As I walked through the door, I saw her. She sat in my deep arm chair, naked, with her heels drawn up and planted against the cushion. Her feet were spread wide, her knees together. She looked over the tips of her knees from behind black-rimmed glasses.
Her lips were coated with gold lipstick, fresh and glistening. Her exposed womanhood looked open, like a moist flower.
"Well, don't just stand there-kiss me!"
I went to her, dropped to my knees, and kissed her pussy.
She dropped her feet as I lifted my head. I gaped at her. Her nipples were painted gold, and a golden peace symbol was painted on her belly.
I took her ankles and pulled her out of the chair. She giggled as I kissed the golden symbol.
"Peace!" she breathed.
"Piece!" I murmured.
CHAPTER ONE
She disrobed teasingly, her eyes never leaving me and her laughter soft as she opened the fly of the faded blue jeans and hooked her thumbs in the beltless waist band. She skinned the jeans halfway down her hips, revealing white briefs, and then she stopped. "Not you?" she asked in a tone that was amused, yet taunted.
"Just keep on doing what you're doing, honey," I breathed.
"But I want to see you naked, too."
I peeled out of my shirt. And she gurgled and moved the jeans on down the long brown smoothness of her legs. Bending, she shook one bare foot out of the jeans and stopped again.
"Keep going!" I said.
She stepped out of the jeans to stand tall in the white briefs and the wildly decorated pullover shirt, her abundant breasts lifting and falling tauntingly.
I moved toward her. I wanted to sink my teeth into those magnificent breasts, feel the sleekness of her loins. But she danced from me and said softly, "No, not yet, Matthew. First, we both must be naked."
She whisked the bright-colored shirt over her head. She was braless. Her breasts were large, firm, finger-tingling projections. Pitching the shirt aside, her free hand whipped the long braided strand of hair over the front of her right shoulder. She took the briefs from her hips, stepped out of them, and she was nude.
I danced on one foot and then the other as I got out of my shorts. But she was gone from me when I stood erect again. I saw her running toward the stream, her flawless legs and buttocks flashing in the sunlight. She ran out onto the finger of land that stuck out into the clear water and then it almost was as if she was posing for a photographer as she stood and looked back at me.
I felt a bit awkward for a moment. The indication of my desire for her was so obvious. But she was not laughing now. She seemed almost a statue as she stood on the point of land. Her eyes devoured. And I was so caught up in her golden beauty that I forget about how I must look to her. She was truly golden, this blonde nymph who had been haunting me for what seemed all of my life. Golden and sparkling and so alive as she stood half profiled to me, the long strand of hair hiding the brown tip of her breast.
She beckoned and stepped into the rushing stream and waded toward the waterfall. The water foamed around her thighs as she pushed determinedly forward, taking long steps slowly. She eased deeper. The water was at her flat belly now, slapping and roiling and fondling her.
I plunged into the stream, felt the main current sweep me away from her. I got my feet under me and stood hip deep in the water. She was laughing at me again. She had found a flat rock near the waterfall and had climbed out of it. Now she seemed to tower over me, facing me, all of her golden womanhood-wet and slick-looking and darkened slightly-exposed for me to devour.
I ploughed toward her, my eyes rooted on her triangle. She waited patiently, the triangle offered to my mouth. But when I reached her, she bent down and took my hands and pulled me up on the rock with her. We melted into each other's arms, our mouths fused and our bodies grinding. But as I attempted to insert myself, she said, "No," and stepped down into the water. I went after her.
"In the waterfall," she shouted against the roar.
We waded hand-in-hand to the fall. Spume wet her hair and clung to her cheeks. She was excited. Her eyes sparkled and her white teeth flashed in the sunlight. We put our faces into the fall. There was power in there, too much force for us. We withdrew and she was laughing and wet and so desirable that I knew that if I did not have her in the next few seconds I would bend and trigger my own orgasm.
I felt her hand find me under the water. The fingers danced and delighted. She clutched and we moved into each other. Her breasts-the brown tips large and tilted now-found my chest, and then our mouths were breathing life into each other as her golden thighs spread and....
I came awake.
I shot up into a sitting position on the bed and for several seconds I did not believe. I was in a familiar bedroom. There was no waterfall, no rushing stream, no eager fingers on my hardness. I was alone, and I was wet, all right. But the wetness was from perspiration, and all I had in the way of company was my own reflection in the mirror opposite the foot end of my bed.
I groaned and rolled from the bed to pound to a window. Outside, it was raining. It was just a drizzle, but the day was gray and there was a stubborn bleakness in the sky. The bleak gray matched my sour mood. It was to be a bad day for a funeral. That much I knew, and I hadn't even had a cup of bad coffee. All I'd had was a dream and an erection.
All I had eyes for was the new widow. I felt totally bastard, but I couldn't help myself. She stood across the grave from me. Lieutenant Crowder held her elbow. She stood there, straight and beautiful and dry-eyed. That dry-eyed business was bad. She should have been crying. It was her husband they were lowering into the wet ground. Detective Sergeant Fletcher Amos Ayers. Thirty-three and dead. Killed in the line of duty. And the widow should have been crying. Perhaps even jumping into the grave with him. She had loved him that much.
But Cora stood tall, unflinching, her pale face a mask. And all I could do was stare at her while my blood ran fast. Fletch had been my friend, my best friend. And the widow was my friend, perhaps my second best friend. Fletch had been cut down by a hopped-up punk kid, his throat opened by the jagged edge of a broken wine bottle. But the widow remained alive, a breathing person. Oh, she was shredded too, all right. She had been ripped inside. But she still breathed. And she still was vibrant. She still was the most beautiful woman to ever come down the road. She still was the woman in all my dreams.
Briefly, I relived the dream of that morning: the rushing stream, the waterfall, the golden body, naked and flawless, standing on a point of land and then on a flat rock, arms outstretched, fingers curled slightly as she waited for me. And it was as if her hand was on me now. I stirred as my groin tightened. I felt on edge, taut. I imagined the softness of her lips against my mouth, the nibbling of her white teeth, the warmth of her body against mine, the quiver of her muscles, the length of her wriggling and heating, the dress coming up her long legs as my hands stretched out the firmness of her buttocks and then moved in under the nylon of her panties. I almost could feel my fingers sinking into the smoothness of her hips, dipping down to find the warmth of her womanhood as she spread to receive me. Now it was as if I was entering her and she was settling on me with a low moan coming from her throat, settling and taking all of me as if we each had finally found naturalness. We were fitted, mated, and we belonged. Only we did not. She had belonged to Fletch, and I was a friend, only a friend. There could never be anything between us. Yet she was beautiful, and desirable, and I wanted her. Except that now she stood across a grave from me, and soon she would be forced to turn from that grave and go home alone to the small, mortgaged bungalow, she would be forced to walk through the rain drizzle and get into a car and return to the house she had known with Fletch and face that house alone.
Alone. I was used to the loneliness. I was a bachelor. But Cora? She had known the special warmth of sharing a kitchen, bath and bed with someone she loved.
I stared at her. Why didn't she explode? Shrill. Burst into tears. Wail. Moan. Collapse.
Not Cora Ayers. She was like a ticking, unexploded bomb. She might go off in time. But the moment was not that time.
And I wanted her. God, I wanted her. Standing there in the slow June rain of a Monday afternoon, watching her, knowing that her husband-my friend-was going six feet down, never to rise again, I wanted the tall, blonde Cora. I wanted her in my arms. I wanted to feel the pulsing heat of her body against my own. I wanted to know the probe of her mature breasts against my chest, the flatness of her abdomen against my middle, the thrust of her thighs against my legs, the bulge of her womanhood against my groin. I wanted to feel her arms pulling across the back of my shoulders, know the moistness of her mouth, experience the quiver of her muscles rippling down my body, hear the low murmur as I entered her.
I wanted all of that as my friend-Cora's husband was being lowered to his final resting.
Which is why I felt like a total bastard.
Lieutenant Crowder beckoned and I went around the foot of the grave. Cora moved in against me as if she belonged there. An arm crossed my shoulders, she squeezed, and for just an instant I was conscious of woman breasts against my chest. And she stepped back and said, "It's done, Matt."
"Yeah."
What else could I say?
Up close, her patrician face looked used. There were lines that didn't belong and tiny tics jumped in her cheeks. Her eyes, gray-green and deep, did not gleam this day. They were dead, hollow, like two jelly fish washed up on a beach.
She said, "I want to leave."
Crowder nodded. "You go with her, Sergeant."
He didn't continue, but I knew what he meant. I was one of his boys, a night trick cop, like Fletch Ayers had been. If I checked in this night, okay. If I didn't, okay. For the present, I was to take care of the widow. At the precinct station my name might even go up on the duty roster opposite widow comforter.
The funeral parlor boys and the minister moved in but I shook my head at them and took Cora to my dented heap. I put her in the front seat and jogged around to pile in beside her. I lit a pair of butts and put one in her fingers. She accepted it without looking at me. I cranked up and we rolled out of the cemetery.
She smelled good. There was an apple fragrance mixed with the dampness. I slid an oblique glance at her and knew fresh desire. She sat straight in the seat, staring straight ahead, but now I could see the profiled contour of her high chest pushing against the black coat, the sharp lines of her face, the long smoothness of her neck, the curved flow of her legs. She had crossed those legs and opened the black coat. The skirt line of the simple black dress was a sharp edge across her thighs just inches above her knees. And then the legs swept down to arch through a sleek curve of ankle and become thought-provoking feet.
It was crazy thinking but I found myself wondering in that moment if I had ever seen those feet bared. Of course I had-there had been too many Sunday afternoons watching professional football on television in the Ayers house, too many Saturday afternoons at the lake beach, not to have-but right then, driving away from the cemetery, I could not remember ever having seen Cora Ayers barefooted.
"I don't want to go home, Matt," she said, shattering my thoughts. "I don't care where you take me, but don't take me home. I don't want to see any more people, and the house will be bulging."
"You want to go someplace and cry?"
"Maybe that's it," she nodded.
"You've got to cut loose sooner or later."
"I know."
"You can cut now. I'll drive into next week if necessary."
"No." She shook her head. "I don't feel like crying right now."
"You've got a big explosion stored up inside you,-honey."
"I know," she nodded. "Take me to your apartment, okay? There won't be anybody there, will there?"
"Just you'n me."
"I think I'd like that. It will be quiet."
"You can have the place alone, if you want. Except the Lieutenant will have my butt for leaving you."
"Why?" She sounded genuinely curious.
I nipped a hand. "Well, he figures you need to be with somebody."
"How do you know that?"
"I know Crowder."
"All right then, you stay with me."
"I've got duty at six p.m. A trick begins."
"The Lieutenant won't care if you don't check in. You just got through saying ... Oh."
"Oh, what?"
"I'm sorry, Matt."
"Sorry? For God's sake, doll, what-"
"You can take me home. With everything that's happened, and so fast ... well, I forget that people have other things to do, other-"
"Baby, if you give me one more ounce of that crap, I'll shine your teeth."
"Matt!"
"Excuse the French, but that's the way it stands. Fletch was my friend, you are my friend, and-"
"Matt, please...."
"No more crap?"
"No." She sounded humbled.
"I'll take you to my place. Maybe you can sleep for a few hours. I'm not much of a cook but I've got a couple of steaks in the refrig, and there's beer and-"
"It sounds fine, Matt," she interrupted softly. I gave her another glance. She was staring down the road again without seeing anything. And the edge of the black skirt had skidded up the crossed nylon, exposing more rich-looking thigh. I wanted to put my palm on that thigh, sink my fingers into the warm crevice fashioned by the crossed legs, allow those fingers to explore down in under her knees, travel up the underside of her legs to find her juncture. I wanted to feel the warm dampness of the nylon panties taut on her, covering, protecting, molding her.
I wanted to insert and wriggle my fingers in under the edge of the white panties and allow my fingers to dance in her golden hairs. Those hairs had to be golden. She had to be a true blonde. I had never seen her in nudity, not even by accident, never seen the triangle of her womanhood except out-lined in the flowered bikini she had worn on our Saturday afternoon lake jaunts, but I knew those tightly curled little hairs were golden in color. Golden girl. Golden joy. That was Cora Ayers.
"Matt?"
I jerked and my fingers worked reflexively against the steering wheel. I had a hard-on and I felt flushed. If I looked at her now and found her staring down on my erect tool....
Thank God, my coat kept her from seeing the erection.
"Matthew Law," she murmured.
I frowned, felt myself softening a little. She shifted on the seat, uncrossed the legs. But the skirt still rode high and she didn't seem to notice. She reached out with long, delicate fingers and patted the back of my hand. "Matthew," she said. "My friend." A tight little smile curled in the corners of her faintly painted lips.
"That's me, doll," I nodded. I didn't know what else to say.
"Tough, reckless, don't-give-a-damn Matthew Law. Detective. Penniless, sometimes lonely, sometimes not lonely, sometimes mean, sometimes kind. What would I do today without you, Matthew?"
"You're not that alone in this old world, honey," I said gruffly. "You gotta get that notion out of your craw pronto. There's lots of people round who are your friends. Fletch is gone, but that doesn't mean you go into hibernation. Hell, you'll even make new friends."
"Maybe I don't want new friends."
"Sure you do."
"Maybe I'm satisfied with an old friend. You, Matt. You're special," she said somberly. "You were Fletcher's friend, the only other man Fletcher ever really liked. Did you know that?"
"Fletch just didn't let too many people get too close to him, Cora. It was his nature."
"I know," she nodded. "You and me. We are the only people to ever get near him. We are the only ones who know what he was like inside. I wonder why he picked us."
"He could trust us, doll."
"Yes." She nodded again, thoughtfully. "That has to be it, of course. Fletcher could trust us. The both of us."
"And if he could hear us now," I said grimly, "he'd crack us both with those big knuckles of his."
"I suppose he would, yes."
"It's done. Finished, babe. That's the way Fletch would look at it if he was sitting here on the car seat and one of us was back there in the cemetery. He wouldn't like what had happened, he'd be torn up inside, but he would accept. And that's what we have to do. Accept."
She sat back on the seat and sighed. "The acceptance is going to be rough for me, Matt. I don't know if I'll ever really accept. Why, right this second I feel as if you found me standing downtown in a rainstorm and are taking me to my home where I'll go in the front door and there that big ape will be standing and grinning on my wet misery while far back in his eyes there will be that gleam. Do you know about that gleam, Matt? No, how could you? Fletcher had it, way back in his eyes. It was always there. For me. Only for me. It was desire. Want. Lust. My husband lusted for me, Matthew. He actually lusted. He fed on me, ravished me, played with me, teased me, fondled me, loved me, but that light never went out. No matter how tired Fletcher became, the light always remained. It gleamed. All I had to do was look deep into those eyes, and there was the light, the love, the desire. Matthew, that's what I'm going to miss! The light is gone."
"Easy, honey," I growled. "Keep control. You've been doin' fine up to now. Don't let the control slip away. Someday...."
But I chopped off the words. I was going to say, "Someday you may discover the light in another pair of eyes-if you'll just look around, if you'll just turn your lovely head and look over here at the goon who is tooling you along in a beat-up sedan," but I chopped off those words because who drives a widow home from a cemetery and tells her immediately that she is the only woman he has wanted to bed in the last four years? Who tells a new widow that you close your eyes to a black ceiling at night and get erections just thinking about her? Who tells a fresh widow that you've been topping big dolls, small dolls, wet dolls, dry dolls, fancy dolls the last four years and the only thing you can think about while you're riding those joyboxes is one triangle-a golden triangle that belongs to a golden girl?
I don't, man. I suffer. I think and perspire a little and suffer and keep my damn yap shut-and hope to hell I don't have an erection when we get to my place and I have to take off my coat. What do I do then? Excuse myself politely and go into the bath and stick my head in an ice bucket?
Or do I put the widow up in my place and drive across town and dive into bed with the plumber's wife? That juicy little sprite of a red-haired wench who always has a bare bottom, humps everything that enters her door, has a built-in semen-stopper in her mouth and an educated tongue that will make a man climb bedroom walls while she giggles and fondles and plays and twists her lithe body into a crazy pretzel pattern as she works her way down to the nitty-gritty of why a cop comes back for more.
I had myself in a lather.
And we were braked in front of the building where I had an apartment on the third deck. I didn't even remember stopping the heap. I shook myself and risked a look at Cora. She was frowning slightly. "I have a feeling, Matthew Law," she said softly, "that you have been far away from me."
I shook it off. "It's nothing, honey. Just thinking. Come on. Let's go up. You're going to have to make a dash for it through the rain. No basement garage in this leaning penthouse, no elevators to the third floor."
She smiled and reached out again and patted my arm, "Let's dash," she said.
My place was warm and untidy. There was a faint smell of sweat and used socks in the air. I cursed under my breath and went around and pushed up windows.
The fresh air that flowed inside was damp, but it had a clean smell. I turned and looked at Cora.
She found a place on the edge of my couch. She hadn't bothered to remove her coat, but now the coat was wide open and hanging down on the outside of her legs while she sat straight, and almost a little schoolgirlish, I thought as the gray-green eyes took in my joint. I couldn't tell if she approved or disapproved of what she saw. Even though Fletcher and I had been friends for four years, and he had been up to my place plenty of times for a cold beer or just to jaw, it was the first time Cora had ever been inside my door, and now I wanted her to like what she was seeing. But there was no expression on her face, and none appeared as she continued to survey.
She twisted slightly to look over her shoulder and the movement forced one of her nyloned knees down. A gap appeared at her thighs and from my vantage I could see far up those thighs almost to where the nylon of her hose ended and the short area of bare skin began. I felt my balls tighten and my tool jump and I moved swiftly, tearing my eyes from her.
I took her coat, gathered newspapers and magazines from the couch. The simple black dress hugged her shapely body, clung to thighs and the ample roundness of her hips, swept up tight against the flatness of her belly, swelled over the thrust of her high breasts and became a sharp line high across her breast bone.
I turned from her, put the coat in a closet, fiddled an extra couple of seconds to let myself settle, and then she said from behind me, "In the car, Matt, you mentioned beer. I think I'd like one."
It was the break I needed. I hustled into the kitchenette and dug out two cold bottles. I played it slow, attempted to cool. I got glasses down from the cupboard and felt myself begin to loosen. I felt less a bastard and more like Matthew Law, friend. I returned to the front room and put a couple of records on my cheap stero.
She had loosened, too, I noticed. Somehow she looked almost relaxed. The lines and the tics were gone from her face muscles, and she seemed to sit easier. She had moved to my favorite overstuffed chair. Its cushioned seat dropped about a yard, but it was comfortable. And now Cora sat deep in that chair, her legs high and crossed again as she slumped slightly, holding the bottle of beer in one hand and the glass in the other. She put her head back, closed her eyes, took a long breath and sighed deeply. From where I sat I could see up the outside of her top leg, in under her skirt, all the way to the white of her panties.
"It's been a horrible day, Matt," she said finally, looking at me again.
I tore my eyes from her legs and concentrated on pouring beer into my glass. "Yeah," I admitted.
"But it's done."
"Done, uhuh."
"Except for you. Are you really going to go to the station? I got the distinct impression from Lieutenant Crowder you didn't have to."
"I'm going in, honey. I've got to have something to do."
"Yes," she nodded. "I understand. But I'm tiring fast now. I feel as if everything is draining out of me. I don't think I could move to go one more place today."
"I'll change the bed and you can grab some shuteye here," I said. "Then give me a call when you awaken. Crowder'll okay my cutting out early, I think. Maybe by then I'll be settled a little."
"All right," she said simply. "This beer is good, Matt. It's relaxing me fast. Can I have another one after while?"
"There's ten bottles left in the refrig," I said, trying on a real grin for the first time that afternoon. "You can line 'em up and guzzle to your heart's content, honey."
"She smiled back at me. "Thank you," she said. "And now tell me something else. Why all of a sudden do you call me 'honey'? I don't think you ever have until this afternoon."
I shuffled my feet, tried to hold the grin. "Just a slip of the tongue, I guess. I dunno. I call lots of women 'honey.' It's just an expression with me. I'm sorry. I'll watch it."
"No." She shook her blonde head. "I like it. Coming from you, it sounds natural. So don't quit, Matt. Please?"
I looked at her head on. I looked hard and deep into those gray-green eyes, and they stared back hard. "Okay," I said gruffly, "honey it is."
"I like it," she repeated in a soft voice. And then her eyes left mine and she lifted the glass to her lips and drank.
I finished my beer and left the couch. "I'll go change the bed for you."
"Are you leaving me already?" She sounded surprised.
I looked back at her over my shoulder. "I'll check in downtown. I won't be far away if you need anything."
"I see. Well ... what about if I need to be fucked?"
The word jolted. I didn't believe my ears. I staggered. Then I stood frozen in the open doorway of the bedroom, not daring to turn and look on her.
"Matt?"
The summons seemed to come from far away. It was soft, commanded without being demanding, beckoned, almost seemed edged with a plea.
"Matt, look at me," she said.
I turned slowly, remained rooted. And she still sat deep in the chair, the legs still crossed and the knees high, the bottle still in one hand, the glass still in the other.
"I'm unwinding, Matt," she said softly. "I'm falling apart inside. And yet I'm like a volcano in there. I have to erupt. Somehow I have to explode. But I can't do it alone. The explosion won't come alone. I have to have something that will free it, free me."
"Baby...."
"I've shocked you," she said simply, somber. She nodded. "Fucked. It's what I said, Matt. I used the word. I know what it means. I know all of the so-called dirty words. But they aren't dirty to me. They weren't dirty to Fletcher. We used them continuously in our lovemaking, even sometimes when we weren't in bed. They had a special meaning for us. Can you understand that?"
My mind was reeling and my blood was churning. I wasn't sure I understood anything. I wasn't even sure I was standing in my bedroom doorway and across from me my Golden Girl was sitting loose and talking loose and telling me she wanted to go to bed with me. This was all a dream. So I would awaken. I would jerk erect and find myself sitting up in the middle of my mussed bed and I'd be blinking on the mirror across from the foot of the bed and then I'd notice the reflection of the stiffness bobbing back at me, and, once again, I'd sheepishly realize I had been dreaming about Cora Ayers, my friend's wife.
"Please try to understand," she said in the same soft voice.
"Honey ... you need sleep," I managed. "You aren't you ... right at the moment."
She put down the bottle and the glass and she stood.
"The hell I'm not," she said, the voice remaining even, just above a whisper. "This is the true me, Matthew Law. In this instant, I'm being the true Cora Ayers, woman who knows what is going on inside her body. Cora Ayers, woman who knows what makes the world go round. Cora Ayers, woman who has watched Matt Law sneak looks at her for four years, watched Matt Law simmer and broil and want, but never touch. Oh no, Matt Law never touched his friend's wife. Matt Law never would. And his friend's wife was appreciative-is appreciative-but now everything is different. There no longer is a friend. There no longer is a husband who liked to stalk the woman with a hard dick cleaving the air and that special gleam alive in his eyes. All of that is gone, Matthew Law. The friend, the husband, is gone. Now there is just you and the woman. A woman who needs-a woman who will go out on the street and get if Matt Law so much as moves an inch toward the door!"
She came to me. She stood close and she put her palms on my shoulders. I could smell her, the apple fragrance, the muskiness, the womanliness, and I was instantly hard, but she did not put her body against that hardness. She held off, stood just inches away, the gray-green eyes rounded slightly now and looking deep into me, searching, wondering, asking.
"Do you understand, Matt?" she whispered.
"No," I growled.
"I have to have you," she said. "I have to feel you sliding into my body, moving up, up, up, slowly, slowly, slowly. I have to have you going all the way up until you come out the top of my head. I can't help it, Matt. I'm on fire inside. And better that you give me what I need than someone from off the street. I want you. I've wanted you for four years, too. I'm not in love with you, never have been, probably never will be, but I've wanted you in those long years, and I want you this afternoon, now. It's physical. I feel as if we are two magnets finally about to become a union after all of these years of drawing together. I want you in me, Matt. I want you drowning in my juices. I want to feel you have an orgasm. I want-"
"Knock it off!" I raged.
The outburst surprised her. She lowered her hands, stepped back. The gray-green eyes widened, then slow ly became narrow, and the depths questioned as she cocked her blonde head slightly.
"The talk," I rasped. "You had the talk with Fletch, Cora. You can't have it with me. That was between you and-"
"Ahh," she interrupted softly, her head bobbing in acceptance. She stepped back into me, and this time she put her long body against mine and fitted her breasts and her abdomen while her fingertips went to my earlobes. "You're right, of course," she breathed. "The talk belonged to Fletcher and me, not to us, not standing here in this doorway. Matt, please take me over to the bed."
I couldn't. My feet wouldn't move. I commanded my muscles, but they ignored me. All I could do was wrap my arms around her slim waist and draw her against me hard. My mouth found the faintly painted lips and they were warm and moist and opened immediately. Her tongue stabbed and she breathed fire into me, the lips spreading wide until we no longer were kissing but merely glued at the mouth, teeth clashing and tongues dueling.
She found her body against mine and I felt her right leg come up slightly. Then she fitted herself on me and settled. Her ankle found the back of my leg and became locked. She started a rotating movement that caught me up and I knew that I was penetrating her just a fraction, jamming the nylon panties back up into her.
I worked her dress up over the roundness of her hips and she reached down between us to stroke me. I clamped my hands against her buttocks. She opened my trousers deftly and her fingers snaked inside to find my stiffness. She freed me, moaned without removing her mouth from mine and began to work me into the edge of her panties.
I came....
I couldn't stop the flow. I groaned and lunged up ward with the sudden release. She lurched against the warm splatter and then she moaned again and suddenly spun from me.
She stopped halfway to the bed, lifted her skirt and yanked the panties down her legs. "Get naked!" she cried.
But there wasn't time. I was after her fast. She went back on the bed and lifted her nyloned legs and spread them wide. And there it was: the Golden Joybox!
To me, it sparkled. The hairs were a light color and curled tight and looked moist. The lips were full and turned out and moving. And down below, the roundness of her hips were taut and flawless. She stretched up from the bed, her arms coming forward between her lifted legs, her fingers reaching. She was straining, her face contorted in passion now.
"Matt, come in me!" she cried out. "Put it in deep!"
I was between those lifted legs in an instant and both of her palms were on me, stroking savoringly. She guided me and began to stuff. She didn't stop until there was no more room between our throbbing bodies. Her legs came down on my hips and her fingers became locked behind my head. She stared up at me.
"Deep, Matt," she whispered. "And fast..
"Yeah, baby."
"Sometimes I lose consciousness when I come, but don't be frightened. It only lasts for a few seconds."
She was fantastically tight. But active. Her lips worked rhythmically; and deep inside her, far up in the hot moist body, tiny muscles stroked and released and recaptured. I moved long and hard and sure, increasing the pace by the second, and gradually she seemed to open as if she was a flower head. The sensation drove me deeper I had to touch bottom again, but now there was no bottom. She was heat and vaccum, and I truly wondered if I might be going on up and out the top of her skull.
She moaned and writhed under me, her hips pumping frantically in their demand, her fingernails clawing the cloth of my trousers at my buttocks. Her head was back now, her eyes closed and her painted lips wide open. I shot my tongue deep into her mouth and she clawed up against me. The tongue seemed to trigger new, hidden fires inside her. And then the muscles inside her were back, clamping and freeing my hardness in a dance all their own.
"Hang on, baby!" I gasped.
"Yes, Matt, yes...."
She arched upward. Her nails dug in deep. And suddenly she was all tautness and straining muscle. And then I felt the spasms of her climax, and I rammed deep and let the flow pour into her. She lurched with the first splash and then she settled and clutched at me, holding and releasing, holding again, as if I might leave her.
No chance. She was everything I had thought she would be. More. I'd never had another woman like her. She was clawing, demanding, yet soft and giving. She flowed as if she were a oiled machine. She was mobile and hungry and-most important-she needed and wanted me.
We collapsed simultaneously. We remained locked, rolled up on our sides, and I wallowed in the warmth and smell of her. When I opened my eyes I found that she was unconscious. Slowly, I freed myself from her. I lifted her clamping leg and gently turned her until she was on her back. Her face rolled away from me. I stared down on the lift and fall of her breasts. The movement was even and deep and she almost looked as if she had fallen into a child's sleep.
I got up on an elbow and watched her. I wanted to see her come alive again. I wanted to be there when those eyes fluttered open. I wanted me to be the first thing she saw. She groaned and her muscles rippled slightly, but she remained close-eyed, the dress bunched against her flat stomach. I dropped a hand to the warmth of her thigh and stroked the skin and nylon gently.
Her juncture held me. It was all that I had anticipated. Blonde and jutting slightly and rounded and tight, the perfect joybox. I bent and kissed her belly muscles. Out of the corner of my eye, the golden hairs winked at me. They were damp, glistening. I moved my mouth down to them, inched my tongue down into the crevice. It was warm and moist down there, and the muscles still played little reflexive games of their own.
Cora stirred. Her fingers came into my hair and clamped. "More," she breathed. "Don't stop, Matthew. I like to have you kiss my legs."
I shifted position on the bed, stretched out beside her, my face moving against her thighs. Her muscles twitched with pleasure and she was unable to remain a still target for me now.
I felt her fingers dance along my thigh. She captured my hardness and turned her face into it. I heard her sigh deeply. "Don't you ever soften?" she whispered.
"Almost never," I told her truthfully. It was something about me, some body chemistry, that had fascinated me all of my life. Someday it had to end, of course, but in these years it was a strange and fascinating and tremendous power, and who was I to wonder too much about it-or to knock it?
Her tongue tweaked me and I pulled from her immediately. "No," I told her.
"Why not?"
I couldn't see her expression, but the puzzlement was in her voice. And I couldn't answer her question. I wasn't sure why I didn't want her mouth on me.
She kissed the heat in a tiny, darting motion. "Matt?" she questioned softly when I jerked away again.
"Just don't," I said, raining my mouth down her thigh.
"It's an appendage, Matt," she said softly. "Like an arm, a leg, a finger."
"I know."
"I want you to lick me."
"That's different."
"Is it?"
"Shut up and enjoy."
She turned up on her side and put a leg across my head. "All right," she said, softly condescending. "But do it slowly, Matt. I like it. It makes me all warm and wiggly inside."
She began to work me slowly as I rammed my head deeper into her juncture. She smelled all woman and good. I flicked my tongue against her and she lurched slightly. Then I settled and put my tongue inside her cunt and her hips began to work. Her movements quickened and she began to make tiny noises.
"Deeper...." she breathed a long time later. "Keep going! God, don't stop now!"
She lifted her upper leg and forgot me. Her hand came down and her fingers urged my tongue. She became lost in excitement. Suddenly she stiffened. I heard her gurgle. And then I felt her leg muscles tighten and she arched. She held the position for a long time, straining, and there was a rattle deep in her throat.
Suddenly she went flaccid. Her leg came down and she was unmoving. I worked my head out from under her thighs and got up on an elbow. She was unconscious once more.
Gently, I squared around on her and put my mouth against her loose lips. After several seconds, I felt those lips begin to come to life again. Her arms moved across my neck and she held me tight against her body.
Then it was as if she remembered. She reached down. "I forgot you," she said somberly. "In my own excitement I forgot-"
"It's okay, babe," I chuckled, clipping her chin gently with my knuckles. "Everything is okay."
"But-"
"I want to see all of you naked," I interrupted.
"All right," she agreed simply. She untangled from me and rolled from the bed to stand tall. Then she hesitated, and it was as if she had been hit with a sudden thought
"Babe?" I questioned.
She nodded as if to herself. "There's something that has to be done," she said. She sounded determined. "Disrobe."
We removed our clothing without taking our eyes from each other. Once she stopped and bent and kissed me. Then she was away from me again and standing totally naked. I moved toward her golden body, but she put up a hand.
"No. Not yet."
She picked up the black dress and lifted it over her head. She let the dress drop around her naked body. She fitted it against her breasts and her buttocks and then she went to the bed and lay flat on her back. She lifted and spread her knees, planted her bare feet.
"Now," she breathed. "Tear it from me. Rip it to shreds, Matt. I have to be rid of it and what it stands for."
The dress tore easily. And she cried out and lurched as if caught up in some special kind of passion as I ripped it from her body. And then it was wadded and I had pitched it under the bed and she had reached up and caught my hard penis and was manipulating it.
"Matt," she breathed, "I think we were made for each other."
I wondered.
I wondered about a dead friend in a grave. Had he just turned over?
CHAPTER TWO
I awoke with a nipple in my lips and for an instant I could not remember which one of my drops I was with. Then it all flashed back. Cora Ayers was no drop. She was my Golden Girl.
I got up on an elbow and blinked down at her. She was wide awake and smiling lazily, a lighted cigarette caught in her fingers. Outside it was dark and raining hard now; inside there was lamplight casting a soft glow on the ripe body beside me.
She lay back, turned slightly into me so that the breast had fitted perfectly against my mouth. An arm was across her forehead. She wrinkled her nose impishly at me. "Hi, Detective."
"Hi."
"My Hot Dick," she gurgled. "My very own." I bent and kissed her.
"Easy," she said, talking against my mouth. "My lips are swollen, I think. At least, they feel puffed."
"Not bad," I told her with a grin. "You're an animal, I guess."
"Not really."
"Oh, you don't have to apologize, Mr. Law," she grinned. "I like animals. They make me come fast and often-and I like to come."
"Fast and often."
"Fast and often," she nodded. "And I like your mirror, too." She stabbed air with a finger, pointing to the bureau mirror across the foot of the bed. "I mink it is very strategically placed. Is that by chance or design?"
I found myself liking the teasing, the light banter. I twisted and looked at our reflections, and I thought Cora Ayers and I looked very natural together, very close and cozy and intimate. I liked what I saw. "Chance," I said.
"You won't mind if I don't believe you," she said with a soft giggle.
"Each to his own thoughts," I shrugged.
She smiled on me from the reflection and her finger came down to tap the end of my erect penis. She tapped lightly. "And just what is that, sir?" she asked.
"A hard-on, princess. What are we going to do about it?"
"Nothing."
"Ahh, then perhaps you are merely a tease?"
She laughed mysteriously and reached out and butted the cigarette in an ashtray on the bedside table. "Let's see if I am."
She locked her fingers on the back of my neck and moved my face down to her breasts. They heaved with her breathing. They were ripe swells, the brown nipples taut and alive.
"Kiss them," she said.
I took one of the nipples in my teeth, rolled it gently. She attempted to play it calm, but I felt the tiny ripple go through her body. I left the nipple, moved over to the other one. She pulled me down hard this time and I took as much of her magnificent breast as I could get into my mouth. I opened wide and I mouthed with authority.
"Good," she whispered, her fingers working against the back of my neck.
I left the breast. "Now. Shall I tease?"
"No!" she cried out sharply. "Don't be a meanie!"
I kissed her ear, shot my tongue inside, then moved my mouth around to her lips, danced across the fullness, moved up to kiss her eyelids, moved down into the pulsing throb of her throat, on down to the breasts again, nipping at one, plucking at the other, on down to her belly. And then I got serious. Her fingers were pushing now. She knew, and she wanted. I saw her legs spread slowly. The blonde hairs of her warm triangle glistened.
"Golden," I rattled.
"Wh-at?"
"I like you because you are golden," I said, skipping the hairs and kissing her thigh. "Golden?"
"It's how I think of you," I admitted. "The Golden Girl"
"Sometimes ... I'm reddish."
"Reddish?" I moved my mouth on down to her toes, kissed the tips of each individually. I felt her palm find me. She wrapped her fingers and began to manipulate.
"Sometimes I have a reddish cast," she said from far above me. "I've looked at myself."
"No." I shook my head vigorously. "No red. Just golden."
"You want me to be ... golden?" she faltered as I started to kiss my way back up her leg. "Just ... golden?"
"Just golden, doll."
I was at her juncture, but I didn't kiss it. Rather, I nipped at her thigh skin with my teeth. I was gentle. I did not bite. And her hand on me moved faster, her strokes growing in length. I felt the heat beginning to build in my loins and my hips started to lurch as I lost control of them.
"Matt?" she whispered suddenly. "What?"
Her legs went up into the air, stiff and straight. "Do something!" she hissed. "I'm going to come!"
"Let it go, baby."
"Oh, god!" she cried out. "I am, I am ... Matt, don't stop!"
Her hand was educated. It worked me frantically. And then I turned into her suddenly and she rammed me into her body. I went through the moistness and deep inside her. She wriggled up against me. Then she was clawing at me, her nails piling up the skin of my back as she pumped. Soon we were high in the air and banging at each other with no sense of direction. Each was on his own, each seeking fulfillment without thought for the other. I felt the explosion inside. It seemed to come up from nowhere suddenly and shoot like a jet stream along the track of my stiffness. It erupted and flared, spraying the inside of Cora Ayers as if I was painting her. And she rattled this time. It was a pure, long animal rattle as she opened wide inside and came. We shuddered and clutched and became mesmerized together, locked in the perfect love position high in the air-and then we tumbled. We spilled over on our sides and we lay close-eyed and gasping.
When I finally untangled from her, she had regained consciousness. But she was whipped. She made no attempt to leave the bed as I staggered into the bath. I poured water over my head. I still was breathing in gasps, but my senses were returning. I knew now I was not going down to the station. Crowder didn't expect me, so why go?
"You wanna shower?" I called out to Cora. "In a little," she managed. "At the moment, I don't think I can move."
"I'll wash your back."
"Promises, promises .. "Your behind."
"Promises."
Chit in the front room, my phone rang. The ring sounded urgent. I don't know what it is about phone rings. Most are innocent enough, I guess, but every so often you get that jangling sound and instinctively you know that when you answer you will be informed of an emergency, a tragedy, an urgency. That kind of call gives me willies.
"Do you have to answer it?" Cora frowned as I padded back through the bedroom.
"It stinks, all right," I muttered.
She didn't understand, of course, and I didn't attempt to explain. I padded on out into the front room and swept the receiver to my ear. It was Lieutenant Crowder. He wanted to know what I'd done with the widow. But that question didn't fool me. I could sense something else in his tone, something I wasn't going to like.
"She's here," I informed him. "She didn't want to go home. She was tired of people."
So he gave me the bomb: "I've gotta have you come in, Matt. We've got a stinker in the making. It hasn't jelled yet, but it has all the earmarks of being a genuine nutcracker."
"Like?"
"Murder. A guy cracks up a car. One of these expensive sports rods. Out on Kingman Road. He rams a tree, according to the traffic boys. Routine, they figure, until they look inside. They find a dead girl, she's naked, and there isn't one stitch of female clothing in the heap."
"The guy?"
"At Memorial. Guy named Archie Table. We're still checkin' out his I.D. He got a whop on the chest and on the head, but he's gonna be okay-unless he can't explain a dead and naked girl in his car. It's the clothes bit, Matt. Where the hell is the girl's clothing? Man, I can see a doll peeling while riding down the street, I can see a doll hot and eager and gettin' ready for the meat-but if she does that, how come we don't find her clothing somewhere inside the heap?"
Cora wanted to protest as I showered and dressed. She didn't utter a word, but the protest was there, in her expression, in the gray-green eyes, in the set of her jaw, the tiny twitch in the corners of her lips. It was as if she had been though all of this a million times and knew. It was as if she was acutely aware of the disappointments of being a cop's wife. I needed to say something to her, but I didn't have the words, so I kept my yap buttoned and clothed myself swiftly. I started out of the bedroom. "Hey?" she said gently from the bed. I whirled and looked on her. She lifted a finger, beck oned to me. I went to the edge of the bed. She continued to beckon, and then a half-mischievous smile formed. "Down here," she said. "You don't leave without kissing me."
I bent and put my mouth against her lips. We didn't grab or clutch or claw this time. We merely kissed. With our lips. And it seemed enough. No other area of our bodies had to touch now. The mouths were glued, and there were messages enough in the mouths.
When I finally lifted my face, she was misty-eyed. "I'm gonna miss you, Hot Dick," she said softly.
"Cora...." I began, but she put fingertips against my mouth, shook her head.
"Do you want me here when you come home?" she asked.
"I told you, honey, you can-"
"No." She shook her head. "That isn't what I mean. Do you want me here?"
I brushed my mouth across her lips. "I want you here," I said gruffly.
"All right," she nodded, as if accepting a simple fact. "Now tell me one more thing, and then you can go. What about me do you like the most? What area of my body?"
"Cora, I'm not Fletch," I said.
I felt bastardly again. I didn't move. I continued to hang over her, held my mouth just inches from her puffed lips, looked deep into her eyes. The words had come out almost reflexive, and I saw her flinch slightly, but they were words that had to be spoken. Cora Ayers and I had reached a plane between ourselves. I liked that plane. I wanted to be on that plane. But it was not a plane to be shared with anyone-including those who were dead.
"You are not Fletch," she breathed, the words barely audible. "I know."
"Then I like all of you," I said truthfully. "Every inch of your golden body."
"But isn't there some portion, some little corner, some small area of skin or swelling or curve or-"
"Yes"
"Where?"
"I think you know."
"Do I? Kiss it. Show me. Never leave me, Matthew Law, without kissing your favorite spot before you go. This is between us, only us."
"Only us?"
"Only us," she said, nodding somberly. "I have memories, too. Sharp memories. And there's no room for overlapping or repetition in my memories, either. Do you understand?"
I understood. And I jackknifed lower. She lifted her legs and gave me freedom and I kissed savoringly.
"Now," she breathed from a distance, "you can go."
Tooling the dented heap along the near-deserted streets, I discovered that it was ten minutes before midnight. The hour surprised me. Somehow I'd lost all track of time. Not that either the hour or the fact that I had lost track was important. But it forced me to think. I thought about Cora Ayers back there in my apartment, in my bed, naked, beautiful, mixed-up. That was it: Cora was mixed-up. With me gone, she'd come to her senses. She'd think about a dead husband, remember a mortgaged bungalow, reach out again for reason and sense of direction. She'd leave my bed, clothe her body, and be gone when I returned.
I might get a phone call in the next couple of days. She might attempt to explain over a phone-from a distance-but there would be no necessity for an explanation. I didn't exactly have scrambled brains. I knew that today could not continue between us. There was too much in our pasts, too many memories, and memories sometimes have ugly heads, memories rear those ugly heads and sometimes make present impossible.
See how mixed-up Cora was?
Well, she'd come to her senses soon enough. She'd be gone when I returned to my apartment. And we'd both realize. We'd accept. We'd had a session in the hay. It had been a good session, a memorable session, but that's all it was. Just a jump. A piece of ass. For the both of us.
Except that Cora Ayers wasn't just a piece of ass.
I shook my head and navigated a yellow light, the tires of the heap singing against the wet streets. It had stopped raining, but the air was heavy with moisture and the streets would not dry overnight.
Moisture. Cora. Cora was a moist woman. A warm, golden, submitting, giving, coyly demanding, desirable, pulsating, fragrant, moist woman. All woman. A woman of beauty and litheness and softness and long, active muscles, and full, tender lips, and tiny, intricate sounds of fulfillment deep in her throat. A full-blown woman who, long ago, with another man, had discovered a special closeness with four-letter words. Cora wallowed in the words. I knew. Even against my will, she had mouthed them. She had to mouth them. It seemed reflexive with her. And now I was not too sure I was so against her mouthing them. The words, the act, the speaking, were a part of her, perhaps even seeped into her physical makeup. Did she get extra pleasure from hearing herself speak them? I remembered a woman of prominence....
Her name was Cynthia. She had plum-rinsed hair and she was stocky and stout with age and her heavily powdered face had pampered lines in it. But she was preserved and coltish and bold in spite of what had to be sixty years of age. She also was wealthy and almost famous and hadn't even considered a grave. Her husband was a United States senator, seeking reelection, a controversial man, and he was making a pitch in the city. Cops were needed to protect him-and his wife-while he pitched from a podium in a downtown hotel.
The wife elected not to hear her husband's speech. She'd heard all that crap before, she said. Over and over and over again. The wife had a independent streak in her that was a yard wide and ten miles long. She also liked men. Young men. And cops were her special meat this day. Two young cops, named Matthew Law and Henry Anderson, had been assigned to her.
"While the Senator speaks, gentlemen, we'll stay here in the hotel room," she announced firmly. "Unless one of you would like to hear my husband." Her eyes darted between the two cops. And then she made a selection. "Perhaps, Detective Anderson," she said "you would like to listen to the Senator."
"Not really, ma'am," Anderson said frankly. He was a blunt kid, had just made Detective and still lacked tact.
"Go listen anyway," the Senator's wife said with a wave of her hand. She lit another cigarette, puffed jerkily. "It will do you good. The Senator is not all crap. Sergeant Law and I will get along fine together-won't we, Sergeant?"
"We'll do okay," I said, unsure.
"Yes, I'm sure we will," she said, looking directly into my eyes. "I'm sure we can find something to do to entertain ourselves."
Anderson departed. He was reluctant, but he knew he had been dismissed. He went downstairs to hear the Senator's speech, or into a public restroom to take a crap and contemplate, or maybe he went down to the bar to hustle tail. I didn't know, and I didn't care. Because the Senator's wife had sat in a chair opposite me, and now her heavy legs were spread slightly, and she was staring on me as if I was something to be eaten.
"You don't mind staying here alone with me, do you, Sergeant?" she asked.
"Not at all, ma'am," I said, still not sure of what was coming.
"Perhaps we can go to bed," she suggested. "Ma'am?"
"You're young," she said. "You look very young and virile. Are you? Are you a dandy with the young girls? Have you got a tool that makes young girls squeal like pigs? You look as if you might have. Let me see it. Open your pants, boy. I want to see you. I might even let you get inside me if you don't mind a piece of tail from an old woman. Actually, I'm not that old. I still have orgasms. It's my husband who is old. He couldn't get a stiff if six seventeen-year-olds were lined up naked in front of him.
"Am I shocking you? Well, no matter. You've got something inside those trousers, and that's what counts. I can see it. Come here. Let Mother feel it. I like to feel you young fellas. Especially when I get hot. And that's just what I'm doing, boy. You're not going to believe this, but it's how it is with me. The more I talk dirty, the hotter I get. I talk myself into an orgasm. That makes me some kind of nut, doesn't it? Nut or no, the words make me come. And I'm doing that right now. I'm creaming. Oh Lordy, that feels good!"
I stood before her. I was rooted. I had freed myself and I didn't even remember doing it. But there I was, standing proud and long and bobbing. And there the Senator's wife sat, just inches from me, her heavy legs spread wide now, her dress pulled up against her round belly, her thighs jiggling, her pink panties under a white girdle stretched taut over a juncture that had hills and valleys in it.
"I did it," she hissed, staring up at me. "Now you! Do you need help?"
She touched me and she was soiled instantly. I erupted. The semen leaped from me, arched and dropped to spread on the blue of her dress. She gurgled with pleasure and grabbed me just as Anderson returned to the suite.
He walked in without knocking, he stopped just inside the door, he gaped, he gulped, and he stood rooted-until Cynthia, hanging on to me with one hand, smiled crookedly and beckoned to him with the other.
"Next?" she asked innocently.
The Senator talked for an hour and a half.
I rolled into the parking lot at precinct headquarters. The Senator's wife had found eroticism in mouthing words; Cora Ayers found a closeness. There was a. difference.
I pounded up to the second floor squad room. Crowder was waiting. He looked harried, but he asked, "How's Ayer's wife taking it?"
I managed to keep a straight face. "She's doing okay."
"Well, we've got a bitch on our hands here. This Archie Table is awake in the hospital now and we've got the girl pegged, but that's all. Archie gave us her name, nothing else. The sonofabitch has decided to clam. The kick is, the girl is the daughter of William Darby Rivers. You ever heard of him?"
"Naw."
"Money. That's what he is. Moola. Up to and over his fuckin' ears. Stocks, the conglomerates, name it, William Darby Rivers is in it. He's in everything from importing coffee beans to exporting Hollywood whores. Getting the picture?"
"He's human, isn't he?"
"I dunno. I sent a couple of the boys out to his place to find out."
"Archie Table," I said. "Who's he?"
"A computer analyst-whatever that it."
"Who belongs to Rivers?"
"It seems that Rivers also has interests in the computer industry," Crowder sighed.
When the reports came up from the lab technicians, I had difficulty believing them. Harry Roberts, the lab chief, was esthetic. "The doll was dead before Archie-boy hit the tree," he said enthusiastically. "She died sucking something! She choked to death!"
"Suggestions?" I asked-although I already had a hunch.
"There's semen behind her teeth, more in her stomach. And her throat is swollen!"
"Are you sure?"
"Read the reports, man!"
"Your reports are medical garbage. What I have to know is-"
"I'm not puttin' you on. Matt. The girl choked to death on the stuff or the meat. Take your pick. What's the diff?"
"I guess it's murder, huh?"
"She was killed." Harry shrugged. "Maybe she was doin' what comes naturally, but she was killed."
"We could get a ruling of accidental death."
"Probably," Harry admitted. "But it's gonna be juicy stuff in the courtroom."
Archie Table denied my accusation. He lay in the bed in Memorial Hospital and vehemently denied that Michelle Rivers had been servicing him while he was driving the heap. He denied that her act was what had sent him shooting off the road and into the tree.
And then Archie Table clammed. He wouldn't say another word. He lay there with a lump on his noggin and another lump on his chest and he clamped his lips tight and shot daggers at me from his eyes. He was a small dude, not very long, not very wide, and not very heavy. He had thin, mouse-colored hair brushed back and a large nose and delicate mannerisms. He was effeminate at thirty-five, but he was determined. Cops were not priests in a confessional-and Archie wasn't confessing to anything anyway.
Archie got a visitor. He was a rangy, lean, athletic dandy with a deep sunlamp tan, handsome to women, probably, and dangerous to husbands. His clothing was expensive and his hair and fingernails had been pampered by a stylist. He was thirty, or fifty. He was one of those kind. He said his name was Tommy Polar and that he was a tennis professional at one of the clubs in the city. He also was Table's friend. I didn't like him. I didn't like his appearance, his manner or his confidence.
"You police ruined a perfectly groovy party," he told me. "W. D. was really turning it on tonight."
"William Darby Rivers?" I asked politely.
"There's only one," he said smugly.
"That's why you're here, huh? You heard about your friend Archie when the cops showed up at the party?"
"Everyone heard, Sergeant. They were very loud men."
"Didn't they also mention that Michelle Rivers is dead?"
"Yes, that was mentioned."
"And?"
Polar shrugged. "She's dead. Who can do what?"
"But Archie is alive, huh?"
"Thank God, Archie is alive," Polar said, smiling fondly on the little man in the bed.
"We think Archie killed the girl."
"Quite un-likely, Sergeant. Archie doesn't have a violent bone in his body."
"We think she choked to death while mouthing him."
"Michelle knew tricks," Tommy Polar admitted. "But Archie is a fag. Archie does not like women."
"That right, Archie?" I snapped, turning on him.
"I like men." He shrugged. "What's so wrong in that? Some men like women. Some women like men. Then there are women who like women, and men who like men. I'm one of the latter. I like men. It's my sex life. Everyone has one, you know. That much is biological. Don't condemn me, Sergeant, because my sex interest may differ from yours-or does it?"
"You make one lick toward me, creep, and I'll have your balls in a vise."
"Please, Sergeant," Tommy Polar broke in smoothly, "can't we refrain? There's already been enough violence for one night. Let me tell you what I know. Michelle was at the party, naturally. We all were at the party. Then Archie found Michelle bombed, naked and unconscious on the lawn. He came to me, asked what to do with her. I told him to take her for a drive. I thought she would regain consciousness eventually and that the air would do her good. Archie was the logical man to take her. He doesn't dig women. He wouldn't rape her in her naked state. So he did as I suggested. And the poor girl must have had a heart attack while they were driving. She was a high liver. She could go any time. She used grass, LSD, anything to give her a ride. Her sudden death doesn't surprise me. The unfortunate part about all of this is that Archie lost control of his car and hit a tree, thus bringing in you people."
"Did you help Archie put her in his car?"
"Certainly."
"And she was alive then?"
"She was breathing."
"Our lab people found semen in her mouth and stomach."
"So she had some fun before she passed out on the lawn. Michelle often made a practice of turning men into babbling idiots."
"Is that what it does to you, Polar? Make you a babbling idiot?"
"Does it you, Sergeant?" he shot back.
"Point," I said, controlling my anger, "if Michelle Rivers was alive when you put her in the car and dead when Archie hit the tree, how many men was she around on the ride?"
"Archie," he admitted.
"Archie," I nodded.
"Heart attack, Sergeant," Polar repeated confidently. "I say Michelle died of a heart attack while Archie was driving her. Perhaps she had been with someone at the party just before Archie found her on the lawn. I don't know. All I'm sure of is Archie didn't kill her. Archie wouldn't allow a woman to touch his sex organ."
From the bed, Archie said, "He speaks the truth, Sergeant."
"And now," Polar said, "I think we've talked enough. From this moment on, you can speak to our attorney."
"Our attorney, huh?"
"He's at the party. As for Mr. Rivers. Mr. Rivers will point to the attorney. It's the way the ball bounces, Sergeant."
I put a hold on Archie Table, and I drove out to William Darby Rivers' palatial mansion. There were lights and trees and grass and strewn lawn chairs and tables, but there were no servants, no cops-and no people. I wandered around the side of the mansion. More light came from behind the magnificent structure. I found a giant patio and a swimming pool. Still no people.
And then I heard a giggle and the splash of water.
Curiously, I went over to the pool. There was a table and chair and a padded chaise lounge off to my left. Draped on the lounge were two evening gowns. One looked red, the other looked black. Parked beside the lounge were two pairs of high-heeled shoes. One pair was red, the other was black.
I went to the edge of the pool. The water was a brilliant blue and calm. And down under the water, in the shallow end of the pool, were two female bodies. Each was clothed in hose and garter belt. No more.
They were sixty-nine, one on top of the other. Their arms floated, their legs worked slowly-and they were feeding.
CHAPTER THREE
The two women came up from under water, laughing and gurgling and breathing deep. They melted together immediately, taking each other in their arms as their mouths fused and their bare breasts blended. They stood hip-deep in the blue water and kissed savoringly, their bodies rubbing and their hands moving over each other. Fingers fondled and teased and explored. And then their mouths parted and their chins found a resting place in the neck and shoulder juncture of each other as their hands continued the play, and I was staring into the close-eyed beauty of a girl with smooth planes of face and hair that had been watered back to become fashioned tight against her head and exposed delicate ears.
The eyes opened. The girl saw me and stared. I didn't move. Her eyes rounded slightly, but there was no embarrassment or scrambling or shrieks. I saw her say something into the ear of her lover and the woman turned. She looked a preserved forty and collected. Her arm remained, around the girl's waist. She was slightly taller than the girl, sleeker in body construction. She had a triangular face with eyes set wide apart and a narrow chin that jutted. Her dark hair was cut short, clipped at the neck, and was tousled. An eyebrow arched and she moved the girl toward the steps in the corner of the shallow end of the pool.
They came up out of the pool like two gazelles, their wet bodies glistening in the patio lights, their movements oiled. The woman was long-legged and slim-hipped, her pelvic juncture almost haughty as it cleaved the night air. The garter belt and hose were plastered against her and formed a frame for her pubic area. The girl was heavier, but she rolled smoothly, carrying the weight well. Her breasts were large and jounced as she walked, the nipples tipped upward.
They stopped about two feet from me and it was the woman who grinned suddenly and said, "Hello. Who are you?"
When I said I was a cop, it didn't seem to faze either of them. The woman laughed softly, and the girl giggled. "What do you think, Fran?" the woman said finally.
The girl shrugged. "He's got something inside his trousers. I can see it bobbing."
"My name," said the woman, "is Nanette Rivers. My husband and I own this layout." She waved an arm to encompass the mansion and the grounds and the movement triggered a brief dance of her slim breasts.
"And I'm Fran Nature," added the girl. "Friend of family, guest, something."
"You want?" grinned Nanette Rivers, the eyebrow arching again.
"Information," I managed.
"He wants information," she said to Fran Nature.
"At the moment, I think he wants more," giggled the girl. "Look at his trousers jump."
But Nanette Rivers said, "I suppose you are here about Michelle. That was tragic, simply tragic. Is Archie going to be all right?"
"Archie's doing okay," I grumbled.
"Now, now, Sergeant," chided Nanette Rivers, "don't get uptight on us. At least, don't get angry. Michelle is-was-my stepdaughter. I didn't like her. Her father-my husband-didn't like her. She's dead. That part is tragic. But if you think you are going to find weeping willows around here, think again."
"Mrs. Rivers," I said savagely, "I didn't even know the girl, and already I'm feeling sorry for her!"
"You shouldn't," she said calmly. "It had to happen. Michelle courted death. It was her nature. Violent death had to happen to her, you know what I mean?"
"No," I said truthfully.
"Well, it's not important," she shrugged. And then she turned to the girl again. "What do you think, Fran? Is he ripe?"
"Oh, very ripe," giggled the girl.
"A virgin to Three-way Street?"
"That I doubt, but let's find out."
They stepped into me, and I backed off. They stood rooted for a few moments, their breasts heaving and their eyes probing, their mouths curving in hungry smiles. And then Nanette Rivers breathed, "Hey, cop, all we're going to do is have a little fun. You saw us there in the water. That was child's play, warming-up exercises. Now don't tell me you're not a red-blooded, all-American boy. This place already is crawling with queers. And Fran and I prefer men. Isn't that you?"
"Open his trousers, Nanette," said the girl. "Let's look at him."
I went back another step, but Nanette Rivers was on me suddenly. Her warm palms caught my jaws, her damp breasts fit against my chest, and she slammed her pussy against my prick. "Oh, he's man, Fran," she breathed. "That much I can tell without looking at him."
The girl slid around behind me. I felt her large breasts flatten against my back as her hands slid down over my trouser front. The zipper went down and fingers were inside quickly. The fingers freed me.
"Beautiful," bubbled Fran. "Shall I put it in you, Nanette?"
"Nanette lifted a leg and fitted herself on me. "Run, cop," she laughed softly.
And then her mouth found mine and she was breathing fire into me as I entered her. I went in deep and she spread and began a wide circling motion with her hips. Fingers opened my trousers all the way and yanked them down my legs. I felt Fran's lips dancing against the back of my knees and heard her pleased giggle as I pumped.
Nanette slid her mouth from mine. "Baby, you're big," she breathed. Her hands on the back of my head forced my mouth down to a jouncing breast. I captured the nipple in my teeth and she writhed.
Then I felt fingers sliding up inside the leg of my shorts. Behind me, Fran was at work. She cooed and kissed and fondled and the intoxicating explosion hit me fast. I rammed deep and hard into Nanette Rivers as her hip movements became frantic. I chomped down hard on her nipple and her fingernails sliced into my neck skin as she arched herself against me. We went up and up and up and I was only semiconscious of the lips that somehow had worked in under me and now were dancing along my inner thighs. Fran clamped both of her hands against the front of my legs and her tongue became a hot serpent stabbing at me as Nanette and I came together.
When it was finished Nanette and I lurched over to the padded lounge to sprawl together. We continued to cling and we breathed in gasps. We had company immediately. Fran was with us, straddling us, and looking up, all I could see was heavy wriggling thighs and a dancing triangle of wet hair.
Nanette lifted herself and her tongue darted. Fran lurched with Nanette's touch, and then I lurched as I felt Fran's mouth close over me. She fed hungrily as Nanette continued to stab her. New passion flared in me. I arched my hips upward and Fran moaned in heat.
Abruptly she left us. I attempted to clutch her, but she danced away. Nanette dropped back beside me and reached down to grasp me. She held me erect as Fran lowered herself. She was warm and moist and active. Her muscles rippled as she laughed aloud and came down on me. She twisted slightly and her lips found Nanette's breast as I heaved upward.
Fran was big inside. I rammed. For some reason I did not understand, I wanted to hear her cry out. But she remained silent and pumped furiously and-if anything-seemed to grow larger as she settled lower on me. Her body became a hot pit, her movements fluid and accomplished. Her large breasts made circular motions against my front and she never once took her mouth from Nanette, who was now squirming and digging at herself with fingers.
The climax was threefold. I groaned and heaved upward, Fran gurgled and settled down solid on me, our pubic hairs grinding, and Nanette writhed and convulsed and rattled incoherently against her fingers. Somewhere, someone cried out, "Now!" and the juices and passion flowed as our three throbbing bodies lifted to cosmic heights.
Fran was the first to move. She stirred and lifted herself from me, stepped back just inches to remain straddling the longue. "My god," she whispered, "don't you ever go down?" Her breasts heaved and she breathed in gasps.
"In time, doll, " I managed.
"Time?" She looked on Nanette Rivers. "We've got a live one, darling. Do we let him go?" she asked.
Nanette stirred beside me. "Not too far away," she said. "But at the moment, I'm bushed. You keep him entertained while I rest. You're younger."
"Having fun, kiddos?"
The male voice came from far away and behind my head. I arched my neck and saw a tall, slender man standing in a patio doorway. He was dressed in sports attire and he looked as trim and sleek as a movie magnate who had casually walked out for morning breakfast.
Then he was gone suddenly and I was pushing female bodies as I attempted to get my feet under me and my trousers up. "Who the hell was that?" I rasped.
"Only William," said Nanette calmly.
"Her husband," said Fran, moving in. Her hand went inside my trousers. "You don't have to put it away, Adonis. When I catch my wind...."
I moved from her and stared down on Nanette who had not moved from the longue.
"William Darby Rivers," she nodded. "My husband. But he won't bite." Then she cocked her head as if in second thought and smiled crookedly. "Or does he? I'll have to ask someone."
"Honey, he was watching us!" I blurted.
"Sometimes William likes to watch," she nodded. She sat up, swung her legs around to me, sat with her knees spread. "Have you got a cigarette? Fran, see if the man has a cigarette."
Fran's hands danced over my body as if she was searching for gold. "How 'bout a big cigar?" she asked. "He still has that."
"Boy, you're some man, Sergeant," Nanette said, shaking her head in disbelief, "but at the moment I'd like to have a plain old cigarette."
Fran found the crumpled package and a book of matches in my coat pocket and tossed both to Nanette.
Then Fran's hands were back on me. "Don't let William scare you away, Tiger." Her tongue shot into my ear, moved around. Her breasts clamped my arm, her ringers kept on exploring.
I pushed her away and weaved off toward the patio doorway. Behind me, Fran giggled and Nanette laughed softly. And it was Nanette who called out, "Don't spend all night with William, lover. He isn't worth it. I know."
I prowled the first floor of the mansion. No people. Nothing. I found a stairway and went up. There was light, but no noise. I moved along a long corridor, looking inside open doorways. I saw beds and rich appointments, nothing else. And then I heard the hiss of shower water.
I entered the bedroom, stopped. The sound of the water came from behind a closed door opposite me. I looked around the bedroom. It was a woman's bedroom and it looked in perfect order. The bed was made, everything seemed in its proper place, no strewn clothing.
The hissing sound stopped abruptly and I debated. I crossed thick gold carpeting, put an ear against the door. The door was not latched and it swung open, surprising me. The interior of the bath was steamy. And there was a girl. She was facing away from me, jackknifed, one foot on the rim of the shower tub as she worked a huge towel along her leg. She was naked, and she looked flawless. Her hips were wide and taut, the leg muscles smooth and flowing. And from my vantage I could see the outside swell of young rounded breasts as they bobbed with her toweling movement.
She turned abruptly and stared on me, the towel now caught at her belly muscles. She looked in her early twenties. Her ripe breasts lifted and fell in a smooth rhythm. The nipples were large and brown and protruded. She had a cute, tip-tilted nose, a small mouth and eyes that were oblong and a light blue in color. Her hair was dark and piled high on her head.
"Excuse me," I said, backing.
"Hey, don't run!"
I stopped.
"I'm Diane Bowers," she said. "I live here. With my mother. I don't believe we've met."
"Er ... no," I said. "That is, not until this moment."
"Do I bother you?" she asked. "Well...."
"Because I'm nude?"
"Yeah, I guess that's it."
She spread her arms wide, holding the towel away from her body, and looked down her front. Then the blue eyes were on me again. "I'm just a girl," she said, "a nude girl. Surely you've seen one before."
I shrugged, said nothing, and she went back to her toweling. I should have tracked. I didn't. I stood and watched her. She was careful and thorough, a vibrant young girl who looked comfortable and relaxed. Her skin had been tanned lightly by the sun. It cast a rich gleam. All over. She obviously sunbathed in the nude. She dropped the towel, powdered, smiled at me. "There, I feel better. Do you want me to dress? Would you feel more comfortable if-"
"Yeah," I said gruffly, "jump into something."
"I really don't want to," she said. "I came up here to shower and to stretch out naked on the bed. I'm relaxing. Tonight's party was wild. I'm afraid I pooped. I went to sleep out on the lawn and when I came awake I couldn't find anyone. Where did everyone go?"
"Honey," I said, struggling for sense of direction, "how 'bout if you and I have a little chat?"
"Well, sure," she said, but she obviously was puzzled. A tiny frown puckered her brow briefly before she reached up behind the bath door and took down a pale yellow see-through blouse and bright yellow skimmers. She came out of the bath, and I backed.
I seemed to amuse her. A smile flickered in the corners of her lips and the blue eyes laughed briefly as she moved past me. My eyes became riveted on the natural play of her hips as she went to the bed. She turned and looked at me head on.
"I'll make a deal," she said. "If I don't have to put on clothing you can stay and talk."
She dropped the blouse and skimmers and bounced up into the middle of the bed. Her breasts jounced and I felt new fires fight inside me. She found two pillows and propped them together at the head of the bed and then she turned and put her spine against the pillows. She cocked her left knee and propped her right ankle across it.
"Now," she said, "let's chat." I stood rooted.
"Come on over here," she said, patting the bed beside her. "Sit, relax. Let's get to know each other. I like you. You look my type. Durable. But I don't understand why we haven't met before. I mean, if you were at the party, why-"
"I wasn't at the party," I said, gathering strength.
I went to the bed, sat near her bare hip. My blood was rolling and my tool was jumping, but I attempted to keep a cool mind. "I'm a cop," I said without looking directly at her. "A police detective. My name is Matt Law."
"I see," she said. But she didn't see anything. "Why are you here?"
I told her and she shot straight up into a sitting position and clamped her knees. The blue eyes were round and suddenly unblinking. "Michelle dead?" she said in disbelief.
I explained.
"Good god," she breathed, "Michelle dead." She sat back again. The blue eyes hung on me. "It's ... difficult to accept," she said. "Earlier tonight, just a few hours ago...." She let the words hang, shook her head and chewed on her lower lip.
"Earlier tonight?" I probed.
"Nothing," she said.
"Something."
"Well, just a few hours ago Michelle and I were ... together. We...." she stopped again, chewed.
"How 'bout if we level all the way, honey?"
She made a quick decision. "All right," she nodded. "Why not? If I shock you, Sergeant, bust me. A few hours ago Michelle and I were in bed together. It was before the party got under way. We showered together and then we went to bed. We like sex. And when there are no men around we often go to bed together. We are not related, you understand. My mother is married to Michelle's father."
"Nanette is your mother?" I said without thinking.
Diane frowned. "I guess you have met Mother."
"And someone named Fran Nature," I admitted. "I ... er, ran into them down at the pool."
"We're sex liberals, Sergeant."
"You're something," I admitted.
"And you're the Establishment, aren't you? Immediately you are condemning us. Well, go ahead and condemn. See who gives a razz. Sit there with a penis that's jumping around like a French fry in hot grease and condemn."
"Baby-"
"Shut up. You've made me angry."
"And you're gettin' to me just a wee bit, too."
"So let's both take a couple of seconds and cool, huh? I don't want to be angry with you. I'm not sure why, but for some reason I want to like you, Matthew Law-even if you are Establishment."
I clammed. I sat and I wrestled with the confusion. I attempted to put the day straight in my mind. There was a wet grave, my friend being lowered into it. There was a widow with knots inside her, a widow I had taken to bed as if she had been a familiar sleeping partner. There had been a death, a young girl who had choked to death on sex. There had been a women and a girl on a swimming pool apron. There were people who didn't seem to care if a girl had died, people with singular lust-personal gratification. And now there was another young girl, a young girl with an aversion to clothing and mores who, at the moment, was angry with me because ... Because why?
I looked on her. She returned the stare. Finally she said, "We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot Hand me my clothing. I'll dress."
"No." I shook my head. "I like you naked," I said truthfully.
"Well ... all right. Do we still talk?"
"We talk."
"About Michelle?"
"She'll do. Who was she with tonight?"
"Do you mean at the party? Everyone, naturally. Michelle was a mover. She didn't have any special boyfriends or girlfriends. She bounced. You know what I mean?"
I knew.
"And she probably had sex with four or five different people during the evening."
"People, huh?"
"Men and women." Diane shrugged. "Sex was sex with her. She had to have it, and she'd take it where she could get it."
"You?"
"Me?" Her eyebrows arched. "You and sex?"
"Oh ... well, I prefer men, naturally, but sometimes when I'm hot ... well, I doubt if you would understand."
"There's a helluva lot of things around here I don't understand," I admitted.
"Michelle and I had a closeness."
"Know something, honey? You're the first person I've talked to who seems to give a damn about Michelle."
"I know," she nodded. "Most people didn't like her; they used her, that's all. She was gullible and ... wild. I guess that's the right word. She didn't just get hot, she was wild. Everything went with her. And people didn't like her because she never formed an attachment for just one person. In a sense, she was cold, too. You know what I mean?"
"You said you and Michelle...."
"That was different. And if was only when we were alone together, when we were here in the house and no one else was around. It would come on us sometimes. One of us would get hot and ... well, one thing led to another. We'd start playing with each other and ... you know."
"I understand her father wasn't exactly a member of her fan club."
"Daddy is a creep," Diane Bowers said without emotion. "He is a rich creep, which is why people tolerate and amuse and bend to him, but he remains a creep. He didn't like Michelle because she wouldn't go to bed with him. He used to infer that she really wasn't his daughter, that she was the product of a another man, but that was a lot of hooey. Michelle did a lot of things in her short life, but one thing she never did was go to bed with her own father."
"How 'bout you and ... er, Daddy?"
Her blue eyes lit with a flash of anger as she shot an oblique glance at me. "Once," she said, "I was in bed with him. Actually, it was more like rape. He came here to my room in the night while everyone was asleep. I didn't want him, but I didn't scream, either. Mother walked in on us and whacked him across the balls with a book. It was the last time he ever forced himself on me-although there have been times since when he has suggested, practically pleaded."
"Why do you still live here?"
"Because Mother does."
"Why does she still live here?"
"Because Daddy is rich and has libertine friends and Mother is libertine. If Mother wasn't rich, she'd be a whore."
"Having money puts things on a different plane, huh?"
"You can look at it that way if you want to. I don't give a razz. You said you met her. So you should know her. Mother moves fast. And you met Fran. I'll bet they were together. Did you join the fun and games?"
"Baby...."
"Ahh, you did. You don't have to lie to me, Matt Law. I know Mother, I know Fran Nature, and I know men. So don't sit there and look down your short hairs on us."
"Honey," I sighed, "let's get back to earlier tonight. To your friend Michelle and the party. Who was she with?"
"I told you. Everyone."
"How 'bout Archie Table?"
"No. Archie is strictly a twilighter. Archie does not allow women to touch him."
"Tommy Polar?"
Diane nodded. "Sure. Michelle and Tommy usually got together at every party. Tommy is a large man, very large in the right place, and Michelle liked that. On the other side of the fence, Tommy liked Michelle's special little tricks. She was an expert in the hand job and with the tongue, Sergeant."
"Voice of experience speaking, eh?"
"Quit chipping at me about my sex life. It's mine. I can do with it what I want."
"Honey, someone killed your friend Michelle."
"So you say."
"So I have to pick."
"Pick away, but quit chipping."
"Who killed her?"
"How do I know?"
"It was a man. That much we're pretty sure of."
"It'd be a little bit odd-biologically-if it was a woman, wouldn't it? I mean, you said there was semen...."
"Someone at the party," I plodded on. "That is if what everyone tells me about Archie Table is true."
"Michelle could have forced herself on him if he was driving," Diane speculated. "That isn't entirely out of the realm of possibility. And it was something she might do. She liked to tease fags, make them squirm. She could have done that with Archie. I wouldn't ever say she didn't."
"And he lost control of his car."
"It could've happened that way, yes."
"But during the party, did you see her with anyone other than Polar?"
"I didn't see them together. I merely was speculating. I assume that sometime during the evening they went to bed together. They usually did at every party. And, yes, I' did see her with another man, two other men, but that's where it has to end, Sergeant. Because I didn't-and don't know the men. They probably were freeloaders, someone who came here with someone. It happens all the time."
It had to be asked, so I asked it: "Could Daddy have forced himself on Michelle tonight?"
"He could have," she nodded, "but I doubt that he did. He rarely pays any attention to any of us in the family when there's a party. He has his own friends on those nights."
"What kind of friends?"
She shrugged. "Odds and ends. He's a mover, too. Michelle came by her roaming naturally."
"And you? Are you also a mover?"
"Damn you, you're chipping again."
"Like hell. I want to know."
"What do you want to know?"
"Are you a mover?"
"Why is it important to you? Are you interested in me? Special?"
"I'm investigating a murder, goddammit-and I have to know about anyone who might be involved."
"Oh, I thought maybe you were developing a special interest in me. I thought you might want to go to bed with me."
"Knock it."
"Zowie, sometimes you do flare. It must be your job. Have you ever thought about not being a cop?"
"I've thought plenty."
"But not enough, obviously. Are you married?"
"No."
"Maybe you should get married. Maybe it'd settle your nerve ends."
"Baby," I said, seeking patience, "I want to know about you and the party. You told me you went to sleep on the lawn, came awake, came up here to shower and go to bed. You didn't know Michelle was dead, so that means no one bothered to tell you or you didn't see anyone after you came awake."
"I didn't see anyone."
"Weren't you curious about where everyone had gone?"
"Sure, but I assumed most had cut and those who hadn't were off in bedrooms enjoying themselves."
"How come you went to sleep on the lawn in the first place?"
"I smoked too much grass. It makes me hungry and sleepy. I found something to eat and then I went outside to rest my eyeballs."
"You're on narco?"
"Please, Sergeant. I said grass. Marijuana. I like it. Not often. But I like it. Now, I suppose you're going to bust me for that."
"No," I said, standing. "It's your body."
"That it is," she said, preening slightly, arching the sculptured breasts and looking down on herself. "Where are you going?"
"To find William Darby Rivers. He's why I'm here. I saw him outside, I followed him into the house, but I lost him. I think I want to talk to him-perhaps for the remainder of the night."
"I'll bet he didn't kill Michelle," she said, continuing to preen. She put her hands under her breasts and lifted them as if in offering to herself. She made little sucking noises as she looked down and tweaked the nippled alive with her fingers. "Nice?" she asked, looking up at me suddenly.
I was hard and she saw me. "Nice," she grinned, dropping the breasts and rolling up on an elbow toward me. She reached out and caught my trouser front. "Very nice," she breathed, the blue eyes narrowing and the light in them changing. "Don't go," she said. "Stay with me. Daddy will keep, but what I've got boiling up inside won't. I'm hot now and ... Michelle is dead."
"Baby...."
"Take off your clothes," she demanded. "I do believe you are as large as Tommy Polar. Maybe larger."
I should have tracked down William Darby Rivers. I should have made my feet move and walked out of that bedroom and left the naked and flawless young girl to stew in her own juices. But I didn't. My body chemistry was in command again. Body over mind, as they say. I disrobed while Diane Bowers lay back and took in all of me without missing a movement. When I was naked, she smiled and said, "Stand there. I want to look at you. Zowie, you are a man!"
I didn't stand anywhere. I plunged. And she giggled and attempted to roil away from me. I captured her. She wanted to play. She pushed against me with her palms, but I held her and I slammed my mouth down against her young lips. She struggled for a few moments, and then her mood changed. She settled low in the bed and began pulling at me as our bodies blended. She was fire and smoothness and tiny noises deep in her throat. I attempted to mount her immediately, but she kept her thighs clamped.
She may have been young, but she was experienced. No quick plunges for her. She was after mileage. She liked to build. She liked to tease a little, then let herself go, swim right up to the edge, and then draw on a secret reserve and simmer down slightly to begin all over again.
I turned her up on her side and she crawled against me. Her pelvis moved in jerks against my front as her tongue became a hot tantalizer, darting and sliding, dipping in deep and then withdrawing quickly. I caught her fresh buttock and held her tight against me. She brought a leg up my body, inching her knee up to my shoulder. The juncture was wide and inviting and dancing now as she wrenched her lips from my mouth. She pulled back her head. Her face was caught up in passion. Her blue eyes were hooded and glinting.
"Let me up on my knees," she whispered. "Get ... I behind me." ;
I fitted myself against her juncture. She was hot and damp and writhing. With the touch, she groaned and her eyelids closed down. White teeth clamped hard on her lower lip and I wrenched her up on top of me. It felt as if I'd entered a hot pit. And she knew how to travel. She kept her hips high and she moved fast, never allowing me to penetrate fully. Her breasts bounced frantically and her eyes rolled halfway back into her head.
"Now!" I hissed as I felt a new swelling burst alive inside me.
"In a second...." she breathed.
But there were no seconds left as I grabbed her hips and brought her down hard against me. Heat and moisture splashed between us and there was a loud sucking sound and then we were rolling on the 'bed. She was under me and I kept pumping. Her eyes widened abruptly and I knew she was having difficulty believing. But she settled and began fluid movements that carried us quickly up on her shoulders. Then she cried out in pleasure and her legs shot straight up and became stiff as she shuddered and clutched while I felt her spasms join my own climax.
I attempted to roll from her, but she hung on and rolled with me. We were breathing hard, perspiring. I remained in her. The blue eyes were in focus now and she smiled as she darted and pecked kisses against my face and mouth. "I've had men," she said, "but I've never had a man until now."
I could believe her, or I didn't have to. I chose to believe her as she squirmed her body against mine. She pulled back her head and looked deep into my eyes. "I want you to go in from behind," she breathed. "Will you?"
I'm already in, baby," I reminded her.
"But from behind," she insisted. "It's the way I like it I don't know why. Maybe it's the animal in me, but it's the way I like it best."
"Then on your knees, pet," I told her.
She was like a child whose fondest dream had materialized. She lifted her leg and slid from me to go up on her knees and elbows. Her smooth hips were high and I got up to squat behind her. She reached back between her thighs and captured me. She gurgled. She was in command now and she fitted me expertly. Her spine curved with my lunge and then we settled into slow movement as I reached down to capture her swinging breasts.
"Good," she breathed. "So very good...."
Her hips went higher and small gasps came from her with each stroke. I moved slowly, drawing almost out to removal and then sliding in deep. She wriggled and made tiny sounds and her hips begged. Then a tremor ran through her and she got up on her hands. "Fast now!" she low-cried.
I put an arm across the back of her neck, forcing her head down and her hips up, and I thrust hard to meet her challenge. She reached back with a hand between her spread thighs and stroked. I drew far out and stopped. She cried out and her fingers went around me and she worked me savagely, keeping me just inside her. I exploded and she went down flat on her face and breasts where we writhed and squirmed until it was finished for her.
I left her, flopped onto my back. She didn't move for a long time and I thought she might be dozing, but when I got up on my elbows she flipped and was on me instantly. "Don't you go away!" she hissed. "You turn me on!"
She slid up on top of me and spread wide to fit herself.
She moved down until she was at the end of the line. And then she wriggled and squirmed and worked her legs until they were closed tight and inside mine. She settled on me, her hair ticking my nostrils and her fingertips working against my rib cage. She put her cheek on my chest and breathed, "Good. You feel so good."
She had youth, and I had stamina. But I wasn't going to find a killer flat on my back, either. I attempted to explain, but all she did was sigh and settle lower. "You can't go until you get soft," she said.
"At this rate, doll, that may be never," I told her truthfully.
I rolled her onto her back. Her legs worked and she suddenly was wide again. She brought them up high as I started to leave her. She said nothing, but her eyes were very blue and bright now and she was waiting. I debated and then sighed and hooked my arms in under her thighs and put her on her neck. I went so deep she grunted before she began to climb against me. The climax was quick and mutual. I dug in with my toes and she dug in with her nails.
Finally I was away from her. She didn't move on the bed as I staggered around the room seeking my clothing. I dressed with my blood still running fast and my heart pounding. Only when I was at the door did she speak. "Will you come back?" she asked.
Does a glutton turn down food? But I didn't answer her. I went out of the room and down the stairway. And for some crazy reason I suddenly was remembering Cora Ayers. For some crazy reason I didn't want Cora Ayers to know about this night. I stopped and dug out a handkerchief and cleaned my mouth. I couldn't remember if Nanette Rivers or Fran Nature or Diane Bowers had been wearing makeup, but I wasn't taking chances, either. Cora was not to know.
"Did you find what you were looking for upstairs, Sergeant?" a familiar male voice asked.
William Darby Rivers stood in a doorway of a large room off to the left of the stairway. He was smirking. To his left and slightly behind him was a pale man who was going stout and thinning at the hairline. He looked unhappy and not quite sure why he was alive.
I pocketed the handkerchief and went on down the steps. Rivers, still wearing the smug, stuck out a hand. "It's time we met, I think," he said. "You've screwed my wife, and I assume you have just left Diane's bed."
He was lucky. Any other man I might have smashed. But Rivers was not a man, not worth the effort. I wasn't sure what he was, but I knew one thing: I wasn't going to soil myself by touching or hitting him. I ignored his handshake.
The smirk grew. He nodded briefly to the man behind him.
"Harold Boswell, my friend, Sergeant. Will you shake his hand?"
Boswell didn't want to shake, and he had company. "Your daughter was killed tonight, Rivers," I snarled.
"I know," he nodded. "I was just going downtown to claim her."
"I'm surprised you've found the time."
"Sergeant," he said, remaining pleasant in tone, "if you insist on being impertinent I shall have to have your ass at City Hall. I can. After all, you've invaded my home, screwed my wife, my stepdaughter. I think that could be called invasion of privacy-or something. But, frankly, I'm not interested in cleaning up on you, I'm interested in cleaning up this ugly little mess and disposing of it. Quickly."
"And I'm interested in getting the hell out of here," I snarled.
He bowed and swept an arm toward the front door. "Be my guest."
I was, and it was a long time before I cooled. I found myself tooling across the city. I didn't remember leaving the Rivers place. I pulled in to the curb and sat pounding the steering wheel while my thoughts churned and began to make sense. I'd blown the investigation. Crowder was going to have my tail. But it couldn't be righted now. I was in no mood or frame of mind. Rivers was on me. If I'd remained in his presence, attempted to take him in, I'd have smashed him, brought walls down on my own skull and the department's. I couldn't stomach the dude. Just the thought of him made my blood run fast and my anger mount.
I didn't want to talk about him. Even to Crowder. I knew his kind had to exist but even though I had seen him in the flesh I had difficulty believing. I had to have time to cool, straighten my mind.
I drove to my apartment. The front curtains were drawn but there was subdued light behind them. Did that mean Cora Ayers was still up there-or had she merely left a light on for me when she had come to her senses and departed?
I went up slowly. There was no need for hurry. It was four-thirty in the morning, and Cora would be gone.
She was there. In my front room. She sat in my deep chair. She was naked. She sat with her heels drawn up and planted against the cushion. Her feet were spread wide and her knees together. A magazine was propped against her thighs and she looked out over the tips of those knees from behind black-rimmed glasses. Her lips were coated with gold, the makeup fresh and glistening. Her exposed cunt looked drawn together and tight.
"Well," she said, almost mockingly, "don't just stand there." She swept off the glasses and laughed gently. "Kiss me."
She was like a magnet. I went to her and got down on my knees and twisted my head and kissed her.
"Now I know it's you," she said softly.
She dropped her feet from the chair as I lifted my head. I gaped at her. The nipples of her breasts were painted gold and a painted golden peace symbol on her belly was dotted by her navel.
She laughed softly again. "What do you think?"
I said nothing. I couldn't say anything.
She said, "I used my coat and I took a cab. I went home, got some things, returned. I even managed to run up some gold lipstick. I had to wake up a friend to do that, of course, but she didn't mind. Now ... what do you think?"
I took her ankles and pulled her out of the chair. She giggled and her fingers moved into my hair and began working as I kissed her symbol.
"Peace," she breathed.
Or perhaps she meant "Piece."
CHAPTER FOUR
The shower was hot and brought a pink glow to Cora's skin. We soaped each other slowly and savoringly, kissing and exploring and playing as if we were kids. Her fingers were like tiny electric currents picking at my body. Wherever she touched, I tingled. Finally I wrapped her in my arms, brought her spine and buttocks against my front, and held her under the shower stream. She put her head back and her blonde hair hung down over my shoulder as I gently fastened my teeth on her skin. I felt the tremors ripple through her.
"Good, Matt," she breathed.
"Yeah," I mumbled.
"I never want to leave."
"You're thinking 'bout going for a walk in the park maybe?" I kidded. I brought my hands up to her breasts.
She put her hands on top of mine. I felt pressure from her buttocks. "I mean I want to live here with you."
"Sure," I nodded, continuing to nuzzle. But inside my skull an image had clicked into place. I saw the face of Fletcher Ayers. I couldn't rid myself of him. And somehow, the expression on his face seemed caught between surprise and contempt.
I took my mouth from the dead Fletcher's wife and turned her. She leaned back slightly from the waist, her pelvis fitting tight against me. Her eyes unblinking now and asked questions. "What is it?"
I attempted to play it light. I leaned forward and kissed her. But she put me off and remained curious. "Matt, what are you thinking?"
"Nothing."
"You're hedging," she said. "What have I done? What have I said? ... Oh." Teeth caught her lower Up. She clamped for a moment and then she said, "Was it that bit about my living with you? Does the idea frighten you? Are you that much of a bachelor?"
"Yeah, maybe that's it," I said, still attempting to keep it light.
But she was dead serious. "Are you remembering Fletch again?" she asked.
I said nothing, bent, kissed her neck.
"You are," she said from above me. Her arms went around me and she lifted her front to me. "Oh, Matt," she cried out, "how can I convince you that Fletcher is dead, that what we have found between us is right and natural, that last night, today, have been, and are, beautiful hours for me? We're good for each other, Matt!"
"I know, baby," I said gruffly, lowering my head and darting to kiss the brown tips of her breasts.
She caught those breasts and held them for me. "Then don't be afraid of what we have found together," she breathed.
I rolled a nipple with my tongue and she squirmed to feed me. She lowered an arm and brought a palm up under my stiffness. She clasped expertly. "I never had any of this with Fletch," she whispered. "We made love, yes, but what we had was different. And I'm forgetting all of it very quickly, darling. It seems as if Fletcher was a hundred years ago. Can you understand?"
I didn't, but at the moment I wasn't even going to try. Because her palm was working vigorously now and her body had heated and she was attempting to work her pelvis into me. I straightened and lifted her out of the tub. She reclasped me immediately and we left the bath to drip water all the way to the bed. At the edge she turned me and pushed me down into a sitting position. Then she straddled my legs and moved in close to me as her hand continued to work. Her breasts bobbed vigorously at my eyes. And I wanted her. I slid a finger up into her golden cunt as I attempted to lift my hips up to her.
"Just before we come...." she hissed, her hand moving faster.
"There's no time!" I managed.
The swelling inside me was moving. I could feel it gathering force and surging up along my shaft.
She was quick. She fitted herself on me just as my climax burst and she slid down me with a long groan. We became clamped and rotted, the lone movement the spasms that passed through us.
And then she snapped my head up and her lips slammed down on mine. They spread wide and our tongues clashed in the long kiss as I went back on the bed and took her with me. She came up on her knees and her hips took on a new, almost frantic motion. She pumped hard and deep. She was using me now. My blood-gorged pole of muscle was a tool of pleasure for her. Matthew Law was forgotten; the tool was all that existed for her.
She sat up. Her mouth was drawn, her eyes rolled up and out of focus, her hips flailed me. She reached out with both hands. Our palms met, our fingers became interlocked. And it was as if she had found new support. Her hips moved faster, her breasts jounced and inarticulate sounds came from her throat. Finally she cried out and exploded in a frenzy of movement.
She spilled from me. I rolled with her, remained inside her. But she was unconscious, her eyes closed down and her breathing in gasps. I kissed her. I kept my mouth on her lips until I felt her stir. The eyelids popped open. She shuddered, got me in focus, and she knew. Her hands came to me and clasped. She returned the kiss. A long time later I removed myself from her slowly.
"Lordy," she breathed, "I can't believe you-and I can't get enough of you. What am I to do?" Her hand cradled me; she squeezed softly. "I feel weird. I don't ever want to put on clothing again. I want to remain naked forever. What's come over me? Why do I feel this way, Matthew?"
"It'll pass," I grinned.
She remained somber. "No." She shook her blonde head. "I don't want it to pass. I want to remain naked and with you forever."
"Sooner or later we've got to eat, babe," I teased.
"You can eat me, and I'll eat you," she said. "Well be food for each other."
"Now the true you is coming out, huh? You're a cannibal, is that what you're telling me?"
"I'm telling you, Matthew Law, that I think I love you. It's crazy, I know, but I think I might have been in love with you for a long time and didn't know it."
"Yeah, baby, that part is crazy," I nodded. And it was.
"Don't laugh at me."
"I'm not."
"Well, why can't I love you?"
"This is sex, baby. Nothing more."
"Sex is part of love."
"Sure, but-"
"Sex is a natural act."
"You also can have sex without love," I informed her.
"But can you have love without sex?"
"Well ... I doubt it."
"We're good in sex, Matthew Law."
"No hang-ups," I admitted.
"And right now, this instant, hanging on to your penis, I feel as if it's the most normal act in the world. It's not dirty or obscene or-"
"I get your point, doll."
"It's a sex act, and it's natural."
"So it seems."
"I love you, Matthew Law."
"Baby-"
The jangle of the phone ripped at us. I stiffened and Cora jerked. But her hand continued to hold me. "Don't answer it," she said. "I remember last night. You had to go away from me last night."
"It's only one o'clock in the afternoon, honey," I reminded her. 'I'm not due at headquarters until this evening-and nobody from there will be calling me in this early. Not even Lieutenant Crowder."
I started to turn from her. She continued to hold me. She shook her head. Her eyes pleaded. "No. Let it ring."
I debated. The jangle continued. The caller was patient. And the creepy feeling began to move over me. The rings took on an echo of urgency.
"No, Matt," Cora said softly. She wriggled down the bed and her mouth found me.
New fires flashed alive inside me. I caught her head, held her. I didn't want her to quit. Her lips were damp and warm, her tongue flashed. She shifted up on her knees and her head began to bob. The fires flashed out through my body.
The phone continued to ring....
I tore myself from her and rolled from the bed before she could recapture me. I stood panting and looking down at her. She remained on her hands and knees, staring up at me, the eyes wide and the lips parted, her face caught in an expression of not understanding.
It took all of my willpower to turn from her. I pounded out into the front room and swept up the phone receiver.
"Sergeant Law?"
The voice was vaguely familiar, but I could not place the owner. "Yeah?" I growled.
"Ask Tommy Polar who killed Michelle Rivers," said the voice.
"Who is this?" I demanded.
"Just ask Tommy," said the voice.
And then there was a click in my ear and I was left standing with a dead phone receiver in my hand. I scowled down at it, attempting to place the voice. Nothing clicked into place in my mind. I put the phone together and stood scowling.
"Darling?"
Cora had left the bed. She stood framed in the doorway. She came to me, her head cocked slightly. She put her body against my front. "What is it?" she asked.
I left her, went to the deep chair, sat on .the edge, searched my mind for the owner of the voice. Cora got down on her knees before me, reached with both hands to clasp me. "Are you going to be leaving me again?" Her eyes searched mine and then she answered her own question. She nodded, "I think you are."
I put on a crooked grin for her and kissed her lips. "You're a wench," I said. "A sexy, desirable wench."
"I like to feel you," she said simply. "Are you going to leave me?"
"To make a phone call," I said.
"Who are you going to call?"
"Crowder. It's business, hon."
"I don't like business," she pouted, her fingers beginning to do tricks. "Business interrupts."
I stood up, kept the grin. "Hey, none of that. You're getting serious again."
"I'm dead serious about you, Matt," she nodded from the sitting position on the floor. "You bring out every ounce of woman I ever thought I had inside me. And you want me. Look at you. Not hard. Not soft. You want."
I felt myself begin to grow immediately and I turned from her. I went to the phone, risked a look over my shoulder. She still sat on the floor, her long legs curled back against her buttocks now, her breasts moving temptingly with her breathing as she sat with her spine straight and the gray-green eyes rooted on me.
I attempted to shake my mind around to police work, and I called Crowder at his home. He was not happy with me. "How come you didn't come in with Rivers this morning?" he bawled.
"I was afraid I'd hit him," I said truthfully.
"He's all creep," Crowder admitted, "but you didn't fill out a report, either."
"I didn't have anything to report."
"Damnit, Law, that isn't the way our department operates!"
"Okay, so I screwed up. Lieutenant, If I had stayed in his presence, I think I would have mashed him. But forget him for the moment. I just got a call from some dude who wouldn't identify himself...."
I told Crowder about the call, and he snapped, "Who is Tommy Polar?"
I told him. And then I said, "I want to check him out this afternoon. Is it okay for me to drive out to this club and-"
"Get with it," Crowder interrupted.
"And how 'bout putting a tracer on my phone, just in case I get another call?"
"Right. I'll have people there within the hour."
Cora was not pleased when I put the phone together. "Why do you have to go this afternoon?" she pouted. "You said you're not supposed to go to work until this evening."
"This may be important, honey."
"Are you going to tell me why it's so important?"
"No."
She clamped her lips briefly. I knew she wanted to snap. But she remained clammed. She had been a cop's wife once. She knew.
Then she trailed me into the bedroom. "Get into some clothing," I told her. "We've got some phone men coming here."
"I can't," she said. "I don't have any clothing here. We ripped up my dress, remember?"
"But you went out early this morning."
"In my coat, I told you. And I didn't pick up any clothing. I don't want clothing. I want to remain naked."
"Honey, we've got men coming here," I said, failing to keep all of the edge out of my voice.
"Can't I remain in the bedroom with the door closed?"
"Well...."
"It's that or leave now," she said.
She was abruptly challenging me. She was unmoving, and her chin jutted a little, and her eyes bored. She suddenly was waiting. I could throw her out or I could keep her. It was decision time for me.
"Okay," I said gruffly, turning to my clothing, "you stay in the bedroom."
She came to me then. She was loose again, almost sultry in her pleasure. She went up on her tiptoes and kissed me lightly on the cheek, and then she grinned. "I feel good," she said softly. "I won a round."
I slapped her playfully on her bare rump and she spun from me to prance to the bed. She lay back across its width and cocked her heels on the edge. She was up on her elbows and she watched me dress from between her lifted knees. There was a cat smile curving her lips now and once she impishly stuck out her tongue at me.
Finally she asked, "How long will I have to wait for your return this time?"
"I don't know," I said truthfully.
"All afternoon and all night?"
"Babe, I've got work to do."
"All right," she nodded, her mood sobering. "I understand, Matthew."
She lay back and I couldn't see her face as I flashed her a look. Her knees remained up and spread. I went to her, kissed the top of each knee, and then knotted my tie.
"I think this is going to be a long Tuesday," she said.
The phone boys were experts. They were quick in their work. After they departed, I opened the bedroom door. Cora lay propped against the headboard of the bed, a magazine planted against her bare thighs, the glasses on her nose again. She looked at me over the top of the glasses. "Are you going to leave now?"
"I have to."
"Sure," she nodded. But her eyes continued to challenge.
I went to her. She spread slightly. I bent and kissed her special spot. Her hand came down, her fingers curled in my hair, and I felt the ripples begin to come alive inside her.
I got out while I could.
Driving across the city, I was restless in my mind, my thoughts scrambled between Cora Ayers and the weird death of Michelle Rivers, the people involved, the anonymous telephone call. Who had been on the other end of the line? The voice had been male. And obviously, the caller was someone who knew I was investigating.
The familiar ring of that voice bugged me. I couldn't place the owner and yet I was positive I had heard that same voice within the last twenty-four hours, probably had stood face to face with the owner. Could the voice have belong to Archie Table? It didn't seem likely. Archie's voice leaned to falsetto. My caller had not. On the other hand, perhaps Archie Table had the knack to turn on and turn off the falsetto. I needed to know.
Maybe the caller had been Tommy Polar. But that hardly made sense since the caller had intimated that Polar was responsible for Michelle Rivers' death-unless Polar was attempting to toss me a red herring. Was Polar attempting to guide me away from the killer by turning me to himself? Who would Polar be protecting? Archie Table?
William Darby Rivers was a candidate. William Darby Rivers was a warped man. He could have a warped sense of humor. So far, the death of his daughter seemed almost a joke to him, so why not make light of the hunt for her killer? It was Rivers' kind of thinking, in my opinion. Of course, William Darby Rivers might also have some kind of beef going with Tommy Polar. Polar was a stud, if I could believe Diane Bowers. Polar had had Michelle often while-it was said-her father lusted. Was it possible that jealousy was involved?
And there was a man named Harold Boswell. Who was he, and where, exactly, did he fit with Rivers and the clan?
I hit a red light and sat shaking my head in consternation. Why did the death of Michelle Rivers have to happen to me just at the time I was discovering my Golden Girl? The thought of Cora Ayers turned me on. I felt my groin stir, and I shifted on the car seat. Cora was everything I had ever imagined her to be in my wildest dreams. And she had got to me fast. Nor was I sure where we were going. Obviously she could not remain naked and holed up in my apartment forever. But what was to happen when we both returned to normalcy? What was to happen when we awakened some morning and both of us had regained our senses? Would she merely leave my bed, put on her coat, and walk out my door, never to return? Or was that morning ever to arrive?
There was marriage, of course. Cora Ayers and I could marry....
I shook myself and crossed the intersection on the green light and stepped on the gas as the avenue opened in front of me. Traffic had thinned now. I was out where there were trees and other green things. I turned into a boulevard. The tennis club was only a couple of miles away.
I thought about marriage. I thought about Cora Ayers and I speaking vows together, living together forever. I thought about awakening with a new day, leaving the bed, clothing our bodies, eating breakfast at a small table, looking out a small kitchen window on a green backyard, the backyard of a fresh white bungalow where the flowers were bright in color and the grass was sculptured and glistened in sunshine, and there was a charcoal burner, and webbed outdoor chairs, and perhaps even a little fish pond.
I thought about turning back into the kitchen, to fin Cora at the sink, her back to me as she rinsed the dishes She would be shapely in the thin, cotton housedress, content in her chore, relaxed in our new-found comfort. And she would be desirable. So desirable as she stood there, rinsing the dishes and not even looking at me. I would cross the kitchen and move my palms up the outside of her golden thighs, taking the dress high with the movement. And her buttocks would be naked and inviting and perhaps twitching slightly. And she would murmur and put back her head as I fitted myself against her.
She would forget the dishes, but she would not turn to me. Rather, she would arch slowly and wait for my invasion. And then, when I was inside her, she would settle on me and we would be true lovers....
A rattle escaped my throat and I almost climbed the back of a dented sedan that had stopped to make a left turn in front of me. I cruised around the sedan. I was hard. I took my foot from the accelerator and coasted. I had to accept. Cora Ayers was inside me deep.
The tennis club was a widespread layout of tailored grass, yellow cabanas, white courts, long swimming pool, and bar and professional shop off to the right of the courts. Inside the pro shop I was told Tommy Polar might be at the bar, but the bartender shook his black head and told me to try the courts. I scanned the flat slabs of glistening concrete, the tanned bodies sliding like crabs across the surfaces as the tiny white balls snapped back and forth between competitors. No Polar. I returned to the pro shop and again asked for the club professional.
I could try Mr. Polar's quarters-but Mr. Polar normally did not like to be disturbed.
Polar wouldn't mind today. I was a friend. Where were the quarters?
Well ... I could try the far end of the left row of cabanas.
I cut across the swimming pool area to save steps-and they swarmed down on me as if they were vultures and I were raw rabbit. Nanette Rivers clamped one arm and fitted her breasts around my left biceps, and Fran Nature clasped the other arm to trap my right biceps. They were bubbly and prancy and cannibalistic. Nanette picked at my left earlobe with white teeth and Fran bobbed her lips across my right cheek while drawing my palm into her crotch.
I put them off with a growl and stared around the pool. No one seemed to be paying any particular attention to us, but I felt as if I was on display. Nanette clasped my arm again. "Hi, big man," she chortled. "Wow, are we glad to see you. Today has been a bore. Strictly Dullsville. I mean until now."
On the other side of me, Fran Nature bubbled, "You must be psychic, Mr. Law. Just a few seconds ago I was remembering how large you are and then I look up-and there you are!"
She wore a black bikini. It was little more than two strips of black cloth; it covered nothing. Her breasts spilled out and her womanhood bulged. Nanette was in pink. Two more strips. Her breasts buds were alive and there was a shallow crevice that disappeared down into the juncture of her thighs.
"I'm looking for Tommy Polar," I managed.
"Oh, come on now," chided Nanette, "We know you're not one of those kind."
"He wants Tommy when he can have us?" Fran Nature giggled. She stepped into me again, rammed her breasts against my chest. "Why?" she challenged.
I moved away from her. "I want Polar," I growled.
"Tommy is down the line, in one of the cabanas," said Nanette. "Fran, do you remember the number?"
"I think it's sixty-nine," she giggled.
"Be serious," Nanette laughed.
"Okay. Twenty-five."
Nanette nodded and hooked her arm in mine. "Come Sergeant," she said. "We'll lead you."
Fran moved in from the right to also hang on. I attempted to shake them off. "I can find it."
But they were firm. They stuck to me. "Not without us," said Nanette. She looked around my front. "Right, Fran?"
"He needs a guide," she nodded.
They marched me along the pool apron until a voice called out. "Hey, what about me?"
We stopped and turned. She was a long, lithe-looking Negro girl in a white bikini and stretched out on a blue lounge chair. She swung her feet down to the apron and stood. She towered. She was lean in muscle, narrow in hip, near-flat in chest-and she had the longest fingers I had ever seen.
She came to us, almost insolent in manner. She walked with her hips thrust forward as if offering her pelvis. Her thick lips had been painted white and white polish gleamed from the nails of her fingers and toes. Her eyes were large and round, the white circle around her black pupils wide. Those eyes danced over me speculatively.
Nanette squeezed me. "Kit," she said to the black girl, "meet Law-in name and profession."
The black girl did not smile. Her dark eyes remained inquisitive. It was as if I were something she might step on if stepping suddenly became her whim.
Instinctively, I did not like her.
She looked at Nanette. "Where are you going?"
"To find Tommy."
"Sergeant Law wants him," giggled Fran Nature from my other side.
The black eyes were back on me. She investigated up and down. "What for?" she asked bluntly.
"Oh, not for what you're thinking, Kit darling," Nanette laughed. "Sergeant Law is man, all man, believe me."
"That right?" the black girl asked, continuing to stare at me. But now her eyes were probing mine, and it was as if she sensed my animosity. Her expression came very close to being a sneer before she said, "I think I'll tag along."
"Why not?" Nanette looked at Fran again.
I felt Fran shrug. "Sure, why not?"
I needed them like I needed worms, but they piloted me to the cabana. And I went along because I wanted Polar. I wanted him desperately now. With him in hand, I could reassume command. I could tell my escorts to get lost. I could turn on a little toughness with Polar and send the trio scooting. I didn't have any trouble with men. I could pound them into submission. But women were something else.
I sensed the ruse the instant Fran Nature put her hand on the doorknob of unit twenty-five without knocking and pushed the door open to the air-conditioned dimness. I was inside, Fran and Nanette still clinging to me, Kit closing the door behind us. I heard a lock bolt snap home. I stared briefly on the interior of the cabana. It was rustic in design with a large double bed opposite me. The bed was mussed, looked as if it had been used recently, the covering and top sheet kicked down to the foot, the bottom sheet wrinkled and gathered in areas. The pillows were punched, one at the foot, the other at the head of the bed. And the unit was empty. No Tommy Polar.
I started to turn, and then I felt the fingers on me. They came around from behind. They were long and black and spread slightly and white nails gleamed in the dimness and they knew their way to where I lived the hardest. I was free in an instant and growing fast as the fingers manipulated.
The black girl breathed against the back of my neck, "You're a large one, shore nuff, Whitey."
I attempted to wrench free, but Nanette and Fran were on me, Nanette slamming her lips against my mouth and prying with her tongue while her fingers picked at my tie and shirt front, and Fran moving down to her knees in front of me, her fingers opening my trousers and taking them with my shorts down my legs.
The black girl was a hand expert, those long fingers playing deftly along my length as she manipulated faster. I was naked now with only my shoes and socks on and I was trapped. The trio had become aphrodisiac. Kit remained behind me, cooing against my neck, her breath hot and her black hand flashing. Fran had peeled out of her bikini top and now she remained on her knees in front of me, watching the manipulation avidly, her eyes wide, her lips parted, and the bottom of her bikini forgotten. It was as if she was waiting for something. And Nanette had stripped and gone down on the floor and was wriggling her head into Fran's thighs.
On my back, Kit was breathing rapidly. "Go, Whitey, go!"
I went. The long warm stream of my ejection arched. And Fran bobbed from her knees, her head snapping and her mouth opening wide. But she was off target.
"Missed," she grinned.
She reached out and grasped me and held on, her white fingers moving to interlock with the black. She came up slightly on her knees and I was conscious of Nanette working deeper into her thighs. I saw Fran's eyes change, begin to take on a passionate blankness. Her head bobbed forward, her tongue curled around me. She attempted to remove the black fingers from me.
"I've got to have," she breathed.
But the black girl had ideas, too. "Me first, baby," she hissed from behind me. "I did all the work."
And then Kit was pushing me to the bed. I turned. She was naked and flat, her breasts mere buds. But her cunt was large and a perfect triangle. She pushed me down to the edge of the bed and whisked my shoes and socks from my feet, and then those white-painted lips came up the inside of my thigh. Any ideas I had had of slamming her aside were gone.
She moved into me, the mouth and teeth dancing. And across the room, Nanette was raking the bikini bottom from Fran to get closer to her work while Fran was straight up from her knees now, her palms spread and plastered against her thighs and her head thrown back, eyes closed, tiny sounds coming from her throat as she built to the intense orgasm.
Kit fitted her long body on me and rode hard and fast. Her lean hips were oiled, and inside, she was a hot cavern. She climaxed quickly, lifting herself and then slamming down hard on me, and it was as if the climax drained all the strength from her. She sagged immediately, attempted to roll from me, but I caught her. I lifted my head, looked deep into her eyes. They looked dazed.
"Easy, Whitey, easy," she murmured.
"Easy? One little ride had finished her? I couldn't believe.
But she attempted to put me off as I rolled her onto her back. She pleaded, "Wait a minute. I have to rest."
I didn't wait for anything. I rode her high. I hooked my arms in under her legs and forced her up on her shoulder blades. Her eyes popped wide and she shook her head as I rammed. She lurched. "Oh god," she cried out, "I can't take it again!"
But she didn't have a choice now. I suddenly felt in command. And I pumped at her hard and enjoyed her writhing protests. It seemed like rape, and I knew fresh excitement with each moan that ripped from her.
And then we had company. Nanette was on her knees and straddling the blackhead. She settled on Kit and twisted her head so that her lips could find mine. I felt Fran behind me, her fingers and tongue working. Our passions mounted and I felt as if I was exploding.
A long time later I lay locked with Nanette Rivers, our bodies working together in a slow, relaxed rhythm while Fran Nature lay beside us so that I could kiss her breasts and she could fondle. The black girl was on the floor now, spent and twitching. Nanette breathed, "You're something else, Matt Law. No man is supposed to be like you."
"No man is," I told her confidently. Beside us, Fran pouted, "My turn. I want some." I moved from Nanette to Fran. "Let's stay here forever," she murmured.
On the floor, the black girl groaned.
CHAPTER FIVE
Polar was not to be found at the tennis club.
I drove away slowly and even I had to admit I felt a bit used. The clutching hunger of Nanette Rivers and Fran Nature never was to be appeased, but I knew a certain satisfaction, too. I had been as close to fulfillment for them as they would ever experience. And I knew more satisfaction when I thought about Kit. The black girl was long on mental ability, but a short fuse physically. Still, she had one talent. Those long fingers quivered with deftness. She'd be called a pro in a circle jerk.
A blonde woman whisked past me in a blue top-down convertible, yellow-white hair floating-and suddenly I was remembering Cora Ayers. I suddenly felt bastard all over again. I had a vision of Cora prowling my apartment while I had prowled a cabana bed with three women. I slammed the steering wheel. I could have turned from the trio, I should have turned. Why hadn't I?
I knew. No willpower. And I also knew that Cora could not belong to me because I could not totally belong to her. There always would be that one other woman, that sex machine just around the blind corner. But how was I to explain? How was I to tell her that she was inside me deep, that I wanted her, that I lusted for her, that when I was in her presence there was no outside world-but expose me to the world and there were corners?
Would Cora Ayers understand?
She would not. Did I understand? I did not.
I drove to downtown headquarters caught up in the shambles of myself. Lieutenant Crowder jarred me back to reality. "We had to free Archie Table."
I stared.
Crowder waved a hand in disgust. "The D.A. says he's up to his eyeballs in courtroom reversals these days. He can't afford another one. And we didn't exactly have Mr. Table by the short hairs. We couldn't-can't-prove anything, Matt. So we'll give him some string, dangle him, keep a sharp eye on Mm. For the moment he's suspect. That's all."
"Lieutenant-" I started to protest.
"Damnit, Matt," he interrupted, "I don't like the turn, either. I think the little fag is guilty as hell. I think he killed the girl with his dingus. It only figures. They're alone in a car, tooling down the road. Who else could fill her with semen? But what can I prove?"
"And this guy Polar?" I shot at him. "The phone call?"
Crowder grunted. "What'd he have to offer?"
"I didn't find him at the club."
"Hell, I'm not sure he's important anyway."
"Why not?"
"I just told you: Table was with the girl in the car, not Polar. I've been thinking about all of this, Matt. The killer-in spite of your anonymous caller-almost has to be Table. Maybe your caller is a nut or somebody with a hard-on against Polar. I don't know. All I know is, I've got to go with hard facts. And the one fact we have is it was Table and Michelle Rivers in the car when it crashed and Michelle Rivers choked to death on semen."
"How 'bout if she was killed at the Rivers' mansion? How 'bout if she was in bed with someone at the mansion, choked to death, and then our someone decided to get rid of the body?"
"That's wild, Matt."
"But a possibility."
"Perhaps, but-"
"Lieutenant, Archie Table is a fag, won't let a woman or a girl touch him."
"We don't know that."
But maybe someone talked Archie into taking the body away from the mansion. Maybe he was going to throw her in a swamp or the river or-"
"That someone being?"
"Polar can be suspect. He had a thing going with the girl."
"The way I hear it everybody in pants had a thing going with her," Crowder grunted. "Matt, I think you've let the phone call cloud your thinking."
"Damnit, someone had a reason for making the call!"
"I admit it looks like someone is after Polar's ass, but it remains: Table was the only guy in the car with the girl."
"You have to concede it could've happened my way, too. Michelle Rivers just might have died in a bed instead of the front seat of a car. She just might have been-"
"All right, all right," Crowder snapped, waving the hand again. He lit a fresh cigarette. "So go track down this Polar. Get him out of your system-but I still think our boy is Table and we're going to stay so tight on his butt he'll think we're adhesive tape!"
I became a very smart police detective then. I became crafty. I needed Polar. So I looked for his name in the telephone directory. The address puzzled for a moment; it was not the address of the tennis club, but I did not allow this minor mystery to deter. I picked up the phone receiver and I dialed. I got an answer, and I had Polar. Business-like, I snapped, "I've been looking for you, Polar."
"And I didn't know you cared, Sergeant," he replied with a smirk lacing his tone.
"I've been to the tennis club."
"I wasn't there."
"Point: I was told you lived at the club."
"I have quarters at the club, Sergeant. I live where I am standing. In an apartment. But now tell me, my good man, why have you been looking for me? Certainly not for my body."
"Knock off that crap. I'm coming out to your place. You stick."
"Perhaps I am ... er, engaged."
"So get rid of her."
"And if my friend happens to be a him?" I slammed the phone together on his mocking chuckle. Crowder stared at me, but remained silent as I pounded out of the squad room and downstairs. Polar lived in a yellow stucco building that stuck seven flights up into the air. It was a modest neighborhood and the interior of the yellow building was clean and had a self-service elevator. I rode up to the fourth deck and found Polar's door.
He was a few seconds answering my knock, and then he stood before me in shorts and a tiny lace apron. He was barefooted and bare-chested. He smelled freshly bathed, shaved and powdered. He held a straight-edged razor in his hand, but there was a smile on his face.
"You are not a man to waste minutes, are you, Sergeant?" he said as he stepped back into the apartment and swung the door wide for my entry. He bowed slightly as I moved inside, his eyes laughing and his mouth curved into a near smirk. "Yes, yes, come in," he said.
The front room of the apartment was small, masculine in appointments and color, neat. An alcove served as a dining area, and there was a tiny kitchenette behind the alcove. To my left was an open door, but from my angle I could not see into the other room.
"Bed and bath," said Polar. And then he added, almost as an afterthought: "And occupied."
"Anyone I know?" I asked politely.
"Your sarcasm stinks, Sergeant."
"Throw her out!"
"My dear man...." He flipped his apron and moved toward the open door. "My guest happens to be Archie Table."
His steps were delicate, and he smiled at me over his shoulder just before disappearing into the bedroom. I went after him and stopped and stood rooted as I stared on the incongruity. Archie Table was propped up in a large bed. His shoulders mashed pillows and there was a maroon covering drawn neatly across his lap. He wore a filmy pale green peignoir that formed a wide V down his front to the line of the maroon covering and his makeup was a fashionable light orange. He sat with his fingers interlocked on his crotch and a tiny smile almost curving his painted lips. Shaving cream covered the exposed area of his chest.
Polar sat on the edge of the bed and used the straight-edged razor expertly on Archie Table's chest. "You are here because?" he asked without looking at me.
"What's he doing here?" I bleated.
Polar stopped shaving Archie and turned on me. His expression was a combination of innocence and contempt. "If you will recall, Sergeant, Archie has just been released from the hospital. He had an automobile accident, remember? And now he must convalesce. He is here because I brought him here. Archie is my friend. Is all of that too difficult to comprehend?"
"Aren't you going to speak to me, Sergeant?" Archie Table said from the bed. "Aren't you even going to say hello?"
I was on fire.
"Well, no matter," Archie continued. He waved his hands delicately. "Please, Tommy, continue to shave me. I must be rid of the hairs. They make me feel so ... so unclean!"
If I had had the razor in hand in those few seconds I would have sliced off Archie Table's nipples. But Polar was careful, very deliberate and professional. He spread and protected the nipples with his palm as he curved the razor edge around the brown rims. And then he tested and nipped at other areas of Table's chest. Finally both were satisfied and Polar closed the razor and used a damp towel. He made the chest skin glow, then he applied perfume and a light coating of female powder.
When it was finished, I wanted to gag but Polar stood suddenly and took off the apron and faced me head-on. He had changed. He was all male now, his eyes hard, his stance antagonistic, and his mouth a thin line. "All right, Sergeant," he said, his tone rough with sharp edges, "you've invaded the privacy enough. Why are you here?"
I told him.
He snapped back, "And?"
"Did you kill her, Polar? Did she choke on you, and then did you talk Archie here into-"
"No!"
I kept my eyes on Archie. I figured he would be the give-away. If I had hit on the truth with Tommy Polar, I figured Archie would break. But Archie remained placid in the bed. His expression remained blank, mildly curious perhaps, but no more. And his gaze didn't tell me anything.
Polar sucked a deep breath. "Why can't you accept a simple death, Sergeant? Why can't you people accept the death of Michelle the way it happened? I found her on the lawn. I asked Archie to-"
"Because she did not die of heart failure, or crash injuries, or ... Goddamnit, man, the girl choked on semen!"
"You were there?" he asked with lifted eyebrows. "Our technicians can put together a few facts!"
"Perhaps, but this time I'm afraid your technicians are-"
"Polar, I got a telephone call. Now, why would I get a telephone call if-"
"Someone doesn't like me, Sergeant. Does that surprise you?"
It did not.
"Someone is jealous of my prowess."
"You're the stud supreme, huh?"
"Can you rival me? Don't even bother to answer, Sergeant. I know you can't-and especially, you couldn't with Michelle."
Now Archie Table's face changed. He was suddenly disturbed. He fidgeted in the bed. His hands worked, his eyes danced, and his legs were twitching under the covering.
"You got a problem, Archie?" I threw at him. "Michelle was a bitch," he said softly. "All women are bitches."
"Archie doesn't like women," Polar said with the understatement of the century. "Quit picking on him. Archie is Archie. He's not involved in this."
"He's only driving the car that smacks a tree and we find a dead girl inside that car-and Archie is not involved?"
"Sergeant," Polar said with another sigh, "you twist things to your convenience. Why can't you believe-"
It was my turn to break in. "Polar," I said with conviction, "I'm going to hang your ass."
"That's a threat."
"That's what it is."
"I don't like threats."
"So suck on it."
"Sergeant, get out. Get out of my apartment."
"Toss me out."
He reached for a phone, lifted the receiver. "No, I won't throw you out," he said mildly. "I'll merely call your superior. I believe his name is Crowder."
He began to dial. And I cut. I took my frustrations and my anger and my physical body out of sight of the fruitcakes and I pounded out of the apartment-and charged head-on into a pair of magnificent breasts that defied gravity and the thin threads of a red-and-white-striped pullover knit T-shirt.
Diane Bowers backed off my charge. "Wow," she breathed. "Bulls I like, but angry bulls have taut balls, and taut balls do not always make for adventurous afternoons. Hello again, Sergeant. I came here to get laid. I have an itch in my pants. Is Tommy home? Obviously, he is-and obviously, he has angered you. What did he do? Attempt to feel your change?"
I started to stomp past her. She caught my arm, whirled me. "Hey, I don't have to have Tommy. I'll take you. Do you have time?"
"Back off, doll."
"Ouch, our mood is black." She grinned impishly, hooked her arm in mine and swung along with me as I pounded to the self-service elevator. "Maybe we can do it while we're going down," she suggested.
"Fade."
"Oh, come on, Sergeant, cheer up. It's a bright evening outside. How about taking me to the park down by the river? The breeze will be cool-and I'm sure we can find a nook where we can play games."
We entered the elevator. We were alone. She smiled at me again and pushed the Down button. "I really do have an itch," she said as the doors closed. She took my hand and put it up under the white microskirt. She was wearing panties, but she was warm and damp.
"Put a finger in," she said, coming up on her tiptoes and pecking my mouth in a kiss.
I snapped my hand away from her, but all she did was laugh softly and clutch the front of my pants. "At last you're not too angry."
"Doll, I've got work to do," I growled.
"And you've got just the right kind of tool," she chortled, continuing to work her fingers against me. "At least for the kind of work I have in mind. Are you going to take me to the park?"
"No."
"Why not?"
We left the elevator and she danced ahead of me, her legs flashing and her hips twitching the microskirt engagingly. And then suddenly she whirled and popped her hands on her spread knees, arched into a running-back position and stared at me as I approached her.
"Hey, hey," she giggled, "you need to go to the park. You need to go somewhere. Or do we do it right here in the doorway?"
She straightened as I moved into her. She caught my shoulders. I started to move around her, but she stopped me. "Are you going out on the street with that sticking out?"
I went out on the street with that sticking out. I crossed the sidewalk and piled into the official sedan. Diane popped in beside me. "Zowie, I've never been in a police car!" She looked around. "Where's the shotguns, the tear gas, the Mace?"
She was bad medicine for me. I couldn't ignore her exposed legs as she sat half twisted on the seat, inventorying the back of the sedan. The skirt hem was across the juncture of her thighs and her hips, her panties were a magnet, and the smell of her filled my nostrils.
On the other hand, she seemed to be the kind of medicine I needed, too. She took my mind from Polar and Archie Table. She didn't exactly cool me, but anger was replaced by something much more pleasant.
She saw where my eyes were rooted and she grinned. Then she slapped a hand against her juncture and lifted herself tauntingly. "Can you wait until we get to the park?" she teased.
I slammed the sedan into gear and moved it out into the traffic. We flashed past an intersection as she lifted her hips again and skimmed out of her panties. She dangled them on a finger and held them before my eyes. "Recommended by Panty World," she chuckled. "Every girl's underworld advisor."
"I'd like to see the street," I growled.
She laughed softly and worked the panties over the rear-view mirror. They dangled and swayed. She cocked her head and eyed her work. "Some people dangle baby shoes, monkeys, and then there are those who lean to dice. But you, Sergeant Matthew Law? You dangle-"
"This is a cop car," I rasped.
"So?"
"Get it off the mirror."
"No. Why did you go up to see Tommy Polar? Do you think he might have had something to do with Michelle's death?"
The sudden change in subject made me forget about the swaying panties. "Do you?" I shot back at her.
She shrugged. "There has to be a reason you were at his apartment. But I thought Michelle was killed in the crash."
"She was dead before the crash, honey. That much our technicians have put together."
"Boy, I hope I don't die rubbin' myself off against a statue in a church! Your technicians are likely to figure I got struck down by a wand from above."
"How long have you known Archie Table?"
"Years."
"Be specific."
"Well, okay ... maybe a couple of years."
"How 'bout Michelle? How long would she-"
"We probably met him at the same party. I really don't remember."
"He is strictly a party acquaintance?"
"He started showing up at the house a couple of years ago. I think Daddy brought him in from a sewer somewhere. I'm not sure."
"Daddy being William Dar-"
"Daddy being," she nodded.
"So Michelle wouldn't have known Archie longer than you."
"No."
"I thought they might have been special friends."
"Archie and Michelle? Hardly. Archie is a genuine twilighter. Nothing but the penis for him."
"So why was Michelle in his car last night? Why was she naked in his car? Why-"
"Well, that could happen. Maybe she was bombed. Maybe she got on narco, the hard stuff. Maybe she talked Archie into taking her for a ride. Maybe she-"
"It seems damned odd she'd pick a fag."
"Michelle would've taken a horse if she needed fucking and a horse was her whim."
"On the other hand, maybe she was killed at the house, during the party, and then was put into the car. Maybe Archie was told, forced, cajoled, humored, into-"
"Now we're getting around to Tommy Polar, huh?" Diane interrupted thoughtfully. "What have you got against Tommy, Sergeant?"
"I don't like him."
"Oh come on, there has to be more than-"
"Okay, so I got an anonymous telephone call."
I told her about the call and she mused on it. Then she said, "So someone has a bone to gnaw with Tommy. So?"
"Yeah, it could be that," I was forced to admit.
"But you'd rather think Tommy killed her. You pick him because he and Michelle sexed it up."
"You told me they did."
"And they did," she nodded. "Often. Tommy has what Michelle-what any girl in her right mind-likes. He's hung, Sergeant. Believe me, Tommy Polar is hung-and he has talent. But Michelle knew tricks too. Tommy's kind of tricks. I told you she was a hand and tongue expert, and-"
So Polar might have killed her-accidentally, of course."
"Sarcasm we don't need, do we?"
"I don't know. Perhaps we do. It's making you think."
"I'm thinking about a jillion other men Michelle might have gone to bed with."
"But not last night."
"Okay, so maybe it was six or seven last night."
"Polar for one."
"I'm excluding Tommy for the moment."
"Are you also excluding Archie Table?"
"Definitely."
"All right, how 'bout ... er, Daddy?"
"He would've had to rape her, but it could've happened."
"A guy named Harold Boswell?"
"Also possible," she said thoughtfully. "And I believe you mentioned two freeloaders."
"I remember seeing at least two at the party. There were probably more."
"Go on."
"There's Sim, of course."
"Who's he?"
"Mother found him in New York last winter. He had a small role in one of these naked plays. She became enthralled with his body and brought him home as a combination-you know, chauffeur, bouncer, window washer, stud. He even knows how to change a fight bulb. In addition, he's a delightful tool for her at parties. She can favor her women friends who have an urge to be favored while going to the bathroom, or she can sic him on her enemies-hoping he will rape them. Sim is black and animal. He's a godsend to, and for, Mother."
"Does he have a friend or a wife or something named Kit?"
Diane looked surprised. "How do you know about her?"
"Who is she?"
"She was in the show too. Sim wouldn't come here without her, but how do you know about-"
I waved her down. "Sim and Michelle."
"Michelle liked him," Diane nodded. "Occasionally. For a change of color."
"Who's next?"
"Well, there's Bernard Oshman. The Oshmans live next door, and they come to all of the parties. Both of them are sixty if they're a day, but they're hanging in tough.
Bernard has a little trouble getting it up, but Michelle could do it for him-especially if he was watching Sim and Mrs. Oshman make out at the same time. And then there's Randy Clarke, whose wife is an addict about masturbating. Her name is Hertha. She and Michelle were friends at the university. I guess that's where she got on this masturbating kick. She's wild. She's liable to do it any time, any place. She gets the yen, and away she goes. She's a ball in a circle."
"While Randy?"
"Is a short fuse. Up and ready at the flick of a tongue, but he's short in tool and even shorter in staying power. Two strokes and he comes and wilts. Hertha has reason to be a masturbator."
"Randy and Michelle."
"She liked to give him trips around the world. Sometimes he was finished before she'd start. And that always broke her up. She'd laugh all over the room while poor Randy stood there with tears streaming down his face."
"Any more?"
"The freeloaders. The strangers. Oh yes, and Peter Barry. He's Fran Nature's friend. But Peter and Fran had a falling out last night-or maybe he fell out of her, I don't know. But I do know Peter left the party early. Which, now that I think about it, may shoot your suspicion about Tommy Polar. Fran and Tommy spent most of last night in bed together."
"Says who?"
Diane shot me an oblique glance. "Says Fran."
"Honey, I thought you told me you were asleep on the lawn most of the night. How would you-"
"Boy, you are a suspicious bastard, aren't you? Fran called me this morning. She wanted to talk about Tommy. She thinks he's going kinky. He had a thing last night about using his belt on her. He wanted to whip her. Incidentally, here's the park."
"I know where the park is," I grumbled, turning the sedan down one of the winding lanes. I cruised into a parking area that overlooked the river. There were four other cars in the area. They looked empty. Diane squirmed on the seat and studied our surroundings. It was dusk now. "Are we going to do it here?" she asked. "I'm so hot I think I'll have an orgasm if you wink at me. Let's try it. Go ahead, be a big man. Wink at me."
"Out of the car, wench."
She stroked herself vigorously a couple of times and then left the sedan to stand on the lot. She bounced her hips. "Whooie, the hand do feel good. How about if we do it here? I'll bend over the hood and you-"
I took her hand and jerked her toward a slanting path. She bounced along beside me, grinning like a schoolgirl. "I do believe you know where you're going," she bubbled. "Now what can that mean?"
"It means I've fished here."
"Oh," she laughed.
Two couples were spread out around a picnic on a grassy knoll. They gave us passing glances, no more,. Another couple didn't even bother to look at us. They were on a blanket off to our right and the girl's leg had crawled up the guy's hip.
I put Diane ahead of me and aimed her along the river path. She picked her way, keeping her head down and her eyes busy as she moved over the imbedded rocks. Her tiny skirt swished and was too much temptation. I moved my hands up under it and cupped her buttocks. She stopped, looked back at me over her shoulder.
"Keep going," I growled.
She moved on while I kept my palms on her. She put extra action in her walk. And then I turned her into a gentle depression in the riverbank. The bank was grassy, and we were alone, out of sight unless someone came along the path or passed in a boat.
She turned and came into my arms. Her large breasts felt good against my chest and her pelvis was all movement as she fitted herself. She brought my face down and sucked gently on my mouth with her lips. I moved my hands in under the pullover and up the bare skin of her spine to the tiny bra strap.
"Can we get naked?" she breathed.
"Someone could come along the path."
"Let 'em see."
I turned her, put a forearm across her shoulders. She bent immediately. I opened my trousers, and when I touched her buttocks she jerked. "Hurry," she said. "I think I'm coming already!"
I pushed the pullover up her spine and bent to kiss her skin. She wriggled, moving her hips back into me. And then I felt her hand as she reached down between her thighs and back up. She guided me to the door and rammed against me in a series of jerky movements.
"Lordy, there it is!" she cried out, squeezing and shuddering all over. She started to come up, but I kept her bent and slammed deep into her warmth as I felt her cunt jerk. She arched and reached back to clasp the backs of my thighs and hold on. We became a frenzy of writhing-and then we lost our balance. Diane pitched forward with a cry and threw out her hands to break the fall against the bank. I spun off her and slammed against the ground, where I lay close-eyed and cursing.
I heard Diane giggle and I opened my eyes. She had swung around to sit against the bank. She sat with her legs spread, her knees high and her heels digging in. She was laughing down on me, the skirt bunched in her lap.
I started to crawl to her, but she shook her head. "No." I stopped, frowned. She grinned. "On your back," she said. "Flat on your back."
She stood, stepped out of her shoes, and then she swung a leg over me, facing away from me, looking out on the river. From my position I could look straight up her legs into her juncture. Her buttocks under the skirt were quivering as she -lined herself with me.
"Hold it up straight," she demanded.
I pushed with a thumb and she lowered herself in a squat. I felt her close on my head and I waited for her to move on down. But she seemed to have found what she wanted. She began with slow movements, increased the pace but kept herself high. The sensation made me climb. I felt myself growing larger as her skirt swirled. And then there was no holding back. All of the strength in my loins came gushing out and Diane opened wide and groaned as the flood bathed her.
We sat on the grassy bank and stared out on the black river in silence while she smoked and I attempted to reorganize my thinking. I was on police duty. Crowder might be looking for me. I needed to get back to the sedan, regain contact with downtown. But it was peaceful there on the riverbank, and Diane smelled good, and looked good with her legs propped and her young body moving with her breathing, and I found myself fascinated by her breasts this night. Perhaps it was because they were covered. I suddenly had to see them, kiss them.
"Take off your top," I said.
She gave me a quick look.
"It's dark enough now," I told her.
She fired the cigarette butt toward the river and swished the pullover shirt over her head in a single movement. She put it aside and arched her spine as she reached up her back with one hand and opened the bra. She hunched her shoulders and the bra slid down her arms. She put it with the pullover and then she turned to me. She remained seated where she was. She wore the microskirt now, nothing else. She waited.
I went to her on hands and knees and dipped my face into her breasts. I nipped with lips and teeth. She arched and allowed me to feed, holding herself aloft for my hunger. She began to quiver all over, but she made no attempt to reach for me. She was food now and I was the starving man.
I lifted my face and kissed her lips. I kept the kiss gentle. Our breathing hissed but we managed to refrain from the frantic clutching. And then I put her back on the grass and moved up on her and entered her. She received me without a sound. There was only the quiver of her muscles. All of her body moved in spasms that seemed to come over her without pattern or design.
I filled her and then I lay on her and we became wrapped in each other's arms. "Don't move," I hissed.
She shook her head and moved her lips against my mouth. We lay locked and straining and breathing deep without flicking a muscle. But I could feel myself growing large inside her, and I could feel her opening with the growth to accept.
Suddenly she wrenched her mouth from mine. She clung to me, her lips against my ear. Her breath was hot. "I'm going ... to come," she whispered. "I ... can't help it."
"But don't move!"
We strained. We did not move. Our muscles became locked, our hearts hammered. And then there was release for both of us and she whimpered and crawled tighter against me while I brought her head around so that I could find her open mouth.
A long time later, she said in a voice that broke: "Matthew Law ... that's a helluva way to do it. That's a helluva ... strain on the nerve ends."
"But it felt good, didn't it, Baby?"
She shuddered all over. "Delicious. I don't think I've ever known such a sensation, but I couldn't do it often. I have to move!"
I laughed gently and pulled her up to her feet. We searched the darkness for her bra, pullover and shoes. She dressed reluctantly. "Do we really have to go?" she wanted to know.
"Tell me you still itch," I chided.
"No," she said simply. "But I like you. I don't want to leave you. Let's go out to the house and go to bed. In my bed."
"Duty, doll. I'm just a poor working slob."
"Not you, Matthew Law," she said, shaking her head as we moved down to the river path. "You're no slob. You're man, and I like you."
"You were going to Tommy Polar earlier this evening," I reminded her. "I can take you back there."
"You bastard," she murmured. "I know what I am. You don't have to-"
"What are you, Diane?"
"A nympho, but you don't have to remind me. Not right now, not tonight. I like tonight. I feel different somehow and I want to keep the feeling for a while. I almost feel ... healthy."
I took her hand and we walked that way back to the sedan. We didn't talk, and I thought I knew what Diane Bowers might be feeling for the first time in her life. At the car, she got inside as I held the door for her and she sat and clamped her knees together and attempted to hold her skirt down as far as it would go. She stared straight ahead, remained silent, and she looked schoolgirlish and innocent and almost pure.
When I got around to the other side of the car, the panties were gone from the rear-view mirror and out of sight and Diane was sitting straight again, still staring out over the river. I had the car motor running when she put a hand on my arm and said softly, "Do something for me, Matthew. Kiss me as if I'm just a good clean date you've taken to the movie and now are about to deliver back to her nice, gentle, normal parents in a snug bungalow somewhere."
I kissed her for a long time and then she crawled against me and whispered in my ear. "I've never known this. Somewhere along the line I've missed it. Thank you."
CHAPTER SIX
At police headquarters, I put Diane in a cab, sent her packing to the mansion, and trotted upstairs, to find Crowder in a black mood. "Since when do we haul lays around in an official sedan?"
"Lieutenant, you've been looking out windows again," I growled back at him.
I explained Diane Bowers, who she was. "And?" he said.
I shrugged. "She says Polar was in bed last night with another dame. Not Michelle Rivers."
"But you're not sure you believe her." I shrugged again.
"Boy, you sure got it on hard for this Polar when all we've got to do is get Archie Table to admit he killed the girl."
"He's strictly squirrel, Lieutenant."
I told Crowder about finding Table in Tommy Polar's bed. He grunted, picked at the seat of his pants. So I told him about the other men who had been at the party.
"You still like that idea about the girl being dead before Table took her for a ride, don't you?"
"It seems logical to me," I said.
"Well, apparently Polar is alibied. So who are you gonna take on next?"
"Let me do some nosing. How 'bout giving me a free hand?"
"Matt, this isn't a private detective agency."
"I know."
He scowled on me for a few seconds before he waved a hand and fired up a new cigarette. "Yeah, yeah, okay, nose around-but get results, hear?"
I wasn't sure where to nose. I went downstairs and used the phone book again. I got a number for Fran Nature. I dialed. No answer. I cruised out to the address; it was on the way to the tennis club. I had to get Polar out of my system. I had to get him absolutely alibied before I could clear my mind to take on new suspects.
Fran Nature lived in a condominium. I used the lobby phone and got an answer this time. "Hey, where are you?" she bubbled.
I asked her about Tommy Polar and the previous night.
"I don't answer questions over the telephone," she said. "Where are you?"
"Downstairs," I said reluctantly. "Then come up," she chuckled.
I rode a self-service elevator and made a vow during the ride that I would not go inside Fran Nature's apartment. No more traps this day. Cora Ayers still waited for me-I hoped.
When I stuck a thumb against the door buzzer Fran Nature called out from inside, "Come on in. It's open."
I opened the door cautiously, pushed it wide. It would not have surprised me if a horde of naked female bodies swooped down and whisked me inside. But all I saw was the confines. A plush efficiency. Chamber music came from a stereo.
"Come on in."
The voice came from behind the door off to my left. I stepped inside carefully. There was a louvered sliding wall panel to my left. The panel was three-quarters shut. Through the opening I could see the head of a double bed. The bed looked neat and freshly made.
"There's a beer in the refrig," Fran Nature said from somewhere behind the panel. "Dig out two, okay?"
"I'm working," I said.
She giggled. "You were working this afternoon, too, remember?"
I winced and closed the door behind me. Fran Nature and I seemed to be alone. "Go on and get the beers," she said. "I'll be with you in a sec."
I went to the refrigerator in the kitchenette and dug out two bottles of cold beer. I shook myself down. It was time for Matt Law to start running the show. The hell with these naked females who always seemed to be reaching for my body. I could take them or leave them. I had a murder to investigate. The investigation was primary.
And then I turned and Fran Nature was with me. She wore a red garter belt and red hose. Nothing more. And she stood about three feet away from me, her head cocked slightly and a crooked grin twisting freshly painted lips. Her eyes were alive with mischief. "I was getting ready to go to another party at the Rivers place, but now I don't have to dress, do I? I mean, you're here-and we can have our own little private party, right? Do you realize that I have never had you alone?"
"Put on some clothes," I snapped.
But all she did was laugh softly and reach out and take one of the beer bottles from me. Her nipples were alive. She reached down with her left hand and patted my trouser front. "I want that-all for myself for a change."
"Get dressed."
"Oh, don't be such a bear," she said, leading me into the front room by my trouser front. She turned me and put me in an overstuffed chair. Then she curled her knees and sat down between my thighs before I could clamp them. She put a cheek on my leg and looked up at me.
"I like to be close to my work," she giggled. A hand moved up the other thigh and her fingers played idly.
"Baby, I'm here about Tommy Polar," I said.
"What about him?" she asked with about as much interest as she had in putting on a bra. She drank beer.
"I want to know about you and him last night."
She looked surprised. "What about us?"
"Were you with him at the Rivers place?"
"A good share of the night," she nodded. "Why?"
"I thought he might have been hung up with Michelle Rivers."
"He was early in the evening." Frank drank. "They probably went to bed or something. I don't know. I was with someone else during that part of the evening."
"Someone named Peter Barry?"
She looked surprised again. "How do you know about Peter?"
"I have big ears."
She seemed to digest that, and then she grinned mischievously and fingered me again. "Along with something else that's big, huh?"
I removed the roving fingers and she laughed gently. "Peter and I are friends," she explained. "I went to the party with him. But he became a drag. He wouldn't go down on me. He said he wasn't in the mood. He told me to go find Michelle or Nanette. His mood pissed me. I wanted a man right then, not another woman. There's a difference, you know?"
I wasn't sure I did, but I didn't press it. I said, "And did you see Michelle any time after she had been with Polar?"
"Sure. She was running around naked as a statue. She wouldn't put on clothing. She wanted everyone to get naked."
"Did they?"
"Some freeloader did. He went out on the grass with Michelle. But no one else bothered."
"Did you watch Michelle and the freeloader ... er, on the grass?"
"What do you think I am? A voyeur?" She chuckled, drank beer. "I couldn't care less about Michelle Rivers and her kicks, lover. I had a chemical or two stirring around inside my own body, so I went hunting for Tommy and found him. We went to bed together and had a ball for hours. Then he started to go a little kinky on me. He wanted to use his belt. I said nix to that shit. I don't need welts. Besides, I don't like pain."
"So you and Polar split."
"It was like lightning hit us."
"What time was this?"
"What time was what?" she frowned. "When you and Polar split?"
"Oh, hell, how do I know? Who watches clocks?"
"Did you see Michelle again?"
"Sure."
"After she had been with the freeloader."
"Yeah, after. She was giving Archie Table fits."
"How?"
"You know, teasing him."
"No, I don't know."
"Michelle liked to tease fags-and Archie is a fag. Michelle liked to play with him, taunt him into trying to go to bed with her."
"That must've made her popular with Archie."
"He didn't like the teasing."
"So maybe he became angry and killed her."
"No." Fran Nature shook her head. "Not Archie. Archie won't even swat flies."
"Maybe he cracked, went off his nut. Maybe he-"
"No." Fran continued to shake her head. "No one is going to make me believe that about Archie. Not even you, Mr. Law."
I changed the line of questioning abruptly. "Okay, so when did you hear about Michelle being dead?"
She frowned briefly. "When the cops came around, I guess."
"You guess?"
"Well, some of last night is still fuzzy in my mind. I mean between the time I left Tommy and when I heard ... what I really mean is, I got drunk as hell for a while. I don't remember-"
"You got drunk as hell-just for a while?"
"Someone pitched me into the swimming pool. My head cleared in the water."
"Who pitched you into the pool?"
"I think it was William."
"Rivers?"
"There's only one-and it's his pool."
"Then yon saw Rivers at the party."
"Certainly. Why wouldn't I? It was his party."
"Somehow I have the impression he sometimes has other interests during his parties. I have the impression he is not always on the scene."
"Sometimes he isn't, but he was there last night. I remember him playing with my breasts. He likes my breasts and ... well, I know it was William who threw me into the pool."
"And when you came out of the pool, you knew for the first time that Michelle Rivers was dead?"
"There were cops all over the place."
"You did what then?"
"I sat on the edge of the pool with Nanette until everyone sort of disappeared."
"Sort of?"
"People just seemed to drift away. After a while Nanette and I found ourselves alone. Then you came on the scene."
"Didn't the cops talk to you?"
"Sure, but what could I tell them?"
"Who do you think killed Michelle?"
'I'm not even sure she was killed. Maybe she died."
"She was killed."
"All right, so I don't know who killed her."
"And don't care."
Fran Nature shrugged, finished her beer. "Why should I?"
"I think it was Polar."
"I don't know why Tommy would. He and Michelle were good with each other."
"No battles between them, huh?"
"None that I know of. Ever."
"So if it wasn't Polar, and it wasn't Archie, who might be next in line? Rivers?"
"He was Michelle's father."
"Fathers have been known to kill daughters."
"William and Michelle were not close, that much I grant, but William wouldn't kill her."
"It's my understanding he once told Michelle she wasn't his daughter, she'd been sired by another man. I also hear that William Darby Rivers had a yen for the girl, that he-"
"Damn, you do have big ears, Sergeant."
"Well?"
"William Rivers is a lot of things, but he's not a killer."
"Not even by accident?"
"Well...." She frowned, let the word hang. She contemplated for several seconds, and then she looked up at me and moved both of her palms into my groin. She rubbed. "Let's knock off this conversation."
It was time for me to depart, but she lifted a knee and dropped her right hand onto her juncture. Her fingers toyed with the pubic hair. Her eyes, unblinking, hung on me, and her lips parted slightly. I saw the tip of her tongue dart across the fresh lipstick. It was as if she was tasting herself. The fingers on me remained busy.
"You're getting hard," she breathed. "You don't want to go."
The fingers in her juncture began to dig and probe. She took her hand from me, turned on her bare hips until she was facing me and braced herself, the right hand remaining busy on her own triangle.
"Baby...."
Her eyes remained large, unblinking. "Sometimes I like to play with myself," she whispered. "Don't you want to watch?"
She lay back on the carpeting and both nyloned knees were high and spread. She dug in with her heels as she moved her hands over her body. Her head went back and she arched slightly as she palmed and fingered her nipples. Her fingers drifted down over the flatness of her belly and dipped to the inner softness of her thighs. They danced along her skin, up the red nylon to her knees and back down.
I watched her open. I couldn't move. The petals of her triangle turned out, became pinkish as she continued to draw her own fingers lightly over her body. She quivered all over suddenly and then her right hand shot down into her juncture and she rubbed savagely.
"You, too!" she hissed, coming up on an elbow. She sprawled cocked and twisted, her face muscles beginning to twitch in her own passion.
I yanked open my trousers and her eyes widened as I clasped myself. "Yes, yes...." she hissed.
Her knees went wide and her finger worked swiftly, her hips bouncing against the carpeting as low sounds began to spill from her throat. I went up on the edge of the chair and working furiously, she suddenly bent forward and her mouth enclosed me. I clasped the back of her head and she groaned and bounced and became a frenzy of movement on the carpeting as I strained into her.
The sensation inside me moved swiftly. I felt it building and then it was shooting forward and I lifted myself to follow. Fran Nature suddenly clamped the back of my legs and gurgled as I came. She lurched with the flow." Her head whipped from side to side, but she did not free me, and it was as if all of my insides were pouring into her.
She took me from the chair and down to the carpeting. I lay twitching and writhing and gasping for breath as she fed. And then she was twisting her body around and I felt the nylon sliding across my face. She went up on her knees, her mouth continuing to be busy, and I was now staring up into the mons Veneris. She lowered herself, not quite touching. She was moist and smelled of woman. I shot my tongue against her and she jerked. Then she settled with a fresh murmur of pleasure and I felt the new fires building in me as we became locked. I fed hungrily while she drank....
* * *
We remained on the carpeting, relaxed now and breathing normally. I lay at a right angle to her, the back of my head propped against her fiat belly muscles while her fingers absently toyed in her juncture hairs.
Finally she said softly, "I needed that, Sergeant Law. I needed to have a man feed on me. Nanette is good, but she is not a man."
I said nothing.
"Kiss me," she said.
I didn't move.
She pushed my head, lifted the fingers from her hair. I kissed her, stared up at the ceiling again.
"Good," she breathed. And then she sat up and pushed my head down to her thighs and bent forward and fastened her mouth on mine. Her lips were soft and damp and full and her tongue teased slightly, but it was a good kiss, long and with messages.
When she finally lifted her mouth from mine, she kept her face close and her eyes looked deep inside me. "If I could have you for myself...." she began. She clamped her lips and shook her head. "But it will never happen," she said. "No man wants a two-way street."
"Quit knocking yourself," I growled.
"It's how I am inside." She shook her head. "I don't understand, but I know I never would be good for a man. No man. I couldn't remain faithful to him. Sooner or later, I'd see a woman I want and...." She clamped the lips again, remained silent.
"Perhaps if you gave a man a good try?" I ventured.
"I have tried. I could with you. But it wouldn't work. There's something inside me that doesn't click with a man. It clicks only with another woman."
"Have you always had it?"
"As long as I can remember," she nodded. "Oh, there was a time in my life I didn't understand what it was, and then a high school ... well, there was a phys ed teacher and one day she showered with me at school and that's when I found out about my true self."
"On the other hand, you like sex with men."
"I love sex with men-but every so often I have to have a woman."
"No man would understand that," I admitted. "I know."
"So you run with the Nanettes."
The Nanettes are not easy to find, Matthew. Men are."
"Before Nanette?"
"Yes, there have been others. There was even one I would have married."
"Married?"
"Lesbians have their own little ceremonies, you know."
"I just figured they moved in together."
"Not at all. And I think I would have been happy with Barbara. She wasn't dominating."
"What happened to her?"
"I don't know. She ran away with a youngster. A fifteen year old girl. I think they went out to California."
"So she wouldn't have been good for you."
"No, I suppose not in the long run, but I would have liked to have been married to her."
"How about to Nanette?"
"No. Nanette has William."
"It doesn't seem to me she's too damned interested in William Darby Rivers."
"She's interested in his money."
"Tell me about him. What kind of a dude is he? Is he man, fag, voyeur, transvestite, hermaphrodite-"
"He believes in total sexual freedom. That's why he and Nanette live together. They think a-like, know the same pleasures, never bother to question the ventures of the other."
"Something keeps them together."
"With Nanette, it's William's wealth. With William, it's Nanette's total abandon. Nanette will do anything sexually with anyone at any time or place. She will stand on a dining room table in the middle of dinner and masturbate with a candle while twenty guests look on-if William tells her to do it. He has, and she did. I was there."
"They're cute," I said, unable to keep the sneer out of my voice.
"Any different than you and me five minutes ago?" she shot at me.
I stood. She caught my trouser leg. "Hey, where are going?"
"Out to find a killer," I snarled. "Now?" she was surprised again. "Now," I said flatly.
She went back on the carpeting and lifted her legs and planted her heels against my chest. I stared down red nylon straight into her juncture.
"Quick dip?" she said with lifted eyebrows.
I caught her ankles and put her legs aside. She rolled up onto her feet and giggled. Then she stepped into me and curled her arms around my neck. Her breasts were large mounds against my chest and her pelvis rubbed gently against me. She kissed me savoringly and lifted a leg. "Please?" she said softly. "I need it."
I put her off and she pouted. "Sometimes you're all bastard, Sergeant Law."
"See yuh 'round, doll."
"Where are you going?"
"Out to the Rivers place."
"How 'bout a ride?"
I hesitated, then said, "If you can find a dress."
She found a red mini and wriggled into it. She didn't bother to put on a bra or panties. She arched at a bureau mirror and repainted her lips. Patting abundant hips as she quickly surveyed the finished product in the mirror, she winked at my reflection. "Is it as much fun to watch a girl dress as it is to watch her disrobe?"
"Let's roll," I said.
She sat with her hip against me all the way to the Rivers mansion. One hand remained in my lap where she fondled. I attempted to put her off a couple of times but all she did was giggle and bring her hand back to me. When I braked the sedan in the large parking area in front of the mansion, she remained plastered against me. Her lips came up to nibble my earlobe. "I still need a good screw," she breathed. "Out, cat."
"We really didn't have to come here, you know. We could've stayed at my place."
I left the sedan. She scooted after me. She had trouble sliding between the steering wheel and the back of the seat and by the time she got her legs outside the mini was in her lap and her cunt was snapping at night air. She stood, shook the dress down below her hips. "Boy, I don't understand you," she pouted.
I looked around the parking lot. It was stuffed with shiny automobiles. Light came from every window in the mansion and music drifted across the quiet night. "What kind of a clambake is this supposed to be?" I asked.
"Like any other night, I suppose," Fran Nature said with a shrug. "Everyone does his own thing. If your bag is drinking, you get drunk. If it's pot, you get high. If it's sex."
"Where will I find Rivers?"
"He could be anywhere. The house, the pool, in bed. You'll have to play detective, I guess."
We entered through the front door. No maid or butler greeted us. We walked into the vast foyer. The stairway was straight ahead. Off to our right was the wide entry into the acre of front room that was crowded with furniture and dotted with people. I did not recognize anyone. Then a young blond dude with a bush mustache broke away from a pale red-haired girl and brought his drink to us. He was athletic in construction, handsome in face, and suspicious in eye. The eyes whipped over me before flashing to Fran Nature.
"I've been wondering where you were," the blond dude said.
Fran smiled. "Peter Barry, Matthew Law."
We shook briefly. His grip was hard as marble. "Where have you been?" he pressed, almost ignoring me.
"Getting screwed." She hesitated. "No, that's not quite the truth. Actually, we were-"
"Barry," I broke in, "do you know where I might find William Rivers?"
His eyes were like twin snake heads.
"Matthew is a cop," Fran offered.
The eyes changed. They bugged briefly, and then they began to lose some of their venom. He used a finger to flick at the mustache. Either he didn't like cops, became nervous in the presence of one, or it was okay in his book if it was a cop who had humped his girl. I didn't find out because he said, "Mr. Rivers is out at the pool, I think."
I left Fran with him to angle through strangers who did not pay any particular attention to me. I went through open French doors and out onto the pool apron. The crowd there was thicker, but I spotted someone I recognized. Nanette.
She lifted a hand in a wave and whisked toward me, dragging along a wheezing fat man who had a bald dome and wore dentures that had not been properly fitted. Nanette danced up against my front end gave me a quick kiss and a chuckle as she slapped her pelvis against me and rubbed. Then she introduced the fat man. His name was Bernard Oshman. His handshake was like grasping Jell-O and his manner was worse. He wiped his hand on his trousers, as if wiping away snot, and he tittered. "Imagine meeting a genuine policeman! I don't think I ever have until this instant!"
I attempted to remember what Diane Bowers had told me about Bernard Oshman. He had a wife and he lived next door to the Rivers place. He had had a yen for Michelle, but he sometimes experienced difficulty when it came to readying himself for a sexual plunge. There was a streak of voyeur in him. He liked to watch a Negro man hump his wife.
"Weren't you at last night's party, Mr. Oshman?" I asked with false politeness. He was puzzled, but he said, "Yes, certainly."
"Then how come you haven't met a cop until now?" Nanette took over. She caught my arm, pushed her breasts against my bicep's. "You're being nasty, Matthew," she chided. "Bernard went home early last night. He became ill during the evening."
"That right, Mr. Oshman?"
"Yes, certainly."
"Was that right after you killed Michelle?"
"Wh-at?"
Nanette steered me away from him. "You shouldn't have," she admonished. "Bernard is a sensitive man. And he has a bad heart. Now tell me, to what do we owe the honor of your presence? Not that it isn't nice to have you around-it is. But I have a stinking hunch-"
"I'm looking for your husband."
"Why?"
"He has some questions to answer."
"Why?"
"Because I have questions to ask him."
"About Michelle's death?"
"About."
"Are you picking on William, Sergeant?"
"Now don't go protective on me, baby. It isn't your nature."
"William didn't kill his own daughter."
"You say."
"I know. I asked him. He told me he didn't."
"Where is he?"
"Somewhere in the house, I suppose. But can't we forget him? How about if you and I-"
"No." I turned back toward the mansion.
"Don't tell me Diane took everything out of you. I thought you were the man who never went soft."
She had surprised me, and the surprise must have been on my face when I looked at her. She was grinning. She took my arm again, pressed her body against me. "Diane told me she was with you earlier tonight. Is my daughter really good, Matthew?"
"She has a big mouth."
Nanette laughed gently. "Does she do that, too? My, she certainly is growing up. Well, I'll say one thing-you pooped her or something. She came home and went straight up to her room. She wasn't even interested in the party. What did you do to her?"
"Maybe she's getting tired of certain people, a way of life. Maybe she's realizing that away from here, out there in the sane world, there's-"
"Ho-ho, we suddenly have a moralist in our midst, huh?"
I left Nanette Rivers. I was suddenly angry all over again. I stomped past Bernard Oshman and a squat, chunky dame of sixty who was clinging to a huge Negro. Oshman nodded and acted as if he wanted to say something, the dame inventoried openly, and the black turned after me. I stopped. He crashed into my back, and then he stepped away.
"My name is Sim," he said, stone-faced. "I understand you have been asking about me."
"I have?" I matched his stoniness.
"You're Law, aren't you?"
"I'm Law."
"Diane Bowers said-"
"Did you kill Michelle Rivers?"
"Cut it, man."
"Carry on a little hanky-panky with her?"
"Oh, boy, you're nosy."
"Force her to go down on you?"
"Let me ask you one, man. You ever put a leg of lamb before a starving cat?"
"I never have," I admitted. "No force to get the cat to eat. Get it?"
"Got it."
"The cat dug lamb."
"Last night?"
"Not last night."
"Then I wasn't asking about you."
"Good. I don't like people asking about me."
"See yuh 'round, Sim. Incidentally, you got any ideas where I might find William Darby Rivers?"
"He doesn't want to see you."
"Why not?"
"He's busy."
"Doin' what?"
"Showering."
"At this hour?"
"There's five showers upstairs. He owns 'em all. But you're not going to see any of them."
"I'm not?"
"Keeping cops out of his showers is one of the reasons I live here."
Sim should have remained with acting. He was not a good tough. Very inexperienced. He was wide open in the crotch. Which is where my knee landed. With force.
Sim doubled forward with a howl that snapped off all chatter around the pool. My fist coming up under his meaty jaw chopped off the howl. Sim was down and groveling. I waved to the people, grinned at the startled Nanette Rivers, and went into the mansion and upstairs.
I stopped at Diane Bowers' closed door, reached for the knob. I was tempted. I put an ear against the wood, heard nothing. My fingers were on the knob, but I did not turn it. I went on down the hall, listening for the hiss of shower water as I wondered about Diane. I remembered her words, her mood as we had returned from the riverbank to the car earlier that night. Her flippancy had been subdued. She had seemed different. It had been as if our session on the grass had opened her eyes to something. Could it be she was coming to her senses, realized there could be a depth to sex?
The sound of the shower water was faint. I opened the bedroom door cautiously, prepared for anything. The room was bathed in lamplight and empty. Male clothing was piled neatly on a double bed. Two sets of male clothing. I scowled and went to the bath door. The only sound coming from the other side was the splash of the water. I opened the door-and I gaped.
William Darby Rivers stood in the bathtub. The shower curtain was open. William Darby Rivers was naked and lathered in soap. Facing him, a man named Harold Boswell was also naked and lathered in soap. Two jutting stems of erections stood out of the lather like sticks protruding from carnival cotton candy. The heads of the sticks dueled as William Darby Rivers manipulated Harold Boswell and Harold Boswell manipulated William Darby Rivers.
Boswell looked as if I were his father who had walked in on him. He gasped and attempted to cover himself. But Rivers smiled on me without breaking the rhythm of his administration and said, "Join us?"
In the bedroom, I was torn between violently breaking up the bathtub sex game and bolting. I could bring swarms of cops down on the mansion. But by the time they got there? And who would believe, no matter how loud I shouted? Rivers, pleading innocence, would deny, then crucify me and the department.
I bolted.
I stomped out of the bedroom and along the corridor. It took a strange chanting sound to stop me. I froze and I listened hard. The chant came from behind a closed door to my right. I had never heard anything like it in my life. And before I realized what I was doing I had turned the knob and was using gentle fingers to push open the door.
It might have been a bedroom scene on stage of a legitimate theater, and they could have been actors caught up in their roles. They were engrossed, and they were oblivious to an audience. Fran Nature sat in a barrel chair facing me, but she did not see me. Her head was thrown back and twisted hard to her left as Bernard Oshman, his fat belly heaving, stood at her head. His trousers were open and Fran was feeding hungrily on him.
Oshman's eyes bugged as he stared across the room and on his wife, who was flat on her back on a large bed with the hem of her dress pushed up against her breasts. Between her fat legs the large black man worked furiously, pumping hard while her chubby fingers clutched and dug deep into his black buttocks. The kick had not incapacitated him.
Fran's knees were spread wide, the red nylon of her hose glinting in the lamplight. And between those spread knees, his shoulders holding her thighs apart, Peter Barry was on his hands and knees and acting like a starved man at a feast while behind him, squatted and riding his hips, a Negro girl named Kit had encircled his waist with her left arm while her right hand, under him, moved swiftly in Peter administration.
The chanting sound came from a shadowed corner. The girl was the redhead I'd seen downstairs. She was on the carpeting, her shoulder blades braced against the angle of the two walls, her eyes closed and her face contorted. Her knees were up high and wide and her feet were planted in the carpeting, a white dress riding her bare belly as she worked her juncture with both hands.
I guessed I was staring on Hertha Clarke, the masturbating addict.
Kit was tempting. She remained squatted and rode Peter Barry hard, a yellow mini caught across the under edges of her black buttocks. Her leg muscles were strained and her thighs clamped and released Peter in rhythm. I stared on the play of her loins while the chant of Hertha Clarke filled my ears. And the room suddenly smelled of sex. The smell penetrated and lit fires inside me.
I went to Kit and rolled the yellow mini up over her hips. She wore narrow white panties. They were stretched taut against her flicking black buttocks. I put my hands on her.
"No!"
I snapped my head around. The cry had come from the corner. And now the redhead over there was staring at me wide-eyed as she hunched on her heels and her buttocks toward me.
"Me!" she hissed. "I'm so hot I'm dying!"
I debated. Hertha Clarke begged with her eyes and her cunt. But Kit was back against me now, her flexing buttock muscles capturing and releasing my stiffness.
"Me!" pleaded Hertha Clarke, her hand frantic in its administration.
The black loins were too tempting. Thumbing the white panties aside, I entered Kit and pumped hard, sliding into her rhythm. We flowed. And under us Peter Barry made animal sounds as he fed on Fran while arching to the pleasure of Kit's deft fingers. Kit lurched and bucked against me, her black buttocks, sweaty and slick. And I felt the heat building swiftly inside me. I exploded. Kit reared. And then she went up and over Peter Barry's back with a long ratde as Fran Nature gurgled around Bernard Oshman and began to spit.
I rolled from the black girl and staggered, unable to control my quivering legs. Bernard Oshman was on his knees on the carpeting now, gasping and wheezing, while Kit peeled from Peter Barry's back and became a heap of wet wash.
Fran's legs came up to curl around Peter's neck and her hips took on frantic pounding inside the chair. I felt something tugging at my leg, and I looked down. Hertha Clarke had straddled my feet and was staring wild-eyed up at me as her hand continued to flash.
"Please," she gasped, "do it to me! I'm burning up!"
I went down on my knees and mounted her. She didn't even bother to lie back. She spread wide and wrapped her arms around my shoulders and clung to me in the sitting position, her hot juncture swallowing me. Her legs curved and she locked her ankles against my spine. She climbed against me, the chanting sound once again mounting in her throat. Then she lunged against me in one final thrust and I could feel the warm juices flowing out of her.
She sagged slowly, became a dead weight in my arms and against my thighs. I let her slip down to the carpeting. She lay back, keeping her knees high and wide, straddling me.
"Oh, god," she breathed, "you don't know how good that felt."
"Yes, I do, honey," I told her truthfully. "And I'm still hot," she sighed, her hand returning to her snatch.
I looked down on her hand and made a licking motion with my tongue. She lurched. "D-don't," she stuttered. "Why not?"
"You'll make me ... do it again." I repeated the licking motion.
"Goddamn you...." she hissed, coming up on an elbow. She began to rub vigorously. "See what you did. Look what you're doing!"
She clutched at me, but I moved out of range. I stood, towered over her. Her eyes began to change and the chant began to mount. She attempted to bring me down on her, but I stepped away.
"You bastard!" she cried out.
I left her to her ministrations and looked around. Kit was sprawled and relaxed, perhaps even half asleep on the floor, the yellow mini high and the white panties pushed halfway down her thighs. Bernard Oshman was still on his knees, but jackknifed forward now, his forehead against the carpeting. Peter Barry had sagged against Fran Nature, his mustache quivering, and Fran remained in the barrel chair, cradling Peter's head as she stared off into space. Only on the bed was there activity. Sim had put Mrs. Oshman on top of him. He looked at me out around the corner of her right hip and snarled. But he didn't stop what he was doing.
Then I heard a chortle in the doorway. I turned. Nanette Rivers stood there in a blue evening gown. She held a large turkey leg in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. She was grinning as she took in the scene.
"Anybody need help?" she asked innocently, taking a bite from the turkey leg and downing it with a pull from the champagne bottle.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Nanette winked at me and began to make the rounds of the room. She stopped at Kit, straddled the black girl. "Hungry, darling?" she asked, offering the turkey leg.
Kit moaned and shook her head.
Nanette went to Fran and Fran took a large bite out of the turkey leg. "It's cold," she complained.
"You can't have hot stuff every time, dear," Nanette grinned.
"The hell I can't," Fran laughed, turning Peter's face into her recess again. "This one's hot-and he has a mustache that tickles."
From somewhere down inside Fran's thighs, Peter Barry mumbled, "I'm hungry, too."
"Then eat," chorded Fran.
Nanette stopped and squatted at Hertha Garke. "Here, baby, let me cool you off." She moved Hertha's hand aside, fitted the bottle and poured champagne.
Hertha writhed on the carpeting as Nanette went to the bed. "How are you two doing?" she asked.
"Give me a drink," Sim said without breaking his rhythm.
Nanette turned the bottle up against his mouth. "I just took it from Hertha," she said.
"Tastes extra good," mumbled the Negro.
"Darling?" Nanette offered the bottle to Mrs. Oshman.
"Just pour some on my breasts," the woman rasped. "For Sim," she added.
Nanette doused her fat breasts, and then she came to me. "Well?" She offered the turkey leg and the bottle. I pushed both aside. "Crazy."
"Aren't we?" she chuckled. She dropped the turkey leg on Hertha Clarke's heaving stomach. "There, darling," she purred, "something extra for you to play with."
She took my arm and guided me out of the bedroom and across the corridor. We entered an empty and fresh bedroom. She took me to the bed and drank from the bottle, offered it again. "Not you?"
I zipped up my fly, but she shook her head and opened it again. "If you think I'm going to miss out on some of this, you're crazy as hell, darling."
Her hand went inside and she fondled. I responded instantly and she laughed at my oath.
She put the bottle on the carpeting and lifted the hem of the evening gown and held it against her middle. She was bare from her flat belly down. "Come on, big man," she said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
I started to turn from her, but her mouth closed on me. She stared up at me from under lifted brows and I could see the amusement in her eyes. She knew I could not turn now.
Suddenly she freed me and went back on the bed, keeping the gown high on her body. She lifted her knees and hooked me with one foot. "How 'bout us doing it just nice and normal for a change?" she suggested.
I went into her deep and she sighed as she hooked her arms around my shoulders. "You're nice," she breathed against my mouth. "So very thick-and nice."
And when it was finished, she lay relaxed and staring up at the pale yellow ceiling. I lay beside her, a leg remaining over her, my face buried in the crook of her warm neck.
"Good," she breathed.
"Better than doing it with a candle on a dining room table, huh?"
"Ahh," she said softly, "you've heard."
"I've heard."
"It wasn't difficult," she said. "Because William told you to do it."
"William has his quirks."
"And you don't?"
"Sure, I have mine, too. Tell me you don't."
"I don't."
"You ever had another man?"
"No."
"Ever want one?"
"No."
"I understand it isn't bad."
"Your husband tells you."
She shrugged. "He says it makes him feel like a woman who is being serviced."
"How would he know about women?"
"Oh, he likes women. It's just that he doesn't draw the line with them. He'll take a man, too."
"I've noticed."
"You have?" She sounded surprised.
"In a shower down the hall. He and Harold Boswell."
"Oh. Yes, William likes Harold."
"Who is he?"
"Harold? A friend of William's."
"I mean-"
"A wealthy importer. William and Harold have business together."
"Does Harold go for women, too?"
"I'm not sure. He has a cute maid, but what does that mean?"
"How did Harold act around Michelle?"
"I don't know. I don't think I ever noticed."
"How 'bout you and Harold?"
"He doesn't like me. Harold doesn't like anyone who takes William's attention."
"So maybe Harold killed Michelle last night."
"Absurd."
"Michelle was your husband's daughter. And even if they didn't like one another, she must have demanded some attention."
"None." Nanette shook her head. "Michelle never asked her father for a thing. She merely took."
"Like?"
"His money. She blackmailed him."
"Blackmailed?"
"She had photographs. Of her father and me. Of her father and other women. Of her father and men."
"And some taken at some of the ... er, parties here?"
"She had photographs," Nanette nodded. "She was a very ugly little girl."
"And where are these photographs now?"
"I've destroyed them."
"You knew where she kept them?"
"She made no secret about having them."
"So why weren't they destroyed long ago?"
"They were. But new ones replaced the old. I don't know where she hid the negatives. I'm still looking for them."
"Honey, you've opened a new door. Anyone in a photograph might have wanted Michelle dead."
"I suppose," she agreed.
"I'd like to see a set."
"So that's your quirk, huh? Dirty pictures."
"Yeah, I go ape over dirty pictures. And dirty books. And dirty movies. And ... For Chris' sake, grow up. What used to be dirty isn't dirty any more. Haven't you heard? Anyway, it wasn't dirty in the first place. Nudity is normal. Sex is normal."
"And the variations?"
"Normal."
"I wish you were a dictator and writing the laws of the country."
"The nation is coming around. Give it a chance. It built a cloak long ago. A thick coat. It takes time for thick walls to fall."
"Now you sound like you should be one of our gang."
"Everyone to his own taste. That's where the rub is, doll. You get yours where and how you want it, I'll get mine where and how I want it. Just don't tell me how I'm going to get it."
"But a minute ago you were knocking me for doing it with a candle on a dining room table."
"If I had been at the dinner, I'd have walked out. That was forcing sex on other people."
"Point: No one walked out."
"Point: Those there didn't feel as if they were being affronted."
"Matthew Law, sometimes you amaze me."
"Sometimes I amaze myself. But let's get back to the pictures and blackmail. Who's in the pictures?"
"Well ... everyone."
"Meaning those who have frequented this house."
"Meaning," she nodded. "Tommy Polar?"
"Sure."
"And Archie?"
"Yes."
"Harold Boswell, Bernard Oshman, Sim-"
"Everyone I said. Including me, Fran, Kit-"
"So who wouldn't want the pictures to be flashed around?"
"Well, I don't suppose anyone would exactly relish-"
"But who might be affronted?"
"My husband would be-in certain business quarters. Sim would be if he attempted to return to the stage. Harold Boswell is politically inclined. Bernard and Lillian Oshman have a daughter who is a nun. Fran's father is a mayor in a small Baptist town in Texas. Tommy Polar could lose his job at the tennis club. Even Archie-Archie's sister is a government agent working for the tax people."
"Incidentally, where are Tommy Polar and Archie tonight?"
"I don't know. They were invited, naturally."
"Do you suppose they could be cutting out?"
"I'm not sure I know what you mean," she frowned. "Maybe leaving the country."
"What for?"
"To escape prosecution."
"Oh, Matthew, you get so caught up in your police work you don't make sense. Neither Tommy nor Archie killed Michelle."
"I get tired of saying this, honey," I sighed, "but somebody did."
I left her. I sat up. And then I stared. Across the room, Hertha Clarke stood spread-legged against the wall, the neck of the champagne bottle out of sight between her thighs. She was perspiring and wide-eyed.
"You weren't ... using it," she panted.
I looked at Nanette. She was grinning. "Hasn't she got a husband, a boyfriend-"
"They're all out of town, darling."
"Crazy," I mumbled.
Diane Bowers opened her door as I pounded down the hallway. She wore an orange robe that was closed from neck to ankle. She was barefooted and looked freshly scrubbed and pink. Her blue eyes hung on me. But she remained expressionless.
"Well, hi...." I said, feeling a little at loss for words.
"Hi." Her tone was soft, the sound barely audible. "What are you doing here?" Her eyes flashed up and down the empty corridor.
"I'm still investigating Michelle's death," I said simply.
"Oh."
Her mother came out of the bedroom behind me and Diane's eyes changed. Confusion flashed in them for an instant, disbelief, and then they became hard.
I flicked Nanette Rivers a glance. She was smiling like a cat who had just emptied a bowl. "Hello," she said, looking straight at Diane. "Have you decided to join the party?"
Diane was instantly tight. "Would I be cutting anybody out if I did?"
"Not at all, darling," her mother chuckled. "The parties haven't changed overnight, you know. It's still everyone for herself."
"I can see that," Diane flashed.
"Now, darling," said her mother, "don't get uptight on me over a cop. If he was going to take care of you for the rest of your life, I might move along. But he isn't."
Diane's blue eyes were on me hard. She stared for a moment, and then she changed. A lazy smile curved her unpainted lips and her fingers flicked buttons on the robe. The robe fell open to her young nudity. She preened her breasts. "Some girls have to learn the hard way," she said. "You got any left for me, cop?"
"Diane...."
"Screw you," she snapped and slammed shut the door.
Down the hall, her mother laughed boisterously.
I pounded out of the mansion and wheeled too fast across town. I ran yellow lights and I cut from lane to lane, laughing without humor when I heard the tires squeal behind me. At my place, Cora was sprawled belly down and spread-legged on the front room floor. She was propped on her elbows, reading a magazine. Her head was twisted so she could see over her shoulder and she looked on me out over the top of the black-rimmed glasses. Her bare rump stuck up in the air about a yard.
"You look angry," she said.
I stripped. She started to turn on the floor. "No!" I rasped.
She went back on her belly, waited. I rammed into her hard. And she received me without a murmur, arching her buttocks. She took all of me, but she did not give. She was a receptacle. No more. And I pounded hard, not thinking about her. There was an image in my mind. The image had blue eyes and a fresh face and wore an orange robe that was pushed up high on her shoulder blades now as I used her. The image moaned and writhed in pleas sure, her buttocks lifting and falling in her own passion. And she cried out when I ejaculated into her. Then she turned slowly and took me into her arms and brought me down against all of her young front, and she cooed in my ear, and made soft sounds of satisfaction. The image was clean and fresh and giving-and never would turn to another man again. The image had found something she had never known: someone who would remain faithful to her, someone she was good with, someone who ripped all thoughts of others from her mind, someone who made her feel comfortable and relaxed and wanted....
The first time in her young life that Diane Bowers had found total satisfaction and sense of direction she had been shit upon.
"Did you get it all out of your system?" Cora asked from far away.
"I'm sorry, babe." And I was. I felt like a eunuch must feel when he is exposed to the one he loves.
"Cops have frustrations," she said simply.
"Do you want to hear about her?"
"No," she said after a long time. "But thank you for being honest. I didn't know there was another her."
"I'm a stupid fool," I said.
"You're a man," she replied.
"She's a kid."
"What's age when there is feeling?"
"A good kid-or could be."
"She's got a hang-up, huh?"
"Sex."
"She sounds perfectly normal to me."
"You don't know."
"And I don't want to hear about her, remember? You want me to cut?"
"No."
"So that's all I need to know. Rough day, I guess."
"Rough."
"Murder still unsolved."
"Still."
"I wish I could help you, Matt, but I can't."
"I know, honey."
She rolled into me then, She moved up on top of me and she cradled my head in her arms and brought my face into her breasts. "Kiss them," she said.
I kissed each of the nipples.
"Better," she nodded.
"Up."
"What?" She sounded puzzled.
I pulled on her hips and she got the message. "Oh." She got up on her knees and moved up on me. I kissed her public hairs.
"Good," she said. "So very good."
She wanted to remain, but I put her down and tugged her lips down to mine. It was a long and warm kiss, our mouths conveying all of the messages while our bodies blended.
When she finally lifted her head, she asked, "Do you think I could fall in love again-overnight?"
"I think it could be reaction," I told her truthfully. "What do you feel for me?"
"Plenty. I have for too long."
"So maybe it is not overnight. Maybe I have been aware of you for a long time even though I loved Fletcher."
"Maybe."
"I'd never lie about that, Matt. I loved the big lug."
"And I've had other women."
"But have you ever been in love with any of them?"
"I don't think so."
"What about this girl of yours?"
"She's a good kid. That's the only way I know to tell you."
"Have you hurt her?"
"I think I might have."
"And so you became angry."
"I thought we weren't going to talk about her."
"I'd be lying if I said I was not jealous. I feel as if every pore is filled. Is she attractive?"
"All women are attractive. Each in her own way."
"Did you go to bed with her?"
"Honey, you're prying."
"I'm asking."
"And if I said I did?"
"Then you did. And anyway, I know you did, Matthew Law. So you don't have to lie. Do you think women don't know when their man-"
"Okay, so I went to bed with her. Two days in a row."
"Since we found each other, you mean."
"Since."
"Now I am jealous."
"But she isn't like you, Cora. There's no depth."
"Still, you feel something for her."
"Something, yeah."
"I wish I knew her."
"No."
"Yes, I do. I want to know everybody and everything that affects you."
"She's just a kid."
"But you can't write her off that way, Matthew. There are lots of kids in the world. Some of them very pretty, some of them very aggressive, some of them-"
"She's on the wrong path."
"Now, finally, we're getting down to the nitty gritty."
"On the other hand, I can't change the world, can I?"
"No, you can't."
"I have to accept."
"Most of us do."
"You know, earlier tonight I was filled with philosophy. I was spouting philosophy as if I were a professor."
"And now?"
"I'm confused."
"I hope," she said, darting a quick kiss across my lips, "you are not confused about me. I'll sleep with you, I'll be in love with you, marry you, not marry you, I'll do anything you want me to do."
"Don't talk that way, Cora."
"I mean it, Matthew."
"Don't put me on."
"I never could. I'm merely being frank. Can't you understand?"
"Okay."
"No, not okay, Matthew. You have to feel. You have to understand inside."
"You're my girl."
"I'm your girl," she nodded. "No Fletch existed."
"Yes, a Fletcher existed, but I'm still your girl. Now."
"Cora?"
"What?"
"I want to make love to you."
"Thank god...." she breathed.
Our mating was mutual and natural. She spread on me. And I entered her. Slow and easy and deep. She took all of me as if I belonged. And then her lips were fastened on mine and we moved rhythmically together. Flowing. The lips never parting. The bodies never thrashing. And I was swept up in the naturalness of our lovemaking. And when it was finished and she had regained consciousness we lay side by side on the carpeting and stared at the ceiling, fingers interlocked between us, and there were added messages in the grip.
After a long while, she breathed, "What time is it?"
"I don't know."
"Four o'clock in the morning? Five?"
"Do you really care?"
"No. Do you?"
"No."
"I love you, Matthew Law."
"I love you, Cora Ayers."
We were still on the carpeting when I came awake. Our fingers were still interlocked. Sunlight bathed my chest and Cora's breasts. The sunlight made her nipples look golden. I kissed them. Softly. She stirred, crooked one leg. I kissed her pubic hairs, went deeper, And then her hand came to the back of my head and she murmured in content. I tasted her petals. She crooked a leg over my shoulders.
"So good," she breathed.
Later we stepped from the shower and she bubbled, "I have an idea. I'll cook breakfast. Do you have the ingredients?"
She brought eggs, sausage, potatoes, toast and coffee to the bed. She spread the plates on the bed and put the coffee on the floor beside the bed. Then she sat crosslegged opposite me, totally naked and at ease.
"Eat," she grinned.
I made a dip at her cervix.
"Food," she laughed.
The phone jangled while we were taking our second shower of the morning. Cora said nothing, merely looked at me.
"It could be a wrong number," I said. "It could be the Pope, too."
I left her in the shower. She didn't follow. I went out and grabbed up the receiver and growled, "Yeah?"
"Sergeant Law?"
I was instantly alert. It was my anonymous caller of the previous day. "Law, yes. Who is this?"
But he didn't tumble. "Tommy Polar killed Michelle Rivers, Sergeant Law. Why won't you believe me?"
"I do, friend, but I also have to be able to prove it."
"Make him confess."
"I gotta have witnesses."
"Witnesses?"
My caller seemed briefly puzzled, and then he said, "Well, you might interrogate Archie Table."
"Archie, huh?"
"He was there."
"Where?"
"He was ... he saw the girl die."
"Archie Table saw Michelle Rivers die?"
"But it was Tommy Polar who killed her."
"How?"
"With his ... you know."
"No, I don't know."
"With his thing."
"Thing?"
"His male organ."
"Hey, man, are you suggesting-"
"I'm not suggesting anything you don't already know, Sergeant. And it's time for me to hang up. Question Polar. That's all you have to do. Question him. hard."
"Pal, I'd like to-"
But there was a click in my ear, and I held out the receiver and stared at it for a couple of seconds; then I broke the connection, waited briefly, and dialed the number the phone company had given me.
"We're on it," a voice told me when I identified myself. "I think we've got him, but it's gonna take a couple of sees. Hang tight."
I was as jumpy as a bride while I waited. I squirmed and I shuffled my bare feet. Cora joined me. She was curious, but she remained silent. I covered the mouthpiece and told her, "Maybe the big break, doll."
She caught my mood and she changed immediately. She found a couple of cigarettes, fired them, and stuck one in my mouth. She got up on her tiptoes and kissed my cheek. She was smiling. "I hope, I hope, I hope...." she chanted.
I winked at her. "And why do you hope, wench?"
She flipped my penis. "I'd like to have you-and thatall to myself with no interruptions," she said.
I bent and kissed her nipples. She giggled.
I felt as if I'd just inherited a million tax-free dollars. And then my inheritance went to two million. The voice in my ear said, "You there, Sergeant? We've got him."
"Give, pal."
"The phone is listed for a Harold F. Boswell. Lives at 5400 Organdy."
"You've made my day, man."
Cora made no attempt to delay or stop me as I dressed. She seemed caught up in my enthusiasm. It was only when I bolted for the front door that she yelled at me: "Hey."
I looked back at her over my shoulder.
"Haven't you forgotten something?" she asked with a mischievous grin.
I was honestly puzzled until she moved toward me, undulating her hips in exaggeration and thrusting her pelvis forward. I got down on a knee and kissed her. Her hand against the back of my head kept me for a couple of extra seconds and then she said, "Obviously I'm not all you think about."
I gave her an extra kiss and chomped a little. She giggled and danced away. "Shall I keep the oven warm?" she teased.
"You can turn it on high in about an hour, hon."
"Promises, promises, promises...."
5400 Organdy was redwood and stone elegance spotted far back on a green knoll with pampered trees and flowers and vines almost hiding the house. I used a long, curving, concrete drive, and then I used a thumb on a tiny brass button. I got a young Oriental girl in a maid's outfit. The outfit was cute: black, short and fitted. It revealed good legs and was sculptured against flaring hips and prominent breasts. The girl also was cute-and protective. She said Harold F. Boswell was not in and would not be.
"He was called to Europe on business."
I lifted her out of the doorway and plunked her back on thick carpeting, driving her heels in about an inch. "And he didn't take you, honey? What is he, queer or something?"
I whirled off into a vast room. Harold Boswell stood far away. He was planted against a background of pale brown drapes and he looked as if he was about to be pitched into a grave. He wore a deep purple lounging robe, belted across his stout middle and his hands were thrust deep into pockets. For just a second, I wondered if he might have a small gun in one of the pockets, and then the maid was pawing at my arm and attempting to turn me.
I reached out and squeezed her left breast. She leaped back from me and snarled. She hissed, "Get out!"
"Up yours," I said calmly.
She launched a second attack, this one with fingers clawed, but Boswell stopped her. "All right, Flicka. He's in. You did your best."
"Flicka?" I arched an eyebrow.
"Pickle yours," she said and turned and disappeared from the room.
I turned to Boswell. "Flicka? An Oriental?"
He took his hands from the robe and lifted them in a gesture of helplessness. No gun. He said, "She was born in Chicago. Is it important?"
"Not today, pal," I admitted.
"I made a mistake this morning, didn't I? It was stupid telephoning you a second time. I should have known."
"Are you going to unload or do I have to pry it out of you?"
"I told you the truth, Sergeant. Tommy Polar killed Michelle."
"You saw it all, huh?"
"I saw."
"From where?"
"From ... behind a tree."
"You wanna explain that?"
"It's quite simple," he said, lifting the hands again. "I was at the pool. I became restless. I decided to take a walk around the grounds. I came upon Michelle and Tommy Polar. They were on the grass and Michelle was
"Was?" I pried when he hesitated. "You know."
"No, I don't know. I wasn't behind the tree."
"They were involved in a sexual act," he said, shuffling his feet and looking everywhere but at me. "I stopped and I ... watched."
"Michelle was going down on Polar, is that it?"
"Crudely put, yes."
"Was Polar forcing her?"
"Heavens, no!"
"Was she naked?"
"Totally."
"How 'bout Polar?"
"He was clothed."
"I think you said Archie Table was around."
"Oh, yes. He was there. He was involved."
"How?"
"Well ... he was sitting beside Tommy on the grass."
"Sounds like quite a picnic."
"He and Tommy were ... kissing."
"Just a couple of boys livin' it up, I guess."
"Archie was jealous. I could tell that much even if I was several feet away. He didn't like the idea of Tommy allowing Michelle-"
"One sec, Mr. Boswell. Michelle is dead, right?"
"Certainly she is dead. Why else would you be-"
"So she can't defend herself."
"Defend herself?"
"Who says Polar was allowing her to service him? I think maybe the bastard forced her into the act."
He seemed to digest it, and then he shook his head. "I doubt it, but either way, does it make a difference? She's dead. I saw it happen."
"But are you sure it wasn't you sitting on the grass with Michelle?"
He shuffled again. "I've been afraid you would think that. It wasn't me, Sergeant. It was Polar."
"You ever have sex with Michelle?"
"Twice."
"What kind?"
He fidgeted. "Like Polar had. The girl was-"
"I know," I broke in with a sigh. "An expert."
"You also might as well know: I didn't like her."
"Why?"
"We just didn't hit it off."
"Was she blackmailing you, too?" He looked genuinely surprised. "No."
"She has photographs, I understand."
"Oh. Those. I've heard about them, but I've never seen them."
"Where did you hear? From Rivers?"
"Yes."
"She was blackmailing him."
"Her own father?"
"Either by necessity, or she was a sadist," I said. "So you're calling Polar a killer, huh? That's a serious accusation."
"I'm telling you what I saw, Sergeant."
"And you're sure the girl was dead when Polar left her."
"I saw her fall away from him. I saw her choke."
"Didn't Polar and Archie try to help her?"
"Yes, but without success."
"And then what happened?"
"Polar sent Archie for his ear."
"And Archie hauled her away from the mansion."
"Yes."
"This is a pretty wild story, Boswell."
"But true."
"Why are you putting the thumb on Polar?"
"I ... don't like the man and ... well, he did kill th girl. I saw him do it!"
"Why don't you like him?"
"It's personal."
"All right. So he has been attempting to take William Darby Rivers from you in recent weeks. How's that for starters?"
Boswell looked downcast. "William belongs to me," he said. "I don't want Tommy Polar or anyone else poking his nose in."
"You mean his pecker, don't you?"
"You are a very crude man, Sergeant."
"Get dressed, Boswell. We're going downtown."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Make it easy on yourself, okay?"
"Are you threatening me, Sergeant?"
"No."
"Arresting me?"
"No."
"My attorney is on his way here. Flicka has called him."
"So?"
"So I'm not going anywhere-unless he tells me to go. However, I will dress, if you'll excuse me."
"Make it snappy."
He made it twenty minutes. And I was restless and beginning to wonder about him when I heard the motor of a sports car roar past the house. I whipped the brown drapes apart and watched Boswell sail down the driveway in the top-down heap. Behind me, the maid laughed without humor.
I headed toward her and she disappeared into the back of the redwood. I went outside and stood fuming in the sunshine. Then I cut out for Tommy Polar's place. He didn't open his door to my ring. I found the building manager and got her to open Polar's door. He wasn't home. Nor was Archie around. I asked the manager if she had seen Polar. She had. That morning as he was leaving the building. I told her I'd wait for Polar's return. She said I couldn't. I went to Polar's phone.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Calling in some squad cars. We're going to seal off your building."
She was startled. "What have I done?"
"You may be obstructing justice."
"Me?"
"We'll try not to attract too much attention. Of course, there will be the cars on the street and flashing red lights and sirens and-"
"Hold it!"
"What?"
"I don't need all of that!"
"Then I can wait alone?"
"Well ... all right."
"Thanks."
I prowled Polar's place. I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but I was thorough. Obviously, Archie had pulled out. The apartment was neat, the bed made, no dust anywhere, not even a used cup in the kitchenette sink. I looked in the refrigerator and cupboards. Plenty of food on hand. I prowled the bedroom closet. It was stuffed with male clothing, and I found three empty suitcases. Gradually, I gathered that Tommy Polar had not skipped the country.
Then I found the tiny white boxes in the bottom bureau drawer. A christian name was printed neatly on the lid of each box. There were fourteen boxes. I opened the box labeled Michelle. Inside was a single neat hair. I found a box labeled Archie. Another hair. A box tagged Flicka caught my eye. The hair inside was black and curved like South Vietnam. There were boxes for Diane and Nanette and William and Kit and Sim and other names I didn't recognize. Finally, it hit me. I was looking at pubic hairs.
The sound of the door chimes startled me. I went to the door and yanked it open. Diane Bowers faced me. She looked as surprised as I felt. She attempted to look around my shoulder, see inside. I stepped out of her line of vision, held the door wide open.
"He isn't home," I said.
"So what are you doing here?" she asked stonily.
"Looking for souvenirs. You want to see? Come."
She followed me into the bedroom and then she stood away from me, looking unsure, as I dug out the box marked Dune. I displayed the contents for her. Her lips clamped and her blue eyes snapped.
"So?" she said.
"Fourteen Polar conquests, I do believe," I said sweeping the boxes with my hand. "Male and female. He's convinced me. He's a stud."
"Where is he?" she snapped.
"You had an appointment?"
"I don't need an appointment. Where is Tommy?"
"Ahh, you've got another itch. And so early in the morning."
She snapped around and started out of the bedroom. I caught her shoulders and pitched her onto the bed. She bounced. The hem of a blue skirt skidded. I saw bare buttocks. She flailed with her feet, but she did not scream. I caught her ankles, split her legs until she was quiet. She lay flat on her back, her belly and breasts heaving with her rapid breathing, her mons Veneris peeled open.
"Let me loose," she snarled.
"When you cool," I said.
She attempted to use her feet again. I kept a firm grip on her ankles, spread her wider. She arched slightly, but I could have split her all the way up her skull and she would not have given me the satisfaction of a protest.
"On the riverbank," I said. "That was special. Between us. But no more. Understand?"
She said nothing, merely seethed.
"You want a nice, clean-cut romance, head west, south, any place. I'm taken."
"You've got that twisted, haven't you?" she said angrily. "I think I was the one who was taken."
"Then you've conjured something in your mind that doesn't exist."
"I found out, Junior," she agreed. "Oh, how I found out!"
"Who asked me to take her to the park?"
"Goddammit, don't remind me!"
"You were on your way up here to go to bed with Polar, remember?"
"Forget it," she snapped. "And let me up."
"Not until you understand."
"I understand, all right. You're no different than any other male. One is company. Two is fun. And a roomful is what makes the world go 'round! Ah, I understand, Junior. A girl finds a guy who maybe she could go for, a guy who turns it on her, makes her think he's different, makes her ... goddamn you, let me up!"
The ankles flicked. I spread. She arched more. Her juncture widened.
And I felt the old feeling sweeping over me.
For an instant, I fought it. But only for an instant. And then I was hard and between her thighs. She battled me in silence, her legs pounding and her fingers clawed until I captured her wrists. She writhed under me, attempting to keep the target unavailable. I entered her and she arched, throwing back her head and biting down hard on her lower lip. I filled her and pumped savagely, waiting for the response from her. But there was no response. Suddenly she went flaccid. And she remained loose and unmoving and close-eyed, allowing me to use her. I kissed her. She did not respond. I bit the skin of her neck. She merely turned her head aside. And then the swelling was alive inside me and I didn't care if she was dead. I plunged and sent the swelling shooting far up into her interior. She remained unmoving.
When I left her she did not stir, did not open her eyes. She remained spread on Tommy Polar's bed, her thighs split, moisture leaking from her. I felt animal.
"There's nothing between us," I rasped.
She let me get to the bedroom doorway before she said, "There's one thing. You just raped me, and you're the only man who ever has. Anyone else I'd fuck until the end of time. Not you, you son of a bitch."
When I got downtown to headquarters, I was mentally finished with the investigation of Michelle Rivers' death. I had my resignation from the department prepared for dictation, I was already on a remote island with Cora Ayers, we were the island's lone inhabitants, and I never was to see another woman again. Cora was to be my lone bedmate. Forever. Temptation had been removed from my life.
The only trouble was, Lieutenant Crowder was uptight. Archie Table was dead. He had turned up a floater. He had been found in the river.
CHAPTER EIGHT
For some reason I did not understand, I could not accept Archie Table as Michelle Rivers' killer.
"I'm not saying he was," Crowder growled. "Yesterday I thought he was. Today I don't. Archie didn't jump from any bridge. He was killed. There's traces of semen inside him and-"
"Come on, Lieutenant," I interrupted. "One person choking to death on the stuff I can buy. But two?"
"You've never heard of modus operandi?"
"Balls."
"Okay, so strong fingers helped in Archie's case. He had the stuff inside him, all right. But there also are finger bruises on his throat."
"And?"
"Matt, I listened to a tape of your telephone call from this guy, Boswell. Why don't we have Polar?"
"Because I went after Boswell. Because Boswell could've been-still could belying through his friggin' teeth. Who's to say it wasn't Boswell and the girl, Boswell and Archie. Boswell is a homo, basically, but-"
"I checked the guy out, Sergeant. The name had a familiar ring. I know who he is now. He's a millionaire a couple of times over and there was a year when he wanted to be mayor of this city. He was defeated, but he's a big man politically."
"He's also queer," I repeated. "And a special friend of William Darby Rivers. He's at the Rivers house often. He's had sex with Rivers' daughter-the dead girl-and he's had sex with Rivers. He has probably mixed it up a bit with Tommy Polar and Archie Table, too."
"Christ, where have all the normal people gone?"
"We're living in changing times, Lieutenant."
"Goddammit, don't give me that crap! Make some sense for me!"
"I'm trying. Rivers and his crowd-which includes Boswell, Polar, and a mixture of others you won't believe, either-fancy themselves sex swingers. Hell, it's no fancy, it's a fact. They're like the Toda sect of India, they believe in total sexual freedom. Sex to them is like going to a ballgame. They can go to a ballgame every day. The game's the same, but every third day or so the players change."
He waved his arms and I repeated what Harold Boswell had told me about the night of Michelle Rivers' death, I told him about finding Boswell and William Darby Rivers in the shower, I emphasized Boswell's avowed dislike for Tommy Polar.
"So I'm living in a nuthouse world and don't know it," Crowder said when I had finished. "Okay, where's Boswell?"
He went out of his tree when I told him how Boswell had eluded me. He stomped and he raged. Finally he quieted. "If that son of a bitch goes off to South America or someplace, Law, I'll have your butt hanging from a public cross," he threatened. And then he went dictator on me. "Find Boswell," he snapped. "Find Polar. Bring me Rivers. Get me that whole goddamn crowd. Make like Matt Dillion. Bring 'em all in, single-handed. I'll find out which one of them has made a lethal weapon out of a penis!"
"Do you give a shit where I start?"
"Get out of here, you sarcastic bastard!" he roared. "Get me people!"
He blanched when I recited my resignation for him. And then a purple vein leaped alive in his head. I didn't want him to have a stroke; I merely wanted to resign. So I vamoosed. And outside I stood purring on a curb. I could return to Cora Ayers, take her hand, seek our private isle. I could cut alone, get lost in the mountain valleys of New Mexico, move in with a hippy clan-or a lonesome Indian widow. On the other hand, I could do as Crowder had suggested: bring in the entire Rivers tribe and help pick out a killer. What did it matter which one we selected? All we needed was peace of mind.
A little old lady walked up behind me. "Are you a policeman?" she asked.
"Do I look like a policeman?"
"You're standing outside police headquarters."
"So I am."
"Then you are a policeman," she said firmly. "I need assistance. I'm lost."
"Do you live in the city?" I asked politely. "I have for sixty-seven years, but I'm lost."
"And just where is it you want to go?"
"The zoo."
"We have two."
"I want the North American Zoo."
"It's just around the corner, ma'am. Right down there at that next intersection. You take a left. The North American Zoo is one black away."
"Well, thank you, young man. Do they charge admission?"
"They do not. It is a municipal zoo. For the enjoyment of the citizens."
"Is there a chance I might get raped in the zoo?"
"Ma'am?"
"I'm seventy-eight, but you never know these days. The world has gone zippy. Everything is zippers, and zippers are so easy to open. Is there a chance?"
"Are you hoping or-"
"I'm hoping. I may be seventy-eight, but I'm not dead, as you can plainly see!"
"Yes, yes. I can see that."
"Well?"
"I would say the possibilities of rape are extremely good-in the zoo."
"Now I think you are being a smart ass. And here I thought you were a nice policeman."
"Ma'am, you are verbally assaulting a police officer. You are using abusive language. I could arrest you.'"
"So make your only pinch of the day, why don't you? Bust me, cop."
I went off to make another arrest. I went off in search of a killer. Little old ladies are too easy. Pinch enough of them and you get a bad reputation. And, after all, police departments do have reputations to uphold.
I played smart detective again. I used the phone book and got an address for Archie Table. His apartment might have been any woman's. It was clean, frilly, and smelled of pine incense. The window panes sparkled and the curtains were drawn back and held with large red bows. Potted plants dotted the large front room and the furnishings were delicate. The kitchen was immaculate. Stove burners and pots gleamed, dishes looked as if they had just come from the automatic washer, and the silverware glistened. The bedroom was light, feminine and spotless while the bath was a mess.
A dirty brassiere was draped over the outer edge of the tub, nylon panties hung from the shower nozzle and a pair of black hose were draped from a towel rack. The towel was a heap on the tied floor, perfumed powder spilled around it. Lipstick stains dotted the washbowl and opened jars of creams and oils -lined a shelf. I looked for a soiled Kotex belt. It would not have surprised me to fine one.
The bedroom closet contained two pairs of men's tailored slacks, one expensive suit, three white shirts and two sports shirts, three pairs of polished men's shoes. No neckties. The remainder of the closet was stuffed with negligees, housecoats, dresses, women's slacks and see-through blouses. One bureau drawer contained men's underwear, socks and handkerchiefs. The other six drawers were filled with female lingerie and hose. I found two vibrators, one dildo-and a diary.
I broke the lock on the diary. The content was typically female. An account of life: the joys, the heartbreaks, the anxieties, the fears, the hopes, the promises, the day-by-day happenings recorded in simple words.
The final entry was a dandy. It said, "Tommy did a bad, bad thing tonight. Tommy choked Michelle with his penis. It was an accident, but it happened. And it happened while I was kissing him. Oh, sorrow, sorrow, sorrow. Michelle is dead and I am happy! Now she no longer will be taunting Tommy. He will be mine-if I can keep him away from William. My very own. That's why I took her away in my car. I had to rid Tommy of her. Totally. The only trouble is, I had an accident and now the police are harassing us. But it will pass. As all bad things pass. The policeman's name is Sergeant Matthew Law. He is a very attractive man. I'd like to go to bed with him. I think he has a very large penis. I saw it sticking against his pants front. It excited me. I hope Tommy never reads this. He will go back to William.
The entry revolted and angered. I was tempted to rip it from the diary. On the other hand, it was evidence. Even though it would make me the butt of laughter within the department for months to come. I cut with the diary and returned to Polar's place. But the building manager was firm this time. She said, "I will not open Mr. Polar's apartment again. Not after what you did to that girl. I never should have allowed her to go up there. Not with you there-you animal! You can bring sirens and red lights and ... and all those other things you threatened, but you can't go upstairs. Understand?"
"Is Polar up there?" I sighed.
"He is not."
"How 'bout Diane?"
"Who's she?"
"The girl."
"Well, certainly not. Not after what you did to her."
"And just what did I do to her, ma'am?"
"You ... you assaulted her, animal!"
"Which is like assaulting a female wrestler."
"She told me!"
"Flannel mouth, isn't she?"
"She went out of here with tears in her eyes, and she told me! I think I'm going to call the cops on you!"
"I am a cop, remember?"
"Animal!"
"You interested?"
"In what?"
"A little assault."
"I knew it! All cops are degenerates!"
"Just us young cops, ma'am."
I drove to the tennis club. No Polar. I felt like ripping out walls, but I managed, with effort, to control myself and drive out to Harold Boswell's joint. I looked around for a sports heap and got a Caddy and a Buick and a Lincoln. No sports buggy. I stuck a thumb against the tiny door button and kept it there. Nothing. Not even an Oriental doll named Flicka. I was tempted to throw rocks through window glass. Instead I wheeled out to the Rivers mansion and found a blast in progress. What else? After all, it was four o'clock in the afternoon-the day a dog, the evening a pup-and the sun was hot.
People seemed congregated at the swimming pool. I went over there and did not recognize a face, although there was one body that looked vaguely familiar. She was a large blonde girl in purple sunglasses and stretched out on one of the chaise lounges. She was smoking a small cigar and she looked totally relaxed in the sunshine, wearing only the top strip of a chartreuse bikini. Beside her, a bronzed young man in a tank suit lay propped on an elbow and conversing avidly while his fingers idly twirled her pubic hairs. The bottom chartreuse strip was draped across his thick thigh. No one paid any attention to them, but for just a second the lower half of the blonde girl startled me. I thought I recognized the tiny mole that dotted her smooth skin just above the guy's fingers.
Then I looked at her face. She was not an acquaintance.
"Hey!"
The demand came from the water and I saw Nanette Rivers hanging on the edge of the tile. Only her face, neck, and arms were exposed as she dangled by her elbows. She was grinning, and I did not see suit straps running across her shoulders.
"You must like our clambakes," she laughed. "You're getting to be a regular."
"Is Tommy Polar here?" I asked.
The grin disappeared for an instant. "What now?"
"Is he here?"
"I'll bet you want him because of Archie."
"How'd you know about him?"
"My, we're snappish. We own radios, pet. And television sets. Color, no less. Surprise, surprise?"
"Nothing is a surprise around here, doll," I said truthfully.
She hoisted herself out of the pool and sat on the edge with a wet plop. She was grinning at me again. This time over a shoulder. She was naked, a profiled breast arched as she squeezed water from her hair.
Across the pool, a flabby, gray-haired bull in gray swimming trunks waved at her. "Hi, Nanette. You're lookin' the same."
"Charlie," she called back in recognition.
"Haven't seen you in ... what? A month?"
"Seems like, Charlie."
The bull poked a finger at a petite brunette at his side. "You know Marie?"
"We've never met," said Nanette.
"Maire, Nanette," said Charlie.
"Hi, Nanette. Great scene."
"Marie's just back from Vietnam," said Charlie.
"I've been entertaining the troops," said Marie.
And Marie looked like she was capable of entertaining troops. She wore bell bottom trousers, no top. She had very exquisite breasts.
"You think Marie uses massage?" Nanette asked me.
"Goddammit, I want Polar!"
"Whatever for?" She went serious on me again. "The thing is pretty obvious now, isn't it? I mean, dear Michelle choked on Archie, he thought he could ride it out, but he couldn't, sp he blew his mind and jumped from a bridge."
"Polar," I repeated.
"Somewhere inside the house," she said sourly.
She plopped back into the water and stroked away from me. Her bare buttocks and legs worked viciously. It was as if she was disturbed.
There was a naked man sitting in the carpeting in the front room of the mansion. He was bobbing and his eyes were out of focus. He looked drunk as hell but there was a glass in each hand and he drank from one and then the other while the girl on her belly between his thighs didn't even bother to look up. She was clothed, but she was very busy-meticulously painting the guy's limp prick with red fingernail polish.
"Pardon me?" I tried.
I didn't register with the drunk dude, but the girl lifted eyes. She was very saucy, rosy in cheek and white in teeth. "Hey, are you the guy with the pot?" she asked. "I'm hungry as a fuckin' horse."
"I'm a cop."
"No shit? Man, this is a wild place!"
"First time here, doll?"
"My very first. It's goddamn zingy, ain't it?"
"You look like you should be in school."
"In the summertime? Come off it, man! Anyway, this here is Mr. Tombs. He's one of my teachers, one of my very favorites. His bag is sex education. Zingy, huh? You sure you ain't the guy with the pot?"
"I ain't," I managed. "How old are you, cat?"
She looked surprised. "Seventeen. How come you wanna know? Ain't you ever had a seventeen-year-old?" and then she looked crafty. "Dad, I bet you wouldn't stay soft if I painted you. Ain't Mr. Tombs zingy? Wantin' his thingy painted. But he says painted sex organs are the in thing now. Wild. He's gonna do my box in a little. You want me before or after?"
"What I really need is a telephone."
"You gonna pee in it or somethin'?"
"I'm gonna call an army," I told her truthfully.
"Wow! Fantastic! What a fuck! But tell somebody to bring the pot, huh? I was promised!"
I found a phone and I told Crowder to bring the entire goddamn police force. And then I went upstairs and looked for Tommy Polar.
I opened a bedroom door and got Hertha Clarke, but I didn't register with her. She was alone in the room, planted in the middle of the large bed. She was clothed but her knees were up high and her legs were spread wide and the dress was wrapped around her bare belly and she was very busy with an electric toothbrush that was plugged into a wall socket beside the bed. Her eyes were closed, her face was contorted in lust, and she didn't know I existed.
I tried another door and this time I got the huge Negro, Sim, and Mrs. Oshman. Both were naked and Mrs. Oshman sat spread-legged on the carpeting, facing me, while behind her Sim was pile driving as he poked a hole though Mrs. Oshman's upswept hairdo. Mrs. Oshman has streaks of white running down from her fore head, but she was as happy as a child at a circus. She licked gluttonously.
Sim snarled, "Bug, pig!"
I found Fran Nature, Diane Bowers, Kit, and an Oriental girl named Flicka in a vulva daisy chain circle on the carpeting of a third bedroom. No one looked up and said, "Hi."
I tried a fourth door.
Jackpot!
William Darby Rivers and Harold Boswell looked as if they had just stepped from a shower. Both were dripping water on the carpeting as Harold used a forearm to keep William Darby Rivers bent over the back of a chair while he worked furiously. Polar was on the bed. He wore a knit shirt, nothing else. The two young things servicing him were bare. They looked all of thirteen, but they were learning fast as he guided their tongues. They giggled and dipped and licked and giggled again and listened to Polar instructions and obeyed and giggled and kept moving around like exuberant ants. Off to my right was the open door of the bath. Bernard Oshman sat on the stool. Between his fat thighs was Peter Barry. Bernard Oshman was glassy-eyed.
I went outside the mansion and took a long pull of fresh air and smashed my fist against the trunk of a tree.
From somewhere behind me, Nanette Rivers laughed without humor. "I hope you broke your goddamn hand."
And it was only then that the realization settled on me. People were shrilling and mouthing oaths and running. Cops were grabbing and, in some cases, ridding wriggling people into the green grass. No one was riding the naked and angry Nanette although I think one of the two boys who flanked her wanted to. He looked half stiff as he kept a firm grip on her biceps.
Marie, the petite brunette, was carried past me. A cop waltzed with her ankles in hand, another peddled backward, his forearms hooked under her armpits and his meaty palms clamped to her breasts.
"And I thought entertaining troops in Vietnam was a ball!" she yelped, waving an empty glass at me.
A huge cop stumbled out of the mansion. He had the high school girl strapped against his front. She was facing him, her arms locked around his neck, her ankles entwined on his spine. His hands were out of sight, up under her skirt, as he carried her by her buttocks.
"It's the only way she'd go," he gasped when he recognized me.
"Don't apologize to me, pal," I managed. "Apologize to your wife."
"Zingy!" chortled the girl. "Whatta fuck!" Crowder and the cavalry had arrived.
The vein in Crowder's forehead was purple again and stuck out about three inches. "Quit lying to us, Polar!" he rasped. "We've got Archie's diary!"
Polar rasped back: "Goddammit, Lieutenant, I admit to what happened with Michelle! And I keep tellin' you, it was an accident! It could happen to anyone! But I didn't kill Archie! Why would I? He was my friend!"
"He was there when the girl died," Crowder shot at him.
"He was," Polar admitted.
"And later he threatened to turn you in to us."
"Bullshit!"
"So you choked him and tossed him into the river."
"Prove it."
"Abb, so now you admit it happened."
"I admit nothing. Except that Michelle Rivers was down on me and choked. Archie offered to take her off someplace and bury her. I let him. And then he had that goddamn accident, the stupid fool."
"Why did he threaten you, Polar? What did Archie want from you?"
"Nothing!"
."It must've been something big for you to kill him. You were with him last night, weren't you?"
"He left my place around midnight."
"He just got up from your bed and walked out, huh?"
"He was going home. We were both fatigued. We never in our lives slept together all night."
"Polar," I put in, pulling my eyes from the squad room window, "Michelle Rivers had some photographs. I've seen them," I lied. "We have them."
"And?"
"You and William Darby Rivers are in several of the pictures."
"Me with Rivers in several pictures? No way, man. Make it a couple, but-"
"Okay, maybe two or three."
"So make a federal case out of that. Call in the FBI."
"Rivers and Harold Boswell have a thing going."
"You've noticed."
"You and Archie had a thing going."
"We liked each other. How 'bout that jazz?"
"You and Rivers are in bed together in a couple of the photographs."
"Wrong. We are in bed in one of the pictures. We're in a shower in another. And we're in the swimming pool in the third."
"Okay, so I'm getting the photos mixed up."
"I don't think you've ever seen them, Sergeant," he smirked, "because I just lied to you. In the pictures Michelle had of us, Rivers and I are together on the floor of the living room. Boswell and Archie are in the background. They are angry. You can see the anger on their faces. They were angry because Rivers and I made them sit there and watch us. It was a goddamn riot-hearing them whimper their protests, but not daring to move from their chairs. The entire scene was just a little something Rivers and I cooked up one afternoon for kicks. We wanted to torment Boswell and Archie."
"Now it's all backfired on you, hasn't it, Polar? Boswell is singing like a bird."
"I told you that Michelle thing was an accident. No jury is gonna believe a guy can force himself down a girl's throat."
"Table was no accident."
"But I didn't kill him."
"Any suggestions who might have?"
"Maybe he ran into a fag on the way home from my place. Maybe he made a pickup someplace, the pickup popped his cork, I dunno."
"Archie was present when Michelle died. He was angry with you and jealous. He remembered you and Rivers. Now it was you and the girl. Except that suddenly the girl was dead. And abruptly Archie had you by the balls. He put the squeeze on you. He told you to walk straight with him from now on-or he would come to us."
"You're on grass, Sergeant."
"So you killed Archie. I think you were in bed together last night, playing your little games, and Archie brought up your future, got heavy with you. I think he outlined how it was going to be only you and him in the future so you let him finish you off and then you helped him to his grave by grabbing his throat."
"Then I took him out and pitched him into the river, huh?"
"That's the way I see it, okay."
"But will a jury see it that way?"
"We'll do our damnedest to convince them, you can bet on that."
"Sergeant?"
"Yeah?"
"Fuck you." I stood. "Polar?"
"Yeah?"
"Grit your teeth."
"What for?"
"This."
I brought my fist all the way up from the floor and under his jaw. His head flipped back, his jaws snapped shut, blood spurted from his trapped tongue, and in the next split second he and his chair were tumbling away from me.
Quiet had settled on the squad room again. The bedlam was finished. I sat slouched on a bench in a corner near a window. I felt relaxed and weary. I wanted to go to my apartment. I wondered if Cora was still waiting for me.
Crowder came out of his office. He was expressionless. He wiggled a finger at me. Sighing, I left the bench. Crowder said, "Polar is gonna live. I don't know why. Go home, Sergeant."
"Am I suspended?"
"You weren't even here tonight."
"I wasn't?"
"You were checkin' out a beef across town. A guy named Anderson called in a squeal. You investigated, found Anderson in a domestic beef with his wife. The wife had slashed at him with a butcher knife. But when you got there, everything was quiet between them. The address is 3939 Walker. Go fill out a report and file it-in case someone might want to look someday."
I almost grinned at Crowder. "And who is Anderson?"
"My cousin. File the report and get the hell out of here."
I went downstairs whistling. I skipped along and almost stopped at a phone to call Cora and tell her I was coming. Then I rounded a corner and stopped in my tracks. My little old lady friend from the afternoon was jawing with the uniformed desk sergeant.
"And what's your complaint tonight, Marjorie?" the desk sergeant asked patiently.
"Franklin O'Rielly, I've been raped," she puffed. "In the zoo."
"Raped, huh? That's pretty serious, Marjorie."
"Thirteen times he did it to me!"
"Wow, how come you're still walkin'?"
"My generation, Franklin O'Rielly, is made of stout stuff."
"I guess you're still tryin' to get your name in the papers, is that it, Marjorie?"
"Do you think the reporters will want to interview me? Maybe take my picture?"
I went on outside headquarters building and piled into my own heap, and I chuckled all the way to the apartment.
Cora was clothed. I stood and gaped at her. She giggled. "It's me, okay," she said. "I took a cab again and this time I returned with suitcases. Mind?"
She wore a simple housedress with white buttons halfway down her front. The dress hugged her breasts and hips, was flat across her belly. She had on hose and shoes, and there was a black headband holding back her blonde hair. The black-rimmed glasses sat straight across her nose, and her lips had been freshly painted.
"I even took a bath," she said. "Alone. What do you think?"
"Different," I admitted.
"But do you like?"
"I like."
"I decided you should see me this way, too. I decided it wasn't fair, you seeing me at my best all of the time. Naked, that is."
"Are you wearing anything under the dress?"
"Certainly. Bra, panties, garter belt, half slip. The works. And I dabbed perfume, too. Behind my ears, between my breasts, and-but the other spot is a secret between me and it. Are you intrigued?"
"Very intrigued, yes, ma'am."
"Ma'am, huh? I guess I bring out the politeness in you too."
"You're bringing out something, all right."
"Yes, I can see. But how 'bout a hamburger first?"
"You want to go to a restaurant?"
"Drive-in. I'm wild about French fries. French fries make me think of sex. I see them all piled up in those little baskets and I think of penises. I wonder how all of those little French fries would look if they suddenly got hard."
I took her to a drive-in. And she sat and wondered and giggled while I kissed her earlobe and neck muscles and felt between her legs. Then the pert little girl was returning to the car with our orders and Cora pushed me away with a minor protest. "Be decent. What do you think I am, wanton?"
"I'm wantin' a bunch, ma'am," I murmured as the pert little girl hooked our trays on the edge of the car window.
"So you can take me to a drive-in movie," said Cora. "After we eat"
I took her to a drive-in movie. I parked in the last row. My heap was the only car in the row. I brought her popcorn, I bought her a Coke, and then she sent me for a package of gum. When I returned to the car, she was grinning. "Good movie."
"Yeah? What's it about?"
"Cowboys and monsters."
"Who's gettin' whom?"
"Nobody's gettin' anything."
"Amen."
"Maybe that's because some people aren't trying."
"Shall we get into the back seat?"
"Let's."
Somewhere in the transfer she managed to slide out of her panties. She draped them across the back of the front seat, spread them. "You ever get into a wet bathing suit?"
"Once or twice."
"Hell, isn't it?"
"Hell."
"It's the same with wet panties."
"I've never had the occasion."
"So you don't excite as easily as I do. Aren't you going to take down your trousers?"
"A cop is never caught with his pants down, doll."
"So we play teenie-bopper, huh?"
"No tennie-bopper alive has had what you're gonna get."
"Promises, promises...."
And then she arched with my entry, and we remained high for a few seconds, allowing the organs to fit and mesh. Finally she lowered her hips to the seat and I shifted my cramped legs and feet and began to move.
"Know what, lover?" she whispered, her teeth picking at my earlobe. "You're making a believer out of me."
I kept my strokes long and slow. And she began to climb. Her knees came up high, bent, clamped, and her hips began to twitch and lift to me. She arched back her head, jammed it into a corner of the seat. Her throat was exposed and I twisted my head and fastened my teeth gently against her skin. She cried out, "Matthew, I'm coming!"
She was not alone.
A long time later, I attempted to lift myself from her, but her arms tightened and her thighs held. "Is the movie finished?" she whispered.
"How the hell do I know?"
"I don't hear any sound from the box in the window."
"Then it's finished."
"But I don't want to go home."
"Okay."
"Do you love me?"
"I love you."
"Say it."
"I just did."
"Say it again. Say, T love you, Cora.' "
"I love you, Cora."
"Mean it."
"I mean it."
"And I love you, Matthew Law. Will you marry me?"
"Tomorrow."
"Tonight. Now. This second."
"Okay. I'll marry you by god."
"God will be our minister, you mean?"
"God is our minister."
"Right here? Right this second?"
"This instant, baby."
"Matthew, I feel as if it's happening!"
"It is, doll."
"Oh, Matthew, I love you!"
"I love you, Cora."
"And I'm coming again."
"During our wedding?"
"I wonder if it's ever happened to anyone else?"
"Who cares?"
"I'm coming, Matt! I truly am! Oh...."
"Good, baby?"
"So very good...."
"Do you mind if I join you?"
"You are! I feel you!"
"Baby, you don't know...."
"Oh yes! I know! I know! That's it, Matthew baby! Flow in me. Flow...."
"You okay, honey?"
"I'm ... all right, Matthew."
"You went out."
"You know I do that. It isn't anything to worry about."
"But you went out so fast and hard this time."
"It isn't every night a girl gets married."
"Do you really feel that way, Cora? As if we are married? As if it happened right here in the back seat of a car at a drive-in movie?"
"It happened, Matthew. I feel that it happened. It may never have happened to anyone else, but it has happened to us."
"We're married."
"We're married."
"Without church and flowers and friends and-"
"It happened, Matthew."
"You know, I really think it did."
"You feel it too, don't you?"
"I honestly feel it, Cora."
"I love you."
"I love you."
"Hey!"
The guy who had jerked open the sedan door and now filled the opening looked four yards wide and six yards tall. He caught my ankle, jerked once, and then freed me and stepped back in surprise. "For Chrissake, adults!" he wheezed.
"You expected senior citizens?" I snarled.
"Pal," he managed, "the flick has been finished for an hour and a half. I just finished up with my book work and I came out here and I-"
"You're the manager," I said, leaving Cora and zipping up my trousers.
"I'm the manager," he admitted, still backing.
I left the sedan. I was as tall and as wide as he was and he didn't frighten me-especially on my wedding night.
"We just got married," I told him.
"Oh," he said, stopping the back-peddling. "You're ... you're on your honeymoon, huh?"
"No. We just got married. We haven't embarked on our honeymoon yet."
He was sincerely puzzled, no doubt. But he said, "I see."
"No you don't," I told him. "You don't see anything, friend. We just got married, right there in the back seat of my heap."
"Oh, Jesus," he wailed, "a cookie!"
He turned and ran.
Behind me, Cora asked, "What's the matter with him?"
"Conventional type," I mumbled. "I don't think he believed me when I told him we just got married."
"I hope he rams his head through a board fence."
"He's working on one, I think. He's standing over there, beating his head on something."
"Matthew?"
"Yeah?"
"He mentioned a honeymoon. I heard him."
"Yeah?"
She lay back, managed to get one foot up against the back window and the other foot hooked over the back of the front seat. "Well?"
Tell me, how many guys have been married and honeymooned in a drive-in theater lot?
