She loved the feel of his big hands, peeling her gown down, fumbling her throbbing breasts out of the skimpy brassiere, smoothing her flesh with exciting pressures. Her own hands opened his trousers and she was fascinated by the deep black hair, growing in animal pattern down his torso. Then she urged his clothing down and for a brief moment, stood in horror and amazement at what her efforts revealed. Never, in her wildest, college dreams had she conjured up such a brutal, inhuman sight. Not inhuman, she decided. Godly. "Oh Stan, you-you frighten me!" she gasped.
He shook his hips and the resulting movement was heavy, almost sluggish. Remembering how passion had made Lyle in the days of their first love, she marveled at the way pure hugeness arched and bobbed as if no heart could supply the volume of hot blood required to overcome the force of gravity. "Now you know why Betty developed her appetite for other men," he said pensively. "Oh, Delia, I hope we can manage! You don't know what it means for a man to discover he is impossible for the wife he loves! Since the first day I ever loved a woman, I've been fighting something I could not help! I know-I'm a beast, yet I was born a man, with all a man's desires, needs. Please say you're not repulsed. Please, my dear!"
CHAPTER ONE
WHEN LYLE SLOWED THE CAR TO A HALT in front of the very nice house bearing the number, 575, Delia took a deep breath and dropped her pretty chin down so her eyes could look deep into the low neck of her smooth satin sheath. Her cleavage was so deep she could see the slim under-strap of her strained brassiere, and with half an imagination, she could see out the thick swells of her breasts to the throbbing tips. Below this delightful view, her thighs strained at the confine of her skirt, and it seemed to her, she could see the secret pulsations that made her stomach throb. For the first time in nearly two years, she felt the moist, tingling desire that had made their early years of marriage something beautiful and satisfying. When she finally looked up at her husband, he was staring at his hands, knuckle white on the Cadillac's steering wheel.
"We can go back home, Lyle," she said softly. "There's still time. Maybe this isn't what we wanted, dear."
"What else is there for us, Delia?" he countered, turning to meet the wide blue eyes she used so expressively.
"I just wanted you to know that I'd back out if you did."
He sighed, and she felt a deep inner pain at the beauty of him. Lyle had been the catch of the country club set. He was successful, even at twenty-eight, and his golf was in the mid eighties and his suits were 42, slims, Time had wearied his unruly brown hair somewhat, and it curled slightly over his close set ears. He was a handsome man, with just the right mixture of brute and boy, and it had been almost six months since he had done more than kiss her cheek lightly at bedtime.
"We can also back out-afterwards," he said slowly. "But I think we owe it to ourselves to try everything. Well, let's go in and meet our new friends. I don't think there's much left for us to talk about, is there, honey?"
"It isn't going to be-like cheating on each other, is it?"
He shook his head. "No. I don't know what it is going to be like, but I promise I'll never think about it as cheating, Delia."
"Wife-swapping," she murmured. "It seems so unfair to the women involved to blame it all on them!"
Lyle chuckled then and slid out of the car. He came around and helped her to the walk in front of 575. "You're beautiful," he murmured. "I hope this Stan Dalton appreciates you!"
Silently, she hoped the same thing. No man other than Lyle had touched her since they had exchanged marriage vows. Now, she was facing an assignation with a stranger, with the knowledge that Lyle had not only loaned her to another man, but would be busy finding some of his old virility in the arms of a strange woman. It had been arranged by mail first, then by telephone, and for a moment, Delia wished she were back in Los Angeles, safe, if unloved, in the security of her own bedroom. In the past year or so, she had learned to take care of herself, and she no longer let her shame and guilt rise in tempo to her self-induced passion. She could go on a very long time that way, she thought. Then she clamped her jaw and allowed Lyle to lead her up to the semi-Mediterranean entry. He too had a problem, and she had agreed to help, by being a partner to this wild adventure into orgy. The word had a nasty taste in her mouth.
Lyle patted her shoulder and put a strong forefinger to the doorbell button. Inside, the mellow notes of chimes sounded. A second later, a very huge, extremely masculine man opened the door.
"Well, hi," he said warmly, stepping back. In the hall light, he was meticulously dressed in dinner jacket and sharply creased black trousers. His hair was thinning, and he had the look of a professional football player turned intellectual. "I'm Stan Dalton."
"We're the Liggetts," Lyle said. "This is Della, and I'm Lyle."
Stan Dalton closed the door, and Delia was relieved by his impersonal air of ease. For some reason, she had anticipated leers, perhaps a grabbing hand, and at least, some reference to the purpose of the evening. Then she realized that Stan matched his home, quiet, elegant and gracious. She was even aware that he was attractive, in a heavy, male and comforting way.
She tried to imagine what he looked like out of the evening clothes, and the flush rising between her breasts was not embarrassment.
"Come on into the game room," Stan said. "I hope you like martinis because my wife, Betty, has just made a gallon of them!"
"It is a lovely house," Delia volunteered. "Just beautiful."
"Thank you," Stan replied. "We live about two hundred feet over our financial heads! Ah yes. Here we are."
The bottom dropped out of Delia's stomach. Then she realized that there was no reason for Betty Dalton not to be attractive. No, not attractive, just devastating. She was tall; and very buxom, and her silver blond hair was a shimmering cascade over her bare shoulders. She came forward like a model, her full mouth smiling in pretty welcome, her gown following every undulation of her lithe body.
"I'm so glad to meet you both," she said, extending her hand to Delia, then to Lyle. "I'm sure we are going to be good friends. Stan, the martinis are all made. Do pour, dear."
Slightly flustered, Delia found a comfortable seat on a broad sofa. Lyle, obviously interested in the luscious Betty, fumbled backward for a seat on the same sofa. Instantly, Betty caught his hands and pulled him back erect. "No siree," she laughed. "We don't start this off by sitting beside our own wife! Come over here, Lyle, and sit beside me!"
"We-we are kind of new at all of this," Lyle stammered. He stood awkwardly, looking down at the hostess.
Then Betty Dalton reached out and with swift, terribly expert fingers, unzipped the front of Lyle's trousers. Delia gasped, and while she tried to stare through her husband's hips, the bold Betty did something frightening with her fingers. As Stan handed a martini to Delia, she heard her husband gasp, and when she looked again, Lyle was slightly hunched and his left hand was moving to the thick blonde hair, now almost buried in his groin.
"My god," Delia murmured.
"That's why I had to holler for help, Delia," he said, and stooped to kiss her full on the lips. Close, his face was alive with virility, and she could hear his breath coming a bit faster now. She could not help prolonging the kiss, and when his hand dropped to the melon roundness of her right breast, she was ready to be kissed again.
"I just need a little time," she husked. "I-I'm not afraid, Stan. Just a little time!"
Then she saw Lyle begin to sag over Betty. Her arms were clutched around his hips and though her greedy mouth was out of sight, the sounds of moist ardour came to Delia, and very suddenly, she needed less time. It had happened very quickly, she thought, but as she was folded into Stan's embrace, she decided it had not been too quickly.
Maria Gonzalez stood at the window looking down over the Dalton house. Behind her, the muted garble from the television set filled the room with noise. As long as it made that noise, the two Dalton children would sleep, aided by the tiny phenobarbital pills Maria had dissolved into their bedtime milk. On nights like this, the one thing she didn't need was an eight and a ten year old boy bothering her.
Now Maria watched the lights go out in the game room. That meant the Daltons and their guests had quit fooling around and had headed for one, or two of the five bedrooms in the big house. As her knowledge of the Daltons proved, the lights came on in the bedrooms along the rear of the house. She hadn't been able to see the guests when they arrived, but their car was big and shiny and there was no doubt that they were rich. And dirty, Maria knew.
At sixteen, Maria was neither a virgin nor a prude. The blouse and pleated skirt she wore as the Dalton baby-sitter was deceptive. In stretchpants, or in the jersey sheath Tony had bought for her, she was the best looking cat in the jungle, known as Spanish Town to the police department of Long Beach. In her three dollar bikini, she was quite a thing among the surfers at Seal Beach, too.
But tonight, she was something else. The telltale streaks of light marking two occupied bedrooms made her quiver. For a moment she let her thoughts run wild, and this caused her to rub her firm conical breasts and let her hips wander in nearly lewd circles. But there was no time to indulge in dreaming. Quickly, she went to the door of the bedroom to check on the two sleeping boys. Then she went to her handbag and took from it a small, very heavy camera. Then the peculiar looking flashlight with the square base.
The outfit had cost Tony Alvera one hundred and fifty-two dollars. The camera was an eight millimeter movie job, and the light was a powerful, self-contained lamp, wearing an infra-red filter. It was some mysterious thing called a strobe light, and the camera was set to take single pictures each time the shutter button was depressed. It would take pictures in utter darkness, and unless some one were looking directly at the light, the swift, black-red flash was nearly invisible. Maria did not know quite how it worked but Tony had shown her some small photographs which she knew had been taken in complete darkness-without her knowing he had taken them. But he had promised her that if she followed his direction, the little camera and the crazy light would make them rich.
Now she went to the door and slipped out onto the small porch. The stairs leading down from the three rooms over the big garage were steep, and she went down them silently, her flats making only little whispering sounds. Like a voluptuous ghost, she tip-toed across the driveway and onto the lawn. Then she went directly to the window she knew was one of two looking into the Dalton master bedroom.
First she had to see. There was a small space where the hurriedly pulled drapery gaped. Poised in the shrubbery, her hands braced to the window sill, Maria put her face close to the window and narrowed her eyes to focus on the triangular area.
She was looking directly toward the king sized bed, and there was enough light from the pair of bed lamps on opposing stand tables for her to see the wild tableau being enacted on the bed.
"Madre Mia!" Maria murmured.
Already familiar with the luscious charms of her employer, Maria was hypnotized by the man. He was lovely, she thought, from the tousled top of his handsome head to the strong, straining, calves of his stout legs. He was strangely white to Maria, who was used to Tony's smooth dark skin. He was strong too, because he knelt in a bulge-muscled arch, his lean middle thrust out to the clawing, claiming blonde, sitting on the bed, her back bowed deeply, her tapered legs thrust out in broad welcome.
For a moment, Maria could not move as the shock of the scene ripped up and down her spine, dropping finally to curl up in front so that her belly twitched in want. Then she raised the camera and sighted carefully, as Tony had shown her. With every short breath, she clicked the shutter. After the first five exposures, she began to match the rhythm of Mrs. Dalton's caress, and it was all Maria could do to maintain her mechanical tempo when the man became violently thrusting and spasmodically inspired.
There was more, and even though the man seemed limp, perfectly helpless, the blonde Mrs. Dalton would not let him alone. Maria took dozens of pictures as the lush eager woman climbed over and around her momentarily debilitated lover. Perspiration dampened Maria's brassiere and panties. She faithfully worked the shutter button, but her mind was in there on the big bed. She felt every kiss and every handclasp, and she worked the shutter extra fast when the bold bare rounds of the woman's buttocks reared, waved and settled over the thrusting rampancy her manipulations recreated.
Finally Maria felt herself quivering into some sort of a hideously wonderful trance. Her hands weakened, allowing the camera to settle. She stared, caught in a tremendous convulsion that had come on without conscious warning. As her knees sagged, a gasp of passion escaped her full red lips. She felt the cool of the ground under her knees and she hunched, stricken with ecstasy, convulsed by her own reaction.
How long she huddled there she did not know, but when she finally raised to peer into the room, she discovered the man was alone on the bed, his body a limp, uninteresting thing. Trying to remember what Tony had said, she crawled back out onto the lawn and moved her suddenly tired body toward the windows to the other bedroom.
"Hot mush," she said to herself. "What a dirty bitch!"
Then she sighed. She had to keep going because Tony had promised her bangles, beads and babies if she got good pictures.
Delia stood by the bed, her eyes turned toward the wall she guessed separated her and Stan from the bedroom where Lyle and Betty would be. But she didn't really care.
Stan was even bigger with his evening jacket off. His shoulders were wide, his chest was thick, and as he removed the studs from his shirt, the deeply matted black hair on his chest became excitingly visible. He was smiling now, his body arched to show her the distortion of his tailored trousers. Delia smiled back, trying not to acknowledge the rippling current running pell-mell through her body.
She was a sight, according to the big mirror over the dresser. Her long black hair was down, her lipstick was eaten away and her face was flushed from the open-mouthed kisses Stan had showered on her face and neck. Her panties were a mess from the profuse response of her lush body, and perspiration had made the bind of her brassiere almost unbearable.
"It's so warm," she said. "Could we open a window?"
"Anything you want, honey," Stan laughed, tossing his shirt aside. "We can go out on the lawn if you care to."
"Silly! Oh, Stan, I didn't know it was going to be like this!"
"How is it?" he asked, going to the window. She watched him part the drapes and work the crank that opened the swing out window. Then he turned and came to her, and for a moment she was ashamed of the eagerness of her hands, tearing at his trouser top.
"Naked," she breathed. "I want us naked!"
She loved the feel of his big hands, peeling her gown down, fumbling her throbbing breasts out of the skimpy brassiere, smoothing her flesh with exciting pressures. Her own hands opened his trousers and she "was fascinated by the deep black hair, growing in animal pattern down his torso. Then she urged his clothing down and for a brief moment, stood in horror and amazement at what her efforts revealed. Never, in her wildest, college dreams had she conjured up such a brutal, inhuman sight. Not inhuman, she decided. Godly.
"Oh Stan, you-you frighten me!" she gasped.
He shook his hips and the resulting movement was heavy, almost sluggish. Remembering how passion had made Lyle in the days of their first love, she marveled at the way pure hugeness arched and bobbed as if no heart could supply the volume of hot blood required to overcome the force of gravity.
"Now you know why Betty developed her appetite for other men." he said pensively. "Oh, Delia, I hope we can manage! You don't know what it means for a man to discover he is impossible for the wife he loves! Since the first day I ever loved a woman, I've been fighting something I could not help! I know-I'm a beast, yet I was born a man, with a man's desires, needs. Please say you're not repulsed. Please, my dear!"
Driven by some force she did not understand, Delia finished peeling down her own clothes, her eyes hot on the fearsome offering Stan presented. Then she raised her arms and let him drag her up in gentle embrace, and as their bodies met, she quivered with instinctive fright, even as she wanted to be hurt. She let him carry her to the bed, and as they clung in passionate embrace, she gradually slithered over him until her taut, outstretched thighs straddled his herculean hips.
The threatening pressure of his desire made her quake, then she began to move her body, raising, seeking, testing, and he lay very still until she fitted her burning velvet loveliness over his suddenly distended flesh.
"Ahh!" she wailed, stilling the too eager movement of her hips.
"Oh baby," he muttered, and his hands suddenly clamped on her hips. Then his fingers slid around her pert buttock and he pulled her brutally down.
She screamed once, then lay in quivering surrender. After a moment, she turned her face on his hairy chest and kissed up at his chin. "Giddy-up, horse," she laughed. "Oh, Stan, Stan! Please!"
Maria staggered across the lawn, stumbled over the driveway and slowly climbed the stairs to the guest house entry. Her fingers clutched at the camera, her arms seemed watery. She had no idea of how many pictures she had taken through the accommodating open window. She only knew that when the two lovers had finally settled together in exhausted embrace, her own body had become heavy with weariness.
At the top of the stairs, she checked her watch and it was two in the morning. She had been at one window or the other for almost three hours. Inside, she closed the door, put the photographic equipment back into her shabby handbag and sat down to think about what she had witnessed. It was too late. Tony would be asleep. If she called him now, it would be almost a half hour before he could get to her.
Then she laughed, and swore in Spanish. It wasn't Tony whom she thought about. She had been the Dalton baby-sitter for over six months. Tonight had been the first time she had ever watched the big, good looking insurance salesman. Always before, she had watched the blonde one, and her current lover.
No. It wasn't the hot, almost frantic lovemaking of Tony Alvera she thought about. It was the pain, the passion, and the dark-haired woman had known. The light and the open window had been pure good luck. Burning again, Maria went to the small refrigerator in the kitchenette. She poured herself a glass of the Dalton boys' milk. It would be better were it beer, she thought but the liquid was cool to her fiery throat.
After that, she curled up on the sofa and tried to sleep. Closing her eyes only brought back the vivid scenes she had witnessed. She squirmed, twisted, and fought the desire to rub herself. In the end, she could fight it no longer, and when she finally fell asleep, her body wracked with straining, the first light of dawn was graying the room.
CHAPTER TWO
THE JEWELED CLOCK ON BETTY DALTON'S dresser said nine-thirty when Lyle Liggett awakened. He turned on one elbow and stared with nearly impersonal interest at the luscious Betty, curled in a soft, rolling shape beside him. Momentarily, his tired muscles twitched as he followed the curve of her back to the perfect rounds of her bottom. He could not see her face, nor the lips that had devastated him for hours on endless hours, but memories were strong and he contemplated the lovely nymph with something like disgust.
It had been wild, and excruciatingly wonderful, but Lyle had no faith in the monstrous response he had generated for her. His trouble had never been physical. It had been Delia. And why he had abruptly lost his sexual interest in the wife he loved was more frustrating than anything he had ever known. Now he thought about Delia and the husband of his bed partner. What had she found out, after a night of mad passion in the arms of a stranger? Nothing, perhaps, except that her marvelous body was starved for love, and that any man in his right mind would adore her half to death.
He slipped out of bed, stifling the groan his stiff muscles demanded. Looking down at himself, he shook his head at the condition Betty had left him in. The little pains shot upward into his groin as he walked to the bathroom.
He was sorry he had not backed out when Delia had given him the chance last night. There had been some thrill in making love, and having love made to him by the beautiful blonde. There had been the usual ecstasies, the usual excitements, and perhaps some extra thrills over the completely greedy manner of Betty's passion, but none of it was anything he couldn't have experienced on a fifty dollar tour of Tijuana. With no after effects. He found his shorts and trousers and started out to look for Delia.
There seemed to be five bedrooms in the big house, and he tried two doors before he found the one he sought. Then he was sorry he had been so eager to find Delia.
She was lying, half covered by a rumpled sheet on a big bed. Her long black hair was tousled and spread around her delicate features in sweet array. Her shoulders had half twisted, and the bold full rounds of her darkly tipped breasts hung slightly to her left. But it was not Delia that made every fiber come alive in Lyle's body. Beside his wife lay Stan Dalton, his huge body sprawled in utter relaxation. He was naked, and the carelessly drawn sheet only covered his stout lower legs.
As men know about men, Lyle could not help measuring Stan Dalton against all the masculine shapes he had ever seen; four years in college, two in the Navy, and an active membership in two golf clubs, plus a down-town club where two hundred members shared the locker rooms, had never revealed a monster like Stan Dalton.
And right next to his amazement came fear. Delia had not ran screaming for help. She had not fought him off. She had spent the night with Stan, and Lyle recalled the thousand jokes, the ribald locker room talk with an inner feeling of inadequacy. This venture had been something like a dose of medicine, supposedly, and as he stared at Stan, he felt that whatever might have been accomplished was now overshadowed by another problem. How he could ever hope to regain Delia's love and desire after she had spent the night with a man like Stan, he could not imagine. Sick with personal doubts, Lyle backed out of the room and closed the door.
His mind raced with ugly pictures. Delia, her delectable body in the grasp of the huge Stan. He could hear her moan and see her writhe, as she had once done in his arms. Then he could almost feel the monstrous intrusion, and he tried to imagine how Delia had reacted. Had she cringed and wailed and struggled to free her tortured body, or had she gasped and clung and met the gigantic passion with furious desire? More important, would she ever again sleep with her husband without a tiny smile of memory for a man Lyle could never hope to match.
One thing was certain. The Liggetts had to get out of this house and away from the Daltons now. Quickly. Before the orgy could start again. Boldly, he knocked on the door. Then again, counting the seconds it would take for the two sleepers to awaken, climb into some kind of clothing, and blink away the night's exhaustion. After a moment, he heard Stan's voice, demanding a minute.
"What's up, man?" Stan asked as he opened the door.
Lyle could see his wife, sitting on the edge of the bed shrugging her voluptuous body into her robe.
"Sorry," Lyle said, grinning sheepishly. "I woke up early. Got to thinking about the plant-I'm general manager, you know. So I called in, hoping you wouldn't mind my using the telephone. It must have been a hunch on my part. They had a blow-up last night on the second shift. I've got to get back to Los Angeles as soon as I can make it. Hi, honey," he said as Delia came to the door. "Sorry to break up your beauty sleep."
"Oh Lyle," she sighed. "Gee, I was dead to the world. How are you, this morning?"
Stan laughed, and Lyle was forced to smile. "Beat out. I'll say one thing for this routine. It's no kind of training for a champion distance runner!"
Stan snorted through a crooked smile. "Boy, you're lucky you can even walk this morning! Well, if you have to get going, I suppose we'd better see about some coffee and eggs. Betty up yet?"
"Not when I slipped away," Lyle replied. "Why don't you go awaken her? She might panic if a stranger did it."
"Okay," Stan agreed. "See you in a minute."
When he was gone down the hall, Lyle looked at his wife. She met his eyes, and he tried to think the sparkle was for him.
"Well, how did it go, honey?" he asked softly.
"We'll talk about it later, dear," she said. "Let's just get as far away from this house as we can, as quickly as we can!"
"Want to talk about it?" Lyle asked when they were rolling up the Pasadena Freeway toward home.
"I don't think I can," Delia replied. "It is all such a hodge-podge of crazy memories. Oh Lyle, what have we done-to each other? Now it all seems so cheap and dirty! And suppose I get pregnant?"
Lyle frowned. "You never have. Didn't you wear your diaphragm?" Then he sat silently, his hands guiding the big car with something less than steadiness.
"Yes, but-"
Lyle knew what was worrying her. She was terribly afraid of what he now knew to be unreasonable virility. Once more the pictures flashed through his mind and he shuddered. "Forget it-until there is something to worry about. Are you glad I told the white lie about the plant?"
"Oh yes! I couldn't have spent another hour in that house. Lyle, did you have a good time? I mean, well, you know what I mean?"
"Frankly, no. I couldn't stop, but I couldn't like it. I kept thinking of you, somewhere in Dalton's arms. One thing it did teach me though. It taught me that I love my wife a hundred times more than I'd ever guessed before."
Delia leaned to put a warm, lingering kiss on his cheek.
"Let's try to forget it, dear. We tried it and it didn't work out for us. That's the end of it. Oh, the things I thought when that blonde tramp took your trousers off last night! The least she could have done was wait until we'd had one drink! It was disgraceful! Oh Lyle, I could have killed her right on the spot!"
"We were going to forget it, remember?"
"Yes," she murmured, and Lyle had the feeling that it would take more than a resolution to make Delia forget Stan Dalton.
Something had happened to cut the weekend short, and by the time Maria stepped off the Long Beach bus into the heart of Spanish Town, she had reconciled herself to the short money. Mr. Dalton had given her an extra five dollars, but she had hoped to make at least thirty-five over the nearly three days of the scheduled week-end. That was the way it had worked out every other time the Daltons had put her to watching the two children in the guest house while they entertained their sexy friends.
It didn't really matter. If the camera and funny red light had worked the way Tony had promised it would, she had done her job. For a moment, she wondered if she ought to go directly to Tina's Cafe and deliver the camera to Tony. Then she looked down at her cheap sweater and pleated skirt and decided that was no costume in which to meet her man. So she headed home.
The old house looked about ready to tumble and her father paid sixty-five dollars a month rent for the fire-trap. As she entered the hall, she could hear her mother berating her younger sister for something. Maria went upstairs to her own room. It was small, and messy, and comforting. The walls were covered with pictures cut from movie fan magazines, and her dresser was littered with cheap perfume bottles, tiny stuffed animals and an array of gaudy items Tony had won for her at the Long Beach Pier. Her prized possession was a huge, floppy eared dog that graced the center of her sagging bed.
First she hid the extra five dollars in the torn place under the floppy dog's bottom. Then she skinned out of her school clothes. Chili Pepper, the white boys called her at school. She was slim, sharp breasted and pop-buttoned. Unlike most of the Mexican-American girls, she had good legs and none of the fat over the top of her hip bones. She was pretty, too, and someday she would bleach her thick ebony hair just to see what it was like to be a blonde.
"Muy bonita," she said to her reflection in the stained mirror. Then she patted her flat belly above the worn elastic of her pink panties and went to the closet. She found her yellow turtle-neck jersey and the bronze stretchpants that made her look naked from across a narrow street. She slipped into the skin tight garments, brushed her hair swiftly and dabbed at her lipstick. Then she picked up her handbag and went downstairs.
"Mama!" she called.
"Si? You home so soon?"
"Yeah. Party busted up early. I'll leave the money here on the table. I got to go out now."
She ignored the tirade in Spanish and went out before her mother could come rolling in and ask a lot of questions Maria did not care to answer. She had to see Tony. She wanted to see Tony. Even if it were only two in the afternoon, they could find a secluded corner, maybe under the Cafe, and make a little love. Tony was a real macho, a pretty he-goat who could be tough as leather, sweet as honey and mean when he wanted to make her cry.
Walking toward Tina's Cafe, she let a lilt and a roll go into her hips. She knew the hot-eyed old men in the windows were watching her, and when she passed two or three groups of young pachucos, she grinned at their whistles and pretended not to see the dirty upthrust fingers they showed her, or the significant fists that vibrated in mimic of what they'd like her to do for them.
Let them look, let them wish, she thought. She was Tony Alvera's girl and they knew it. He had a corner on all that good stuff in the bronze stretchpants, and he carried a five inch switchblade to insure his claim.
There were four or five duck-tailed banditos in front of Tina's Cafe and they leered, spoke enthusiastically, then let her pass. She had known them all since she was a toddler. She had even gone around with two of them in the days before her breasts bloomed out and up and caught Tony's eye. Now she entered the cafe and the smell of highly spiced food, grease and sour beer closed in around her. Tina looked up from the folds of fat under her eyes, grinned, then dipped her head to the side. Maria went down the counter to the last of the two booths. Tony was sitting there, deep in conversation with his closest friend and lieutenant, Manny Voya.
"Hey, the chick," Tony said. "Thought you were working. Beat it, Manny. On the way out, tell Tina we need two beers."
"Yeah," Manny agreed, and as he slid out of the booth, he managed to rub one hand along Maria's hip. She twisted and swung a sharp hand, sending the youth away laughing.
"Grabby fink," she said, sliding in beside Tony. "Hi, baby. Glad to see me?"
He curled one arm around her shoulders and kissed her lightly. "What happened? Didn't expect you till Sunday night."
"I don't know. Party blew up. But I got some pictures. Crazy. One of the guys had a rod like a ball bat. Here."
She opened her purse and took out the compact unit. Tony checked the little window showing a number. "Hey, you shot out the roll, at that. Oh-oh."
He put the camera down between his hip and the wall while Tina set the two beers on the scarred table. "You two," she said in perfect English. "Four bits. Now."
"Sure, sure," Tony grunted, tossing out a coin. "Vamos."
She lumbered away and Maria took a big gulp of the cold beer. Then she leaned into Tony and slipped one hand to his lap while he re-inspected the camera. She didn't have to search because his skin-tight wash pants left no doubt as to his masculinity. It made her a little mad that he could seem so preoccupied with the silly camera while she worked on him. She pinched and he winced.
"Knock it off, stupid," he muttered. "Drink your beer, then we'll get this stuff down to Charlie. You goofed up someway and I'll beat your skull soft, baby. Think it's okay?"
"I did everything you told me, honey," she replied.
"Good show?"
She let the breath hiss out past her strong white teeth. "Tore me up! I got a heat on since midnight you couldn't cool off with a fire hose. Love me up, some, Tony. Please!"
His laughter was cruel, his fingers, flipping the hard buttons under her jersey shirt were ungentle. Then he settled back into the corner and pulled her over him. She squirmed, fitting her hips to his, and as they kissed, she rolled her body with knowing undulations, and if the wild pressures and subtle hunches were not what she really wanted, the skimpy privacy of the cafe booth was to blame.
"Drink your beer," he finally said. "Maybe Charlie will loan us his back room. That must have been some party!"
She enjoyed walking the two blocks to Charlie Guermo's photo shop, a half step behind Tony, her body an expressive, derisive thing under the eyes of Spanish Town. If she were the cagiest cat, Tony was the coolest. He was tall, lithe, quick footed and pretty. Like the pictures of Mexican gods on the garish calenders in the neighborhood shops.
At Charlie's small, terribly messy shop, they went through into the back rooms. Charlie was smoking a droopy cigarette, and the odor told Maria it was half pot. The low-browed stare Charlie turned on Tony was questioning. He shifted his paunch, hoisted his sagging trousers and grinned.
"Oh?"
"Yeah," Tony snapped, handing the camera to Charlie.
"Take a day or so," Charlie decided.
"So? You got a back room we can use?"
Charlie washed the length of Maria several times, his bright eyes hesitating at each of her salient points. "No sack. But you can stand her on a box in the storeroom. You like that, baby?"
"Cucaracha!" Maria spat at him with a violent hunch of her lush hips. "Come on, Tony. We'll find our own place."
Tony laughed and winked at Charlie. "Later, chiquita. First, we'll try the box in the storeroom !"
It was an effort to walk straight up, and Delia was glad when Lyle stretched out on the patio lounge and let his obvious weariness coast him into a nap. Then Delia went to their bedroom, almost stumbling in her relaxation. For a long minute, she sat on the edge of the bed, her back bowed, both hands gently massaging her abdominal muscles. The pain came and went, and she was terribly afraid she had been seriously hurt. But with her fright came certain hysterical memories, and these were exciting. Her mind, bounced between fear and delight, finally sought only the delight, and she went into the bathroom and turned on the water in the tub.
There had been no blood, just that deep, dull ache.
One thing had been decided for Delia. The girls in school had made lewd jokes, and in college, she had read some erotica based upon old Greek and Roman legends. Once or twice at bridge club, the women had made unsubtle references to negro bucks, horses and what a girl could accomplish in the middle of a professional football team's huddle. And like most girls she had known, Delia too had wiled away some secret moments dreaming about the ultimate male. Not for some years, but now she could remember those fantasies. And they had become reality, and her belly hurt.
Slowly she undressed, noting several tiny red marks where Stan Dalton's lips had lingered too long. There were some sore places under her ribcage where he had held her like a vise in his big hands, scrubbing her tortured body to his, trying to drive her out of his grasp and always clinging for another thrust.
She had hated it, and she would probably take the memory of Stan's lust to her grave. How such a nightmare could be ugly, and at once, wonderful she could not understand. Her hip joints seemed sprung and she lowered herself into the very warm bath with jerky, hesitant movements. She also felt the sting of the bathsalts as tiny lacerations became mundated. At last, she sat in a panting huddle, feeling the warmth as it soothed her weary body. And she could never tell Lyle because he would die of male pique.
Then she had to feel sorry for Stan. In some of the brief periods while they rested in each other's arms, he had told her about himself and Betty. The pathetic confession of a man who should have been the envy of most of the men in the world.
"We knew from the beginning we could never be happy," he had said. "She spent our honeymoon in a Florida hospital. Afterward, we tried to work out something for both of us. That's how she developed her present-well, tastes, if you can call it that. But I always dreamed of really loving her like a man should. It wouldn't work, no matter how careful I tried to be. So about two years ago, some friends introduced us to this wife-swapping bit. And it sometimes worked. We met several couples. Some of the women went out of their minds over what I've got. But some ran out screaming. I never know. When I saw you tonight, I hoped, believe me! Thank God it worked out or seems to have worked out, Delia."
Delia remembered admitting it had been a shock. "Well, Stan, I can't say I'd last much longer than Betty did," she had said. "But it is the kind of an experience every woman should have-at least once! I probably won't be able to walk for a week, baby."
He had been understanding, pathetically sweet and gentle. "Delia, perhaps you'd rather sleep in another room. God, I don't want to ruin you. If you'd rather not, just say so. I'll understand. After all, I've lived with it all my adult life."
Now Delia blushed and swished her legs in the tub, remembering the eager insanity that had made her turn into Stan's arms again.
"Oh no," she had said. "I'm not going to disappoint you now. Please, Stan, I can stand it, honestly I can!"
CHAPTER THREE
BY THURSDAY, DELLA WAS ALL OVER THE PAINS, and her memories were mostly of the acute thrills. She hated herself for the thoughts that came to the front of her mind without a moment's warning. It had worked out all wrong. Before that eventful Friday night, the problem had been Lyle's. They hadn't spoken of sex since, but Delia felt that when they did, the problem would be hers. A hundred times she had tried to imagine what she and Lyle would do together. Even if Betty Dalton had managed to break the mental block Lyle had built over the past few months, how could she respond to his love?
She remembered powder room gossip: once a woman has been loved by an accomplished lesbian, no man can ever satisfy her. Now Della had one more parallel to add. Once a woman has been loved by Stan Dalton, few other men could really count. It was a horrible thought and Delia cringed at her own weakness. She simply had to forget Stan. Perhaps she could talk Lyle into a vacation. If they went away somewhere for two or three weeks, a second honeymoon. If she tried, it might work out. Think only of Lyle. Pretend at first, if that was what it took. But think Lyle, love Lyle, and above all, forget Stan Dalton.
Momentarily in command of her emotions, she was happy to see Lyle at three. Normally, he came home about five, but Delia was too much concerned with her own problem to wonder why he had arrived early. Then she saw the tell-tale furrow of worry on his broad forehead, and his smile of greeting was weak, nearly no smile at all. His kiss was warm, but brief.
"Hi," he said, slumping to a seat beside her. "Good day?"
"Of course, dear. But yours wasn't very good, I can see."
He sighed, then reached into his coat pocket. She watched as he opened a fat envelope, then Delia blinked as he placed a small package of photographs on her lap. They were pocket-sized, starkly black and white, and the subject matter turned her heart to jelly. At first, she didn't recognize herself, but she instantly recognized Stan Dalton. His trademark was unmistakable.
"My god!" she gasped, flipping through the pictures in horrified fascination. "Oh, Lyle! Where did you get-"
Then she came to some pictures of Lyle and Betty Dalton. She could not evade the sudden, bitter jealousy, then fear overcame the typically feminine reaction.
"No, no, no!" she breathed. "I can't believe it!"
"You'd better believe it," Lyle growled. "But how he took them, Lyle?" He got up and went to the bar. He poured two stiff hookers of Scotch, brought her a glass, then sipped deeply of his own.
"I had a visitor this afternoon," he said. "A messenger, really. My secretary said he was a handsome Mexican boy. Left an envelope. Those pictures-and a letter." He reached into his inside coat pocket and handed her a folded sheet of paper.
Delia's eyes ached with dryness and she had to read the letter twice to understand the full import of it's crudely typed message: "Great stuff, huh. Right down the old tube, like. The kind of stuff I think the three hundred employees of Liggett Industries would get a real bang out of. Seeing as how I went to a lot of trouble to get these, I figure they ought to sell for about fifty cents a set in your factory. And if I can't sell them, I might just give the sets away. On the other hand, I thought you might like to have first crack at my stock. To you, I'll sell them cheap. One hundred dollars a picture. One thousand dollars a negative. Don't bother to count them. There's twenty of them. Twenty grand, Liggett, and no horsing around. And I'll throw in the ones that don't show faces, just so you'll have a good record of how big your wife's butt is. Worry some, fella, and I'll contact you in three days. In the meantime, better hustle the twenty grand, in small bills, and don't be stupid about calling the cops. You do and I'll flood the city with enlargements, Liggett. Be seeing you." Delia closed her eyes and tried to breathe. She could feel Lyle's hand, gently reassuring on her shoulder. Each second accented the impact of the letter and the photos. "No, no," she gasped.
"Yes, yes," he said, taking the pictures from her limp fingers. "They were obviously taken on infra-red film. Through the windows. We were set up like tenpins in the center alley!"
"Lyle, about Stan-"
He smiled grimly. "I know about Stan," he growled. "In fact, I am beginning to smell a large mouse. I've a man checking on Dalton right now. But I have a hunch we were conned into a blackmail gimmick, Delia. We answered his ad in that Hollywood tabloid. Maybe that ad was a come on, just to get another man's wife in a compromising position with him and his Texas Longhorn!"
"Oh, Lyle, forgive me!" Delia wailed.
"For what? Trying to help me, or holding still for Dalton?"
"I couldn't help it!"
"Doesn't look from the photos like you wanted to help it much," he said. "Oh hell, Delia. I'm sorry. Of course you couldn't help it. I don't look so pure with that blonde monkey swinging on my vine, either. The thing is now, what to do. If I pay, how do we know it will end there? Blackmailers never let you off the hook, at least, according to the television dramas. If I don't pay, this may not be a bluff. Three days isn't much time to make up one's mind."
"But if it is a trick by the Daltons, Lyle, they are in the pictures too! Surely they would not want-"
Lyle shrugged. "Why not? There are nearly five million people in greater L.A. Dalton doesn't get around among my plant employees. As far as they would know, he and his wife are just a pair of lewd characters. For all we know, there may be ten thousand pictures of both of them floating around. If I go to the police, Dalton will just claim innocence of the whole affair. And we'll be in the soup, for sure. You can't keep a thing like this quiet. No. I've got to do some thinking."
"Can I help, Lyle?" Delia husked. "I feel it is all my fault. If I had just said no, before we went into that house!"
When she started to cry, Lyle pulled her into his arms and petted her gently. "Easy, now," he said. "We are not hurt yet. There's time. Even if I have to put up the twenty thousand, it will give some time to find out who the blackmailer really is. I wouldn't mind the money, if I were sure it would end there. In any case, don't worry, baby. We got into this and well get out okay."
"Maybe if we talked to the Daltons-"
"Oh, we are going to talk to the Daltons, all right!"
"He might tell me-give me a hint if I kind of played up to him," Delia ventured.
Lyle was silent, and she knew without looking at him that he was remembering the graphic pictures.
"I hadn't thought about going that far, a second time," he finally told her. "Or is it something you wouldn't mind?"
She bounced out of his arms and stood up. "Oh Lyle!"
He flipped the pictures with a rippling thumb. "That's what is known in the business world as pretty damned stiff competition!"
She snatched the pictures from his hand, then stalked off into her room. Alone, she let her mind whirl around the terrible problem one careless night had brought to them both, then she looked at the photographs and for a moment, all the delicious pain returned. After a minute, she threw them to the floor and fell across her bed. No matter what, she thought, somehow, or sometime, she had to see Stan Dalton at least one more time.
Delia sat tensely on the edge of her chair, watching Stan and Betty pursue the obscene pictures. Once she gave Lyle a quick glance, but he too was staring at the Daltons, trying, she decided, to see some suspicious flicker of understanding. Finally, Stan handed the pictures to Betty and straightened up.
"We're a photogenic crowd, anyway," he said heavily. "Lyle, I haven't an idea in the world how these could have been taken. You say, with infra-red film. Okay, but it still means that somebody had to take them. Somebody who knew we were going to have a-a party, and who knew what bedrooms we would use. God, if this stuff ever gets out, I'll lose a million dollars worth of premium business! You know, all through this swapping thing, we have steadfastly refused to enter into the usual Polaroid sessions. We know many couples who get as much kick out of taking pictures as they do out of going to bed! But we were always, well, shy, I suppose. No kick there, for us. Now this. How much time did the blackmailer give you?"
"This is the second of three," Lyle said. "This package came to my office yesterday. Who else was around that night?"
"Wait a minute!" Betty Dalton exclaimed. "Your secretary said it was a Mexican boy who brought these to you? Our baby sitter is a Mexican! She watches the boys in the guest rooms over the garage when we want the house to ourselves. That little tart! I'll bet a mink she's been peeking! She knows when we hire her for a weekend that we are going to have guests. Oh, Stan, do you think she did it? I mean, she's mentioned some of her tough friends, a time or two. And she's no angel, though she is very good with the boys."
"How long have you employed her, from time to time?"
"Over a year, now," Dalton replied to Lyle's query.
The speculations flew thick and fast then and Delia controlled her disappointment. Instead of her and Lyle entering into a secret investigation of the Daltons, they were all thinking in terms of Maria Gonzalez. Finally Stan made the first positive decision.
"There isn't much time," he said. "Betty, the first thing to do is to pack up the boys and run them out to your mother's place. We don't want them exposed to anything, and anything can happen. Lyle, you and Delia go home. Leave Maria to me. I'd also suggest you start thinking about the required money, in case I get nowhere with Maria. If you can't manage it, count on me for a big part of it. After all, it is our problem as well as yours." He checked his watch. "It is only eight. If I get going, I can find her before it is too late. Takes thirty minutes to drive to her place-I've taken her home more than once. If I can find her, maybe I can shake the truth out of her!"
"Or scare it out of her," Betty added with a leer. "Show her your club, baby. If that doesn't straighten her out, she can't be straightened out!"
"Shut up," Stan snapped. "Don't you ever think of anything but meat?"
"Not much juice in potatoes, darling," she quipped. "Well, I'll go get the kids up and headed for grandma's."
Maria smoothed the new green satin dress over her flared hips. It was a beautiful dress, cut low to show her cleavage, and precisely fitted to her size eight shape. It was to be a big night. Partially because the Fiesta de Guadalajara at the Knights of Columbus hall was always gay, partially because Tony had said she had done a perfect job with the little camera. He had bought her this lovely dress, and the matching earrings and necklace. He had told her they were going to celebrate the approach of fortune, and for her not to wear panties because he didn't want to have to fool around.
He would be there at nine, and it was only eight thirty. Maria didn't care. Swirling and posing in front of the mirror was fun, and it made her realize how beautiful she really was. All she needed was clothes. And after she and Tony were rich and married, she would bleach her hair and be the most beautiful girl in Span ish Town. With the handsomest man. And the smartest.
Then she heard the car drive up in the street in front of the house. She checked the cheap wristwatch Tony had shoplifted for her a few weeks before. It wasn't time, yet. Then she smiled. Maybe he had come early, to spend thirty minutes making love in the privacy and comfort of her room. He knew mama and the kids were down in the street in front of the Hall. Drinking Coca Cola and singing Mexican songs with the oldsters, and the youngsters of Spanish Town.
Hastily, Maria twisted her arm and unzipped the new dress. Knowing Tony, she had better get out of the lovely garment. When the heat came on him, he was liable to tear her clothes, or belt her around if she was slow getting him the amount of soft warm skin he wanted. She shrugged out of the dress, and swirled away in naked excitement. She heard the steps down in the hall. Quickly, she turned off the lights, all except the small lamp at the head of the bed. Then she quivered as the feet came up the old creaking stairs. With all the coquetry of a practiced harlot, she slithered to the bed, piled the tasseld, highly colored pillows just right and flopped out. She let her hair spread over the pillows, and she kicked her tapered legs apart. Let him come in and see what she had for him, and Maria was lying that way, breathless, trembling and eager when Stan Dalton appeared in the doorway.
"Well, well," he said, coming into the room. "Look at you!"
"Madre mia!" Maria gasped, coiling into a brown ball, trying to cover her nudity with frantic hands, and slim arms. "Oh, Christo!"
His chuckle terrified her, then she quieted, dragging one of the pillows around to cover her torso. This left the bare round of her bottom exposed, but at least, it covered what she felt to be important. Except when he reached to turn on the overhead light. In one flash, she realized how bare she was. And now he was closer, standing high above her, his shoulders tense, his eyes burning her body in frank appreciation.
"No, Get out, vamos! Oh, go, Mr. Dalton!" Maria pleaded.
"Now that's not polite," he laughed. "I knocked, but no one answered. Your mother home?"
Too late, Maria said "No" and his smile was broad.
"Just as well. I want to talk to you, Maria."
It was obvious that he was not going to leave, not going to give her a chance to run, even to the old wardrobe where her chenille was hanging. Then Maria was possessed of a quick memory. She looked down her employer's body and the startling manifestation under the hem of his sports jacket made her eyes narrow in speculation.
"W-what do you want?" she asked, knowing his distorted pants already answered her question. But at least she felt the security of being a woman, wanted by a man who was not sure of himself.
"What do you want to talk about?" she asked, less sharply.
"Oh," maybe several things. You sure are something! I guess I should have checked you out some time ago. How about giving the boss a kiss, just to get everything on an even keel?"
She knew what was coming and she could not stop it. He was too big, too overpowering. If she screamed, no one would pay any attention. Mrs. Luvalo in the back house was always screaming because her old man was always beating on her. And if she screamed, he might hit her with one of the big hands, now closing strongly around her shoulders. Suddenly Maria giggled. A moment later, he had raised her and crushed his lips to her breasts. She dangled, awed by his strength and the adoration of his lips. Then she gasped as he rolled her back onto the bed and held her gently while he kissed her belly, her thighs and the sudden hunch of her hips she could not control. A moan of desire came from his kisses and then his hands swept down to curl under her bottom, and for a moment, Maria was breathless with the ardor of his assault.
When he released her to shrug out of his coat, she stretched her arms over her head and shook her breasts in deliberate provocation. She would show him what a hot blooded Mexican was like. She'd make him forget about his blonde wife with the muscular moustache, and the beautiful milk-skinned woman with the dark hair.
"You sweet, lovely little bitch," he whispered, in much the same tone as her Tony used. "I'm going to love you like you were meant to be loved!"
"Twenty bucks," she said, pointing a finger at his nose. "Anything!"
Then she shuddered as he tore his trousers down around his knees. Close up, his monstrous lust was even huger than she had remembered it from outside the bedroom window. Used to Tony's dark skin, the white and scarlet loomed in exciting threat. Then he was lunging down over her. In self defense, she threw her legs apart and tried to ease the grotesque intrusion.
She had to scream then, and as she did, his palm closed over her nose and mouth. In pain and panic, Maria lurched but it did no good. She bit his hand, not in fury, but to allow air to enter her lungs. Then a sharp, searing pain shot from her torn flesh to the top of her head, and when it exploded into hideous torture, she collapsed. Now the pain was steady, ripping, spreading, receding and turning scarlet. Maria fumbled her palms against Dalton's chest, but she had no strength to push away. It came again and again; with increasing fury and as her bludgeoned nerves gave up pain for some new sensation, she moaned and tried to kick her feet. He was smothering her with his mouth now, and she sucked breath from his lungs in a frantic effort to survive.
Finally, the pressure pulsated into unbearable crushing and Maria convulsed, twisted and hammered her hands on his back. He merely became bigger, heavier, more brutal and her eyes popped wide like a frog stepped upon. She saw a shadow, then a figure, and then through her pain, she saw Tony. He was arched in fury, and in his right hand was the switchblade. She saw it flash, swoop down in a deadly arc, then she felt the thud through Dalton's body as Tony buried the blade, hilt deep in the man's bowed back. And suddenly, there was no more pressure as Tony hurled the big lifeless body to the floor.
Stunned, Maria lay whimpering in hurt and fright. She sensed how Dalton's legs kicked, like a neck-wrung chicken. She heard Tony curse in vile Spanish, and she rolled over, stricken with pain.
"Baby!" Tony cried, then she was wrapped in the tenderness of his embrace. She heard the rippling Spanish endearments and she snuggled, trying to cry, managing only to whimper out her misery.
Tony shook her into consciousness, his fingers biting deeply into her listless arms. "Listen, baby! We got things to do! Wake up now, and listen!"
"T-Tony, I'm hurt terrible!" Maria cried, one hand to her low belly. She was surprised that she was not bleeding, surprised that she was alive. "He-oh, he was like el caballo!"
"Never mind that! He's deader than a fish. Listen, we got to get you dressed and down to the Hall. Manny has driven the gringo's car, with him in it, to the ocean. I wiped up the blood on the floor and all we have to do is get down to the dance. Understand? Nothing happened. Nothing. It's all over. Just forget it ever happened. But if we don't get us an alibi by showing up in a crowd, there may be trouble."
Gradually his words penetrated Maria's shocked sensibilities. Darling Tony, he had fixed everything. She stared at the bed, then at the floor. There was a damp spot where she had last seen Dalton's body, but that was all. Now Tony was trying to lift her, and in a daze, crouched to ease the ache in her belly, she struggled into the new green gown.
"I'm going to die," she wailed once.
"The hell you are!" he snarled. "Get dressed, baby. If you have to walk with a hump in your back, you can tell people you fell down. Come on, hurry up. It's ten now, and we haven't a minute to lose!"
"I fought him, but it was no use," she muttered.
Tony didn't talk anymore until they were down on the street beside his old Ford. He helped her into the car, and she lay back, exhausted, shocked and trembling.
"You okay, baby?" he asked softly.
"I suppose so. Tony, I'm scared. You killed him!"
"So he had it coming," he replied, cursing in Spanish after the statement. "What worries me is why he was there."
"Maybe he wanted me to baby-sit."
"Maybe that damned Liggett spilled his guts, too! Maybe Dalton was suspicious of you. Maybe somebody else knows about you. And maybe me, too! Goddamnit! Well, we got to play it cool, kitten. No spika Anglish. Manny will never talk, and Charlie won't. All you have to do is forget the whole thing and we're home free. You ever open your pretty little trap and I'll split you with a tool that leaves only clean edges, you hear, baby?"
"Yes, Tony."
He pushed the car into gear and roared away from the curb. A half block from the Hall, he drove into a nest of cars parked in a vacant lot. There were people all around, friends, acquaintances, laughing, clamoring and celebrating. It was a colorful, unreal world, despite the fact that she had lived in it all her life.
"I'm scared, Tony!"
"So am I. But play it cool, baby. We got nothing to lose but our Mexican butts!"
"Mine's a sick one," Maria admitted with no humor.
CHAPTER FOUR
DELLA HEARD THE TELEPHONE RING TWICE and when she opened her eyes to a ridiculously early morning, she could see Lyle twisted over to reach the instrument. For a sleepy moment, she adored the width of his back and the ripples of muscle.
"Oh, Betty," he said and Delia come fully awake.
After a moment of listening, he turned, a frown on his face. "Stan didn't come home last night. Betty's worried. Good Lord, it is six in the morning!"
There were some more brief exchanges and Delia heard her husband tell Betty not to worry, then he said something about doing some checking. When he hung up, his expression was one of deep thought. He slid out of bed, donned his robe, then stood rubbing his face as if to clear the cobwebs.
"She's frightened," he finally said. "Been up all night, waiting for him. She doesn't know what to do. Maria, the baby-sitter hasn't got a telephone. They generally contact her through a neighbor with a telephone. Something is fishy, Delia."
"I am beginning to think everything about the Daltons is fishy," Delia murmured. "Why did she call you? Why not the police?"
"She didn't call me. She called us," Lyle said. "And the police are the last people any of us want to call. Well, I can't be too worried about Stan. Today is the day the blackmailer is supposed to contact me. I'm primarily interested in getting those negatives!"
"But it is Saturday. How are you going to get the money out of the bank, dear?"
Lyle, half way to the bathroom, turned. "I got it yesterday. It's in my office safe."
Delia felt a flesh of pride. As usual, Lyle was thinking. Their conversation with the Daltons last night had actually produced only weak supposition. Lyle had gone ahead on his own, prepared to meet the blackmailer on his own terms rather than to pin childish hopes on idle guessing. She got out of bed and stretched her nude body, enjoying the tingle of excitement caused by arching her back. Then she went to the bathroom where Lyle was brushing his teeth at one of the two washbasins.
"We are in terrible trouble, aren't we, Lyle?"
He rinsed his mouth, dried his face with a fluffy towel, then turned to pull her into his embrace. "Maybe yes, maybe no. In any case, don't you worry, honey. As long as I have you, I can face any problem that comes along. You're mighty sexy this morning, Mrs. Liggett. Mighty."
She wriggled against him. "No different than other mornings."
"Seems like there is some difference," he murmured.
And suddenly she could feel the difference in his eager arms. His lips were warm, vibrating on hers with a nearly forgotten ardour. His hands, smoothing up and finally down her back to cup under her solid buttocks pulled her close and Delia produced the slight curve his hands demanded.
"Oh Lyle!" she whispered fiercely. "I thought I'd lost you!"
"Never," he promised.
Excited, but content in his strong arms, she tried to think. Perhaps it was the trouble. Things had gone so well for them in the past few years they had vegetated like complacent carrots. There was money, security and comfort, and never any need for true giving. Now she ignored the early hour and the state of her unbrushed hair, and hung firm against his body, trying to tell him how much she really loved him with the little tremors that matched his own.
When he began to lift, she let him, and as he moved them both back to the broad bed, she let her tongue push through her lips to his. Then the edge of the bed caught her behind the knees and as she fell backward, he let go enough to permit his robe to separate. Afraid one second of hesitation might break the lovely spell, Delia threw her strong legs out and pulled his lean torso down to her.
She didn't look and she didn't think. All she did was feel and it was wonderfully enough. Whatever Stan Dalton had been, Lyle was yet a full grown man and there was love and desire in his strong body, kissed now by the velvet fire she offered him. Then she was caught in the rhythm of love, and her own body began to roll and seek and give and demand. Her hands crept under Lyle's robe and she dug her fingers into the smoothly working muscles of his lower back.
With the massive passion she could drag from Lyle's body was the feeling that he was frantic, nearly furious in the fulfillment of his dreams. His exuberance at finally conquering the frustrations that had nearly destroyed their marriage was nearly brutal, and Delia fought her own desire to climax until she was sure the shuddering of her husband's back was irresistible.
"Baby, baby, baby," she murmured, holding his head close to hers. "It took so long, but it was worth it! Oh Lyle, I love you so. You'll never know-"
"I knew," he said softly.
They lay quietly together, each drawing comfort and love from the other, then Delia giggled.
"Huh?" Lyle grunted.
"No diaphragm," she informed him.
It was wonderful, she thought, exactly like the first years of their marriage. Love, mad, soul-searing love, then laughter, and the delightful intimacy of being two human beings with mundane, but marvelous things to do about baths and lotion and the rough texture of flying towels. Not until they were showered and powdered, did Lyle mention the serious trouble they were in.
"It is my guess we'd better do something about the Daltons. If he is missing, a dozen things could have happened. If we let Betty panic, then she is liable to throw caution to the winds and call the police. I'll go to the office. I just have to be available in case the blackmailer wants to contact me. In the meantime, I'll start a cautious inquiry about Stan, though he may turn up, hungover and bagged out by some Mexican whore he met in Spanish Town. But I think you'd better dress and go to Betty's. She'll be a lot calmer if you're there to give some moral support. Okay?"
"I hate her, Lyle!"
He grinned. "Thanks, baby. But we have problems. Puff up and pop with a big smile. I'll call at hourly intervals to check."
"Suppose Stan is there when I get to their house?"
Lyle kissed her firmly. "Cross your pretty legs and come home," he said lightly.
Delia got caught in the traffic and it was nine-fifteen before she reached the Daltons. She parked in the garage driveway, and she was momentarily pleased that only one car parked there. She did not want to see Stan Dalton again, not because he was a horrible man, but because she was afraid of her own reactions. Remembering the tender, exciting love moment of that morning, Delia wanted to cling to the recovered passion.
Betty met her at the side door and for the time it took to greet each other, Delia fought shock. The svelte, high-breasted, beautifully coiffured Betty was gone. In her place was a bloated, sagged and disheveled woman, her face heavy with worry, her eyes bloodshot from whiskey and little sleep. She wore an expensive robe, but it somehow had lost its glamour in the careless way Betty clutched it around her body.
"I was going crazy," she said. "Oh, I've been thinking the most terrible things. You can't imagine!"
"You haven't heard from him at all, Betty?"
"No, the big ape! He knows how I worry. My God, look at me!" she gasped as they passed the big mirror in the hall. "Oh, I'm so relieved, now that you're here, Delia. Come on. We'll get some coffee, then you can sit and talk to me while I fix up a bit. If Stan comes home and finds me looking like this, he'll have a fit. And probably go right back to whatever tramp he spent the night with!"
Delia blinked. "Is that what you think, Betty? Lyle and I thought maybe he might have had an accident, or gotten into a fight in Spanish Town."
Betty shook her head. "If he'd been in a car accident, someone would have called here. And if he got into a fight, or something,-well, he can lift one corner of this house and he was boxing champ at college. Heavyweight. No, Della. Maybe at first I thought those things, but now I'm sure he's sacked out with some big bottomed tramp. You know how he is. And if he finds a woman who can stand him at all, he would stay with her until his backbone turned to mush!"
"We also thought he might have gotten on the trail of something big," Delia remarked. "Maybe he has been too busy to call, or just didn't think of it. You know how men are."
"Yes I do, sweetie!" Betty laughed. "Sit there in the chaise while I straighten myself up a little."
Delia glanced at the bed. Right there, just a week ago, her darling Lyle and this bleary-eyed woman had spent the night. Then she sipped the black coffee and watched Betty. She was brushing life and glow back into her long blonde hair and some of the sag had left her back. She was beautiful, Delia had to admit and she was the personification of sex. Her shoulders were square, but just light enough to make her breasts seem something special. They pushed out under the negligee, showing sensual weight, but not weariness. And her hips were perfect, molding back into high, plump buttocks that jiggled with firmness. Thirty, perhaps, Delia thought, and Betty would be desirable to a man the day she died.
"I just went to pieces," Betty remarked. "You know, I haven't had anything to do with Stan for years. Oh, sometimes I kiss him off when he's full of booze and gets dangerous, if you know what I mean. But nothing a woman could call loving. Or a man. But I've grown so dependent upon his big smile and his gruff humor, I feel sick when he's not where I can see him. Know how I mean?"
"Yes."
"And I have my own problems, too," Betty said, turning as she slipped out of the robe.
Delia subdued a gasp. Naked, Betty was devastatingly beautiful. Her bold breasts were delicately tipped in coral pink, and her slender waist showed a slight muscular beauty, as if she might have once been a professional dancer.
"You-you shave," Delia murmured.
Betty's eyelids lowered. She slipped her palms down her belly, made a parting motion on the flat of her hips and kinked her knees. The lewd exposure made Delia's blood throb in her throat. For a moment, Betty hunched, her hips making slight rolling movements that accented the thrust. Pink gleamed with moisture, and Delia shuddered, unable to identify the strange emotion she felt.
Betty walked forward, one hand now raised to lift and massage one weighty breast. "Hair is for monkeys, darling," she said. "So rough and uncouth!"
Her left hand dropped then and with two fingers, Betty did a small obscene thing. Delia stared, and when Betty did not stop, she swallowed the lump of excitement rising in her throat. After a second or two, the kink returned to Betty's legs and as she lowered her hips, seemingly into the pressure of her fingers, she reached out and put one cool hand to Delia's cheek.
There was no doubt now that Betty had more than casual exhibitionism in mind. The roll of her hips, the quickening of her adept fingers and the snap of her breasts on the skin of her ribcage were all exciting. Slowly Delia set her cup and saucer on the cosmetic stand. She could not help leaning forward and Betty's hand curled behind to pull Delia's head closer.
"No!" Delia gasped. "Oh, you horrible woman!"
Betty laughed then and knelt, pushing her petulant lips to Delia's open mouth. Delia put protesting hands out, and as she touched the quivering flesh, a strange paralysis came over her. In an instant, Betty had pulled her off of the chaise and they were struggling together on the thick carpet.
"Betty, no! Oh no!" Delia pleaded, then she felt the warmth and the eagerness of the nude body, now rolling over hers. Delia twisted her head to avoid the passionate kisses Betty reined on her face, and after failing to discourage her, tried desperately to scramble free of the strong embrace.
And without warning, she could struggle no more. She met the next kiss with unreasonable eagerness, and the triumphant laughter from Betty was like the knell of sweet, melodious bells. Then she felt Betty's fingers fumbling with the zipper of her dress and Delia whimpered in fright.
"Relax, honey," Betty husked. "Give it a chance!"
"Oh Betty, I'm so-so confused!" Delia gasped.
"Why, baby? It's just another, wonderful way to have sex. Here, slip out of that. What a beautiful body you have! Oh Delia, we're going to have so much fun together!"
Delia sensed then, that it wasn't just 'fun' to Betty. There was a feverish impatience to the peeling movements that exposed her body, and the flash of Betty's eyes as she bared the pulsating rounds of Delia's breasts was frighteningly intense. She coiled to kiss each hard dark nipple, then she slid her face down following the displaced dress with kisses, lower and lower. Then Delia was nude, and she lay in breathless pleasure while Betty explored her lovely body with pursed lips and a teasing tongue. Despite her inner restraint, Delia could not help urging to special kisses, and gradually, she began to want more. Her hands went to Betty, and her fingers teased and sampled the softly firm contours.
"See, you did want me, didn't you?" Betty laughed. "Oh, let's get up on the bed and quit fooling around!"
Delia lay sprawled in total exhaustion, her legs out, her head turned away from Betty. Her senses still reeled from the furiously passion ate exchange of kisses, and she could smell the sweet odor of love on her own skin. A strange empty feeling made her body seem feather light and even though she was tired, the mad tingling had not stopped. Whatever Betty had done to her body, over and over again, was nothing compared to what Delia had done to herself. Now her mind tumbled with memories of soft flesh, acrid wetness and throbbing response. She had become a lesbian in one, maybe two quick minutes. Not really, she thought, but the hour of kisses, tongue tips and sweet flesh pressures had exposed a paradise she had never known existed.
"You're great-for a beginner," Betty said. "Did you like me, Delia? I mean, did you like us together?"
"Oh yes-and no!" Delia cried, turning back to the blonde. "I was so frightened, then so happy! Now, I'm not sure."
Betty sat up, her back bowed, her head tipped down as if to inspect the private delights of her responsive body. "It's a mess," she said. "I mean, women. You come equipped with a thousand nerves a man doesn't even know exist. You want love, love love, and the most you get is a chance to douche twice a night and change the sheets in the morning. You've had my man. You know how impossible it is for a woman to really love him. Take him, yes. Hurt and grunt and maybe feel good a little, but you're always afraid. Always. With another woman, you don't have any fears, and there are no nerves left untouched. Oh Delia, I have n't been this happy for months!"
"I'm not the only woman-"
"Of course not! And you won't be the last. Del, I'm not a les. I mean, that isn't the way I think! I just wanted your love because you're beautiful and it feels good, and it leaves me with no" sex hangover. Can you understand that? Probably not. You got into that swapping bit because you and Lyle had a problem. There was no real problem with Stan and me. Sure he's a moose, but this little old mousetrap will stretch a mile before it will tear an inch! No. We got into the swapping thing because we were bored with each other, and maybe we both wanted to experiment a little. After the first few times, we were even further apart. But there's no problem, as long as we can keep making new contacts."
"Like trying a new restaurant when the old ones become tiresome," Delia observed. "I never want to get into that state of mind, Betty. I love Lyle. I hated you terribly the other night!"
Betty sighed. "Rest easy, honey. He didn't like my kisses half as much as you seemed to! He should be worrying about you!"
Delia sat up, shook her head to dispel a slight dizziness. "He was going to call here," she said. "This is the day, you know."
Betty giggled. "Those pictures. I bet whoever took them was sure itching and scratching! I can't believe it was Maria, though. She's too dumb and too scared. Maybe she had a friend. She's a hot little number. I saw her once in some good clothes. After that, I made her always wear loose clothing when she came here. If Stan ever checked her out, he'd be after her like a torn cat!"
"Does he-he go out much, by himself?"
"Not if I can help it, but who can watch a man all the time? Come on, let's have some lunch. I've got an extra robe, in case we decide to play some more."
"Please, no, Betty," Delia pleaded in a small voice.
"Take it out deeper," Betty quipped. "Let's eat!"
Half through with the rather expansive lunch Betty furnished from the monstrous icebox in the kitchen, the telephone rang. Betty swung and picked the receiver from the wall phone.
"Well, hi, Lyle! How's my great big lover boy today? Sure she's here, gnashing her teeth at me while I make love to her husband!" Her lips did a big, moist smacking sound. "Get that one, honey? Okay, you can talk to her, but not for too long."
Delia nudged the smiling blonde away and said, "Yes, Lyle?"
"Ten minutes ago," his voice came low and steady. "I had a phone call. Instructions. I have to go out of town. I may not be back until late this evening. Can you stay with Betty?"
"Y-yes. Oh Lyle, I'm so frightened! Are you sure you'll be all right? What about Stan? Did you find out anything?"
"Nothing. One of my employees has a brother living close to Maria's house. He just got back from Long Beach. No one in Spanish Town saw either Stan, nor his car last night. The brother talked to Maria, too. She didn't seem to know a thing. Now, take care of yourself and I'll come after you, after I've made the contact."
"Where are you going, dear? You've got to tell me-in case there's trouble and you need some help."
There was a long silence and Delia thought she could see the concern, the determination on Lyle's face. He would be very careful. Finally his words came gently. "No, Delia. I can't tell you. But don't worry. I'm sure there will be no trouble. Be sweet, my love, and stay right where you are. It will be all over by morning."
When she had hung up, Delia turned and looked at Betty.
All over. She wondered if Lyle could really understand what 'all over' meant. Suddenly she hated the Daltons with an intense fury. Stan first. It had taken her days to get over the insidious influence of his abnormal masculinity, and now Betty. Whose femininity was even more destructive. Delia felt like crying, but she was too unnerved to sympathize with herself.
"No word about Stan?" Betty asked.
When Delia told her what Lyle had said, the blonde grinned and shrugged. "Well, to hell with him," she said. "He'll come home when he's out of jolly juice. In the meantime, we can make out, can't we, baby?"
CHAPTER FIVE
LYLE PUT THE LITTLE FLIGHT BAG IN THE front seat. Then he opened the Cadillac trunk and laid his golf clubs on the broad floor. As he closed the turtle-back, he waved to one of his foremen, passing from one building to another. The Saturday crew was half-sized. And none of them would think anything of the boss going for eighteen holes of golf at two o'clock in the afternoon. It was one of the privileges of being the boss.
He didn't touch the flight bag until he had driven out through the company gates. Then, heading for the Santa Ana Freeway, he opened the bag with one hand and removed the forty-five automatic. It was beautifully black, almost sensuous in its gleaming power. Lyle hefted it and liked the weight in his hand. Then he tucked it into his belt to the left of his jacket opening. After that, he closed the flight bag and tossed it and the twenty thousand dollars into the rear seat. If something went wrong, he'd have the money, but it was going to take some getting on the part of the smart talking blackmailer. Lyle could afford the twenty thou sand, but he could not afford the idea of being taken by a thief.
The whole affair had been one grand fiasco from the beginning. He had been as much to blame as Delia. The idea of wife-swapping, coupled with his own inability to revive his ardour for his lovely wife, had seemed to have had some merit in the excitement of planning it, but now, the entire concept revolted Lyle.
Picking the Daltons out of the hundred odd advertisements in the 'club' magazine had been pure chance. The fact that they lived only a few miles away seemed indicative of something. Lyle remembered the first letter from Betty Dalton. It had been frank, very exciting, and reserved in language, if not in meaning. There had been no exchange of photos, just words, and after Lyle had checked the address, he had been satisfied that the Daltons were not tramps.
There had been two or three letters, then the telephone conversation. No problem, really, he remembered. Just an appointment for assignation. A weekend of uninhibited, completely 'modern' sex. But with photos.
Lyle couldn't get it out of his head that Stan Dalton was behind the blackmail scheme. Some of his belief was due to the tweaks of jealousy he felt over Stan's outlandish equipment. But that wasn't all. The entire affair had been too easily arranged, too pat. It was almost as if Stan had greased the tracks. Two or three other items supported Lyle's reasoning, too. Of the twenty photos, fifteen of them had been of Delia and the rampant monster. The pictures of himself and Betty had been of poor quality, almost unrecognizable unless one already knew the participants. Another suspicious item was Stan's haste to pinpoint the guilt on his sixteen year old baby-sitter.
It was too big a deal for a sixteen year old girl, even if she had help. It was a good cover-up, Lyle thought. Blaming the scheme on a Mexican girl, nearly lost in the ghettos of Southeast Los Angeles.
The third doubt was accented by the fact that Stan Dalton was missing. On the pretext of spying on the Mexican girl, he had dropped completely out of the picture. In the meantime, the date for the payoff had approached, and Lyle admitted that he had depended upon Stan until it was too late to do anything about finding the blackmailer. Something like promising a drowning man a life preserver and waiting until he had but one breath left before throwing him a heavy iron anchor.
Lyle squirmed to feel the shape of the forty-five in his belt. Maybe not too late, at that. One thing about the scheduled spot on Highway 101 designated as the place where the negatives would be exchanged for the-twenty thousand-the blackmailer would be as alone as Lyle would be.
The plan seemed simple, almost ridiculous. Pick up a hitchhiker who would be standing at the on-ramp just south of San Juan Capistrano." Do as he says and don't ask questions-." Lyle had no doubt that the pick-up would be watched by somebody in a fast car. There would be the usual Saturday traffic on the highway, and it would be impossible to decide which car was the blackmailer's. On the other hand, there were few cars that could match the Cadillac on a straightaway.
Once assured the hitchhiker had the negatives, Lyle planned to take him over. Not kill him. Take him over. Side roads were plentiful. Out in the rolling hills away from the ocean, Lyle thought he could make the man talk. Make him talk or break him up like kindling wood. In any case, with the negatives in hand, the danger was reduced to nothing. If the hitchhiker were only an ignorant contact man, then he could take his broken bones back to the real blackmailer and they could cry in their beer together.
Lyle slowed as he approached San Juan Capistrano. He made sure the forty-five was set for a quick draw. Then he slowed some more, and a dozen cars went by him on the two lane highway. The designated on-ramp appeared, first on the overhead signs, then as a curve winding up from the valley to his right. And standing well of the shoulder was a man. As Lyle approached, the young man stepped forward and stuck his hand up in supplication. Lyle hit the brakes.
The man seemed about thirty, dark, moderately well dressed in a cheap tan suit. He smiled at sight of Lyle's slowing car, and his handsome face was plain. The fact that he was a Mexican made Lyle's mouth a short apology to Stan Dalton. On the other hand, there were two million Mexican-Americans in Southern California, and it all might be nothing more than a coincidence.
Then the car was stopped and the Mexican flipped open the door and slid into the seat.
"Thanks," he said crisply. "Going to San Diego?"
"Could be," Lyle replied cautiously. 'Some car. Must have cost plenty."
"Seven thousand. I buy a new one every year."
"I can't even afford a bicycle," the young man lamented.
Lyle glanced at him, measuring the distance to the young man's ribs. "Maybe you think times are going to get better for you," he said, with significant emphasis on 'better.'
There was a quick movement from the man then, and Lyle was startled by the jab of a gun muzzle under his right ribs. "You know, buster, you just may be right! Take the right turn, down along the ocean or I'll blow a hole in you a cat could jump through!"
"Now wait a minute," Lyle exclaimed. "No need for that gun!"
"Turn, bastard," the man grated.
Lyle turned, hypnotized by the disastrous turn of events. They had gone about a half mile on the old highway when the gun jabbed again. "Turn up there," the man said. "And take it easy. One false move and I let go with this cannon!"
"All right." Lyle drove carefully. They passed two or three houses, then the road turned into a small valley and they were as alone as if they had been transported to the middle of the desert.
"Stop here," the man said grimly.
Lyle stopped the car. "Now wait a minute. I've complied with my part of the deal. I'm ready to pay-off if you have the negatives. Put that gun away and be sensible."
The man furrowed his brow in doubt. "What the hell are you talking about, buster? This is a stickup!"
"W-what?"
"You heard me. Hey, what's that out there in the field?"
Off his guard, Lyle turned. The blackness came on with a half-pain, and he fell over the steering wheel into oblivion.
Maria was scared. No matter how much loving Tony had given her in the past few days, no matter how he promised money, fine clothes and an easy life, she was scared. He had hardly let her out of his sight since the night he'd shived Dalton while the big man had been tearing her butt. Now she sat in the Ford, trembling with new fear. Tony was cursing in Spanish, English, and a bitter mixture of both. Up on the road, Manny Voya was turned, and his shoulders hunched as his hands, palm up expressed a big nothing.
It was thirty minutes past the time Liggett and his big yellow Cadillac was due. Something had gone wrong. .
"I'll kill that fink!" Tony rasped. "Standing me up is going to cost him plenty. Wise guys make me mad. Okay," he grunted, patting his coat where Maria knew the roll of negatives rested. "We'll see how smart he is when I spread this stuff in his factory!"
"Oh Tony, can't we go now?" Maria pleaded.
"Shut up, tart. We got to go. The Highway Patrol comes by and sees Manny again, they'll grab him, for sure!"
He started the Ford, put it in gear and burned rubber going from the apron to the ramp. At the top, he slowed, and Manny boarded the car on the run. His face was streaked with perspiration from nearly an hour in the broiling sun.
"He never showed, Tony. I seen ten, twelve Cads, but no yellow ones. I hadda turn down three, four rides from yokels. God, it's hot out there!"
"Shut up. We blew the bit. But I ain't through yet!"
"Maybe he couldn't raise the twenty grand?" Manny suggested.
"Him? He's loaded. He's just playing it smart, he thinks."
"Why don't we cruise the highway," Manny said. "We see a yellow Cad, we haul it down. Could be he missed the spot. You said he sound ed scared. Kills my Mexican butt to think of his riding around with twenty grand of our money in his kick!"
Tony turned to Maria then, and she could feel the blow of eyes. "You sure his Cad was yellow, bitch?"
"I'm sure, Tony," she replied. "Gee, I couldn't miss that!"
Tony cursed. "Tell you what. We'll drive back to the city and stake out on his pad. No time now for fooling around. He drives up to his house and we make the deal right in the street. He gives me any trouble, I'll shiv him. I'm gonna get that dough if I have to skin him and his big assed wife too!"
"Yeah," Manny concurred.
"Can I go home first, Tony?" Maria ventured.
"Shut up. Manny, haul her over the seat and cool her off, will you?"
"Tony!" Maria cried. "No, Tony, please!"
Manny's big hands seized her shoulders and Tony shoved his right hand under her bottom. Between them, they boosted her into the back seat like a rag doll. Maria gasped as Manny twisted her arm, then she was cringing under the weight of his stocky body, and she knew there was no help to be had from Tony. When he was mad, he was mad. And there was no point in trying to evade Manny. He held her in the corner with one hand hard against her chest, his sweaty face drawn into a snarl of threat.
"Now, keep your goddamned mouth shut while we do some thinking," he told her.
Maria stilled, knowing how it could be if she didn't mind. Not now. Manny was hot and weary and upset. He had been promised five thousand dollars for his share of the caper. Some for ditching the dead Dalton in the sea, some for doing his part on the highway, and some just because he and Tony were buddies. Maria was sure she was going to get it good, no matter. If they had gotten the money, Tony and Manny would have gotten boozed, and in the end, she would have been passed around like a puta at a fiesta. Now that they had missed the pay-off, they would snarl, curse, be brutal and end up drinking beer until it was her turn to be passed around anyway.
Her one hope was the thirty-eight dollars hidden in the bottom of her stuffed dog. If she could get away from Tony long enough to get the money and run for it, she might be safe. But she was scared. It had all seemed so simple in the beginning. Tony had been smooth, sweet, maybe a little rough, but always sure of himself. Now, he was hot for murder and blackmail, and if his temper didn't subside, he would probably kill again. There was nowhere to turn except the endless miles of street.
"Please Tony, let me go home," she pleaded again.
Manny cuffed her across the face and dug one rude hand into her crotch. It was not a sexy jab. Maria cried out, rolled to one hip and drew her legs up in pain. She cried then, and above the sound of her own sobs, she heard Manny and Tony comparing notes on how they would fix up Liggett, and maybe his wife when they got to Pasadena.
* * *
After the neighborhood patrol car made the second pass, Tony gave up. There were no lights in the Liggett house, no cars in the garages and no beer to cool the rising tempers. Maria, quiet now, huddled in the back seat. Manny was in front with Tony. She had never known them to be so surly and mean. As Tony started the Ford, she took a last look at the Liggett house. It was beautiful, even more so than the Dalton house. Rich people. Secure. Unafraid of pachucos with big ideas. And no brains to make them work.
As they headed for Spanish Town in Long Beach, Maria half heard Tony cooking up a new line of approach. Manny kept agreeing, and they laughed a little, dirty, suggestive laughter that told Maria they would talk themselves into feeling big and smart again before midnight.
At any rate, she thought, she was getting closer to home. Whatever they decided to do, they might let her go home to sleep. And maybe they wouldn't. If she didn't come home, her mother wouldn't care. Just one less mouth to feed at breakfast time. No one cared about her, Maria was sure. And she had lost all hope of ever being Tony's wife. There had been a lot of talk between him and Manny about white girls, big cars and a high life, once they got their hands on twenty thousand dollars.
In Spanish Town, Tony headed for the photo shop of Charlie Guermo. Dirty Carlos, the grade school girls called him. Tony drove into the alley behind the small shop, got out of the car and rapped hard on the sagging rear door. After a second knock, a light appeared in the grimy window, and a moment later, the door opened. Maria could see the obscene shape of Charlie, his fat bare belly hanging over a pair of dirty shorts. He had been sleeping. Tony entered, and Maria felt very alone, very afraid. Manny turned in the front and put one hand back to her thigh.
"Keep your dirty paws off me, you chollo rat!" Maria snapped. "Tony will kill you if you fool with me!"
He laughed derisively. "Me and Tony is like this," he said, holding up two stubby fingers. "What's mine is his, and what's his is mine."
"You think!"
His hand went down swiftly and his fingers dug like tongs in her slim thigh. Maria yelped, and doubled forward and Manny grabbed her neck with one hand, using? his other to seize her arm. Then he dragged her over the seat, almost head first into his lap. His laughter was as painful as his hands, then when Maria tried to twist away, he caught her shoulders between his knees. His hands wiped her hips and buttocks, encased in the thin stretchpants, and Maria cursed and gasped at the indignities his fingers imposed through the thin material. He had just jerked her stretchpants half down when the photo shop door opened and Tony came out.
Manny let go of her and she fell half to the floor of the car. She scrambled up, jerking her pants in place. "Tony! This dirty pachuco was trying to-"
"Get out," Tony said. He reached around Manny and grabbed her arm. He dragged her out of the car and set her on her feet. "Now listen to me, baby. You got to help Tony. Charlie's raising hell. He's not going to do any more work for me unless he gets paid. I'm already into him for two hundred bucks. And I got to have him, see? Charlie quits making those pictures and we're out of business. He wants fifty bucks now, and I ain't got fifty cents! So you got to give him fifty bucks worth of your stuff. Get it?"
Maria wanted to scream, but the terror turned to hate and she tried to wrench free of Tony's grasp. "No! Oh Jesus, no!"
She heard Charlie's laughter from the door, and a second later Tony's hand crushed across her mouth. She staggered, then he jerked her erect, and she stumbled as he shoved her toward Charlie.
"Take her, Cabrone!" he snarled. "Just don't break her back, see? And you better have those enlargements by tomorrow night or I'll slice your fat ass into shavings."
Maria didn't hear anything else. She felt Charlie's hands clasping her to his fat, naked belly and she smelled the odor of his skin and the stink of his breath. Garlic and beer. Sweat, and the acrid stagnancy of unwashed armpits. With a small cry of self-pity, she tried to twist free, then Charlie flung her across the little room to the cot. His laughter and the throb of the Ford's motor made Maria decide it was going to be the end of the world.
When she raised from the smelly cot, Charlie was standing just two arm lengths away. His pulpy body gleamed in the single light, and his pocked face was wreathed in a leering smile. The room was hardly ten feet square, stacked with boxes, littered by debris and the single bed. There was no place to run, nothing to help her, Maria thought. And Dirty Carlos was coming on.
He dropped the ragged shorts, and for a moment, Maria was scornful. His fat belly over-hung in brown wrinkles. He was hairless, except for a deep concentration that almost hid his lust. He had to bow his back to get one grimy hand down to shake himself at her. Then he nodded.
"Get outta them clothes," he said. "Don't gimme trouble."
"I got the clap," she said. "You'll get it bad, Charlie!"
He laughed until his entire body shook. "Don't kid me, chicka. Tony don't fool with nothing but clean girls. Get outta them pants!"
"Can I have a beer first, Charlie?"
"You git outta them pants, then I'll give you some beer."
He was ready and she was trapped. Maria knew she had no choice. Not only was Charlie too strong, but if she evaded him, he'd tell Tony and that would be far worse than anything the fat animal might do to her. Maria rolled and came to her feet. She was almost as tall as Charlie, but his girth was five times hers. Now he reached out and pinched her breasts with his dirty fingers. She backed away until the cot stopped her knees.
"Roll 'em down," he demanded.
Marie tipped her chin up in false defiance. Then she hooked her thumbs in the top of the stretch waist and slowly began to inch them down. Charlie's mouth dropped open and saliva appeared at the corners of his thick lips. Maria stopped when the first fringe of black showed on her smoothly curved abdomen.
"The beer, macho," she reminded him.
He laughed gustily, then turned to the old icebox in the corner. As he opened the door, Maria looked for something. Anything. No matter what Tony might do, she couldn't let the dirty Mex get her. Then she saw the ashtray. In one swift movement, she seized it and swung forward. The heavy ceramic caught Charlie on the back of the neck and he dropped the can of beer. His bellow was enough to shake the old building. He whirled and caught Maria as she leaped for the door. With one huge grunt, he turned and threw her onto the cot. Her head bumped the wall, dazing her long enough for Charlie to rip the elastic pants down over her buttocks. Then he fell on her and Maria screamed once as his heavy body drove down hard.
She thought the pain would kill her. She screamed again, but Charlie had forced her face into the dirty blankets. His arms closed around her waist, and his huge body bore down, again and again, and as she succumbed to the obscenity that had given Dirty Carlos his name, her hatred for Tony Alvera was almost more than she could bear. Numbness came between searing agony, and after awhile, Charlie rested. She lay on the cot, trying to breath, trying to hold onto her sanity. Then Charlie began to nuzzle and paw and lurch again.
Sometime, eons later, Maria realized that Charlie had rolled away. He lay like a huge pig, breathing heavily, his belly rising and falling like a balloon bouncing down stairs. Maria regained still, gathering her strength.
When Charlie began to snore, she carefully got to her feet. She used his shorts to clean herself, and with the last strength she had, Maria made her way to the door. Out in the night, she had to rest up against the building. Then she began the long two block trek to her house and the thirty-eight dollars. She might never again be able to walk properly, but at least, she would walk alone.
CHAPTER SIX
IT WAS DARK, VERY DAMP AND MOST DISCOURAGING WHEN Lyle came to. He knew instantly that he was in trouble. His watch was gone, his hip pocket was flat, and there was no sign of the Cad. Which also meant that the twenty thousand dollars and his golf clubs were gone. He had picked up the wrong hitchhiker, that was certain. The pattern would be easy to figure out. It was sixty-five miles to the Mexican border. The stick-up man would drive into Tijuana, ditch the Cadillac and retire to some undiscoverable hideout to count his ill-gotten gains.
More important, the blackmailer would think Lyle had decided not to pay, and all hell would break loose.
He couldn't afford to go to the police about the robbery. There would be questions, some sort of police investigation, and the danger of accidental inquiry into matters both the Liggetts and the Daltons wanted left alone. He walked down the road, trying to formulate some plan of action. More specifically, some form of recovery. He had to get to Pasadena and he didn't even have a dime for a local telephone call.
He got started by hailing the first cab he saw after reaching Highway 1. As he slipped into the back seat, Lyle realized how heavy had been the blow on the back of his head.
"Where to, mister?"
"Hollywood," Lyle muttered.
"Hollywood? Hey, that's a long haul. I ought to see a twenty dollar bill before I start out, mister."
Lyle grinned weakly. "Hollywood," he repeated. "Don't worry. You'll get paid. But right now, I couldn't buy a ride on a three-wheeled roller skate. Look, I was down across the border. I got beered. Somebody rolled me. I got this far hitching a ride. But I'm feeling a little sick and I'm tired. Hollywood. Double your normal fare. Just get going. And what time is it?"
"Two-ten. Got your watch too?"
"Everything. Take a chance, friend. You might strike it rich." Lyle gave the dubious cabby the Hollywood address. "Deal?"
"Well, all right. But you're giving me a rough shuffle and you get the treatment, mister."
"Okay," Lyle agreed, and he curled up in the seat and fell asleep before the cab was up to road speed.
When he awakened to the cab driver's shake, Lyle was in front of his own house. The driver insisted upon accompanying him and when Lyle saw his own empty garages, he realized he was still in trouble. His keys had been in the Cad. He scared the cab driver half out of his mind by walking directly to a bedroom window, ripping free the screen, then shoving his foot through the glass.
"Hey, you want to get into trouble? You sure you live here?"
"To tell you the truth, I'm not sure of anything," Lyle admitted. "But a man has to try. Go around to the side entrance and I'll let you in."
Three ten dollar bills from the household cash turned the driver apologetic. Finally alone, Lyle flopped out on his own bed and tried to think. Delia was still at the Dalton house. For a moment, he longed for her presence, her comforting words. Then he realized that to call her at four in the morning would only alarm her, and perhaps Betty Dalton.
It was, he thought, time to be sensible. If he didn't report the stolen Cadillac, the law would be justifiably suspicious if and when it was found. There would also be the matter of insurance agents, and a host of other details surrounding the unexplained disappearance of a seven thousand dollar automobile. And there was always the possibility that the stick-up man might also be apprehended. And the story he would tell of robbing a rich man in a big black Cadillac sedan containing a fancy set of golf clubs and twenty thousand dollars in cash would have to be explained. While Lyle thought he might fabricate some plausible story and stick to it, he was not sure Delia could be trusted to continually give the right answers.
It was almost certain that the blackmailer would contact him again. There was no profit in giving up, and none in following out his threat to spread the obscene photos in Liggett Industries. No, he would try again, Lyle was sure. Raising another twenty thousand would call for liquidating some negotiable assets, but that could be done Monday. In the meantime, shower, shave and think.
After that, he made black coffee and drank it copiously until eight. Then he called the Daltons house and told Delia to come home.
"Just tell Betty everything is fine and get here as fast as you can. No. I haven't found any trace of Dalton either. Just come home."
Then he sat and consumed three more cups of coffee before her yellow Cadillac pulled up in the driveway.
Delia hadn't been able to tell Lyle about Betty, nor the hours upon hours of nerve wracking passion, nor did she explain that her body felt dragged out, hammered and tenderized by the two nights and a day spent with the aggressive lesbian. Lyle's story had been terrifying, and her mind, bludgeoned by passion, disappointment and fear, had tried to absorb all the instructions he had given her about what must be told the police.
He hadn't told her what he was going to do next, but he had called a cab and headed for the factory. There were three company cars there, and one would serve as transportation until something was done about recovering the other Cadillac, or obtaining another. All she really knew was that from the moment they had met the Daltons, trouble had settled around them in monstrous clouds. And while she was concerned about twenty thousand dollars, a nearly new car and the lump on Lyle's head, she was unable to see things with the mechanical clarity he seemed to possess.
Alone now, she stripped and prepared to bathe away the feeling of dirt and filth her hours with Betty had brought on. She stared at herself, shaven now to match Betty. She was scratched, bruised and muscle weary. Yet for all her self-reproach and instinctive revulsion, she could not help remembering certain excruciatingly wonderful moments. And it hadn't been just the orgiastic reaction to the fingers, lips and tongue of the indefatigable Betty. There had been some moments when Delia, locked in flesh to flesh embrace, had felt a desire for the woman she could not immediately name.
She remembered the way her own lips, deep kissing, nibbling and caressing, had tingled. She had wanted to drive Betty out of her mind with passion, and she had thrilled inside to the knowledge that she was satisfying the responsive body. Delia shuddered. Just as she had been afraid of her reaction to the all-intrusive Stan, now she was afraid of the gnawing certainty that no matter what, she had to see Betty again. Or some woman who needed the love of another woman. This was a terribly exciting thought for Delia.
She spent a minute in the hot water, eyes closed, her hands roaming sensuously over her own body as she imagined the soapy, resilient flesh belonging to Grace, or Flora or perhaps Mavis, or some lovely woman she had never seen before. This urge to initiate another woman to the illicit passions just learned shocked Delia, but she could not get the exciting picture out of her mind. Then she hated the name she had to call herself, and she was close to tears when the door chimes sounded.
Suddenly frightened, she leaped out of the tub, swished the water from her warm, pink loveliness and slipped into a robe. She ran to the front door, then froze in amazement at the sight of the pretty, but totally strange, Mexican girl standing there.
"Mrs. Liggett? Oh, I'm so glad you were home! I'm Maria Gonzalez. You know, Mrs. Dalton's baby-sitter! I know I've no right to bust in like this, but I'm in such terrible trouble!"
Delia thought quickly, then Stan Dalton's theory came back to her. "What kind of trouble, Maria?"
"Please, may I come in? I'll tell you all about it. I just have to get off the street! Will you please help me?"
"Of course, Maria. Come in quickly!"
She watched Maria step gingerly into the house. The girl looked terrible, Delia thought. Her black hair was disordered, her close fitting jersey was dusty and her dark, skin tight pants were spotted with yellow dirt. She had been crying too, because her eyes showed red around the huge black-brown moons. When she stumbled Delia caught her in the circle of one arm, and Maria laid her head to the soft, fully cushioned front of Delia's chest.
"What on earth have you been doing?" Della gasped. "You're shaking like a leaf!"
"I walked all night," Maria said. "I'm so beat!"
Delia led her to the bedroom, and Maria didn't seem to care where she was being led. There, Delia set her on the edge of the bed and petted her until Maria ceased her quivering.
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Liggett," Maria finally said. "But the trouble was about you and Mr. Liggett, and I didn't know where else to go! If Tony ever catches me he'll skin my cat and use the hide for a doormat! I'm so ashamed of what I did-to you!"
Little by little, Delia coaxed Maria's story out, and as she listened to the account of the blackmail plot and the subsequent cruelty of Tony after he had failed to contact Lyle, Delia began to understand the girl's terror. Her account of the two or three hours with Charlie, the photographer, turned Delia's stomach. The only thing she could think of then was to help Maria.
"All right, dear," she said. "First, we have to get you cleaned up and feeling better. Then I'll call my husband and tell him what you've said. He's smart, Maria. He'll know what to do about your friend Tony and his cohorts. Now, skin out of those dirty clothes. A hot bath and some rest will brighten things a lot."
"You aren't going to call the police?" Maria asked.
"No. Not until Mr. Liggett decides what is best. Come on, dear, and let's get you straighten out."
"There's one more thing-I can't, I don't dare tell," Maria said, shrugging the jersey up over her head. "But I know I should. Oh, it is such a wipe-out from start to finish!"
"You've told me enough, as it is. The rest will come out as we go along."
Then Delia went silent as she stared at the smooth brown flesh Maria bared. She wore no brassiere, and the full, half-apple breasts with the berry-black tips were perfectly formed, Then Maria rolled down the stretchpants, and with a total lack of self-consciousness, bared her lush hips and smoothly tapered legs.
"Gee," she lamented, feeling of her pert bottom. "That damned Mex nearly ruined me! Look!"
The same clutching excitement balled up in Delia as Maria turned and half bent over. The twin rounds above the lithe thighs might not have done more than interest her a few days before, but now, the sensual shapes, with the intimately misused nook meant something else to Delia. For just a second, she saw the picture of a half-drunk, very fat Mexican hunched over that splendid body, and if it was horrible, it was also sex, and Delia broke a small bead of perspiration between her breasts. When Maria straightened up, Delia put one trembling arm around the bare shoulders and led her to the bathroom.
"You poor darling. Men can be such beasts! You brush your hair a bit while I run fresh war ter in the tub. I was just bathing when you came."
Maria laughed, a short, depreciative snort of indifference. "Heck, why bother? At our house, we use the bathwater two or three times. That looks so pretty and bubbly and good!" She stepped forward and into the tub before Delia could protest. As the sleek brown body settled down into the bubbled surface, Maria squealed with pleasure and shock. "Oo, it's hot too! Oh, it must be wonderful to be rich and beautiful!"
Then Delia noticed that her own robe had slipped and there was a streak of rolling white flesh from throat to abdominal vee exposed to Maria's admiring eyes. For some unexplained reason, she was deliberately slow to close the revealing gap.
But Maria had ceased to look. With something of the glee of a Marine land seal, she was splashing and paddling the layer of bubbles over her skin. She even gathered two hands full of the wispy foam and ducked her face into the fragrant luxury. After a moment, she began to giggle and slid down, until only her face was above the water. She swished her hips playfully.
"I may live," she laughed. "I just knew that if I could get to your house, you'd take care of me."
"Why didn't you go to the Daltons', Marie?"
For a moment, a cloud of worry crossed Maria's pretty face. "There's a reason," she said. "But I can't tell. You won't tell Mrs. Dalton I'm here?"
"No. Why do you mention Mrs. Dalton instead of Mr. Dalton?"
Maria was silent a full half minute. "No reason, I guess."
"Would you like me to-to wash your back, Maria?"
Slowly the Mexican girl raised her eyes, and now she swept Delia's body with a sly, half-wise glance. "I don't think you'd better," she said. "Maybe next time, Mrs. Liggett."
Delia turned away, suddenly relieved that the beautiful girl had saved her from something indescribably lewd. Relieved, yet disappointed. Delia sighed. One thing after another, from the first letter to the Daltons to this unscheduled moment with a too wise Mexican girl. It seemed that every breath, every thought had a sexual import. She despised herself as she realized that in just a few hectic days, she had descended to the place where she had almost tried to make love to Maria ... who seemed to know what had been suggested.
"There's a towel, Maria," she said levelly. "I'll go see about getting you something to eat."
"Thank you, Mrs. Liggett. You won't throw me out now, will you?"
"Why should I do that, dear?"
Maria shrugged her bare shoulders. "I thought you might be teed off at me. Okay, then. I'll get out of here in a minute."
Lyle peeked through a two inch crack at the girl sleeping in the guest bedroom, then he closed the door and went back to Delia. He felt better. If the girl had told the truth, and Delia hadn't forgotten any details, then the entire affair might not be as serious as he had feared.
"You know what I think?" he ventured.
"What, Lyle?"
"I think I'll forget the whole incident! If that Mexican boy of hers is as stupid as he sounds, then nothing is going to happen. I've already made a full report to the police. I simply said that I was bringing home an overage of petty cash, and had decided to shoot a round of golf at the San Clemente links. When they asked me why I drove so far, with so much cash in the car, I said I wanted some sea breeze, and that I was used to carrying cash. They gave me the devil for picking up a hitchhiker under the circumstances, but they couldn't deny my story. As far as the blackmail thing goes, I don't think her tough Tony is either smart enough nor gutty enough to see it through."
"Oh Lyle, we don't dare take a chance!" Della gasped.
"Look, it's a chance, either way! A man dumb enough to figure out a stunt like this Alvera pulled, is just crafty enough to think he can double-cross us. So he was going to hand over the negatives. But any photographer can make copy negatives from a good set of prints. Hell, he could sell us a set of negatives every ninety days from now on! I think I'll sweat him out, Delia. And if he pushes too hard, well, maybe I can trap him, now that we know who he is.
It's an even bet he winds up selling sets of pictures to his lousy friends!"
"My god, Lyle!" Delia exclaimed. "Don't you care about that?"
Lyle nodded. "Of course I do. But his friends and our friends don't mix. As far as anyone in Spanish Town is concerned, they are just dirty pictures of a couple of gals and a couple of guys. No different than a hundred other sets of pictures."
"One difference," Delia contradicted him. "They are of you and me-mostly me! Lyle, I'll never be able to sleep nights if you don't get those negatives!"
"Look, I'm out twenty thousand and a lot of sleep over this stinking mess already! The car and the clubs are covered by insurance. Forget all the rest of it. Don't worry, if the punk pushes, I'll take care of him. But our best chance is to keep quiet and see what happens."
Delia covered her face with both hands and began to sob. Lyle leaned over to pat her shoulder, but she shrugged his hand away.
"You don't care about me!" she wailed. "You don't care if every Mexican in Southern California sees pictures of your wife and that Stan in bed-oh, Lyle! You've got to try to get those negatives. Please! Suppose he isn't bluffing? If anyone at the club or in your factory gets one of those pictures I'll die!"
For a moment, Lyle was slightly angry at her unwillingness to see his side of the argument. "Well, my advice to you is that the next time you play footsie with the biggest stud in the land, don't look so happy about it, or turn your face to the wall!"
"Lyle!"
"Wise up. We got ourselves in a mess, and it's as much your fault as it is mine. Now we have to get out the best way we can. What are we going to do with this Mexican girl?"
"Do? How do I know! You're running things, Mr. Liggett."
Lyle thought of several possibilities. "All right. Be nice to her. Keep her here. At least until we know we aren't going to have to use her as a witness in court."
"Court?"
"That's where blackmail schemes generally wind up. In the meantime, I'm going out."
"Where, Lyle? I'm so frightened here alone."
"You'll be okay. I'm going out to do some checking, that's all. Take it easy, Delia. I'll be back before long."
"But shouldn't I know where you are going, Lyle?"
"I don't know myself. Maybe I'll look for Stan. Don't worry. I'll be all right," he said, going to the door. He thought she looked very sad and forlorn, and for a moment, he was tempted to go back and kiss a smile onto her face. Then he waved. "Don't worry, baby," he repeated, which was, he thought, rather a mild reassurance for a wife whose husband was considering the cold blooded murder of a Spanish Town hoodlum.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DELLA FOUND TINA'S CAFE BY FOLLOWING the directions Maria had given her, but by the time she pulled the yellow Cadillac to a halt in front of the place she was thoroughly frightened. Only her determination stopped her from jamming the big car in gear and racing for home. The four or five dirty slouched and leering youths in front of the taco house made her feel as if she were in cannibal land the way they devoured her with knife-sharp eyes.
Two of them sauntered over and boldly looked into the car, measuring her from carefully swirled hair to bare knees. They made clucking sounds and said low things in Spanish to each other.
"I beg your pardon," Delia said to the one who seemed most forward. "Could you tell me where I might find Tony Alvera?"
"Oh si. So you're one of Tony's babes. He can sure pick 'em. Yeah. He's inside."
"Would you ask him to come out, please?"
"You got busted legs, or something?"
"Please!"
The youth straightened up. "Hey, Moka. Tell Tony there's a hot looking twist in a Cad out here, twitching for his stuff." Then he leaned back and thrust his head into the car window. "Hey, honey, you got a friend that might want a good stiff boy? Guaranteed to please. And if one don't do, I got friends!"
"You are very rude," Delia snapped.
"Rude dude, that's me. Them tits real or are you wearing watermelons?"
Shocked, Delia pulled back into the seat and looked away. A moment later, the head disappeared, and without warning, the car door opened and a tall, smiling Mexican with very handsome features dropped into the seat beside her.
"Well, buenas tardes, baby!" he laughed. "I'm Alvera. How'd you know my name?"
"Never mind. Can we go somewhere and talk, Mr. Alvera?"
"Call me Tony. Sure we can. Talk about money, huh? For some real gone pics of you and the two legged horse. Your old man send you?"
Delia started the car and sent it forward. She was into it now, and some of her first assurance returned. She could smell the beer and garlic from his breath and while this was disturbing, he didn't look as tough nor as unreasonable as Maria had indicated.
"You don't ask me questions, I won't ask you any," she said. "Where can we park so we won't have people looking at us?"
"Hell, at this time of the evening, what does it matter?" he said. "Drive up a few blocks. After you get out of Spanish Town there's parks. Nobody going to bother us, anyway. You know, you're a damned site better looking than your pictures, honey."
Delia blushed and was grateful for the near darkness. She drove steadily, then when he hooked a thumb, she turned off the arterial and within two blocks, came to a small park, heavily ringed with trees. She parked under some overhanging branches.
"Great," Tony said, sliding closer to her.
"I'm here to talk business."
"So, business is nicer with a little pleasure."
Delia drew away. "My husband tried to pay you off yesterday. Somehow, he missed you on the highway."
"Don't I know. We never seen hide nor hair of this yellow Cad. Got mad, too. I don't dig double-crosses."
"He doesn't drive this car, Tony. He had the black sedan."
"That dumb little bitch!" he muttered. "Okay, so what?"
"My husband isn't going to pay you off now," she announced.
His laughter was rough, and his hand, suddenly gripped around her arm was rougher. "Oh no? Baby, I'm having some eight by tens made of those pictures. At that size, you look pretty wild, your shiny white ass stuck up for that salami! Monday morning, those dandy enlargements are going to be thumbnailed to every bulletin board in your old man's plant. Right alongside a picture of your old man bulldozing that blonde's tonsils down her pretty throat! Even Ed Sullivan can't top that for a big show!"
"No! No, Tony. That's why I'm here," Delia said through her panic. "You know very well what would happen if those pictures got into the hands of my husband's employees! Please listen, Tony. Give me a chance to talk to you."
"Pop off," he chuckled. "The pigeons don't care where the bread comes from. You got twenty thousand hunks of bread, baby?"
Delia hung onto her courage. "No Tony. At least, not in one payment. I don't have that kind of money in my checking account."
"No checks. Got to be cash, baby."
"All right. But let me explain."
He slouched with his arms folded over his broad chest, his head tipped down as she explained how she expected to raise the required money. "It may take a few weeks. I've some jewelry, and I can work a few little plans of my own to get money. Tony, I've got to have those negatives! I won't back out. I won't double-cross you! Just say you'll give me a little time to raise the money. Please!"
"How'd you know my name and where to find me?" he asked abruptly. "Your old man didn't know, so don't give me that!"
Trapped, Delia decided that the truth would be better than a he. "Maria. She came to me, all beat up and scared."
Tony's curse was sharp, explosive. "Where is she, woman?"
"I-I gave her some money and she went away," Delia lied.
Followed then the most terrible fifteen minutes Delia had ever known. Agonized in Tony's grasp, she babbled out everything Maria had said. Over and over, Tony made her repeat the details, and when he finally flung her back into the seat, she was bruised, breathless and confused. Then she remembered that Maria had hinted about something else she knew, but refused to tell about. Scared by the vicious violence Tony Alvera seemed capable of, she decided to remain silent.
"Okay, I make a deal, bitch," he said roughly. "What you got for a starter?"
"Seven hundred dollars," Delia replied, fearing it would be too little. She started to fumble in her handbag, but he snatched it out of her hand and found the money for himself.
"Jesus," he muttered. "What a cheap pitch!"
"There'll be more," she promised. "But this is Sunday and I couldn't get to a bank. Believe me, Tony! I promise to pay!"
"Oh, you're going to pay off, baby, don't worry about that!"
He got out of the car then and slammed the door. She saw him look up and down the street. Then he reached in and took the ignition keys.
"I'll hang these on the fence down at the corner," he said. "You ever mention meeting me, or anything, and I'll fry your ass. And don't ever come to my turf again. I'll call you and tell you where to make the meet. And you better do better than seven bills next time, or the enlargements hit the bulletin boards, bitch!"
He was gone then, and Delia, with a little pride in her accomplishment, watched his tall form swing down the street. Under the corner streetlight, she saw him hesitate at the wire fence. Then he was gone, like a dark ghost in the darker night. Delia got out of the lifeless Cadillac and hurried toward the corner. She had almost reached the place he had left the keys when a wheezing old car pulled up abreast of her. Startled, she turned, and there were five leering, very frightening Mexicans in the car. Before she could cry out or run, two of them had her in hard, grasping hands. The sibilant hiss of Spanish, the laughter, and the darkness sent terror through Delia. And as they hauled her into the old car, she screamed once before a coat was thrown over her head and she was wrestled to the floor of the car.
They didn't drive far, but before they arrived where they wanted to be, half of her clothes were torn off and she had been gagged with her own nylon panties. Hands were everywhere and she was brutally finger-raped, front and rear, and more hands pinched and pulled at her bared breasts. She could smell them and feel them, like snarling beasts bent on a kill, and above the snarls came Latin words and excited laughter.
She was dragged from the car, and over some weedy grass, then she was thrown to the ground and held there by the steel-fingered hands. Delia kicked, twisted, and the harder she fought, the stronger became the hands. Then her ankles were seized and her legs yanked apart until she thought her hip joints would burst. There was less laughter now, and fewer words. Then she sensed the sudden weight of a lusty body, and her soul died within her as the rape became a searing, ripping thing.
That she coughed and half strangled changed nothing, and in a last effort to survive the brutal things they did, she quieted, saving what little breath she could drag in past the wadded nylon. Time seemed frozen. She knew when hands changed and the particular body plunging down on her burst into dirty flames and was replaced by a fresh lust. She heard them talking Spanish among themselves, and the shifting conversation seemed to be all around her. By then, she had become indifferent to fingers, pinching and the nasty things five men could do with a helplessly sprawled woman.
When they turned her over and began to repeat the one after the other schedule, she prayed for oblivion. Consciousness gave way to a strange state of unfeeling, in which she could only sense the ground and the sharp weeds under her bare belly, and the flesh ripping things they did to her. Then something hit her behind the neck and she sank delightfully into darkness.
She awakened terribly sick and after a few minutes of terrible agony and endless retching, she crawled aimlessly. Instinctively, she fumbled her dress down to cover her nakedness. Finally, the pain of rocks biting into her knees and palms caused her to stagger erect. She had no idea where she was until she saw the fence. Then she discovered she was inside the park. A few yards away she saw the ghostly skeleton of slides and swings and trapeze bars.
It took her a long time to find the open gate. Then she stumbled around the block until she came to her car. Even then, she had to again make the endless trip down to the corner. Once she thought she might never find the keys, then they were miraculously in her weak grasp and she headed back for the car.
She sat for a long time, her head back, her hands testing her bruised body. Eventually, her latent fear caused her to start the car and drive in the direction she thought the freeway should be. Crying now, stung by a million agonies, she suddenly found laughter mixed with her tears. It was obvious that Spanish Town was no place for an unescorted woman. And it would be Maria's turn to soothe and comfort a body devastated by the flesh of lusty men.
* * *
By the time she reached home, her legs had so stiffened she could not work the brake well, and she bumped into the back of the garage. The sound brought Lyle and Maria from the house and with a cry of pain and relief, Della fell out of the car into her husband's arms. He carried her, with Maria squealing Spanish curses and hysterical questions. Delia clung to Lyle, letting his kisses on her soiled face heal the mortal wounds in her heart. When at last she was stretched out on her own bed, she could only babble half answers to the questions Lyle asked.
"I had to go," she whimpered. "Lyle, I could not let that animal wreck our life! Oh dear, I think I'm going to die!"
"A doctor," Lyle murmured. "I'll call Doc Finch!"
"No-no, Lyle!" Delia cried in new fear. "Think of the questions he'll ask! No, honey, just let me rest. I'll be all right. Oh God. There were five of them, Lyle!"
"Was it an old Dodge?" Maria asked then.
Delia blinked. "Yes, I guess it was! But I didn't see anything very clearly before they covered my head."
"Jose Hermano and his four half-witted cousins," Maria said. "Cabrones grande! Mostly they grab old ladies. Or little kids if they can find them alone in the dark."
More than the pain and the degradation, Delia feared the shape of tomorrow. "Oh Lyle, what are we going to do?" she cried.
"Well, right now, we're going to get you into bed," he replied grimly. "Then we'll do some thinking. Everything we've done so far has been wrong. We are getting in deeper and deeper and nothing has changed the original threat of blackmail. I know what has happened is terrible, dear, but it could have been worse. You see, while you were talking to this Alvera, I was looking for him. And if I had found him well, I didn't so it doesn't matter now."
"Gee," Maria murmured. "And I always thought rich people didn't have a worry in the world."
Delia lapsed into a comatose resignation then, and they bathed and oiled her, and Lyle put her to bed. Nothing seemed to erase, or even dull, the hideous memories of her ordeal. She could still smell the unwashed bodies, hear the grunts of lewd efforts and feel the way her flesh had been abused. Lyle stretched out beside her, his arm cradling her head while the two sleeping pills she had taken began to ease the tension. Once, she dozed, awakening with a scream of terror. Finally, she drifted into complete inertia.
* * *
"Boy, she really got it, didn't she?" Maria observed when Lyle finally entered the living room after being certain that Delia was asleep.
"Yes she did," he agreed. He poured himself a stiff hooker of Scotch and drank it down in one big gulp. Then he sat down and stared at the carpet.
"What are you going to do now, Mr. Liggett?"
"I ought to start by turning you over to the police," he replied. "You know that, don't you?"
It didn't seem to shake her up much. "Fine. Then they'll find out about that little party at the Daltons' where everybody was sleeping with everybody. And the day I get out of jail, one of Tony's buddies will hang a shiv in my belly. In the meantime, some other things will come out and a whole lot of people will be hurt, plus a flock more in jail. Oh, I know those cats got it coming, but they are used to trouble. You're not. And I hate to see Mrs. Dalton get hurt any more than she's going to be, anyway."
"What do you mean by that?" Lyle asked.
"Her old man is dead, "Maria replied evenly. "He had it coming too! But the details aren't going to be nice for Mrs. Dalton to read in the headlines."
"Stan Dalton is dead?" Lyle asked, amazed.
"Switsie!" Maria hissed with a swift stabbing motion. "Right in the old gizzard. Died happy though, if it's any fun to go out whitewashing a Mexican girl's liver!"
"How do you know this?" Lyle asked.
"I know about everything that happens in Spanish Town."
"Tell me about it," he demanded.
"Nothing to tell. He came down to Spanish Town, got to fooling around and about the time he was getting his jollies, the girl's daddy-o walked in. Dalton never knew what hit him."
"Where is his body?" Lyle stood up and approached Maria. She looked up at him, her face impassive, her body very still.
"Who did it, Maria? Murder is pretty serious business! If you knew this, why didn't you say something before? Who killed Stan Dalton, Maria, and where?"
"Look, Mr. Liggett. I'm trying to be friendly, but you keep trying to get me killed! I won't tell you, or anybody else. I wouldn't last five minutes if I opened my yap. All I wanted to do was to wise you up, some. And keep the cops out of it."
Lyle, over his first shock, knelt at her knee. "Maria, no matter why Dalton was killed, it was murder! Did it have anything to do with the blackmail scheme?"
She shook her head. "Nope. He just got hot for a little broad and let his brains run out through the head of his-"
"Hold it. I don't believe that! I know why Stan went to Spanish Town. He went down to talk to you! Were you the girl he made a pass at?"
"Me? You're out of your mind, mister. That's all I have to say. But before you go hollering cop, I just wanted you to know what kind of a stink you'd stir up."
And he could get nothing more out of her. Lyle had to appreciate her attitude. In the beginning, he and Delia had entered into a swapping arrangement, a meeting dedicated to pure unadulterated sex with no holds barred. If blackmail were illegal, it was still something four uninhibited sensualists might expect. This had been his thinking when he had resolved to pay off without undue complaint.
It was also true that Stan Dalton had a right to try foiling the scheme, but Maria's statements about his aborted interest made Stan's death another form of retribution. And Lyle had no reason to doubt the pretty Mexican girl. She had a fresh, animal honesty about her and she had been manhandled by the Spanish Town photographer to an extent almost equal to Delia's debacle. She was on the square.
And Lyle couldn't ignore the fact that he had been contemplating serious violence when he put the forty-five automatic in his belt and approached the pay off place. That he had been robbed and slugged was due to his own stupidity. Just as what had happened to Delia's torn and battered body had been the result of her ill logic. No matter how Lyle thought of it all, nothing had happened which could not be traced back to his and Delia's desire to play at sex with total strangers. He knew that a similar set of idiocies in relation to business would have put Liggett Industries on the rocks many years ago. He cursed himself for playing the fool with such dedication.
Turning again, he faced Maria. "You know your friend Alvera. What would you do to stop him? Pay him off? Would that end the murders, rapes and robberies? What do you think I should do?"
"Pay him off," Maria replied. "But do it easy like. If I know Tony, the bread he got off of your wife tonight will keep him drunk and jumping. Just giving him enough at a time to keep him racked up will take the heat off you. You shut him off and Charlie and Manny will jump him, and maybe you."
"But that can go on forever!" Lyle protested.
Maria grinned. "Well, I bet your money will last a hell of a lot longer than the butts and heads around here can take it, mister!"
CHAPTER EIGHT
BETTY SAT IN A DEJECTED HUDDLE, stirring her coffee with nervous unhappy fingers. Her blonde hair was down, terribly untended, and she had not put on any makeup since climbing out of her very empty bed. It was not the first time her over-sexed husband had stayed out for a day or so, but this was Monday morning, and he should have been home by now. Then the sharp rip of the doorbell startled her and she brought her angry thoughts to order.
On the way to the door, she tried to shake some form into her hair, and she reset the negligee around her voluptuous body. One could never tell, she thought, and in her frame of mind, even the boy collecting for the paper could be interesting. But it was no boy. It was two men, and both of them were palming open wallets that displayed the impressive silver and gold of the Wilmington police department.
"Mrs. Dalton?"
"Y-yes."
"I'm Lieutenant Fisk, this is Sergeant Gargan, homicide. May we come in?"
"Stan! Stan killed somebody!" Betty gasped.
The two officers raised their eyebrows, exchanged looks, then followed Betty into the living room. "Is Mr. Dalton subject to Wiling people, Mrs. Dalton?"
"Oh, tell me what the big lug did!"
They were quickly somber then. "He got himself killed, Mrs. Dalton," Fisk said quietly. "When was the last time you saw him?"
"Stan dead? My God! Oh dear!"
She started to cry, not because she was crushed but because the sudden relaxation of her worry was like the ripcord of a parachute. Two thoughts were uppermost in her mind. One was that Stan had finally gotten himself into some kind of trouble he hadn't been able to handle with his muscle and temper and drive, and that she was the widow Dalton, worth approximately a quarter of a million dollars, if the insurance and the bank balance were added up.
"Tell me," she finally husked. "Oh, what happened?"
"We thought you might be able to tell us. When did you last see him, Mrs. Dalton?" Fisk repeated the question.
"Last Friday, I guess."
"I see. Well, that coincides with the coroner's guess that he had been dead since Friday evening. I'm sorry, Mrs. Dalton, but the details are quite gruesome. Would you like a glass of water or something?"
"Just tell me!"
"Mr. Dalton was stabbed to death-in the back. He was then put into his car and driven off the end of a pier in Wilmington. A fisherman noticed an oil slick on the water. We grappled and found the car, early this morning. He was killed by a knife, when he had his coat off. The coat was replaced after his death. He was also robbed. We identified him by the car registration."
There was more, small things which made no sense to Betty. To their questions about the circumstances leading up to his disappearance, Betty had no revealing replies.
"Was he in the habit of just taking off, as it were?" Fisk asked. "Why didn't you call the police when he didn't show up for three days?"
"Well, it was not-unusual," Betty admitted. "He did it sometimes, after we had an argument. But there was no argument Friday. He said he was going out to see someone, and he just never came back. Frankly, I guessed he was with-some woman!"
Lieutenant Fisk nodded. "The medical examiner thinks he was, but from where I sit, that seems a bit hard to believe."
Betty brightened. "I'm sure that was meant as a compliment, Lieutenant. But my husband was a man of-well, inspiration, you might say. Frankly, he was a big chippy!"
There was silence then, and the Sergeant shifted his feet nervously. Fisk checked his wristwatch.
"It is going to be necessary for you to come down to Central Receiving, Mrs. Dalton. Are you up to it at this time?"
"I guess so, Lieutenant. But I must dress, of course."
"Of course," the thick shouldered Fisk agreed. He smiled then, and his face, while not handsome, became pleasantly boyish. "We are not in that much of a hurry. Gargan, why don't you take the squad car and go on ahead. I'll wait for Mrs. Dalton to dress, then we can drive down in her car. Is that agreeable, Mrs. Dalton."
"Perfect, Lieutenant," she replied with a new brightness.
Sergeant Gargan got to his feet and headed for the door. Betty had forgotten him before he was outside. She was measuring Lieutenant Fisk, and she thought his casual attitude was a surface thing. He would, she thought, be a very nice cure for the very slight sorrow she felt over Stan's death.
"I'm sorry I had to bring you such bad news, Mrs. Dalton," he said after they heard the squad car roar away. "Would you like to call a friend, or a relative, who might be of some help?"
"You'll do fine, Lieutenant," Betty said. "I'm not a hysterical type, at all. And I suppose I've always known my husband would come to a violent end. Under his businessman's exterior, he was rather a headstrong, almost impulsive sort. Nearly a bully, too."
"Oh? I saw him in the morgue," Fisk observed. "He was a big man, wasn't he?"
Betty stood up, her eyes heavy-lidded with speculation. She stood straight but not stiffly. "We hadn't been very compatible for a long time," she said. "Do I sound too casual about it?"
"Are you asking for my personal opinion, or for my professional consideration?"
"Personal, Lieutenant."
"Personally, I don't know how a woman could stand him," he said in a soft voice. "But professionally, I'd say you should show a bit more concern. Headquarters has some slight thought that he was stabbed in the back by a woman, at a very critical moment, shall we say in an emotional situation of great intimacy."
"I suppose I shall get grilled, or third degreed, or something?" Betty asked.
"No. But there may be a lot of questions. Shall we get on our way, Mrs. Dalton? Wilmington is quite a drive from here."
"Oh my," Betty exclaimed. "I hadn't thought about going to Wilmington. Well, if there are to be long questions, do you suppose I should pack an overnight case and plan to stay the night in a motel or something? I'm sure you know of a nice place where it would be quiet. Just in case there might be more questions tomorrow?"
Lieutenant Fisk smiled. "A very sensible suggestion, Mrs. Dalton. Why don't you just pack a bag and plan to spend the night in Wilmington. That way, I'll be able to contact you if something comes up later in the evening."
"Exactly what I had in mind," Betty admitted coyly.
Betty hung the simple black dress in the motel room closet, then unsnapped her brassiere. Out of that, she donned the robe she had brought and flopped out on the bed to file her nails. It was very comfortable in the room, and she tested the bedsprings for bounce. The thoughts rolling around in her head made the tips of her big breasts tingle. There had been one moment of shock when the morgue attendant had thrown back the sheet and she had been required to identify Stan's water-bloated body, but a shot of brandy from the bottle in the attendant's desk had cured that.
The questions had been easy because most of them had been asked by Jack Fisk. They didn't really suspect her, Betty discovered, but she felt that even if they had, Jack would have gone out of his way to make it easy for her. She checked her watch. Nine, he had said, but she had a feeling he'd be a bit early.
They had really gotten under way, halfway down the Long Beach Freeway. She had asked then, how the police had decided Stan was deep into lovemaking when he had been stabbed. Jack had almost blushed, explaining how tumescence had left a certain swelling that death had not quite reduced. Plus the fact, he had said, that there had been found some curly black hair trapped in retentive creases. By then, Betty had been ready to jump straight up through the car roof. So she had laughed and reached over for Jacks hand. Before he could protest, she had tucked his hand under her skirt and proved to him the black curly hair had not belonged to her.
"And even before I shaved, it was mouse blonde, baby," she had assured him. "Ouch! Don't be so rough, honey. I bruise easy!"
Now she heard the car drive up in front of the motel room, and she went to the window. Jack was just getting out of a Chevrolet convertible, and he wore sport clothes. He looked big and strong and virile. He didn't have to knock because she opened the door as he approached.
As he closed her tight against his hard body, Betty felt a peculiar comfort, completely alien to the throbbing eagerness she had nurtured during the afternoon. His lips were firm, mobile and intensely exciting, and his hands, despite her earlier privilege were not greedy. Just right, as they moved over her back and pressed warm and strong in the vibrant arch of her body.
"Hi," he said, making it half a word and half a kiss.
"You could have been here a half hour ago if you'd tried," she teased him.
"That's what you don't know about a cop's life," he chuckled. "Right now, I'm supposed to be out looking for the Mexican girl your husband was shagging when he got killed. So there!"
"Mexican girl? How do they know?"
"Lab report on the curly hair. Mind if I check again to be sure they aren't yours?"
They laughed and like a dance team, waltzed to the bed. As they fell together in close em brace, Betty let her robe fly as it would. Because she had been burning with eagerness, playing with torrid thoughts and furiously violent dreams, she thought he had too, and when his kisses and caresses seemed almost reticent, she tried to whip him into a frenzy with the straining undulations of her body. He wasn't, she thought, terribly greedy, and his seeming naivete excited her the more. His clothing was rough against her soft belly and pulsating breasts and she began to fumble at his buttons.
Reluctantly, he released her open mouth and rolled away so she could remove his jacket and shirt. Then she unsnapped his belt and giggled happily at his moment of embarrassment as she pulled his trousers down.
"Quit blushing, baby. I'm a big girl," Betty teased.
"I never had a woman-well, most of the girls I know want to be kissed and coaxed and talked into it," he said.
"Oh, I like to be kissed and coaxed and talked into it, after the second or third time. Oh Jack, I knew you were for me the first moment I saw you this morning!"
For a moment, she just feasted her eyes on his masculinity. He was stocky, but not fat, and his chest and belly were covered with an even veil of dark brown hair. His skin was very white, except at hand and throat, and as he moved now, to take her into his arms, she smelled the scent of strong bath soap overlaying the delightful aroma of skin. She wondered what kind of a life she would have had if Stan had been a man like this one. Strong, virile, tender at times, yet eager for her beauty and the intimacy of her love. And above all, reasonable.
Then her thoughts were swept away in the ardour of his desire. For the first time in many months, she let a man lead her, knowing full well that when the wonderful, fulfilling moment came, she would adore it. Not like Stan, nor Lyle, nor any of the men she had known whose one instinct was sex, for the sake of lust. She let Jack kiss her, and her open eyes met his, in a kiss deeper and more expressive than lips and furtive tongues could explain. Not one agressive thought came to her, and when she began to relax, letting him show the way through the sweet, intimate caresses leading up to his conquering, Betty closed her eyes and tried not to cry.
He was so gentle, she hardly knew when his love came into her being. Then the screaming nerves caused her to twist and kick up and he held her, regulating his strength and his passion until her mad burst of eagerness settled into slower, deeper surrender.
And when he quickened, it seemed as if her lips or her fingers had turned some important switch because she felt played like a fine violin, lifted to crescendo, eased into the shuddering after-harmony and held until the last tremolo was done. And as she approached the moment of parting usually made so crude and animal-like by the hasty, indifferent lovers she had known, Jack seemed even more feathery, more ethereal. He moved his body, damp now from the fire of his passion, and there was no shame nor feeling of cheapness for Betty.
"And I thought you were-well, not like you really are!"
"Am I clumsy?" he asked. "Say I wasn't a disappointment!"
"Disappointment? Darling, I never knew it could be so wonderful! Oh Jack, what happened to us? This morning. Did you know then? Oh, it doesn't make any difference about Stan. Even if he had been sitting right there when you came in, I would have known! Did you know?"
"Not right away," he admitted, nuzzling her neck.
"Men never know as quickly as women do," she remarked wisely. "Now, I'm sorry-for this morning, and maybe a little bit for now, although I've never been so happy before in my life!"
"Sorry? I don't understand, honey."
Betty turned her head away, to think more clearly, and to avoid his eyes now showing a misty concern that drove her crazy.
"Jack, I've been a terrible bitch in my life," she said. "Oh, don't argue with me. I know a bitch when I see one! No one but me knows, and I'd planned to go to my grave with what I know about myself. Now, I suddenly want to tell you everything, everything! I've got to, Jack, because there can never be anything real for us unless I do. Will you promise not to hate me?"
"I promise. I could never hate you, Betty."
So she began at the beginning, way back when she and Stan had turned love into a continual sex orgy-in separate bedrooms. It shocked him, and his face showed it, but when she finally came to the part involving the Liggetts and eventually, the blackmail scheme and Stan's determination to help, his face became grim. Suddenly he reared away and stood up. Betty tried to calm the lurch of fear her heart made.
"Please, Jack. I had to tell you! Don't look that way."
His eyes showed pain. "I'll think about it later," he said. "Right now, I've a job to do, honey. A dirty job, too."
"What, dear?" she asked, sitting up to take his momentarily outstretched hand.
"Maria Gonzalez," he replied. "It fits. The lab also said the curly hair was from a reasonably young girl. I'm going to Spanish Town and find her."
Panic stricken, Betty protested. "No Jack! There are so many other people involved. People who can be hurt! Stan's dead-and I'm sure he had it coming. If you arrest Maria, she'll tell the entire story. Please, Jack, for my sake, think about it some more!"
He shook his head and retrieved his clothes.
"I can't think about murder, Betty. I'm a cop, remember?"
"And the most wonderful man I ever met," Betty added. "But you'll hurt some awfully nice people, maybe even me, a little."
He leaned down to kiss her mouth. "You said you had to tell me all about yourself or there was nothing ahead for us. Well, I have to do my job, or there'd be nothing ahead for me. Honesty is a habit, baby, and the right thing to do is always just that!"
* * *
When he was gone, terror set in. Betty sat, trying not to pyramid the ugly ramifications Jack's determination had indicated. She was amazed at her sudden burst of concern over the Liggetts. She was further surprised by her feeling for Maria, and perhaps, for her dead husband. Then she realized that Jack had left some of his solid goodness all around her. Up to today, her life had been an endless succession of deceits, superficial affections, and not a little bit of pure animal craftiness. Yesterday, tomorrow had meant one more day of sex, abandonment, careless emotional outbursts and above all, indifference for the way other people thought.
She knew Jack was right-murder and blackmail could not go unpunished, yet she was sure the Liggetts, particularly Delia, did not deserve to have their lives spread over the front page of a ruthless newspaper. They had to have some chance to protect themselves. With sudden inspiration, born of this new feeling of compassion, Betty hastened to dress. Then she left a note, in case Jack returned, telling him she had gone home for some additional clothes.
But she didn't go home. She headed up the Freeway toward Hollywood, praying that the Liggetts would be home, and would forgive her for what she had said to Jack Fisk.
She had some trouble finding the address and she had to park two blocks away because of the congested night parking in the streets above Hollywood Boulevard. By the time she pressed the doorbell, she was breathless, frightened a bit, and now, not as sure of herself as she had been. It was midnight, and she hoped the light in the living room was not just a night light. Then Lyle Liggett opened the door. He was in his house robe, and the neatly creased legs of his trousers under the maroon garment told her he had not been in bed. He put out one steady hand as she rushed in.
"Betty!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here at this time of the night? I"ve been trying to call you all day."
"Stan's dead!" she exclaimed. "Dead, Lyle. Murdered!"
He nodded, and Betty's mouth dropped open in surprise.
"I know, Betty. That's what I found out earlier. That's why I wanted to call you, before the police. I'm sorry."
"You knew?" Betty asked, thinking many things.
"Yes. He was murdered. Stabbed to death and dumped into the ocean, somewhere. Terrible thing. But I was afraid to call the police until I'd given you time to think. Unless we all tell the same story, leaving out certain details, there will be a lot more trouble for all of us."
"You knew!" she repeated. "How did you know?"
He seemed ill at ease, nervous, but eventually he managed to organize his thoughts. "Well, I have some Mexican boys in my plant. I sent one of them down to Long Beach, to canvass the Spanish Town area in hope of hearing something about Stan. They heard some rumors from several different paisanos. Too many to make it a false story. And it was quite a story, too, Betty."
He poured her a brandy, then one for himself, and Betty sat on the edge of a big chair,, trying to put the pieces together. While she was unable to think like a policeman, she found herself trying amateur detective thoughts, and for a moment, the idea of being of some help to Jack was thrilling.
"Tell me the details, Lyle."
"First, tell me how you knew Stan was dead."
"I've been down in the Wilmington police station all day," she said in a low voice. "They found Stan early this morning, with a grappling hook! Somebody had put him in his car, dead, and let it roll off the end of a pier. In very deep water!"
She thought that shook Lyle more than it should have. Her eyes scanned his face for some sign of personal doubt. And things began to take ugly, distorted shape in her mind. Lyle had known where Stan was headed, even to Maria's name and address. Lyle and Delia had left just after Stan had taken off. Perhaps Stan had found Maria, and perhaps, his insatiable sex muscle had demanded he try the sleek Mexican girl for size. But also, perhaps, Lyle, eager to halt a vicious blackmail scheme, and more important, to get rid of a man his wife had been so thoroughly enamoured with she had suffered her body unimaginable torture, he had lain in wait and killed Stan in the dark of a Spanish Town street.
The Wilmington medical examiner could have been wrong about what Stan was doing at the moment of his death. With Stan, tumescence was almost a constant condition. Or maybe he had killed Stan at the critical moment when the big man would be totally oblivious to a small sound or sudden attack.
"Where is Delia, Lyle?" Betty asked then.
"She came up sick and jittery," Lyle replied. "She's asleep."
"She knows?"
"No. She was already sick when I found out about Stan. I didn't want to excite her until she felt better. What are we going to do now, Betty?"
Betty suddenly got to her feet, and as she turned for the door, she caught one quick glimpse of a familiar face and a hastily disappearing body. For a second, she couldn't believe her eyes, then she was sure that the dark face and swirling hair belonged to Maria Gonzalez. Instantly, she saw the entire picture. Lyle had bought Maria off, with some kind of a promise that had to do with her living in the Liggett house. He had killed Stan, for sure. And for all Betty knew, he might have also gotten rid of Delia.
She stared at Lyle, trying to see through his concern and his look of innocence. "I'm going home, Lyle. It has been such a terrible day. Give Delia my love, and you can count upon me to tell the story we originally agreed upon. Stan just went out and didn't come back. The police don't know anything yet. It will be better that way. No use hanging out our dirty laundry for all to see."
"I think so too. I think I've made sure the blackmailer will never talk. It has been a week, though! I'm sorry about Stan, Betty, if there is anything I can do-"
"Just take care of yourself and Delia," she told him. "I'll be fine. There's more money than I could ever spend anyway."
"When is the funeral?"
"Funeral? Oh, in a day or two, I suppose. When the police finish with the body. I'll let you know."
"You feel safe, driving back to Pasadena alone, Betty?" he asked. "I'll be glad to take you home if you'd like."
"I'll be safe," she said, half out of the front door. "In fact, I'll be safer driving than several places I can think of!"
Driving back down the Freeway to Wilmington, she tried to fit it all together, tried to imprint upon her mind everything Lyle had said. He was a cute one, she thought. Murdered her no-good husband, dumped his body in the harbor, moved Maria, the sixteen year old hot tamale into his house and if he hadn't already killed Delia, he had probably precipitated her illness by feeding her arsenic.
She hadn't the slightest idea where to find Jack Fisk, so she decided the only thing to do was go back to the motel, go to bed and wait him out. She was positive he'd come back to her, after he'd spent futile hours without finding Maria Gonzalez. And she would cure his disappointment with some very pertinent information and a special medicine all of her own.
CHAPTER NINE
MARIA CURLED UP ON THE BED IN THE guest room and belied her soft kitten look by thinking like a cornered tigress. She had been used to trouble all of her life. There was one rule Spanish Town had taught her, and that was to put one hand over her mouth and the other over her crotch. When trouble came, a girl either got a fat hp or a damned good screwing unless she learned to take care of herself. Now she thought in terms of how Maria Gonzalez was going to come out in the threatening mess.
The cops had found Dalton with a hole in his back, and she hoped, certain portions of his anatomy nibbled by indifferent fish. Tony would never talk and she had already told Lyle as much as she ever intended to tell anybody. Lyle, his sore-bottomed wife, and the blonde Dalton tramp had agreed not to talk about the hot pictures, of the subsequent actions, including the robbery. Maria thought that she'd like to meet the cagey road walker who had snaffled the twenty grand. This not being possible, she tried to think of what was next best.
Living right here with the Liggetts was next best. Two days in the big house, eating choice food, luxuriating in the affluence of rich Norte-Americanos and soaking her brown skin in Delia's expensive bath salts was a pretty fair deal. They wouldn't throw her out: they could not kick her out on the street as long as she could whimper and hint at being picked up by the cops and forced to confess all about the swapping party and the wild pictures. But to Maria, this was a nebulous threat. What she needed was something of her own going for her.
She was sorry she hadn't let Delia carry out the wash-your-back and kiss your-sweet-firecracker into a skyrocket bit. At the moment, she didn't think Delia could be set up for a second try. Later, when the soreness of her experience with the Hermano boys turned to a mild healing itch, she might be induced to double-end it with a sweet clinging cholla with a proper wiggle. But for now, Delia was no ally. So it had to be Lyle Liggett.
Despite his participation in the hot swap with the Daltons, and his lately developed affection for his ailing wife, Maria had great confidence in herself. He was handsome, strong, worried and sleeping by himself. Without knowing the psychological term for it, she knew that men, harassed by trouble, excited by fear and doubtful of their own ability to pick the winning horse, somehow had a tendency to turn to a woman for temporary forgetfulness. And she was just the kid who could provide such a fleshly dexidrene. But it had to be soon.
She got off the bed and stripped out of her blouse, borrowed from Delia's ample stock. Then she skinned out of her stretchpants. After that, she brushed her hair, fixed her eyes and mouth and patted her own inexpensive perfume up the inner smoothness of her thighs and over the thrusting cones of her breasts. She turned before the mirror, admiring the yellow highlights on her brown skin. She bounced, loving the way her breasts reacted and the quiver of her solid buttocks. It would even be fun, she admitted, now that the soreness Dirty Carlos had caused was all over.
If she could get Lyle hooked tonight, and his wife in a day or so, they might all live here in this elegant house in perfect harmony. No more Spanish Town, and the dirty, rough handed chollos that haunted a girl every time she left the sanctuary of her own house. Maria stood quietly, trying to think of the best way to get Lyle started. Like any other man, she decided. Show him a lot of skin, push him a little and play burn, baby, burn. When a man thought a girl was hot for him, his brains went right out the window. And she would convince Lyle that she was hot for him, some plenty.
Momentarily, she was grateful it was Lyle Liggett instead of Stan Dalton she had to make the play for. A shudder of memory pain went through her. If Tony hadn't shivved him at the right moment, he would have busted her hips in that final charging minute. Lyle was no worry, she thought, remembering the photos of him and the blonde Dalton broad with the built in suction pump.
Maria wondered what Lyle would do when she walked in on him wearing her complexion. Then she shrugged and decided to find out.
At the door, she listened carefully. The light was still on in the living room, but she could hear no sound. She stepped into the hallway and skirted the living room by going through the den, then into the kitchen. There, she banged a chair, opened the icebox, rattled the glasses as she poured herself a glass of milk and stood with her back to the door, one leg kinked enough to throw her bottom into an attractive slouch. She drank slowly, waiting.
When she heard his second hurried step into the kitchen, she whirled, throwing one leg out a bit farther than was required. Then she held the glass out, let him see her wide eyes and gave out a short gasp which might be taken for surprise.
"Oh! Mr. Liggett! I thought you'd gone to bed!" Maria dropped one hand over the small, very black vee at the tip of her flat abdomen, knowing the slim, four-fingered shelter was only half enough. Lyle stood with his mouth open, his own eyes wide. Then he swallowed with visible effort.
"For god's sake," he muttered. "Hang a dish towel around that! If Delia ever saw you naked in front of me-"
"Delia is looking straight up, on the flat of her back," Maria said. "But toss me that dish towel if you can't stand the view." Then she giggled and wiggled her hips. "And poke your eye-balls back in, baby. Haven't you ever seen a naked gal before?"
He tossed the dish towel and she let it go by, turning then to bend over, her bottom taut, twin mooned and voluptuous aimed right at his hot stare. Then she straightened up, half draped the towel from breast to mid-thigh and turned.
"Better?"
"You know it isn't!" he husked.
"So come over and take the towel away, then," she murmured. She took another sip of the cold milk while he made up his mind, or, she thought, willed some fresh life back into his legs. Then she moved sideways, hiked herself up on the kitchen table, letting her legs separate and her feet dangle. "Darned floor is cold on my tootsies!"
He came on then. Maria managed to set the glass behind her. As he reached, she threw her legs out and caught him around the waist. Then she was being hugged, kissed and pawed with all the fervor of a pachuco half full of tequila. And he had been ready when he grabbed her, she noted, and to keep him coming, she curled her back and shoved herself forward.
Then she quit acting because his kiss was hot, demanding, and nice. So was the significant pressure she kept bumping with the whip of her lithe hips. She let one hand pull at the nape of his neck and the other wriggled down between their bodies to make sure he knew what she wanted from him.
"You devil!" he breathed in her ear. "You did this on purpose! You beautiful, merciless little brown devil!"
"Yah-yah, daddy," she mumbled against his neck. "I got a thing going for you, papacito! You care?"
"God no!"
He backed off then and looked at her, lying back on her elbows, her legs still out-thrust, her lean belly showing one fold. It was, she knew, a dirty thing to do to a man, but her intention was to knock him out with one blast of delectable beauty. Then to her surprise, he reached out and put a palm to each inner thigh, and slowly, his body bent, his head ducking, kissed the little curve just below the wrinkle of her belly. Maria was suddenly stunned by the thought of what he wanted to do, and she was almost instantly hysterical when his kiss became vital, intimate and very much to the point.
* * *
The kitchen table was cool to her back. Maria lay with her arms over her face, her body relaxed and her heels barely caught on the edge of the formica top. Her wrist was painful because she had almost drawn blood, biting herself in the throes of the greatest ecstasy she had ever known. Right out, she thought. Everything from her throat downward had shifted down about three inches, and she had the feeling that raw, irritated flesh was thrusting, straining for more of the furious titillation, even while it burned with demand for a rest.
Finally, he was no longer kissing her and she uncovered her eyes. Rolling to one hip, she stared at Lyle, sitting in a slump on a kitchen chair. Sometime, during the minutes when she had been half out of her mind with passion, he had opened his robe and stepped out of his trousers. Now he sat, staring at her, his hand slowly reminding his body that he had ignored its need, but not for long. When he saw her sit up, Lyle came forward again, his nakedness extending past the draped folds of his expensive robe. With tease in her mind, she put out one brown foot and touched him, then did it again as he grinned his approval of her act.
"Wow, papacito," she said. "You floored me good. Olay!"
He twisted and picked her up in his arms, kissing her lips with an almost self-conscious fervor. "I couldn't help it, Maria. I never saw such a lovely body in my life!"
She giggled and kissed his chin. Then she blinked as he let her sag in his arms enough to remind her that he was yet strong and eager. She flinched and her buttocks went taut with memory, then she relaxed. Dirty Carlos was one thing, this handsome, passionate man with the fluttering kiss and the tenderness of a lover was something else. And even with Dirty Carlos, it hadn't been all bad.
"You going to get nasty, baby?" she asked, not fearfully.
"I've got to get something, Maria," he said with a tight laugh. "God, you'd drive a saint out of his mind!"
"Saints I got no time for, honey-puss," she told him. Then she reached down under her curved bottom, groped a second and rearranged him to suit herself. He gasped, let her sag, and then held her tightly as she suddenly went rigid with brief pain.
"Maria!" he husked.
"That's enough," she said hoarsely. "Oo, papacito, I think we'd better get to a bed. I may want to buck like a horse-and this linoleum would be damned hard on my knees!"
So he carried her, and the jiggle was nice and the heat began to build in Maria again. It was strange, good, painful and exciting, and once she decided that it wasn't going to work. When he reached her bedroom and hurriedly sagged to a seat on the edge of her bed, she settled into his lap and it worked very well, indeed.
* * *
Delia stood with her head tipped forward, her eyes piercing the half light in Maria's bedroom. It could be part of a bad dream, she thought, or it could be real. Then she decided it was real. Lyle was lying on his back, sleeping soundly. The gray light of early dawn cast an eerie tone of near-green over his naked body. At his side, Maria lay, equally naked, curled up like a weary kitten. There was Kleenex all over the floor, and the box was up against the head of the bed, within inches of Lyle's upflung hand.
The scene hurt her, with near mortal devastation, but she could not tear her gaze away. First she hated Lyle, then Maria, then she remembered that moment the first morning Maria had come to her house. That instant in the bath, with the slim brown body wet with soap, sensuously sleek and pulsating with youth and latent passion. One more instinct, one bit of willingness from Maria, one slight word of encouragement and she too, would have fallen prey to the lusty invitation of the Mexican darling.
So Lyle had succumbed. She backed away and wandered aimlessly into the living room. The house was spectral in the early dawn. Cold, unfriendly, even strange to Delia. She decided she would have a cup of coffee. Walking with difficulty because of her ruptured flesh, she went to the kitchen. The first thing she saw was Lyle's trousers, evidently removed in haste, and tossed into a forgotten pile. So this is where it started, she thought. This meant that Maria must have instigated it, because her life with Lyle told her he had never been one for car back seats, picnic grass, nor cold, formica-topped tables.
She would have her coffee, then go back to bed and wait a normal morning greeting from her torn cat husband. Never speak of it, she decided. He had enough troubles, and she was sure he had no emotional attachment for the Mexican girl. Just sex, no different than with Betty Dalton, no worse than he might have often experienced with only one of the four secretaries in his office. And Delia, sick now of the horrible things that had happened to her and Lyle, decided that Maria had to go, soon, if not tomorrow. She was in danger, because she was part of the original scheme, but now she was as afraid of Tony's wrath as the Liggetts were of his foul plot.
After the coffee, she went back. It was lighter now, and she had to stop again and peer into the guest bedroom. Lyle had turned over, showing his broad back and muscular hips. A rip of pain went through Delia as she saw how Maria's face was to Lyle's.
Then she studied the delicious curve of Maria's hips, turned almost directly to Delia's gaze. She could see the dark, the little very dark shapes of sex and for a moment, she could not escape the tingle in her belly.
Standing there, her body stiff and sore and temporarily incapable of responding to a male desire, she remembered what Betty had said, and above all, what she had done. That had been bliss, sweet gentle happiness, with high moments and few low places, and there was no rip, no tear, no deep, agonizing pain of intrusion. Understanding too, and this was something Delia needed.
And now that she and Lyle had been on the road to understanding, this had happened. Betty she had been able to forgive him for, because she had been as avid with Stan. Maria was something else. At a time when Delia's body and soul were wounded, he had easily succumbed to the animal sex of a Mexican teen-ager.
It seemed hopeless to Delia and she went back to bed.
* * *
Lyle opened his eyes and suddenly remembered. He turned his head, and his lips touched the wild disarray of Maria's hair. With careful moves, he rolled away and slipped backward off the bed. His eyes wandered over the soft brown curl of perfect contours. Then he shook his head as if lecturing himself and turned away before the sudden, nearly violent re-occurrence of lust became undeniable. He found his robe, slipped into it and tried to remember where his trousers were. In the kitchen.
There, he picked them up and draped them over his arm.
Then he saw the cup and saucer, exactly where Maria's wild and enthusiastic bottom had been on the table. A slow, sick realization came over him. Delia had out-slept the sedatives. She had gotten up, sometime during the night, came to the kitchen and made herself a cup of coffee. Fine. But had she looked for him? In the front bedroom, where he had not been, and perhaps in the guest room, where he had definitely been?
Abruptly he was angry. So she had seen him in bed with Maria. Hadn't it been she who had begun this swapping idea? Hadn't it been she who had refused to back out when he'd given her the chance? It had. Then it had also been Delia who had insisted Maria stay, at least until something sensible could be planned. Then it was not his fault if his wife did stupid things that got her torn up and bedridden at the same time her protege walked around the house garbed only in her velvet skin and a most intriguing temperature.
If she jumped him about last night, he'd tell her off.
A man could take only so much, and a hit on the head, a loss of twenty thousand dollars, and a wife raped by five men who could very well have impregnated her with half-witted, half-Mexican progeny, was enough to make any self-respecting husband take to the bushes with the first body he could find.
Only Lyle was not quite self-respectful, remembering the insanity of Maria's permissiveness and his own willingness to play. None the less, he was entitled to something for his money other than his lumped head. He picked up his trousers and went into the room he should have damned well retired to, naked Maria or not.
CHAPTER TEN
IT WAS FOUR IN THE MORNING WHEN JACK RETURNED. Betty was shocked by the weariness on his face and puzzled by the grimness of his eyes. Until he opened the manila envelope he'd brought and spread five, eight by ten enlargements of herself and Lyle Liggett on the table.
"Oh Jackie!" she wailed. "I hoped to God you'd never see those! Oh, my dear, how can I ever make you understand!"
"I don't know. But you'd better try," he said heavily.
"Where-where did you get them?"
Jack sighed, slouched to a seat in the only chair in the room, looking across at Betty as if she were two-headed, or painted green. "I've had quite a night," he began. "I did not find the Mex girl, nor her stud-who is evidently behind most of what's happened. Spanish Town is out of my bailiwick, so I picked up a Long Beach man who knows the area. He collected a pigeon, who was talkative, to some extent. We checked the Gonzalez girl's house, no girl. We checked the taco palace where they hang out. No girl. No boy, either. Then we raided a photo shop where the boy, Tony Alvera, is said to spend a lot of time. There, we found a fat dirty Mex in bed with a twelve year old boy. We shook his shop down, and found those
-along with some others which your late husband was in. We also uncovered a box of pornography of rather a hysterical nature. But we did not find the negatives, Betty. I suspect the Alvera boy has them, seeing as how we believe he was behind the original blackmail plot. And he has been paid off, or partially so. The chirping pigeon said Alvera has been boozed up, wenching, and buying drinks for the greasy mob around Tina's Cafe, the taco house. That's my story. Now, what's yours, honey?"
She followed his nod, looking down at the graphic, dancing enlargements. She sighed. He had to know, and she had to know if he could stand knowing.
"I told you about Stan and me and our swapping," she said. "Well, what I'm doing for Lyle Liggett in these pictures is just something most women do, and what many men like. That's all."
"It shook me up," he admitted.
"Didn't any woman ever do it for you, baby?"
"I'll never tell you," he replied.
"Nor would I have told you about this," she added to his attitude. "I'd have just been real good at it when I got around to doing it for you!"
He was silent for a second or two. "And who is this Lyle Liggett, anyway?" he asked, jealousy showing in his tone.
"He," she replied,"-is the man who murdered Stan!"
"What?"
Betty first piled the horrible pictures and turned them face down, then she went to Jack and sat down on his stout legs. His hand, gentle, slightly massaging on her back was comforting, and she told him of her impulsive visit to the Liggetts, her suspicions, and eventually, about having seen the elusive Maria in the shadows of the hallway.
"So I know now, that those two are in cahoots, Jackie. They have to be! Lyle was jealous of Stan's-well, of Stan, that's all! Maria was the Mexican girl Stan must have been humping, and the whole thing blew up in their faces. Now, Maria has a murder scare over Lyle, he's got a hot Mexican for a change-off from Delia, and you've got your crime solved, baby. Lyle killed Stan, I know it! And Maria is an accessory, as they say. Maybe even Delia knows, for that matter. All you have to do is arrest them and maybe get a promotion."
Jack pulled her close and kissed her chin. "A cop gets promotions for convictions, not arrests, baby. There's a lot to prove, no matter what you suspect. I buy the girl and the punk on the blackmail thing, along with the sodomist we pinched tonight-God, what a scene to break in on! We can check the girl and your husband by plucking a weed from her chili garden and making lab comparisons under a microscope. But that doesn't prove too much. She was a baby-sitter in your house. Maybe your old man just didn't wash too often. It would be a tough thing in court, unless the girl talks, or the Alvera boy talks, if we ever catch him.
Now, I'd bet our nosing around in Spanish Town has sent him hell for the border, though we alerted the Immigration people for him. He's been made before so we have pictures and prints on him."
"Your logic makes me mad!"
"Let's go, honey. I'm tired, and that junk over there was kind of a shock to me. I'm no prude, but every guy gets to be a little jealous when he's in love."
Betty closed down around his neck. "Do you love me, Jackie?"
"Could be," he said into her kiss. "If you can stand a cop."
"Rich cop," she murmured. "As an insurance man, my husband provided handsomely for the widow Dalton."
"I suppose I can have a Rolls, like Burke on television?"
"Nope. Burke gets too many girls with that Rolls!"
"Is there any such thing as too many girls?"
"Is there any such thing as too many men?" she countered.
"Touche," he said. "I don't mean to be a fink. It just comes easy to a country boy wearing a badge."
"Badge. What are you going to do about Lyle Liggett?"
"Check him out, get some facts, call in the Hollywood boys, and hang him up to dry if I can prove he killed your husband."
"He did. I just know he did!"
"We'll see. In the meantime, do I sleep here, or go find a park bench?"
"Here! Or God, Jackie, here!"
"I said sleep," he reminded her. "It's been a tough day and I've about enough muscle left to wad the pillow."
Betty clamped his neck in a hard hug, her lips working wet and hot over his. "Just hit the sack, sweetie. Leave the muscle to mama. Didn't I tell you I was just going to be good at it without revealing the college I went to?"
"I've a small, growing feeling it won't be required."
"Whatever you say, baby," she agreed demurely.
Jack Fisk looked at the Highway Patrol report on the assault, car theft and gun-point robbery involving Lyle C. Liggett and something didn't jibe. It could have been a cover-up to explain the loss of twenty thousand dollars. But the hit on the head and the theft of the Cadillac sedan didn't sound like the kind of a thing a calculating blackmailer would risk. The average pachuco Jack knew about would have been so elated at getting twenty thousand dollars he would have probably gone off down the road singing "La Cucaracha" in B flat.
The other doubt which he had not explained to Betty was that a man of Liggett's background was hardly a knife killer. The hole in Dalton had been slim, four inches deep and very neat. Denoting experience, which led him back to the missing Tony who had spent his twenty-two years in a knife-infested ghetto. Maria had been Tony's girl. The events leading up to the deadly moment were speculative, but it was quite possible, from what Betty had said, that instead of questioning or brow beating Maria Gonzalez, Dalton had been taken by the admittedly pretty girl, and had let his endocrines run away with his good sense. And got good and caught at it.
But they were all guilty of something, including his Betty. He was going to protect her, but until he had the whole story in hand, he didn't know what he had to protect her from. He didn't think she had lied to him, but he was too good a cop to not believe it was possible. With things like murder, blackmail and general skull-druggery involved, a girl or woman, might come up with an Oscar type performance.
Momentarily, he broke a small sweat remembering the wild, magnificent hour she had given him before exhaustion had knocked him out. If she were playing a game, she had won. His heart could not let his mind work in any other direction. He even admitted he was glad Liggett, or somebody, had knifed Dalton, and he felt no Irish pangs of conscience for the admission. An ill wind had blown a goddess right into his arms.
Liggett Industries, and the Hollywood home of the boss, was out of his jurisdiction, but with Betty on his mind, Jack paid no heed to legal boundaries. He spent the day checking, and at the edge of sundown, he was sure Betty was wrong. A wife-swapper, yes. A crafty business man, indeed. But he was hardly the man to walk into a dingy room in Spanish Town, pull a knife and sink it into the back of a man jumping a Mexican senorita. And if he had done it, why hadn't he knifed her too? Liggett was smart enough to know that no bit of Latin fluff was worth a witness in a murder trial.
And a man of his financial and social importance was no guy to tie into unless there was strong supporting evidence for a pinch. This then, left Jack with no other alternative but to find the girl and the elusive Tony Alvera. To this end, he set the official wheels in motion. APB. For two Mexican-Americans in an area boasting two million of them. As for undercover efforts, he had to work through the Long Beach headquarters, and within a few hours, it was evident that Spanish Town had developed a dopey, ignorant and very silent attitude toward the efforts to locate Tony Alvera.
And by sundown, Jack was developing the peculiar hunger Betty Dalton had implanted deep in his guts. She was home now, and he was sorry it had seemed wisest for her to leave the motel. He didn't mind the drive, but somehow, in the anonymity of the motel, he had been able to forget that she had ever been married to the stiff in the Wilmington morgue. Some stiff. Made a man blush with inadequacy. No wonder Betty had been willing to swap husbands with other, unsuspecting wives.
There hadn't been much talk about Betty's two boys, Joey and Mike, and Jack realized there were many things about Betty he didn't know. But so far, they had spent little time talking about the past, or the future. That would come later, when problems were settled and the wild heat of their passion settled into a steady, burning flame.
Thoughts of that passion set him off and he checked in, went to his two room apartment and busied himself getting scrubbed, brushed and changed. Then he headed for Pasadena, and while he drove, he tried to wonder what it would be like to go home to Betty every night of the week. Great. Also hard on the backbone.
* * *
It had easily been the worst day of Betty's life. The newspapers had been kind, but what they had printed about the mysterious death of Stanley Dalton had been enough to deluge his widow with telephone calls, visits by well meaning friends, and just plain curiosity inspired acquaintances. And there had been a fifteen minute telephone call to her mother in Saugus. That had been difficult, but Betty's mother had long been aware of her daughter's problem with Stan, and she was sympathetic. It had been resolved to keep the two boys in Saugus until the afternoon of the funeral. Then, her nerves shot, her loneliness built up to an almost impossible pitch, Betty poured herself a double hooker of Scotch and sat down to wait for Jack. And to think a little.
If Lyle Liggett had killed Stan, then he had done her a favor. She still had her two boys whom she loved very much, but she could love them just as much if they were out of the way in some exclusive military school. She had plans, lovely plans, and when she heard Jack's car stop in the driveway, she perked up, ready to enjoy her immediate plan to be a gay widow with some catching up to do.
In his embrace, she let the weariness run out of her body as the heat and eagerness crowded out all sensible thoughts.
"Oh baby," she breathed. "What a terrible day!"
"I know, honey. And it isn't over yet. Driving up here to you, I did some thinking. I've been a fool. Maybe you have too."
"What do you mean, darling?"
"I'm a cop. I've got a murder on my hands. I'm also in love with the murdered man's widow. Instead of acting like a cop, I'm acting like a schoolboy, just because the woman I love is mixed up in kind of a dirty mess-which has nothing to do with a murder. Baby, in the end, it is all going to come out anyway. All of us, me included, will be a lot better off if we act now instead of waiting for the department to show us up for a bunch of idiots. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"
Betty chilled. She understood, all right. But her mind went to her two boys, her mother, and to the years of social stature she had enjoyed as Mrs. Stanley Dalton. When she told Jack of her doubts, he let go of her and sat down, his serious face reflecting his appreciation of her attitude.
"I know all of that, Betty. But just consider. You say Maria Gonzalez is holed up at the Liggett house. There's an APB out for her. And if I read her and the Liggetts right, there's some kind of a sexy bit going on. How long can it last? Until one of them gets mad, or jealous, or until Maria is accidentally spotted by a Hollywood officer. There is one more chance to blow the lid off, too. Sooner or later, Tony Alvera is going to get picked up on the APB, or for making pot in a taco house back room. And I happen to think he's mixed up in your husband's death. I just haven't been able to hang that kind of rap on Liggett."
"Why is Maria there if Lyle isn't involved?"
"Who knows? Who really knows anything about any of it? I'm for getting in the car and going to the Liggett house. If Maria is still there, I'll cuff her and shake all she knows out of her Mex head. With the Liggetts, Maria, and you, we can maybe put together some facts. Betty, I have to do it! Ten years on the force tells me it is the only thing to do!"
"But the blackmailer has the negatives with me, too!"
"What blackmailer?' Jack asked with a wise smile. "There's been no official complaint signed on a blackmail charge. All we are after is a killer with a knife. If we can find that killer, maybe we can separate the two situations and the blackmail thing will die of no nutrition. And there is one more thing. Lyle Liggett was held up and robbed last Saturday. His car was stolen, and his head lumped-and the stickup man got twenty thousand dollars. We have a robbery, an assault, some dirty pictures and a fat Mex on a sodomy charge, and right in the middle is a dead man with a hole in his back. Get a coat, baby. I think it is time to clean up some crap!"
Betty struggled with the big lump in the pit of her stomach, then she curled one arm over Jack's shoulders and kissed the slight waviness above his ear. "Okay, cop. You're the boss."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE HOUSE WAS AGLOW WITH LIGHT when Lyle entered at eight-thirty. There was no sign of Delia, nor of Maria, and he assumed they were somewhere, probably Delia's bedroom, exchanging woman talk. Lyle was tired, and he went to the den to pour himself a shot of Scotch. Three hours in the police station had been rough. They had found his Cad, battered and dirty, on a back street in Tijuana. But no twenty thousand dollars, nor a sign of the thief. If there was a bright spot, it was the fact that the thief had not taken his best bag of golf clubs.
There was also a tiny, sizzling sound in Lyle's brain, because no matter the hectic day, he had carried some hot, sharp memories of Maria Gonzalez, and a bit later, after his sore bottomed wife had dropped off to sleep, he intended to refresh those memories and maybe add some new ones to his collection.
He poured another Scotch, slipped out of his jacket and decided the least he could do was to go in and make like a husband to his ailing wife. There was a sharp line of demarcation between what he felt for Delia and what he felt for Maria. In a day or two, maybe a week, Maria would be gone, he thought. And while she was available and willing, he was going to get all of her he could. After Maria was gone, there would always be Delia, and if this made him feel comfortable, it was a feeling he was willing to postpone for a few days. Delia was for peace and quiet: somehow, Maria was more suited to the aura of death and danger Lyle felt surging around him. The slim, passionate brown body seemed more compatible to the violence and confusion of Lyle's mood.
Drink in hand, he went down the hallway, and then stopped cold at Delia's door. From inside the bedroom came the high, childish laughter he had already learned was Maria's reaction to extreme excitement. Slowly, silently, he turned the knob and opened the door.
Maria was excited, all right. And so was his wife.
The voluptuous white body and the smooth brown one made a mass of squirming, tangled arms and legs, and just as Lyle watched, Maria threw her arms up, writhing and gasping as Delia's head stilled in a cradle of brown thighs and taut abdominal curves. He could see the quiver of Delia's hips, as if her passion for the delights of Maria's body had somehow triggered her own shrieking nerves.
Surprise, jealousy, then rage came to Lyle.
After that, his sensuality triumphed and he stared at the rounds of white and brown flesh with new inspiration. Sweat broke out around his collar as his blood throbbed and sensitive nerves, half alerted by his plans during the day, stiffened into undeniable purpose. Lyle, over his first shock at his wife's lesbian act, began to rip at his buttons. Emotionally, he was senseless to Delia's assault on Maria. All he could understand was that in the hot flesh, distorted, stretched, gathered and tinted with seductive colors, there was ample room for him.
As he moved forward, his nude body curved forward in eager threat, Maria twisted and folded forward over Delia's back. She saw Lyle then, and one brown arm reached out as her face lit up with a wild, open lipped laugh.
"Papacito!' she cried.
Then Lyle was on them, and Delia twisted, gasped, saw how his nakedness was and with a cry of fresh excitement, drew him into the sweet lewd huddle. Frenzy caught them all then, and as Lyle's lips found the moist brown velvet of Maria's urging hips, Delia turned under him and took her share of his passion. Lyle felt hands clutching and feeling of his body, and every few seconds, desire caused them to shift and try another excruciating adventure, and he let them do whatever they chose, and he did what they seemed to want, expressed by suddenly thrust up buttocks or hungry nibbling lips. Then it was all a mass of soft flesh and blue lights and Lyle stiffened into convulsive ecstasy, and he could hear his women laughing and feel their rape of his masculinity as it bubbled passionately from his body.
A moment later, he was jerked from his ecstatic afterglow by Maria's scream. "No, Tony no!"
* * *
There were two of them. One was tall and handsome with the face of a fighting hawk. The other was short, thick and glowering. Both carried gleaming knives, and as they came toward the scrambling trio on the bed, they separated, as if to be sure no one escaped.
"Well well," the young one snarled. "Look at my dirty little cholla and her rich friends! Get up, you," he snapped at Lyle. "Manny, anybody moves or hollers, give it to 'em!"
He flicked his knife at Lyle and only a spasmodic reflex kept the point free of his groin.
"You lousy fink," the tall youth said to Lyle. "Called the fuzz on me, didn't you? Well, I ought to fix you for good, and your old lady here, with you! But I'm hot, fink, and I need money to get gone. And money is what I'm going to get, pronto!"
"You're Tony Alvera," Lyle managed to say. Delia had crawled hard against the bedstead, her eyes wide, her arms trying desperately to cover her thick breasts and lower abdomen. The chunky Mexican was dry-lipped with staring, and his pock-marked face was a taut mask of intense interest.
"I'm Alvera," Tony admitted. "Get up on your feet, fink."
Lyle moved off the bed and stood up. He felt completely helpless, naked, devoid of dignity and faced now by a situation over which he had not the slightest control.
"Now wait a minute. Let the women alone. I'll give you all the money in the house. Just let them alone. Let them get dressed."
"Later, fink. Where's the dough and how much you got here?"
"Not much. Maybe two or three hundred. We don't keep much cash in the house."
The thick Mexican grunted. "We can snatch his old lady's jewelry, Tony. Look at the rocks on her fingers."
Lyle went sick as the Mexican reached out and grabbed Delia's wrist. He twisted her arm to expose her diamond rings. He also pulled her, so the agonized curve of her back lay hard against his thigh. It was obvious that there was nasty trouble just seconds away. Lyle could see the way both men clawed at Delia with sharp eyes. If he protested, or resisted, one of those sharp blades would flash.
"I'll get you the money," he said. "It is in my room. And you can have all the jewelry. Just let us alone, Alvera."
"Sure," Tony agreed in a voice that chilled Lyle. "Sure, fink. We'll let you and your little harem alone. Where's the dough?"
Lyle moved toward the door and Tony laid his knife against the small of his naked back. "Manny, you watch the broads. Cut some new holes if they make a sound. Me and fink, here, are going to take a look at the family fortune. Move, Liggett!"
Calmer now, Lyle led the way to the bedroom across the hall. He could smell the liquor on Tony's breath, and the strong odor of unwashed man. And at each step, the tiny prick of the knife point in his back.
"In the top drawer," he said, pointing to the highboy.
He heard the hiss of leather on leather as Tony's arm came up. Then Lyle staggered under a crushing chop to the back of his neck. He went down, not out, but horribly dazed by the blow. He sagged on hands and knees like a sick dog, and Tony moved around him to the highboy. He found the bills, counted them hungrily, then stuffed them into the slash pocket of his leather jacket.
"You cheap rat," he snarled. "Three hundred won't get us ten feet past the border! I ought to whack your knockers off, fink. Our deal was twenty grand, remember?"
"I tried to pay off," Lyle mumbled. "I looked for you at the right spot on the highway. You weren't there. Listen, Alvera, you take what you can. I'll get you some more in a day or so. I didn't call the police, I swear it! Just give me a chance to-"
Delia's scream, high and terror stricken cut into the room. Lyle tensed as Tony half turned. Now or never. Lyle leaped, and without a break in motion, Tony met his leap with a hard kick. It caught Lyle in the pit of the stomach and he had time to coast through a hundred years of fear and agony before blackness dropped him to the floor.
* * *
Manny turned, his knife out, and Delia choked back her second scream. Then she stared at the way the Mexican's knee bore brutally into Maria's belly. Maria gasped, fought the thick leg, kicked her legs out and failed to dislodge the crushing weight. Delia heard the ripple of Spanish from the Mexican's thick lips, and she heard the cries of pain Maria's lips emitted. Now Manny put his knife to Maria's face and the point stilled her lips.
"You double-crossing puta," he snarled in English. "You know what me and Tony are going to do to you, don't you? We going to skin you, perra mia. From the butt both ways!"
"Get off her, Manny," Tony said from the door. "Look, I got three bills. We'll clean out that babe's jewelry box. The three C's will get us gone. We can peddle her rocks once we get below the border. Come on, baby, get your butt off the sack and show me what you've got in the way of negotiables."
"Please, Tony," Delia husked. "Take it all. Right there in the dressing table. Just don't let him hurt Maria!"
Tony ignored her plea and found the big lacquered jewel case. Delia hoped it was impressive, despite the fact that most of it was costume jewelry. She watched him paw the contents of the case, then as if bored, he gathered the entire case and tucked it under his arm. Idly he opened the other drawers, and when he found her velvet case containing her fine pearls, her heart dropped. Then she looked at Maria. Manny had removed his knee from her belly, but her face was gray with fear. As if her knowledge of the two threatening men had turned her skin to ice.
"Find something and tie those broads," Tony said, suddenly more casual. "I'll go lash up Liggett. We better look around and see what else we can find in this dump."
Manny went to the wardrobe and came back carrying four or five sash belts. He stuck his knife upright in the top of a bed stand and flipped Maria over on her belly. Delia watched with horror as the stout Mexican tied Maria, hand and foot. Then he picked up his knife and came around to Delia. Thinking to evade his rough hands, she leaned forward and put her hands behind her back. Manny chuckled and bound her wrists. Then he tied her feet together. After that, he fondled her breasts and belly with his coarse dirty hands. Delia wanted to scream but she was too terrified.
Tony called from where he was. Manny flipped Delia over on her side and sauntered out of the room.
"What are they going to do, Maria?" Delia asked.
"Plenty, that pair," Maria replied. "They'll loot the house, get drunk on your liquor, and come back to you, Delia. I know those rats. It will take them a few drinks to get guts enough to rape you, but you can count on getting it. In the end, they'll kill me."
The statement was so cold, so hopeless, Delia could hardly believe her ears. And only thirty minutes ago, the three of them had been passionately happy, completely oblivious to the approach of violence and pain. She thought about Lyle, and what must have happened to him, and she suddenly realized that despite her lewd day with Maria, she loved Lyle. A cry of anguish escaped her lips. They had made such a terrible mess of their lives. And now this.
And they had found the bar. Delia listened to the clink of bottles, and the sotto voiced comments in Spanish. She tried to twist off the bed, and she almost fell to the floor. Then she staggered up, hopped sideways until she got to the bed stand. Where the princess phone seemed some kind of a way out. By backing her bottom against the table, she could just reach the receiver. She put it on the table top, then with great difficulty, she tried to dial with a finger already growing numb. After several tries, during which the racking dial was almost like a physical pain, Delia thought she had managed to make the full circuit. Then she turned and stooped so her lips were close to the receiver.
Tony kicked her away from the phone and from the floor, she watched him hang the receiver back in its cradle. He had a drink in one hand, a nearly full glass of Lyle's best Scotch. Then Manny appeared in the door, carrying a bottle.
"She was trying to call the cops," Tony said. "Teach her something," Manny suggested. Tony reached down with his free hand and passed it over Delia's breasts. It was not a rough hand, and it molded the deep flesh with evident relish. Then he seized her arm and lifted. The pain was sharp, and Delia tried to help herself erect, only to be whirled to the bed. She lay quivering, trying to evade the hand as it explored her buttocks and hips with the same lascivious gentleness.
"Wow, what a broad," Manny husked.
"White as milk," Tony added. "You like this, baby?"
"Oh, take your hand off of me!" Delia gasped. "You've got what you came for. Oh, let us alone!"
They both laughed. Tony set down his drink and slowly began to undo his tight black trousers. Delia cringed as his brown groin appeared, then her breath caught tight in her throat as his trousers sagged down around his knees. He manipulated himself for her benefit and from Maria came a string of Spanish epithets. Now Manny began to fumble at his clothes and Delia knew that Maria had been right.
"Please," she whimpered.
"You don't have to beg for it, baby," Tony told her with a rising laugh. "You'll get all of it you can handle! Hold her head, Manny. I got to cut her feet loose."
Delia couldn't see Manny but almost instantly, she felt him. He too had removed his trousers and he fell over her head and shoulders, his hot skin and strong legs clamping hard, his malodorous body crushed down on her face.
Delia screamed up into his crotch and then there was no more breath. She felt her ankles being cut free, and she kicked, and Tony grabbed her just above each knee, his iron fingers forcing her thighs apart. Then Delia gave up the struggle.
* * *
At the curb, Jack Fisk cut the lights and the motor.
"He's here!" he said to Betty. "That's Alvera's car."
He slid out of the convertible and drew his service thirty-eight as he ran around the front and across the lawn. There were lights in the house, and at the front door, he hesitated. He heard Betty coming up behind him and he waved her back. Then he tried the door and it was open. There was no one in the living room. He heard some sounds and went warily toward the hall.
The stifled scream of a woman mingled with the laughter and Spanish curses. Jack leaped forward to the open door from where the sounds seemed to come and for a moment, he was atrophied by what he saw.
On the bed, one fat, half naked Mexican was straddling the head of a kicking completely nude woman while another, slender and nearly familiar Mexican was trying to effect a lewd and brutal connection with the squirming body. Behind the trio, the brown body of a small Mexican girl, tied hand and foot, was barely visible.
"Freeze, Alvera!" Jack yelled.
Tony leaped back and spun away. Jack followed the man with his gun, and at that moment, the fat one on the bed threw his knife. Instinctively, Jack ducked and fired. The knife thrower almost did a backward flip as the bullet caught him full in the chest. Then Jack heard the knife thud into the wall beside him, and he went for Alvera. Cornered, weaponless, and desperate, Tony leaped for the bed and as he tumbled over it, he took Maria Gonzalez with him.
Too late, Jack tried not to fire his gun but the reflex had already begun. A scream rang out and the two bodies flopped to the floor on the other side of the bed. By now, the woman who had to be Delia Liggett had twisted off the bed to her feet, crouching in abject terror. Jack waved her away and did two crab-like steps to get Alvera in his sights again.
Alvera was writhing, his hand clutched to his bare belly. Blood oozed from between his fingers and his gasps were short, painful and getting shorter. As he twisted, Jack could see the blood gushing from his back and the hole clear through Alvera explained why the little brown body beside him was so completely motionless.
CHAPTER TWELVE
LYLE UNLOCKED THEIR FRONT DOOR, then stepped back for Delia to enter. It was something he'd done at least a thousand times, but this late afternoon, it seemed like a new adventure. On impulse, he reached out and took her arm, pulling her back out onto the little porch.
"Can I do something?" he asked down into her upraised face.
"What are you talking about?" she asked with some of the sharpness that had been in her voice for the past ten days.
"Well, it's all over now. And here we are, right back where we started. Only I want you to know, I feel differently than I ever did before. May I?"
"May you what?"
Lyle dipped and before she could protest, picked his wife up in the cradle of his strong arms.
"I think it is customary for the groom to carry his new bride over the threshold, isn't it?"
"Groom? New bride? Are you out of your mind, Lyle?" she laughed. "We've been married almost nine years!"
He looked down at her pretty face. "Have we, Delia? Really married, or just playing at the game?"
Slowly her arm came up over his shoulder and curled around his neck. He felt her fingers at the nape of his neck, tentatively, almost as if she had just discovered he was a man. Her eyes filled but did not spill over, and suddenly she pushed her lips up for his kiss. Lyle swayed, holding her in a furious grip, his mouth tasting the eager delights of her moist caress.
"Oh Lyle, can we start again? Can we forget all the things we did? Maria, and those horrible people! Oh Lyle, I want to forget. Make me forget!"
Lyle carried her into the house, but he did not stop in the living room. He did not put her down until she was lying on his bed and even then, he remained in a half crouch, his lips going to the sweetness of hers a dozen times in gentle, almost reverent adoration.
"I thought I'd lost you," he breathed. "Oh, I know you had a right to wander, Del, and you had as much right to Maria as I did! But afterward, when I thought about the three of us, wallowing in pure filth on that bed, and of what happened when Alvera and Voay burst in upon us, I knew how far down into hell we'd ventured. And during the past week, with all the facts spread out in legal language, I know just what kind of a rat I've been."
"I know," Delia whispered. "It was like seeing all your nightmares in the bright sunlight. Where all your friends can see them too! Oh Lyle, we've got to stick to each other! None of our friends will ever speak to us again. Poor boy. You have to face your people at the plant!"
Lyle shrugged. "It could be worse. Alvera could have killed us all, you know. And we'll make new friends. But for awhile, I just want you, baby. Where I can get my hands and my lips on that beautiful body, and know that it all belongs to me!"
"All," she murmured and turned into his embrace so he could reach the zipper down the back of her dress.
Betty stretched luxuriously in the sun, felt the contours of her voluptuous body respond, then over the top of her magazine, she perfunctorily checked to see that neither of her two sons were drowning. They had something going with an inner tube, much boyish energy and two very loud voices. The din was kind of an insulation to Betty and she went back to her reading. But not very intently.
And presently she heard the familiar convertible drive up on the other side of the garage. Hastily, she checked her hair, and she let her halter inch down just enough to barely cover her tingling breast tips. Then she arranged her tapered legs so they made a perfect line from the near nakedness of her fluid hips. She read the same paragraph twice before Jack's footsteps came over the tile behind her.
"Hi, cop," she said, dropping the magazine. "Get the promotion?"
Jack tossed his coat over the back of a chrome and plastic chair and sat down. He was warm, disheveled and had the usual weary look after a day's duty.
"Promotion nothing. I got hell for trying to play detective instead of playing cop. There's a difference, you know."
"All cleaned up, honey? I mean, the Liggetts."
"Yes. They washed out all the little incidental charges like harbouring a criminal, conspiring with a blackmailer, and some lesser items. Lyle and Delia are in the clear. Ouch!"
Betty grinned as the wet beach ball bound ed away into the yard. Her two boys were standing a few yards away, waiting for the expected reaction from Jack. It was funny, she thought, how quickly Joey and Mike had accepted Jack. They seemed to like him at least as much as they ever had their real father. Now, Jack leaped after them and all of a sudden, Betty had three boys. They tussled and yelled, and in the end, Jack threw them both in the pool. He stood jeering at them, his white shirt out at the belt, his service revolver jutting black and comforting from his waist holster.
To add insult to victory, he threw in the beach ball, an air mattress, the boys towels and everything he could find on the apron. Then, like a conquering hero, he came back to Betty.
"The delinquents," he murmured. "In five years, they'll have every cop in Pasadena working over-time."
"They come by it honestly," Betty reminded him. "Want a drink?"
He picked up his coat and headed for the game room. Betty followed him, glancing back to be sure her boys weren't going to interrupt what she had in her mind. And what Jack had in his. He was a casual man, given to casual moves, until he decided to do something not quite so casual. Then he was like a tiger, and Betty was more than willing to be a tigress, even at five in the afternoon.
They even had a nice thing about times like this. He poured, then each with a drink in hand, moved into the close embrace that rippled from firmly pressed thighs to hot, open mouths. Almost in concert, she put her icy cold glass to the back of his neck and he put his to the small of her taut, arched back. They held out until Betty shivered and gave up.
Little games that made every moment with Jack a kind of carnival, and kept Betty tingling and wanting him from early morning till late night.
"Take off the cannon, cop. It gouges," she said.
He unsnapped his belt and slid the holster free. Then he started to buckle up again and Betty stopped his hand. Over her shoulder, she saw that the boys were busy water fighting. Still holding Jack's hand, she led him into her bedroom. In barely two weeks she had forgotten it had once been Stan's room, as well as hers. Now she unhooked her halter and let the full rolling marvel of her breasts swing out for Jack's adoration.
His smile was slow, appreciative and he began to strip out of his clothes while she made a production out of getting rid of her bikini. Half in fun, half in earnest, she scratched unprettily.
"God," she muttered. "I'll be glad when it grows out enough to curl. Itches me to death!"
Then she threw her arms out to him, begging for his love.
And he brought it to her, fierce, tender and so all consuming in its delight that Betty forgot the past and wallowed only in the heat of now. They were, she thought, like teen-agers in a hayloft, furious, hasty and far, far too quick to reach the bright blue lights.
Afterward, she lay in soft repose, snuggling comfortably in Jack's arms, content beyond her wildest imagination. Then she heard her boys as they stormed into the kitchen. They would gulp down a quart of orange drink apiece, then start looking for their mother and a snack to fill their seagull type gullets.
"A woman's work is never done," she grumbled, sitting up.
"Write it up and I'll sign it," Jack agreed.
Suddenly, Betty giggled, her eyes staring down at the havoc her love had wrought with his strength.
"What's funny, baby?"
"You remind me of that little scene we broke in on at the Liggetts," last night. Delia and those two Mexicans and little old Maria, tied hand and foot. I'd give a ten dollar bill for a picture of that!"
Jack caught her hand as it crept over his belly. "No more pictures. Haven't you learned what a camera can do? I think you're a damned juvenile delinquent yourself!"
Betty laughed. "Maybe I am. That's why I'm going to keep a cop around-to keep me out of trouble!"
"Leggo of that or you'll be in trouble that will make us all late for dinner."
"Yeah man!" she laughed and fell over him again. "Who's hungry, baby?"