The literary matter contained in this book has been founded upon extensive research of the subject matter by the author, and in some instances has been fictionalized to provide better reading entertainment. It is intended to document with realism the subject matter for the information, education and entertainment of the reader, and to represent a realistic orientation of human behavior.
Archive Note: There was no Chapter Twenty-One in the original pocketbook of this story.
CHAPTER ONE
Nudes were his hobby. Nude women. Nor did it matter whether they were in photo form, living form, or purely imaginary. The most important thing to Mike Herring was they be naked and available instantly, preferably in bed with him, trembling beneath his hungry hands.
Besides making women, Herring also made money-as a Sunset Strip club owner, and odds-maker for pro football games. In short, Mike Herring was a man about town.
Above his bed was a picture of a life-sized nude. His eyes would devour her when no full-breasted, trim-hipped blonde was available.
At this instant his eyes were running the full length of this nude. And this had brought his thoughts to Arlene Wright. Arlene's curves were even creamier, more lush. Part of the kick with her was watching the hungry eyes of other men roam over her body lasciviously.
It gave him a kick to know that he could snap his fingers at any time a id she would be on her back performing for him-the way all those other male saps dreamed about. She loved his loving-in many different ways--and Mike knew all of them.
Right now Mike was in his swank apartment over his nightclub, La Frenzia. Arlene was an employee of his--a cigarette girl. It was two a.m., when Arlene would be getting ready to go home. He would call her upstairs to his bedroom instead.
Her eager, young clear voice almost sang as she answered his phoned summons. His lips curled and his limbs twitched as he sat there anticipating her arrival.
"When are you coming up?" he snapped-more of a command than a question. The girl chortled with glee. She would be right up-would not even have to change her work clothes, which were hardly more than black stockings that went to the hips, and a sort of overcrowded bra.
In a moment she would be there. Mike hung up, lit a cigarette, poured a mild scotch and water and went back to ogling the nude on the wall. His sensual reverie was interrupted in a matter of seconds as the girl burst through the drapes of his bedroom. Arlene thrust her slim, shapely legs wide apart, then went into a sexy twist routine. Her bra came loose and one of her breasts was revealed.
"Do you want me to take it off?" she teased. "Or do you want me to twist it off?"
Mike beckoned her with a well-manicured finger. She undulated over to him, snuggling up between his legs on the carpeted floor.
Her almost child-like face lifted up to his seemed animal-like and craving as she said, "I love you, Mike." He caressed her blonde hair, inflaming volcanic passion in the girl, and she flung herself on the bed without further loving. Swiftly she unfastened her black mesh garters and rolled off her stockings. Then she stripped off her bra and lolled on the purple sheet completely nude. Her rounded breasts were marvels of nature, they defied gravity and her pointed rosy nipples drove men mad.
Mike stood there over her naked loveliness, slowly undressing-smugly satisfied with his brute sex appeal.
"You want it bad, don't you baby?" he sneered.
"Oh, my darling, I need your kisses on my body, your body next to mine. Your love makes all other men like little boys."
"I've got what it takes," replied Mike. "Some of the biggest glamour dolls in Hollywood can make book on that. You got to be something big, you know, for those dames. They want the huge, the unexpected. And that's what I've got!"
Arlene ravished him with her hungry eyes. "Mike, honey," she moaned, "You're beautiful." She touched him and snuggled close to him, trembling with desire.
She showered hot kisses over his body and finally fastened her full red lips on his welcoming open mouth. His lips pressed on hers and she moaned in an orgy of frantic passion, her tongue playing tag with his, and her naked breasts pushing against his bare chest.
Mike lay on the bed and permitted the girl to make love to him. Then he reached over to the bed table and lit a cigarette. He puffed it casually as Arlene tugged nervously at him. Mike patted her round, full buttocks playfully as she worked on his naked torso.
"How can you do it to me," she protested as Mike continued to blow smoke into the highly scented room. "Can't you see how I want to make the scene with you? Please, please be good to me now, now!"
"Later, baby. Take your time. I want you to get real wild. I want you to want it so bad you'll do anything to me or for me, my sweet. Anything."
"But I will!"
Mike smiled cruelly. He doused the cigarette while his own passion flared up brightly. She was a red tomato-not like those 40-year-old Hollywood queens who fell apart when you undressed them. This girl was stacked, built like an import with all the parts snug and tight in the right places.
He grabbed her and pulled her down to him. She yielded to him like a baby, and Mike drooled at the thought of having her. It was always so hard at first; but then would come the eager anticipation, the return of the girl's action and the tumultous, chaotic abandonment to sheer love by them both. The tender pleadings, the sighs and the climactic sobs of relief would brush the air. Mike knew Arlene well. He could play on her and get responses like a master violinist does from a choice instrument.
"Jeez, baby ... you sure can turn a guy on!" he gasped, capturing a rose-hued nipple between his mouth, and tugging hungrily on it while at the same time he trailed his hand over the lush curves of the writhing young woman, trailed it down her torso and into the golden jungle of down upon her sex mound.
Then, suddenly, he plunged his fingers deep between the delicate, pink lips of her excited sex canyon, sinking two of the fingers into the hot, sticky morass, heated by her excitement.
"Aahhhhhhhh ... ahhhhhhhhhhh...." Arlene gasped, thrusting her hips up to capture more of his hand inside her inflamed young body.
Her hand encircled his rigid, pulsing penis tightly now, pulling it toward her craving center of desire. Mike shifted his hips, wedging between her opening thighs. She tightly wound his arms around his neck, as though fearful he might change his mind about fucking her.
The crimson head of his charger now nudged the soft pink portal of entry into the lush, frantic-hipped young girl. Then, with a sudden lunge, Mike sunk his penis deeply down the hot passageway of her cunt to the very hilt. He began to stroke powerfully in and out of her, feeling her tight little pussy cling to the sides of his shaft, as though reluctantly permitting each slow withdrawal of his cock-prior to the sharp, follow-up thrusting into her once more. Up and down! In and out! Back and forth he plunged his pulsating prick, feeling his own excitement mounting toward the sexual breaking point. There seemed to be a tensing in his balls as he felt her frantic hips jolting upwards to meet his every thrust.
Arlene seemed demented now, crying out her passion in shrill shrieks.
"My God! No! Now! Aghhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" she gasped, working her hips frantically as she began to shudder and climax.
He could feel the muscles of her pussy tightening around his knob, as though milking and coaxing out his cum, and he could but give up the last vestige of hold-back.
He emptied and throbbed his cum deep into her spasming cunt in long, pulsing jets, digging his nails brutally into the shaking girl beneath him as his prick jolted again and again, and a gasp ripped from his throat as he fell over her sweat-soaked body, spent.
Now she lay back and savored the memory of it. Mike arose from the bed, switched off the light and ready to sleep.
"Baby," he said sleepily, "I've got you. As long as I can get you this way, I've got you in the palm of my hand."
"Oh, Mike," protested Arlene feebly. "Oh, Mike, I do love you so much, so very much."
Mike smiled wearily. He had plans for Arlene. He would use her as a prostitute contact with the Pros-with young Jim O'Flanagan, the hotshot quarterback. She'd be the Mata Hari, get the dope on the pro games. Then Mike could figure the point spreads better. His boss in Reno depended on him. In a few minutes he was sound asleep, well satisfied sexually, mentally and physically, while Arlene lay wide awake, happy and relaxed, running her hands over his resting body.
CHAPTER TWO
While Mike and Arlene made love and then slept, Big Joe Thompson was thinking about the coming Sunday football games in the pro leagues. Big Joe was a gambler and a multimillionaire with his headquarters in Reno. He had a shady past but a pleasant present, and a still more lucrative future. Big Joe was head of the gambling syndicate that handicaps pro football games. It was necessary for him to know the exact point handicap to make sure the syndicate made money, for he fixed points on the weekly football cards. Big Joe had spies with every team in the league, paid experts who had the lowdown. His spy in Los Angeles was Mike Herring.
Mike had served him pretty well. There wasn't anything about the Los Angeles Pros that Mike didn't know. Big Joe paid Mike well for his information. He also liked Mike because of the girls Mike sent him for his pleasure. Mike always sent girls to Reno who would cooperate with Big Joe in the peculiar way he liked to make love. They were also usually much fresher kids than the hard-bitten bunch that dotted the chorus lines of the Reno shows. Big Joe preferred the innocent girlish types who hadn't been around too long, or mauled by men too much.
Mike dug up the girls on the Sunset Strip-the young hopefuls from Kansas and Iowa who hit Hollywood with stars in their eyes. Beauteous dolls with bird brains and peacock bodies, still unspoiled and not yet calloused from rubbing their asses on too many casting couches.
Big Joe was doing a little fretting now. Mike had not called him with the line on the Pro game in Chicago next Sunday. The cards were going to press in a few hours. He had to know right away. It was 5 A.M., but since Big Joe never went to sleep until much later in the morning, it was like the middle of the day to him. He reached for his gold-plated phone in his ultra-modern suite in one of Reno's plushest pleasure domes and called Mike.
The jangling phone startled Mike into wakefulness. He slid from Arlene's tight embrace, his eyes still not fully open, after the love bout they shared for so long in the big, wide bed.
"Hello," he muttered angrily.
"Mike, this is Big Joe. Where's my point spread on the Pro game?"
"I'll have it right away," Mike answered.
"Not soon enough," grumbled Big Joe, a note of menace in his voice.
"I'm sorry, boss. Got hooked up in a business deal last night," explained Mike apologetically. Mike was wide awake now and eager to please Big Joe.
"Business deal? More likely a piece of ass!"
"Honest, boss. I really got tied up. I got all the scoop on the Pros though. They're going to win. But don't give more than six points."
"Anything you say," Big Joe replied with a note of finality.
Mike knew the tone very well. A couple of bum steers to this syndicate ad he'd wind up in a cement vest at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, off Malibu.
Mike tried to reassure Big Joe. "Have I ever been wrong yet, boss?" he asked nervously.
"No, Mike," Big Joe replied. "We like your information. By the way, who you got in bed with you tonight?"
"Well, boss, to be absolutely honest, she's a cute blonde, and a real goer. Would you like me to send her over to Reno for you? Try her out yourself?"
"Is she any good?"
"Boss, she's the greatest!"
"Not too fucked-out?"
"Still a babe in the woods. She knows her way around in bed all right, but she still is willing to learn anything new."
"Wonderful. I'd like to meet her. What's her name?"
"Arlene. Arlene Wright."
The telephone conversation between the two men continued for several more mintues while Arlene fumed. She didn't like the way Mike was talking about her. What did he think she was? A whore or something? When Mike finally hung up, she leaped out of bed like a young filly and stalked angrily up and down the room in naked anger.
"How dare you say I'll go over to Reno. And what was all that talk about me being a 'babe in the woods'? What the hell is going on?"
Mike laughed. "Come here," he commanded.
"What do you think I am, your slave?" Mike laughed again. He got out of bed and pulled on an expensive red lounging robe. He took a step toward Arlene but she retreated angrily into a corner. Mike followed after her.
He twisted her arm behind her back, drawing her pretty face up close to his. He felt refreshed by the few hours of sleep. Arlene looked sexier than ever in her rebellious mood. He held her very hard and forced a kiss on her full lips. Arlene fought against the desire that stirred unexpectedly in her. She resented the way Mike took her for granted. Why couldn't she resist him?
"Don't, Mike, don't." she said.
Mike kissed her again and again, and felt the girl slowly melt beneath the kisses. His hands played on her full breasts and his fingers teased their pinkish nipples.
He drew her slowly back to the bed.
"Mike," she whispered desperately, "why can't I say no to you?"
"You're going to Reno, aren't you?" He kissed her again on the lips and on her pulsing throat, and fondled her warm body. Arlene fought against her vanishing pride.
"Do you want me again?" she whispered, confused by her jumbled feelings of passion and resentment.
"You going to see Big Joe in Reno?" She turned her head, but Mike found her lips again and kissed her until she pressed her body back against his.
"Oh, Mike," she sobbed. "I'll do anything for you. But Mike; make love to me now, honey. I need you, Mike. I need it like only you can do it. Nobody gets to me like you do, Mike!"
Holding the already sex-hot, flush-faced girl flat against his body, he felt a shudder go through her. It seemed to ignite his own carnal desires and he leaned back several inches to wedge his hand between their bodies and clasp her breast. He began tweaking the hardening, spiky nipple between his thumb and forefingers, at the same time stabbing his tongue deeply into her opening mouth. Her own tongue danced lightly over his, and then he felt a sucking sensation as she worked his tongue further and further into her mouth.
The sucking sensation, accompanied by the twisting back and forth of her hips against his own, caused his prick to come fully erect, stabbing into her soft, lower abdomen.
"Ohhhhh, fuck me! Fuck me, you sonova-bitch!" Arlene gasped.
Mike bent her back so that she fell across the edge of the bed, bringing him with her so that he was thrust down between her legs. His totally rigid cock stabbed against the tender pink cunt lips and a gasp escaped the quivering girl as he lunged forcefully into her cunt, burying his pulsing prick balls deep.
"Aghhhhhhh!" the girl gasped. Mike began buffetting and pounding into her brutally, and the girl's widespread legs jacked up and scissored around his thrashing hips. She was fully open and vulnerable as his hard cock sunk and churned back and forth along the clinging corridor of her tight little sheath, exciting it to the point of no return.
He felt her cunt muscles working his crown, caressing and gripping it, and he had to fight in order to hold back the cream frothing at the base of his prick.
But now, she gave a sudden shrill cry and began to climax, tears were springing to his eyes. He could hold back no longer. He came, sobbing, his cock going limp inside her.
CHAPTER THREE
High up in the press box, above the frozen turf in Chicago, Jack Fisher sat hunched over the typewriter, pale, feverish sick. As usual, Sturday night had been a big one and had stretched into Sunday morning. Jack was more concerned with the condition of his stomach than with the game he was about to see and write about for his ailing newspaper, the Los Angeles Chronicle. In a way, Jack liked to be sick. It helped him relax, made him indifferent to the pressure of his job. He found his mind most nimble, his powers of observation most accurate, when, hangover-ridden, he didn't care if he lived or died.
Even though snow had fallen for some days, the stands were almost filled. A huge tarpaulin had covered the field before game time but now it was rolled back. It was remarkable how green the grass still was in mid-November, but the sod was frozen stiff. There will be the usual excuses by halfbacks and ends today, thought Jack. Ground so hard you couldn't cut right. Injuries too, might be a factor. He shuddered involuntarily at the thought of being on the bottom of one of those piles with about ten 250-pounders on his back. But that was pro football. The players got paid for it. When they couldn't take it any more, they could always go out and make an honest living-like he was doing. Jack laughed inwardly. An honest living! A goddamned paid publicist, that was what he was!
Down in the Pros' locker room beneath the giant stadium, the Los Angeles' team's head coach, Hank Collins, had his usual pre-game jitters. He had raced to the men's room half a dozen times with the dry heaves-and to take a nervous leak. He felt awful.
He had made a study of the two teams, both as a player and as a coach, and had come to some pretty definite conclusions as to the outcome. The power of positive thinking had been expounded by his assistant coach, Jess Henderson. And now he was putting it all to work-all to work for victory and for the retention of his job the following season.
"Men," he said, "we can beat these bastards if each one of us does his job and does it right. Hit 'em. And hit 'em hard! Even when you don't have to, hit 'em! Give 'em lumps. Make 'em afraid of you. Show 'em who's boss, show 'em right away. If you get a shot at that bastard, Curt Jablonski, for Christ's sake give him your elbows, shoulder pads and cleats. Get him any way you have to. You know who we have to stop today, so let's go-and do it!"
Collins' voice caught in his throat. He whipped out his huge handkerchief and cupped his mouth, his big head bent forward almost to the floor. But it was just another abortive effort. Nothing came out.
"All right," he shouted, "let's go get 'em."
CHAPTER FOUR
It was a good game, from a Los Angeles standpoint at least, for the visitors from California, after trailing 16-0 at the start of the second quarter, came back to cop a 30-16 victory.
Arlene's young, brilliant quarterback acquaintance, Jim O'Flanagan, was the hero. The Pros were grooming Jim to take over the number one quarterbacking job from the veteran, Ron Jessup.
Jim had connected on three scoring passes and in general called a faultless game after Collins sent him in when it was apparent Jessup was not having one of his better days.
After the victory the old quarterback dressed slowly and thoughtfully in the team dressing room. He alone was not celebrating wildly like the rest of the Pros. The new kid quarterback was the center of all attention-particularly the newspapermen from Los Angeles who were now in the steaming, congested place with their tape recorders and pencils, taking down quotes from Coach Collins and the shouting, victorious players.
"The greatest throwing arm since Luckman," someone shouted. "You mean Baugh," someone else yelled. Young Jim O'Flanagan appeared to be genuinely astonished by all the uproar, embarrassed at the adulation of players, coaches and press alike.
"That was a nice job, Jim," Jack said, patting the nude hero on the shoulders as he sat on the bench in front of his locker smoking a cigarette.
"Thanks very much," Jim said. Jim was just one year out of a small Texas college where he achieved quite a reputation on the football field. While Jim talked he glanced to where Ron Jessup was quietly pulling on his trousers. "There's one thing I'd like to say right now though to all you fellows of the press, no matter how good I was out there today, I've got a long way to go before I can be in Ron's class. I only hope someday I can."
Without commenting, without even changing the rhythm of his dressing ritual, Ron reached over and patted Jim with real affection.
"You were great, kid," he said. He wasn't going to muscle into Jim's big moment. There had been plenty of great days when the press had surrounded him after notable victories. The sobering realization he entertained now was that perhaps there wouldn't be many more of them for him.
Jack Pusher, the newspaperman, was aware of Ron's feelings. Ron wasn't the day's hero, but Jack wasn't the best newspaperman in the world either.
"Ron," he said, "you weren't having one of your better days out there today. Nothing wrong with the foot though. Three field goals for three times at bat." The quarterback shot an understanding glance at Jack.
The team was going to stay an additional week in Chicago before moving on to the next date in Milwaukee. Sunday night, that night, of course, would be given over to uninhibited celebrating. Drills would not start until Tuesday and the Pros had earned their keep by winning. That meant booze and broads. Coach Hank Collins had already started relaxing.
Collins mounted a bench.
"You guys are going to win the championship," he shouted, hoarse, red-faced, totally happy. "Now I want you to get the hell out of here and I don't give a damn when you go to bed or who you go to bed with. There won't be any bed check tonight. And you can stay out Monday night til midnight. But then on Tuesday we'll get down to work-we'll go to work winning the championship!"
That evening when Hank got back to the hotel where the Pros stayed in Chicago, he noted with amusement the usual lobby scene. The ancient hotel was a relic from Chicago's pre-Capone era, a venerable pile of faulty plumbing, red bricks and termite-eaten wooden terraces surrounded by lovely landscaped ground with tidy cement walks. These walks were for the safe and smooth passage of wheel chairs for carrying old ladies, pushed by colored attendants in blue coats-the livery of the hotel.
Collins, ever on guard against moral backsliding, considered this hotel, the Lake South Hotel, quite the finest place in the city to house his athletes. There wasn't a woman in the place under 60. True, a loophole existed in the person of the red-haired telephone operator and a couple of cute colored maids who dawdled in the rooms of some of the men while cleaning up. But he felt confident he could nip any possible shenanigans through the hotel management. Also, the entire squad was housed in one wing on the second floor. Names of the players sharing rooms were posted on the doors-a great aid for bed-checking activities.
Collins despised the big hotels in the Loop where his players' rooms could be scattered all over the place and where consequently black sheep on the team could slip in and out at night for a piece of ass-losing, he feared, enormous quantities of blood which could be better spilled on the gridiron. Jack Fisher spotted Collins at a lookout station in the lobby beside a grove of sad potted palms. Collins' untrustworthy assistant, Jess Henderson, was with him.
"Any truth to the rumor that you're not starting Ron against Milwaukee next Sunday?" Jack asked.
"As long as I'm coach of this club, this year and next, Ron will start every game," shot back Collins, talking through the side of his mouth, committed to a stubby cigar he puffed fiercely.
CHAPTER FIVE
A dapper man in an expensive blue suit hailed Jack as he left the coaches and walked through the hotel lobby. It was Mike Herring, who had flown in from Los Angeles for the game. As Big Joe Thompson's spy he was here now to check on the team. He would check into such matters as injuries, team morale and strategy for the next game. He also had a plan, suggested by Big Joe, in which Arlene Wright's hot young cunt would play a key role.
Mike knew Jack from the latter's whiskey-drinking habits at the La Frenzia. Shrewdly, Mike set up the free drinks at his cafe for the newspapermen. In that way he learned a lot of inside stuff about the team as the writers mellowed and talked freely in their cups.
"How are the boys?" he asked eagerly. "Anybody banged up? Is Ron Jessup OK? Is Jim O'Flanagan going to start next Sunday?"
"The team came through the game in good shape," Jack said. "As for the starter in Milwaukee, why don't you ask young Jim O'Flanagan over there?" The talented quarterback was sitting in the lobby reading a newspaper account of the game. Jack excused himself and headed for a favorite bar in the Loop. Mike welcomed the chance to talk to the young quarterback.
"Jim," he cried, slapping the youth on the back. "Congratulations on the great game.
There's a young lady in Los Angeles who has been asking about you." He smiled and winked at the quarterback.
"You mean Arlene?" Jim asked quickly.
"She's nuts about you, Jim. Great kid," Mike said.
"I think she's terrific."
"Well, she's slightly fond of you, too. When you two kids going to be married?"
"Do you think she would?"
Mike laughed. "Jim," he said, "you give her a home, and, boy, she'll settle right down and wash your socks for the rest of your natural lives."
"I wish she were here," said Jim. Mike thought a moment.
"Funny thing," he said, "but before I flew into Chicago I talked with Arlene. Know what she said? She said she wished she could come with me to see you."
"No kidding?" Mike assured him it was so.
"Say," he said, "what would you say if I flew her in this week. Then you and she could get together?"
"I sure would like that," said Jim, smiling boyishly at the prospect of a pretty young woman being with him, even if he could not really show her off because of the coach.
"Leave it to me," shot back Mike, "I'll call you tomorrow. And maybe tomorrow Arlene will be right here in Chicago." The two men shook hands on it and Mike headed for his suite to place a couple of long distance phone calls.
His first was 'o Big Joe Thompson in Reno.
"Joe," he said, "this club is in good shape. Milwaukee will be favored. But I think an upset is on the way. I'm flying Arlene here tomorrow. She'll work on O'Flanagan and find out what the Pros are cooking up for this game. The kid's nuts about her. I think we can put the kid in the bag. He'll do anything Arlene says, I'm sure. Just let him get a gander at her nude body and we'll have one of the two Pro quarterbacks signed, sealed and delivered."
Big Joe grunted his approval on the other end of the line.
"I'd like to get a look at that body, too." he said pointedly.
"Later, later. Maybe next week. Let the kid here have her for a while. That way, it's money in the bank. First we get O'Flanagan out of the picture. Then we fix Jessup. Then we make a million."
Big Joe's business sense came to the fore. He assented, but still reminded Mike of what he wanted-a date with Arlene himself.
"Mike," he warned, "you can't goof this. The FBI and Congress itself will jump into this if word ever gets out."
"Leave it to me, boss," Mike said confidently.
Mike's next call was to Arlene at her small apartment in Hollywood. Arlene was getting dressed to go out with some TV producer she had met the previous night at La Frenzia. He had promised her a bit part in a television series. First, however, he said he wanted to take her out to dinner and then take her to his studio apartment to have her read for him. Arlene was thrilled at what she believed was her big chance. Mike's call was a complete surprise for her.
"Mike, darling," she enthused, "guess what? I'm going to get a big TV part. I met the producer last night. He wants to have me read for him tonight. Isn't that great?" Mike exploded.
"Christ," he stormed. "I leave you alone a couple of days and you are hitting casting couches. What the hell's the matter with you? I got other plans for you. Get me? Now, I want you to get on a plane tonight. I want you here in Chicago tomorrow."
Arlene was startled.
"You mean you miss me, honey?"
Mike bit his lip to check a curse. Why not? She'd come to Chicago for him. Certainly not for Jim O'Flanagan.
"That's right baby," he said sweetly.
"I'll be on the next plane I can get. I'll wire my arrival time as soon as I get booked through."
"Yeah. Just charge it to me, the plane fare I mean. I miss you darling," he added with a forced note of tenderness. He hung up satisfied.
CHAPTER SIX
Whenever Pro coach Collins was feeling down in the dumps, he called on his old quarterback, Ron Jessup. He and Ron had a special friendship that went over a great number of years to Ron's start in professional football years back. In Ron's room now they discussed the strategy for Sunday's game at Milwaukee.
"We're opening with you, Ron. You can probe them, feel out weaknesses-like you usually do. The kid will come in in the second period, as usual, and by then you will have given us some line on them that will make it easier for the kid."
"The kid's good," said Ron slowly.
"Yeah," agreed Collins. "He'll be in your class in three or four years. Great that he can break in and learn from you."
"Let's not fool each other," said Ron abruptly. "Jim's got the knockout bombs in the Dart game. Jess has built the strategy around O'Flanagan's long ball. 'Kid Stew' is the call that's designed to beat the Darts. You know it, I know it. Let's not kid ourselves," Collins was about to interrupt.
"The way Jess has this thing figured, I'm a kind of decoy quarterback. My calls are expendable. They set up Milwaukee for the sucker right that the kid will toss at them. This 'Kid Stew' caper illustrates the point. I get it. I call the 'Pete inside cross' three or four times in the first quarter. That pulls the deep men in each time he lines up close. They'll have that play spotted cold. We've used it all the season. Their scouts have that pegged in Braille. We've never thrown to Pete any other way than short over the middle on this formation "OK, it's good strategy. Then O'Flanagan gets in to start the second quarter. Pete lines up tight on the right. The Dart defense is primed. Their left deep man comes up a few steps and he's all set to close in on Pete fast. Pete fools them and leaves him on flat feet with the two step inside fake and then the swift cut to the outside and down the sidelines. The kid unlimbers his long toss. Pete's behind the crossed-up Dart defense downfield, the ball gets there and Pete goes all the way. It's a damned good play. Jess is a pretty good, and smart guy. Saves a little sleeper play for every game. Build up to it all the season. And he uses me to help set it up for the kid. I could call that play, too. And make it work."
"I know, Ron. I know. I wanted you to throw the ball. But Jess argued that we had to set up by calling the Pete inside crossover a half dozen times in the first quarter. And you know that as long as I'm coach you're going to start every game." Collins was helpless against the wiles of Jess Henderson. But now he was mortified in front of his friend, Ron. Hank knew in his heart he was letting his veteran quarterback down. He couldn't beat Jess. But Jess could beat the Darts with those tactics. Collins needed Jess.
"That Jess is a real smart character," mused Ron flatly, lying back on the pillow, hands clasped behind his head, his cigar poking rakishly from his mouth. "He lets you win one point by starting me. Then he hands the juicy calls and the privilege of winning the ball game to the kid. Project 'Kid Stew.' You know, Hank, it's really interesting how you can control the outcome of a ball game if you can control the quarterback."
"Hank," said Ron suddenly, heaving over on his side, and resting on his elbow, "how long do you think you can keep Jess from getting your job? "
Hank appeared pained. He despised himself for his weakness. He needed Jess's brains to win. He feared Jess. He respected Jess. He hated Jess. Collins was not a complicated man and the duality of his position was a torment.
"The bastard wants my job, Ron. I know it. Morgan, at least, wants him to have it. I know that, too. Sometimes I think that if we win it all this season, I'll just quit. Quit on top. I can't stand this much longer."
"You and me got the same problem," observed Ron. "There's a guy breathing down our backs. And in each case, the guy is pretty good. Well, I've come to the same conclusion. I'm quitting after this season. The kid will do okay for the Pros. I won't be missed."
Later that day, Jack telephoned the hotel, talked to Collins and filed his usual eight or ten paragraph story collect via night press to the paper.
When he arrived at Stagg Field the next day, the Pros were romping around in tennis shoes, long sweat pants and heavy sweat jackets-their usual workout attire. He was after fresh material for his sports column in the Los Angeles paper and so he decided to break his long established habit of staying away from practice.
Jess was in the middle of the group with his fibre board on which were clipped masses of diagrammed plays. Collins, as usual, was on the prowl about the stadium making sure no spies were about. Collins waved at Jack, expressing amazement that he should be there.
"I thought for a minute you were a Dart spy," he said. "Can't be too careful. You see those university buildings over there? I think they got some guys with spy glasses up there watching us. We got some new plays cooked up and I'm going to make sure nobody gets the tipoff. As a matter-of-fact, we're leaving here the moment the buses pull up. We're going to some public park I know to hold our drills today. Only way to be sure we're not being scouted."
This was news to Jack-it was probably news to the entire corps of writers covering the Pros since none were present and since, as Collins informed him, he had told no one of the maneuver in advance. "Mind if I go along?" he asked Collins.
"Not at all," said Collins grinning.
Two specially chartered buses drove up to the field and the Pros swiftly moved aboard. Collins turned into a veritable commissar of transportation, hunched up front in the lead bus beside the driver, peering this way and that, and yelling directions. Jess had instructions to ride in the backseat of the bus to look out for possible tracking cars.
Finally Collins signalled the buses to stop when they had come to a sequestered park. The Pros bounced out with huzzas. They thoroughly enjoyed Collins' cloak and dagger approach and swung into their drill with gusto. Jack stood behind the offensive unit and watched. For a long time Ron Jessup called the signals, none of which seemed different from the usual stuff in the Pros repertory-except possibly the excessive number of short passes. These calls of course, originated from a huddle in the center of which was Jess Henderson and his clipboard.
Jess would order the plays and Ron followed his instructions. Then Jim O'Flanagan took over and the entire pattern of calls changed. For the first time Jack heard the key phrase in the quarterback's countdown, 'Kid Stew,' and for the first time Jack noted the altered downfield pattern run by Pete from his end position. The play worked beautifully.
The Pros defensive squad was caught flat-footed. Pete got behind the deep men and was all alone under Jim's long pass. The play was good for an easy touchdown. Jess had not told the Pros defensive men about the new play. The way they reacted was identical tr the way Jess and Collins hoped the Darts would react.
"We've got six points in the bank there," was the way Jess phrased it. " 'Kid Stew' will kill the Darts."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Arlene arrived in Chicago on schedule, chic and sexy in bright capri pants and a leopard skin jacket. Mike met her at the airport and drove her to her hotel.
It was a fancy layout that made her feel like royalty.
"That's what I like about you, Mike," she said happily, "you do everything with class."
"Everything?" asked Mike, pulling the beautiful cigarette girl close to him.
"Don't kiss me," she said, "you know what happens when your lips meet mine. I don't want to go to bed yet. I just got into town. I want to make the scene here. You know, I've never been in Chicago before today. I'd like to see the sights."
"Okay, baby. I have plans for you. We can wait."
"Plans? What plans?" asked Arlene, puzzled.
"Well, you didn't think I'd fly you all the way in from Los Angeles if I didn't have something in mind, did you?"
"You wanted to be with me. That's what you said!"
Mike laughed. "That was last night," he said, blowing a puff of cigarette smoke casually in the girl's pretty face.
"But what's wrong with me now?" Arlene asked, taking a deep breath and throwing out her beautifully rounded breasts like a pouter pigeon. Mike swept over the protuberances with frank appreciation, remembering the softness, yet firmness of them.
"Darling, you know I think they're beauts. And I'm going to help myself to them, don't worry. But I have a few chores for you to take care of first."
"Like what?"
"Like Jim O'Flanagan," replied Mike.
Arlene stamped her foot. "Christ," she protested, "you know I can't stand that hick creep. I don't give a damn if he's the greatest quarterback in history. He's a square! Gives me the creeps. I've dated him a couple of times but only because you wanted me to do it! Now tell me something, Mike, why the hell do you want me to go out with this jerk?"
"To get information."
"What the hell kind of information?"
"About football."
"Football!"
"Yes, cutie, football! You see, Jim tells you things about the Pros. I ask you all about it. You tell me. It doesn't mean anything to you. But it means a lot to me. It's all because of gambling-you know, football betting cards. I give the Reno syndicate the correct line, the point-spread they print on those cards. Suckers play these cards by the millions every football weekend. Get it?"
Arlene recalled how Mike was always questioning her whenever she was out with O'Flanagan. "So that's why you asked me all those questions all the time," she observed. "Mike, you're too smart for me. That's why I love you. You're always way ahead of everybody."
"Do you remember Big Joe Thompson? Well, he's the boss of the whole business. I work for him. That's why I want you to be nice to him when you get over to Reno for a weekend soon."
They were in the bedroom now, and Arlene had slipped out of her capri pants and was preparing to change into a sexy, sheath skirt. She paraded around the room while Mike talked, well aware of the effect it was having on her Latin lover. Finally she took off her bra, and, bare to her lace panties, she regarded herself approvingly in the full length mirror beside the wide bed. She placed her hands on her hips and swung her lithe body around in a lazy exercise. She was teasing Mike.
"Aren't you going to be jealous when my nice young body gets handled by Big Joe Thompson?" she inquired sweetly.
His eyes bored into the girl as she continued to twist her shapely torso around. "I can't afford to get jealous," Mike said. "But I'll tell you this, baby, you do something to me."
"Now, now," she teased, "remember I'm Jim O'Flanagan's package. You can't have me. Besides, I want to go out first." Mike nodded, pulling her toward the bed.
"Look at yourself in the mirror," he said. Arlene saw them locked together, standing there in the center of the room. It was exciting as their bodies fitted perfectly from head to toe, like seeing two lovers in a movie. But Mike was fully dressed.
"There's one thing wrong," she said. "You have your clothes on!"
"I can take care of that in a jiffy," said Mike, and he began to do just that as Arlene flung herself on the bed and waited for her man to join her in a game of love. She luxuriated in the sight of her naked body reflected in the mirror. What a kick! She became aroused and excited, and when Mike joined her she turned her head and watched his strong arms and body hold her, and gather her, and cover her.
Little preliminary love play was necessary when they made love. Their bodies reacted quickly to any gesture, touch, kiss or even to some words as they wound themselves around each other amid moans of sheer delight from both.
"What's the matter, baby," Mike asked, noticing her absorption in the mirror.
"Mike, darling, look in the mirror."
"You look," Mike whispered hoarsely. "I've got something else to do. And you won't regret any of it."
"Fuck me, you bastard!" Arlene hissed at him between clenched teeth as his hand cruelly twisted the perky mounds of her fantastic, pulsating breasts.
Suddenly, Arlene broke away, and moved her head down his body toward the towering prick jutting up from beneath the slope of his belly.
She encircled the crimson, blood-gorged head of it softly with her lips. Mike pivoted his hips upwards, watching her, entwining his fingers into her hair. The hard, smooth, glistening cock slid further into her eager, sucking mouth, inching toward her throat.
Arlene's cheeks hollowed out as she sucked the huge cock, holding the balls beneath it between her fingers now, and urging the prick to shoot out the cum juice she sought.
Mike gasped. "You're one helluva cock-sucker, you cunt!" he hissed at her. Arlene, in response, sucked even harder, and Mike felt the first stirrings of an orgasm start in his scrotum.
His penis was a single, raging need, and now he pumped in and out of her mouth in a rising tide of frenzy.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" he gasped, riding the cock toward the back of her throat.
Arlene twisted her body around so that her cunt now faced Mike. He twisted his head and speared his tongue deeply between the creamy red sex lips o," her begging cunt. He felt her body tense.
His tongue found the nub of her clit and rode it mercilessly. Then he pumped and unloaded his cum into her mouth as she climaxed.
She then surrendered herself to waves of molten sensation as her climax of love overwhelmed her. Mike too yielded to the urgency of her desire. Then they lay quiet, still on the bed, satisfied and united now in pleasant weariness.
"Oh, Mike, you're so great," Arlene finally managed to say. But Mike's thoughts returned to business quickly.
Mike laughed. "Listen kid," he said, "You and I are in business together. And our first order of business is Jim O'Flanagan. I want you to pump him good. Ask him what tactics the Pros will use against Milwaukee Sunday. Ask him if there is anything special in the team offense. Ask him if he thinks he or Ron Jessup will play most of the game. Get the facts, ma'm-only the facts."
"And what else am I supposed to do?"
"That is up to you. If he wants to sleep with you, well, who knows, it might be a kick."
"Wouldn't you be a little jealous?"
"Frankly, no."
"You bastard. I don't know why I do all these things for you."
"You just do them, baby. There'll be a mink coat and a new Thunderbird in it for you."
"Oh, Mike, promise?"
"It's a promise," said Mike. "Now I want you to get this O'Flanagan good. I've got big plans. And step one is to get O'Flanagan in the bag. That's where you come in."
"How dare you call me a bag!"
"Relax, honey. I didn't mean it that way. I want you to get O'Flanagan in the palm of your hand. Then you and I will get minks and Thunderbirds. Do you see?"
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mike personally drove Jim O'Flanagan to Arlene's hotel, with the promise that he would pick him up at 9:15 p.m. That was necessary so Jim could be in bed by 10 p.m. back at the team headquarters. The curfew was rigidly enforced by Collins, and Jim never violated rules.
Jim didn't think it strange that Mike should take such a personal interest in his affair with Arlene. He thought Mike was just a fine fellow, a real Pros fan and a friend. It was 7 p.m. when Arlene opened the door to her room to greet him.
"We've only got a couple of hours together," said Arlene, "so we might as well make the most of the time. She had given Jim a perfunctory kiss but was unable to put any enthusiasm into it. Mike had warned her to go all out, to simulate passionate, clinging love-but somehow Arlene just couldn't make the grade. It wouldn't make any difference she was sure. Just a few crumbs of attention and she would be able to lead him by the nose.
Arlene had showered and added sweet scents to her body following her bed session with Mike that afternoon. So instead of dressing, she had remained comfortable in a blue fluffy nightgown, over which she wore a sheer lounging robe so that it was quite possible to see the outlines of her legs against the table lamp and her full breasts as they pressed against the material. And Jim was taking all this in.
"My, but you look beautiful," Jim mumbled, fighting the rising, strong passion in him. His old-fashioned upbringing made sex taboo. It was only fit for married people and even then only if children were the end product. Mike had warned Arlene that Jim was a man of strong morals. She was now going to melt them.
"Oh, I don't think so," said Arlene. "What's a good-looking body? Why dozens of girls walking around right there in the street have just as nice as mine."
"They have not," replied Jim with conviction. Then he fell silent. The art of conversation was not one of his strong points. Now he was struggling for control of his feelings and groping for words. The combination made him tongue-tied.
"What's the matter, honey, don't you have anything to say?" asked Arlene. "After all, I flew all the way to Chicago just to talk to you."
"I know, Arlene. It's just that when I see you I get all tightened up." His eyes roamed over the scantily clad body, taking in all the delicious curves that made his maleness respond.
"Good thing you don't get that way in a game. Say, how about the Pros? Are they going to win Sunday?"
"You bet we will," said Jim. Then a swift, troubled expression came over his face.
"What's the matter, don't you want to win? You look positively unhappy," remarked Arlene scanning his face and trying to nonchalantly display more of the thinly covered body.
"Well, I shouldn't be telling you this. But I trust you as I trust myself," said Jim. "You see, we have some dandy trick plays to use Sunday. One of them is called 'Kid Stew'. It works like a charm. I think the 'Kid Stew' call will win us the game!"
"What's that? Kid Stew sounds like a funny name for a play."
"Well, Kid Stew is what bothers me. You see it makes me a hero at Ron Jessup's expense. Ron is the greatest quarterback in the world, in my book."
"Don't you want to be a hero?"
"Gosh, not at Ron's expense. It's all Jess Henderson's strategy. He's the assistant coach. Well, in this Kid Stew signal, old Ron is sort of a decoy. He starts the game, calls a series of plays over and over designed to lull the Milwaukee defense. I come into the game and toss a pass that has been set up by Ron's previous calls. Ron looks bad, and I look good."
"You sure Kid Stew will win the game?" asked Arlene, mindful of Mike's instructions.
"Absolutely," replied Jim. "We'll beat them by two touchdowns!" Arlene sighed with relief. She had the espionage phase of her chore out of the way now. With that information, Mike could provide the Reno boys inside information.
"Does anybody know about Kid Stew outside of the Pros?"
"Absolutely not," said Jim. "Coach Collins has ultra-secret wraps on this play."
"Well, you can be sure I won't tell anybody."
Jim laughed. "I'd trust you with anything," he said. Arlene moved over closer to him on the couch. She rubbed her leg against his and playfully stroked his cheek. When Jim fidgeted and squirmed about, she snuggled closer to him. In her heart she was unenthusiastic, but it was a job, and maybe a mink and a Thunderbird would be the reward. Besides, there was always Mike. What did it matter if she threw away a little love on this hick? She'd have plenty left for her real lover!
She felt his biceps. "My you are strong," she said, somewhat startled by the steel-like tone of the muscles.
"Yeah," said Jim, "but around you I feel pretty weak."
Arlene laughed, leaning over, with both hands on his shoulders, she brought her lips close to his. Meanwhile the robe and nightgown separated from her breasts and these large, luscious fruits of womanhood fairly poked Jim in the eyes.
Their beauty and excitement flamed his blood and compounded his passion in one instant. He wanted to grab Arlene and explode his feelings with her in one mighty, masculine embrace. Yet he fought the drive. In his own simple mind he wasn't sure Arlene meant anything by exposing her breasts this way. He thought she wasn't aware of it. So he clenched his fists and averted his eyes from the tempting, pink-tipped morsels that swung out from her chest as she leaned over.
Arlene laughed a low throaty chuckle. "What's the matter, don't you like me?"
"God, I like you. I love you," blurted Jim.
"I feel like dancing," said Arlene. And she flicked on the radio by her big bed, tuned in some sound with the big beat, snapped her fingers to it and then began to twist. It had always shook up Mike, so why couldn't it tumble this bumpkin?
Jim watched her now, his will power fading fast. There were those incredibly shapely legs, so visible against the lights, and those fantastic breasts that swung to and fro as she danced. Arlene hummed and smiled at him. Then, after several minutes of twisting, she flung herself face up on the bed.
"Boy, I'm tired," she said. Jim sat rooted in sweat and chaotic lust on the couch. His face burned with the heat of his passion, his hands clasped and unclasped in desperation as she moved silently but sinuously on the bed. Arlene noted his male reaction with amusement. What a difference between this jerk and Mike!
"Come on over, honey," she said lowly, seductively. Jim got up unsteadily and with evident male arousal, and sat next to her on the bed, as she continued to move around, exposing more of her body.
"Do you think it's wrong?" she inquired innocently. "Jim, it's only because I love you. You don't think I'd do this for you if I didn't really love you?"
She flipped off her sheer robe and lay back on the bed waiting for the athlete to make his move. Her breasts were heaving, her body arched in anticipation, her body twisted in hope of a masculine lover. The Pro quarterback slowly settled his rigid body over her, kissing with awkward ardor. Then Arlene kissed back, her tongue plunging into his mouth, to play games with his. This had never happened to Jim before and the effect was monumental. He lifted Arlene completely off the bed, gurgling with passion and gripping her so hard it hurt and bruised.
He tore off her thin nightgown and crushed her nude body to him in spastic embrace. Then he loved her with the simple, crude, premature climax of the very young. Arlene lay indifferently, barely aroused by it all. At least she had done her duty. She slipped her robe back on and lit a cigarette.
Arlene smiled. "Darling, don't worry. You'll get better with practice. It's all new to me, too, you know. And next time we both will be naked and can enjoy ourselves even more."
"I know, I could tell," said the quarterback. Arlene laughed.
CHAPTER NINE
Jack Fisher found his way to Ron Jessup's room at the old hotel where the Pros stayed. Ron was writing a letter. He had expected Jack who had asked for an interview earlier that day. After the usual greeting, Jack asked, "Does that 'Kid Stew' stuff put you in the retirement frame of mind, Ron?"
"No," said Ron. "I haven't really thought about it. I know the kid's good. But I feel I can help this club yet. When I can't I'll hang up my cleats."
"That's going to make a good story," said Jack. "The game's greatest quarterback hangs 'em up. End of an era. End of the perfect blending of an arm and a toe. It'll make real good newspaper copy. I sure would like to have the story when you decide. Sure you haven't?"
Ron said nothing. He shifted his gaze out the hotel window.
"Listen, Ron," said Jack, lowering his voice confidentially, "I have a hunch you plan to retire after this season ... with the kid coming on and Jess pushing him to the foreground more and more, you might be getting just a bit fed up. After all, you've put ten years on top. At any rate," he paused, groping for elusive words, "just tell me first when you want to break it. Okay?"
Ron extended a big, blue-veined hand.
"Shake," he said. Jack shook and breathed a sigh of relief.
"Let's you and me get drunk some night," said Ron.
"You're on," agreed Jack. "How about LA at the La Frenzia, say next Monday night?"
"Sounds great," says Ron.
Jack admired the fabled Pros quarterback, both as a player and as a man. His strong, deeply carved features and slow, sure manner conveyed a quality of honesty which Jack associated with true leadership. No wonder men on the field followed his direction so willingly.
CHAPTER TEN
That evening at the Lake South Hotel another plan of action was being discussed. Pros owner Chuck Morgan had flown into town from Los Angeles, having suspended his business activities as board chairman of a gigantic supermarket chain. He was there to personally supervise the plot to oust Hank Collins as head coach. Morgan's council of war included Hank's arch-enemy, Los Angeles newspaper reporter John Jackson and club publicist Jerry Thomas. Also present was the highly ambitious assistant coach, Jess Henderson.
Main difficulty facing the group was the popularity of Coach Hank Collins-both with the Los Angeles Fans and players alike.
"We can't tie the sack to the big oaf just now," declared Monroe, his skinny arms flailing the air awkwardly, emphatically.
"What complicates our timetable," he said to the group which now was meeting behind bolted doors in the publicity man's suite, "is the championship race. Those L.A. fans are steamed out there, and let me tell you Hank is a hero to them. What the hell do they know about the real situation."
"Try to tell them that Jess is the brains, the man who makes the team click and win! You, Jackson, are the only reporter who does tell them. Those other writers know, but they like the guy so much they won't say it. Hank is the Pros image. We can't attack him at this time. Christ, I almost wish we weren't having a winning season!"
"I hate to say this", he continued, "but it looks very much to me as if we can't fire Collins until the end of the season. Then if we win the title, it'll be mighty tough to justify letting him go to the rest of the press and the public. The guy has us where the hair is short. It's not fair to Jess, who's supplying the brains. It's not fair to any of us who know the real story. But here we are!"
"There does seem to be one hope, though," continued Morgan as gloom spread over the group. "He could be goaded into doing something rash-like resigning." He paused and the conspirators stirred with anticipation.
"What would that be?" asked gimlet-eyed Jackson, pointing at Morgan with the stem of his tooth-scarred pipe.
"You," Morgan fairly exploded at Jackson, "gave me the clue last Sunday. They tell me that Hank was near to socking you because of something you wrote. Well, if he does ... need I say more? I can go to him and, in the best interests of the club, ask him to step down. He'll have to do it."
Jackson was intrigued but also frightened by the suggestion. "But under your plan it will be necessary for Hank to knock my teeth out, or something just as bad!"
"We could stop him after the first poke," offered Morgan.
"Oh, my, yes," said Jess. "We could all stop Hank the moment he raised his arm to strike you."
"No, not then," said Morgan. "I'd like to have him actually hit you, Jackson. Not a hard punch, mind you, but something tangible that you could feel. That way he would convict himself beyond appeal. It would be mandatory then for me to remove him in the best interests of the club. If we stepped in and stopped it before he swung, then maybe it would be a little harder to unload the guy."
Jackson agreed, for he knew Hank couldn't do too much damage because Jess and the other burly Pros aides would swiftly come to his rescue. And he wanted Hank's scalp. Hank's insults and public demeaning of his ability still stung Jackson. He was also helped by a sense of duty, a self-serving feeling of loyalty to the club.
After all, in seeking Hank's coaching demise, he was merely helping everyone take a long overdue step. There was, too, the sense of personal obligation deriving from a household of furniture procured by Morgan in exchange for a continuing sports column line which echoed the correct Pros approach and prepared the public for certain of Morgan's decisions.
Jackson already had helped prepare the way for Hank's rise to power through the artful deployment of words-a circumstance which greased the skids for the prior incumbent coach. Morgan had wanted Hank because he felt the big, good natured buffoon would carry out Morgan's policies to the last detail from a sense of gratitude.
When Hank came up with some ideas of his own and stubbornly refused to accept Morgan's suggestions he unwittingly undermined his own job. Morgan, for instance, wanted Ron out as No. 1 quarterback, and Jim O'Flanagan in his place. Hank opposed the idea. This led to the rapid rise of Jess Henderson who Morgan knew could be counted on to reflect his views.
"Hank almost attacked me last Sunday night," mused Jackson. "Maybe we can get him to charge me at Milwaukee this Sunday."
"That's what I thought," agreed Morgan. "Now, you know how Jess has rigged the offense to make Ron look bad and Jim to smell like a rose. Why don't you rub that in? Let Collins have it for being dumb and starting the wrong quarterback all the time. It will look like a legitimate charge. Hank will see red-a few well chosen insults and when he hits you, I hit him. He suddenly gets stomach ulcers, the pressure has been too much, the doctor orders rest and a milk diet. Jess takes over the club as head coach. We can do it. And the public won't have to know one thing to the contrary."
At that moment, there was a violent pounding outside and a moment later, the door burst open.
Framed inside the door was a red-faced Hank Collins, his eyes smoking with anger.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hank Collins had just discovered a sex scandal of major proportions in the course of his bed-checking and was ready to pounce on whoever was responsible. In this case he blamed it on Jess Henderson-and told him so emphatically after regaining his breath.
Ring leaders in the massive affair were a couple of burly Pros named Norm Taylor and Bronc Lipski. These two had smuggled Trudy, the hotel's red-haired nympho switchboard operator, into their room. Trudy had been a most cooperative fan.
When Norm and Bronc got her into the room they took several turns sampling her sexy favors which she had bestowed with impartiality to both. Then, sated themselves, they propositioned the girl for the rest of the squad.
"Trudy," Bronc said, "you like the team. Why don't you really do us some good-all of us, I mean. There are about thirty guys right in this hotel floor who love you. How's about it if I invite them in here one at a time and you can show how much you love them?"
Trudy giggled. "I'm not in a hurry to go home," she said. She was a petite type, about five feet tall, breasty, firm and shapely, although only about 20-years old. She had been married twice before, and both of her husbands had found her in bed with other men and after taking a few farewell socks at her, had disappeared without benefit of divorce. She loved big, muscular types. Every year that the Pros came to the hotel, she had herself a ball.
"Bring on the boys," Trudy said. "I'm just anxious to please. Keep the lights out. I don't want to know who they are. Of course, if they want to look at me, well I'll give them a peek."
"Don't you ever get sort of tired?" Bronc asked in amazement.
"Seems like the men always get tired first," Trudy said. "That's why I like them in big numbers," she explained.
She did a few bumps and grinds nude on the bed. "See what I mean, boys? I'm ready. I do love you Pros!"
Bronc and Norm had taken advantage of Jess Henderson's absence from the floor as the ambitious assistant coach plotted with the club owner to overthrow Collins. An even dozen of the Pros had made the sex pilgrimage to Trudy, who was still willing and ready when big Hank burst into the room. Fortunately for the players, it was between acts and Trudy was alone, nude on the bed. Hank hustled her out in a frenzy to Morgan's suite. Now he burst upon them, evidence in tow.
"Jess," roared Collins, "where the hell have you been? Look what I caught in Norm Taylor's and Bronc Lipski's room!" He reached back and dragged in a tiny, shivering, lace-nightie-clad redhead-the errant telephone operator at the Lake South Hotel whose appetite for the Pros led to her absence from the switchboard.
"What tha...." said Jess, blinking his eyes in controlled embarrassment, "what have we here?"
"It's a girl, and a damned horny one, too!" shouted Hank. "And if you'd have been at your station on the fourth floor these guys could never have sneaked her in. What the hell do you mean deserting your station when you're on watch? I don't give a damn if Mr. Morgan is here. I'm working for the good of the team, and he'll be the first to agree with me, isn't that right Mr. Morgan?"
"Now, wait a minute, Hank," Morgan began, about to lay down an oil slick.
"Wait a minute hell," shouted Hank, shaking his massive fist at Jess and then at all of them in the room. "I'm not out there seeing that this team doesn't screw away its chance for a world title while you guys sit around here and gossip-or whatever the hell it is you are doing!"
Hank's wrath spilled beyond the bounds of protocol-Morgan or no Morgan, he knew he was right. They were fiddling while Rome diddled. What's more, with Jackson and Thomas present he was sure the whole gathering was conspiratorial. He could not accuse them directly, but he could accuse Jess of dereliction of duty.
"Now just a minute," repeated Morgan more firmly. "I want you to know Hank, that whatever the fault is here, it belongs to me. I asked Jess to this little gathering. I would have asked you too, but I know you had a hard day and they told me you were sleeping. Now, I'm always glad to see my coach working for the good of the team. But, please, let's not accuse without knowing the facts. Jess didn't want to come here. In fact he urged quite the opposite. I thought the boys were all in bed. That's why Jess is here."
The shivering redhead began to cry.
"Please let me go," she pleaded to Hank, who all the while had kept her pinned with one huge hand around the back of her neck.
"What the hell is your name?" asked Hank brutally.
"You're hurting me," said the girl. "My name is Trudy-Trudy Harkins. Please let me go."
"Leave her be," said Morgan.
"Oh, thank you sir," whimpered Trudy. "I didn't want to come here tonight. But the boys told me it would be all right. I didn't do anything. I just like the boys and I want the Pros to win the championship," she sobbed.
"I know all about you," stormed Collins. "I had you kicked out of the place. They told me you wouldn't be back here until the club checked out. How the hell did you get back on the job?"
"The boys got me up the rear fire escape," cried Trudy, snuggling up to Morgan. She was, despite her tears and streaked makeup, not unattractive in her bare feet and filmy nightgown.
"Do you always go around in your nightgown?" said Collins as he settled down now in a chair and turned matters over to higher authority. Now, like a shaggy haired dog, Collins wanted a reward and a pat on the head from his owner. Collins was quite proud of his retrieval.
"Hank, I certainly must compliment you on your counter-espionage activities with this club," acknowledged Morgan, himself conscious of tragi-comical aspects of these events. Collins snorted.
"Somebody on this club has to," he shot back-a pointed reference to Jess. Morgan chose to overlook the crack. "Now then, Trudy," Morgan cooed to the cowed girl, "who lured you up the fire escape? Come now, don't be afraid to tell me. You won't be harmed!"
"Oh, but I couldn't tell on the boys. They didn't mean no harm. It's just that I like them all so much-and I do want the Pros to win. I've come to know them so well, you know. They're like a home team to me, even thought I do live in Chicago. Why they're like brothers to me, I wouldn't want any of them to get in dutch just because I paid them a visit tonight."
"There, there," he said, winking at the intrigued group of males who were a kind of jury. "Now, just tell us who they were and," he paused with a bid for appreciation from the gathering, "how many there were." The answer stunned them all.
"There was more than one?"
"If I tell you how many, do I have to tell you their names?"
Morgan glanced at Hank. He had thrust his head into his hands now and was staring at the floor in wild disbelief.
"Hell," he said, "what's the use of getting their names. It was the whole fucking team!" His profanity provoked a fresh fall of tears from the trembling redhead.
"Please sir," she sobbed, "don't let him swear at me."
"I wasn't swearing at you," protested Hank.
"Were there more than four or five?" asked Morgan, patting her on the top of her head and getting even more eyefuls of her partially clad treasures underneath the nightie.
"Tonight?"
"Well, let's limit it to tonight," said Morgan, resigned to a scandal which would probably encompass the entire Pros roster.
"Well, it was dark and the boys just came in and went out-when they were through, that is. They were all perfect gentlemen. I guess there must have been half a dozen or so when that man came down the hall. Then they all ran out on me and told me to hide under the covers. That's where he found me, under the covers. Honest, I didn't mean no harm."
Morgan looked around the room. "Gentlemen, you all know of course what scandal would occur if word of this leaked out. And you, Trudy," he said, his tone taking on a pontifical timber, "know what would happen to you if we timed you over to the police. Now you're a nice girl, basically at least, and we wouldn't want to do that to you."
"There are newspaper reporters in this room. If they wrote this story, what do you suppose would happen to organized professional football? What do you suppose would happen to some of these boys who have wives and children back in Los Angeles?" He paused for effect. Trudy's sobbing quickened.
"None of them told me they were married and had children, too," Trudy wailed, crushed by the unexpected moral consideration.
"Yes, Trudy, children! Now you wouldn't want to break up any homes, either, would you?" Trudy shook her red mop of hair violently. "Well, then, let's all of us forget it. Let's never say a word to anyone. If you promise that, I promise I won't turn you over to the police, okay?"
"On my honor, I won't," said Trudy. "You are sweet and kind and," she shot a reproachful glance at Hank, "a gentleman!"
"Now, Hank, don't you agree this little episode ought to remain a deep, dark secret among those of us present now? Of course you do. So, why don't you escort her back to Taylor and Lipski's room, let her get dressed and send her home in a cab?"
"Like hell I will," fumed Hank. "I found her. Let Jess get rid of her instead."
Jess led the chastened redhead out of the room. Morgan then confronted Hank.
"Now, Hank, obviously half a dozen guys slept with this little nympho tonight, and enjoyed her cunt. We got a game in three days. We got to find out who the men were-not to punish them, understand. That would leak out, make us all a laughing stock and create bad impressions back home. Then if we blew the game Sunday, they'd crucify us-and you, in particular. Say you couldn't keep any discipline and so on. Ask Jackson here. He'll tell you what kind of hell would break loose if he printed the story."
"Well, I'm asking him not to print it, as a personal favor to me. As a favor to the team. This story, and it's a hot one that any good newspaperman would like to break, has got to stay in this room. I daresay our title chances depend on keeping the whole thing under wraps. Now, Hank, if these newspapermen think enough of the team, and are loyal enough not to break the story, then the least they could do would be to forget the whole episode. No fines, no speeches, no nothing. Just pretend there was no redhead. Understand?"
"Jesus Christ!" exploded Collins. "I'm out doing my duty, keeping discipline, checking beds and what the hell do I get for it! I get told off. I get the feeling that I ought not to have discovered all this fucking around. What the hell am I? Coach of the Pros or headmaster in a whorehouse?"
Morgan had his opening. He knew he could count on Jackson's cooperation. He might even exploit the situation now to the extent of firing Hank-or at least prepare the way for it in the near future.
"That will be enough from you, Collins," he hissed at the big mentor. "I am the majority owner of the Pros. The majority owner hires and fires head coaches. As I see it, one of the qualifications of a head coach is to see the big picture. That means you have to be kind of flexible. To punish the guys who shacked with the little tramp is the little picture, see? The net effect of this will damage their morale. That would upset the whole club!"
"And that could mean defeat next Sunday. I have always had grave doubts about your total grasp of the situation. Now I am beginning to believe it." He stopped. It was a kind of classic make or break time.
"Mr. Morgan," began Hank formally, "you say you have the best interest of the Pros at heart. Swell. So do I. Now how do you think it would affect the team if you were to fire your head coach two games before the end of the season? And in the middle of a title drive? Would firing me right now be for the good of the team?" He stopped and with a sly smile, stared Morgan in the eyes.
Morgan, who had been pacing up and down, came to a halt.
"I'm not firing you now," he said coldly. "But you better win the championship."
"Is that a threat?"
"You can interpret it any way you wish," Morgan said.
Inwardly, Morgan was disappointed. Hank had wriggled off the hook and Morgan knew he was right, at least about staying on the job with the championship likely. Instead of blowing himself up and quitting, he had advanced an artful argument Morgan had considered him incapable of. Very well, he would pick Hank off later.
"Hank, there is no point in fussing any more about this. I want you to find out who those guys were who had the little trollop. Then I want you to get Doc Barnes to load each one of those who made any contact, with Penicillin. I don't want a rash of clap breaking out just before we take the field against Milwaukee. And that's to be it. No fines, no threats. Just do this job and do it quietly."
"How in hell can I find out who they were? There's Taylor and Lipski, for sure. But there must have been a lot more. Taylor and Lipski weren't in the room when I busted in. They won't tell on anyone else. Probably deny they did it themselves."
"In that case," said Morgan, "may I suggest you give every member of the club a shot. If you tell Taylor and Lipski that everyone will get the needle unless they tell, they'll speak up. Do you understand?"
Hank understood.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Morgan was up to his old tricks with the women in his life, too. He hadn't missed an opportunity to get Trudy's telephone number during the hectic incident in the hotel room. He had somehow managed to tell her that he would telephone that night as soon as the room cleared and she had assented, indicating she would taxi right home and would await the California tycoon at her small apartment.
Morgan now set out to collect the little redhead-she looked pretty sexy to him, and what the hell-he couldn't play around Los Angeles. Here in Chicago it was different. Football was fine, but a guy had to have a little fun, too.
Trudy was at home, as he had verified by the telephone call and Morgan dismissed the cab. He flung himself on the couch with a kind of paternal sigh.
"You know dear," he said like a stern advisor, "you are playing with fire when you fool around with those young athletes."
"I know," said Trudy, still not sure of Morgan's intentions. Maybe he had come all the way out to see her to lecture her about taking on practically the entire Pros team. She thought it strange, though, that he had asked for her phone number. Perhaps he was coming over now just to make sure she wouldn't say anything to anyone and to warn her to keep clear of the Pros.
"I mean, my dear," Morgan said, "athletes aren't really as much as a young girl like you might think. I mean, we older fellows have a lot more to offer a girl. Know what I mean?"
Trudy breathed a sigh of relief. He wanted to get into her pants. She could understand that. He wasn't much to look at, but he did have oodles of dough. She was flattered.
"Why, Mr. Morgan," she giggled. She was wearing a long black nightgown, barefooted with a filmy wrap around covering her opulent pink-tipped breasts. They were seated on her chaise lounge. It was a pretty tacky place, but Morgan didn't notice the dirt-he had eyes only for the pretty young nympho who didn't seem to notice how much of her sexy figure she was showing him.
Morgan caught the note of relief and willingness in her giggle. He would cinch it now with ease. "By the way," he announced abruptly, "here's a little change to sort of make up for your inconvenience tonight. After all, that Collins was pretty rough on you." He pulled out two fifty dollar bills and tossed them on the coffee table. Trudy protested weakly, but Morgan brushed aside any such remonstrance.
"Take it, my girl," he soothed. "I'll bet you have black and blue marks on your arms now from Collins' grip! Here let me see." He shoved over on the couch and took Trudy's arm. "Just as I thought," he said, and he kissed a reddened area on her white shoulder.
He also noted the deep valley between her out-thrust breasts and the quicker breathing as he touched her arm and shoulder. His hand moved slowly over the shoulder to touch the arms, brush across the erect nipples and wonder into that deep valley that somehow made her seem more mature than she really was.
Morgan circled her with his arms, slipped off his shoes and began to close the business deal. "Let me show you," he said. Trudy slipped back on the couch and opened her filmy jacket so his hands could more easily explore her body. The sheer nightgown couldn't nearly cover her young bouncy breasts and Morgan homed in like a ballistic missile carrying an explosive charge.
"Say," said Trudy somewhat shocked by his ardor, "you older guys like it more than the young ones, don't you!" Morgan wallowed in her breasts, nipping them on the nipples, sucking slightly at their tips, trying to put all of one of them into his mouth. His hands explored the rest of her slim, youthful body enough to make her squirm.
"Why don't you slip into something more comfortable," he urged. Trudy laughed, stood up and shed every stitch of her playthings and Morgan ate her up with his eyes-God what a contrast to the faded body of his wife. He pulled her back down on the couch. He handled her like a piece of merchandise. After all, he had bought her.
Morgan, whose pants soon adorned the coffee table, reached over and pulled out several more bills. He tossed them on the floor. Trudy giggled and Morgan moved in on her again. "Kiss me first," Trudy coaxed. Morgan kissed her as hard as he could and the two locked in the strange embrace of May and December.
He fell into a lush reverie of debauched relaxation as he awaited the climactic moment with Trudy doing the full honors.
Encouraged by Morgan, Trudy's fingers grasped the fat, pulsing organ with her fingers and began jacking it gently up and down. She "oohed" and "ahhhed" as it began to harden into an angry, red shaft of excitement. She seemed fascinated by the burgeoning, fat prick as it came fully alive beneath her probing fingers, and Morgan's mouth grew slack with excitement.
His hand at the back of her head encouraged her to slowly lower her head to it, bringing her red, parted lips closer and closer to the throbbing head. Morgan shot his hips upwards eagerly, making contact with her soft, eager lips.
Now he pushed his prick past her lips and into her mouth as she held it poised in waiting.
He felt her tongue dance happily over its slickened surface, and he pushed it even further into her face, feeling her lips tighten and suck upon it. A spasm of excitement shot through the length of his cock, and he tried to cool himself down mentally.
But her charms, each of them revealed before his popping eyes, proved too much.
He stabbed his fingers into the reddish hair of her pussy, feeling the soft lips there give in to the pressure of his probing fingers. He sunk two fingers into her cunt, pushing past the first knuckle. She moaned, still sucking eagerly on his towering rod.
"That's a girl ... Yeah, baby...." Morgan crooned to her, watching the lighting play across her glossy hair.
"Make me come, baby, make me come good!" he told her.
Now he was riding his fingers deep into her pussy, feeling the warm, wet slickness of her love juice bubbling inside her quim.
He had the urge to fuck into it, and he gently withdrew her mouth from his raging weapon and spread her out in front of him. Morgan positioned himself between her soft, shapely thighs. As the aging, wise old prick speared deeply into her, spreading wide the delicate, creaming lips and moving yet further into her incidiously, she moved.
She gasped incredulously, not understanding why the well-known act seemed so profoundly more exciting now than when the members of the football team had done it earlier in the evening. The pricks were the same, yet somehow now it was very different!
What she didn't know as yet was that this difference had to do with experience and appreciation.
In a steady, hard rhythm, Morgan rode the prick in and out of the hungry cunt clasping it. The steady pace drove Trudy higher and higher toward the explosion point.
She began babbling incoherently as the steady pacing got to her, fanning the flame of her passion higher and higher. Morgan was double-stroking her cunt now, lunging it sharply into her with blinding speed, then instantly backing off an inch to blam it against her buttocks again before starting the next stroke.
He knew she was peaking out because of the way her nails dug into his shoulder.
He tried triple-stroking her now, and blammed, blam-blam; blammed, blam-blammed into her.
"My God, I'm coming! I'm coming! I'm com ...inggggggggg!" she suddenly shrieked, her hips pumping crazily up at his churning groin-just as he exploded his cream into her with a gush that made it back up and run out the edges of her widespread cunt. Even Trudy now seemed to get into the swing of their violent, odd maneuverings, and Morgan knew she enjoyed them to the fullest. Her low cry of pleasure echoed in his ears as she raised her head to look him full in the face, and smile.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It had been an eventful night for the Pros. Morgan had greased the skids for Collins' ouster; Collins had discovered debauchery on the team; Morgan had helped himself to the cause of the debauchery-Trudy-and now Mike Herring was tying it all up with a telephone call to his boss from Reno.
He was in Arlene's room at the downtown hotel. Arlene had told him all that Jim O'Flanagan told her about Kid Stew and the upcoming game with the Milwaukee Darts. Mike was delighted with the information.
"Big Joe," he said eagerly, "the odds are wrong. Cover all the money and take the Pros. They've got some stuff going that will put the game away in the first quarter."
"Very interesting," said Big Joe. There was a pause, then he added, "you know Mike, what this means if you're wrong." Mike blanched. It was a big chance he would risk. The rewards would be great if he turned out right. Big Joe was always generous for correct information."
"You'll never regret it," pumped Mike. "And boss, plan two is working like a charm. I've got Jim O'Flanagan in bed with Arlene. The kid doesn't know which end is up. We'll get him in the tank as soon as we get back to LA. Then, we'll get the fix in with Jessup and pick up a couple million in the title game."
"How do you know you can fix Ron?"
"He's sore at the team. He's in the dog house with Jess Henderson. Henderson will be the Pros coach in a week or so. Morgan is kicking Collins out. It's a mess, but that's the way things are shaping up. Ron will be so sick of the Pros, he'll go along. He's quitting anyhow after this year. Why not duck out with a bundle? Ron is no fool."
"By the way, Mike, I want that girl of yours, Arlene, over here this week. I think she might be good for a little relaxation. I will expect her."
"She'll be there, boss. I've got to have her around a little now to make Jim happy. Understand?"
"Work it out."
"Right, boss." Mike hung up in an exultant mood. "Baby," he said to the nude, blonde, sexy creature lying curled up against his own naked body, "let's have a little fun."
"You've had a busy day in bed," says Mike. Arlene stretched out seductively. "I'm not too tired-for a real man lover," she said.
"Neither am I," said Mike, nestling down beside his nude lovemate. He switched off the light and sank into her naked arms. A sigh from both of them, followed by some sensuous squirming on her part, told the story until both collapsed in ecstasy.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Odds on the outcome of the Pros-Dart game dropped to 6-5 take your pick-which meant the teams were rated even by the bookies at kickoff. Early in the week the Darts had been favored by three points. Friday a flood of Pros money wiped out the Dart three-point advantage. No one knew just why so much Pros money appeared. Aside from a nip in the air, it was almost California weather. Fans of the Darts had hoped for an off-track, rain, mud, snow or some combination of these three. It was a matter of record that California teams fared poorly under such conditions in the East and Midwest.
Jack Fisher munched on a hot dog and pondered the riddle of the odds again as he sat in the press box awaiting the start. He, too, believed the game should be rated dead-even, with perhaps an edge to the Pros because of the team's excellent condition and the tricky new offense Jess Henderson had devised, highlighted by the Kid Stew Play. But how would the gamblers know that? And if they did, would that alone cause the drop in points?
How would word get to the gamblers? Certainly they were more accurate and consistent than the football writers of the newspapers. So how did the oddsmakers get such devastatingly correct appraisals of games? Whatever their information, thought Jack, it certainly was thorough and realistic. Then he dismissed the subject as the excitement of the kickoff came near.
Both clubs had completed their primary drills and had retired to their respective dressing rooms underneath the cavernous stands. The place was packed, fans buzzing and churning in anticipation of a victory, most of them, of course, favoring the Darts, the game being played in Milwaukee. John Jackson sat next to Jack Fisher, smoking his pipe as usual, a smug, satisfied smile nesting about the corners of his lips, as he viewed the grey chalk-lined field.
"Funny thing about those odds dropping," remarked Jack as he got himself further settled in his press box seat.
Ron was shackled in the first quarter by the strategy of "Kid Stew" and could not move the ball or the Pros in the key game against the Darts. Ron's first quarter ended with the score Darts 3, Pros 0. Then at the start of the second period young Jim O'Flanagan raced onto the field to replace Ron in the rotation system of quarterbacks.
"Jim O'Flanagan's quarter," enthused Jackson, slipping his pipe from between his teeth and pointing at the brilliant rookie quarterback who was racing to the Pros huddle. "Now, we'll move," he added confidently.
"They're about to spring the trap," Jack noted silently. He almost hoped Jim's pass to Pete on the deep sidelines pattern would flop. It didn't.
Jim's first call was the "Kid Stew." It worked with incredible precision. Pete broke toward the middle, it was in the usual short slant angle. Then he cut at a sharp angle toward the sidelines. He left the Dart left corner man, who was caught flat-footed, charging in to back up on the usual short pattern Pete had run so often in the first quarter. When Pete crossed the Dart thirty yard line he glanced back over his shoulder. There was Jim's "Kid Stew" pass arching beautifully downfield on schedule. Pete gathered it in around the twenty-five yard line and scampered the remaining distance unchallenged-as easy a six points as the Pros ever collected.
The fans were shocked into silence. The Dart players turned and watched, frustrated, helpless. The Darts had worked hard for their yardage and all they could show for it was three points. With a flick of the wrist the Pros now scooted ahead easily, daintily. The Darts trailed and they were not a good come-from-behind team. They did not score easily. Another quick Pros touchdown might well quench all hopes, forcing the Darts into a desperation style offense for which they were not equipped.
Meanwhile, the pernicious effects of "Kid Stew" continued to unnerve the Darts. They fumbled the subsequent kickoff and burly lineman Bronc Lipski, who had languished in the coach's disaffection the past several days following Hank's discovery of the little redhead in his Chicago room, recovered for the Pros. Lipski bounded up from beneath the pile with the ball and a huge grin on his face. Maybe now Hank would forget and forgive.
With the ball on the Dart eighteen, the Pros closed in for another quick kill. As in ordinary life, there comes a time in football when in the tide of common events, taken at its crest, leads to victory; complete, final and absolute.
Jim O'Flanagan again struck quickly with another of Jess's top priority offensive plays, a short pass, this time to the opposite end, Sid Hamner, who crossed over into this unfamiliar pattern for the first time in any Pros game.
Pete had meanwhile sprinted straight down the sidelines in the end zone, drawing several burned Dart defenders with him, and leaving the short middle area wide open. Jess had foreseen this development and had the call ready for the right moment.
Ron returned to the game after this touchdown and kicked the extra point, making it the Pros fourteen, Darts three, and the second quarter was only minutes old. But the game itself was decided. Panic seized Milwaukee-nothing went right from that point, and the entire club contributed to a fumbling, ill-coordinated, frantic effort throughout the remainder of the half, and all during the final two quarters. The final score showed Los Angeles twenty-eight, Milwaukee three.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jack Fisher had planned to duck out of the hotel, have a quiet dinner and hit the sack early that night. Jack and the Pros were" to leave for the Coast the next morning. However, growing evidence indicated a plot to unseat Collins was nearing a climax.
He arrived too late. The shrewd maneuver plotted by Morgan, Jackson and Henderson to goad the big man into taking a sock at Jackson had already worked.
Collins blasted Jackson for downgrading Ron Jessup in the Darts game and had explained patiently the Kid Stew strategy, but in vain. Finally, exasperated, Collins had taken a poke at the newspaperman and Morgan had instantly demanded his resignation. Collins had agreed, in the best interests of the team, and Morgan said the story would be put out that Collins had to retire for the season because of a sudden attack of stomach ulcers.
Jess Henderson was named acting head coach by Barnes. It had been a swift package deal and was all over by the time Jack had gone to find Ron Jessup in the hotel bar to relay the news to him. He also wanted to find out the venerable quarterback's reaction. Jessup, with a plaster tape across his nose, was having bourbon and water.
So far as Jack knew, none of the Pros had been informed that Hank "resigned" because of ulcers. Jack saw no reason why he shouldn't tell the veteran quarterback.
"To get on with the bad news," he said. "Collins is gone. Out with ulcers for the season." He studied Ron's leathery face; its square jaw would be described in Westerns as granite-hewn. He also had blue eyes, a strong mouth and solid, prominent cheek bones. If ever TV horse operas ran out of actors to portray the town marshal, Ron Jessup would do-right down to the taciturn, unemotional "huh" which he grunted at this disclosure. He puffed delicately at his cigar a moment or two and said, "Morgan got rid of him at last, eh?"
"That's not the story we put out," replied Jack.
"What did Morgan tell you to write?" asked Ron.
Jack winced. "Hank suddenly came down with a case of bleeding ulcers. Strain too great. Complete rest for the remainder of the season. After that, Morgan hopes Hank will be able to resume."
"It's Jess then, this year and next, and from here on in."
"Right." said Jack.
"Listen," said Ron, "I told you that I'd give you a scoop when I decide to retire. Well, I'm retiring at the end of this year."
"Can I write it?" Ron nodded. "And say," he added after a pause, "if you know of any good business I can invest in, let me know."
"I'm thinking of buying a small newspaper. Would you like to be a publisher?"
"I'll think about it on the plane ride back to L.A."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Back In Los Angeles, Mike perfected his plan for knocking Jim O'Flanagan out of the championship game. The Pros had one more hurdle to meet before winning the divisional title and that was Sunday's battle with the weak Pittsburgh team.
But Mike wouldn't spring his trap until after that. Then his plan would be executed. Jim would visit Arlene in her apartment. He would, in the meantime, have a couple of Big Joe Thomposon's strong-arm men from Reno hidden in the bathroom. When Jim would be on the couch with Arlene, the guys would bust out.
One of them would pretend to be Arlene's estranged husband. He would accuse Jim and jump him, aided by his companions. They'd work Jim over pretty good, managing to break a finger or two on the kid's throwing hand. That would take Jim out of the picture. The kid would not be able to say a thing. How could he, being caught in such a compromising position with a nude woman, and him naked too?
As soon as that happened, Mike would arrange with Jessup and the point control deal would be worked out. He'd make it easy for Ron to lose the game. He'd just have to control the margin of victory. A single point would do it, mean several million dollars to the Reno crowd, and Ron could do it because he'd be the Pros only quarterback. And whoever controls the quarterback in pro football, controls the points. To Mike's way of thinking there was nothing unethical about all of this at all.
Mike was pleased with the scheme. He was sure he could pull it off. His trump card was Arlene. She was money in the bank.
Suddenly the phone rang. It was Arlene. Her voice sounded fearful and frantic.
"Mike," she sobbed. "I'm pregnant. It's our baby."
"What!" shouted the astonished and enraged Latin lover. "What the hell do you mean you're pregnant. And do you think I'm dumb enough to get stuck with the bill for that little bastard you're carrying?"
"Please, Mike, don't be cruel. It's got to be our baby."
"Like hell it does, you little tramp. What do you mean getting knocked up just when I have all these plans for you? Get right over here to my apartment. I want to have a talk with you." He hung up. He'd take care of her pregnancy in due time. In the meantime his cruelty asserted itself. He would make the little beast squirm.
A pale, tear-streaked cigarette girl presented herself to Mike in a short time. Mike greeted her without getting up. He was lounging in the blue silk pajamas she knew so well from their bedding together. At the sight of his indifference the distraught girl slumped on the bed and began crying. Mike smiled coldly at her sobbing figure on the bed.
"You stupid wretch," he said icily. "You go out and get yourself knocked up and then come to me for help. Can't you learn the tricks? You don't have to get a baby every time you crawl in bed with someone. Come here!"
Arlene half fell, half crawled from the bed to Mike's large, black leather chair. Mike watched her naked shoulders quiver as she sobbed. He reached down, ran his tanned fingers through her bleached blonde hair. Then he tightened his grip, gathering the strands taut, pulling back her head.
"Not so pretty now, are you, you peroxide tramp?" He forced her limp head back and forth in mock assent. "Like it?" he mocked. "Like to be kicked around a little, don't you baby?" He leaned forward contemptuously and placed his lips on her trembling mouth.
"Oh, Mike," she whispered, "are you going to hurt me?" She shivered with an eager fear. Never could she thrill like this with another man. Certainly not with the hick, O'Flanagan. Mike released his grip on her hair, flinging her back. She moaned and wept, collapsing in helpless surrender at his feet. Clutching his silk pajamas she slid to his bare feet, resting her lips there.
"Kiss my feet, baby," Mike said softly, approvingly. It was always better that way for Mike. A boy, in the Little Italy section of Cleveland where he grew up, he had felt the scorn of the pretty, fair-skinned girls who shunned "that dirty little Dago." Well, the dirty little Dago had grown up into a big handsome, successful business man and lover. And now all the fair-skinned blonde girls were going to pay the penalty.
"Get up," he commanded. She continued to cling to his legs and kiss her feet. He would be kind to her now. He needed her.
He patted her head. "Don't worry, baby. You and I have big plans. Don't worry about that pregnancy. We'll take care of it later. Right now, we've got big plans. Remember that mink coat and Thunderbird. Now I want you to hop a plane tomorrow and get over to Reno. Big Joe Thompson wants to meet you. And you know, baby, you got to make him happy!"
Arlene's face brightened. With Mike on her side again everything in her world of life and sin was okay.
"Mike," she said, "anything you say is okay by me."
Her plane arrived at the airport in Reno early Saturday evening. As she entered the lobby, she heard her name paged on the loudspeaker. Crossing to the information desk, she was intercepted by a burly man in a flashy sportcoat.
"You Arlene?" he grunted. When she nodded, he took her arm and led her to a waiting limousine. As she stepped into the plush interior of the automobile, she noted the gold crest of a famous hotel and smiled as she snuggled down into the spacious back seat. She thought this Big Joe Thompson might not be so bad after all ... he sure knew how to treat a girl right. Mike never sent his car for her.
She was greeted at the hotel desk by the reservations manager, who was very courteous, perhaps a little too much so, as she signed the registration card and the bellboy showed her to the waiting elevator as if she were a queen.
As the bellboy was leaving, he said: "Miss Wright, you are to just pick up the phone and ask for anything you might want. Those are Mr. Thompson's wishes. He's expecting you to dine with him at eight." She smiled at him and he didn't mind not getting a tip as he daydreamed for an instant about what he would do with her lush body on that big circular bed. His maleness showed up quickly and he left.
Arlene decided to try to telephone and see if it was all true, or just a wonderful, wild dream. She picked up the red telephone and the operator said: "Yes, Miss Wright, may I help you?" She hesitated a moment and then spoke in what she hoped was a gracious, queenly tone: "Is there any place in the hotel where I can get a dress? I left LA. suddenly and I don't have anything with me to wear to dinner tonight with Mr. Thompson."
Then dropping her queenly tone, she whispered, "Hell, honey, can you help me? I don't have a rag with me and I can't wear what I've got on, either outside or inside next to my skin. The mechanical tone left the operator's voice and she assured Arlene warmly: "I think you'll find Mr. Thompson has opened a charge account in your name at the dress shop here in the hotel, Miss Wright. Shall I ask them to send someone up to your suite with a selection of clothes?"
"Like yes!" squealed Arlene happlily.
She dashed around the room stripping off her clothes and singing gleefully as she did a mock bump and grind. She admired the mirrored reflection of her body. Then, dashing to the bathroom, she ran a hot bath for herself, pouring in lots of the expensive, exotic perfume she found had been left there for her. She had never been so happy in her life as she was right now. She felt like Cinderella.
After her luxurious bath during which she lovingly caressed her youthful body with soap and washrag, and soothed some aches from her doubting mind, she wrapped herself in a Turkish towel and threw her old clothes, undies and all, in the wastebasket. She answered a discreet knock at the door of her suite and two women came in carrying armloads of clothes ... everything ... dresses, nighties, negligees, hose, gloves, handbags ... everything she could need or want.
One of the women said: "For you, Miss Wright, with the compliments of Mr. Thompson."
They left the room and, just as Arlene was about to try on her new clothes, another knock sounded softly. Arlene ran to the door in her bare bare feet, her bare bottom barely covered by the towel. A man stood there holding a little attache case. Arlene looked puzzled.
"I'm Gene, your hairdresser," he lisped as he minced his way into the room. "Mr. Thompson has requested that I do your hair a certain way. Shall we begin, or would you like to dress first?"
Arlene giggled. "Gene, I'm sure I could drop this towel and you wouldn't care less ... let's do my hair now." She sat on the arm of the black broad couch and Gene started combing her long blonde hair.
"Tell me, Genie, what is Mr. Thompson really like? ... with girls I mean ... you know all the dirt ... give me a clue, Gene, and I'll make it worth your while if it pays off for me." Gene was delighted to give her the dirt.
"Well, dearie, I can give you a lot of very valuable help. It should be worth at least a hundred dollars to you ... if he likes your act, you'll get a lot more than that...." He continued coming her hair with one hand, and, with the other, reached around and patted her full breasts. "And if he likes them as much as I think he will."
"Gene, I'll give you a hundred ... and maybe more ... tell me everything...."
"Well, he's definitely a mammary man, sweetie. He's just wild for big, big, high, pointed ones. You've got a terrific pair ... he'll go ape for them...."
Arlene smiled happily and dropped her towel. "They are supposed to be pretty great, Gene. Look at them. Will he like them?" She arched her back and shook her shoulders for the little pansy hairdresser who licked his lips nervously and said, "Honey, you could almost make me go back to girls with that pair of knockers. But that's just the beginning ... notice how I'm combing your hair?"
Arlene turned to the mirror and nodded. "Just straight down ... it's hanging down around my shoulders ... you haven't started styling it yet."
Gene whipped a blue satin ribbon from his attache case with a flourish and said. "I'm finished." He tied the ribbon around her hair and fluffed it into a big ribbon on top. "My God," she exclaimed, "without makeup and my hair that way, I look like a 12-year-old kid."
Gene reached into the attache case again and said, "Now you're getting the picture." He pulled a pink gingham little girl smock out and held it out to her. "Try it on. This is the kind of clothes he loves to have his girl friends wear. And the shorter the dress the better, with full emphasis to the breasts and hips."
Arlene stood up, the towel dropped to the floor, forgotten, and confronted the little hairdresser angrily. "Whaddya mean? I can't go out to dinner with Big Joe Thompson dressed up like ... like ... Lolita ... for Chrissake!"
Gene smiled sweetly and closed the attache case. "Why don't you ask Big Joe about that, dearie?" He swished from the room with a limp wave of the wrist. "Don't forget the hundred sweetie, or I'll tell daddy you play games with the bellboys when he isn't around. Bye, bye."
He left in a cloud of his own perfume and she stood in the center of the exotic, mirrored room looking at the little girl smock she was evidently expected to be wearing when Big Joe Thompson arrived at eight. Just half an hour from now. Arlene sighed as she looked around the plush room.
She had dreamed all of her life about being a movie star and decided this would be a profitable opportunity to test her talents. She had seen a Ginger Rogers movie once in which Ginger played a 12-year-old. Well, she would regard this as dramatic training. With this rationale, she was happy. It was going to be a game-a pretend game.
Mike would be happy if she made Big Joe happy. And if she made Big Joe happy maybe she would be able to stay in Reno and live like this for a while. And buy some more clothes. When Big Joe knocked at the door at eight, she romped to answer it, wearing her little gingham smock and bloomers ... and not much else.
Swinging the door open, she squealed, "Daddy! I'm so glad you're here." She threw her arms around the big old man and pressed her lush body close to his. Big Joe Thompson was delighted.
He led Arlene to the big, soft black couch and motioned for her to sit on his knee. Snuggling up to him, she nibbled at his ear and smacked him on the face with childish, hot kisses as she wiggled her rounded, almost bare bottom on his lap.
Big Joe was transported off into his own dream world. His voice shook a bit as he told her, "Now, you're acting like a naughty little girl. You shouldn't wiggle that way on daddy's lap. He'll think you know more than a little girl should! Are you going to be daddy's good little girl?"
Arlene liked the feel of her bottom moving over his lap and it certainly gave him a thrill, she could tell that from his reactions. His breath became shorter, his hands moved over her more intimately and his eyes seemed glazed as he looked down at her. He patted her knees and ran his hand through her hair. His other hand roamed at will over her tight dress and even under it to her bloomers, showing slightly under the short dress.
Big Joe pulled up her smock and pulled down her bloomers before he placed her over his knee and spanked her pink bottom. "Daddy has to spank you first," he panted, "because you're a naughty girl to tease daddy like you do. But daddy will make you feel good after he spanks you. He will teach you new ways to have fun. You are too young to know them now, so daddy'll show you."
Arlene cried and begged "daddy" to stop, even though she enjoyed the spanking more and more with every slap of his hand. Daddy loved her crying and he spanked harder and harder until Arlene's tears of pain and sexual excitement were real. Then he stopped and pulled her to an upright position on his lap again, patting and stroking her all over as her sobs ceased.
Her eyes were still full of real tears and her pink bottom smarted as she looked up into his face and tried to smile. He kissed her full on the mouth, not as a man would do to a little girl, but as he would to a woman. Arlene looked surprised and pulled away from him slightly as a little girl would when a stranger tried to kiss and fondle her.
Softly she lisped into his ear, "I'm going to call you big daddy ... cause now I know why they call you Big Joe!" His old veined hands found her breasts and began massaging them sensually under the dress. She wore no bra so they stood out prooudly. His still virile body responded strongly to the erotic stimulation the little girl provided with her hands to his cock. His hands roamed everywhere eagerly until she was carried away by her own act.
She lay back on the couch, her dress nearly to her shoulders, her bloomers now off and on the floor beside Big Joe, fully exposed to his caresses. Her hands still sought intimate spots on his body.
Big Joe picked her up from the couch and carried her in his arms with the bull strength developed on the rock pile, and placed her spread out on the huge circular bed. He removed the rest of her clothes, noting the womanly upthrust breasts, the flat stomach and blonde hair spread over the pillow despite it being cut short.
"There's your little playpen, honey. Daddy's going to play a lot of games with you there. He's going to teach you some more games and he may spank you if you're not a good girl, so treat your daddy nice ... treat daddy nice.
"Yes, honey, it's all right for us to do this because I'm your daddy ... that's it ... oh, you're such a nice little girl ... daddy likes that so much, honey ... that's it ... do it again ... and let daddy play too. Be good to your daddy ... be good to him and he'll show you a good time ... that's daddy's good girl."
Already Big Joe's prick was semi-rigid as she fondled it beneath his stare. Then, gradually she lowered her mouth to his rising and falling stomach, and trailed a tongue moistly down toward the slightly throbbing cock. She heard him suck in his breath as she lifted it with a thumb and forefinger, so that it was standing straight up. Curiously she examined the red head of it, then slowly lowered her mouth, brushing her lips over the velvety tip. Big Joe gasped out his pleasure and rested a hand upon her blonde hair. At the same time he reached down and touched her wet cunt lips.
Thusly encouraged, Arlene now took the entire head of the suddenly stiff prick into her mouth, an inch at a time until she felt it practically touching the back of her throat. She bobbed her lips up and down the slickened shaft, and the same time gently pumped the base of the shaft with her hand.
Big Joe began writhing around, sobbing and moaning out his pleasure. She felt the hard cock give a jolt and a buck inside her mouth, and she knew that he was going to soon come.
She wasn't sure whether she wanted to take his cum in her mouth as she kept sucking on the tip, and as she sensed that his shooting was but seconds off, she began to lift her lips off of it in order to pump it with her hand.
But now Big Joe's hand clamped down upon her head, holding her mouth in place. Arlene had no choice. She shut her eyes and sucked vigorously, feeling the cock suddenly squirm in her mouth, then disgorge a thick, creamy glob onto her tongue.
Later, lying naked next to "daddy" on the bed, Arlene smiled in the dark room. Big Joe Thompson was asleep, snoring loudly with his mouth wide open. She thought he was a repulsive old man but she had liked everything this evening.
He gave her a real thrill when he spanked her. He gave her a thrill not even Mike had ever given her. Arlene contemplated a life of luxury in this luxurious suite in this glamorous, famous hotel where all the big movie producers gambled ... she even thought of picking up the telephone and asking that more clothes be sent up for her approval ... she sighed and stretched her nude body on the black satin bedspread and snuggled up to her "daddy."
He stirred slightly as she placed one hand on his naked chest and tweaked his nipples tenderly. Her lips caressed his stomach and when he came awake, his lips found hers and they kissed passionately, not like a 12-year-old girl and her daddy, but as a man and a woman.
She saw his rapid response and loved him for it. His eyes traveled over her slim body, noting the out thrust breasts with their pink tips, her flat belly, her long sexy legs that thrashed around as his lips and hands followed his eyes. Her thighs were moist, and little gurgling sounds came from her throat as he found tender spots.
But when the warm, moist length of his tongue had stabbed directly between the quivering lips of her delicious young cunt, her mind became filled only with the sensations his tongue was fanning all through her body.
She closed her thighs around his head, locking him into place, feeling that talented tongue of his, a talent honed by age and experience, flick crazily over her erect little clitoris, sending a shot of nearly agonizing pleasure all through her.
She screamed then, once sharply. It only made Big Joe go to work on her lush pussy in ernest savoring the creamy juice he was extracting from it as his tongue slowly drove her out of her mind.
Arlene was bucking and writhing on the bed now, thrusting her hips viciously up against his mouth.
He alternated the spearing plunge into her center by at the same time sucking the warm, wet lips there. Suddenly, though, he made a further adjustment in the pleasure he was giving her by driving a thumb deeply into her anus. She shrieked out her pleasure and began to feel wave after wave of ecstasy envelop her body.
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...." Arlene screamed, coming in copious amounts, her body quaking as he began sucking virtually the very insides out of her pussy.
She wouldn't forget that time dressed as a young girl, nor would he probably allow her to forget it. Arlene realized that each time they were to meet in the future in his or her bedroom, the game of love would be about the same pattern. She didn't mind and she was sure somewhere he would be generous for her actions.
Whispering in the dark to herself, Arlene said: "It just goes to show it pays to be a good girl."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sunday's game against Pittsburgh was a breeze for the Pros. Jack's observation that Jessup was still at or near the peak of his game was vindicated. Ron hit Pete with a 40-yard touchdown pass at the very start and from then on the Pros scored almost at will.
With their 42 to 7 victory the Pros were in-Western division champions. Next Sunday they would meet the Cleveland Lakers for the world title in Los Angeles.
Jessup's last regular season game was a memorable performance for the veteran quarterback who had seen many other games credited to Jim O'Flanagan when Jessup set up many of the touchdowns. In all, he passed for three touchdowns and kicked three respectable field goals of 27,33,39 yards each.
At the half, Ron was honored as Jack had predicted he would be, with the presentation of a new station wagon, a television set and a stereo. And veteran that he was of the pro football world, he was visibly touched by the presentations, and the words that were said about him as a man and as a football player.
The mayor of the city was there to make a speech about Ron, saying he exemplified the spirit of the American way of life and that so long as men like Ron were around, this country had nothing to fear from the Communists. A movie star presented him with a plaque purportedly from the citizens of Los Angeles and finally the hero himself said a few words into a microphone.
He spoke with the proper humilty and made the proper obeisances, winding up with a meaningful reference to his great friend, Hank Collins. "I won't be back next season, but I hope for all the Pros that Hank recovers and returns to lead this team again, for without his leadership I doubt if we would be here trying for another pro football championship," he said.
Ron had utilized his speaker's platform to launch a popular movement for Hank's return. He had informed Jack of his intention to do so and Jack approved, saying he would follow up with the minority viewpoint of the regular Pros writers.
The friendship bond between Jack Fisher and Ron Jessup had revived the idea of putting up money for Jack to buy the newspaper on a partnership basis. The idea seemed much more attractive to Jack now than it had been in Chicago a week previous.
Ron didn't know too much about newspaper work but he was still comparatively young and with the experience and know how that Jack could put into the operation, Ron figured both of them could do well financially. Even if he were but a "silent partner," Ron thought he could have a desk at the newspaper office, help with business matters, meet people and perhaps handle much of the paper work. He had studied business administration in college, too.
Perhaps in time he would meet someone, fall in love, settle down wherever the newspaper might be located and raise a family. He was sure such a future would be better all around than to stay in football either as a player or as a coach. More security for him seemed assured by investing in a going business than in tripping around the gridirons of the nation, never knowing from one season to the next whether his contract would be renewed.
Jack thought too of the future, seeing the buying of a newspaper a good security move, with Ron's help financially and the business training he had in college to help pull them through. For Ron knew whether he bought a going newspaper or started a new one, the first four or five years could be tough financially.
He visualized a weekly newspaper in a moderate sized town where both he and Ron could settle down, become community leaders and put out a newspaper worthy of them and the community. Jack had experience on weekly papers, starting out on one in the beginning of his career, and working on others during the 1930's depression.
Most of his job had been in the news end of it but he had dabbled in selling ads and had helped in gaining new readers. It would be a real challenge to both of them.
He had a couple of possibilities in mind for buying and had even talked informally with one of the owners, an elderly man who wanted to retire soon. The other was owned by the widow of a man who had started from scratch and built up a good business. She had had little real newspaper experience and was anxious to sell.
Both papers were in prosperous towns in central California, with apparently good futures. Jack hoped he could strike a good bargain with one of them before the end of the year.
And Jack too, hoped to find a lady who would like to settle down in a town not far from San Francisco but yet small enough to enjoy.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Meanwhile, as the bond between Jack and Jessup grew, so did the business partnership between Big Joe Thompson and Arlene. She didn't mind the odd-ball approach to sex. If it made him happy, why not let him have his kicks? It certainly was something new for her and in some ways she enjoyed them, for the variety if nothing else.
And when she wanted real bedroom satisfaction there was always Mike anxiously awaiting his turn. Mike really "turned" Arlene on with his sexual techniques, and even after a session with Big Joe, the buxom girl had no trouble getting worked up for a session with Mike. Just thinking about it gave her goose pumples. Knowing Mike would come to her bedroom for a bed session kept her from returning to Los Angeles to stay.
Right after the Pros victory Sunday, both she and Big Joe flew into Los Angeles where Mike met them at the airport. As a dividend for her favors to Big Joe bought her a mink stole which she had draped about her neck as the plane touched down.
"Things are looking up for you," remarked Mike, pleased that she had pleased his boss.
"Strictly a business arrangement," Arlene said with the air of a female executive. Big Joe nodded, but his eyes sparkled and he snaked one arm around Arlene's waist to hold her tight while he gave her a deep kiss. As the kiss continued his hand roamed a bit and when it touched her young breasts, Arlene shivered.
She managed to push him away while she readjusted her clothing.
"Not here, honey," she told Big Joe. "You'll get me all worked up and no place to go."
Big Joe smiled down at her, fingered the mink stole a bit and then took his hand off her bosom. It already had made him feel his male reaction and he too couldn't stand loving her like that and having to forget any consumation.
The three of them whipped across L.A. to the Sunset Strip and to Mike's place. Big Joe had come over to finalize Mike's plan for fixing the championship game between the Pros and Cleveland. He wanted to make sure there would be no slip up. Arlene bowed out of the meeting to run over to her apartment for a quick change of clothes while the two men plotted their course of action.
"Tomorrow night we take the kid out," explained Mike. "I've got it all set up. He's going to have a little love scene with Arlene at her apartment. The two thugs from Reno will jump Jim, smashing his hand. Then we'll convince Jessup to shave the points the right way." Mike went over the details a hundred times with Big Joe who seemed to be convinced.
"I'm going to supervise this job in person," Big Joe said. "Better not have any slip-up. My people don't like it. It won't be healthy for you, Mike. And, remember, if anything leaks out, you take the rap. If you talk, you're dead."
The two men continued to plot the "Kill" for almost an hour, to make sure every angle was covered. Mike was convinced it would work and he hoped Big Joe was also convinced. Somehow though, he had his doubts about his boss and so kept on talking.
Finally Big Joe changed the subject abruptly. "Mike, we've gone over this pro and con, backward and forward and even upside down. So there is no more we can say. If it works, we will both prosper. If it doesn't-well, you know your destiny. It won't be pleasant."
"I know, boss," Mike said quickly. "By the way, how did you and your date with Arlene go?"
"It was perfect, just perfect!"
"Did she go for your ideas?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, boss, you are a little different from others in how you like your sex. I wondered if she made any fuss. If she did I'll have a good talk with her and set her up straight on that."
"Oh, she cooperated very well-and seemed to enjoy it. We had our fun in the evening and again when we woke up in the morning. She either is a damned good actress or she really got wound up. She couldn't keep still in bed while we made love. But I calmed her down with some spanking before our sex and after that we got along just fine."
"She's a beautiful girl and I was sure you would like her."
"I do-and I hope to have her again soon. Perhaps tomorrow night if Jim doesn't tire her out too much. Which reminds me, have you told Jim about his date with Arlene?"
"Yes, he knows about it and he's just like a kid, looking forward to a sexy date with a beautiful girl. I would like to think she is looking forward to it too. Sometimes, though, Arlene is remote and even uncooperative with Jim. She seems to put on an act, which I guess is all right, if she can fool the quarterback."
"Let her do it her way," Big Joe said. "She knows what she's doing. Anyway, what if she doesn't get all heated up with him. As long as she plays it that way, it doesn't actually matter."
Arlene rejoined the two plotters then and the conversation ended between the two men about her.
"I want you especially sexy tomorrow night," Mike cautioned his concubine. "Remember, you've got to get the guy on the couch. You got to get him so excited he won't know which end is up. You know how to do that and he will follow your lead. So lead him on. Tell him anything or let him do anything he wants. With your sexy figure and perfume plus a few clothes, that should be easy.
"When he is all wound up and you are both in what is called a compromising position, the two guys hiding in the bathroom will sneak up on him and konk him good. The main idea is for them to crack a couple of fingers in his right hand. Make sure he's not holding your charms with it all the time. Understand?"
The three had a drink to the success of their plans and after Big Joe suggested he be alone with Arlene for the night, Mike left, surrendering his apartment to his boss and their playmate.
This time Big Joe allowed Arlene to undress to her panties and bra and then he carried her to the couch. Another Lolita love affair could wait until they were in his place in Reno where clothes befitting the occasion were available.
Arlene slowly removed her clothes, doing a kind of Burlesque striptease to music from the room's Hi-Fi that Big Joe had turned on. When he had deposited her on the couch, he quickly removed all but his shorts and cuddled her to him. He knew all the secret places to touch, kiss and fondle. Her breathing became uneven as his hands covered her pink nipples, tweaking each one and then kissing them as he removed the bra.
Her lips fastened to his and her hands moved slowly over his almost nude body and their tongues played games with each other until she pushed him away to arrange herself flat on the couch.
Big Joe needed no further urging. He removed his shorts and for a few moments stood over her reclining figure, admiring the young curves of her breasts, waist and throat. His hands clenched and unclenched as he watched her uneven breathing that made her breasts rise on her deep chest, stop for a moment then fall, still keeping their rounded shape and thrusting out as a young girl's bosom would.
As she looked up at him pleadingly, he lowered himself to his knees beside the couch, moved his hands slowly over her as he once again kissed her lips. Then he moved his lips slowly over her upper torso, acting like a baby as he sucked on her nipples. Her flat stomach and full young thighs next felt his moist lips before they fastened on her love gate.
He spread her satiny thighs even farther apart, gazing directly into her lush femininty, studying the pink, slick lips to her cunt.
Arlene felt mounting excitement as his mouth moved back to glue itself directly upon her little muff, and she felt the warmth of his breath against her sensitized sex lips. She squirmed excitedly, and he tentatively probed the opening to her tight little sheath, then plunged his tongue directly into it.
She moaned, feeling his tongue slip along the tight little passageway, noticing that his upper lip was not ignoring her budding clit, now fully erected for the stimulation his moving mouth could provide.
Her legs involuntarily clamped along the side of his head, and now he began to suck violently while moving his tongue back and forth inside the sex lips of her delectable little hole.
In and out moved his tongue, and Arlene moaned and screamed out her mounting lust as she began to spiral upward toward the chasm of climax.
He worked over her like an aging satyr, driving her up and out of her senses with his beguiling tongue, riding along her pussy and goading it to an unindurable excitement until the budding clit burst into nervous release.
"Oooooohhhhhh! Oohhhhh! Ooohhhhhhh-hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" Arlene screamed, thrashing her hips as he sucked the very daylights out of her right through her quim.
She felt him draining the juice right out of her body, and heard him gasp before finally, he slowly withdrew his mouth entirely.
Her eyes were glazed but happy and there was a slow big smile as he swung his head up to meet her lips with a moist kiss.
"That was wonderful, honey," she said. "God how I loved that!"
"You are a very beautiful girl, my dear. And we shall have many such moments together, I'm sure." Big Joe looked down at her a bit paternally as he noted her continued response to his attentions. Her eyes closed, as she relaxed even further and he let her sleep.
Big Joe's mind was still on the matters at hand, especially Jim O'Flanagan's scheduled loving with Arlene. Joe wondered a bit if he was getting jealous of the young fellow, of his abilities and endurance that could last and last.
He let Arlene's head fall back on the couch's big pillows and he put on his briefs and sat down beside her to watch her still nude body and to contemplate further love bouts with her.
Arlene, pretending a deep sleep, was scheming. She'd make Jim all right. And then that would be the strategic moment to hit up Big Joe and Mike for that Thunderbird. She could have laughed while Big Joe was using her body. What a jackass he was, she thought. How could he be getting such a big sexual kick out of what he was doing when she was not returning his caresses and kisses in kind?
"I'd like to go home now," Arlene said plaintively to Big Joe as she seemed to wake up from a nap. "You make me so tired-and so happy." Big Joe agreed a good night's sleep was in order. He reminded her of her respn-sibilities with O'Flanagan again and Arlene went home.
She slept the sleep of the innocent, waking in the afternoon with a start. The telephone was ringing. It was Jim.
"Darling," he said. "I've missed you. Mike explained you had to leave town to visit your sick mother. But I'm glad you are back. Mike said you were anxious to see me tonight."
"Oh," said Arlene, "Jim boy, I'm so glad you called. I missed you something terrible. I want you to come right over. No, not now. But this evening. Can you make it?"
"Can I make it? Darling," said Jim, "nothing could keep me away." He paused awkwardly. "Do you still love me?" he asked. Jim was afraid Arlene would hold that Chicago rough rape against him. He was genuinely ashamed of his animal behavior. But still he remembered how Arlene almost screamed as he brought her to a climax the first time they made love that night, and again a short time later. She didn't seem badly frightened after that, so maybe it was only his imagination.
"I love you with all my heart," giggled Arlene. She hung up, pleased with her performance. She fancied herself a good actress, and this coming scene would give her valuable experience. So that jerk got beat up a little. So what!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
About five in the afternoon, two tough looking men knocked on the door of Arlene's apartment. Arlene let them in, a little frightened by their appearance and manner. The muscular pair scarcely noticed her. They inspected the entire apartment for several minutes and then plopped down on the couch, eyeing the girl.
But there was something about the way they looked that made the shivers run up and down Arlene's back. They didn't seem interested in beauty, her body or sex. They just sat and said nothing. She almost ran to the bedroom to look in the mirror. She thought perhaps somehow she had made herself a witch instead of an attractive young girl.
"Won't either of you have a drink?" she asked after the silence began to grate her nerves.
In unison they shook their heads.
"Do you mind if I get ready for my date?" she asked, glad at the chance to get away into the bedroom.
"It's okay," said one of the men. "But we got to watch you, too. To make sure you don't take a powder!"
"You mean you're going to watch me while I'm getting dressed?"
Both men nodded in unison. Arlene became a little nervous. She almost wished these guys would show a little human emotion-maybe make a pass at her. A guy who couldn't get sexually aroused was a dangerous guy indeed, she thought. Well, maybe they would when she got nude and slipped into her panties and bra-or slipped out of them. She went into the bedroom and began to undress slowly, easing off each article of clothing as if she had all the time in the world to do it.
She would try all her teasing techniques. Reaching behind her back, she snagged the zipper on her dresss.
"Oh," she said petulantly, "I've got my zipper stuck. Would one of you two gentlemen please help me?" She looked out into the living room to see the reaction. The two men looked at each other a few seconds and then one of them came into the bedroom. The other merely sat quietly, hardly moving a muscle in his body or in his face. He might as well have been a mummy, she thought.
The man who did come to help her, mechanically pulled the zipper down the full length of its course, then stepped back to watch the girl again from a distance.
She tried walking around a bit, so her breasts would jiggle a bit and her hips would roll, giving accent to her full buttocks, flat stomach and long legs. She put one arm on her hip and struck a pose to emphasize her breasts. She put a hand to her head and turned at another angle to give them another view of her beauty.
The two men continued to stare at her, but neither made a move or a sound. She could tell they were interested for they didn't take their eyes off her for a moment. She also saw their eyes follow each movement of her body as she tried to dance around. She hoped these movements, however slight, would give them ideas. But to no avail.
"Oh well, what the hell," she said in disgust, "My date will appreciate me, I'm sure of that. He loves to see me naked, prancing around in front of him. And does it give him ideas! He can hardly keep his hot hands off me and we really 'go to town'. You fellows don't know what you're missing. I'll bet you're just a bunch of deadheads who never had a girl in your lives."
The two continued to stare but still made no move or showed any signs of appreciation of her performance.
Punctually, Jim arrived, with the traditional square gift of roses, two dozen of them. Arlene nearly grimaced when she saw them, but managed a sweet smile for her lover. What the hell were roses compared to mink and Thunderbirds!
"Jim," she shrilled, "you're so sweet to bring me roses-my favorite flowers." She placed them in a vase over the mantle. Jim kissed her politely. He was not going to let his feelings for her overwhelm him again as they had in Chicago when he gave way to lust.
Here was the girl who loved him and had even suggested they might get married some day. He wanted to love her like a wife should be loved-with respect, not animal-like hunger. Jim liked to set Arlene up on a pedestal as his ideal for a wife and sweetheart. He still had some old-fashioned ideas given him by his parents about how a man should treat women, especially one who would be his wife.
"Arlene, you look very beautiful tonight," he managed to stammer. He sat on the couch as Arlene sweept about the room, dancing to the music. "It was so nice of you to come here tonight," said the girl. "I'll bet you had a hard day at practice, too. Are you tired?"
"Not when I see you," replied Jim positively. "Every time I'm near you I feel like a new man! I thought we'd go out and have dinner tonight at some nice restaurant. How does that strike you?" Arlene would not hear of it.
"Sweetheart," she said softly, "I wouldn't think of it. Why, you are going to need every ounce of strength for those Cleveland players in the championship game Sunday. I want us to stay right here in my apartment and have a quiet evening at home. Just pretend it is your home, Jim." She kissed him quickly and squeezed his hand.
"Here," she said, "let me take off your shoes. I just want you to be comfortable as if you and I were old married folks." It was a good approach for the serious-minded athlete who had matrimonial intentions anyway. He thought perhaps here was a chance to broach the subject and see what her reaction was. He was afraid she might think they hadn't known each other long enough to get serious so early, but Jim thought he could kind of feel her out on matrimony.
He liked the idea of a quiet evening at home. Jim hoped it would be one in which they could become better acquainted through talk of things they liked and enjoyed. Jim was not adverse to sex and enjoyed it to the fullest with her the other night in Chicago. If that is what she wanted, he would too, and would do his best to please her.
"That's awfully sweet of you," he said.
"Think nothing of it. We're going to spend a lot of evenings in this way. Just you and I, aren't we?" Jim felt his pulse quicken as Arlene sat down beside him and snuggled up. He wanted to stay here in the apartment with her in the worst way, but he was afraid his will power would disintegrate again and he'd take advantage of this girl.
"Sure you don't want to go out?"
"Honest, honey, I just want to be here with you." She remembered those two grim men in the shower. She shuddered at what they might do if she let the victim get away. "Honey, kiss me," she said. Jim kissed her in a restrained manner. Arlene laughed sympathetically. "You're tired. I'll have to kiss you."
And she sat in his lap, wiggling her buttocks around sensuously and pressing her full breasts against his chest as she buried her lips in his. She held him that way for a long time and when she released him, she noticed a chink in his armor. He was starting to sweat a little and fidget with his collar.
"Silly boy," she chided, "don't be ashamed to kiss me. When you are in love, there's nothing wrong with it, is there?"
"Oh, Jim," she murmured. "Oh Jim." She tore herself free, flung herself face down on the bed. Jim was at her side in an instant.
"Do you think I am bad to act this way, Jim dearest?" she protested.
"No," said the powerless, sex-influenced youngster.
"Then," said Arlene eagerly, "let me take my clothes off for you."
Jim, the power of speech now weakened, merely nodded mutely. He devoured her nakedness with his eyes as she shed her garments slowly.
"Will you help me with my bra?" Arlene asked as she tood in front of him in only panties and bra, high stockings and shoes.
Jim bashfully nodded but seemed rooted to the bed by fear of something. He continued to stare at her, his tongue moistening his lips every few moments as he feasted his eyes on her naked loveliness.
"Well, come on then, honey. Don't be such a slowpoke! We do want to get in some real man and woman loving tonight before you tuck yourself in bed for the night. Come on, honey, help me with my bra. Then I can take off my panties by myself."
Jim rose stiffly from the bed and went around in back of Arlene to unhook the bra and pull it away from her breasts, their tips hardning a bit in the coolish night air. He reached around after the bra fell to the floor and squeezed them slightly to test their firmness.
Arlene shuddered a bit as his fingers moved slowly over the nipples, making them even more rigid and causing them to protrude slightly as she stood there admiring herself in the mirror. She felt his maleness touch her buttocks as he reached around and she wiggled her hips impishly. Her hot mouth covered his as she turned to face him and put her arms around his neck.
Arlene teased as she often did with her male friends. "I'm nude and ready for you," she said in his ear. But she made Jim abstain from any sexual moves while she went through an undulating king of a dance to further excite him.
She was exhilarated herself now. Not because of the quarterback, but because of the two men in the shower stall. They must be hearing all this, perhaps they have been watching. Arlene bet she was getting them shook now. Served them right. They had their chance and blew it.
"I want to dance for you, Jim," she entreated. She gracefully swept around the bed, doing suggestive things with her hips and pelvis while the bug-eyed Jim sweated in a panic of desire. Her breasts swung in big firm circles as she turned around in quick arcs, their pink tips seeming to reach out invitingly to him. Oh, he was ready! The moment Arlene laid down he would be swarming all over her, jack rabbit that he was when sexually aroused.
Gaily, confidently she danced by the bathroom and tapped on the shower stall. It was a signal the thugs inside didn't need. They sensed the hour was at hand-the brutal moment of truth for the suckered Pro's quarterback.
Arlene threw herself on the big wide bed, breasts thrust up by their firmness, their tips hardened. Her flat stomach flattened out even more. Her thighs seemed to have a slight misty look to them as if sweat had glistened them. Her thighs were close together as she first laid down, but now they swung apart slightly as she looked up at him with what he took to be a look of love in her eyes.
Jim had never felt so sexually aroused as he was now. And when Arlene whispered: "Oh, Jim, take me," he became insane with the repression built up by Arlene's teasing.
With a complete lack of aplomb, Jim inserted himself between her misty thighs, pressing his massive organ abruptly against the delicate portal of her femininity.
He squirmed it past the outer lips into the entranceway to her sex, then further still. Suddenly, all traces of reticence gone, he skewered and humped it into her, sending it shuddering up her tight little sheath, spreading wide the sex lips as she hoisted her legs around his frenzied hips.
Almost instantly he began gasping, and she sensed that once more it was going to be a rabbit affair. His nails dug deeply into her shoulders as he pressed down against her, and she had to bite her lip to prevent herself from screaming out in pain.
He was thudding and skewering deeply into her, his hips working feverishly against her widespread crotch.
She heard his breathing suddenly quicken, and then she felt a tensing in his balls as they thumped against her anus each time he banged against her.
"Ohhhh! Ohhhh! Arlene ... I'm ... cominggggggggggggg!" he suddenly gasped, and she felt a hot, searing bathing of the pussy walls, as his cock pumped and spurted out the load that he had been saving up for her.
It was the signal for the goons.
They softly stole up behind the couple engaged in violent lovemaking, their nude bodies twisted together and their mouths fastened on each other, their legs tossing around in lust. They momentarily hesitated-like a bullfighter before he send his sword into the heart of the beaten beast.
Arlene could see them, but Jim's eyes were looking downward to her naked body, not upward. Besides, the two lovers were dizzy with passion and their eyes were mostly closed as they moved in the age old ebbing of love. Even Arlene was feeling the heat and maleness of Jim's body so she responded slightly to his stimulations. Some of the moans of passion she emitted had been quite real.
Arlene saw the first blow coming. Her cry of alarm timed just right, came too late for Jim to avoid the blow.
One of the thugs, with a sock full of lead pellets, swung hard at Jim's head, the metal crunching audibly on his skull. The treacherous strike stunned the athlete, but did not knock him out. After all, he had taken his share of lumps in the pro football business where mayhem is one of the basic tactics.
Jim had no idea of what had happened. There was Arlene staring into his eyes, her eyes wide and devoid of love or sex. She was looking past him. There was someone behind him. Jim's extraordinary reflexes now took over. He was being attacked. His reactions were instinctive and unerring.
The skilled athlete replaced the surprised lover. He was more in his element here than being led by the nose by a pretty girl in bed. A lightning maneuver and he was four feet from the bed, on his feet, quite naked, but a warrior armed for battle nevertheless.
The two muggers were caught flat-footed. They stood, momentarily regarding the powerfully built young man, then they advanced. One flicked a switchblade, the other aimed his lead sack at Jim's face. Jim ducked the blackjack and went for the knife wielder.
He caught the man's arm, wrenched it, heard a snap and saw the goon collapse in a heap. It was all over for the goon in an instant. He lay moaning, his arm shattered by Jim's assault. Jim paid no more attention to him, but turned to goon number two.
The second thug, seeing the battle turn against him, now flung down his blackjack and pulled a snub-nosed revolver from his pocket. He fired once. The bullet tore into the wall. Instantly Jim had his man by the throat, his mighty fingers cracking into the goon's voice box. He was going to choke the bastard to death.
Tighter went his fingers until he noticed the bulging eyes, the purple color blotching his face. Then Jim became conscious of a rain of ineffectual blows on his neck and shoulders. It was Arlene-now frantic and fearful at this unexpected turn of events.
Jim heard her voice getting through to him as from a great distance. Finally he made out the words.
"Don't kill him, you murderer, don't kill him."
Jim turned and looked at the girl, his hand still throttling the goon.
"Why not?" he asked dazedly.
"Because, because," sobbed the hysterical hussy, "He's my husband." Jim relaxed his hands. The thug slid to the bed, groaning and clutching his mangled throat.
"Your husband!" he repeated in bewilderment.
"Yes, you damned square, my husband! I ought to call the police, you bastard!" Arlene hated the quarterback now with all the pent-up fury of what this failure implied. God, what would Mike say. What would Big Joe do? These fellows played for keeps. Arlene was almost hysterical with fear and hate.
"You dirty sonofabitch," she cried at Jim, "you sonofabitch, you've ruined everything!"
Jim shook his head in disbelief. His simple little world had been kicked in the groin. His comprehension staggered. All he knew was that the girl he loved had betrayed him. That she was little better than a whore.
He raised his hand and slapped her pretty little face. Then he looked at the hand as if it were some strange weapon he had no control over. It was his right hand, the hand the goons were to destroy.
Arlene shivered with the impact, then ran cyring, screaming for her life into the shower, slamming the glass door behind her. Jim followed her. He could see her quivering, nude body faintly through the frosted glass.
With one instinctive desire to vent his sickened anger, he doubled his fist .and sent it crashing through the glass. He was conscious then only of it bleeding and feeling numb. But that didn't matter or hurt. Slowly, the blood dripping on the white rug, he dressed. The two goons lay moaning. From the shower came the fearful sobs of the cowering temptress. Like a man in shock, Jim fully dressed, walked out of the apartment.
CHAPTER TWENTY
With one hand Jim drove aimlessly for a long while, not knowing what to do or where to turn. Then he remembered Jessup's advice. Jack Fisher was a guy to trust. Not quite realizing how he did it, he suddenly found himself knocking on Jack's door. The aghast reporter took one look at the youngster's bloody hand and rushed him around the corner to a neighborhood medico.
"Doctor," Jack inquired urgently, after sending Jim home in a cab. "I didn't want to ask you in front of the boy, but how serious is his injury? The boy's a football player, a passer. Will this injury have a permanent affect on his ability to throw a football?"
"Oh," replied the doctor knowingly. "Well, that kid won't throw a football for months. Those two thumb muscles, which are completely lacerated, will have to be stitched together. Sometimes the healing isn't as good as it should be, full movement may be affected.
"Then too, I suspect his radial nerve was also severed. This also affects such things as grip sensation. I don't know when he'll, have a good hand again. Maybe six months, maybe less, maybe more."
Jack pondered a moment. "Do you think there is a chance the hand may be permanently damaged-damaged to the extent he may never be able to handle a football again?"
"Definitely," said the doctor. "But don't get me wrong. My examination was not too thorough. And surgery may make the hand sound again. Modern medicine has accomplished some wondrous things, you know. However, it's safe to say his future is very much in doubt."
"That's all I wanted to know. Thank you, doctor."
Jack swiftly broke the story of the accident in his newspaper and awaited the inevitable results. It was a hell of a blow to the young football star, but it meant a new lease on life for Old Ron Jessup and Hank Collins-who would now have to be recalled to service by the Morgan-Henderson-Jackson junta. These events followed swiftly and dramatically in the new days before the championship game. In the meantime, the dream situation of the gamblers had arrived. The Pros were now a one-quarterback club.
The fact that the Los Angeles team was a one-quarterback team was, of course, quite a windfall for Mike and Big Joe Thompson. Their plan to ruin Jim O'Flanagan's hand had misfired badly. But the kid took care of that himself when he cut his throwing arm to ribbons on Arlene's shower door.
What anxious moments Mike and Big Joe put in before Jack Fisher broke the story in the newspaper were full of sound and fury and of many threats. The two goons were sent packing back to Reno where the syndicate had its own way of dealing with contract men who failed.
Arlene was roughed up by the enraged Mike who somehow blamed her for the bungled job.
And Big Joe Thompson was about to tie the sack on Mike when the good news broke. Quickly then, the conspirators closed ranks again, thanking their lucky stars, and set the machinery in motion for bribing Ron Jessup.
Even Arlene, after the roughing up Mike gave her, thought she might be back in the saddle again with Mike and Big Joe. She even looked forward to her out-of-this world sessions with Big Joe. If nothing else it was a new crinkle in her repertoire of sexy antics. She had not enjoyed the first session as a young girl dressed up, but the more she thought of it, the more she looked forward to a new sex session with the older man.
She had kept the clothes the hair dresser had given her and had even gone to Rita's shop in the Reno hotel to get some new clothes she thought would please the big boss. Rita was very helpful and seemed so anxious to please Arlene. In fact, Arlene suspected the older woman made a specialty of such deals with Big Joe.
The shop displayed the usual women's clothes, fashions, shoes, neckwear, jewelry and the like. But in a back room where Rita took Arlene to try on the new little girl clothes, Arlene saw what seemed like a hundred or more such clothes, shoes, sox, bathing suits, sun suits, robes, underwear and the like.
She could hardly believe her eyes and looked questioningly at the proprietor. Rita, a big raw-boned woman with short hair and a mannish figure, explained Big Joe was always bringing in someone new and he tried to have them wear different clothes when he could. If they did as he wished and played to his desires, they kept the clothing-and Arlene guessed most of the girls did.
She fingered some of the material as Rita looked on approvingly, and noted it was of the finest and the workmanship was good. Cost of the items altogether could run up into thousands of dollars. Quite an investment for one man's odd ideas on sex, Arlene thought.
"Would you like to try some of these clothes on?" Rita asked as she noted Arlene's full figure, long legs and pretty face. "You can alter them to fit where necessary, but we probably have just what you need anyway. Come on back, I'll help you."
Arlene hesitated for there was something about the way Rita looked at her full body that made her blush. Arlene was no novice to the love between women but she didn't particularly enjoy it, taking part usually only when the price was right.
Rita looked her over thoroughly, seeming to measure with her eyes the sizes Arlene might need in a dress, panties, bra, stockings, or sox, shoes and even a small ribboned hat that Rita thought would make this pretty sexy girl even cuter for Big Joe.
Arlene had gone to Reno after the incident with the two goons to visit this store and to clear up a few personal problems. She was going to return by plane that night to Los Angeles.
"All right," she said as she followed Rita to the rear of the store where more little girl's of precedent for point control, perhaps some of it honest, perhaps some of it dishonest. He didn't know. But then, if he went along who would ever know? Who could ever know?
"What," said Ron, "if you gave me the money and things don't turn out right?"
"Please, Ron, please don't lets talk about unpleasant things. We've spoken together man-to-man and on a very friendly basis. Let's keep it friendly. If you say you'll deliver, that's good enough for us. We know you. We have confidence in your word."
But Ron was persistent for still deep in his mind there was a big moral question, not to mention the hunch if things didn't go as they should the "we" Mike had mentioned would be rough on him, with perhaps a big roughing up such as Jim received. Or worse.
Ron was no fool. He knew how the gambling trade treated people who welched on them, or didn't do as they were told, after agreeing to follow orders. Whether by accident or on purpose, it made no difference to the gambling mob.
Still, Ron reasoned, it was a gamble for him too. Whether the score was as the gamblers wished or if he followed his conscience and upped the score a point or two, if he could.
Taking another tack in his efforts to decide Ron asked: "What if I take the money and report this to the FBI?" non-committedly. Mike had gotten over the first part without much trouble. Ron was going to listen anyhow. Maybe the veteran quarterback would back down or say "no" at the beginning, but at least he was interested enough to listen. Mike figured Ron was a man who would finish what he started, so if he agreed there would be no backing down.
"With that money you can get a lot of pretty things. Football has been good to you, Ron, but it's a pretty cold world without a Pros' football uniform on your back and a stack of daily press clippings to keep you big around town. Know what I mean?"
"I've given it some thought," said Ron.
"Now, that was an awful thing to happen to young Jim O'Flanagan. Tough." Mike said, shaking his head with phony grief, "But not tough enough for everyone-not tough for you, for instance." He paused, licking his lips nervously before continuing.
"As I said, if anything I say here offends you, just get right out and leave. It'll be strictly between you and me. That'll be the end of it."
Mike took a deep breath, glanced at Ron a moment without speaking and then launched into his and Big Joe's ideas on handling the coming championship game.
"Here's the way we have it sized up," he said. "The Pros are three point favorites over the Cleveland Lakers. That's the way the line opened up, and that's the way it's staying. I might add, that's a pretty big tribute to you. Even after the kid clobbers his hand, the points don't take a dive."
Ron nodded but made no comment. He continued to look at Mike with surprise and a little indignation, although he tried not to show it. He thought there was no harm in hearing Mike's proposition. Whether he agreed to the idea or not might depend on what it was. Ron was no kid just out of college; he had been knocked around through years of high school, college and pro football. He had the future to think of and his mind was still wound around the idea of helping Jack Fisher buy a newspaper. Twenty-five thousand could sure help in that.
"The odds makers believe in you, Ron," Mike continued. "So do we. That twenty-five thousand in fives, tens and twenties in good U.S. currency, unmarked, is yours for just a little cooperation. Don't talk-I know what you're thinking." Ron hadn't opened his mouth, but Mike feared he would protest and perhaps even strike him for even suggesting such a thing.
"You think we want you to blow the game. Ron, we know you too well for anything like that. We're not asking that. As a Pros fan, I wouldn't do anything like that. But what we are asking is pretty difficult. It could only be done by someone like you-a great quarterback who will run the team through four quarters, a great athlete who can use two tools to tailor the job.
"Ron, you aren't called the 'arm and the toe' for nothing. That's why we came to you, we know you can do the job. All we are asking for is a good, sharp, honest point control. We want the Pros to win, but we don't want them to win by more than two points."
Ron heaved a sigh of relief. About all he thought of when Mike first started talking was that Mike wanted the Pros to lose. And Ron would never be a party to that. Mike noted Ron's reaction and smiled to himself, thinking he had it wrapped up.
"Look, Ron," Mike said, "please believe me. I don't like this any more than you do. But there may be a couple of million bucks involved. I'm asking you to put yourself in my place. I got to ask you. And what's so damned dishonest about it? What the hell do you think this game is all about, anyway? The improvement of character?"
He gazed at Ron steadily, trying to penetrate the quarterback's thinking and hoping he would see it Mike's way. He felt sure with all the money involved Ron would go for it, even if reluctantly at first.
Ron kept silent while Mike talked but his eyes flashed angrily when the proposition was made. To think this cheapskate would cheat and would want Ron to cheat. Oh, the money was fine and the twenty-five thousand bucks Mike proposed would certainly help. But Ron had never cheated in his life.
"What's so damned dishonest about it," Mike protested. Doesn't your coach do that sometimes, when he's ahead? You've been around. You know that dollars make pro football, not sentiment. What the hell do you think Morgan cares about you personally?"
"You got to throw that big pass, win that key game-then the turnstiles click. It's money, money, that's what Morgan and his crowd want. The money clinking down on the counter. To them it is not a sport but a way to make money. That's all, and you know it, Ron. So do I. So what's the harm in what I'm asking?" He was like an impassioned lawyer delivering a trial summation.
"We're not asking you to throw the game. We're just asking for point control. I don't think there's anything very dishonest in that. Hell, the public would never know the difference. You'd be a hero, more than ever because of the close win. Twenty-five thousand bucks, Ron. Yours for the asking.
"That's a lot of dough," he said, adding, "and remember, it's tax free, too!"
"What," asked Ron, "happens if the Pros lose? I mean this 'we' you talk about. Do they still make their couple million?"
Mike laughed self-consciously. "For them," he said, "it's just as good. But for us, Ron, you and me, we don't want that to happen, do we? Ron, I'll be out there at the game leading the cheers for the Pros. I'd die if we don't win it. You know me better than to think I'd want the Pros to lose."
"In other words, this is it. The money is mine if the Pros win by a margin no more than two points, or if they lose outright, is that right?" Mike nodded.
"It's all yours, Ron boy, if you go along with us. And remember, it's not really a fix. It's not even actually dishonest."
"And another thing, Ron," Mike continued. "Just so you won't get Boy Scout ideas about this proposition. Do you know who bets on the games? Your boss, Morgan gets big chunks down, never against the Pros, understand. But he's never lost yet on the point spreads.
"I mean, that if the Pros are favored to win by 10 points, boy then they win by ten. How does he do it? You ought to know. Morgan gets his message across to the coach. Maybe that's another reason why he wanted Jess in there instead of Collins.
"Jess Henderson will play the team to beat the points you know, keep going for a bigger score even when the game's in the bag. What the hell do you call that? Isn't that as dishonest as what we're asking you to do?"
The two men were rather cramped in the car's front seat. They shifted about to gain a more comfortable position. No one had driven by them nor was there any other sign of life nearby. The darkness seemed to hem them in and make their talk seem even more private than it was. Ron was glad they had not been interrupted. He understood even more now why Mike had picked out this spot.
Mike shifted his gaze to the outside for a moment as he paused momentarily to catch his breath. He couldn't figure out why Ron was so silent and acting so quietly if he resented this proposition. It gave Mike added assurance that the big lunkhead would agree.
"Morgan isn't any dummy," Mike went on. "He gets down when he likes the points. Of course he never places the bets himself. But we know who his agents are. It's pretty funny. There's no nobility in this game, Ron. It's all for money, all the way down the line. You know it. I know it. So why kid ourselves?"
Ron didn't answer Mike at once.
Twenty-five grand would be money for Jack's newspaper, their newspaper, he thought. No one had ever approached him on a deal just like this in his ten years of pro football. Oh, he had been offered larger sums for throwing a game, but not shaving points, as Mike had called it. And there was a difference.
Besides, Mike was not entirely inaccurate in claiming some coaches manipulated points. They play certain men and at certain times, usually to hold down a score. He himself had sat on the bench while some inept rookie took over after the Pros had run up a commanding lead. Maybe this mysterious "we" group Mike mentioned so guardedly had gotten to some coaches in the past.
Ron admitted to himself there was plenty of precedent for point control, perhaps some of it honest, perhaps some of it dishonest. He didn't know. But then, if he went along who would ever know? Who could ever know?
"What," said Ron, "if you gave me the money and things don't turn out right?"
"Please, Ron, please don't lets talk about unpleasant things. We've spoken together man-to-man and on a very friendly basis. Let's keep it friendly. If you say you'll deliver, that's good enough for us. We know you. We have confidence in your word."
But Ron was persistent for still deep in his mind there was a big moral question, not to mention the hunch if things didn't go as they should the "we" Mike had mentioned would be rough on him, with perhaps a big roughing up such as Jim received. Or worse.
Ron was no fool. He knew how the gambling trade treated people who welched on them, or didn't do as they were told, after agreeing to follow orders. Whether by accident or on purpose, it made no difference to the gambling mob.
Still, Ron reasoned, it was a gamble for him too. Whether the score was as the gamblers wished or if he followed his conscience and upped the score a point or two, if he could.
Taking another tack in his efforts to decide Ron asked: "What if I take the money and report this to the FBI?"
Mike winced. "In the first place, Ron, you wouldn't do that. You are too smart. In the second place, we're covered, believe me. You'd come out second best. There's no proof anywhere. Let me tell you, Ron, we got every angle covered.
"We like you, Ron, and we wouldn't do anything to you. Just believe me, we're covered. You couldn't make anything stick in court and, Ron, you might never get to court. These people play for keeps-but they're honest, they're fair. You keep the bargain-you keep the money."
"What," said Ron, "if I try like hell and we win by more than two points?"
"None of our boys are going to believe that, Ron."
"So, if I take the money, I've got to deliver. No backing out?"
"No backing out," said Mike.
"How will I get the money?"
Mike reached over and placed his hand reassuringly on Ron's big shoulder, smiling indulgently, knowingly.
"You have the money already, Ron," he said. "I told you these people are thorough. They don't make mistakes. The money, in fives, tens and twenties, is in your apartment in your shirt drawer right now. Ifs in a brand new attache case."
"Planted while I'm sitting here with you?"
"That's right, Ron. And there's one more thing. These fellows know all about you, those support payments to your parents, and they know how much alimony you shell out, they know how much, or shall I say how little dough you have in the bank. In short, Ron, they know you can use the money."
"Pretty good scouting job on me," grunted Jessup. "Is it a deal then?"
"Well, let's put it this way, I'll try to bring the Pros in under the three-point wire."
"It's a deal then, Ron. Your word is good enough for me. We're going all out on this game because we believe in you."
"You guys are real gamblers," replied Ron. He got out of Mike's car and stood near the window for a few parting words.
"I won't be seeing you again-that is until after the game," Mike said cheerfully.
"Right," replied Ron as he walked away in a puzzled mood. He was amazed at how thorough the gamblers had been although he should have known from Mike's talk and actions-like driving out of town so far-that something was happening.
As he drove back toward town alone his thoughts turned to his former wife, wondering if she were still around Los Angeles. They had been married about six years when she suddenly decided she wanted a divorce, charging mental cruelty. Actually she resented his being away so much and leaving her alone, or so she said.
He suspected perhaps there was another man, but he couldn't prove it and didn't press the issue. He hadn't heard that she remarried so perhaps she had returned to her old job in the office. She had been a top-notch stenographer and should have had no trouble in locating a well-paying job. Perhaps after the game he would look her up.
The alimony he paid to her each month wasn't so much for him to put out and he didn't mind that even if she had a good job. He and she just never seemed to adjust to him being away so much. She did travel with him for a couple of seasons but it was expensive.
He would look her up the first thing next week.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Big Joe Thompson had other things on his mind besides the upcoming championship game with the Lakers-and one of them was Arlene Wright, the girl who pleased him so much with that little girl act in his Reno apartment. He wondered if she were-in Los Angeles. Maybe they could get together after the game for some more fun and frolic.
Dialing her apartment number, Big Joe was a little surprised to hear a sleepy feminine voice answer. Perhaps she had been out on a date and was sleeping late, Joe thought to himself.
"This is Big Joe, honey," he said. "Remember me?"
"Oh hi, big daddy," she said. "I'm so sleepy I can hardly talk plainly-and I think I'm a little woozy from drinking, too."
"That's all right, my dear," Joe said as if he were talking to a child. "How about my coming over, or better yet, you coming over here this evening?"
"Oh....oh but my head hurts," the voice said. "Don't know if I'll be alive by that time if this keeps up. Why not call me back later? After I've had some coffee and toast I'll feel much better-I hope."
"Never mind all that, my girl," Big Joe said. "Hold on for a few minutes and I'll pick you up and we can have dinner together at some cozy place and come here afterward, if you would like."
"I couldn't possibly eat a big dinner now," Arlene said a little incoherently as she struggled to make words come out right. "I might have some orange juice, coffee and toast but I don't think I could hold down any more than that."
"I know just what you need," Big Joe said mischievously.
"Oh, daddy, let's not think of that right now. I've got to wake up first. That character I was out with last night really tied one on and insisted I do the same. I poured him out at his apartment about 3 o'clock this morning and went home by myself." She almost shouted, "Hey, it's 9 o'clock ... honey that's the middle of the night for me!"
"Oh come on, my girl." Big Joe soothingly tried to tell her he would see to it she woke up in bed, thought better of it and just let her ramble on while she tried to wake up.
They finally agreed to meet at a small restaurant near his apartment in an hour. She wasn't sure when he hung up the phone if he wanted her to put on the act she had before or not. She decided just to be on the safe side, she'd put the little girl clothes in her bag. They were so skimpy they fitted in easily.
Big Joe busied himself getting ready for his date, putting on his better clothes for he wanted to look his best, and straightening up the apartment. He even brought a child's bed and put it beside his own, laid out sheets and pillows and pillowcases, all ready for use.
Some child's candy and some pop were placed around the bedroom, and he laid out a sheer pink nightie on the unmade child's bed. He looked at it with satisfaction as his eyes roamed over every detail. He hoped it looked like a child's bedroom. A screen was placed around his portion of the room to hide his bed.
Big Joe was right on the dot at the restaurant entrance when Arlene, cutely decked out in the best fashions for women, drove up in a taxi. They kissed as she took his arm and went inside. Her fragrance was exciting, womanly and stimulating.
After small conversation over a light lunch, which Arlene seemed to enjoy despite her heavy-lidded eyes from lack of sleep, Big Joe leaned back in his chair to study his beautiful companion.
"Are you going to go back to Reno?" he asked.
"Well, not right now," me answered, running her fingers through her hair as he continued to stare at her body. The lifting of her arm brought out her rounded breasts against her tight dress.
"You see I am kind of tied up personally here, and this has been my home for several years. My friends are here-including you honey. I liked it in Reno, and if finances made it possible I might go there."
"What would you say if I set you up in an apartment in Reno, with the clothes you need, an expense account at the stores, a maid, and maybe that Thunderbird you wanted," Big Joe asked quietly.
Arlene looked at him in surprise. She had been propositioned many times and in many ways, but this was the first time it had been done in a public restaurant. She glanced around to see if anyone was watching or listening, but everyone else there seemed only interested in their companions or themselves.
"I'll think it over," she told him non-committally.
They left the restaurant by taxi for his apartment a few minutes later to find some happiness in each other's arms. Arlene didn't tell Big Joe about the little girl clothes she brought, nor did he tell her of the nightie and child's bed he had arranged for her.
So when she walked into his bedroom to freshen up, he followed close behind and as she stood looking at the bed and nightie, he came up behind her, put his arms around her waist and whispered:
"How does my little girl like that?"
"Oh, daddy, that's cute," she shrilled happily, trying to act as a little girl would with a new nightie and bed.
"Well, it's just for you and when we move to Reno you can take them with you-just for us. How's that?"
"I just love it," she said as she picked up the short nightie and held it up to her. It barely went below her hips and there were no panties to go with it.
"Can I try it on now?" she asked innocently but eagerly as she looked up into his eyes with a shy smile.
"Oh, it's too early for you to go to bed, dear child. You want to stay up a while and talk to your daddy, don't you?"
"Yes," she said shyly. "Just a minute and I'll put on my more comfortable clothes and I'll come out and sit on your lap. Wouldn't you like that, daddy?"
"You just go ahead and do that, honey," Big Joe said impatiently as he watched her struggle a bit with her tight dress. His hand just itched to lend her a helping hand, to run his hands over her body and especially her hips and breasts. But he held back and went out of the room to wait.
She drew the pretty nightie over her head and smoothed it down as best she could to cover the hip area. The tops of her breasts looked like half moons in the deep V, but when she tried to close the gap she found the gown too tight. As she looked down at herself to the waist she saw her full hips filled every inch in the flaring bottom of the nightie.
Arlene blushed a bit as she thought how she would look to Big Joe when he saw her standing by the bed waiting for him to take her on his lap. Maybe he would have a story to tell her innocent ears, or perhaps he would find some excuse to spank her.
She rather liked that spanking in Reno and hoped it would happen again. Her buttock cheeks burned for days after that, giving her a sexy glow.
She arranged herself in a stiff standing position by the big bed, as a child might while waiting for her father to come in and say good night. A bit apprehensive about what he would do but eager to give him a good night kiss before he tucked her in.
"Daddy," she called softly.
"I'm ready for bed and for your kiss," she said as he seemed to tease her by pretending not to hear her in the next room.
Arlene put her hands behind her back, thrusting out her chest and waited, her eyes looking at the floor and even a faint blush touching her cheeks.
Big Joe came slowly into the room, seeing her for the first time out-lined against a lamp near the bed. Her graceful figure looked almost naked as the sheer nightie not only barely covered her curvaceous figure, but its sheerness was such that you could look through to her full breasts, womanly hips and the juncture of her full thighs with her cunt out-lined beneath.
He held out his arms to her as he entered, murmuring something about how he liked her new nightie on her. After a deep kiss that stirred things up for both of them, her breasts straining against his chest, and their tongues sparring greedily, she stepped away.
"You are beautiful, my dear," he said, gazing up and down her figure as she turned this way and that to give him a complete view.
"Oh daddy, it is so pretty," Arlene said, "but honey, you can see right through it and it is so short, you can see almost everything on me. I wouldn't dare wear it for anyone but you!"
"Well, you just keep it for me, my dear," he said. "It will be our fun gown and only we will see it."
He glanced down at her hips and legs. He strode over to her and pulled the nightie up, noting she had on no panties. He spanked her behind as she stood there mute.
"Shame on you," he glared at her. "No panties and a big girl like you going around without anything covering you there," he said pointing to her hips. "Come here!"
Arlene recoiled at the coldness in his voice and held back.
He strode across to the bed but before he could reach her, she quickly ran to the other side of the bed. Her breasts heaved as she fought to keep control of her emotions and almost escaped her nightie. She managed to keep them inside the bodice with one hand as she tried to push a chair out of the way to get out of Big Joe's reach.
Big Joe, even at his age, was pretty agile. He kept between her and any escape route. It was only a matter of time before he grabbed her hand and pulled her toward him.
As he sat on an overstuffed chair, he pulled her down across his knees, raised the nightie to display her buttocks and with no wasted motion, slapped the first spank down on her bare bottom.
She kicked her legs wildly and tried to get away but his other arm around her breasts held her firmly. The stimulation of the spanks and his hand on her breasts was enough to quiet her motions, but these changed to moans as the spanking and stimulation continued.
When she started to cry-real tears, too-Big Joe let her up to sit on his lap. His hands continued to wander over her lush body. Her moans of delight were barely audible and she sought his lips to stifle the sounds. Their passionate kiss ended with both of them out of breath and clinging to each other.
"Arlene, my dear, you are a naughty girl to kiss a man like that," Big Joe said like a father would to his daughter when he caught her kissing a strange man.
Arlene mumbled something incoherently as she fumbled with his clothes and found his cock. His response was immediate as he jerked upright from the contact. His cock for a man his age surprised the lovely girl as she fondled him. She loved to feel the power of it expand. His eyes closed for a few moments and once again their lips met.
His hands in the meantime kept up a constant caress of her body, particularly on the breasts, nipples and tummy. His lips bent to do homage to her nipples and she lifted her nightie so he could reach them easier. His teeth nibbled and sent an electric thrill through her entire being such as she hadn't felt in years and years. She clung to him like a child, kissing his lips and ears in ecstasy before the final climax hit them both simultaneously as they brought each other to orgasm by hand.
For a few moments he lay back against the chair's back and she relaxed on his lap in a sitting position. Her nightie had crept up to her waist, revealing the lovely womanhood at her thighs and the full breasts that peeked partly through the deep V at her neck, and partly under the folds of the nightie.
"God, honey, that was wonderful," Big Joe said as he kissed her full on the lips.
"Me too," she said quietly, her eyes shining and her body still reacting to the tense love-making they had gone through. She snuggled up to him coquetishly as she asked: "You liked that, daddy?"
"Here," he told her, "You'd better get down before things begin over again for you. I've got to rest awhile. She smiled as she got down off his lap, smoothed down the nightie and then turned her back on him as she removed it. He watched silently as she turned back to him, stark naked and still trembling from the climax. Her exquisite breasts rose and fell quickly, her hands cupped her breasts and then patted her thighs and tummy.
But her teasing was not enough for him, and seeing he was still not ready for another love bout, Arlene turned away and started to dress. Her womanly clothes were tossed around the room a bit as she had been in a hurry to make hot love, so she did some walking naked to pick up each item. Her out-thrust breasts hung delightfully as she bent over to pick something off a chair or the floor.
Big Joe noted how they stood firm when she came back to a standing position, with just the hint of a bounce to them as they settled back in place high on her chest.
She had some trouble fastening the tight bra around the mounds and Big Joe got up to help. His hands caressed the distended nipples slightly as he helped her cover them with the lacy bra and then he fastened them in back without much trouble.
He turned her head for a deep kiss as he finished the job and she pouted: "Oh, daddy, don't do that again. We're not ready. Mmmmm let's keep that for another date with your little girl. Mmmmmmmmm....please Big Daddy....not now....not now....please....."
So with a final deep probe of her mouth with his hot tongue, he released her reluctantly and she finished dressing without help. He lit a cigarette and when she was finished he ordered a cab and she left. Big Joe had other problems . ... the Sunday football game included.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ron's planned tactics for the championship game never once encompassed the idea of a defeat. If the Pros were thumped solidly by the undoubtedly good Cleveland club, then Ron's conscience would be clear.
He could even perform at his best in such a contest and in good conscience pocket the twenty-five thousand. But the idea of losing came hard to the veteran quarterback, and he dismissed it as un-likely.
As Ron saw it, the game might well be controlled to a three-point margin because of the double weapon he combined, the arm and the toe, the forward pass, the three-point field goal and the extra point or points he might kick.
Ron thought he could employ either weapon as he chose-with Collins once again the head coach. Ron would be given complete freedom of play choice. Henderson would not have permitted this, following the widespread custom in pro football of shuttling in messenger guards with signals from the bench. A guard would come in for one play with a play from the bench, and then would go out. This could continue for several plays by alternating guards. Every pro team did and expected its opponents to do the same.
Collins was a rarity among pro gridiron coaches in that he preferred having the quarterback playing the game use his own judgment and Collins rarely interfered. His figuring was that the quarterback playing the game knew much that the coach might not see or notice from the bench. He could consult with the coach on the sidelines during a time-out if either had questions.
That was still another reason why Jessup insisted on the immediate reinstatement of Hank as head coach-it gave him the necessary latitude of plays, the kick, the pass or the run and the stall. Great athlete that he was, Ron was aware of the complexity of the job he had assigned to himself. But he was confident he could perform it.
As he saw it, the key to one or two-point Pros victory revolved around a missed conversion point, the point which in pro football is almost automatically kicked after each touchdown. When such a point is missed it is a rarity, usually the result of a charging defense lineman who blocks the football.
The kicker seldom misses, and this Ron knew well. He would wait just long enough for a Cleveland lineman to legitimately tip or block the football. No one could possibly suspect a fix situation on such a play. Ron's plans called for him to miss his first touchdown conversion attempt. He would make all the rest. With that one point deficit, he would then manage to keep the Pros even in the scoring, matching the Lakers touchdown for touchdown, field goal for field goal, but always one point behind.
Then, in the final minutes he would lead the Pros downfield to within easy field goal kicking distance. Kicking that crucial field goal would put Los Angeles in front by the necessary two points.
It was a bold, almost recklessly confident plan. The Lakers, a rugged, well-balanced organization, figured to score at least two touchdowns and were probably also good for a pair of field goals. Perhaps they might even make three touchdowns. Jessup was certain he could march the Pros to three touchdowns, perhaps four.
Ron could kick field goals with great accuracy from inside the 20-yard-line and hit for good percentages from as far out as 45 yards. Without this special ability, he doubted if the kind of point conversion he contemplated could be achieved.
The one big thing which worried him the most was the possibility he would not be able to throttle back the Pros offense. The club was never better, and now with Collins back, it was reaching an emotional pitch which might be difficult to control.
These weren't new tactics for a pro football quarterback, whether the pass was thrown by him or another player. It was part of professional football strategy, especially if a momentary timeout was needed by the offensive team. A play was dead after an incompleted pass and there was usually a minute or two before play resumed. Time enough as a rule to consult with fellow players for longer than they had time for in a huddle after a play.
The veteran quarterback recalled one game when the Pros were playing Cincinnati, that twelve passes went incomplete in the first quarter. But the Pros took advantage of the final one to engineer a drive through a hole in the line one of the linemen had found that paved the way to a one-sided triumph for Los Angeles. The lineman had noticed the opposing tackle often moved to the left when the Pros player lined up in a certain position.
This move to the left left open a possible play the Pros used not often, but when it did come, it usually worked. The key to the play was that the opposing lineman had to be in a certain position.
When this Cincinnati tackle moved about a foot outside his normal position, the Pros player spoke to Ron and suggested what had come to be known among Pros players as the "key" play. Ron ran it that time and twice more, all three of them leading to touchdowns and demoralizing the Cincinnati team so that it fell apart.
But as Ron continued to think of his strategy against Cleveland in this "big one," he wanted to avoid as much as possible bogging down the Los Angeles offense in anyway as he knew it could throw the Pros off stride and might lead to a defeat.
And then, too, the veteran quarterback wanted to make the victory honestly, in his own way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
It was a Saturday night, the night before the big game and Ron lay stretched out on his bed, smoking-thinking. He had telephoned Jack earlier in the day, asking to see him that night, alone, at his apartment on very urgent business.
The door buzzer shattered the quiet. Ron glanced at his wrist watch. It was eight o'clock.
"Well," he said as he opened the door for Jack Fisher, "at least you're punctual. I suppose that's a habit you developed from meeting newspaper deadlines. Come in. I'm glad you could make it tonight. I've got some important things I want to discuss with you."
"I'm sure there must be," Jack said. "My, you look very cool and collected for a fellow with the weight of the football world on his shoulders. How do you do it, anyway?"
Ron smiled. "If that were all, I wouldn't mind," he replied. He motioned toward an easy chair and settled down in one himself opposite his friend. They smoked for a minute, each with his own thoughts. Jack couldn't understand what Ron would want at such a time and Ron wasn't just sure how to tell his story.
"What I'm going to tell you," Ron said, "would probably knock you off your feet. So you better stay seated. First of all, let me ask you about the newspaper you were seeking. Did you find out if twenty-five thousand dollars would swing the deal for us?"
"Why, yes, Ron. I've checked the whole thing out. I drove down to Sunset Beach yesterday and I had a long talk with Stan Carver. Stan's asking one-hundred grand for the works, the newspaper, the equipment, the office. I went over his circulation figures, his books and the records and the whole picture looks very good.
"Stan told me twenty-five thousand down would handle it easily because the bank will finance the rest. Over a convenient period of time we could work the balance off nicely on anticipated income. I'm not a business man, but I know Stan and I can see the development possibilities of the whole beach community. In ten years that little newspaper will more than double its present value."
"Good, that's what I wanted to hear," said Ron, "because we're going to buy that little newspaper next week."
"You're kidding, Ron!"
"I was never more serious."
"How'd you get the money?"
"That's what I'm going to tell you about now. Maybe when you hear about it, you won't want to go into partnership with old Ron Jessup, but you hear me out first and see what you think."
"I couldn't think of anyone I'd rather be in business with than you," replied Jack emphatically. "We have always gotten along well together, what I don't know about business you do, we have many of the same kind of ideas-we are close friends, and you know what I mean."
"Maybe, Jack. I'm going to bankroll you with 'fix' money."
"Fix money!" Jack shouted.
"That's right," Ron replied. Jack shook his head in disbelief. Ron Jessup would never fix any game.
"I don't believe it," he said.
"Here's the way it is. Our mutual good friend and this town's number one Pros fan, Mike Herring, has made it possible."
"Mike!" repeated Jack. Again he shook his head. "Tell me how it happened."
"It seems Mike is hooked up with a gambling syndicate of some kind, out of Reno I think, but I'm not sure. Mike has many trips to that city and I kind of suspect that's the syndicate's headquarters. Anyway, they got big money out on the points. They're betting the Pros don't win by three or more. My job is to protect their interests."
"And did you take the money they offered?"
"Not exactly. They're too clever for that. They delivered the money here to the apartment. Stashed it in the apartment while I was out-talking to Mike as a matter-of-fact." He went on to explain the auto trip, their conversation and the revealing of the plan by Mike as he and Ron sat on that quiet street.
"Did you agree to deliver?" Jack asked still not believing the story, or at least not wanting to believe it. He hoped Ron would end the story by saying he had rejected the offer, even if the money was in his apartment.
"Not in so many words," replied Ron. "I told Mike I would try to bring the Pros in by one or two points. That's all."
"Did they accept that?"
"Mike said they would regard it as a solemn pact."
"Do you?"
"No."
"You mean, you intend to keep the money regardless of the way the game turns out?"
"That's right," said Ron. "I have no scruples in dealing with bastards like that. Besides, if I don't deliver, do you suppose that twenty-five grand would be here when and if I get home after the game? That's why I want you to take the money now. Regardless of what does happen tomorrow, we'll be that much ahead anyway."
Jack looked at his friend incredulously. He must know that is the most dangerous kind of game to play, the newspaperman thought to himself. But Ron seemed very serious and looked Jack straight in the eyes as they talked.
"That's dangerous, Ron. Those fellows play rough. You know that," Jack said. Again a dismayed Jack shook his head. It was too much for him to believe of an old friend. "Ron," he said, "I think you ought to return the money right away. Or report the incident at once."
"I've been giving it a lot of thought," Ron admitted as he got up to walk around her nervously. "Maybe you'll agree with me, maybe you won't. But I think I can win tomorrow by the right score. It's going to be hard. You know pro football. The ball can bounce a lot of funny ways, as the saying goes.
"But I have a plan and I think it will work. There's one thing I do promise you, though. The Pros won't lose tomorrow."
Jack placed his head between his hands and stared at the floor. Ron continued to pace up and down thoughtfully, his hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders sagging slightly as he bent over.
"Then," Jack said, "if you cross up those gambling bastards they will kill you. Why don't you return the money to Mike now, right away-before the game. That way, you'll still be in the clear."
"No," replied Ron. "There just isn't any way out for me now. There probably never was any way out once they decided I was their boy and they planted the dough here. I believe from that moment I was hooked. They're clever. I couldn't have proven a thing against them."
Ron resumed his seat opposite his friend. "Mike didn't plant the money. I would be out twenty-five thousand bucks, have my name mixed up in a messy scandal and be running the rest of my life wondering just when and where they were going to hit me.
"You know what I mean-an accident at night, on the highway, forced off the road into a concrete abutment. Something like that. It could be an accident and if I were alone at the time it would be hard to prove it wasn't an accident. And you can bet your bottom dollar if they did pull something like that, Jack, they would make sure I was riding alone on a seldom-traveled back road.
"Such guys have long memories. Who the hell are they? I don't know. Maybe it's the Mafia. Maybe it's Syndicate. Who knows? All I know is they got me, one way or the other. And I don't mind saying I am scared whichever way it works out. All I can say is you will get your twenty-five grand. I hope I live to see it pay for the paper."
"But there has to be a way out," protested Jack.
Ron smiled. "Don't worry. I've got every thing worked out. You don't know what to tell me to do, but I know what to tell you to do. You see that attache case over there beside the dresser? It holds twenty-five thousand dollars in fives, tens and twenties.
"It wouldn't be healthy for you to talk out of here with that case under your arm. But I think we can adhesive tape the whole amount all over you. I want you to take the money. Keep it. Buy the newspaper with it the first chance you have Monday morning. And don't say anything to anybody about it, where you got the money or how!"
Ron almost pleaded with his friend. The quarterback felt sure he would not be around tomorrow night to pay it whether the Pros won or lost, or by how much. He felt certain the syndicate wouldn't let him live for fear he would spill the story to the police, win or lose. Ron wanted Jack to use the money rather than let the syndicate get it back. The Pros veteran player saw this as a chance to get even with the gamblers if the Los Angeles team and he was eliminated, or if the Pros won as the syndicate wanted, a kind of payoff by Ron of money that could be called crooked but still useful.
"Ron, I can't," Jack said. "I can't take the money."
"Because it's fix money?"
"No. Christ, Ron, if I take that money I'd feel like I'm taking your life. I'm afraid of those bastards out there. I know what they'd do to you. And it wouldn't be pretty to see."
"They'll do it anyhow unless I deliver the game their way tomorrow and I'm not too sure they won't do it anyway. They may not want me around to squeal on them to the cops. They're not particularly interested in that kind of chicken feed dough in that case. Take the money," Ron urged him. Jack sat rooted to his chair.
"Don't you want me for a partner any more?" Ron's voice hesitated, and almost broke. For the first time in all the years Jack had known him, Ron's face betrayed emotion-a kind of little boy lost look, troubled, pathetic, strangely sad.
"I promise you, Jack," he added fighting for control, "the Pros will not lose tomorrow. By any number of points."
"I know they won't," said Jack, "I know they won't."
"Thanks," said Ron.
"I'll take the money," Jack said firmly. "I don't suppose those guys will intercept me."
"No, it's me they're watching. They are only interested in where I go and what I do. I don't think they'll bother you any, and even if they do stop you, being a newspaperman you would have many excuses for being around here-an interview, covering a news story-you know. And I doubt if they knew you visited me particularly because all they could see was you entering this building where theyre are over a hundred apartments."
"I'll see you then in the dressing room right after the game tomorrow," said Jack.
"Everything is going to be okay, Jack. Don't worry. You wait and see. Monday maybe we'll all drive down to Sunset Beach together-you and me."
Jack managed a smile and suddenly thrust out his hand. "Shake," he said.
"There's one thing more," added Ron, a twinkle in his eyes. "When we get that newspaper, I want to be sports editor!"
"Okay. Just learn to write as well as you can pass a ball!
Ron slept well after Jack's departure, awakening at 7:30. He immediately checked the weather. It was dry and sunny as predicted. No sign of rain, which was good. A quarterback can make things work as he wishes better with a dry sky and ground. Not so much danger of fumbles, dropped passes, bad punts and the like. The crispness in the air should help the boys keep keyed up, on the alert.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Arlene took Saturday night off to visit Reno, flying there with a friend who planned to return early Sunday in time for the big game. There was something about Rita which attracted the younger girl to the manly woman who ran the clothing store.
She wondered if Rita could get free for a few hours, for a few drinks in Arlene's hotel room-or whatever. Arlene felt sure the Reno woman had ideas about her. She remembered how Rita looked her over so closely when they first met. Apparently Rita knew Big Joe's ideas on sex for she seemed to think nothing of what Arlene bought that day.
"I wonder if Rita also goes for such things," Arlene thought as she settled in the private plane for the short trip. She hadn't phoned Rita but would when she got to the hotel. It would seem unfair and kind of an unnecessary trip if Rita were busy. But maybe Rita had a friend or two she could recommend.
As the plane set down at the airport in Reno she noted a little snow on the ground, even though it was only late November. But she recalled the difference in elevation and the time of year and so it was not surprising. The only trouble was in her haste to leave, she had forgotten to bring any heavy clothes.
Grabbing a taxi, she hurried into the warmth of the cab and sat back for the trip into the city. She blushed slightly as she thought to herself, maybe Rita would help keep her warm.
Her A.C./D.C. sex makeup will show up tonight or this afternoon, Arlene smiled to herself. She thought of past clinches with the manly fair sex. She had to get used to it, but once she was turned on, she loved every moment.
She thought if she had paid strict attention to this kind of sex instead of messing with the men she wouldn't be pregnant as she was now, and she would still get plenty of living.
The so-called gay bars of Los Angeles were known to her. She did not patronize them very often but she did drop in once in a while to look over the gals who also had their eyes out for likely sex prospects.
Arriving at the hotel, Arlene hurried in to register and go to her room, actually a suite of connecting rooms in which she could entertain or be entertained.
After putting on a provocative, deep necked dress and using some new perfume a girl had recommended, she went down to Rita's shop in the lobby. Arlene tingled with anticipation and wondered if her nipples were as jutting as they felt beneath her tight dress. She felt sure everyone would notice her hard nipples and it made her blush slightly, just in time for Rita to see her.
"Well, my dear," Rita said kindly as she shook her hand, "what can I do for you today?"
"I was wondering....well, could you
. ... will you....."
Rita looked at her calmly for a moment and then took her hand. "Come into my office," she said.
"Now, honey, sit down and tell me what you have in mind," Rita said as she took Arlene's light coat and hat. She motioned to a deep cushioned sofa opposite her desk.
Rita sat at her desk where she could have a close intimate view of her visitor. Arlene crossed and recrossed her long legs, hiking the flared skirt up higher and higher. Rita couldn't help moisten her lips as she watched the younger woman. Arlene's long eyelashes swept up and down her eyes in nervousness. The store owner could see her visitor was embarrassed so she went over to sit beside her.
"Come now, Arlene-I may call you that may I not?" Rita asked.
"Oh yes, please do," Arlene said.
"Well, good-now what is it you would like. A new dress, a pretty nightie or baby doll, lingerie, or what? You can charge it, you know. Big Joe has given you an open account with us."
"But it isn't that, although your clothes are lovely and the little girl clothes were darling. He loved them on me and I kind of liked wearing them after the first few minutes I was with Big Joe."
"Yeah, I know what you mean," Rita said. "They sure fire him up and he really shows what he can do. It is surprising how much virility he has for a man his age."
Arlene blushed. "Now, honey, don't let that bother you. I know what he likes. He tried to rope me in on it. I don't like men to manhandle me. To put it bluntly, I don't like men-in bed or out."
"Now, what did you have in mind?" she asked.
Arlene blurted out her wishes and hopes and looked up to see if Rita understood. The big woman stood up, pulled Arlene up with her and without a word they went into a close embrace, their lips meeting with a sucking sound as their tongues played with each other. Rita kept her hands around Arlene's waist but pressed close against her.
Arlene broke free first, looked up into Rita's moist eyes and stepped back as Rita moved in closer. Rita started to pull open the buttons down the front of her dress. But Arlene nodded no.
"Let's go to my hotel suite where we wouldn't be interrupted," she urged.
"I can't get away right now, honey," Rita told her young friend. "I am short of help and have to be nearby. We could have a few minutes of loving right here. The sofa is comfortable and I'll be comfortable in a few minutes." She continued to unbutton her dress.
Arlene hesitated. "Maybe you know someone who would visit me in my suite for a while until you can come."
"Oh, there are many girls who would love you," Rita said shakily, "but I want you just for myself-and soon. Wait a minute-don't go way . ... I'll check with the sales girls and see if I can get away now." Rita left hurriedly and soon Arlene sat alone wondering what would be happening next. She thought of telling Rita of her pregnancy and asking her if she knew of an abortionist in Reno. The pregnancy was not very old, Arlene felt sure, and it probably could be ended with little trouble.
Rita was gone for about ten minutes. She returned with a young blonde girl whom she introduced as Peg, saying Peg would keep Arlene company until Rita could return. Then the older woman left without another word, quickly closing and locking the office door.
Peg and Arlene looked at each other closely. Peg was a bit on the chubby side, probably only 20-years old, nicely built with big round breasts, wide hips, a cute childish smile. Arlene liked her immediately, and Peg seemed to return the liking. She went over and sat down by Arlene on the wide sofa. It was embarrassing for them both to know what to say or how to begin. Arlene wasn't sure whether Rita had meant them just to talk or to follow nature's desires, or both.
Peg made no move toward Arlene, except to gaze at her admiringly from head to toe, and Arlene returned the frank gaze. Somehow Arlene thought it was up to her to make the first move.
"Do you work here?" she asked.
"Yes," Peg said shyly. "Where?"
"I work in the stock room."
"Well, it's too bad they hide a body like yours in a stockroom where we gals can't see you. How long have you been here?"
Peg blushed and looked down at her hands folded in her lap. "About two weeks," she said.
"Do you like it here?" Arlene was trying desperately to find something the younger girl would talk about.
"Oh yes, I love it," Peg exclaimed, her big blue eyes opening even wider and her face breaking into a big smile.
"Rita must be very kind to you," Arlene said.
"Oh, she is, she is! She treats me like a daughter. She keeps the boys away, says they are terrible and I should stay away from them. They can get me in trouble." Peg seemed genuinely worried over what boys might do.
Arlene smiled to herself and stifled a laugh as she listened. It sounded as if Rita was preparing another victim to her desires. She wondered if Rita had approached Peg sexually.
Arlene thought she had better play safe and not make any sexual move toward the lovely blonde girl who sat rather demurely, her full skirt pulled down as far as she could to hide her pretty thighs.
They chatted on about impersonal things until Rita returned a little out of breath. Peg bid goodbye, shook hands quietly with Arlene, and almost curtsied to Rita as she left.
"She is very nice," Arlene said, "and so innocent looking, too."
"Yes, she hasn't had much experience yet. Her family was killed in an auto accident a few months ago and she was left alone. I took her under my eye, gave her the job and watch to see she behaves as a young girl should." Arlene again stopped a laugh but smiled at the mannish woman and gave Peg less than a week of innocence. Maybe Peg would never know the love of a man's lips, fingers and masculinity, but Arlene would bet many a dollar she would know a woman's love.
Rita scurried around her office, gathering winter clothes for a trip into the outside cold and making a few phone calls. Arlene sat quietly on the sofa, watching the older woman bustle about, showing off her masculinity with long strides and a deep voice. Rita talked off hand about various things as she moved, but made no mention of what she had in mind for their rendezvous.
As they left the store Rita grabbed Arlene's hand firmly and almost steered her out the door to a waiting limousine with a chauffeur and a robe held by him to make them warm.
Arlene noted with some amazement the chauffeur was a woman-a masculine-looking woman about Arlene's age. She wondered what kind of a part in Rita's life this girl played, aside from driving. Maybe they held four-way love bouts, or something. Arlene admired the young girl and her manners, such as a chauffeur should have.
The ride to Arlene's suite was a brief one. Arlene opened the door and helped Rita with her coat and hat. The chauffeur followed close behind with a box apparently containing liquor. The chauffeur said not a word, but set the box in the kitchenette and left.
She came back to Arlene, standing in the middle of the living room, her hands folded demurely in front of her. Rita moved in close to her protege, lifted her face and planted a firm kiss on the already quivering lips. Arlene's arms went around the older woman's waist and they stood for several moments testing each other's firm bodies with their hands, their lips with their kisses.
Rita was strong, very strong for a woman. She almost squeezed Arlene as she held her close. Without a word Rita lifted the younger girl up in her arms and carried her easily over to the scented, big bed that occupied much of one corner of the room.
It was oval-shaped, with a pink shaded covering that set off Arlene's lovely white body to perfection as Rita dropped her in the middle and then stood looking down at her.
Arlene laid with her eyes closed, twisting and turning in her need for love. Her long legs crossed and uncrossed, opening her firm thighs to Rita's gaze. Her full breasts heaved spasmodically and the nipples became hard points, easily visible beneath the thin dress covering. Arlene was on fire.
"Please, oh please...." she moaned.
"In a minute, darling," Rita said softly.
"I just want to look at you. You're so beautiful, so desirable."
Rita took off her manly jacket, revealing a man's shirt open at the throat. Removing her skirt, she revealed a half slip and men's shorts underneath. When her shirt came off, no more than bare tips of breasts were visible on her deep chest. No bra was necessary and when it was bared, her chest looked much like a man's.
The men's shorts soon followed and she stood naked except for a pair of sox and low-heeled shoes. A smile crossed her face as Arlene opened her eyes slowly and gazed on this he-woman who gazed at her in awe and admiration, mixed with some fear of what may happen. Arlene had never seen a woman built as Rita was. She had heard and read of them, but had never seen one. She looked Rita over carefully as she sat up, still dressed and quieter than when she first laid down.
Rita drew her to her feet and slowly, tantalizingly undressed her. Her hands caressed lightly but firmly as she removed each item, paying particular attention to the breasts, hips and inner thighs, until Arlene once again was moaning in pleasure.
She parted her thighs as Rita removed her panties-her bra was already lying on the floor-and the older woman's hands marveled at their fullness and firmness. As Arlene stood naked by the bed, Rita once again picked her up in her huge arms and this time they both landed on the bed, making it shake with their ardor.
"Oh, God, help me!" Arlene murmured as she felt Rita's body close to hers and her hands and lips began exploring her body. Her breasts were already hardening and expanding. When Rita's lips took one of the nipples, Arlene jumped and moaned with the lovely sensations.
Rita got up on her hands and knees, telling the lovely protege of hers to lie still while she feasted on her naked body. Arlene couldn't keep her body still as Rita lowered her head to take a firm breast in her hungry mouth. The sucking sound could be heard all over the big bedroom as the older woman nursed it like a baby.
"Oh, Rita, my darling," Arlene squealed.
"Don't stop....that feels so......so
....so good...."
Rita liked the sensation too. As she licked the white pink-topped mound, her hands were busy lower down Arlene's body, proving for new thrills and finding a willing response.
"You just enjoy it," she told the quivering girl. "It's all for you. I just love to make you feel good. Some day you can return the favor and I'll be your love slave."
Arlene moaned with pleasure, arching her hips high off the bed and emitting little grunts as Rita's hands touched some sensitive spot. Her silence proved how much she enjoyed the loving care Rita was giving her. No words could express the pleasures.
With eyes glistening, Rita ran her fingers along the inner thigh of Arlene again, savoring the touch of the younger woman's smooth, warm flesh.
Her hands moved from the satiny thighs to the buttocks of the younger girl, drawing them closer to her mouth.
Now Rita forced Arlene back, and moved her body between Arlene's thighs. Arlene knew what was about to happen, and her mind welcomed escape from the passion she felt fanning throughout her body.
Tenderly, gently the lesbian drew apart the delicate, pink lips of Arlene's femininity, having a clear and unhampered shot at the fine, luscious cunt.
She pressed her mouth against the widening lips, then delved her tongue deeply inside the pungent fragrance as Arlene shivered in expectation.
Rita's tongue began driving her crazy with need for total release. Her tongue rode and flicked along the sexual passageway as the younger Arlene quivered and shuddered beneath the working mouth.
"Oohhhhhhhhh...." Arlene gasped, a shudder sweeping through her writhing body.
Suddenly she thrust her hips hard upward against Rita's mouth, and the woman surged her tongue sharply back and forth against the pink, budding clitoris between Arlene's pussy lips. It unhinged the girl completely, and she was off in a sexual orbit, "Aaahahh-hhhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaing" all the way beyond the realm of sanity.
With one last full caress the length of Arlene's body, Rita laid down beside her, both of them sharing the same big pillow as they took a breather.
"You have a lovely body, my dear," Rita said. "This isn't the end. I will give you more pleasures after we have rested."
"Rita, honey," Arlene murmured faintly into the older woman's massive chest, "you are the most." Arlene snuggled up to the larger woman and seemed to go asleep. Rita caressed and kissed her like a child and watched her slip off into sleep. Rita too dozed.
When they awoke, Rita was running her fingers up and down the younger girl's firm thighs, followed by wet kisses that slipped in and out of grooves that made Arlene jump with each touch. Rita smiled as she noted the reactions, knowing it couldn't last much longer for either of them.
Arlene grabbed Rita's hand and kept it hard against her lower body, as their lips met in a tongue-lashing kiss that ended with both of them shuddering to a glorious conclusion that left Arlene exhausted, while Rita seemed unsatiated as she continued to fondle her friend intimately and with some success.
For in no time Arlene was responding to the caresses with moans of pleasure and twisting about on the bed that it took some holding by Rita to keep the younger girl in place. Rita's tongue lashed out at the naked flesh, her hands played games with the full breasts and moved slowly across the flat tummy to the triangle, and then her cunt.
Arlene erupted when the store lady's lips joined her hands and fingers at the junction of the thighs.
"Ohhhhh, but that was good," Arlene told her lover, looking up with glassy eyes and a sweaty brow. "Oh, honey, how you can love!"
"It was my pleasure," Rita said as she got up to ease the strain of leaning over the prostrate Arlene for so long. "How long has it been since you had such loving?"
"Oh, never like that," Arlene said lazily. "That was the most."
"Well, just remember, honey, when you want more, let me know. With you I would travel miles. I love it when my friend in love appreciates a woman's loving as you do. It has been months since I have seen a lover erupt as you have today. It pleased me no end."
"I'll come again next week," Arlene said.
"Well, I'll be in Los Angeles for a few days on business next week, so let's meet at your apartment. Unless you have another date, of course. Are you tied up?"
"No, not that I know of now. I have a kind of understanding with a fellow, but it is nothing definite. But don't let that bother you any. Your loving is much better than his ever would be! Besides, you are safe-I mean loving from you won't generate trouble-like a baby or something...."
Rita looked at her closely. "Are you in trouble," she asked.
Arlene bit her lips to keep from crying. Rita took her in her arms, kissed her forehead, still wet from their exertions, and spoke softly into her ear: "I know, honey, I know. I had the same trouble. That's why I'm off men for life. They are so selfish and have no regard whatsoever for their victims. Me for the love of a woman any time, any where!"
Arlene cried softly and clutched her friend to her naked breasts. Rita nuzzled the rounded white mounds as she patted Arlene on the shoulder and tried to kiss away her tears.
"How far along are you?" Rita asked. "About six weeks."
"Well, we can have that fixed. You leave it to me," Rita assured her lovely friend. "I'll contact you as soon as I have made necessary arrangements with a friend."
Gradually Arlene's tears and sobs subsided. They both dressed and before leaving Rita gave her young partner a searing kiss meant as further assurance.
Arlene laid back down on the bed for a rest. The sexual fun and the cry had exhausted her. Then too she must head back to Los Angeles so she would be in good shape to see the Pros game tomorrow.
She wouldn't miss that, with Mike having such a big stake in it. She hoped the veteran quarterback Ron Jessup would live up to what Mike expected. It could mean more gifts for her, too.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Wild cheers greeted the Los Angeles Pros as they took the field for the game with the Cleveland Lakers Sunday afternoon in the huge stadium where a standing room only crowd awaited the kick-off.
There was a standing ovation for crestfallen, young Jim O'Flanagan, his precious throwing hand tightly bound in massive bandages-but still in uniform. He had wanted to be in uniform that day. Jim was introduced to the crowd, who cheered him again. His brief talk ended just as the last Pros player ran out on the field-Ron Jessup.
The crowd then abandoned all semblance of restraint, girls flung their batons, fans sailed hats, paper airplanes, empty paper cups into the air in a spontaneous burst of exhortation. They knew it was up to Ron Jessup today. "Jessup! Jessup! Jessup!"
The two teams gathered nervously in front of their respective benches while crowd tension continued to mount. No player on either team could escape it-not respond to it. The will of the fans seemed to transfer into the consciousness of the players.
The Pros won the coin toss. They elected to receive-customary in pro football. A burly Lakers player jacked up the ball on a kick-off tee on the Cleveland forty yard line. He went back about ten yards, carefully lining himself up with the football-his teammates already lined up a yard or so behind the ball, from sideline to sideline.
Ninety thousand screaming fans were on their feet. The heavy foot connected, the ball sailed high into the air, down across the Los Angeles 20, 10, and goal line, four yards deep in the end zone. The Pros fleet kickoff return artist, Jackrabbit Marr caught it cleanly and set sail upfield, into a sweeping fifty-yard wide charge of Laker wild men, each determined to personally wipe out the ball carrier.
As they charged, some Lakers were cut down by Pros blockers-out on the L.A. forty, on the thirty, but a half a dozen or so were on their feet and converging on the scampering Marr at the Pros' 20. He veered to the left, circled two Lakers but others sprang up to wall off his route.
A body twist, a slip under a heavy pair of arms, a brush against another, a reverse, a quick sidestep and suddenly Jackrabbit was clear across the 30 and moving fast along the sidelines. Then a Cleveland shoulder caught him at the 33 and he tripped out of bounds-a great runback. The game was under way.
"I'm going to give them 'Kid Stew' first, he said, head down, talking quietly. Pete, you remember it. We haven't practiced it since we used it in Milwaukee. They don't think I can throw the ball as far as Jim can. We've got a chance to catch 'em flat footed.
"Now," he continued, "you guys hold that line for me, give me that extra couple of seconds till Pete gets down there and we'll collect our first six points early in the game.
That should set back the Lakers some, too. Maybe demoralize them or at least throw them off stride and that would be good!"
The huddle disbanded, all the Pros clapping their hands in unison as they broke toward the line. Ron took his stance behind his center in the traditional "T" formation, hands cupped against his crotch almost indecently. On the count, the center would snap the ball back to Ron's hands.
The football slapped into his hands. He sprinted backward rapidly, the wall of men in front of him bowed deeply, the Lakers shoved, elbowed, bulldozed deeply, on their way toward Ron-his two fullbacks stepped ahead, the cup forming nicely to give Ron protection, and he was safe for a few seconds.
Pete had not been so much as brush-blocked at the line and his start downfield was good, deceptive. He tore to the middle, then cut swiftly out to the sideline, getting a step on the deep outside Laker defender. Down he raced while Ron stood his ground in the cup. The Cleveland ends were working in on him. They broke through, lunging, but Ron stepped briskly and safely foward toward the melee which once was the line of scrimmage.
He had gained his added few seconds.
Ron threw the ball as far as he could toward the yellow blur that was big Pete. Pete looked over his shoulder at the Cleveland. He caught the pass without breaking stride on the Lakers 28 yard line and sped the remaining distance for a touchdown.
The unexpected trick call had worked. Pete flung the ball high into the air in the end zone and sprinted for the Pros' bench. There, teammates greeted him wildly, pounding him on the shoulders, shaking his hand vigorously. Coach Collins added his enthusiasm.
Ron's point-control strategy now reached a pivotal stage. His plan called for a missed conversion early in the game. He would try to miss it now.
He lined up with the goal posts, a sure straight angle-easy, automatic for a pro football player with his experience. His ball holder caught the center snap and set the ball down for Ron's toe. Suddenly, untouched, from the side a huge form came leaping-it was Cleveland's big tackle.
He smothered Ron's boot, leaving the ground, a perfect block. It all happened so fast Jessup was startled. Nothing phony about that, he thought. Los Angeles 6, Cleveland 0 in the game's opening moments!
That ended the first quarter. Ron's initial fear of a Pros' runaway was quickly dispeled as Cleveland began to dominate the play. The Lakers controlled the ball most of the remaining time in the second quarter, scoring and converting to lead 7-6. Whenever Los Angeles had possession, the big Cleveland line poured in, getting to Jessup repeatedly.
Ron caught an elbow in the throat which left him speechless for a minute. A cleated shoe worked past his face guard and raised a big welt on the bridge of his nose which began to trickle blood. So far Ron didn't have to control anything. The Lakers didn't need any help.
Cleveland went further ahead in the second quarter when their fleet, strong fullback raced through the middle of the L.A. line 42 yards for a touchdown. With the conversion the Lakers led 14-6 at the half. The Pros' defense was breaking down because Jessup's pass protection faltered. During the first half he had been tackled and manhandled no fewer than eight times. It was no longer a question of his fixing anything.
It was now a question of his keeping the Pros in the ball game.
"Somone's got to stop those Lakers," thundered Collins in the dressing room at the half. Jessup sat on the bench holding an ice pack against his bleeding, sore nose. One of his eyes had started to swell. Pete sat next to him.
"I'm going to get those bastards for you even if they throw me out of the game," he told Ron.
"Do that!" Replied Jessup, spitting blood on the floor.
Before they returned to the field, Collins put his arms around Ron, pulling Jessup's face next to his, rubbing cheeks. "Get 'em Ron," he said softly, a suggestion of tears in his eyes.
Ron felt sick to his stomach and dizzy when the Pros took over on offense early in the third quarter. He began cashing in on the Lakers' rush, calling fullback delays up the middle, and screen passes which moved the ball well.
From the eight yard line, the Pros' fullback bulled straight into the end zone. Ron kicked the extra point, and the Pros trailed by a single point, 14-13.
Late in the same period, a Pros' guard picked up a Cleveland fumble on the Cleveland 34 and lumbered into the end zone. Again Rock added the extra point on a placekick and the Pros led at the start of the final quarter, 20-14.
On one of the plays in the sequence, Ron had slipped, allowing a half dozen Lakers to gang tackle and pile on. One delivered a powerful back elbow thrust which knocked off Ron's headgear. He fell backward heavily and as his bounced off the turf he caught the point of a cleated shoe squarely on the spinal column at the base of his skull.
Ron felt a sharp, unusual pain, followed by a strange tingling sensation which radiated all the way to his toes and finger tips. He lay on the turf, struggling to move but somehow his body just couldn't seem to coordinate. A red glow clouded his vision and large globular colored objects swam before his opened eyes.
He lay quite still, a horrible growing pain crawling down his back. He had not heard the moan from the crowd, nor was he conscious of Doc Barnes working on him. But he struggled gamely to his feet, waved Barnes away and rejoined the Pros huddle. A mighty cheer arose-the old pro was a hard man to knock out of there.
"What is it?" asked a frightened Collins when Doc Barnes returned to the bench.
"Nothing," said Doc, "Just a rap on the head. He'll be okay."
"Sure?" asked Hank.
"Have I ever been wrong about such things?" replied the Doc, his professional dignity offended.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
On the next play, Pete hung back, faded with the rushing Lakers linemen and drove his knee into the nearest Cleveland player's groin. Both men went down together and started swinging. Other players jumped into the melee and a riot boiled on the field for a few minutes. When order was restored, both the Laker player and Pete were tossed out of the game.
"I told you I'd get him," Pete told Ron as he walked slowly off the field.
"What?" asked Ron, staring blankly at his old friend. There was not the slightest indication of recognition. When Pete arrived at the bench he grabbed Hank's arm.
Desperately Cleveland fought back. With four minutes to play in the game they registered their final tally, going ahead 21-20. With the Pros' defensive team on the field, Ron sat on a chair in front of the bench, head down while Doc Barnes rubbed his neck and administered smelling salts.
The Pros returned Cleveland's kickoff to their own 18 yard line, but Jessup continued to sit as the regular offensive unit ran out onto the field.
"Come on, Ron," said Hank. "Come on Ronny. Just a few more minutes is all we have. You can catch them." He lifted Jessup to his feet and shoved him toward the yellow huddle. The veteran quarterback reacted mechanically.
"All right, you guys," he said to the grimy, battered group of men around him. "Let's get this practice over and go home."
Ron could joke even at a moment like this.
"Attaboy, Ronny, attaboy!" They broke, slapping their hands, the powerful, cracking, fleshy sound pealing over the silent, tense throng. If their leader regarded this as nothing more than a practice session, why worry? He'll pull it out for them. They'd die for him if necessary, and they knew he'd do the same for them.
Ron faked a pass and ran up the middle for 15 yards. He went clown hard, virtually every Laker on the field hurtling on the squirming pile that virtually entombed him. Ron was helped to his feet by the officials. Then he passed flat to his ends twice for another first down. The ball was on the Pros 48 yard line.
A little less than three minutes to play again. Again Ron dropped back, looking for a target. All his receivers were covered, at least there was a kind of blue everywhere Ron looked-so he began to run again, his battered old legs moving crazily among the shifting uniforms. Down he went in another heap.
But the brilliant run had moved the Pros to the Cleveland 32. Ron was going it alone. Again he was pulled to his feet. Now his halfback slanted into the right side for four yards and then at the middle of the line for two hards. Jessup passed to Pete for five more and a first down. There were two minutes to play in the game now. The Pros were on the Cleveland 21.
Two line plunges by the Pros halfback gained four yards. The fired-up Pros were working all the angles and playing the hardest of their pro football careers.
Ron would try for a touchdown now. He called a double cross-over, his two ends crisscrossing behind the Cleveland goal line. The ball sailed clearly through the air, a perfect trajectory headed for Pete who was cutting behind the goal post.
The ball struck the goal post and bounced harmlessly, pointlessly to the turf. It would have to be a field goal from the 16-yard-line. That meant a 21-yard kick, allowing for the ball to be placed down 5 yards behind the line of scrimmage.
Jessup stood back swaying, the goal posts wavering, dancing deceptively in his vision. The ball was set down, Ron kicked, and then turned wearily around, starting aimlessly for the bench-oblivious to what he had done, to the cheer of the crowd, to everything but a great horrible, numbing pain. He had never known pain like this before.
Joyously, Ron's teammate along the sidelines seized him, and hoisted him upon their shoulders. Ron's head rolled unnaturally to one side and the red hues surrounding everything turned black. He tried to straighten up but his helmet was too heavy. His strength dissolved, he fell backward, his neck snapping as other strong arms checked his fall.
Ron did not hear the final gun, nor the tumultous shout of victory as the thousands of fans hailed the 23-21 victory, and the new professional football champions of the world, the Los Angeles Pros.
"Here," he bellowed, "just put him down here on the table. Ron, boy, Ron, it's me, Hank!" Collins searched wildly around the room. "Where's the doctor, my God, somebody get the doctor." He spied Doc Barnes approaching.
"Don't you touch him, you bastard," he said. "You lay a hand on him and I'll kill you. Where's the doctor? Ron, boy, Ron, answer me!" He ran his big hand softly through Jessup's hair and patted him gently on the cheek. "Ron, it's Hank, please Ron, talk to me!"
Ron's legs and arms were trembling, an odd, uncontrollable quiver jerking his entire body. His lips moved slightly as though he were trying to say something. But no words came out.
"Quiet, quiet you guys," roared Collins. "He's trying to talk." Collins bent over the pale, sweat stained face. "I can't tell. I don't know what he's saying," he moaned. "Ron, it's me, it's Hank. Tell me something, Ron." Tears streaked down the big man's face. Bewildered, he turned around toward his team. "Ron's hurt," he explained. "Ron's hurt real bad!"
"Is it bad, Doc?" asked Pete. "I mean, he's going to be all right, isn't her?" The doctor looked at Pete sadly.
"Ron Jessup is already dead," he replied. "Probably of a broken neck and severed spinal cord." Again he shook his head. "He didn't have to die. But fellows like that never know when to quit."
"It was his greatest game," someone standing beside Jack said. It was one of the Pros' most ardent fans, holding a colorful pennant. "Hail the World Champion Los Angeles Pros."
Jack reached over, without a word, and grabbed the pennant, ripping it to shreds. He threw the remnants at the man's feet.
"Winning isn't the only thing," he said bitterly.
Then Jack walked slowly away, back into the dark empty stadium, out across the football field where Ron Jessup had been killed. The pressbox lights were casting a yellowish glow down upon the strands. Jack climbed the long stair bank and sat down-the patter of typewriter keys echoing across the sunken arena.
He sat for a long time, then gradually became conscious of someone sitting beside him. It was young Jim O'Flanagan. The grief-stricken young star was crying quietly. His eyes were already red from tears and his usually firm hands shook as if in anger.
"Jim," said Jack, "I ought to tell you this. It'll be an education. Football, pro football at least, is a dirty game. You're young and maybe it's still a game to you. But it's a lot more than that. Ron Jessup knew." He paused, groping for the right words.
"Lots of things went on you didn't know about," he continued. "You remember those two guys in Arlene's apartment who jumped you, the ones you told me about? Well, they were sent by the Reno gambling syndicate to crack a couple of fingers on your throwing hand. Arlene was the whore pawn, the lure to set you up. Mike Herring is the middleman. Does it all make sense to you?"
"Then with me out of the way, they got to Ron-made him go along with it."
"Right," replied Jack.
Jim smiled bitterly. "If I know anything at all about that guy, I'll bet a cookie he's back at his apartment now with that whore."
"Arlene?"
Jim nodded. The more he thought about it the more his blood boiled. He stood up. "Jack," he said, "I'm going to get Mike. If you want to come along, fine, if you don't, I'll go alone."
Jack stood up. "I think I'll go along," he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The startling news of Ron Jessup's death did not dampen Mike's holiday spirit. In fact, he had to withdraw from the crush of the Pros' fans following the game in order to hide his glee. Ron's death was just what the syndicate might have ordered. With the veteran player gone, there remained not one scrap of human evidence of a fix. It couldn't have been a cleaner deal!
Mike hummed to himself as he tooled along in his Mercedes to the Sunset Strip and the La Frenzia. He was on top of the world. The fix of the points meant two hundred thousand dollars in his pocket, and a new high ranking position with the syndicate!
They could afford his payoff. After all, they probably cleaned up at least two million on the deal!
Jessup was dead, but Mike had never felt so much alive in his whole life. He was going to give his pregnant little girl friend, Arlene, the full-length mink coat he had in his car. She was waiting for him in his apartment.
"Darling, Mike baby-we won, won!" Then she caught a glimpse of the lush mink on Mike's arm. She squealed and jumped high in the air, her beauteous breasts bouncing, her creamy thighs quivering with the joy of her motion.
She seized the fur and buried her face in the soft pelts. Then she kicked off her nightgown and slipped the luxurious coat over her flawless nude figure as Mike watched, licking his lips. She admired herself in the full length mirror and laughed and cried at the same time.
Mike smiled patiently, taking in every move of this sexy blonde as she cooed and loved the beautiful coat.
"Mike," she yelled, "My wonderful lover!" She kissed him and danced away as if to tease him. He didn't move. He liked to watch her glee, get big glimpses of her nudity as she moved around. And wanting, wanting so much for her to come to him.
"Remember the scene, Mike in that movie? You know, the one where the girl lies on the floor and wriggles around, stripping off her clothes in front of all those men and women. Well, that scene even got me shook. I don't have any clothes on-only my mink. But I'll put on a show for you, Mike lover!"
"Go!" cried Mike eagerly, anxious for new erotics that night as Arlene shut her eyes and pulled the mink tight around her shapely body. She moved her hips, serpentine gestures that combined rhythm and sex in one copious undulation. Her firm buttocks, her slim beautiful legs, her rounded full breasts moved in a sexy dance of love. As she worked her body, she hummed and cried little joyous words of passion.
Then she flung open the coat and let Mike see her alabaster body in all its aroused, womanly glory, nipples extended, breasts heaving, hips gyrating and her long legs opening and closing her firm thighs.
Arlene was a picture of a young girl wanting her lover.
Mike joined his sexy sweetheart on the floor. He too wriggled and buried his mouth in her shoulders and neck. Her breasts felt his violent, biting kisses. The already swollen nipples welcomed his hot tongue along their entire length. The sucking sound his lips made on them could have been a baby nursing.
He stripped off his shirt and trousers, still writhing with his passionate playmate. His shorts and undershirt soon followed and he was as naked as she, his masculine power showing he was ready for love.
Beneath him, Arlene trembled in her own mounting passion, her mind frozen by the sensations emanating from her cunt.
"Ohhhhhhhhh ... Ahhaaaaaaaaaaaaaa...!" she gapsed, thrusting her cunt upwards violently, sending her tight sheath down around the very base of his throbbing cock.
He squirmed and drove it into her like a man possessed by the devil.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck you, you cunt!" he snarled, demoniacally, lunging into her again and again. Arlene had never before seen him like this! It was as though his prick had never before then known the sweet, clinging warmth of a female's cunt, she thought to herself.
Her breath was coming in great gasps as her breasts danced violently across her chest, in cadence with the violent onslaught of his weapon against her prize.
Arlene saw Jim and Mike first. It was totally incredible. Opening her eyes to look into those of her sexually excited lover, she instead saw Jim O'Flanagan and Jack Fisher towering over the tawdry scene of hot sex.
Arlene screamed, snapping the spell that was propelling Mike and herself to another passionate climax any moment. Mike had laid his head on her breasts and was breathing heavily.
But the scream awakened Mike from his arduous love-making to the more realistic events about him. The startled, sex-confused man leaped to his feet, his body ludicrous. His passion still showing, he made no attempt to hide himself. Arlene laid still, watching.
"Why, Jim," he said, fighting for control-"and Jack. Why, what are you doing here? I guess-I mean, this is a hell of a time to bust in on a guy and his girl!"
"Like it was a hell of a time to bust in on me," Jim said bitterly. "The last time it was me. But the girl-I mean the whore-is the same."
"What do you mean, Jim?" Mike's passion fled. Now he feared for his life. These two knew! He was trapped. Nervously, frantically he tried to talk his way out. He knew he was in a bad spot and he searched his befuddled mind for the right words.
"Wow!" he said, "You fellows must think I've done something. Tell old Mike. He'll make it even. Is it money you want?"
"We know," Jim said quietly. "We know all about you. You killed Ron Jessup just as surely as if you put a six-inch switch blade in his heart. We don't want money, Mike. We want you!"
"But it's two against one," cried the frightened Mike, appealing to a sense of fair play he had never granted. He was shaking from fear now, but his muscles were taut, ready.
"No, it's just me," replied Jim coldly. "And I only have one hand. Remember? That's enough to even the score with you."
Jim turned to Jack. "Now, Jack, I want you to stay out of this. Just watch that bitch so she doesn't stick a knife in my back. I'm going to make Mike a new face-the kind of face girls won't like."
"Please," begged Mike, his composure shattered. "I haven't got anything against you. Why should I fight?"
"You scum," said Jim. "You dirty, cowardly scum!"
Suddenly Mike struck. With a stealthy motion he kicked Jim squarely in the groin. The toe of his shoe sank in to the heel. The sound made Jack sick. Jim doubled over and gasped, his tongue working outside his mouth in agony, his lungs bursting for breath.
Then Mike brought up his fist and caught the quarterback on the nose. Blood spurted and Mike leaped on Jim's back, pummeling and kicking wildly while Arlene screamed encouragement. "Kill him, Mike," she shrilled and aimed a few kicks at the quarterback. Jack grabbed her and held her fast as he watched the battle.
Jack had an idea that within minutes after this was all over, and provided Jim had no ideas about beating her up, that Arlene would be out looking for a man to finish passion.
Watching the action nearby, Jack saw Jim close Mike's right eye with a solid punch that seemed to start from the floor. It blinded the gambler momentarily and he staggered around uncertainly as Jim calmly, deliberately continued to rain heavy blows on his face, body, arms-wherever he could reach with one hand.
He struck not with wild abandon but with calculated vengeance. A crushing fist caved in the cartige of Mike's nose which now poured blood like an open faucet. His eyes glazed. Jim struck again. And again!
Jack could stand no more.
"Okay," he said quietly, "that's enough, Jim." The young quarterback stopped and turned to Arlene, still held by Jack in a ludicrous position that showed every inch of her curves but in a perverted way. If he had been calmer he might have wondered if Jack was holding her that way on purpose-to shame her.
"He doesn't look so slick now, does he?" he asked Arlene. There was contempt in his voice. Arlene broke from Jack's grasp. She ran crying to her lover, stretched out bleeding and senseless at her feet. She kissed the hamburger that was his face, crying softly, the blood of her lover draining all over her new mink coat.
Arlene was cuddling the injured Mike in her arms on the floor, both of them naked. There was no sex involved now. Just love and somehow to Jim and Mike it was a fitting end.
"Let's go," said Jack. The two men departed without a word to the two lovers. Jim made sure the blanket covered them adequately. Jack made no move to either help or hold back. The two men departed, walking out into the quiet night, the pretty lights of the Hollywood Hills encircling them like a bejeweled theater.
They drove quietly for a long time. Finally Jack said to Jim something that was on his mind.
"Jim, I've get the twenty-five thousand dollars they forced on Ron Jessup. He wanted to be sure I had it in case anything happened to him. Now, I want to share it with you."
"What did Ron want you to do with it?"
Jack explained about the newspaper they were to buy together.
"Let's get that newspaper," said Jim. "I think Ron would want it that way."
"I'm sure of it," Jack replied. "Let's you and I go down there tomorrow and close the deal. I can get a couple of days off from the job. They are coming to me, and we'll spend some time getting acquainted with the community, as well as the newspaper."
"I sure hope it is still up for sale," Jim said.
"Oh, it will be. The owner told me he wanted to sell it to Ron and me for he was sure we could handle it as he would want it run. And now you can take Ron's place. There will be a lot of hard work for you, as I imagine you will want to stay in pro football for awhile now that you are near your peak."
"I do want to stay in. Originally I thought I would play in the pros for three or four years, save some money and maybe go into coaching in high school eventually. I like to work with boys, and with my college education and experience in football I would have little trouble in landing a job."
"Would you prefer that to newspaper work?" Jack asked.
"Well, I don't know. I have never done any writing and I know very little about business.
But I would like to have something concrete, and I have an idea a newspaper venture would be the thing. I wouldn't take any salary from you but, as I gradually learned the business I could earn my pay and it would be worthwhile to pay me then-I hope."
"You're young yet," Jack replied. "You have a good education and a good head on your shoulders. You can learn, settle down in a small town and maybe raise a family. Got a girl friend?"
"Yes and no."
"I knew a nice girl back at college but I have lost contact with her now. She may be married-probably is because she was a beauty. We dated quite often and seemed to like each other a lot. Nothing in the sex line, except a bit of necking-you know."
"Do you know her home address?"
"Yes. I think I have it written down somewhere."
"Well, write to her. Tell her you would like to hear about what she is doing. Maybe something would develop after a few letters. And maybe, she would come to visit you."
"I doubt if she would come here alone. But she does have a married sister and maybe they could make it together with her sister's husband and children next summer."
Jim was becoming enthused about the idea and resolved to write to Jean the first thing tomorrow. He was so tired tonight, all he was interested in then was some shut eye.
Jack patted him on the shoulder. "Take care of yourself, buddy, and get some sleep. We've got a busy day tomorrow."
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Back at the apartment, Arlene heard the siren of an approaching ambulance and hoped it was one to pick up Mike to take him to a hospital. The siren slowly stopped and she heard the screech of car brakes outside.
Two white-clothed men carried Mike out on a stretcher. But before they hardly got out the apartment door, Big Joe Thompson burst into the room, shoving everything aside.
"Oh, Daddy, daddy!" Arlene sobbed.
Then Big Joe noticed the battered Mike for the first time, lying still on the stretcher, his face white as chalk. "Who did this?" Big Joe demanded angrily.
"Jim O'Flanagan."
"I'll get him for this!" Big Joe said. "I'll get him. The dirty bastard! Where did he go?"
Arlene's lips trembled and she nearly passed out as she looked at the towering man. "He and Jack Fisher went out ... somewhere south of here I think ... to buy some newspaper," she said.
"With whose money?"
"I don't know, but I think with the money Ron Jessup got from Mike for winning the game. They talked about twenty-five thousand bucks and that was the payoff."
"Well, see if you can remember the name of the place."
"I can't, Big Joe. They may not even have mentioned it. They just said something about buying a newspaper."
The ambulance crew by now had removed Mike Herring and a siren in the distance told the two in the apartment he was on his way to a hospital.
"It was terrible, Big Joe. Terrible! Jim O'Flanagan beat Mike up unmercifully and all Jack did was watch. I was almost sick watching. I tried to help Mike, but Jack held me fast. I ... I ... I just couldn't yell for help)-us being naked and all."
Big Joe still gazed glazedly around the room, not seeing anything, but nervously scanning all his eyes focused on. The room was a mess with broken furniture, glass, vases scattered around. But that didn't seem to bother him. He could replace it easily.
"Daddy, take me to your place. I need to clean up, get this blood off me, take a real hot bath ... I'll be good to you later."
The big grayish-haired man suddenly looked down on his young protege and finally smiled. "O.K. Honey, we'll do just that. The hell with those two. They had their fun; Mike has suffered but we hope he will be okay. I've got all kinds of extra dough from winnings on that game. So what do we have to worry about?"
With that, Big Joe helped Arlene get dressed in some of her most sexy women's clothes, inside and out, and they quickly left the La Frenzia club apartment for his place. Big Joe was very proud of his young girl friend and liked to show her off. So they walked through the club and bar so his friends could see them.
His apartment was out in the more ritzy section of town-in fact it was so big it seemed more like a house than an apartment to Arlene. She stood in awe looking at the lavish furnishings, the fine paintings on the walls, the fancy furniture and last of all at his bedroom with its huge bed.
She playfully jumped onto the bed and felt it bounce her into the air with its deep springs.
"You look as if you liked this place," he said.
"It is heavenly," she replied. She thought how wonderful it would be to live in such luxury. She wondered if Big Joe was married. And if so, if his wife was away. Maybe they lived in separate places.
"Would you like to live here?" he asked.
Arlene looked at him in amazement. "Are you proposing to me?" she asked, hoping he was suggesting marriage.
"How about a drink?" he asked.
She took the tall glass he ofered and sitting up on the edge of the bed drank it slowly, all the time watching Big Joe as he wrestled with what to say or do next.
"Come on, honey," she said. "Let's get comfortable. I've had a rough day and I could use some shut eye. I'll bet you can, too! Put on your pajamas ... maybe you have something I can wear too. Let's get to bed now."
Big Joe nodded absently. He took some sheer women's pajamas out of one of the bureau drawers, got a pair for himself and proceeded to undress. Arlene quickly donned hers and slid into bed. He was slower, but soon joined her.
She cuddled up to him and he put his arms around her protectively. "You don't have to answer me tonight, honey," she said. "I know you didn't mean it as a proposal of marriage. Think about it. It might be a good break for both of us."
Big Joe looked down at his sleepy bedmate, kissed her solidly on her ripe full lips and turned over to go to sleep. Arlene stayed next to his hard body, wondering if this is what it was like to be married.
Her breasts felt hard against his strong back. Her breath flowed gently into his ear as she leaned over to kiss him. He stirred slightly. As she continued, he turned over and took her in his arms. They kissed passionately, fondling each other over their pajamas. He began kneading her breasts and exploring her full thighs.
She sighed as his hands went inside her thighs and sought her warm secrets. Her lips clung to his passionately as he pulled down her pajama bottom and slowly entered paradise.
Arlene, with a near-fright as she rocketed out into sexual orbit, felt her entire energy plummet into the sheath-like passageway of her cunt, and then mingle with the lava-like molten love juice he was bursting into her.
Her cunt muscles convulsed around the shaft of his penis and a shudder, then another and another roared through her body, leaving her quaking in their aftermath.
Once again they tried to sleep and this time succeeded. The last words she remembered hearing were "Goodnight, sweetheart. Tomorrow we'll get the license!"
