was going to get her.
"Tomorrow, Jeff," she said, moving to the door and posing, effectively dismissing him. "I'll look forward to it. Would you like to pick me up?"
"Yes," he said.
"But no fair playing grabsies in the car."
"Dammit, Louise-"
'Well, if I excite you, you might. I'm thinking of a fifteen dollar hair-do I'll have and a new dress. Besides, you'll need all your energy for later." She kissed him a-gain and with a jaunty waggle of slender hips, she moved toward the semi-lit stairway.
He let himself out the front door, shaking his head from the confusion. Louise Alton was a complete enigma, completely believing the reserved, cool society matron picture she presented in the department store. Perhaps that was a cool veneer that gradually began to peel when she was in the right circumstances.
At any rate, there had been some contact, some intimacy, no matter how ignominious the results. He had a foot in the door and by golly, it was going to stay.
His determination and self-absorption left him with a sudden chill as he heard rusthng in the bushes near the carport.
At once, he thought of Gary Cregar and he deliberately kept out in the open, avoiding the low hung bushes and shrubs that flanked portions of the walk and lawn. No telling what a character like Cregar would pull. He'd had enough time to get his fingers set and bandaged, he might possibly want some revenge.
Kenyon peered about cautiously, noting the small garage beyond the car port. The door was slightly ajar. He wasn't sure how many servants Louise Alton kept. It could be one of them on some errand, it could be Gary Cregar, it could be his imagination. But his senses gave him the uneasy feeling he was being watched by someone hidden close by.
No other cars, no other traces. It could have been a gust of wind, rattling through the bushes for that matter. But Kenyon still felt the effects of the adrenalin. He. could write off his fear to a certain extent with the notion that it was Cregar, waiting and watching. The notion gained strength because of that brief, brutal fight.. But it could also be nerves.
What had started out to be an impending triumph now had him uneasy and way off stride. That nonsensical business with Dorothy Tyler preyed on him. The fight with Cregar. That near absurd business with Louise in the den. The thought of that still rankled him.
What the hell war going on in this circle of people?
He made quickly for the Corvair, pulled out onto the graded road leading from the Alton's drive and jammed down on the accelerator, trying to revive the events of the evening in his mind. None of it made sense. There was the distinct possibility that Louise had been laughing at him back there. It had all been so strange, so completely different from what he'd planned. Almost as though he'd been like a little boy with a crush on the teacher, getting an indulgent smile for bringing a bunch of flowers.
Yet Louise had brightened at the thought of the party and she'd been the one to suggest he pick her up. He'd pick her up, all right, and there'd be no more of that nonsense. He had his target, and he was going to bit it, one way or another.
CHAPTER FIVE
His second talk was a rousing success and as he leaned casually against the lectern, he congratulated himself again for picking Portsmouth. There was real talent here. Somehow, the word had gone out about him and in addition to the regulars he'd come to know, there was a heavy sprinkling of older women and the younger ones, too, bright, attractive young things with their sullen dates, smiling up at him with defiance and wistfulness.
He got extra energy from the knowledge that he'd milked the situation to its fullest, played it to the hilt. Only some famous teacher or critic could have done better, only some really famous, best-selling writer could have made more of an impact.
True to his plan, he concentrated on Louise Alton, virtually pinning her to her seat with sudden, dramatic gestures and that determined mental set of desiring her. He could feel it permeate his being all the more, thanks to last night's frustration. He beamed the desire to her and saw it strike home. She shifted her neat legs for his benefit and smiled encouragement.
Louise was dressed for the occasion, her colors chosen to offset the color of her eyes. She wore a chocolate gabardine suit, smartly tailored with a bright plunging yellow blouse. About her neck was a single string of dark amber beads. Her cufflinks were large chunks of amber, Her hair-that fifteen dollar set job she'd mentioned-was an elaborate bun, pinned midway up on her proud angular head, giving accent in the rear to her long slender neck and in front to the tilt of her breasts. The brown motif was picked up again in her cinnamon colored hose and charcoal brown pumps. She watched him with great interest and flattering attention. Still, he was stung with the memory of their brief, pointed conversation when he'd come to pick her up.
"Now remember," she said, "we don't want to rush into something too quickly. We might spoil things for one thing, for another, there'd be talk. Portsmouth is sophisticated, but its small, too. Don't forget, even the wealthy people are farmers." She'd patted him suggestively on the lap and smiled.
After the speech, on the way over to the Piazza's for the party, she let him lass her. It was an intimate, probing kiss that brought out that sparkling quality i amusement in her. She could have been a New York or San Francisco career woman with that attitude instead of a wealthy widow.
At the party, he was in for a surprise. Dorothy Tyler appeared on the arm of a young, crew-cut man, still in his early twenties. His pride at being with Dorothy far outshone any other enjoyment he'd have the rest of the evening. It was almost at though this date with her was the highpoint of his summer.
Dorothy Tyler nodded amiably to Kenyon, but stuck close to her date, suddenly fawning over him, plunking bits of caviar and cracker into his mouth, lighting cigarettes for him and even sharing a glass of the fine local champagne with him.
"This is the beauty of knowing a quality wine grower," Louise told Kenyon, looping her arm through his. "Piazza's grape isn't the best in the state, the Korbel natural champagne is, but he comes up with a damned fine product."
Piazza's champagne had a slight pink cast to it, but Kenyon knew he was in for a treat. He deliberately doused his cigarette and carefully chewed two or three hunks of sour dough French bread to clean his palate.
After the first sip, he realized the frothy local growth was completely natural and had none of the brandy in it commonly used to arrest fermentation in the bulk produced cheaper champagnes.
He also noticed Louise was hanging onto him pos-sesively. It keyed him up, expectantly.
The trouble was-or was he imagining it-that Louise Alton and Dorothy Tyler seemed to bristle at the sight of each other. What was the connection between the two? Louise was close to fifteen years older than Dorothy. Other than being from the same circle in the same city, they had little in common. He watched the two react to each other a few more times, aware of Louise's tight grip on his arm. Probably some local feud or skeleton in the closet. Small towns were loaded with petty animosities. There was no telling how far back this one would have gone.
Idly he looked about for Gary Cregar, wondering if Louise hadn't used some gentle pressure on Piazza to have his invitation revoked.
"Oh, I wouldn't go that far," she said. "He gets his moods and that takes care of him. Probably the fact that he knew you'd be picking me up discouraged him. I doubt that you'll be seeing more of him."
Milling about, he was approached by a woman he'd noticed at the lecture hall. She was difficult to ignore. Big, well proportioned and attractive.
"Your talk interested me," she said, her eyes meeting his directly and with frank challenge. "In a way, you remind me of a distinct type."
"What type is that?"
"The old troubadours, wandering about the country side, singing songs, telling stories and playing hell with the local female population."
Kenyon smiled with amusement. "The theory is, they also left quite a wake of illegitimate kiddies."
"Like I say, you remind me of a troubadour."
He shook his head. "I'd be greatly surprised if I had any hidden offspring."
She looked him over critically. "Doesn't look like you're too old to start."
Somehow, Kenyon wasn't offended. She wasn't real needling him as much as examining him. She made no bones of her curiosity.
"You got a thing going with Alton?"
"I scarcely know her."
She smiled. "I'll bet you've tried. A nice enough sort
I guess. At least, she can hold her booze and she kept her husband's hanky-panky down to a minimum, one way or another. But all the same, Alton's the kind of woman the fig leaf was invented for."
Kenyon gave an ironic laugh. One thing was for sure, Louise Alton wasn't that bashful.
A look of animal awareness was exchanged between the two of them. She drew in a deep breath, emphasizing the swell of her large, beautiful breasts. "I don't mind being admired," she said. "Besides, Kenyon, you know a few tricks yourself about capturing the interest of an audience. Well, I suppose you'll be in Portsmouth for a while?"
"Some. I expect to do my next project here." He wondered if somehow he was being very obvious. She smiled at his remark and said, "I'll bet it's some project," with just enough depreciation to cause him concern. Could she see through him? Did that explain all this nonsense? He told himself a big no. It wasn't possible that he was so transparent. Nerves. And besides, you didn't expect it to be easy. They aren't country bumpkins just because they're small towners. That felt a bit more reassuring. Then he realized he'd be thrown off stride no matter where he met this woman. She had a lot going for her, including that characteristic frankness and outgoing nature of the Portsmouth elite. Some woman. Some fine woman.
"I tell you what," she said. "I'm listed in the book. When you start thinking in term of more than just an interesting women with a hearty laugh, you might call."
His first meeting with Corinne. Direct and to the point as always.
Some moments later, Louise approached him again, in a grim humor. "Let's take a walk or something," she said, "I bore easily." This was not true, at least not from what Kenyon had seen. But he allowed her to lead the way, through a small patio garden and down a sloping lawn to a small gazebo just outside a clump of trees.
A small rivulet sounded chilly and frothy in the darkness as it splashed over rocks and pebbles. "We call that Piazza's folly," she explained. "It's a small stream and he's spent a fortune trying to deepen it and have it stocked with trout fingerlings, but the surrounding earth is too loose and it always comes right back to its normal size."
The fluttering of oleander leaves gave him a momentary start, reminding him of last night's presentiment of someone watching. He put it out of his mind as she gave him an encouraging smile and moved toward the gazebo, bounding the last few steps and sitting down. "I have an inspiration," she said, removing her high spike heels. "Tired feet love wading." She hitched her head toward the rivulet. "Are you game, Jeff?"
"Why not?" he said, sitting down on the step below her and started to remove his shoes.
Louise Alton hitched her skirt up over her thighs and began working at her garter belt to unloosen the stockings. Kenyon watched quietly for a moment, then no longer. She'd changed her mind. Surely she'd be expecting too much from him, supposing he'd let a thing like this pass without comment or act, not with a production like this. She loosened each stocking and peeled it off languidly. Kenyon edged closer, placed an arm about both legs and yanked forward. She came tumbling toward him, off balance and with a cry of surprise. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but I meant what
I said about the waiting, Kenyon."
"The hell," he said. "The tease bit works with some, but not me." He pressed his lips tightly against hers.
She struggled a moment then responded, her tongue flickering out against him, her hand moving for him with determination and purpose. Kenyon shook his head. He wasn't about to have things turn out the way they did last time. Louise Alton had picked the wrong man to play coy with. He tugged at her panties, still readily accessable under the folded back skirt. It took some doing. They were anchored under her garter belt and required an effort. With a final tug, he managed to free the elastic top of her panties and draw them part way over her hips. While he'd been working on her, she'd been busy too. In a sudden quickening of activity, he realized they were both ready now. She held him tightly as he slid both arms under her legs and lifted. He grunted from the effort and from the sudden tightening of her grip. All right, she wanted to play rough, she was going to get rough play. He'd tame her once and for all.
He carried her up the remaining steps of the shadowy gazebo and inside to a canvas chaise lounge.
He sat next to her, leaning across her body. Again, she tightened her grip on him as he grabbed her thigh and forced her legs apart. He became aware of a stiffening in her and she began to struggle in earnest, her body growing progressively more tense.
It felt like fear to him and he decided to let up a bit. He caressed her throat and breasts, pressing against her for a kiss. She moaned and tried to push away. Then a noise some distance from the gazebo gave them both a start.
"Quiet," she whispered. "We can't afford to be seen like this. We'll settle our differences later."
He lay there, catching the breath that had come more and more quickly with his excitement. A moment later, they heard the noises coming closer.
Then the noises became identifiable as footsteps. Then voices. Dorothy Tyler and her date, moving toward the stream and apparently standing or sitting near the bank. Kenyon made a rapid survey. It was a matter of a zipper and a tucked in shirt to get him fairly presentable, but Louise had left her shoes and stockings strewn about and her blouse was open. It would be nearly impossible to cover up incriminating traces. Their best bet was silence, complete silence.
He could feel Louise's heart pounding close to his as, from a distance, Dorothy and her date began kissing and petting. Of all the luck. With an encouragement, the kid would want to bring her into the gazebo. They'd be discovered. The best he could hope for was a stalemate, four closed mouths. But he knew better. Both Dorothy and the kid would be talking and he'd be in for it.
Silence-and luck, the only things he could hope for. Things got progressively more intimate between Dorothy and her date. In a kittenish voice, she whispered, "Peter, don't. Don't Peter, you'll get me too excited."
Talk about strange situations, this took the cake. That was as unlike Dorothy as he could possibly imagine. The only logic was that she was playing the sweet innocent role. Even so, she wasn't bringing it off too well. "No, Peter, really, we mustn't." Probably one of the more improbable things she'd ever said.
To put the final touch to things, Louise Alton began on him again. First she started a slow movement of her hips, but when he grabbed her thigh and squeezed, she got much more basic and earthy about it. There was no mistaking her intent. It really rankled. He knew she wasn't doing this just to tease, there was too much purpose about it. He gripped her arm hard and put his lips next to her ear. "Bitch," he whispered. She bit at him and started again. He was damned if he'd let her get away with it. Now it was getting to much, too far out. Here they were, fighting their own battle in quiet, while a few feet away from them, he heard Dorothy Tyler say, "All right, but don't try to take my skirt off."
'"We could go inside the gazebo," Peter said and Kenyon's heart skipped a beat.
"No," Dorothy said. "The only thing in there is a moldy old chaise. This is fine."
Louise was stubborn and obstinate. "I'm warning you," he whispered.
"Try and stop me," she said savagely.
He did. A quick, furious jab to the chin caught her completely unaware. She exhaled softly and went out. In the distance, Dorothy Tyler and Peter were too involved to notice the sound of the impact and the imperceptible grunt.
Kenyon lay there, furious. This really tore things with Louise. Finished. Strictly no percentage. Nothing but a tease, a weird one at that.
He listened while Dorothy and Peter came to a noisy, hectic conclusion, then moved away with Peter acting like a puppy who'd just received a bone for performing some new trick.
Shortly after that, Louise came to.
"I've seen crazy broads in my time," he said, "but you have to be put at the head of the list. I don't get your game and I don't want to. We're through." He turned on his heels and left the gazebo, marching with determination back to the house. They were the last words he ever spoke to Louise Alton. And he only saw her alive once after that.
Disturbed and angry, he marched into the bar and let Piazza make him two bull shots, hot bullion and vodka. That gave him an edge, but not much to go on when he noticed Cregar.
Cregar's hand was bandaged and splinted. "Don't let it fool you," he said, "I can still use it. I can still take care of phonies."
"You're missing a good bet," Kenyon said. "You'd make a good dog catcher."
Cregar eyed him with a blaze of fury. "Where is she? I saw you two go out together."
"Admiring nature's scenic wonders, I suppose," Kenyon said. He finished his drink, thanked Piazza for hosting the party and left before Louise returned.
Driving back to town, he thought of June Wilson. A thought was all it took. He pulled onto the main highway leading into town, then took the cut-off leading to her street. He wasn't aware he was being followed until he missed the street, got caught in a dead-end and had to back track. The same pair of headlights kept a regulated distance between them. To prove to himself that he was not building a case of mysterious noises and fallowings, he went two blocks past June's apartment and turned again. He saw the late model Ford in clear outline, maneuvering a turn a block away, trying to escape detection. In the darkness the only thing he could tell about the driver was that he was alone.
Kenyon parked at the corner of June's block and walked the half block, on the possibility that whoever it was following him would miss his exact destination, trying to remain anonymous. He fixed the details of the Ford in his mind-'60 or '61 white coupe-and walked quickly to June's doorway. Even though it was after midnight, she was not at home. He rang the bell for nearly five minutes, trying to rouse her.
He flung his lit cigarette away in disappointment and started back to his car.
CHAPTER SIX
He got half way to the Corvair before he heard his name being called. Turning, he saw June, hailing him. He shrugged and turned back. Why not? It figured. She had other things to do than wait for his unannounced, unplanned visit.
She met him half-way, her eagerness eaten into by a petulant reserve. He caught it right away, she'd be damned if she'd show him how glad she really was to see him.
"It's been a long time," she said. "No see, no talkee, no visit at the restaurant. Nothing."
"Work," he said. "I told you."
She showed a moire of distaste. "Research. For your book.'
"Well, you could say that."
She snorted through her thin nostrils, following through with a wrinkle of distaste and disbelief. 'So your book is going to be about Portsmouth, a sort of male impression of a small town. You could even call it Portsmouth Place; that sounds close enough."
"The book has nothing to do with Portsmouth, and what's eating you?"
She ignored the question. It was obvious what was eating her. "Then you're doing something about society. Love among the rich bitches. Is that your research? Anything with skirts and a bank book. Somehow, I didn't figure you for the social climbing route. Well, they're different, aren't they? It takes time to bed them down because they're move reserved, more polite, more mannered. You start sprouting a man-sized pair of horns and you know where to come when your libido needs caring for. June is an easy mark. June cares for you. June isn't reserved. Well, it isn't that easy, mister." She delivered a stinging slap to his face.
Somehow, it only stung, didn't disturb him or make him mad. He looked at her for a moment and said softly. "Okay. I'm sorry, June." It surprised him to realize she'd probably been doing some following or nosing around to pin-point his activities so accurately. But again, he wasn't mad. "I'm really sorry."
June's face lost the patina of hardness and disinterest.
"So am I," she said. "It's over, now that I've blown off steam. I guess I'm mad because I know how true it is, now you're back and I well, I am an easy mark for you. You want to go into the apartment? Let's go into the apartment. See, Jeff. Easy. Real easy. June cares."
For a moment, as June's arm looped through his, he felt a twinge of acute bitterness. It didn't help any to note the bounce in her step as they walked, the almost imperceptible purring noises of pleasure, the way she leaned her head on his arm, the overt, flirty manner in which her buttocks bounced with each step. It was a peculiar bitterness; it made Kenyon realize it even worked for a girl like June, a particularly dangerous attitude. How much better things would have been if
June had more to offer than a well organized ability to write an occasional story and the ability to work a full shift as a waitress. Put June in the shoes of Dorothy Tyler or Louise Alton and he'd be hustling her toward the Nevada border and a justice of the peace so fast it would burn rubber off the Corvair.
Sentiment, Kenyon thought. The hell with it. Next thing he knew, he'd be out with her looking at ivy covered cottages and playing that nonsensical game of "You could use that room for your study, and this would be the guest room until we have little Kenyons, and I could fix up that room off the kitchen as a service porch, and we could buy a big double bed like the one I saw at Sears, and-"
And the hell with it.
Inside the apartment, June made things quite easy for him. Without a word, she began unbuttoning her blouse, her eyes giving that knowing, meaningful look. Here it is, take it, it's all yours and it's damned good.
Good was right. All the frustration over Louise Alton came rushing out. All the nonsense about sentiment became buried in a rush of determination to revel in the pleasures of June's body. They made love with long, energetic movements, tiring them both with sheer physical exhaustion. It was purely physical, simple basic boy-girl stuff, no holds barred. She was all over him, like a fury, thrusting and moaning, giving everything and taking all the pleasure she could.
Immediately after, they lay clasped in each other's arms and June dozed, then fell asleep. She reminded him of a playful kitten, tired after intense exercise and playing. A happy smile beamed on her face even in sleep. She made the deep, satisfied sleeping sounds of an uncomplicated person who's been made happy. It had been the best of everything; the best of loving, the best of pleasure and satisfaction. Watching her, he felt like hell. Carefully, he slid from her arms, got up and dressed. He left her a long note, making it tender and filled with sentiment. Reading it over, it seemed stilted and forced, vague and alien to his beliefs. He crumpled it and wrote another. Don't let anyone kid you, June, you're a great woman. Love, Jeff.
He set it on her bureau and paused to light a cigarette. Her body was sprawled luxuriously, covered only barely by a sheet. It was the kind of picture that hit home because of its appropriateness, something like the ads in women's magazines that tread a thin line of credibility and run the danger of descending into self-parody; things like toilet tissue ads or baby food or hair wash preparations. June was a ready-made pitch for tenderness, the beauty of the female form, motherhood, understanding and all the elements that are pitched with degrees of maudlin sentimentality. You could make love like a superman, all night and with no let-up, and not get a reaction like that from a woman. You could go through your entire phone book of available women, one every night, and not come out feeling so good, so pleased, so much a man. The only way you could get so much of a thrill out of yourself and life in general was looking at someone like June, off guard and asleep, happy beyond measure because she'd seen you, because she'd been with you.
Kenyon blew out a puff of smoke and turned around. Tough guy. The con artist. The angles player. He shrugged and started for the door, thinking of a formula technique in short-stories. The bad guy gets his comeuppance in the end. They call it Biter-bit. He'd been bitten, all right. Biter-bit. Con man conned. Sartor sar-torus. Even in Latin, there was an expression for it.
"Tough guy,' he said, and quickened his pace to the Corvair. "Big damned tough guy."
He got a chance to show how tough he was minutes later when he pulled in front of his apartment and got out of the car.
Midway up the steps, a tremendous blow caught him, just below the base of the neck. With a grunt of surprise, he fell forward in a daze, only to feel a sharp jab at the kidney.
Cregar. He knew it at once. The blows were too well-placed, too telling to have been a mere mugging. He turned, his head swarmed with dizziness. Cregar kicked him in the leg, just at the bunched muscle. "I saw what you did, you son of a bitch. I saw how you hit Louise. I can put two and two together. You tried to get imagine and when she wouldn't play, you tried muscle. See how you like it, my karate friend. See if you can get the jump on me again."
It didn't last long. Cregar already had him down and used the advantage to score heavy, telling blows. Sharp jabs of pain hindered Kenyon's every movement. He managed one lucky maneuver, a painful raking of Cre-gar's shin with the sole of his shoe, but it cost him in pain and only succeeded in driving Cregar into further fury. Steadily, he beat Kenyon until he became sick and passed out from pain and nausea.
Cregar dug into his pocket and found his key ring. Opening the door to the apartment, he dragged Kenyon the rest of the way up the stairs and inside. Cregar dropped Kenyan in a heap on the living room floor. "Any time you feel up to a return match, pally, you let me know. On mats in a gym, or in a back lot. Any time. You just say the word."
Kenyon lost track of time, lying there in the oozy darkness. He didn't know if it happened before or after Cregar left, but a spasm of pain got him and he was sick where he lay on the floor, the thought of crawling into the John nothing more than a distant luxury.
Kenyon could move around with some difficulty late the next day, although the pain in his kidney still had him doubled up. He could drive a car again within a week. Some of the black and blue marks, particularly those on his back, persisted longer than that. But it was more than a beating he'd received from Gary Cregar; it was a headlong plunge, an introduction to events and suspicions he could not fathom, a plaguing by important questions he could never answer for a certainty. It left him eventually with the uncomfortable feeling that he was anything but a con man, a sharp operator. It left him with the notion and suspicion that he was a patsy in a game so big and well organized that he was less than a pawn, some helpless fly, perhaps, with wings torn off by huge children, whose whim he could neither understand nor penetrate. And worst of all was what it did between him and Corinne.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Two days later, he limped to the one decent Turkish bath in Portsmouth that was not part of some exclusive club. He supposed he could have wangled a guest card or invitation from the-likes of Piazza or even Dorothy Tyler's father, but they'd be likely to want to go along, too. Seeing the welts and bruises would only raise needless questions.
He went the whole treatment, the steam rooms dry and wet the swimming pool, the sun-lamp and the oil rubdown. His body was still a mass of aches and pains, but he knew they'd only linger on, painfully, unless he worked them out.
While he steamed and sweated, he thumbed through a detective novel written by a friend. A friend, he thought bitterly, who'd shown much less promise. The list of books by the same author made Kenyon uneasy. There were ten of them.
Eight of these were adventures of a sustaining character, a gimmick if there ever was one; a high-pressure corporations detective, hired for such cases as preventing the stealing of company designs and secrets. There were always moments in the story Kenyon read where the gimmick was really milked the hero had a heart condition. Every time he got into bed with some luscious thing, his heart fluttered. Every time the pressure turned on full, he'd have to take pills and get sleep. Kenyon tossed the book away in disgust after the hero got a beating from two professional hoods. Seems the book had the hero back in business office and bed the next morning.
Looking at his own bruises and feeling the pain sweat slowly from his rib cage, Kenyon realized how silly this was. Cregar wasn't a hood by any means; he was a partner in Portsmouth's most respected, old-line law firm. A black belt in judo? Well, Kenyon thought that was wistful thinking. Black belts never brag, for one thing. For another, few Americans hold them. Even so, Cregar knew some of his business. Even if he wasn't in league with professional muscle, he'd given Kenyon a sound going over.
The last thing Kenyon could have considered was the bed department. His thoughts of June included a bag of popcorn and a movie with padded loge seats.
Outside, he felt better, more limber. The warm sun felt good arid suddenly thirty-four didn't seem so old or unresilient. A leisurely walk home and maybe a beer at the restaurant where June worked.
Moving along the street, he saw Louise Alton's convertible maneuver through traffic and settle in the loading zone in front of the Bon Shoppe. There was a parking area a block away, but for the-likes of Louise Alton there was also a uniformed door man and a garage monkey.
Getting out of the car, Louise noticed him crossing the street. She stopped for a moment, as though she were on the point of waiting for him.
Kenyon managed a wave. Louise nodded, thought better of whatever had been in her mind and started toward the store. With her was another woman, tall, with blonde hair and a rangy lankiness to her boyish body. She favored the spike heels that seemed to be the rage with Portsmouth women. Her suit was light yellow silk, severely cut. A wide leather belt was out of context, making her look like a motorcyclist. Her face was plain, well featured and attractively tanned. Her hair was cropped into a light, feathery fluff, combed across the forehead in what could have been an unconscious parody of a young man. A thin smile played into her lips as the doorman rushed to open the plate glass door for her. She had the look of big city, of New York or San Francisco. It struck Kenyon that her attitude was like that of a wealthy Dude coming west in the '80's, surprised to discover they had such things as champagne, crystal glass and pheasant under glass.
Maybe a relative, an advanced guard to get Louise out of Portsmouth and back with the family. The hell with it.
He walked another block and had his mind changed about the beer at June's. The sporting goods store in the Commercial Exchange reminded him of fishing, streams and the bright sun.
The Commercial Exchange was one of Portsmouth's prides, and best tourist traps. Shaped like a block C, the Exchange was two stories of glass, steel and fieldstone, spread about an uneven brick patio with elms and pepper trees and an outdoor restaurant. The bottom floor consisted of shops and stalls, running the gamut from a dress shop where you could drop half a hundred on a cotton print dress for the little gold-digger in your life to a men's clothing store where, for a few hundred, you could get an excellent tailoring job and the casual appearance of a pansy. The wealthy from. Portsmouth shopped there because they could afford it, the tourist shopped there because he thought he ought to. Blood oranges went for ninety cents a dozen, fresh strawberries the size of a girl's fist went at a buck and a half a box.
In the sporting goods store, Kenyon blew thirty-five dollars on a well constructed fiber glass rod, a Shakespeare reel, a spool of nylon line and a big loop of leader. The salesman, looking fresh off an English manor, threw in a packet of tempered steel hooks and looked sorry about it when Kenyon passed up the outrageous flies and lures that went for upwards of three-fifty each.
"All you do," he said, "is turn up a rock or rotten stump. Fish love mealy bugs and worms."
"Yes, sir," the salesman said, as though Kenyon had told him a dirty word.
Kenyon took his purchases. Outside, he saw Corinne Hawes, coming from the exit next to the bank. She seemed cool and amused, then genuinely pleased to see him. "I'll be damned," she said, "you like to fish.'
"A desert island, a couple of hundred pound test line, enough cigarettes, booze and the right woman. There you have my total ambition in life."
Corinne eyed him critically, then he could see her making mental calculations. "You got anything on for this afternoon, Kenyon? Or are you still after the biggest fish of all, the Widder Alton?"
"No to both," he said.
"I'm supposed to be in the store," she said. "We're getting a new tractor franchise. But-" She eyed his fishing gear for a moment, then her eyes flickered over his face. He felt the keen, curious appraisal. The way a doctor will take a blood sampling, Kenyon felt a sampling had been taken from him in that glance. It was quickly analyzed and found to have the required number on the sensuality scale. He felt as though he were being moved about in a private fantasy of hers, stripped of his clothing, prodded and pinched here and there to see if the skin were taut and. resilient, gaped at here and there to see if well, not to take chances. And strangely enough, her lips crinkled into a smile, showing big, handsome teeth, as her eyes caught the fishing gear. "But to hell with it. Edgar can handle it. He's my manager, he was my father's manager before Dad died. Edgar will go right on, like a zombie. He won't dare get old or die on the family. He'll go on, conducting business in the old way, extending and denying credit on the looks of a man's face or hands. He'll rig up displays that look like they were copied from a 1925 copy of Saturday Evening Post and laugh at the time-motion-study boys and their new marketing techniques." She took Kenyon's arm. "We'll get the taint of virginity from that new gear of yours. I know a place where Brownies and brook trouts multiply and be fruitful, to borrow a biblical turn."
It happened so quickly and so casually, Kenyon was borne along without question. Twenty minutes later, they were in Corinne's powder blue Corvette, angling off the main road along a two-lane stretch between farmland. The rolling hills gradually steepened before them and flat pasture land and oat fields turned into mounds of old hills, cluttered with rock and shale, building now into precarious trails along the hillsides, marked with the curious cow-paths that looked like outlines of Oriental rice paddies.
Corinne handled the car well. She had a deftness and good reflexes that gave an extra fill up to her generous proportions. The air stream played with her skirt, sending it well above her knees. Her legs, Kenyon noticed, were nearly as solid as his, but with true female softness and curves. Big girl, big proportions, fine control over them.
She shot him a frank smile. "I'd do something about that skirt if you weren't going to see what you're seeing now anyway. The stream's deep. I'll have to do some wading."
He was not surprised when he discovered, finally, that she kept a metal box in the trunk, loaded with a takedown rod, a spinner reel, flies and lures. There was an old pair of levis, cut off above the knees. She scooped these out, too as they walked to the downward slope that led to the stream.
"This is going to look strange," she warned, "but you'll forget about it when you see the fish." She perched on a boulder, removed her pumps and peeled off her stockings. Taking a safety pin from her tackle box, she carefully folded and wrapped the skirt of her dress, tucking; it under her belt and pinning it secure.
Kenyon got a last glimpse of her rounded hips, the plain pink panties and the taut, firmed thighs as she slipped her legs into the shortie-levis.
The odd thing was, it didn't look strange. It looked like just what it was; an attractive woman being active and not giving a damn about appearances. It hit Kenyon hard, making him aware of one of the things he liked about this kind of woman. You could wine and dine them anywhere and they'd bring it off well. They could sit at a truck-stop counter and eat chili with the same ease and aplomb they'd use when going for the pheasant under glass or veal cordon bleu.
"I should have thought of beer," Corinne said. "It would have been the perfect touch."
That tied it up perfectly with Kenyon. It recalled to him an afternoon long ago as a kid in San Diego, standing in front of a used car lot on India Street with money he'd grubbed and worked for. The little blue Chewy coupe with the rumble seat and home paint job on the wire wheels had been his dream, and the dream quickly faded when he saw the convertible next to it. He'd bought the Chewy-it was all he could afford-and it had provided good service, but always there was that convertible in his mind, shiny, bright and daring, that one he'd fallen in love with after working for the Chevvy, the one that had come to make him hate the Chevvy.
He'd been a sucker for things like the convertible ever since. They took hold of him and had him acting according to a different set of values. Ditto Corinne. Trout fishing, Levi wearing, beer drinking rich bitch.
She tied a fly to her rig, waded into the stream, just above her knees and cocked her wrist. The fly arced neatly to a clump of rock, then jittered off, as though it had been real and had tumbled. A moment later, Corinne Hawes had a brownie, hooked and giving fight.
Kenyon paused in the act of putting a grub on his own hook to watch her work. Her legs, tingling from the chilly water, were tensed and muscled, her strong back arched, her large round breasts standing out like monuments. Although her body was tensed and coiled against the fish, her face still had an easy-going levity. Her lips were relaxed and her face shone with excitement and delight. "Didn't I tell you this was a good spot?"
She gave the trout more working room and as it arched up out of the stream, Kenyon estimated its size and weight. This one was a good-sized five pounder. Corinne worked it gradually from the rocky promontory and further downstream, toward a shallow bank. There was little wasted motion, little doubt that she had a plan of attack all worked out. Her body in action radiated a glow of sensuality and desire through Kenyon, but strangely enough, that wasn't foremost in his mind. Watching her, he licked his lips at the thought of taking her to dine at the posh Portsmouth Inn, the two of them clad in levis and tennis shoes.
It was just the sort of thing she could bring off well, he thought, watching the expert way she landed the trout, then tossed the hapless fish on a bed of ferns and grass, yanked from the side of the river bank. Kenyon forgot about his aches and pains long enough to cast and nail a small brook trout before they started upstream.
They fished nearly two hours, getting used to the hot overhead sun and the cool, rushing water. Corinne had the best luck, but Kenyon was getting the feel of the area and catching up fast.
Suddenly, they realized they were ravenously hungry. Kenyon gathered sticks for a fire and trimmed two long Y-shaped forks to size. He made a circle of rocks, started a fire in it and made a spit for two medium-sized brownies, setting this across the crotch of the Y's.
The glowing picture of Corinne continued. She was perfectly content, eating the fish with her hands, licking her lips at the flaky, succulent goodness added to the fish by including a mashed leaf of California bay laurel.
"You look like you've learned to enjoy life, Kenyon."
"Enough to make it interesting."
"Is that why you chose Portsmouth-to make life interesting?"
He nodded knowingly. The glint of challenge had been picked up. He realized she was as curious about him and as interested as he was in her. Some people responded to these personal inquisitions, others swallowed their curiosity and went on in their narrow way, still believing their plans, their hopes, their determinations were the only ones in the world. He watched her chew the last morsel of trout then wipe her long, neat hands on the bank grass. He wondered what it would be with her. He recalled a girl, something like her. Sara. He never did find Sara's last name. He'd met her in the most out of the way spot possible, in the most un likely way. A roller ring in King City, California. Long a joke with Kenyon and his friends, King City was midway between San
Francisco and LA. If you were driving, something always seemed to happen to the car in King City. He'd had it, three times. Twice mild things, running out of gas and, once during a rain storm, a broken windshield wiper blade.
The last time, it had been a bit more serious. The rust and corrosion in his old Buick had finally taken its toll on the radiator.
So put it that way. His plan had been a week in San Francisco with the wife of a Hollywood agent. The telegram, broke down in King City, will be delayed, tore it. Something about his sense of humor. Something about a woman cheating on her husband not having a sense of humor or understanding. Something about a call to her suite at the Fairmont Hotel. "Why don't you admit it, Jeff? You got drunk and found something interesting where you are."
"Have them send you the telegram and look at the point of origin on it. Hang on while I jiggle the receiver and get the operator," he said-to a dead line.
"Well, if that doesn't take the prize, the real damned prize," he said.
A short giggle and then the operator's voice. "Are you finished with your call, sir?"
"Yeah," he'd said. "And just as a tip, never tell people you're in King City operator. At least, not in L. A. They'll never believe you."
Another giggle and thus, he'd met Sara, tall, wiry and with kinky ginger colored hair. Sara liked to take walks, swim and go roller skating. She did not like King City and was hoping for transfer to someplace exciting like San Francisco or LA. The trouble was, she had seniority with the phone company, a seniority they were not about to transfer along with her. Sara remained in King City, and Kenyon remained just long enough for two weeks of careless involvement with that wiry body. During the days, drinking beer in the small bars, he'd developed a progressive boredom. One night, Sara had brought her old, battered typewriter to his room with the old gag he'd heard thousands of times, "You're a writer, let's see you write something."
Out of sheer boredom, he had. Two fifty seemed like a good price for the story, one he'd never have done if he hadn't been pushed.
It was the way things happened when you let your own purpose slow down enough to let in someone else's. He'd had to draw the line with Sara. In bed, she made up for the drive and imagination and aggressiveness needed to get her out of her rut. But beyond that, Sara had notions of a dizzying life of going from excitement to excitement, looking for glitter and pots of gold at the ends of distant rainbows. "You've been to Reno? I'll bet Reno really swings. You've been to Vegas? What a life. I'll bet the swinging never stops there. You say you've been to Palm Springs...."
Sara's purpose was a restless movement from place to place, hoping to make up for something she was missing out on. But Corinne Hawes? A big fat question mark. One worth discovering. One eminently worth discovering.
Silently, they worked together, cleaning the fish and throwing the entrails back into the stream. "Give the other fish the message that it's good living around here."
"Then I take it few people know this spot."
"Very few."
He gave her a frank, head-on glance. "Thanks for sharing it."
"Maybe," she said, "it's a way to get to see you again."
He did nothing then, nor when she sat on the rock, shucking off the cut-down levis and let her dress down. She plied on her hose again, straightening the seams and anchoring the tops to the garter belt, fit on her pumps and stood, passing a hand over her skirt to smooth wrinkles and free the light coating, of dust. Kenyon watched and marveled at the way the thin material drew taut over the buttocks. A big, handsome woman, used to big movements. She did not make the mistake of trying to do things daintily, thus looking out of place.
In a moment, they were back in the car again, the transformation complete. She was a business woman again.
"I'm trying to figure you out, Kenyon." She waited while he stowed the gear and fish in the Corvette's trunk compartment.
"What's there to figure. I'm a writer between stories, looking for a place, trying to sort the chaff out of my head and get it out of the way."
"For the big score?"
He blinked. "Why put it that way?"
"You seem like the type who's interested in the big score. like you figure many people are chumps and all it takes is to give them something they can make chumps out of themselves about. like giving them goodies wrapped up in nice, lively English. like describing things to them that aren't really going on-things they want to believe ARE going on. Then you mix in a little of what happens to the banker's wife of a boring afternoon, how the garage man has hot pants for the beauty shop operator across the way, how the timid shop clerk saves his cigarette money to buy a pair of Zeiss binoculars to watch the girl across the court taking her bath, how he sweats when her boyfriend comes and tries to cop a feel and how much conversation that nice old couple down the street arouse because everyone knows they still sleep in the raw and think sex is the greatest thing to come along since the retirement fund. It's all there, as someone once said in a parody of Saroyan. All you have to do is figure out the right way of putting them down."
"I'll ask it again," he said, lighting two cigarettes and handing her one. "Why put it that way?"
She smiled with the challenge. "Because you're too careful, too controlled. like that bit with the cigarettes. You were awfully sure I'd accept. You notice we both smoke Camels, so it's a safe thing to do. But suppose I'd refused? You'd have felt like a damned fool, standing there with two cigarettes. Sure, you'd have tossed one away and growled at me, but with you, those things don't happen. Everything is too casually correct with you-like those talks you gave, or-"
"Or like my happening out of the sporting goods store with a load of gear I paid too much for at precisely the moment you appeared outside the Commercial Exchange?"
It hit her with impact, but he liked the way she took it. "Yes," she said, "that's exactly what I was thinking."
"Doesn't it seem odd to you that I did plan it this way? That's assuming I planned it. You gave me the opening before, remember? All I had to do was call and say, let's go fishing, Corinne. If I'd wanted an effect, that would have been the good one. To be more specific, maybe I wanted to make the pass my own way. Maybe I wanted time to think things over or see you in action." He reached for her, took her by both shoulders and drew her close. He met no resistance. The contact of her opened, wide lips was somewhat less than he'd anticipated. He'd known more sensual pleasure drinking milk out of a cardboard carton. His hand moved for her breast, kneading it gently. large and firm. In a few years, maybe five, they'd be in danger of sagging. It was a danger Corinne would never permit to materialize. She would keep alert and attractive. But this did nothing for him now. He moved his hand to her knee, gripping the thigh tightly. She remained relaxed, offering him nothing, no resistance, no encouragement. It rankled, giving him the further jab of annoyance of being taken in. More hanky-panky from Portsmouth women. June was the only responsive woman. What the hell was it? Local option sex?
He grabbed her chin roughly, feeling the big, solid bone structure pinched between his hands. He kissed her even harder, trying to insinuate some degree of irritation into it, something to rouse her into motion.
Nothing.
"The hell with it," he said, backing off. "You've just proven my point for me."
She smiled as he released her. "I'm sorry," she said. "But you've probably gotten the message by now. I'm a headstrong broad."
Headstrong was right. He felt as though he'd just come through some preliminary to a battle, measuring up an opponent, testing, feinting and ducking around, looking for an opening or betrayal.
It reminded him of the time in San Francisco when, for no reason at all, he'd taken offense to some guy. There'd been a large group of them, out on the town. A rip-roaring, free swinging crowd. A few married couples, but mostly just a gang. No ties, no permanent arrangements yet. There'd been this girl, Nancy, he'd been working on between drinks and laughs, arid then there'd been this guy, Guido. All of a sudden, and for no reason he could think of, the needle was out. It was one of those damned silly things. Guido didn't like the coat Kenyon was wearing and Kenyon didn't like the cracks Guido was making about Nancy. Guido made some crack about Kenyon ducking to the John to miss paying for a round of drinks and Kenyon came right back with the observation that Guido's hand hadn't been particularly fast on the draw. The drinking and partying had gone on with Kenyon aware of the efforts being made to keep him and this Guido apart. It was fine by him, until they'd somehow started talking about Russia and the United States and Kenyon had taken exception to a crack Guido had made and then Guido had suggested they have it out right there. That suited Kenyon perfectly. He knocked Guido down, then Guido knocked him down. Then the inevitable grappling until they found themselves, sitting on the cold damp cement in front of Enrico's coffee house, out of breath, dizzy and laughing, like hell. He'd never found out what had happened to Nancy, but he and Guido had become close friends.
Kenyon felt the preliminary fight over with Corinne. She thought so too and showed it by moving over next to him and kissing him. Now it was the way he'd imagined. Her lips were alive and active, the length of her torso, pressing against him, had a meaning and a message to it. He no longer felt like jamming his fist against that proud, strong jaw. He felt like just what he was doing-kissing it and feeling the response of her body.
"I'm headstrong, too," he said. "Stubborn as a mule. But not so stubborn I can't admit round one was a draw.
I didn't win anything from that sparring."
Her arms clasped about his shoulders. "I think we'll both do better in the late rounds. We're good at fighting." She moved off to arm's length, smiled and started the Corvette. "I suppose we'll probably fight a lot, but what the hell, it will be fun."
"I think it will," he said, feeling suddenly as though he'd known her for a long time, in the most intimate way. Whenever he thought of that moment, it puzzled him. He knew it was the beginning of something between them, a recognition, an involvement. But every time he tried to estimate how much, how deeply the thing had gone, he could never be sure.
"One of the reasons I started all this sparring," she said as they drove back to Portsmouth, "is some belated attempt to be cautious. I've seen your type before."
"What's my type?"
"The self-styled writer. The sensitive artist adrift. Okay, I'll admit, you've got the goods. But I still think I'm right about that big score. My brother-in-law I should put an exon that because I'm not married anymore-was a writer. The kid worked his tail off, even though he came from a good family. Bud, my ex, made good money. One of the original big-time spenders. Maybe you recall him. Played line backer with the 49'ers a while back. He even offered to subsidize the kid, but no dice. The kid was a throw-back or something. He didn't care where he lived or how many nights in a row dinner came from a can. The important thing was working. He did well with the small magazines and reviews, the kind of publications publishers watch. He usually got forty or fifty bucks a story, if he was lucky. More often than not, they paid off in free subscriptions or charged him if there were any changes to be made, damned good, and on the strength of reviews, he made something like five thousand. As you probably know, that's nothing. Just enough to hook a publisher, just enough to give them the itch for the big one. They've gambled on a first book repaying costs and have come out slightly ahead of the game. The kid was in heaven. On the strength of it, he married a girl he'd known for ages. Here again, good family. She started off being idealistic and willing. They made a down payment on a house in Cape Cod, a little frame shack. She had a small income and that took care of payments. He got going on another. The publishers loved it and sunk more into promotion. Great reviews, lousy sales. Well, the kid's wife had had her fill of the primitive, the dedicated life and it got to the point where anyone who came into the house, wearing pants, got laid even the mailman who brought the rejection slips. But my point is, Jeff, that kid took it all. He broke down when he found out about his wife. He tried his damnedest to patch things up, but when that failed, he was back at his typewriter."
"I'm not like that," Kenyon said. "I'd have paddled her fanny, for one thing...."
"You'd have done a lot more than that."
"Yes," Kenyon said, "a lot more than that."
'You're looking for the big score, Kenyon."
"I'm looking for the big score."
"I have a lot of money," Kenyon.
"You have a lot of body, too."
"Well find out how that goes. I'm sure there won't be any problem."
"No problem there."
"I suppose you're wondering the usual question. Why a good looking woman, a wealthy woman, can't find what she's looking for."
"You must have your reasons."
"One of them is pretty basic. You look around for something you've wanted. You try a few samples. Strictly from nowhere. Then, one day, you're in a store, trying on a suit you're thinking of buying. You've narrowed the selection down from four to two. One cost a hundred ninety five, the other costs twenty-seven fifty. You like them both, but they're just enough alike so you don't consider buying them both. The saleslady gets a commission, but she also knows her customer. "This one will give three times the wear and satisfaction of the cheap one,' she says. 'After all, you get what you pay for.' Do you follow that, Kenyon? You get what you pay for."
"I follow it, Corinne." The memory of her kisses and touch still burned. like fire imprisoned in ice. He'd been given glimpses of both.
She let him off in front of his place. "You know what it's like," she said. "You know the score. We'll play it your way for a time." She shrugged. "Who knows how it will work?"
"You might need a saleslady to tell you," he said, dripping sarcasm. "But of course, only after you've tried out the merchandise."
She winced and for a moment, he was tempted to tell her he was sorry. It left him surprised that he could hurt her, even more surprised that he could feel badly about it. He was getting what he wanted, wasn't he? So what if she'd put it into words and few before her had. He was one of the suits being spread out in front of her, for her approval.
"You know the score, Jeff," she said with a long stare.
Then she was gone.
Fire and ice, he thought. How quickly one changed to the other.
In his apartment, he stripped off his shirt, lit a cigarette and made a stiff drink while considering a shower. The phone rang and he half expected it would be her. The voice of Louise Alton changed that.
"I know, you just happened to see me downtown today and thought you'd call to say hi."
"I don't blame you for being bitter. I'm sorry, Jeff. That's why I called. Can I see you tonight? Please say I can. It's important to me. I've been doing a lot of thinking."
"So have I."
"Jeff, this could be important ... to both of us. Please I-I don't know how to impress on you how serious I am. I'd do anything reasonable to convince you."
Kenyon snickered. "Your ideas of what's reasonable don't jibe with mine."
"Jeff, please. Please come." Then, with some hesitation, she added, "I'll even do that, if you still want."
"Do what, baby? Spell it out."
She sucked in a gulp of air, giving it a heavy melodrama flavor. "Bed," she said. "B-E-D."
"Baby, you must be pretty desperate."
"Or pretty determined. Will you come?"
"It could be interesting. Will your blonde friend be there?"
"I wonder if you realize I'm begging. Perhaps that's why you're so cruel."
"Name a time."
"Eight-thirty. And Jeff-thank you."
"We'll see about that when I arrive."
He mixed another drink, showered and dined on the fish he'd caught. He had two more drinks and then it was time to leave. He was more than half way to Louise Alton's when he became aware of being followed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Blind, irrational anger flooded him. He slowed down, hoping to get a glimpse of the car that was following him. But as he eased up on the accelerator, so did his follower.
Quickly, he picked up speed, watching for reaction. The car remained at the same distance, something like a hundred yards. His mind raced, drawing the one logical conclusion. Gary Cregar. Well, he'd damned well give that judo jockey something to think about.
With his speed up, he quickly downshifted, applied just enough breaks and snap of the wheel to get a fishtail effect. There were no traces of oncoming traffic on the straightaway. Snapping the wheel, he added to the fishtail, feeling that brief moment when the car was out of control, rear end skidding foremost at an angle toward the shoulder of the road. Then he quickly spun the wheel in the direction of the skid and pressed hard on the gas pedal. He heard the screech of tires and the dizzying sway as the car picked up traction and corrected under the burst of acceleration.
He'd executed a complete U turn, noting the car up ahead was in the same process of turning. He bore down hard, picking up speed, just in time to be greeted with the red tail lights of his follower. He could hear the agonized groan of a well-tuned engine, being forced to a quick, maximum performance. The red lights grew dim in the distance as he pressed down on the accelerator again, holding it this time for all the speed he could get.
Kenyon held the accelerator to the floor for nearly three miles before reaching a small side road. He saw whirls of dust off to his right, but no trace of the car. He pushed on again, aware of the brisk evening breeze that could have been just as responsible for the dust swirl as a car, making a fast turn off.
Another mile beyond were three curves in the road, curves that could bar vision for at least two hundred yards. At the second of these curves, he heard the angry, impatient blaring of a horn. Then, in quick succession, three cars shot past him, going in the opposite direction. A Plymouth, a Ford and one he could not make out. It could have been any of the three or none of them. Another quick U-turn from his follower. Or equally possible-some fool taking a damned crazy chance on passing over a blind curve. He pressed on for another mile, aware of the dust swirls on either side of the road and, finally, two more small cut-off roads. Nothing ahead of him on the shoulder. Angry and disgusted, he pulled over onto a shoulder and lit a cigarette. It was so damned senseless.Well the hell with it. The hell with that muscle bound Cregar. The hell with Louise Alton. The hell with Dorothy Tyler. He took a deep pull on his ciraget and broke into a grin. "You don't want to read off too many people, old friend," he said. "You'll be reading off your meal ticket if you do."
He made another U-turn and drove back to Louise Alton's prompted by vague curiosity. Had she really: changed her mind about things? Was she really that serious about them? Even if nothing came of it beyond that night, it would be a grim sort of revenge. And it would add to his desirability in the eyes of Corinne.
The house was well lit and even the floodlights in the back garden were on. He rang the bell and waited, his nostrils wrinkling involuntarily at the acrid, burning smell. It was vaguely like a barbecue fire that had gotten out of hand. He jabbed at the bell again, his anger starting to boil. He lit another cigarette and waited. He knocked, loudly, but got no response. Angrily flinging the cigarette onto the lawn, he defiantly watched it smolder. Good for the damned dichondra, he thought, moving back to the rear entrance. The sliding glass doors on the lounge were locked. Through the shirred white drapes, he could see a table lamp burning. No movement inside. Toward the rear of the house, the burning smell grew even stronger. He imagined Louise, needing some courage for whatever she had in mind; the bottled kind of courage. A few martinis and anyone could botch a barbecue fire.
He clucked his tongue as he tried the back door. It opened and he moved into the darkness. He was about to speak. He had the "Louise!" all framed in his throat and even got out the first syllable when he heard the movement behind him. He spun about, the call choking in his throat, a swishing sound at his ear. Something hard and sharp jammed down against the back of his neck, just above the spine. He let out a grunt and pitched against a wall, his brain exploding with sharp prickles of light, his neck muscles crying with the sudden pain. He heard more movement, a breath. His hand shot out reflexively and made sharp contact with another arm. A woman's voice gasped and he heard an object fall to the floor. He spun half around and made contact, only to hear a high pitched laugh. Viciously, he pushed against his assailant, having no doubt, from the contact, that it was a woman. "Ouch," she said.
"Ouch, hell! I didn't come here to get clobbered."
A familiar voice, still tinged with nervous amusement, said, "I'll bet I know why you did come here. But you're too late."
"Dorothy? What the hell . . ? "
"It's Dorothy, Jeff. And you'll see what the hell." In a moment, the porch light was on. Dorothy Tyler grinned at him foolishly, looking more amused than anything else. Her right shoe was on the floor, her right foot wiggling in its stocking. She saw his angry glance at the shoe and moved closer when he began massaging at the base of his neck. "I'm sorry about that," she said. "But-but you'll see why-in a minute." The amusement suddenly became tinged with a glazed, distant expression.
"You're crocked," he said. "And I've had it, up the gazoo with these silly games."
Dorothy began laughing. "It's not a game," she said. "I'm really sorry."
"A bunch of silly bitches. I suppose Louise is out, too. What is this, some kind of a silly game? You gals get a load on and start playing telephone games like a bunch' of teenagers."
Dorothy laughed even harder. "It isn't a game," she said. "It's dead serious." She laughed again. "I'm really sorry about that shoe business."
"What was it supposed to accomplish?"
"I didn't know it was you, Jeff. Honest."
"Who were you expecting?"
"I don't know." She paused. "I heard you ringing and I panicked. Believe it or not, that dainty, misbegotten tap was supposed to knock you out."
"I believe that. Why?"
"So I could get away-if it wasn't you."
"Talk sense, Dorothy." His temper was at full peak.
"I am. I--if it was you--I mean, if I'd been successful, I guess I'd have hit you again-to make sure you stayed out and didn't recognize me. Then I'd have-I guess I'd have loaded you into your car, left you on the side of the road, disconnected a plug, cable or something and come back for my Alfa and stormed the hell out of here."
"You mind telling me why?"
"I'll show you," she said. "Come on. Upstairs. I can't help it if I'm smiling. People in my condition do strange things. It isn't a game, Jeff. I swear it. It isn't a game and it isn't very pretty, either." Suddenly, the amusement and levity faded and Dorothy leaned against him, her eyes brimming with hot, hysterical tears. She clutched wildly against him, her voice a blur of sobs and hysterical wailing. Kenyon held her, irritated that he should feel so tender toward her. What the hell was going on? He gripped her tightly about the shoulders, acutely aware of her breasts, pressing hard against him. His senses shot messages at him, mixing desire and confusion, blending the musty perfumed scent of her body with the burning smell, contrasting her childish body-racking sobs with the tautness of her breast and the erectness that could only come from desire.
He waited a few moments, stroking her softly, but this | only seemed to add to her hysteria. She grew more and more child-like as she pressed against him for comfort, her crying grew louder.
She'd had enough, he figured. He moved her to arm's length and delivered a stinging slap. "Shape up, Dorothy!"
For a moment, her eyes shone with pure hatred. She tried very hard to hit him and when he blocked that, she kicked him with her bare foot, causing her more pain than him. She giggled at the result, then cried again. Kenyon slapped her another time. It did the trick. She bit her lip and forced a smile just as Kenyon got the significance of the burning smell. Cordite. A fired gun. From that much smell, it had been either a hell of a lot of shooting or a hell of a big gun, one of the magnums that would leave a hole big enough for a human fist.
He moved up the steps behind Dorothy Tyler, nearly bumping against her when she paused in front of a slightly ajar bedroom door. "I meant it," she said. "What you're going to see isn't pretty."
Kenyon entered the room. The first thing that struck him was all the mirrors. There were at least eight of them on the walls and ceilings. Some were cleverly hidden behind wall-length drapes on traverse rods. Two were hidden under hanging tapestries. Then he noticed the bed, and things began making sense. The long, naked legs of the blonde he'd seen only that afternoon with Louise Alton. Then Louise, herself, clad only in black nylon: panties. They were dead, both of them. The blonde had three holes, Louise only one. The position was macarbe, Kenyon quickly realized there were answers to a lot of questions ... and new confusions. No wonder Louise Alton had treated him the way she had. Somehow, some where, there'd been a short circuit in that sex urge of hers. She'd tried to correct it, but couldn't.
Lying on the bed between them was a pearl handled .32 automatic. A ladies' gun.
He turned unsteadily to Dorothy. "Did you-did you touch anything?" She shook her head. "Thanks."
"Thanks? For What."
"For not thinking I did it."
Kenyon shrugged. "I guess I didn't think about it." Numbly, he thumbed a cigarette out of his pack. Dorothy snagged it from his lips. He extracted another and pulled out his lighter. She began to tremble. Both her hands gripped his wrist and from the contact, Kenyon felt the electric shards of desire coming from her. He wondered if she realized it. He wondered if anything was normal in this town. Was there really any way of judging what people did in moments of extreme stress?
"Let's get out of here," he said, leading the way back down the steps. He shook his head in bewilderment.
"Wait a minute. You--you thought-there was some question about my suspecting you of having done that."
"Her eyes widened. "And now you have that suspicion?"
"She did it."
"Did she?"
"Louise. She'd have to have. That girl had three bullet holes. Louise had one. The head. The classic suicide spot."
"The police will think that?" Again, Dorothy's eyes took on a cast. Her voice was oddly mechanical. "Why shouldn't they?"
She gripped his arm tightly. "Yes," she said, "that's true. Why shouldn't they?"
He led her toward the sitting room, vaguely looking about for a telephone. "Are you all right? You sound pretty shaky?"
For an answer, she moved next to him. They both smirked foolishly when they noticed, simultaneously, that she still had only one shoe, the spike heel, box toed patent leather. She leaned on his arm while she removed it, then suddenly, both her hands were on his shoulders. Her eyes pleaded with him. Kenyon started to resist. He saw what was coming, felt how impossible it was, but then those big, hard breasts were pushing tightly against him, her hips undulating against him, her voice nothing but a husky, wordless, continual pleading. It was like a cobra being charmed with a flute. The earthy, throaty sounds were music of the senses.
Her hands hitched at his belt.
Kenyon tried to push her away. "Stop it," he said. He slapped her again. He saw the sting mark appear on her cheek, but she wasn't fazed. It was like a movie in which some big man, usually a gorilla-like criminal continues to move in on the hero, despite three, four, and sometimes five bullets pumped into him at close range. Such phenomenon were reserved for the movies. They did not happen in real like. Girls who were slapped snapped out of it. They did not advance on a man with that low, throaty crooning, that hypnotic movement of hips that was so impossible to ignore.
"Stop it," he called, but already he knew how useless it was. The moment, the panic, the situation; they all added to make her so strong and desirable, he simply couldn't ignore it.
With slow deliberation, she reached behind herself, unbuttoning the back of her dress, the posture causing her breasts to jut foreward even more. The erect nipples, pushing, straining against the soft rayon of the dress seemed to be seeking him out. In another moment, she was able to lower the dress over her shoulders, revealing the white creamy skin, being held tight, the large erect breasts hammocked in the black nylon bra.
Time seemed to freeze and he was conscious of each minute detail; the loose weave of the bra, the intriguing whiteness of the breasts showing through, the dramatic impact of saffron aureoles. And then the breasts seemed to sag. No longer did the straps dig into the skin. The bra was free.
"Kiss me," she said. She moved toward him.
Kenyon tried once more. "Stop it," he said, "you've got to stop it." He slapped again. She took it without flinching. Her hands went out to him and then the moment passed and he no longer cared or had any control or reason.
It was all animal and brutal between them. He lifted and carried her to a long, low sofa. He did not stop to think of the gruesome mess upstairs in the bedroom. He did not think about the mirrors on the walls and ceiling. He did not think about anything.
As brutal and intense as it was, it was long and demanding. Her entire body seemed to claw at him and demand. It thrust and retreated, each time bringing back more demands, more need. Distantly, he was aware of the noises they made, noises that frightened him, noises he'd never heard before. She used words and she used sounds, but there was no real difference. He had a brief flash of understanding about Anglo-Saxon words, why they'd endured so long and why many people were so wary of them. It wasn't the words themselves so much, no matter how vulgar or how proper their use or intonation. It was as though these words had come about in just such a situation, torn out of people in the midst of hard, earthly, brutal demanding. They all sounded like grunts and demands. They convey the very animal, direct sense of satisfying a deep urge that shames so many, satisfies so many others. They are a constant reminder that two people can sleep together, so needful of comfort and tenderness that they fight and loose control of themselves for release.
She sighed finally, and it, too, could have meant a word. It could have expressed in four or five letters, yes, yes, yes, at last I've had enough.
They spiraled deeper and deeper into full, thrusting release and then Kenyon lay nearly exhausted, still beyond most thought, conscious only of his breath coming in heavy racking spasms while his face lay buried in the erect tautness of her heavy breasts. The air felt sharp and acute as it rushed into his lungs, almost like the pleasure-pain of running wide open, too far and too fast. A bit more consciousness returned with each breath and the smell of her warm, intense body brought new sensations of awareness to him.
Something was not right about this. Something did not jibe. He was aware of a sound, originating low in her viscera and realized it was more sobbing, a moody counterpoint to the heaviness of breath.
She was getting an after effect and Kenyon wanted to tell her, explain to her-sure, it was crazy, it was sudden and impulsive. Surprise. Shock. Death. Two people struggling for warmth and reassurance. But as he started to speak, he was conscious of pain again. It didn't seem right. It was no longer coming from his lungs, it came from his head. Then there was no further return of thought, only the dim distant protest that something was wrong and that the pain didn't belong there in his head. After that, there was only blackness and cold ... The cold was the first thing that got through to him again. And then it was the pain in his head. After that came the cramped, sore feeling of being bunched and confined. His eyelids felt like sandpaper rasping his corneas as he glimpsed light with a painful start.
He jerked awake, aware of bright, misty early morning. Then the pain in his head and the cramped feeling of having slept on a leg. Then he heard birds chirp loudly. The car was buffeted by the wind swish of a truck with semi-, rushing over the asphalt highway.
Tentatively, he sat up, knuckling his eyes and blinking to get tears of lubrication. He was near a sprawling live oak, still rustling and chattering from a night's cold. The only familiar sign was a highway marker, the main road to Portsmouth. Dizzily, he tried to orient. The slip-stream of another car rocked him.
He stretched painfully, feeling in the cold and dampness a recurrance of the bruises and jabs of Gary Cregar. Delicately, he eased himself out of the car, stretched gingerly. The sun would have another two or three hours of blazing before it made a dent on burning off the mist. Even so, the intimations of heat felt good on his skin.
He moved a bit down the shoulder and relieved himself, lit a cigarette and started back to the car. A peculiar shininess on the rear bumper drew his attention. He bent close to it and saw an area perhaps eight inches wide, burnished in contrast to the film of road dirt and mud on the rest of the fender. A few long strands of blonde filament completed the picture. Kenyon felt the soreness on the back of his neck and the egg-shaped lump further up on his skull.
Dorothy had accomplished what she set out to do, she'd belted him again, and this time, it had stuck. She'd roped her Alfa to the rear of his car and towed them out here, left him and gone ... somewhere.
Getting into the car, Kenyon reached for keys. Not in the dash. He patted a few pockets and heard the tinkle in his coat. With the keys was a slip of paper. Printed form for telephone messages. In block printing, he read: NO NEED FOR YOU TO BE INVOLVED. NO ONE WILL KNOW.
Then it hit him with full impact. Dorothy was going to call the police and do the explaining. Dorothy had a reason. Dorothy had a damned good reason, and very probably, Dorothy would be sporting a black ribbon again, not because Louise Alton was dead so much as because Louise Alton was forever inaccessible. Dorothy had loved Louise the way she'd tried to love men. That abortive might had been a real, honest try on her part. A thousand to one gamble, really, but a gamble motivated by hope.
But where did Louise fit? Was she trying the same game? She'd said bed, too. Maybe she'd wanted to offer a bargain, wanted him to know the score. The marriage bed, perhaps even a child, but they'd each have their own other arrangements.
He fired up the car and drove for three miles before he realized he was heading north, away from Portsmouth. Dorothy had used back roads and hauled him completely around the city before leaving him. A precaution. After the police had been called, they'd be checking on everything in the area.
Eight fifteen. By now, the police knew. The spit had hit the fan and Portsmouth would be buzzing with its biggest scandal. Wealthy Portsmouth widow in suicide pact with lover. Socialite prefers girls.
Kenyon clucked his tongue. He stopped at a truckers restaurant for coffee and juice. The Portsmouth Herald had the story, a monument to a wealthy-small town and its restraint. Mrs. Louise Alton, 36, widow of Roger Alton, was discovered dead early this morning by sheriff's deputies. Death was discovered by a close family friend. Mrs. Alton had been active in the local social whirl, but close friends agreed it was a brave mask, a front to cover the grief of loss of her husband. She is survived by a son. Known for her charitable works and friendliness, Mrs. Alton was widely regarded as being ready to help the needy. Police are investigating possibilities that Mrs. Alton's death came at the hands of a burglar.
Period. End of story. No word about the blonde. No word about the way Kenyon had seen them, sprawled together so gruesomely. Nothing about the mirrors.
Strict pillar of the community stuff.
Kenyon felt an odd tingle, a mixture of an unknown anger and foreboding. Hands of a burglar, hell. He glanced through the pages of the paper, coming finally, to a small article strung across a big ad for the Bon Shoppe.
Mildred Gutwillig, 32, San Francisco dress designer, was dead on arrival at the Portsmouth General Hospital. Cause of death was multiple bruises and lacerations with possible concussions suffered when the foreign car she drove skidded out of control and plummeted into an oak tree on the Creek Road, south of highway 118. Police believe the attractive blonde was vacationing. The body wil be cremated early this afternoon, prior to return to San Francisco.
Kenyon felt like a drink.
Someone had gone to a lot of trouble, big trouble, involving police. He knew there were crooked cops and open cities. He knew there were reasons for quieting things down. In the case of Portsmouth, the tourist bite and hefty list of summer residents could have some bearing. But it only served to increase his feeling of menace.
He drove home feeling suddenly hunted and furtive, positive he was being followed, only to discover it was a rather handsome looking woman with a station wagon loaded with kids, headed for a day camp.
He mixed a dark highball and got on the phone. Long distance put him through to Steve Creighton at the attorney general's office in Sacramento.
"A voice from the past," Creighton said. "How is my ex-room mate? And what the hell are you doing in Portsmouth?"
"Working," he said. "Listen, Steve, off the record, what can you tell me about the police department here?"
Creighton clucked his tongue. "The last time a scribbler asked me a question and told me it was off the record, I wound up being quoted in a national magazine. Meg and the kids were delighted to see daddy's name in the paper. The boss wasn't."
"On my word, Steve. Nothing you tell me will get into print. If it should, it'll be so fictionalized, even you won't recognize it."
"I need time," Creighton said.
Kenyon gave him the number. "Call collect."
His next call was to the Tyler home. It was completely on instinct, against the knowledge that she'd probably be under sedation or even yet at the police station.
"This is Jeff Kenyon. Is Dorothy in?"
The voice on the other end was metallic and wary, with a hint of fear thrown in. "Miss Tyler is not at home. She is not expected for some time, possibly weeks."
"It's rather important. Is-is there any way I can contact her."
"I really can't give you that information."
"Can I leave my number than?"
"I'm afraid that won't help, Mr. Kenyon. Miss Tyler will be gone for quite some time."
"Look, this is quite important to me."
"You say you are a friend of hers?"
"Yes. I was with her last night. I-it's of a highly important nature."
The voice gave a cluck of disbelief. "Miss Tyler was not in Portsmouth last night, Mr. Kenyon."
"Listen to me, I saw her. Now either you give me some information or I start leaning a little."
The voice sighed. "If you leave me your number, I'll have Mrs. Tyler contact you. She-she's resting now." It was the only break in the thin, female veneer. Kenyou gave his number and hung up. He finished his drink and made another. Things were happening too damned oddly for his liking. If the Tyler family was sticking to their story about Dorothy being out of town, that left him as a potential menace. With all the fixing going on, he could be sure to be included-in a way that wouldn't be too pleasant.
Inside of a half-hour, the long distance operator called to tell him Steve Creighton was on the line. Kenyon accepted the charges. "Go ahead, Steve."
"I don't like doing this over the phone, Jeff."
"That tells me what I want to know."
"Not quite. You don't get the picture. The scam is, Portsmouth is a straight town. One or two things that aren't too far out of the ordinary. They once had stud poker parlors there, like at Gardena, Oceanside and Kern County. That was busted up and a group came in running a bigger game. A few big boys in town claimed they were taken. Wouldn't say how much. Right after that, the Internal Revenue boys came in and shook over a lawyer name Cregar. Almost got him disbarred. He was set down with a reprimand."
"Was it tax evasion?"
"That entered the picture. Cregar got nailed for about five G's and paid it with no sweat. He got in trouble for obstructing justice."
"How'd he manage that?"
"By trying to remove past records on a man name of Krober. Mean anything? Well, that's it. As far as the police go, the bad ones were eased out after the gambling died down. The chief is Kendrick, he seems clean enough, although he got nailed for some back taxes, tool"
"A cop?"
"Cops can own property, Jeff. Well, to top it off, Kendrick has two boys, both sergeants. Wheeler and Prosser. Wheeler resigned from the force in Chicago about a month before the big shake-up. Told the papers he wasn't going to serve under a schoolboy commissioner. Prosser was a deputy sheriff in Clark County, Nevada. He had a few bad beatings on his record, you know, trying to shake loose confessions and getting teeth at the same time, When he was let loose, he worked some of the Reno clubs as a special guard, then moved to Tahoe. He roughed up a few mooches there and was asked to leave, Then he hit a small town in Arizona, where gambling hit the picture again. He got on as a deputy again, lasted a few years and resigned. Chief Kendrick took him again, lasted a few years and resigned. Chief Kendrick took him on here. There was a stink when he roughed up a few teen-age kids he caught necking. He claimed it went further than that, the kids say no. They also say he put the arm on the girl. He made a bad choice. Daddy squawked. Prosser landed back on the beat for a while, but he's up to sergeant again. And there's the picture. It's clean, efficient and they know who pays the tab."
Kenyon thanked him, listened to a brief lecture on the values of married life and kids and the invariable line of how we aren't getting any younger. When the sales talk reached the point where it outweighed the information, Kenyon thanked Creighton and hung up, promising to stop in when he was in Sacramento. That was about as likely as his grabbing a jet for South Dakota.
He tried to piece things together, evaluating his position. It could be the police had arranged things as a gigantic cover-up, but it could also be more than met the eye. They could be investigating possibilities such as murder.
Over another drink and coffee, Kenyon decided he'd try the Tyler home again. If he could learn nothing significant, he'd go to the police. He had a perfect cover story. He'd gone to visit Louise and had been slugged. His car had been towed to the other side of town. Checking would produce some of his tire prints on the Alton grounds and perhaps a report of someone who had seen his car parked along the highway.
He dialed the Tyler number and got the same, suspicious metallic female. This time, he got a rise out of her. "I-I wasn't expecting you, Mr. Kenyon."
"I was expecting a call from you. Did you give my message to Mrs. Tyler?"
"Your message?" the sexless female voice hesitated. "Why ... well, Mrs. Tyler isn't up yet. She hasn't been feeling well. She's still resting."
Kenyon heard a loud knocking on the door. "Just a moment," he called.
"Now!" the voice insisted. "This is the police."
The secretary's voice on the phone sounded composed and superior again. "I expect you'll want to let them in," she said and hung up.
It took Kenyon two seconds to get the idea. He moved toward the door, realizing who it was who'd been responsible for the police visit. No wonder the secretary had been surprised at his second call. She'd received orders to call the police; she'd been positive the police would have already arrived.
Kenyon opened the door. Two men faced him. One was short and wide in the gut, looking like a jockey who'd put on too much weight from too many potatoes and pies. The other looked like he belonged in a Levi ad. Tall, lanky and with shaggy brown hair, he had lazy indolent movements. It was he who flashed the wallet folder and police ID card at Kenyon. "Sergeants Prosser and Wheeler of the Portsmouth police. We hear you like to take rides."
"Where'd you hear that?"
"Man name of Kendrick," the small one said. "He's an easy going sort, but has quite a temper if his predictions turn out wrong. He said, just as we were leaving, that we might stop by and offer you a ride. He was positive you'd be delighted. You are, aren't you?"
CHAPTER NINE
The interview with Kendrick was brief and to the point. Prosser and Wheeler led Kenyon into the office, an air-conditioned, walnut paneled room with modern overhanging fixtures.
Kendrick sat behind his huge Swedish modern desk, looking like a well-dressed ass at a Midnight Mission. Of medium height and with burly features, his greyshot hair was cropped close. His eyes had sagging bags, looking like turkey wattles. His expensive suit wasn't able to escape a baggy, awkward look. The man wore striped shirt and polka dot bow tie. "I understand," he said, "that you were quite insistent about reaching first Miss Tyler, then Mrs. Tyler."
"That's right," Kenyon said.
"You've made quite a name for yourself here. In a way, it's a shame. But I suppose you can do it again, later. Okay, I'll get to the point. You didn't see Miss Tyler last night."
"The hell I didn't! I don't know what's going on around here, but--"
"But I'll tell you," Kendrick said. "Miss Tyler has had enough misfortune without you trying to add to it. The poor girl has had a nervous breakdown. She--she's undergoing treatment. We don't know how long it will be before she's had time to recover."
"So, that's the story."
"That's the story, Kenyon."
"I was going to come to you, tell you about last night. I was at Louise Alton's."
"Wrong again. You were passed out in your car. You'd been drinking heavily. My records will show I've given you a nice, friendly warning about drinking and operating a motor vehicle."
"Damn it, Kendrick, you can't just cover something like that up. I saw the two of them on that bed."
"What two, Kenyon?"
"You know damned well what two. Louise Alton and that-that blonde."
Kendrick smiled. "My records will also show, Kenyon, that this isn't the first time you've been brought in for a chat. Prosser and Wheeler had to bring you in for flaking around with that young gal at the Greased Pig Bar."
"What the hell is this?"
"We even had to close the Greased Pig for two weeks. Serving intoxicants to minors. The girl was being taken to the California Youth Authority when she unfortunately escaped. We think she's on her way back to Kentucky. You get what I'm saying, Kenyon?"
"Yeah, I get it. A hush up."
"Not at all. We have nothing to hide." The chief spread his palms and indulged an expression of benign innocence. It was as convincing as a Marine Corps drill sergeant taking up rose gardening. "We simply found ourselves faced with a problem. Portsmouth is quiet, easygoing and wants no trouble. We've given you every opportunity, but no, you continue acting like an undesirable. So we do the only thing at our disposal, we ask you to leave Portsmouth."
"You can't just order me out of town. This isn't a damned western movie."
"He says we can't order him out of town, boys," Kendrick repeated maliciously. "Let me tell you, Kenyon.
You go or your life is hell. We pick you up on an undesirable vag charge. We nail you every time you park, every time you cross the street. Every time one of the boys sees you in public, you get leaned against a building and frisked. If there's any pick-up orders out on anyone even resembling you, you're brought in and questioned." His face brightened. "Here, I'll show you something. Boys' give Mr. Kenyon a sample of how we go about questioning."
Before he could make a move, Kenyon felt himself pitch forward as the chair was thrust upon hard. He pitched to the floor, his head banging into the solid walnut of Kendrick's desk.
"Looks like Mr. Kenyon had an accident," Kendrick said.
Wheeler and Prosser flanked him, each reaching for an arm. In the brief moment it took them to raise him, he felt two painful jabs, one in each arm, as they skillfully pinched down hard on pressure points. "That being the case, perhaps we can show Mr. Kenyon our interrogating methods another time."
"I get the picture," Kenyon said.
"Fine, then a week will be time to settle your-er, affairs."
Behind him, Wheeler and Prosser guffawed.
Kenyon stood up. "There's just one thing you forget. Writers have a strange habit of writing about their experiences."
"And policemen have a strange habit of showing their records. You've got friendly visits down on your record, Kenyon. Consorting with minor females in a place selling alcoholic beverages, drunkenness on a county road, disturbing a prominent family and creating a public nuisance by brawling with another Portsmouth citizen. Anything you come up with will sound like sour grapes."
He declined the offer of a ride home, using the slightly over two mile walk to survey the events and work out his anger. A week to get out of town. It was crazy, it smelled like a can of stale cat food. Yet there was nothing he could do but leave. In a situation like this, his life in Portsmouth would be even grimmer than Kendrick had depicted. Somehow, the fix was on, strong enough to cover up the fact that two members of two prominent families had more than average lesbian tendencies. If they could make that blonde's death out to be automobile accident-and he had no doubt her car was smashed in against a huge oak tree-they'd be willing to take chances with him, too.
It gave Kenyon a shudder. Already, he'd been thinking of himself as a corpse. Well, there were other cities, but Kenyon was still disturbed. He'd never done this well before.
He walked the remaining two blocks in a growing anticipation when he noticed a Corvette parked outside his flat. He bounded up the steps, flung open the door and smiled when he saw Corinne, sitting at his typing chair, idly thumbing through a magazine.
She looked cool, possessed and sensual enough to set his spine buzzing with messages of desire. No make-up but a trace of faint lipstick. She'd cheated a bit on her upper lip, making it look a bit larger to give it a fuller appearance. She wore a coarse weave linen summer dress, excellently tailored and in restraint. On a woman her size, frills and ruffles would be as out of place as a maroon velvet smoking jacket on Mickey Mantle.
Her large firm breasts pushed hard against the yoke of her dress, outlining the thrust of nipples. Kenyon guessed at a peek-a-boo bra. No woman with breasts that size could have such an erect posture without ten hours a day at a rowing machine. Her skirt was short, her heels a complicated array of cut-outs and straps that looked out of place for a moment, a bit girlish. It took a while for the full effect to hit.
"Well," she said, "at least you look pleased to see me."
"Who wouldn't?"
"I've heard it said I was too much for some." She smiled and yawned luxuriously. Her legs stretched out and her breasts rose and fell with the yawn. "What a delightful thing to be able to say about yourself. But bittersweet, too."
"That old saw about a good man being hard to find."
"I like sex, Kenyon. I was built for it in every way. Something I'll always remember. Two summer ago, I was walking down Broad Street, just ahead of two college boys. I heard them talking about me. One of them said I represented perfect evolution; one look and you could see what my purpose was."
"I admit I'm impressed." He lit a cigarette and flung the match away. "Do you like trips, Corinne?"
"Travel is broadening, so they say."
"Well, our little affair, such as it is, will have to be carried out long distance after one week."
She raised a thin brow. "You're leaving "
Ruefully, he shook his head. "Just when I was getting to like the landmarks. Chief Kendrick asked me to be his traveling representative."
"It's about Louise Alton, isn't it?"
"Right."
"You know for sure what everyone suspects. You had me going for a while, Jeff. You went after her with that peculiar glint in your eyes. I figured you were either blind or..."
"Or what?"
"Just what you are." The eyes met his directly. There was no malice, no hint of scorn. Simple, direct appraisal. "But at least I can be sure of one thing. I was starting to win."
Kenyon decided on bluntness. "Well, want to play house for a week?"
She shook her head. "I know what I've got, Jeff. You've done your comparison shopping."
"And the store's closing ... in a week."
"Let's talk about that later. Now ... do I get a better offer?"
Kenyon mashed out the cigarette and bridged the distance between them. He slid an arm under her knees and lifted. She was hefty and he estimated her weight at close to a hundred thirty. All woman.
He carried her into the bedroom and dropped her casually on the bed. It was the last casual thing he did for quite some time. He watched her for a moment, the skirt billowed up above her knees, the taut thighs showing invitingly. He was next to her in an instant, his arms gripping her shoulders, his mouth moving feverishly over hers. Corinne had already become triggered. At each and every touch, he had little doubt that this was the most responsive woman he'd ever known. After a few brief kisses, she crushed herself against him while he began working on buttons. The moment his hand touched her bare back, she uttered a loud moan and squeezed tightly against him, finding a quick, animated release.
Her moaning and sighing had his senses racing, his appetite whetted, his nerves tingling. He had trouble with the dress and before he realized it, there was a ripping. Their movements were more abandoned yet. He reached for the strap of the cut-out bra, freeing her large, shapely breasts and grasping them eagerly. Again, her face contorted with momentary tension that took possession of her entire body. Naked now, her body glowed and gave off an intense perfumed musk. That smell, the silky feel of her and the ampleness of her pushed Kenyon to an intensity he'd never reached before.
Her hips thrust and ground against him, her eyes narrowed, her nostrils flared. None of this was boy-girl stuff, this was big league, muscular, full-bodied love making. She was not one of these, oh, please, please, please, now, now! types. She was in no hurry. She was perfectly willing to indulge in everything.
He pressed his lips against the firm back of her neck, feeling the shiver of delight course through her spine and back. She held him with powerful, searching hands, skillfully demanding and satisfying.
Breathless, he held her against him for a moment and again she began moaning. Built for it was right, he thought. What a grand reason for a woman to stay in condition.
There were reasons for training and care for the human body, building it up for performances and feats beyond the ordinary grasp. Some hewed the hard discipline for running, taking the punishment and grind for the feel of running a mile in less than four minutes. Some kept their muscles hard and taut to take the springs and bounces, the jarring contacts of football. Some kept their muscles loose and smooth for swimming. But Corinne Hawes made it apparent that her body was so perfectly suited for all phases of love making.
As they merged together, Kenyon felt an involuntary gasp of pleasure escape his lips. The sound of it drove a look of pride and accomplishment into Corinne's face. She smiled as though Kenyon finally could understand some esoteric joke. Now he knew. Now he'd find out what loving was like.
Already, he felt the surge of pleasure and involvement with her moving, thrusting body. The frictions and gyrations were varied and expert, two grown-ups using all their technique to bring about one of the most desired of all human results. And Kenyon had to admit it, all his senses agreed, Corinne was good. Her very reactions, to date, were the kind no man could fail to appreciate. The movements were perfect. Her muscular abilities surprised him. Deep feelings of untapped masculinity erupted within him and at once he realized the basic, simple secret of Corinne. As she took her pleasure, she gave it and gave it so well her own pleasure was increased. It would be impossible for a man to see that reaction and not feel eleven feet tall. Those twisting, writhing responses at his very touch gave him a feeling of careening, carefree power and exhilaration that built up into a slow, steady spiral.
Corinne sensed his readiness and showed how close to release she was. By natural consent the tempo was increased and Kenyon was stripped of awareness of everything but the thrust and flash of their bodies. Then came that long, ultimate moment when the release was so great and acute that the sensation was curiously bordering on pain. There was that one peak moment when he cried out again; the pleasure was so intense he did not think his nerves could tolerate more. They did and he felt himself plunging headlong over the top and then down the dizzying spiral. It smote him in the stomach and chest and all along the base of the spine. It was like the plunge into the unknown in a dream, the sharpened, adrenal awareness of falling, then the sudden snapping awake with the smell and feel of danger, the tingling excitement and the fast, palpitating breath.
As awareness came again, he saw Corinne's face, tight with the excitement of her own ecstasy, her breath a rapid tattoo in his face. The sight of her long, large body, completely given over to this excitement had a compelling, almost frightening effect. A lot of woman. That was putting it mildly. Never had he seen such complete, total commitment to love making.
They lay sated in each other's arms for long moments before Kenyon reached for a cigarette.
"Now," she said breathless still, "now we can talk."
"The hell with that," he said, fondling her luxurious breasts.
She smiled at him triumphantly. "You're no slouch either, Jeff. You're the kind I want."
He was surprised to see, when he noticed the clock, that they'd been close to ninety minutes in all the various aspects of that first, memorable time.
It was the beginning...
... and the next two days seemed to Kenyon a sort of secret dream come true. Oh, he kept no scores or any of that nonsense. But their discovery and celebration of each other had the forbidden, impossible flavor of an orgy. They spent very little time out of the bed. The hours seemed to float by deliciously. Suddenly, in the middle of a TV program, their toes would brush and the whole flame of desire would ignite between them like a brush fire. Quietly, they depleted Kenyon's refrigerator contents, then called a Chinese restaurant for a delivery. They were down to the fortune cookies and a carton of milk and two cigarettes when Kenyon lay back, his eyes still admiring that voluptuous beauty and extravagant bust. "The spirit is still very willing," he said, "but the flesh is starting to weaken."
"I like what we've got, Jeff. They don't hardly make it anymore."
"The hell of it is, I'm not really tired. Sort of relaxed. Very damned smug. So smug that I think I could abstain from that lovely form of yours for all of twelve hours."
"Don't brag," she said. "It isn't becoming. People who brag often have to back up their boast. I admit we've made a few experiments here and there, but don't take money that you can do without for twelve hours."
It was the beginning...
... and from there it seemed only natural that they discuss the inevitable, and for Corinne to say, "Be ready in two hours," and for her to return in a trim tan gabardine suit, the trunk of the Corvette loaded with two big cases, barely leaving room for one of his own.
As they left Portsmouth, Kenyon had one of his attacks-something he liked to think of as decency pangs. He wanted to tell June before she heard from someone else, or maybe read it in the papers. But, like many of these pangs, it came a bit late, as they were skimming northeast over the State Highway, angling for the junction with Highway 40 that would take them over the Sierras to Lake Tahoe. Well, he'd call June. That's what he'd do.
He scarcely had the time, as it turned out. They made the trip effortlessly in the Corvette, arrived at the North Shore of the big, shimmering lake, just in time to see a pale slice of moon emerge from whispy clouds and add a crinkle of light to the wind-tossed water.
They roused a crusty old Justice of the Peace away from a cribbage game and down to a marriage chapel. For the first time, the inevitability of it hit Kenyon. Corinne was neither the most wealthy woman he could have married nor the most attractive. After those standards were admitted and set out of the way, the rest opened up beautifully. Se was wealthy enough. She was attractive enough. And he seriously doubted he'd encounter anything as lively and agreeable and adaptable in the bed department. The ones who said that didn't matter didn't know what they were talking about. Sex wasn't a cure all, but there were relatively few differences it couldn't settle in the right atmosphere.
While making the wedding arrangements, Kenyon had to fight off an attack of silliness. He wanted to giggle ... he'd won, he'd finally done it-got what he'd been after. He was smelling like a rose.
Corinne got impatient and read the old JP out for fumbling around. She raised hell with the chapel owner for the outrageous prices he charged for two gold wedding bands. Kenyon watched it with a serious realization that he was a step ahead of Corinne. She thought they were being hard-shelled and sophisticated about it, but it wasn't true. They were acting almost like a couple of eloping kids. There was an undercurrent of sentimentality. Even the words..."for richer, for poorer, for better or worse..." had a cast to them. They sounded good.
In their suite of rooms at the Tahoe Inn, they both began behaving like bride and groom. Kenyon actually carried her over the doorway and then, something happened. She was trying to stifBe tears. Suddenly, they were down on the bed, demanding of each other. Their love making was different, filled with self-conscious restraint. They were both shy and it was impossible for Corinne to have behaved more virginal.
They fell into a deep, exhausted sleep, awakening at two and ordering breakfast from room service. There was talk of a shopping spree in the villages in Stateline, but as Corinne dressed, they contacted accidentally. She actually blushed when she saw the desire in his eyes, but they fell across the bed with a hunger. They could not keep their hands off of each other.
The part that fascinated Kenyon the most was the inclusion of sentimentality, as though they were just now discovering each other and something beyond, a young, teen-age sense of awe and mystery. It brought him up short. Do men in their thirties get such a kick out of showering with their wives? Do they say such ridiculous things and get to necking and kissing and then pillow-fighting and romping all over one of the beds, virtually soaking it through? Do they call room service for wild orders of turkey legs and hot fudge sundaes and shrimp cocktails? Do they borrow their new wife's eyebrow pencil and resort to the utmost vanity of all, keeping score on the wall, above the bed? Do they, when they finally get out of their rooms, get taken for exactly what they are-newlyweds ... honeymooners? Do they go treking off on a two-day pack trip?
They returned to Portsmouth on a gray, overcast Thursday, stopping first at the Bon Shoppe for a shopping spree. While Corinne was off looking at cosmetics and hinting about negligees and underwear that would be a surprise for him, Kenyon started reaping the benefits of her charge account. A dozen shirts. Four pair of thirty-dollar shoes. Two cashmere pullovers and three alpaca cardigans. The suits weren't to his taste, but three pair of Daks trousers and a sports jacket were.
As he moved toward the women's section, looking for Corinne, Kenyon felt an iron hand plunk on his shoulder. Without turning, he knew it was Sergeant Prosser.
"Hello, old friend," Prosser said. "Kindly oblige me by leaning your hands on this railing and keeping all your weight on them, or I will take great pride in messing the hell out of you."
He took a glance at Wheeler who had his .38 police special out of his shoulder holster. They were really making a play. A curious crowd of spectators began to gather. Neither Wheeler nor Prosser made the slightest effort to disperse them.
"Now, Mr. Kenyon," Prosser said, loudly enough for . . all to hear, "we'll see what you've got on your person."
He began by frisking for a gun, a process made painful by constant jabs with the butts of his palms, particularly about the ribs and kidney.
Kenyon heard a reassuring voice from the side-Corinne. "May I have a word with you, Sergeant?"
"Not just now, Mrs. Hawes. I've got my hands full with this suspect."
Corinne's voice had an insistent ring to it. "Now, officer. This very moment."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hawes ... perhaps Sergeant Wheeler can help you."
"What I have to say concerns you."
Prosser elbowed Kenyon, removing his breast wallet.
"All right, you pig," Corinne said, "you certainly can't say you didn't ask for it. If you don't return Mr. Kenyon's things to him immediately and apologize in a loud, clear voice, I will personally see to it that the only job you're physically fit for is guarding a harem. Do you understand that, officer?"
"Now, look, Mrs. Hawes--"
"The name is Mrs. Kenyon, officer. Mrs. Jeffrey Kenyon. Now about that apology-"
Prosser turned ashen. "I had no idea."
"That isn't enough," Corinne prodded.
"I'm sorry," Prosser said. "I was mistaken." He bowed humbly and handed Kenyon his things. He exchanged a nervous glance with Wheeler, who hitched his head toward the Broad Street exit. The two men looked numb and confused. They backed away.
Corinne looped her arm through his. "That takes care of that," she said. "Now let's go home."
Kenyon had a busy two days of sorting the things from his apartment and arranging for transfer to Corinne's house. They shared the guest room while a building contractor and engineer tore out the wall between Corinne's old room and a guest room and built a small, stall-shower bathroom in a former linen closet. Below, the library was redesigned and a new table and electric typewriter were added for Kenyon's use. Corinne supervised most of the decorating aspects, although Kenyon discovered, to his amusement, that being displeased with any of her choices invariably led to a furious argument, which invariably led to bed.
These sexual encounters were apart from their normal routine. Vigorous and filled with energy, they were more in the nature of sparring matches, hard and driving, leaving both of them breathless. They never discussed these times.
It was nearly a week before Kenyon had the time to see June Wilson. Again, that nagging feeling of conscience prompted the visit. He didn't know what he expected to say or happen. But he did want the knowledge and experience of saying, "I'm sorry, June. This is it."
He never got the chance.
The day manager of the restaurant where June worked told Kenyon June had quit her job by phone the very day he'd returned from Tahoe with Corinne.
The landlady, a generous looking, garrulous woman, turned brick red when she learned who he was. "I got some words I never before uttered in my life for you. I thought 'em, but this is the first time I've had occasion to use 'em. You're a miserable sonofabitch."
"Okay. You liked her and I look like a bastard. Is there some way I can reach her?"
"She's gone, that's all I know. Left her clothing, her belongings and went."
Kenyon was stunned with guilt. He hadn't realized June would take it so hard. At least, he hoped she wouldn't.
He returned home to find Corinne in one of her domineering moods. Dressed in a tight pair of lounging pajamas that clung to her legs, emphasizing the swell and bulge of calves, she lay sprawled on the library couch.
"Everything is set for you to work, Mr. Writer. Let's see you start producing."
Kenyon reacted with blind fury. Reflexively, his hand moved back to strike. He hesitated a moment when he saw a thin smile of triumph. Angered, he grabbed her by the shoulders and shook violently. Corinne laughed. Kenyon tore the lime-colored top from her shoulders. She laughed again.
He began grappling with her and then the bottoms of the pajama set went, torn down the back seam. It seemed immensely vicious, but suddenly the grappling led to a merging of their eager, emotional bodies and the deeply satisfying thrashing of two strong people.
They provided quite a subject of conversation for two of the workmen upstairs and it wasn't until sometime later that Kenyon realized it had actually been an argument. What a way to fight, he thought. A week later, Corinne presented him with a gold ID bracelet. It had his name engraved in Florentine script. But on the back, it read, property of Corinne Kenyon.
For nearly four months, they argued actively and made it up in the big huge hulk of a covered bed Corinne found in an antique shop. Then Kenyon gradually got the idea that most of these arguments were being deliberately provoked. Up until now, he'd considered the arguments and their resolutions as being a separate thing from their sex life-their love life.
Seeing this part of Corinne, he realized what it was. She wanted all the benefits of lazy, considerate, experimental love making, along with the joys of the violent, the swiftly provoked, the rapidly, energetically culminated.
Under it, she flourished. Her body took on a rich tan, and her facial expressions became more alert and pronounced. Everyone in Portsmouth agreed how much in love they were, how the honeymoon was still not over. Their fights were legendary; their resolutions were matters of deep personal satisfaction.
Kenyon managed to play the role of the thoughtful artist all this while, doing nothing but reading and filling a loose-leaf binder with notes for an ambitious historical novel.
His car was traded in on a Jaguar, his wardrobe flourished. Kenyon had the lazy, whimsical life he wanted. The Louise Alton business faded in the wake of new acquisitions, new arguments with Corinne.
In their social life, Kenyon noticed a curious factor, a strange facet of morality. It was the women who had the reputations for being town alley cats, for going after anything in pants, that showed the most respect for his marriage. It was always the young men in the so-called young married set who made the passes at Corinne, who let their hands move down suggestively when they danced with her, who always seemed to have something to whisper in her ears.
With him, it was the female counterpart; the nice girl sort. The bored young matrons, virgins until marriage, suddenly discovering, in their boredom that they'd been cheated, that they wanted an affair.
"You want the game, but not the name," Kenyon told Connie Forrester at a party. Too many martinis and an obvious argument with her husband Tom had had Connie watching Kenyon suggestively, dancing with an uncontrolled evil in her hips, the desire erupting in her suddenly taut, hard breasts. Breathlessly, she maneuvered him outside. "Hold me," she gasped. "Hold me really close." And as she'd squeezed herself against him, she began begging.
That was the thing that hurt her case. A sleek, attractive redhead, Connie didn't know what to do with her desire. She begged childishly, petulantly.
"You like playing God, don't you?" she said, crying as he refused her.
Kenyon clucked his tongue. Connie Forrester. Bored young matron after her first fling. A new candidate for the young adultery set.
Later that night, undressing for bed, Corinne sat next to him. "I saw what was going on between you and Connie. I'd have to be blind to miss the probable results, too. But I want to tell you something. It's time we had this conversation. I read a book by Philip Wylie once. Opus 21, it was. The hero is talking to another woman about his wife. He tells how he once had a conversation like this with her. He asked her to think what it would be like when, at age seventy, he asked his wife if she'd been faithful and she said yes. What I'm saying, Jeff, is that I don't know how long the honeymoon will last. I haven't thought about a fling. I don't know all the ways my mind works. Maybe my talking about it now means I am thinking about it. But we're humans."
"You-you're telling me to have affairs?"
"I'm telling you I know there's the possibility. I'm telling you to please-if you do-do it so I don't know until it's over. I'm a jealous, possessive bitch. I'd like to think the treatment you get at home is so good, youll never think of it. But, dammit, don't be a martyr. If you have to, then for the love of mike, don't stop the affair on my account. People have to be reminded sometimes that they're human."
Kenyon gripped her naked body tightly against him and turned off the lights. "I-Corinne-I love you."
"That's the first time you've told me that, Jeff."
CHAPTER TEN
The affair Corinne had been suggesting did not come about for more than a year, after their arguments became more violent, the resolutions more and more perfunctory and nothing but an armed truce seemed to exist between them.
Of course, the historical novel never got off the ground. A few times, Kenyon managed stories or articles that were sold, but even that didn't help long. "It must make you feel good, paying your own way around here," Corinne said. "Your income averages out to fifty a month, which is slightly less than half your bar bills at the Inn."
"Are you complaining? You're getting value, Corinne."
It was one of those fights, followed by one of the those long, drawn-out, hectic tournaments in bed. It was also the first time Kenyon had lost his temper enough to hit Corinne and draw blood.
This time, the rift did not heal. It erupted into a quiet, troublesome psychological warfare.
"As you may have heard," Corinne told him, "the store is in trouble. Edgar had his second coronary. Now it's up to you."
"What's up to me?"
"Something I'd call a moral decision, Jeff. You've had good bed and board for over a year, and that notebook of yours is still filled with many blank pages. I think the store is a good place for you. You'll draw a salary and do some work. It will give you a feeling of independence, and who knows, you might like it, or get fed up enough with it to start your own work again. Otherwise, the gravy train is over. Oh, you'll still get your allowance, but I'll be bitchy about it, damned bitchy."
"That's great," Kenyon said, "but what do I know about tractors and farm machinery and grains?"
"The human mind has an amazing capacity to learn."
"Can I have some time to think about it?"
"All the time you want, two days.
"The hell with it. When do I start?"
To his surprise, Corinne kissed him.
The job was boring, but he found that he could grasp it by studying the promotional brochures put out with tractors, disc harrows and automatic seeders and threshers. Corinne was even willing to allow him to install a sporting goods section and bring in Huey, Edgar's young son, who'd had three years of business training at the nearby branch of the State College.
After two weeks of working, he met Greta. An employee of a biological and chemical supply house, she came to the shop to buy two one-horsepower motors for reduction tanks. She was small, petite and had a heavy Germanic cast that included prominent cheekbones, natural blonde hair and cobalt blue eyes. Her body was firm and solid. He later learned she liked nude sunbathing and gymnastics.
The wedding ring on his hand made her hesitate, but ultimately, she accepted his invitation to lunch.
A steak sandwich was not enough to prevent four brandies from loosening tongues and revealing Gerta's calm, quiet gentleness that loomed under a mask of furtiveness. A West Berliner, she had been unfortunate enough to get caught in a Communist demonstration. She was four months pregnant. Her husband, a metallurgist, had vanished three months before, leaving for East Germany one night for a meeting of his guild. He'd never been seen or heard of since.
In the demonstration, she's been knocked down and dragged into an alleyway. Two burley men took turns assaulting her, until she fainted.
She was found by an American soldier, a young Tenneseean, who carried her to her apartment, called a doctor and assisted while convulsions began and she had a miscarriage. The soldier returned every day for two weeks, bringing candy, flowers and well-thumbed American mystery novels.
"When he was on maneuvers," Gerta said, "I discovered I missed him. When he returned, we kissed and petted heavily, but there was no real sex. I thought he was afraid of me. Perhaps he was. He kept telling me how nice I was. I knew he often visited prostitutes before he came to see me. He was two years younger than I, with little education. But somehow, we needed each other, depended on each other. Finally, we had sex, It was competent and satisfying and brought us closer. He asked me to marry him. At first, I refused. He stayed away for a month and then I went to him and accepted. Then started the investigations. An army lieutenant came to see me. He was insulting. He assumed I was marrying only to go to America. He was positive I was a whore. He tried to force himself on me. He held me down and tried to kiss me in an unnatural way. I hit him with a flower pot. Two days later, a captain called on me. He said I had qualifications to go to America whether I married an American or not. I told him I still wanted to marry Wayne. He told me Wayne was getting the best deal of his life in marrying me. He tried to talk me out of it. I should have listened. We lived in Nashville for two years. I taught biology in a high school. Wayne worked in a garage. He drank and complained. One night, he drank himself into a fury. He turned over a shelf of my books, hit me and left. I read about him in the papers the next day. He'd been killed, trying to hold up a bowling alley."
Another drink and Kenyon was completely taken by the soft, gentle beauty of hers. She had small, firm breasts and pronounced hips. Her waist was hard and flat, her legs excellent. But it was the gentleness and humility that appealed to him.
They met that night at her apartment. It was obvious to him that she'd continued the drinking. Proof came later when he saw a bottle of Paul Masson brandy on the kitchen sink.
Her blue eyes had a film of tears. "I decided I would not see you again. I-I've had drinks for courage. I tell myself, Gerta, he is a married man. You do not want to have an affair with a married man. But surely, if you continue seeing him, you will have an affair." She sat on the couch, her knees spread, her chin cradled in the palms of her dainty hands.
Kenyon looked at the girlish face, the neat, small legs, the perfect, delicate body and wanted her. It was a revelation for him. Wanting anyone else usually faded the moment he saw Corinne.
"And yet, I tell myself, I like this man."
He sat next to her and put his arms over her shoulders. She came next to him gently. Her eyes flickered across his face and he was possessed with knowing she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Two strangers, really, flaring with desire out of what? Call it loneliness.
Although they were excited, it happened slowly and gently. She unbuttoned the top of her blouse and he sighed at the picture of her ripe, hard breasts. He kept thinking, all the while, how strange it was. They were in a hurry, yet they had time. There would have been plenty of time to undress her and take her into the bedroom. If a person could think of these things, surely he could do them. But it didn't happen that way. He slowly shucked her underwear over her side, rounded hips, then they made love on the sofa, almost silently. Neither one was bashful, neither inclined to coldness. The movements were all so slow, so gentle, as though they were driven by consideration and kindness rather than searching for the sensation of release.
Her body, with all its readiness, imparted a deep, proud meaning to their sex. Her breasts stood firm and proud, like erect, perfect cones. Her thighs moved against him like a continued caress. Her release was not filled with a writhing frenzy, as though tension were erupting from her body, it was as though she were receiving something beautiful and valuable, wanting the full time to savor and relish it.
Kenyon realized that this was the one thing he had never had with Corinne. "I have to go," he told her.
She nodded. "You don't want your wife to be hurt."
"There's that. But I have a selling trip."
"I will be here when you get back." He walked out into the night, shivering with a bittersweet feeling of fulfillment. It was disturbing that he should feel this. It was even more disturbing that he should become aware of it, now that he had as much as he did.
The trip took ten days. He visited large farms, took orders for machinery and, in San Francisco, made arrangements to expand two alfalfa seed franchises. He also ordered more fishing and hunting gear for the sport goods end.
When he returned, Greta was waiting, but so was Corinne. She'd become suddenly nervous and irritable. Kenyon tried to probe and got nowhere.
Two days later, Kenyon was visited in the store by a representative of the State Attorney General. The questions were brief and pointed, raking up ashes about Louise Alton, raking up particular ashes about his call to Steve Creighton.
Kenyon was as evasive as possible, but the sweat began pouring late one night as he left Gerta's. From the darkness, a slender, well dressed man approached Kenyon, called him by name and showed credentials of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
The man was polite and considerate. When he asked Kenyon if he'd been visiting Gerta Robinson, he made it sound innocuous and inconsequential. His next question carried a sting.
"When was the last time you or your wife had any contact with Miss June Wilson?"
Kenyon gave his answer. "Nearly two years, but-"
"That's all, Mr. Kenyon. Thank you."
That hit and hit hard. Kenyon knew little about the FBI. They were not permitted to enter an investigation unless some clear federal jurisdiction were involved. There were other limitations. One thing he did know, FBI men were trained in one particular talent that counted above their prowess with side arms, hand-to-hand combat and detection methods; they were trained to gather evidence.
This weighed heavily with him. Evidence. What were they looking for? Did it have something to do with
Louise Alton's death?
At home the next evening, he asked Corinne about it.
The particular, evasive look she gave him dug up old troubles. "All right," she said, "I was eliminating competition. I was responsible for her leaving Portsmouth."
"That isn't enough. I want to know more."
"There isn't more to tell, Jeff."
Another stalemate. His anger rose. "You'll tell me, dammit." Her eyes shot defiance. "Or?"
He was poised over her, ready to strike. Slowly, he considered. "The hell with it," he said. "Something is going on here and I intend to find out about it. Ever since that Louise Alton business-"
"Forget that, Jeff. It's over. Let old ghosts alone." Corinne became uneasy. She mixed them both a drink. "Relax," she said. "You've been too jumpy."
"Listen, damn it, I know what happened, that's why I'm jumpy. I saw the bodies. Louise and that blonde. Someone did some pretty determined covering up. Someone is responsible for Dorothy Tyler being in a booby hatch. That girl is not insane. She had some mixed up notions about who constitutes a proper sex partner, but there are plenty of those, and they don't have to be kept in a controlled environment for over a year."
"Jeff, you've got to listen. There are times when highly neurotic people get shocks in their life that they simply can't take. You don't know all the facts. Dorothy was responsible for the death of a girl at Palo Alto. She made advances. The girl was seduced. Do you understand. A poor kid from an Illinois farm county, with brains enough to get herself a scholarship to one of the finest schools in the west. Her father is the Midwestern version of a sharecropper. Four other daughters, Jeff. All pregnant before seventeen. Then one who can do something for herself. A-a hope. Sure, it's vicarious living, but that girl meant hope and something to live for, for her father. How do you think he felt when he learned his daughter was a suicide? How do you think he felt when he learned the shame that drove her to it? How do you think he felt when he saw the five thousand dollars in his hand to make up for the life of his favorite daughter, the one person who really meant anything to him?"
"Five G's can ease a lot of pain."
"Suppose there was real love there, Jeff. Suppose he really cared, more than five thousand dollars worth?"
"So he comes back here, bent on revenge. He snoops around and discovers Dorothy is running loose in a gay social whirl, trying to break her habit, as it were, by going after a man, a man enough to make her forget. He arrives just in time to see her hit hard by Louise Alton. Maybe he's read about things like that. Maybe he's heard a few jokes about the girl in the roller derby. Maybe he even remembers a big, cold, hard looking gal he never liked. It all explodes on him. He sneaks in at Louise's, thinking he'll kill two birds with one stone. Only, in the darkness, he doesn't know it's not Dorothy. Possibly he sees her the next day, possibly he's just had enough taste of blood. Maybe he even feels revenged, thinking he got Dorothy. Now he starts feeling sick. He's taken two lives. A roar of a gun has stopped the secretive whispering and giggling. The bed springs are quiet. He's killed two women, but nothing will bring his daughter back."
"And so Portsmouth covers it all up, just like that, I suppose."
"Well," someone in Portsmouth."
"Someone who has the police in his back pocket."
"Someone you better forget about."
Kenyon snapped his fingers. "Just like that? Forget about it. When my own wife seems to know a hell of a lot. More than I know."
Corinne took a deep breath. "The only times I've threatened you were with trivial, insignificant things. Teasing or baiting you into an argument. Now I'm going to threaten you in cold earnest. With malice aforethought. Let it go, Jeff. Forget it. It will be worth your while. In another couple of years, the whole thing will be dead history. Nothing can happen. If you pry now, you can only bring the roof down. You could be-well, let's put it this way. That farmer in Illinois let his brooding get the best of him. He did not have long to spend his five thousand dollars. Now let it go, Jeff. Drop it. You have nothing to prove ... except how stupid you can be."
A feeling of terror and menace gripped him. This was the one way he was not used to hearing Corinne. Nor was he used to the way she suddenly swallowed her pride, forgot the hundred little injustices they'd let build up in the past few months. They made love with a hard fury that surprised him. He was conscious of being exhausted, of having every female wile and trick exposed to him. It began there in the rumpus room and continued upstairs in the big bed. Corinne did everything to him she could think of. He felt like a frayed cord, overworked, overused, and still she moved to arouse him, again and again, hungrily, with a determination. And while it was happening, he could not help thinking of Greta. It was crazy, it was out of context, but somehow, Corinne's urgency, her all out determination, as rough and demanding as it was, reminded him of that peaceful, considerate tenderness.
Enveloped in her large, handsome body, he felt himself spiral down into the reaches of release again, this time adding to the strange, helpless feeling of false well being. It reminded him of all the times he'd set out to get drunk, deliberately trying to shut out some painful incident. Her love making was having this same lulling effect on him. Quieting, protecting causing forgetfulness and giving the impression it was being done not as a duty but gladly, eagerly.
He never knew if he'd dreamt it or not, but he had the impression during the night that she spoke to him. "Jeff, take care, you're all I've got."
It had been so good with them that a feeling of guilt seized him. He could not go to Gerta the next day. He left the store early and went to the library. They kept microfilm record copies of the San Francisco Chronicle. He picked the month before his arrival and began scanning the films on the viewer. It took him an hour to locate what he wanted. A brilliant Stanford coed was discovered by the Palo Alto police today, an apparent suicide. Dora Jean Kingsley, 20, a history major from Graham's Comers, Illinois, was found in her dormitory room early this morning, an empty barbituate bottle still gripped in her fingers. She was pronounced dead before removal.
Kenyon read on, taking in the suicide note, addressed to an unidentified D., apparently a woman. There were strong hints in the note and the article that there had indeed been an unnatural relationship.
In an atlas, he located Graham's Corners, discovering it was a farming community of about 2500. On a hunch, he returned to the office and picked up the phone. With the help of the operator, he established the fact that there was a weekly newspaper in Graham's Corners. He placed a call to the editor.
"Dora Jean Kingsley? Hell yes, I remember. The only one from this town who'd shown promise in ten years. It was a damned shame the way things happened."
"Is--is her father still living?"
"No. Damned fool. He got five thousand dollars insurance money. Went through it like a drunken sailor. Got hisself drunk and fell off a tractor hauling a disc harrow. Wasn't much of him left to bury."
"One more question," Kenyon said. "Are you-do you have any reason to doubt that five thousand dollars was insurance money?"
"Say, you must be a professional," the editor said.
"I'm a writer."
'Well, you must be a damned good one. That was exactly the way the man from the FBI worded the question. I had to tell him I didn't know, but it didn't seem likely on the face of things. John Kingsley thought Dora Jean was his meal ticket and insurance policy. Why, he had it all planned how she was going to buy him a modem dairy farm with her earnings. Unrealistic but...."
Kenyon cut the editor off, thanked him and hung up.
The FBI again.
Forget it, Corinne said. This was too much to forget.
He drove home immediately, noting Corinne's car still in the garage. He did a double take at the other car, the conspicuous Dual Ghia that belonged to Gary Cregar. That creepl
Angrily, Kenyon let himself in and started through the hallway. He heard Corinne's voice, raised to anger pitch.
"I will not tolerate that. Because you people get greedy
"You can't cross us, Corinne. Someone has to be a patsy for this. I'm sure as hell not going to take a fall. Krober says--"
"Krober says ... Krober says-" Corinne sounded like a delirious parrot. "Everything Krober says is gospel with you idiots. You have to eat up everything in sight. You couldn't let that blackmail business go. You had to lean on Alton."
"We had to find out how much she knew; how much Roger told her. There's that damned letter Roger left. To be opened in case of his death."
"He's been dead over two years and no letter. There was no letter. It was bluff. Roger Alton simply did not want to be killed."
"The only possible way the police could know or be nosing around is because of that letter. Maybe the kid found it. But something is sure. We're none of us safe. Kendrick is nervous and Krober is...."
"Krober will die very soon. He is a silly old man. I am quite pleased to be quits with all of you."
"But you aren't, Corinne. Someone has to take the fall. I'd hate to see it be you. You're an attractive woman, a desirable woman...."
"A fact you've been reminding me of for years. I am not going to pay for your stupidity."
"I'm not suggesting you. I'm suggesting Kenyon. Don't you see how perfect it is. He was there at Louise's. He withheld evidence. There's enough right there to get him. The jury will be picked here. If he tries to give that lesbian business, it will cinch his trip to the gas chamber. Krober can be retired to the farm. You can wind him around your finger. In fact,' Cregar giggled, "you could probably kill him by taking him to bed. Just the thought of you would do it."
"And you, Gary? Where would you be?"
'With you. We'd have the entire operation to ourselves. Don't you see how perfect it is? Tyler doesn't dare raise a fuss because of Dorothy. Kendrick's been hollering for a patsy. Kenyon is their logical candidate."
Kenyon stiffened as he heard his wife say, in a low, ominous voice, "I'll take care of him. Now get out of here."
"How, Corinne? How will you do it? We can make it look like...."
"I said, get out."
There was no way to avoid it. His car was in plain sight outside. He'd never be able to remain unnoticed. Instead, he moved quickly to the door, opened it and slammed it. "Corinne!" he called.
A moment later, he heard his wife, then saw her, looking amazingly calm. "You're home early, dear," she said.
Kenyon focused on Cregar. "There has been some talk of late as to who wears the pants in this house, Corinne or me. Nevertheless, the next time I find you on these grounds, I will cheerfully run you off, with any means at my disposal. Being a lawyer, you must realize how valid that is."
Cregar grinned. "Eat, drink and be merry, pally," he said, and then he was gone.
... Dinner went quietly. Corinne was almost distracted, unaware of his presence. She had a distant, haughty look that disturbed him. It added to a general, cool menace that began when he noticed her avoiding her salad and rolls, making him suddenly gag on a mouthful of the crisp lettuce.
She smiled at him, reminding him of Lucrezia Borgia, calmly poisoning a lover ... then she dipped into he salad. The tingle of menace swarmed over him, quickly converting itself to desire. She had a proud, earthy poise, still.
"By the way," she said, "I'd appreciate it if you made your trip to Fresno, starting tomorrow."
Kenyon froze. For a brief moment, he thought of agreeing, picking up Gerta and getting the hell out of this whole mess. "I've been thinking about canceling the whole trip. It's flunky work. Edgar's boy can go."
She smiled back at him. "He probably could, but it isn't only a matter of getting grape cuttings, love. It's a matter of public relations. Our business has almost tripled since you've been making road trips. They-well, as the saying goes, they love you in Fresno. I called this afternoon. They'll be expecting you. Your suite will be ready at the Halliday Hotel, as usual."
"Thanks for consulting me," he said.
"You'll see, Jeff. It's all for the best. And, Jeff ... I'll miss you."
And so it began that evening, the gestures, the watchful, sometimes distant look in her eyes, that contest that was so familiar with them.
They wandered into the den after dinner. Corinne sat there, watching him. "Drink?" she said, making a command of it, yet making it bearable.
He built the drinks and handed her a glass. Then she gave him one of these long, meaningful glances that had to come to mean so much.
Kenyon felt his blood pumping. It was the beginning of the old contest. He watched her, feeling like a male black widow spider. Yet the heavy hint of her strong sexuality was all about him in the room. He'd try ... but he knew it would be a difficult contest.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
He left early the next morning, hoping to be in Fresno before the sun hit its zenith, wondering if that was a part of the plan, wondering where it would come from, wondering why the hell he didn't just keep driving.
In the glove compartment, he had a .32. At the time, it had seemed like protection, but now, impulses and fears nagged away at him. In order for a gun to be protection, a man had to know what he was shooting at.
Kenyon stopped before reaching the outskirts of town. To hell with the heat. He wanted to see Greta.
She roused from bed with that particular, haunting expression of an attractive woman, gentle and defenseless. With no trace of make-up or altertness, yet, she stirred his imagination.
Last night with Corinne now seemed a strange memory, a time of excesses, a time of too much. Add that to Kenyon's wariness. He felt frightened and alone, almost desperate. Yet, there was Greta. She sensed his alarm and came to him, sleepily, but filled with comfort and understanding and warmth.
"I'm a first class heel and opportunist," he told her. "It's starting to catch up with me." He told her more, the things that were important to him, how he'd singled out Louise, how he'd gone from her to Corinne, how there was this strange, deep fascination still with Corinne.
She listened quietly. "Now I understand something," she said. "I understand why there are so many cases of women becoming involved with men in trouble. I understand why I, too, have had this in my life, first with Wayne ... now with you. In the time of stress, something deep and intimate comes out of the man. Whatever he is, unless he is not human at all, he attracts someone who wants to feel needed and valuable. You make me feel this way now, for this time. Take this trip. Be careful. Examine your feelings. Then, when you return, you must talk with your wife, then me."
Kenyon understood. He eased the lacy straps of her nightgown over her shoulders, kissing hungrily at her breasts and milky, soft warm flesh. Already, he felt the comfort flowing through him. It was natural and gentle, reassuring. He kneaded her breasts softly and felt them come to life in his hands. Very naturally, they merged, almost without thought or design. Slowly and with consideration, their bodies flowed against each other and with that final reach of sensation, that brought release, but along with it came confidence and hope. They lay in each other's arms nearly a half-hour before Kenyon got up. "I'll be doing a lot of thinking," he said. When she kissed him good-bye, he realized that there was a woman with whom words didn't matter.
Gunning the station wagon around the curves leading out of Portsmouth, Kenyon felt a new sense of calmness. He was still in a position to have the best deal of all, the lasting kind. He'd tasted and sampled, but that was the value of growing, your tastes changed.
Five miles down the grade, he noticed the traffic backing up. Cars were slowing down. A wrecking truck with a crane and two highway patrol cars had red lights flashing.
It took nearly half an hour to maneuver through the three mile stretch, before the traffic straightened out. The congestion had been due to a wreck. A station wagon careened against the guard rail, spun around and overturned, scattering glass, debris and confusion over the road. The attendants were lifting the single, covered body into the ambulance.
Kenyon shook his head at the grizzly sight and drove on nearly five miles before the realization hit him with full, dizzying force.
The wrecked station wagon. Same model as his. One driver. Someone had mistaken that wagon for him. Someone had instructions to wait for a blue Plymouth wagon and jam it off the side of the road. He pulled over and was sick on the sandy turf of the roadside. Accompanying his retching was the memory of Corinne's voice. "I'll take care of Kenyon. I'll take care of him."
That tore it. He drove into Fresno, the .32 on the seat beside him. He found the police station on Benito and Firebaugh, then began gesturing and talking wildly, asking for a detective. Two uniformed officers moved up systematically from behind and removed the gun from his waistband.
"Now," one of the officers said, "we can start doing some talking, buddy. What's your name?"
He told them, his hands suddenly beginning to shake.
"Jeff Kenyon? Now there's a coincidence. We've sort of been expecting you."
They took him into a room and gave him coffee, leaving him alone nearly an hour. Finally, they returned with a plain-clothes man who identified himself. FBI. They set up a tape recorder and told him to go ahead.
Kenyon shakily lit a cigarette and went ahead. He started with Dorothy Tyler and Louise Alton. He included everything, up to the burned out station wagon.
The FBI man was Johnny Cooper. He flipped off the tape recorder. "You realize you've gotten yourself into trouble, suppressing evidence and waiting so long, I suppose."
Kenyon nodded, feeling tired and relieved.
"Okay," Cooper said, "but here's what you don't know. Your wife is dead. Killed only a while back by Officers Wheeler and Prosser of the Portsmouth police. She went wild, stormed a George L. Krober, of Portsmouth and brought about a fatal coronary, then went after a local attorney, name of Cregar. From what you tell us, it puts the lid on an investigation we've been making, on and off for nearly five years. Krober and Cregar were linked in tax evasions and a valley-wide gambling syndicate, running illegal games to fleece rich tourists. Mrs. Alton's husband was on our list of suspects, too. He reinvested the money in dummy corporations and arranged payments, let's call it royalty, to a St. Louis syndicate that supplied muscle, when needed and a hand-picked group of policemen who could be transferred into juicy towns such as Portsmouth.
"With what you've told us, we can nail Kendrick and his two boys. We've discovered San Francisco safety deposit boxes on all three, and they're believed to have quite a bit in unmarked hundreds and fifties. At the least, they'll take a fall for evasion."
They took Kenyon to a hotel in Fresno and placed him under guard. He slept nearly fourteen hours in a state of exhaustion before Cooper visited him again.
"Looks like Portsmouth will be hopping for a while. Someone dumped a thermit bomb in the post office.
Caused a nasty blast, but it didn't do what it was supposed to. Ruined a big bale of junk mail from advertisers. The main target had already gone through, a special delivery to the FBI office in San Francisco. Seems your wife blew the whistle. She was leading a double life. She was the set-up in the big gambling pitches. Also had a nice, expensive call-girl set-up, working all the resort areas in the valley. After the FBI moved in on a routine check, she pulled out. Didn't like the tie-up with the St. Louis crowd and ceased operations. She shows how Dorothy Tyler's father was in on the blackmail end, how they got to Louise Alton for pressure, and how Dorothy went for Louise. We'll never know for sure, but we think it was all innocent on Dorothy's part. She simply flipped for Louise, tried her best to lack herself of the habit, even made some pretty good attempts."
"What will happen now?" Kenyon said.
"More fun than a Cinemascope movie. They're bringing in a new school-boy police commissioner. Young sociologist from Spokane. The state's providing emergency funds to supply a fresh police force, while we screen out the wheat from the chaff. As far as you're concerned, you didn't do anything we can hold you for. But since we're working with the state, we do it like this: you cooperate and hold up until the trial and investigation on all the indictments. You appear for us as a friendly witness. Then the state drops suppressing evidence charges against you, nails you on the lesser charge of obstructing justice and lets you out on probationary status. What do you say?"
"One condition," Kenyon said.
"No conditions."
"This is pretty important. There's a woman in Portsmouth-"
A wry grin crossed Cooper's face. "We know about the woman. And I've got to admit it, Kenyon, you said you were a ass and with no talent. Well, maybe the typewriter won't move the way you want it to. I think, if a man wants something badly enough, he can accomplish it. That's up to you and speculation. But you can't tell me you've got no talent. You have. I've seen it in operation. She's outside, waiting."
"Gerta?"
"The very same. And you say you've got no talent. Listen, there's a note to you from your wife. You'll be able to see it soon, but the nub of it is this. She loved you. In her way, she really cared. They were pressuring her to marry Cregar to keep all the secrets tidy. To show her they meant business, a guy she went with just sort of disappeared. She even thought they may have had something to do with the death of her first husband. But she went out, trying to protect you. She loved you, Kenyon. Right to the end."
They chose Fresno because of its innocusness and its convenience to San Francisco, where the main proceedings would be processed. The hotel was reasonable enough, had a good restaurant and a swimming pool. He was given a suite of rooms that conveniently adjoined Gerta's. Oh, they told him with a straight face, a few times that the door was supposed to be locked, but no one believed it would.
The first few times Gerta came to his bed, they were both timid and bashful. Kenyon broke down a few times, burying his face against her bare breasts and hanging on. They made love, of course, but it was slow and tentative. Kenyon felt like a baby, learning to walk.
Sun bathing, swimming and that slow, comforting lying in bed with Gerta. Plenty of time to think. Plenty of time to remember the demanding, possessive love of Corinne. Plenty of time to cogitate on one basic thing, despite everything, she'd loved him and he, in his way, had loved her; two little kids, playing with a new toy as though there was no tomorrow, as though it would run out.
It hadn't run out, not the way they'd expected.
But now, with the comfort of Gerta and the daily reassurance, Kenyon began to admit his boredom. He really did not like doing nothing.
It came slowly. He asked room service for a typewriter. They brought it up with stern instructions from Johnny Cooper. He could contact lawyers, but he was not to write to anyone else.
Kenyon laughed. There was no one he wanted to write letters to.
He was intimidated by the typewriter for nearly two days. But then, he knew that was all past. The boredom was channeling itself into energy.
He worked three hours that day, before the FBI men came to brief him on the upcoming trial in San Francisco. Then it was a dinner he ate with ravenous appetite.
Immediately afterwards, he took Gerta into his arms and carried her to the bed. Tenderly, but with drive and direction he caressed her and undressed her. Looking at that compact lovely nakedness, he no longer felt the need for timidity or comforting. In a burst of energy, he moved against her, kissing her hungrily and leaving marks from his fingers on her pliant flesh.
As they merged, Gerta gasped with joy and pleasure.
Good-bye to the inactive state of love, he thought, in creasing the tempo and listening to the gasps grow in intensity as she held him tightly, passionately.
Their loins met now in singular determination and with the intensity of new, deeper discovery. The plunging over the barriers was complete. He was aware of the silky, sensual depth of her body, overflowing now with promise and a variety of things to come.
They cried out together in triumph. Now they knew intensity. It was just as much a part of love as the slowness, the tenderness. Too much of one or the other was not all of love. Too much of one was not experiencing all the possibilities.
But now, Kenyon clasped her tightly, enjoying, being enjoyed. Sharing, being shared in the thrusting, spiraling force of completion and happiness he'd sought in so many ways and had now found at last.
