He keeps a diary ... he writes every depraved thought he ever had there for posterity ... every evil deed. And no one knows his identity. Certainly not the ravishing Rene Clinton ... who preens her provocative charms in the direction of Hal Kirby as she leaves the office. So much so that Hal has to rush home to his collection of special "art" photographs to relieve his tensions ... while Rene goes on to a cocktail lounge. Jeff Turner picks her up in the bar and they drive to a secluded spot where their emotions run rampant and Rene soon has him more excited than he had ever been before ... to no avail. Tauntingly, the tease Rene slips from the car and rushes into the darkness. Where the madman waits ... and acts ... and rushes home to preserve his memories forever ... his twisted emotions ... his shameless desires. In the morning, Brenda, the lovely teen-ager, torments Hal by posing near-nude before his bedroom window ... forcing him back to his private shame gallery. Jeff, meanwhile, swears vengeance on Rene and happens upon Janis ... to be the means of his revenge. But first he must love her. Then Jeff and Hal are both arrested for questioning ... as the shame madman starts another page in his passion dairy by stalking Brenda and her lover, the female called Ted....
CHAPTER ONE
Friday: Tonight I will have another woman. I will take her unaware, when she is least suspecting it, when her mind is on other things. I will take her with all her defenses down, naked, soft, vulnerable, helpless and open to me.
I will take her brutally, violently, with all the power of my desire as a weapon against which she will not possibly be able to stand.
I will take her as I have taken all the others. She will be alone.
Where? Walking? Yes; perhaps walking. Or perhaps waiting, standing somewhere waiting for someone or something, walking or waiting in darkness; yes, in the darkness, because the darkness is very important, the darkness is necessary, it must be in darkness.
A girl. In the darkness. Alone.
And I will strike.
How? From behind? I hope so. It's always better when I move from behind, take them by surprise, be upon them before they can so much as utter a sound. Of course, I cannot see their faces that way and I do not like to deny myself the pleasure of seeing their faces, seeing the dark fear growing in their eyes, seeing the terror make blood-blossoms in their cheeks-that is a very real, very big pleasure and it hurts me to be forced to pass it by....
But it must be. From behind. It is always so much better, so much more safe from behind.
And there is a satisfaction in the sudden, swift, unexpected pounce. That is a pleasure, too, and it helps make up for not being able to watch their faces at the instant of attack. There, in the darkness, with my quarry standing unknowing and unsuspecting, with my body tense and coiled, panther-like, poised to spring. Then the sudden wild rush, the feeling of soft flesh in my hands, the giddy tilting as she is borne to earth, the perfume of her terrified breath whistling soundlessly from her lungs as I pin her with all the weight of my body. That, too, is a pleasure and a satisfaction, and a suitable beginning.
But these things are, after all, only the beginning, and count for little.
Shall I take her now?
No; there are certain things yet to be done. She is twisted helplessly, but only for the moment, given a few seconds, she will recover her senses, her breath, the use of her limbs, and she will scream, she will try to beat me away, she will do everything in her power to try to rob me of my pleasure.
So there are things which must be done.
My hand. The fingers curl, the veins knot, the hard-ridged knuckles turn white, and suddenly my hand is no longer a hand. It is a fist, and a fist is a weapon.
I will hit her.
I will feel the softness of her cheek as my fist explodes against it, feel the deep, rich tremor of her as the blow puts her awareness to flight, feel all the strength of my hungers hammering away her consciousness, her identity, the last shudders of her resistance.
Alone, in the darkness I will see her go dark, sense the jack-o'-lantern flame of her mind flicker and go out.
Alone, in the darkness, and who is to see me, who is to hinder me, help her, prevent from happening what must and will happen?
No one.
And next-my hands on her clothing.
Yes.
What will she be wearing? A dress? T hope not. Dresses arc cumbersome garments, made all of a piece, and it can be such an effort to draw a dress away from the body of a woman, such an effort and such a waste of precious time, time which should be devoted to pleas a ure. Far better if she were to be wearing a blouse and a skirt; yes. a blouse, one that unbuttons down the front, like a shirt, starting at the neck and proceeding downward, downward, one button at a time, to her breasts, the hills, pillows, scoops, fleshy mountains, volcanoes of sweet passion-her breasts. Down, then, to her waist. The halves of the blouse parting, like curtains on a stage.
Then: My fingers on flesh, the skin lying taut over her ribs, my fingers slipping under, lifting her, arching her until I can touch the hooks of her brassiere.
Then: The hooks parting, my hands drawing the straps free, the halter riding up and off over her arms.
Then: Her breasts. Naked-. Bared to my touch.
But not yet. My hands must not yet touch her breasts. I must contain my hunger, for her skirt is next, I must now direct my attentions to her skirt, for removal of her skirt is far more important than removal of her blouse, her brassiere, although that is important, too. What is pleasure without the breasts? The breasts must be part of it. even if they are not the most important part.
My hands hover above her breasts but, with an effort, I restrain them from touching, caressing.
Then: The skirt. A button or two at the side or back. A zipper. A rustling as the garment slips free, as my hands draw it over her hips, her legs, her calves.
A detail. The skirt may not be casually discarded; it must be folded, carefully, folded into a pad to be carefully placed. I shall kneel on the skirt.
And then: The panties. The elastic yields to my fingers. The sleek material whispers as T tug it away.
Then: My own clothing. It takes but a moment. My fingers are practiced. A flip of the belt, a sharp pull on metal and they slither to my knees.
I am wearing no underwear. Of course.
Dark. Alone. No one to see. No one to stop me.
Alone in the darkness with a woman....
No; with a woman's shell. The woman herself is, for the moment, gone. My fists have beaten her identity away.
Alone in the darkness with no soul to see me, not even the woman herself . , .
What could be more perfect than that?
Tonight, I will have another woman. It will happen tonight.
And tomorrow, I will write in this book just what that was like.
All the way down in the elevator, Rene could feel the eyes looking at her.
It didn't bother her at all. For one thing, she was quite used to it by now, quite accustomed to the fact that she was a pretty girl. She dressed herself to accent that prettiness, used cosmetics skillfully to make the most of her features, with the intention of drawing admiring glances. Rene stared at was nothing new to her.
Actually, she liked it. It pleased her to think that her face and body attracted attention. She could always tell when one or more pairs of eyes were looking at her, even when the gaze was coming from somewhere behind her, and she could also tell when the owners of a those eyes were male because the clothes-conscious attention of a female had a different quality to it.
At the moment, there was a man watching her, and the thought of that made her very happy.
Rene was a pretty girl, and being pretty was a sort of weapon, a kind of power she wielded over the male population. She knew not only that men liked to watch her, but also why she attracted their scrutiny; she knew what was in their minds.
And knowing that only made her happier.
The elevator reached the lobby of her office building. As she stepped out of the car she looked toward the polished marble wall opposite, seeing her own reflection as well as the reflections of those behind her. It took her only a moment to spot the watcher; it was Hal Kirby, the young man who worked only a few desks away from her, the fellow she had caught looking at her legs and breasts so many times during the course of the working day.
She smiled to herself. The marble wall didn't make a very good mirror, but it was good enough for her to make out the silly, hungry expression on Hal's face. As she turned to head for the lobby doors, the last glimpse she had of him almost made her laugh. His eyes were fixed on her buttocks.
She left the lobby slowly, knowing Hal was still behind her, half hoping that he might get up enough nerve to say hello, perhaps even ask her out for dinner or a drink. She had been expecting an advance from him for some time. He was practically the only male in her office who hadn't tried at least once, but in the year they had been working together, Hal had never managed to muster enough courage to speak to her except when the work required it and, even then, he always kept his voice pitched very low and his eyes averted from hers, as if he were addressing a superior instead of a fellow employee. In spite of this, she could tell that his interest in her was quite intense, and she knew that someday he was bound to make an overture.
She reached the lobby doors and stepped from the air-conditioning into the late-afternoon sunshine. At the curb, she paused and lit a cigarette. She blew out a cloud of smoke, then tilted her head to one side, waiting. The eyes were no longer watching her.
Well, so much for Hal Kirby.
She crossed the street, and began walking.
It was Friday evening. The work-week was ended, and a fresh, unused weekend was stretching before her. Ordinarily, she would go straight home from work to her small bachelor-girl apartment and spend the evening alone; reading, watching television, or listening to records. But not on weekends. Friday, Saturday, and sometimes even Sunday were her days to enjoy herself.
Rene had an unique way of enjoying herself.
But then, Rene was an unique girl.
Part of this was physical. Her face was beautiful, but in a very odd way. She had wide-se' black eyes, a generous red mouth, a nose that tipped up just slightly at the end, all framed by jet black hair cut in jagged bangs across her forehead in the European style. She would have looked almost like a pixie, except for the expression in her eyes. One look into those eyes would tell a man that she was far from a pixie, but was in fact a woman of flesh and blood-wild flesh, and even wilder blood.
Her body helped complete this picture. Rene had the sort of figure usually found only in the pages of a man's magazine. Her breasts rode as high and proud on her torso as a pair of ripe fruit. Even concealed inside the primly-tailored blouse she wore those breasts invited the touch of a man's hands as brazenly as if they had been naked.
Her waist was narrow, but looked still narrower in comparison with the sensual flare of her hips. When she walked, her rounded legs moved with a faint silken sound against the material of her skirt, her twin-mounded hips swayed in rhythm, her lithe calves flexed delicately with soft muscle.
In short, Rene was the kind of girl who'd make a man look twice, and then a third time; the kind of voluptuous female who'd make a man think immediately of pleasure. Her face and body radiated an awareness of everything she had and the reason she had it, and no man worthy of the name could possibly miss it.
But knowing it was there and getting your hands on it were two different things.
Unlike other young girls her age, Rene seldom went out on dates. Quite a few men had attempted to date her, and had been baffled and annoyed when she consistently turned them down. And they had been even more irritated by the manner in which she rejected their advances; the superior smirk on her full-lipped mouth, the chill tone of her voice, the private mocking laughter in her eyes. Rene knew how to give a man the feeling that she knew a terribly amusing secret about him, knew something that made him seem to her as insignificant as a crawling bug. It wasn't a pleasant thing to ask Rene for a date and be refused in a way that left you feeling no more important than a worm. It was so unpleasant, in fact, that after awhile it would begin to outweigh her sensuous promise, and you would just stop trying.
Once in a great while, though, Rene would say yes. You would ask her out to dinner, prepared in advance to accept her refusal gracefully, and to your amazement she would agree and you would suddenly find yourself on a date with one of the most beautiful women you had ever met.
And it would be only after that date was over that you would realize just how unlucky you had been, just how fortunate were all the other men who had never had an opportunity to go out with Rene.
Rene disliked men. There was no particular reason for this; it was just the way she happened to feel. She didn't prefer the company of her own gender particularly. Left to her own choice, she usually preferred being alone.
But now and then, Rene would get a sudden urge to have some fun, to break out of the monotony of her life for an evening and get some kicks. And as far as she was concerned there was only one kick that would satisfy her.
Rene was a tease.
She was expert at it. She knew all the most effective ways to raise a man's hopes and the most devastating methods of dashing them to the ground. She knew how to make her date fee! that he was in command of the situation, that she was sweet and eager and willing; knew how to turn a simple dinner date into a prologue of better things to come.
And while her date grew more and more bright-eyed, while the anticipation of what Rene was offering made thoughts of intimacy chase nakedly across his face, while she sat across from him at a table and listened to his chatter, listened as he suggested slyly that they go up to his apartment for a few more drinks and some quiet music and some talk. All the while she played this game, Rene got her kicks. Nothing tickled her more than seeing a man make a fool of himself. All she had to do was act available, and her date would just fall all over himself in the effort to pin her down.
So they would leave the restaurant and go to his apartment. And Rene would continue to play the game even after they'd arrived there, continue to lead him on, listening gravely to what he proposed, laughing at his jokes, sometimes even letting him touch her, put his hands on her breasts or on a silken leg, letting him build his fantasy until she knew it was devouring him.
Then she would turn it off. Click. Just that way, like the throwing of a switch, Rene would change from the soft, agreeable girl she had been into a statue carved of ice.
And for her. that was the most amusing moment of all.
So, her date would get nothing for his pains, and she would leave him, and he would be sure to never bother her again. But that was all right, because there were so many thousands of men in the world and it was so very easy for her to find a suitable companion whenever she felt the urge. She had the sort of promising looks that would lure them, she had the kind of mind quick enough to draw them on to the point of no return, and she had a tongue sharp enough to cut them dead in no uncertain terms.
She had everything a girl needed to be an expert tease.
Now it was Friday night, and Rene was beginning to feel the old yen coming upon her. That business with Hal Kirby in the elevator had probably triggered it; feeling his attention riveted on her had reminded her of the game and of the amusement she could find in the playing of it. If Hal had rallied nerve enough to approach her there in the lobby and make a play, she would have accepted; she knew him well enough by now to be certain that he was a perfect subject.
But Hal had missed his big chance. So there was nothing for her to do but look elsewhere.
She reached the corner where she normally took her subway, stared for a moment at the entrance, then walked past it. She could see neon lights waiting a block or so ahead of her, and where there was neon there was bound to be a bar or two. And an unescorted woman, especially a woman as good-looking as she was, would have no trouble finding a suitable mate for her pleasure.
She began walking faster, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Hal waited inside the lobby doors until Rene crossed the street.
For a horrible moment, he thought she was going to look back at him. He wasn't certain, but he had the feeling that she had seen his reflection in the marble as they got off the elevator, had seen the expression on his face and the direction of his eyes. He had spent a lot of time staring at her over the past year, but she had never caught him at it, and he shuddered to think that he had spoiled that perfect record.
But, after lighting a cigarette, Rene had gone on without looking back, and Hal breathed a sigh of relief. He waited a few moments longer, then pushed through the lobby doors to the street.
He needed a drink. He could feel his heart pounding, feel the beading of sweat on his brow, and he knew from past experience that the only thing that could cure that was a drink. He headed off in the direction opposite to the one Rene had taken, and walked until he found a bar.
The place was dark and crowded. The after-work mob had filled it quickly, and there was hardly room for him at the bar. The tightly packed humanity threw off enough heat to make the air conditioning useless.
Hal spied a hole in the crowd and began to push through toward the bar. He stopped when he saw that his steps were taking him between two young girls, and backed away. If he stood at the bar with those girls on either side of him, he would be unable to keep himself from looking at them, unable to prevent them from looking at him, and that was something he wouldn't be able to stand at the moment.
He turned, walked down the length of the bar, and found another spot between two middle-aged businessmen. The bartender was busy at the other end of the place, and Ha! waited patiently for him.
While he waited, he thought about Rene.
She was beyond doubt the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Just working in the same office with her caused the old ache of fear to flower for him. He hated to talk to her, even when his job demanded it. afraid that some action or word on his part might betray his interest to her. He wondered sometimes if he had been so successful in concealing his thoughts after all; Rene often seemed aware of his scrutiny and. though she had never said anything about it, he had the awful conviction that she knew all his secrets.
But that was impossible. He was just torturing himself, as he so often did. He had to keep reminding himself that, just as he was unable to read the minds of those around him, they were incapable of reading his.
No one knew. And, as long as Hal exercised reasonable care, no one would ever know.
He looked up, spotted the bartender, saw that the man was beginning to drift closer to him. He raised his hand in a signal.
Next to him, a voice said: "Buy me a drink, buddyboy."
His hand froze in mid-gesture. The voice belonged to a female. But how was that possible? Where had she come from? His mind whirled in panic.
"Didn't you hear me, buddy-boy?" she asked.
"What the hell's the matter with you, you deaf?"
He could smell her breath, feel the warmth of it against his right cheek. Without looking at her, he could tell she was drunk. His panic subsided a bit. Somehow, a drunken woman seemed less of a threat to him than a sober one.
He turned to look at her.
She appeared to be in her early thirties. She had a rather pretty face and a good figure, but her looks were partially blurred by the alcohol in her. She was wearing a well-tailored suit and blouse. The suit jacket was unbuttoned; her breasts pushed against the sheer material of the blouse like twin, lethal bullets.
"How about it, buddy-boy?" she persisted. "How many times I got to ask you?"
She wasn't really that much of a threat, he thought. For one thing, she was older than he was, an older women never bothered him as much as girls his own age. For another thing, she was quite bombed. Her gaze was fogged and turned inward on her own problems, whatever they might be. Even when she stared right at him, she didn't seem to be seeing him at all.
He relaxed enough to answer her.
"I haven't even had a drink myself yet," he said.
"Big deal." She drew deeply on a cigarette, then dropped it to the floor and ground it out beneath her high-heel. "You can talk, can't you? Ask the nice man for a drink. Scotch for me."
He looked around, and discovered that the bartender was standing before him. "Oh. I didn't see you." He felt stupid.
"What'll you have?" asked the bartender. "A Scotch for the lady," Hal said, and I'll have a...."
"A Scotch and what?" asked the bartender.
Hal turned to the woman. "How are you drinking it?"
"In a glass," she said. "With ice. I would have told you if I wanted it mixed."
"In a glass," Hal said, turning back to the bartender.
"With ice," he said. "I heard her. How about you?"
Hal needed a moment to remember what he usually drank. The plain truth was that he seldom touched alcohol. It took very little to make him drunk, and he had a terror of losing control, of drinking enough to make himself transparent, of somehow revealing his secrets. When he drank at all, it was only to settle his nerves, and he preferred not to taste the liquor if possible.
"Rye and ginger ale," he said finally.
The bartender was looking at him narrowly. "I'll have to see your draft card," he said.
"My draft card?" Hal blinked at him.
"Sorry. I can't serve you unless you show me your draft card."
"But...." Hal paused and wet his lips. He felt all at once that every eye in the bar was upon him.
"Come on. buddy-boy," said the woman. "Show him your damned draft card. I want my drink."
"I haven't got all night, pal," said the bartender.
Hal fumbled into his back pocket and pulled forth his wallet. He was about to zip open his card compartment when he realized he couldn't do that while the bartender and the woman were watching. If they were to see what he had hidden in there, in among the innocent cards and tickets and currency....
"Well?" said the bartender.
"I'm twenty-five years old," Hal said.
"Sure," said the bartender. "Then let's see your discharge."
"I-" He swallowed hard. "I wasn't in the Army."
"Then you got to be carrying your draft card." The bartender leaned forward and crossed his arms on the counter. "Pal, I'm not going to serve you unless you can show me proof of age."
"I'm twenty-five," Hal said again.
"That's what you say, pal. By me, you don't look no twenty-five. Now how about it?"
Hal looked at the man, then at his wallet, then at the woman beside him. Some of the alcoholic fog had left her eyes; she was watching him now with bright interest.
Hal stood for a moment longer without speaking. Then he folded his wallet, stuck it into his back pocket, and turned quickly away from the bar.
The woman began laughing. "Can you beat that? He's just a little kid, for pity sake."
"I didn't think he was no twenty-five years old," said the bartender.
The woman laughed again. Her laughter was the last thing Hal heard as he left the bar and hurried out into the humid streets.
He felt hollow inside, as if the humiliation of the incident had drained him of something vital. The feeling was intensified by the fact that he had been telling the truth; he was twenty-five, he had never been in the Army, and his draft card was in his wallet just where it belonged.
Unfortunately, there was something else also in his wallet-something he couldn't allow the bartender or that woman or anyone in the world to see.
He went quickly to his subway, and rode home.
It was still daylight when he surfaced in his neighborhood. As he headed toward the apartment, he passed a grocery store and remembered that he needed food. He decidea there would be time enough for that later-afterward....
Hal lived by himself in a one and a half room attic apartment on the top' flooi of a three family house. He had his own entrance-an outside stairway at the back of the house-and as he hurried up the steps he was thankful that the owners of the place weren't sitting out in the back yard the way they usually did these warm summer evenings. He had no wish to talk to them, or to anyone. And he had no desire whatsoever to see Brenda, the landlord's teen-age daughter, the one with the still-ripening breasts, the long coltish legs, the knowing lustful look in her eyes....
In her way, Brenda was very nearly as nerve wracking to him as Rene at the office. The way he felt at the moment, he knew he couldn't stand an encounter with her.
He reached his third-floor door without seeing anyone, and stepped into the safety of his apartment.
The place was serviceable, but dull. The dreary furniture all belonged to the landlord, with one exception, and it had obviously been chosen with an eye toward saving money rather than to furnish a cheerful and livable apartment. But details like that meant nothing to Hal; as long as he had a place to stay, a place of peace and quiet and privacy, as long as the four walls concealed him from the world, he wouldn't have cared if the place were furnished like a prison cell.
He crossed the room to the only piece of furniture he owned; a small locking trunk. He fished the key out of his pocket and carefully unlocked it. He had bought the trunk several years before at a hockshop for twenty dollars, and he had never regretted the expenditure. He knew that his landlord had a key to his place; he imagined that the people downstairs had been up here at one time or another, snooping around, trying to discover how he lived. But, although they had a key to the apartment, they didn't have a key to his trunk, and it was in that trunk that the secrets of his life resided.
He swung the lid back, lifted out some folded clothing, a stack of back-date magazines, and several other layers of stuff until he had reached the bottom.
He took out his wallet, pulled the zipper open, and removed the pictures.
There were five of them. The first one showed a man and a woman clutched in nude embrace. The second showed the same man kissing the woman's breasts while her hands teased him. The third showed an entirely different couple; the man seated naked in a straight chair, the woman seated facing him The fourth showed a man and a woman sprawled reversed on a bed. The fifth showed two girls kissing each other on the lips and clutching each other's breasts.
In the bottom of the trunk were more than two hundred additional photographs, all showing similar scenes. Hal thought of them as his collection.
The business in the bar had convinced him that it was too dangerous for him to carry any of the photos in his wallet. He had escaped this time with nothing worse than humiliation, but suppose a policeman were to stop him for some reason and ask to see his identification, and see instead a group of his photos? Just suppose....
He dropped the pictures onto the pile at the bottom of the trunk.
From now on, he decided, he would have to do without the diversion those photos often provided during the working day. If the time came again, as he was sure it would, when the sight of Rene and the urgency of his own private thoughts drove him into the men's room for release, he would make do with his own imagination rather than the more vivid fantasies conjured up by the photos. That was always better with the photos, of course, but he could learn to live without them. And they would always be waiting for him when he came home at the end of a particularly hard day.
He knelt for awhile longer, staring into the trunk, his eyes blank. Then he arose, went to the door, put on the chain lock and drew the bolt, both of which he had installed himself. He circled the small room, pulling down the shades, then went into the half-kitchen and did the same.
He returned to the trunk and scooped out a handful of photos at random. He crossed the room to the bed, reclined on it, and adjusted his clothing. There was just enough light coming through the shades to enable him to see the photos clearly.
He thought of Rene.
He thought of Brenda.
He thought of the woman in the bar, and all the other women he had never touched, never kissed, never had. And eliminating all those women left no other women but the ones in the photos.
So he concentrated on them, and concentrated on the men in the photos, who were all himself.
And, after awhile, he stopped thinking altogether.
CHAPTER TWO
Teff Turner sat glumly at the bar, his hands curled around his glass. The ice in his drink was melting quickly, but he didn't give much of a damn about that. When this drink was gone, there would always be another, and after that another, so what the hell did it matter? What the hell did anything matter?
Jeff looked up and saw his reflection in the mirror back of the bar. The sight of it made him angry. For an instant, he had a terrific urge to pick up his glass and hurl it through the mirror. But he restrained himself. If he broke the mirror he would just have to pay for it. and that money could be far more profitably spent on drinking.
He drained his glass. The bartender came out of nowhere and reached for it, his eyebrows raised inquiringly.
"Same again." said Jeff. "Only this time make it a double."
"Check," said the bartender. He went down the bar, returned a moment later with a fresh drink, set it down, and scooped fifty cents from the collection of bills and silver on the bar in front of Jeff. He went away without a word.
Jeff looked at his reflection. So? he thought. What now, big shot? Where do we go from here?
He knew he was being silly about the thing, attaching more importance to it than it was worth. After all, it wasn't the first time in his life he had been stood up by a woman, and what the hell were women anyway but a pleasurable commodity, to be used and discarded like cigarettes. One woman was no more worthwhile than another. Like the drinks at this bar, they were available in a never-ending supply.
No, he thought, that comparison isn't quite accurate. A man could get a drink simply by asking for it, but the process of landing a suitable female was far more complicated and expensive. Suitable; that was the key word. Jeff knew the problem would be tremendously simplified it he were to drop his objections to prostitutes and settle for some pay-as-you-go enjoyment. But prostitutes never really satisfied him; at least, not in the way a nonprofessional conquest satisfied him. He had tried that several times in the past and there was simply no comparison.
So, he tried to cultivate girls he met at work or at parties, any girls at all, as long as they were reasonably good looking and acted reasonably willing to play. Jeff never minded playing it their way either, and frequently the game could get pretty damned boring before the ultimate goal was finally obtained. It was a long, rocky road between that first meeting and the bedroom, and it could cost a pretty penny to travel it.
And after all the expense of making that trip, Jeff didn't relish finding himself at a dead end.
Well, it had happened before, and now it had happened again. After all the time and cash he had spent grooming Janis for this triumphant evening, she hadn't even bothered to show up. She had promised to meet him in this bar at five-thirty, and here it was half-past six and there was no sign of her. Girls liked to be a little late for dates usually, but Jeff knew from his own experience that when a broad stood you up for over an hour, she wasn't coming at all.
The whole bit was shot to hell, and here he sat, alone with his drink, cheated of everything he had planned and worked toward, feeling sorry for himself, mad at Janis and teed off at the world in general.
He took a long pull at his drink, set it down, and lit a cigarette. He tried to decide what to do with his evening. Here it was Friday, and he had no date, nowhere at all to go except back to his apartment. After a week of working, a week of looking forward to some kicks, he didn't care much for the idea of spending this Friday evening alone.
And yet, what were his alternatives? He could call one of his old discarded girls and try to arrange something, but Jeff wasn't the sort of man who went back to a woman once he'd dropped her. So that was out. He could go to a show or a movie, sure, but he doubted if there was anything around that would take his mind off the sour feeling of self-pity inside him.
The only other thing he could think of was simply to sit here in this bar and drink himself silly, until either his money or his tolerance for liquor ran out. It wasn't much of a Friday night, but it would have to do.
He finished the drink. The bartender appeared again, gave him a refill, took some money, and vanished.
Jeff sipped his fresh drink, then poked a finger around in the money on the bar. Originally, he'd laid out a ten-dollar bill; of that, there was now just a little more than five dollars left. He'd cashed his paycheck at noon that day, so he knew there was about a hundred dollars more in his wallet. Most of that was earmarked for payment of bills, but he still had enough cash on him to do just about anything that took his fancy.
The situation was ridiculous. Here he was, a man of twenty-six, with money in his pocket, plenty on the ball, and an evening on his hands. So Janis had stood him up, so what? Just because one girl had taken a powder on him didn't mean the end of the world. The only thing for him to do was stir himself, get the hell out of this dead bar, and go looking for some action. He had plenty going for him, all things considered, and he was being three kinds of a jackass sitting around letting that all go to waste. Even if he didn't succeed in finding a beddable girl this evening, he could at least meet somebody, and maybe start a brand-new campaign, one on which he could cash in at some future date.
It wasn't going to come to him. One way or another, he would have to go looking for it.
He made up his mind, drained his drink, scooped his change off the bar before the bartender could get to it, and climbed down off the stool. He turned toward the front door.
That was when he saw the girl.
The sight of her stopped him cold. He hadn't realized until that moment just how immersed he was in his own thoughts. He'd been sitting in this bar for over an hour, so drowned in depression that he hadn't even noticed a gorgeous hunk of woman sitting only a few feet away. It was bad enough that Janis had stood him up, but it was worse that her failure to show had bent him that far out of shape.
He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He thought: Damn you, Janis, wherever you might be.
Then he walked toward the back of the bar.
The girl was seated at a table, alone. Jeff scanned the table, noted with satisfaction that there was only one glass on it and that all the cigarette butts in the ash tray were stained with her lipstick. He rejected the possibility that she might have an escort off in the John or some place else. Her table was set for only one. Of course, it was possible she was waiting for a date. But it was also possible that Jeff would turn out to be that date.
He reached her table feeling quite pleased and sure of himself. He smiled down at her. After a moment, she looked up. "Hi," he said.
Her eyes did something peculiar, flashed some expression he couldn't identify. She didn't speak right away, and he used the pause to examine her face and what he could see of her body. She had very pretty features, not quite good enough to make her beautiful, but farm from what you might call cute. Jeff hated "cute" girls.
Her hair was cut in shaggy bangs, and was black as midnight. She wore a high-necked blouse, but her bust was the kind that didn't need a display of cleavage to attract attention. He looked at the firm mounds for only a second, then deliberately tore his eyes away before his face betrayed him.
Beyond the edge of the table, he could just make out her narrow waist and the curve of her hips and middle against her tight skirt. He couldn't see her legs, but he felt certain they would be just as exciting as the rest of her.
She was the sort of parcel a man like Jeff dreams about, and in the fraction of a second it took for him to examine her, he made up his mind he was going to have this broad, have her right where he wanted her, in spades. And the memory of Janis only strengthened his resolve that this one was not going to get away.
"Hello," she said. "Do I know you?"
"Not yet. Mind if I sit down?"
"Help yourself. It's a free country."
He seated himself opposite her, "What are you drinking?"
"Bourbon."
"Looks like you need a refill."
She smiled. There was a certain warmth in her smile, and a bit of a challenge as well. "Then why don't you buy me one?" she said.
He caught the bartender's eye and gestured him over to the table. "Pair of bourbons," he said. "On the rocks."
The bartender absorbed the order without comment, and went back to the bar.
Jeff turned his attention toward the girl again. "Waiting here for somebody?" he asked.
"You could say that." She held a cigarette to her lips. "Light?"
He flipped out his lighter. As she puffed the cigarette alight, her cheeks hollowed and her mouth formed a sort of pout around the filter tip. He liked the look of that. The free and easy way she used her mouth caused an anticipatory chill to pass through him.
"Am I the one you're waiting for?" he asked.
"I can't tell yet. Are you?"
"Want to see my identification?"
"The only kind of identification you could show me is the kind you couldn't take out in public."
It stopped him only for a second. Then he leaned back in the chair and laughed. He started to answer her but the bartender, damn his hide, picked that moment to interrupt. He set the drinks down on the table and waited silently while Jeff fished out a bill.
When the bartender had gone, Jeff leaned forward.
He considered picking up the conversation where she had left it, then decided not to. He didn't want to seem too eager; he'd spoiled many perfectly good evenings by over-playing his hand
"My name's Jeff." hp said finally. "What's yours?"
"Rene," she said. "One R, one N, two E's."
He grinned. "Like to spell it right out, don't you?"
"Sure," she said. "Do you?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"On the situation and the girl."
"I see." She drew again on her cigarette, and again he was treated to the suggestive pouting of her mouth. He lifted his drink in a toast. "Here's to us," he said.
She nodded. She had a completely different sort of pout for drinking, but the effect was the same. He watched the movement of her soft lips against the rim of the glass, watched the little halo of lipstick she left there, and felt once more the warm chill of anticipation twist in his intestines. God, but she looked like a wild one; the kind of broad who would just tear a man apart, given the chance.
He fully intended to give her the chance.
They talked To start with, their conversation was just light banter, but gradually they got around to some basics. He learned that she held an office job in the vicinity and worked only a few blocks from where he did. He also learned she lived alone, which pleased him. He didn't like to date girls with roommates usually; taking care of one girl was job enough, but the presence of a second girl, however slightly involved, complicated matters far too much.
And as she talked on, he became more and more convinced that she was everything she seemed to be; a thoroughly willing, completely delightful vixen. He could hardly believe his good fortune in having connected with such a perfect doll, but there was no denying the evidence of his senses. He had pulled a blank with Janis who was beginning to seem less and less desirable with each passing minute-and had come up with this Rene instead. What man could ask for a finer turn of events than that?
She asked him some questions about himself, and he answered them truthfully. She acted impressed when he told her he worked for a television station, even if his job was only in the payroll department. He got the impression that she was pleased to learn he also lived alone. The more he talked, the more convinced he became that she was his kind of woman, to be had for the asking, and not after any long campaign of seduction either, but tonight, pow, just like that. He couldn't remember ever having enjoyed such luck, ever having drawn such a tasty prize with so little effort.
It struck him as they were talking that she might be a pro. It didn't seem likely; after all, he had been the one to make the initial advance, and if she were a pro it would have been the other way around. Still, once the suspicion had grown in his mind, he was unable to shake it.
"Do you make it a habit to talk to strange men in bars?" he asked.
"I didn't talk to you," she said. "You talked to me."
"True enough. But you have to admit we got acquainted pretty easily."
"Why not? What's the point of two people sitting around by themselves doing nothing when there's so much they could do together?"
He nodded. "Sounds logical."
"But?"
"Well, I don't often meet girls with that attitude."
She laughed, a soft liquid sound in her throat. "You don't often meet girls like me," she said. "I'm unusual in a lot of ways."
"Are you?"
She laughed again. "There's no point in telling you about it. That would spoil all the fun. I'll let you find out by yourself."
"Okay. When do we start?"
"How does right now strike you?"
"Fine." He slid his chair back from the table. "My car's in a lot just around the corner."
"Let's go," she said.
He arose, came around the table, and held the chair for her as she got up. She put her cigarettes back in her purse, and smoothed her skirt down over her hips. While she was .doing this, he got a chance to look at her legs. They were even better than he had hoped. A bright fantasy flashed briefly through his mind, and he could feel those legs against his, feel those rounded arms around his waist and her nails digging into his back. The image lasted only a second, but it shook him more than he cared to admit. He tried to remember when a girl had hit him as hard as Rene, but was unable to and, while he didn't much like the idea of being in such a tailspin over a female, the promise she was hoking out to him more than made up for any injury to his masculine pride.
As they left the bar she took his arm, and he felt the pressure of one of her breasts against his bicep. The mound was a great deal firmer than he would have suspected. He wondered if it would seem just as firm when her brassiere was off. He decided it probably would. He also decided that, if things kept up like this all the way to the car, he would have to walk sideways to make it without being arrested.
The street outside the bar was dark and practically deserted. As they walked arm in arm toward the corner, she said, "I like it when it's like this."
He frowned. "When what's like what?"
"When this neighborhood's all cleared out. During the day. the streets are filled with people, thousands of them, all running back and forth. But at night everybody goes home, and the streets are deserted. And it's nice and dark."
"You like to be alone in the dark with a man?" he asked.
"Yes," she said.
She didn't say anything else, and he couldn't think of an answer for her, so they remained silent all the rest of the way to the car.
"A convertible," she said, pleased. "I like to ride in convertibles."
"Good." He brought her around to the passenger side. "Hop in."
As she slipped into the seat, her tight skirt hiked up her knees, revealing several inches of firm and creamy legs. He stared at her, and swallowed faintly.
"Is my skirt all right this way?" she asked.
He shifted his eyes quickly, ashamed at being caught, and found she was grinning happily at him. "It's just fine," he said.
"All right. Then I'll leave it this way." Her grin spread.
He slammed her door, then circled the car and slipped in under the wheel. "Now," he said. "Where to?"
"Well, I can think of two likely places offhand."
"Such as?"
"Your place," she said. "Or mine. I think mine would be better."
"Oh?" The idea that she might be nothing more than a high-class professional came back to him. "Why is that?"
"I prefer it when I can just go to sleep afterward. I always want to sleep afterward, and in my own bed if possible."
He stared at her. When he spoke again his voice had a peculiar strained sound to it. "Lead the way," he said, the last of his objections vanishing from his mind.
She gave him directions. He drove like a madman, keeping his eye more on her than on the road. His driving didn't seem to make her at all nervous. As they rode, the motion of the car made her skirt hike higher and higher until, by the time they reached her corner, he had glimpsed the soft laciness of her black panties and the white flesh above her garter clips. "Stop here." she said.
He pulled obediently over to the curb. The car stood midway between two street lamps in a pool of darkness. He turned off the key.
"No," she said. "Don't shut off the motor yet."
"Why not?"
"I want you to put the top up."
He thought about that for a second, then decided to do what she asked. He was beyond questioning anything she had to say. He keyed the motor back on, then punched the button that raised the top. It whirred into place overhead. He snapped it tight across the top of the windshield, then turned to look at her. She was rolling up the window on her side. He did the same on the driver's side.
"There," she said. "Isn't that cozy?"
"Very cozy," he said. "But I thought we were going to your apartment."
"In a minute. I'm in no hurry. Are you?"
"No," he lied.
"Besides," she said. "There's something nice about cuddling in a car. Makes things seem more wicked somehow. You feel that way?"
He didn't anwer, but the expression on his face apparently told her all she needed to know.
"Come here," she said, patting the seat beside her.
He slid across until he was out from under the wheel. An instant later, her hand was on him.
"Now," she said, her voice husky. "We can really get acquainted."
Her touch did things to him, even through two layers of clothing. He felt his excitement grow in response to her caress, felt a coiling of warmth in his abdomen. His hand came up quickly to encase a breast.
It was firm, and at the same time yielding, in just the right combination of hard and soft to turn a man's brain to jelly. It snuggled into his palm as if it had been made to rest there, and every breath she took made the mound rise taut and shuddering against his cupped hand.
He put his face against hers, felt a shock of passion as their lips met. Her hand was doing fantastic things. Her fingers were seeking the tab of a zipper. She found it without much difficulty. As the zipper" opened, her lips also opened and he felt her tongue rocket at his mouth.
The secret of his excitement was no longer a secret. She had absolute proof within reach.
It was a terrific moment. But even while he was enjoying the liquored taste of her lips, the firm roundness of her breast, he couldn't keep himself from wondering just what the hell they were doing there. Granted, they were having quite a bit of fun for themselves, but things would certainly be a lot better in the privacy of her apartment. Once he got her in the apartment, he could take off the blouse and brassiere which stood between him and the fantastic breast he was holding, and clutch that breast naked the way he wanted to. He wanted to have her bare flesh in his palm, wanted to see the tensed button of the nipple prodding out of the mound, wanted to taste that coral disc with his own lips while his own excitement built. He wanted to do away with her skirt and panties, although he'd leave her stockings and garter-belt on if she'd let him, do away with the worthless barricades of clothes and spread her out on a soft bed, nude and ready for him. He wanted these things badly and, as her touch excited him more and more, he began to feel that he would blow his top completely if he didn't get what he wanted. He was rapidly reaching the point of no return.
Her caress stopped suddenly. She leaned away from him, and let her breast slip from his grasp. Their lips parted.
It took several seconds to focus his eyes. She was looking at him with a strange expression in her eyes.
"Are you excited?" she asked.
His voice cracked slightly as he answered. "What do you think?"
"How excited?"
"Rene, I'm just about as excited as any man could get. Can't you tell?"
She nodded. "I can tell," she said.
"How about it? Let's go up to your place now."
The expression in her eyes spread to her mouth, and he realized with a shock that it was amusement.
"Not in a million years," she said sweetly.
Before he could even react to her statement, she had opened the door on her side, slammed it, and was hurrying off down the street toward the corner.
He couldn't believe it was happening. He sat frozen with amazement until she had reached the corner. She was running out on him. After all the pleasure she had offered, all the excitement she had promised, at the last minute she was cheating him out of it all.
He said something foul, and was about to leap out of the car when he remembered the condition of his trousers. He paused to adjust his clothing. When he looked up, she had vanished around the corner.
He climbed from the car and charged down the street. She didn't have much of a lead on him. With any luck, he would be able to catch up with her. And once he had his hands on her....
He was far too angry to have formed any definite plan. He only knew that he had to catch her. First Janis, and now this Rene-well, it was just too damned much for a man to stand.
He turned the corner, his fists cocked, his face twisted into a mask of fury.
The street ahead of him was empty.
His expression smoothed into one of bafflement. She couldn't have gotten that far ahead of him in the short time it had taken him to reach the corner, and yet, there wasn't a soul in sight. It was as if the earth had just swallowed her up.
He stood for a few moments longer, then started down the street, looking into doorways and alleyways as he passed them. She could, he realized, have ducked into any one of those, but it didn't seem very likely; the neighborhood wasn't a residential area. The doors were all entrances to factories and business lofts As far as he could see, there wasn't a dwelling anywhere on the street.
He came to the next corner and looked both ways. There was no sign of her. He glanced back in the di rection he had come. Nothing.
After awhile, he turned around and walked slowly back to his car.
His face was black with anger.
Rene stood well back in the alley, hidden in deep shadow. She knew it would be impossible for him to see her there, but she was terribly afraid he might hear her. It took every ounce of will-power she possessed to keep from laughing out loud.
She watched as he came charging past the mouth of the alley, and the glimpse she caught of the expression on his face made the laughter come bubbling up into her throat. She waited. A few moments later, he came past the alley again, going in the opposite direction. His expression had changed, and so had the tenseness of his body. This time, he wasn't hurrying, but was walking slowly, his shoulders rounded with defeat.
And really, that was the most amusing part of all. Rene nearly strangled on her laughter.
She waited, not moving, hardly daring to breathe. After a time, she heard what she thought was the sound of his car starting up. She kept her eye on the mouth of the alley, figuring that he would probably turn the corner and drive down the street in one last attempt to locate her.
And so he did. She saw the car cruise slowly past the alley, saw his head craning around. She pressed against the alley wall, but it was hardly necessary; he could never had spotted her in that deep darkness.
The car passed the alley. She listened as the sound of it gradually purred away into silence. For good measure, she waited a few moments longer.
Then, when he was absolutely certain he was gone, she allowed herself to laugh.
It was a very nasty laugh; brittle, harsh, humorless, a bit cruel, like the sound of icicles shattering or of glass breaking. If there had been anyone present to hear that laugh, he would have suddenly known down to the last detail just the sort of person Rene was, would have been able to see past her pretty exterior into the dark recesses of her mind.
But there was no one around to hear her, so Rene laughed alone.
Alone for the moment, at least.
Rene stopped laughing as abruptly as she had started. She knew she would probably begin laughing again as soon as she got back to her apartment At the moment, the most important item on her agenda was getting back to that apartment. The alley was damp and uncomfortable, and she wanted to return to the warmth of her own place where she could run over the events of the evening in her mind and really appreciate the rich humor of what she had done to that young man.
Rene lived only a few blocks from where she was standing. Her walk from the subway every evening took her past this dead section, and she often used the many dark and winding alleys as a shortcut to her building. She had never ducked out on a man through these alleys before, but she had long been sure that she would have use for them eventually.
And they had worked out just perfectly. Thinking about the man she had cheated, realizing the anger and amazement he must have felt when he turned the corner and found her vanished, she began chuckling again.
She started walking, heading away from the mouth of the alley, cutting through between the buildings toward the next block.
What an absolute fool he had been, she thought. She should recall vividly the grasping of his hand on her breast, the feeling of his excitement at her touch. She had hardly touched him, he had scarcely begun to touch her, when his passion had bloomed right to the limit. She couldn't remember any man in her experience who had responded so quickly.
His anxious enthusiasm only made the whole incident seem that much funnier, and once more her chilling laughter filled the alley.
This time, someone heard her.
The alley was long and dark and winding. To begin with, there had been some light spilling from the street behind her, but as Rene went deeper into the alley, the light faded and finally ceased altogether. The darkness was broken only by the faint starshine from overhead. A few more steps, a few more bends and curves of the alley, and Rene would begin to see the first glimmer of street lights from the next block, but for the moment she was in almost total darkness.
Something moved.
Something stirred in a doorway as she passed, but she was far too preoccupied with her own thoughts to notice it.
The shadow detached itself from the doorway and started after her.
Men were such idiots, thought Rene Tt was so easy for her to twist them around her finger that she sometimes felt a bit sorry for them. A man could be big and strong and hairy, but he amounted to nothing when the right kind of woman got hold of him. Given a chance, almost any woman could reduce a man to jelly, drain all the strength and resolve out of him just with a few promises, just by a touch or two, just by allowing her breast to be touched, her lip to be kissed, her legs to be caressed.
Maybe, she thought, she should get married. It would be fun to pick out one man and concentrate everything on him. He would have to be a strong man, of course, a man worthy of the effort. She would hold out the ultimate promise to him; not just that, not just affection, but love and devotion for the rest of both their lives.
And she would make certain he got neither of those things.
That, she decided, would be the biggest jest of all. Another laugh started deep in her throat. It never reached her lips.
Without any warning, a hand came out of the darkness behind her. and clapped itself over her mouth. At the same instant, another hand grabbed across the front of her, pinning her arm to her body.
The laugh turned to a scream, but no sound could get past the hand sealing her mouth.
She felt herself lifted from the ground and tried to lash out with her legs. But the attacker was too quick for her. He planted a foot between her thrashing calves, twisted her, and threw her to the ground. She felt the impact of the concrete against her back;, saw for a brief instant the stars high overhead, then saw a thick black shadow come hurtling down to her, blotting out everything.
The weight of him knocked the breath out of her, and the cry which had been building in her throat wheezed soundlessly between her twisted lips.
She saw the shadow rear up, saw an arm being drawn back, then felt the fantastic shock of a fist driving against the side of her head. Her vision exploded into scarlet pinwheels, and for a moment, she was unable to see anything.
When her senses returned an instant later, the man's hands were unbuttoning her blouse.
She was awake and aware of everything happening to her. But for some reason she found it impossible to move or utter a sound. She could only lie still, her mind screaming with fright, her body tensed with the struggle against her sudden paralysis, as the man' fingers methodically opened her blouse and removed it.
And the figure above her was a man, there was no question of that. She couldn't see his face or any detail i of his clothing, but she knew with a certainty that he was a man. And she also knew what he was planning to do to her.
No, she thought in panic. This can't be happening. Not to me....
He lifted her body. His fingers undid the snaps. Her brassiere came off. She was now naked to the waist.
No, she thought. Flease. Don't, flease leave me alone....
The words echoed in her mind, but her lips didn't make a sound. She doubted if her pleas would make much impression on him even if he could hear her.
Her skirt slithered down her legs.
Then her panties.
And now she was wearing nothing at all but her stockings and garter-belt. She wondered if he would remove them. She doubted it; he was probably a pervert, one of those beady-eyed, wet-lipped men who preferred to have a woman dressed in stockings and garters.
She felt a momentary contempt for him. Then she sensed the touch of the warm night air against her skin, and her contempt gave way to terror.
He's going to rape me, she thought.
No.
His hands came down suddenly over the nude hemispheres of her breasts, and she felt his fingernail cutting into her flesh. At the same instant, she sensed the awful touch of him readying to invade and assault her.
No, she thought. This can't be happening. Not to me....
But it was.
She could almost see him groveling all over her.
She could feel the sour wind of his breathing against her face. Her mind howled in rage and fear, but still the paralysis gripped her. She couldn't move so much as a muscle. She was forced to lie there helpless, unable to do anything, capable only of knowing he had begun ... Rape, she thought. That's going to happen to me.
He's stripped me naked and he's opened his own clothing, and now he's going to rape me-right here in this alley-and there isn't a damned thing I can do about that.
All at once, her fear turned into blind hatred.
She sensed the presence of the man near her, and he seemed suddenly to sympolize to her all the men in the world, all the lousy men with their dirty minds and dirty bodies, all the man who are interested in a girl for one reason, who think of one thing and one thing only, all the rotten men she hated so fiercely, all the men she had teased and tortured because it pleased her to see them crawl, because she despised them so much....
The man beside her was all these men-all the men in the world, returned to take revenge on her.
No, she thought. No, please....
"No!"
Her scream had sound. Without warning, her breath returned to her, and a howl of agony and fear burst from her lips as she gave voice to all the terror within her.
Things stopped, and hung suspended for a single electric moment.
Then something hard struck viciously against the side of her head. She felt a flare of unbearable, unbelievable pain.
Then nothing. m
CHAPTER THREE
Saturday: That happened.
Just as I hoped it would, that happened.
And she was good. Very, very good. In some ways, she was as good as the best I have ever known. In many ways, even better.
Except, of course, for one complication.
Ah, but that, too, added a certain spice to the moment, gave to the ultimate pleasure of release a new and unique form. And though I might have avoided the blunder had I exercised greater care, I must be thank ful for the new dimension of enjoyment revealed to me. And as for the future....
Will I make that same error again? Now that I have tasted this unique thrill, can I ever again completely satisfy myself without that?
But that is in the future. Before I allow myself to think of it, I must set down the events of the past.
It happened this way:
I went to a new neighborhood, one I was not familiar with. It is my practice to never hunt twice in the same locality. There are two reasons for this: One is the simple matter of safety, for I run no risk of being recognized in a place to which I have never been before, and the second reason is that, just as the girl must each time be new, so also should the setting be new, because that newness, the excitement of taking a girl I have never seen in a place where I have never before set foot, is all part of the excitement.
I went to a new neighborhood.
This city is a large one, and I seldom have difficulty finding a spot where I might pursue my enjoyment. But it is rare that I find an area so perfectly suited for my purposes as the one I discovered last night. At first, I was doubtful. The neighborhood was dark, deserted, filled with doorways and alleys hidden in deep shadow, but it was also devoid of people. In other words, it was an ideal setting for the drama I craved, but it lacked the essential cast:
A girl.
But I couldn't pass it by. The black, twisting alleys, the subtle atmosphere of loneliness, the brooding maw of each dark doorway, all drew me with their aura of dark menace. I knew at A glance that I belonged in such a setting, that the pleasure I sought could be magnified, intensified by such a place. And so, even though my first glance told me I was alone on the street, that my quarry was nowhere in sight, I began exploring.
It was a business neighborhood. During the day, no doubt, the area bustled with industry, but at night it was as cold and empty as the dark side of the moon. There was little light, except for the pale glow of the streetlamps, no motion, except for blowing scraps of rubbish in the gutters, and the only sounds I could hear came from other streets so faintly that my own breathing obscured them.
If the street had been built with me specifically in mind, it could not possibly have been more perfect.
As I strolled, glancing into each doorway, examining the mouth of each alley, I thought back to other neighborhoods, other times, looked back on the pleasures of the past.
There have been so many.
There have been so very many that sometimes I cannot remember them all.
Certain highlights remain vivid, of course-the blonde in the park, the blonde with the huge, soft breasts and the struggling legs, the one who smelled of fresh bread and wore a silly waitress' uniform-I remember her. I can recall the feel of her flesh on my palms, the shudders and tremors of her lush body as I beat her senseless, then drank my fill of all her ripe charm I can recall that blonde as though it were only yester day.
Actually, of course, ft was several years ago. I'm no longer certain of exactly when. I could make certain of the date by simply paging back through this book until I find'her, but I don't really care. Perhaps another time.
Another time, and another girl.
Yes, I can remember the redhead, too. She was fragile. She had small breasts, as tender as little flowers, and her nipples were hardly any larger than my thumbnail. I can recall what it was like to take her, the sensation of her slender body, the wild delights I found, the fantastic sensation of her bones--her ribs, if I remember correctly-splintering under my fists. I can remember kissing her breasts so furiously that I found blood in my mouth....
The redhead. Hardly more than a child, really, and I had her in a child's setting, an empty playground at night.
There have been so many of them. How many? If I were to carefully read over all that I have set down in this book and tally up my pleasures, what would the total come to?
I must do that some time.
But not right now.
I spent a good half hour wandering around the neighborhood, getting the feel of the streets and alleys, until I was certain that I would be able to maintain my bearings regardless of where the pursuit of my pleasure might take me. It was important for me to be always aware of the nearest avenues of escape in case I was discovered in the act. That had happened to me before, a few times, and though I had been cheated of release, I had at least succeeded in fleeing to safety before my enemies could lay their hands on me. My enemies.
Everyone is my enemy. The people who walk the streets and live in all the houses, the people who buy and all, the people in uniforms who call themselves police, the wise man and the fool, the college professor and the drunken derelict, and even the girls I attack....
Every last one of them is my enemy.
Mankind is my enemy.
But I don't care. Why should I? I am complete within myself, I live in a world of my own making, and just as there is no room for me in their world, there is no space for any of them in mine.
Except for the girls, and then only on my terms: Unconscious, naked, helpless, spread out for me like a banquet, like soft wine-skins filled with the only liquor that can quench the fires within me.
So: I thought all these thoughts as I walked that benighted street, and gradually I felt the desire building up for me. I was primed; I was ready. And the setting, the atmosphere, every physical detail was perfect.
But where was the quarry?
Was this perfect street to go to waste simply because no suitable victim presented herself? Was I to be cheated out of the perfection of this moment because of such a mundane detail?
Suddenly, a figure appeared.
It was a man. I could tell immediately he was an elderly man by the slope of his shoulders and the shuffling manner of his walk. His gait also gave me the impression that he was drunk.
He appeared at the corner, but before he could even start down the street, I had faded into a dark alley, hiding my presence in the shadows. The man offered no particular menace to me, but I preferred, on a night such as this with my body filled with need and with all my work yet to be done, to be seen by no one. I stepped back into the deep darkness and pressed close to a brick wall. I waited until the old man had passed the alley. I listened carefully to the dwindling sound of his footsteps, and calculated the amount of time it would take him to reach the next corner. When I was satisfied that he was out of sight, I began moving toward the street.
But a new, unexpected sound stopped me.
Footsteps.
Not the footsteps of the old man returning, but a new set of footsteps entirely. And they did not shuffle or hesitate as had the old man's. They came swiftly down the street, with a terrific urgency, making a sharp patter against the pavement.
High heels.
Yes, a girl in high heels. The sound was unmistakable.
And she was running.
I dodged quickly back into the shadows. She was coming my way. In another moment, she would pass across the face of the alley and I would be able to see her.
I wondered if she were to be my quarry. T wondered if she were young, ripe, beautiful. I wondered what she could be running from.
I wondered all these things in the space of a very few seconds.
And then, I saw her.
She came to the mouth of the alley, and stopped.
She was everything I could have hoped for. The light on the street was dim, but I could still make out the features of her face, the shape of her body. She was young and sweetly formed. She was dressed in a blouse and skirt. As she stood there, I could see from the proudness of her stance that she was perfect for my purposes.
It took all the will-power I owned to keep from bolting out of the alley, grabbing her, and hauling her back into the shadows. But I restrained myself. I knew it would be dangerous to reveal myself on that street until I knew from what she was running. Was somebody pursuing her? If so, that somebody would see me the instant I stepped into the street, and I couldn't allow that to happen.
So I waited.
And, after the space of a few heartbeats, the girl stepped into the alley.
I moved deeper back, away from the street. The girl kept her face turned toward the alley entrance; she was not aware of my presence. Nevertheless, I moved slowly, cautiously, making no sound or sudden motion, until I felt the coarse woodframe of a doorway behind me. I backed into that doorway. It was deep enough to hold me completely, conceal me from the sight of the girl if she should happen to turn in my direction.
But she didn't. She kept her eyes fixed on the street. She eased back into the alley until she was standing at the same spot where I had stood only a moment before. She waited.
I also waited.
Another set of footsteps-heavier, louder than hers, coming from the direction she had come and in just as much of a hurry.
It was a young man. I watched him as he hurried past the alley, and so did the girl. We both listened; we both waited.
In a few moments, I heard the sound of those footsteps returning. The young man was looking for the girl. I didn't know why, and I didn't care. The important thing was that he must not find her. Once he was gone, the girl and I would be alone.
The perfect setting of that street, that alley, would have found its players at last.
Myself and the girl.
The young man passed the alley, walking back the same way he had come. The sound of his footfall grew fainter and fainter, then was gone.
I waited. There was no sound in the alley, except for the faint perfume of the girl's breathing and, from somewhere beyond us, the growl of an automobile starting.
I waited.
A car drove down the street outside, cruising slowly past the alley. It didn't stop.
I waited.
Everything was perfect. The young man was gone, the street was deserted, the girl and I were all alone in the alley.
I decided it was time to move, before the girl realized she had shaken her pursuer and returned to the safety of the street. I started to ease myself out of the doorway.
The girl began to laugh.
It was an unexpected sound, and I froze in position, listening to it. For a moment, I wasn't sure it was laughter. There was something cold about it, something that had no place in a young girl's amusement. The sound of that laughter went with the setting, but not with the girl.
She continued to laugh. I waited. After a time, she stopped laughing. I watched her carefully.
She moved, and I was about to move after her when I saw that she was coming in my direction. For some reason, she was walking deeper into the alley rather than toward the street.
I flattened myself in the doorway, hoping to remain concealed until she passed me. That way, I would be able to take her from behind just the way I had hoped. The farther she came into the darkness of that alley, the better things would be for my pleasure.
She passed the doorway, without noticing my presence. As she came by, I heard that she was still laughing. It was very soft in her throat, but it had the same cold sound. I discovered that I liked the sound of her chuckling.
When she was several paces past the doorway, I stepped out behind her. Once again, I moved slowly, silently, closing the gap between us with cat-quiet footsteps. Night and darkness were my jungle, and I was the panther, stalking, and she was my soft, white, innocent prey. The blood pounded in my veins and in my brain.
I was almost to her. I could smell her perfume, a spicy scent.
She started to laugh again. But I was upon her.
I clapped a hand over her mouth, pinned her arms with my other hand. I felt the moisture of her breath against my palm as her laugh died, then was reborn in a scream.
But, for her, it was too late for laughter, or screaming.
She was mine.
A twist, a lurch, a shifting of bodies. She had fallen to the ground before me. I squatted down to find the roundness of her against me. I drew back my fist.
I hit her.
Her cheek was very soft and delicate, like that of a child. Her bones were frail. I felt her jaw give against my blow, felt the bony impact of her teeth snapping together where my fist caught her.
She stiffened, then went limp.
I unbuttoned her blouse. My fingers moved swiftly, skillfully, in an economy of motion born out of long practice. How many blouses had I unbuttoned in my career? How many unconscious young bodies had I bared? How many girls had felt the full force of my need? A hundred? More than a hundred?
To that total-whatever it was-add one more.
I peeled the blouse off her.
I lifted her and removed her bra.
Her breasts sat jauntily upon her ribcage. She was one of those rare women who do not really need a brassiere to accentuate their bustline. Even lying flat on her back as she was, she displayed a set of breasts that rode as high and round as half-melons. Her nipples were small and sweet. The night air caressed them, and I watched as they drew in on themselves, ridged and puckered and sculpted until they seemed as hard as the coral from which they borrowed their color.
My hands longed to touch those thrusting mounds. My lips ached to claim those nipples, but I held back. She was naked to the waist, but that was only the beginning. I must do more before I could permit myself to touch her.
My fingers found the fasteners of her skirt. It opened. I pulled it down along her legs, trailing my fingers over the smoothness of her silk-encased hips, the bareness above her stockings, the nyloned perfection of her legs, all the way to her feet. I got the skirt off without disturbing her high heels. Given the chance, I always preferred to leave my victims' shoes in place. It added to my pleasure.
I folded the skirt into a knee pad for me then I peeled off her panties.
The stockings I left in place, as well as the garterbelt She wasn't completely naked, but she was naked enough for my purposes. And now was the time.
I opened my own clothing. I shoved my trousers down about my knees. As usual, I was wearing no underwear. I never do on such occasions.
I leaned forward.
My hands touched her breasts.
Yes, they were everything I had hoped they would be. They were firm and tender; they yielded to my touch, but only just so far. Their curves molded sweetly to my palms, and the twin buttons of the nipples seemed as hard as fingertips prodding against me.
My need was urgent. I moved closer.
And suddenly, at that fantastic moment, she spoke. She said a single word: "No!"
Her senses had returned to her, and at the worst possible moment. My feast of flesh had found its identity again, and that would spoil everything, all my plans, my waiting, all the carefully nurtured power of my desire.
I had to be alone. No one must see me, not even the girl herself. Alone with her body-it was the only way.
My hand left one of her breasts, brushed out across the hard concrete of the alley floor, encountered something. My fingers curled around the object. It was a piece of shattered brick, probably fallen from one of the crumbling walls on either side of us.
I held the brick in my hand for just a fraction of a second. Her cry had died off into silence. I could now hear the sound of fresh air rushing into her lungs, feel her ribcage expanding, forcing her lovely breast high against my palm. In another instant she would scream again. And again. And find strength and begin twisting and fighting against me.
One of my enemies had returned to cheat me of the prize I had won.
I brought up the brick quickly.
I brought it down.
It made a terrible sound. The tenseness drained out of her. The whistling of her breath ceased almost immediately.
I was alone.
I dropped the brick and started working. She did not move or react.
My hands captured both her breasts once again, mauling them, working them, crushing their contours. My fingers uncovered a nipple for my lips.
And all the while, I worked and worked, driving, straining.
After a time, that was over.
I subsided, my pleasure slaked, my body trembling and shuddering in after-release. My mouth sobbed against one of her breasts. I fought for air.
I pushed myself erect. Now it was time for me to run. I never lingered after taking my fill of a victim. One couldn't tell when she would awake, see me, realize what had happened, begin screaming again.
But this time, oddly, I didn't want to leave. For some reason I was unable to identify, I felt there was more pleasure to be had here, perhaps even a greater pleasure than the familiar one I had just experienced.
I thought it over while I waited for my strength to return. And gradually, it dawned on me that the girl hadn't moved or made a sound in all the time I had stood there, not since I had struck her with the brick.
An idea came to me. With trembling fingers, I sought down into my crumpled trousers and found the small pencil-flashlight I keep there for those occasions. I thumbed the button to on, concealed the glowing tip of the light in my hand, and bent to her.
I allowed a small pool of light to spill over her face.
Her eyes were closed. Her lips were pale and still. No breath disturbed the perfect arch of her nostrils. Her features were in absolute repose.
I moved the light upward.
There, above her smooth and dreaming brow, her skull had vanished into a ruin of red and gray. There were white bone splinters protruding through her mated hair. Beneath her head, a puddle of fresh, red blood was spreading slowly.
She was gone.
She was gone, not just for a moment, but forever. She was dead.
And her shell was mine. Mine alone. Alone.
No one to see me. No one to say: Don't do that, stop that, that's wrong....
The naked girl was no longer part of her world, she was now part of my world. I was her master.
The thought of that thrilled me, and suddenly I discovered that my desire had returned.
So I took her again.
And that was better, better than the first time, better than any of the times....
Alone with her shell, I reigned supreme.
I left her there when I was finished, left her dead there in the alley. I returned to my home.
Now it is Saturday morning, and I must think all these things over, I must plan my course of action.
I have tasted the thrill of being utterly alone with a prize.
I have tasted desire and death, intermingled. Having once experienced that, can I ever be satisfied with anything less?
CHAPTER FOUR
Hal awoke Saturday morning feeling a vague sense of guilt.
He made no effort to identify it. It wasn't necessary for him to consciously back-track over his deeds to discover the one which had produced this guilt feeling in him.
There was, in Hal's limited life, only one thing which could make him feel guilt. He had done that thing.
He had done that the night before, lying on that very bed, one hand holding a packet of his photographs, and the other hand ... He had done that.
Now it was morning, and he felt guilt. Well, he thought, what of it? Guilt was a small enough price to pay for the pleasure of release. The brief instant of pleasure he had experienced last night was worth any amount of guilty feelings the morning after.
Besides, it was all Hal had.
He lay in his bed not moving for some time. Gradually, the fog of sleep blew out of his brain, and he became aware of the world. It was Saturday morning, and that meant there was no work today. He was grateful for that. It wasn't that he actively disliked his job, he merely preferred to be by himself as much as possible. When he was alone, he knew for certain there could be no one watching him, and that was a comforting thought. At work, he was forced to mingle with people, people such as Rene, for instance....
Rene.
He recalled the last sight he'd had of her the evening before as they left work. He remembered how she looked standing on the curb outside their office building, remembered the sweet curves of her against her tight skirt, the sculpted lines of her legs, the delicate shadows under the bones of her ankles and the way her high-heels had drawn up the muscles of her legs to taut, sensuous lines. He also remembered her breasts, how high and round they seemed where they thrust against her blouse, how perfectly formed they looked, twin teardrops designed to snuggle against a man's cupped palm.
He opened his eyes.
Golden sunlight spilled in through the window and made a pool on the floor near his bed. He could tell from the color and the angle of it that it must be almost noon.
He had slept late. Well, there was nothing unusual about that. He always slept late on mornings after nights with his photos....
Once more the sense of guilt crowded into his thoughts. He pushed it away with an effort and sat up.
On the nightstand beside his bed lay the photos he had used to feed the fantasies he needed for release. They all seemed so shabby and foolish now that that was over.
He threw back the sheet and sat up on the edge of the bed. He ran his hand through his hair several times. His brain felt sluggish, cottony, and there was a dry taste inside his mouth. He would feel better, he knew, after brushing his teeth and taking a shower.
Before that, however, he would have to clean up the mess left by last night's enjoyment.
He got out of bed, picked up the photos from the nightstand, and carried them across the room to the trunk. The lid was still open, the contents strewn around on the floor just as he had left them. He put the photos carefully in the bottom of the trunk, squared the stack neatly, then replaced the layers of clothing until the trunk was filled. He closed the lid and locked it carefully.
He went to the bathroom. He had slept in his underwear all night, and the cloth of his shorts felt stiff with perspiration. He was more comfortable the minute he peeled them off. Naked, he leaned across his tub and turned on the shower water.
He knew it would take awhile for the not water to climb through the pipes to the third floor. While he waited, he went to the sink and brushed his teeth. The minty toothpaste stung his tongue, but he crushed on grimly until all the foul taste of sleep was washed from his mouth.
By this time, steam had begun rising from the shower stream. He replaced his toothbrush in the holder and turned toward the tub.
But he didn't get there. He saw something that stopped him completely.
The bathroom had a single small window between the tub and the sink which overlooked the back yard. Because of the angle, the only portion of the yard visible was the part farthest from the house, near the back fence. There was seldom anything of interest to be seen through that window, and Hal rarely went near it.
But this time, as he walked past the window, he caught a glimpse of something that commanded his immediate attention.
Brenda. The landlord's teen-age daughter.
She was lying near the back fence, stretched out on a beach blanket which she had spread on the grass beneath her. She was on her face. She was wearing nothing but a very brief bikini. The bikini top was untied. From where Hal stood, he could see the ripe swell of a breast spilling softly from beneath her.
An electric tingling began in him. He went closer to the window until he was as near to it as he dared. He wanted to see Brenda, but he also wanted to make certain she didn't see him.
And he was seeing Brenda, no question about that. In all the time he had lived in her parents' house, he couldn't recall ever having seen as much of her as he was seeing at that moment. The sight of her tender young flesh dried all the moisture from his mouth, until it was as if he hadn't brushed his teeth at all.
She was a tall girl; almost as tall as Hal himself. He couldn't be certain, but he seemed to remember learning somewhere that she was sixteen. Sixteen, it was a good age. At sixteen, a girl isn't really a girl any longer, although she's not yet a woman. At sixteen, a girl is right on the borderline between childhood and womanhood. Her body and features are fully formed, have taken the shape they will always have, but they haven't yet been marked by life or experience.
For a girl, sixteen is a wonderful age.
For a girl spread out half naked under a man's lustful gaze, sixteen is a magnijicent age.
He let his eyes roam along the length of her body, taking in every small detail of her just-formed beauty. Her head was turned on the blanket facing away from him. so for the moment at least he could stare at her without any fear of being seen.
And stare he did.
He stared at her feet. Hal liked feet, and Brenda had very pretty feet. The crinkled soles were turned up on the blanket, and her toes flexed lazily in the sunlight.
He stared at her trim ankles and calves. The flesh of her lower legs was lithe and solid, almost boyish in its contours. Almost, but not quite. The skin was smooth and hairless, and he could see a faint gleam of sunlight along the curve of her calves.
He stared at her buttocks. The bikini bottom was brief, and the back of it had hiked up quite a ways.
He stared at her waist and back and shoulders. Her body was smooth and warm as cream. It seemed to soak up the sunlight, then throw it back, even more warm and golden than before. Her blonde head was dazzling where the sun struck it.
But most of all he stared at her breast.
He could only see a little bit of it, but for the moment it was enough. He had examined Brenda's breasts many times in the past-at least as often as the opportunity presented itself-and had wondered whether those twin lumps of luscious flesh belonged entirely to her. She was a young girl and she certainly seemed to keep her limber body in good condition, but Hal had never been quite able to believe that her breasts could stand away from her body so firmly and solidly without the help of a well-designed bra.
Now he was seeing the absolute proof that those mounds didn't need a' brassiere or anything else to make them look good. He could tell that from the portion of breast he could see. She was lying on that breast, with the whole weight of her upper body pressing it down against the untied bikini-top, and yet the thrusting shape of it seemed hardly disturbed at all.
Hal could imagine what it would feel like to hold such a breast in his hand. He could picture the hard roundness of it pressed to his palm, could visualize himself kneading the flesh in a vain attempt to flatten it.
He doubter! if he had enough strength to flatten a breast like that.
Hal moved a step closer to the window, then felt a sudden discomfort as the sight of Brenda had been working on him without his knowledge. His excitement had grown all by itself.
He smiled sheepishly, then began a soothing caress with his hand.
Outside, Brenda stirred.
The motion took him by surprise, and he moved his head guiltily out of the frame of the window. He was forced to wait several moments before he could find enough nerve to look again.
Brenda was sitting up. She still had her back to him; her face was turned toward the fence. Her legs were folded under her; he could see her little toes peeking from beneath her buttocks.
She was stretching, with her arms high above her head. He watched as she angled her shoulders, flexed the whole soft column of her spine. He watched the delicate wings of her shoulderblades moving against her smooth skin, he watched the flexing staves of her ribs making patterns.
Something nagged at the corner of his eyes. He didn't want to look at it, because that would mean taking his eyes off Brenda, and he didn't want to miss a single second of the show she was putting on for him. But the detail, whatever it was, kept tugging at his eye, until finally he was forced to shift his gaze and see what it was.
He looked away from Brenda and down on the blanket beside her.
The bikini-top was still lying there.
His eyes snapped back to the girl, widening in disbelief. Across her back, where the strap of her halter belonged, he saw only a faint red indentation.
She had sat up without replacing the suit-top over her breasts.
She was naked from the waist up.
Suddenly, he wanted very much for her to be facing him. There would be a risk involved-if she were o glance upward just once, she would probably spot him ogling her from the window. And once she saw that, he doubted if she would ever give him a moment's rest. She might even tell her parents, and then there would be hell to pay.
But he didn't care. He wanted her to turn around, wanted her to shift her body until it faced in his direction. He wanted to see her naked breasts, wanted to see the sun caressing them.
He wanted to see her breasts so terribly that he could almost touch his desire. And he imagined that a girl's breast itself must feel very like the need he felt at that moment, even though he had never touched one, or even seen one, in his whole life.
Turn, Brenda, he thought, directing the full power of his desire at her naked, golden back. Turn around, Brenda. Let me see you.
She turned around.
It was probably only coincidence. Then again, it could have been that Brenda actually had sensed the power of Hal's desire and obeyed it. There was no way to be sure, and Hal didn't really care. The important thing was that she had turned.
She bent forward, put her hands on the blanket, and shifted her knees under her. Her long blonde hair fell in waves around her face and down between her arms, so that even when she had turned completely around, he couldn't see her breasts.
She tipped her face up. He tensed, ready to move his face away from the window. But it wasn't necessary. Her eyes were squinted shut; the sunlight was falling directly on her face. He didn't think she would be able to see him even if she were to open her eyes and stare right in his direction.
He was safe; he could look as long and as hard as he wanted, and never run any risk of being discovered.
She remained in the same position for awhile; her head thrown back, her shoulders rounded, her hands palm-down in front of her knees, her hair hanging between her forearms, concealing her breasts. Time dragged for Hal as he waited for her to move, to reveal her beauty to him. He wondered if she had fallen asleep in that position; he wondered if she would ever move.
He continued to clutch himself, even though that was no longer necessary.
Then, without any warning, she moved.
She picked her hands off the blanket and settled back on her haunches. Her arms bent at the elbow, her hands came up to either side of her face. With one deft motion, she flicked her blonde hair back over her shoulders.
But it was still no good. Her arms were placed in a manner that concealed her breasts far more efficiently than her hair had. Hal still couldn't see anything.
She lifted an arm then, putting her palm on the back of her neck, pointing her elbow at the sky.
One perfect breast was bared.
And perfect was the only word for it. Not even in his many photos had Hal seen such an ideal roundness of flesh. The girls in his picture had very nice breasts, and some of them had magnificent breasts, but all of them had large, fully-developed women's breasts.
Brenda's was pure girl.
It was round and smooth as a rubber ball The upward lifting of her arm had drawn it into high contour eliminating completely the soft undercurve, so that the breast rose from her torso in absolute symmetry. Dead in the center was a tight rosy nipple, perfectly circular, about the size of a fifty-cent piece. And from the center of that circle, there rose into the golden sunlight a solidly erected tip, aiming up at him like a small beckoning finger.
Hal stopped breathing. His whole body froze as he allowed his mind to be filled with the staggering sight of that adolescent breast. His heart seemed to skip several beats before picking up its rhythm again, and this time the rhythm was one of almost uncontrollable excitement.
His hand, which had paused, began again.
She raised her other arm, baring both her breasts. They matched in their contours, in their perfection, in the lustful promise of their puckered tips. They rose together into the sunlight, twin white eyes with dilated red pupils at the centers of them.
Hal's own eyes seemed to bulge from his skull, echoing their contours.
She held the pose for a few minutes, offering her body to the sun, apparently unaware that anyone other than the sun was watching her. Hal caressed her body with his eyes, and he found himself imagining that he could actually feel her breasts, that he was holding them in his hands, and not just devouring them with his gaze.
After awhile, she took her hands from behind her neck and lowered her arms to her side. Her breasts settled slightly, but not very much; they still continued to point straight out ahead of her with a muscular firmness that set his senses reeling.
Then her hand come up from her sides, and suddenly she was holding her own breasts, cupping them tenderly from underneath, lifting them up toward him. As he watched, her thumbs and index fingers curled around until she was holding each of her erected nipples lightly between her fingertips.
Her fingers began toying with the pebbled flesh. Her head leaned farther back, and her mouth opened, her lips parted to reveal the whiteness of her teeth.
There was more, but Hal didn't see it. His caress had done its work well.
A startling bolt of pleasure erupted without warning. He subsided against the wall, his vision going momentarily black as the pleasure took him.
That lasted only a few seconds. And when that was gone, there was nothing left in its place but the empty feeling of guilt and loneliness he had awakened with.
The feeling was even stronger than it had been before.
He turned from the window without bothering to look again at her, and stumbled across the bathroom to the shower. The water was still running hot, and he was grateful for that. He needed plenty of hot water and soap to wash the evidence of the deed away from his body-the evidence of this deed, and one of the night before. Twice, he thought, twice in such a short time ... I'm getting worse.
From below in the back yard, he heard an unexpected sound, a sound that sent a chill of apprehension through him.
Brenda was laughing.
CHAPTER FIVE
Friday night had been a bomb.
Jeff had lived through some pretty bad evenings in his life, but never anything to compare with the sort of bomb last night had been. Being stood up by a girl was hard to get used to under the best of circumstances, but experiencing that frustration twice within the space of a few hours; well, a man could live to be a thousand years old and never get used to a bomb like that.
Last night, Friday night, had been the worst evening Jeff could recall.
Last night had been the King of All Bombs.
So now it was Saturday morning, and the sun was streaming in through the windows of his apartment, the birds were singing, the sky was blue, the children were playing in the streets, and Jeff was mad. Jeff was, in fact, so damned mad that he could hardly restrain himself from putting his fist through the wall.
He sat at the kitchen table in his small apartment. In front of him, a cup of coffee was slowly growing stone cold. Beside it, the morning paper still lay folded and unread. His stomach was rumbling; he hadn't had any dinner last night, and he still hadn't eaten a bite this morning. But the anger in him had ruined his appetite for everything except cigarettes. He had been up only about two hours and had already gone through half a pack.
Being angry was only part of this problem. Far more galling than the anger was the urge to do something, to do anything that would enable him to get even with the women who had cheated him. And more irritating still was the realization that there wasn't a blasted thing he could do.
He probably wouldn't see Janis again. He didn't know her that well in the first place, and it was pretty obvious from the way she had failed to show last night that she didn't care to have him know her any better. Things would have been a hell of a lot different if Janis had shown up as she'd promised, but that was all water under the bridge, and there was no point in stewing over it. The best thing to do was chalk Janis off his list and forget about her.
Besides, Janis wasn't the real problem.
The real problem was Rene.
Ever since he had gotten up he had been striving not to think of her, but he was rapidly reaching the point where he had no choice. The memory of Rene, and the memory of what she had done to him, had to be faced sooner or later. The more he tried to suppress it, the harder he tried to pretend it had never happened, the stronger recollection became, until it crowded almost everything else out of his mind.
Rene.
What was she? It sounded like a simple question, but it wasn't. On the surface, Rene had appeared to be nothing more than a girl, prettier than average, more outspoken and frank about her appetites than most, but still just a girl. That had been his initial impression, based upon the way she looked and the way she talked.
Later, sitting with her in his parked car, Jeff had begun to see Rene in a different light. As he felt the warmth and firmness of her breasts with his hand, as he found the sweet curve of her lips with his, as he caressed the velvet flesh above her stockings with the tips of his fingers-as he enjoyed all the voluptuous promise of her ripe flesh, he had begun to think of Rene as a gift from the gods. He couldn't recall having done anything to earn himself a woman like Rene, and yet there she was, snuggled against his hands, meeting his kiss with her own, there she was, and he just couldn't understand it.
And then, suddenly, there she wasn't.
And that was the hardest part of all to understand.
Just like that, without any warning or reason, she had turned off all her passion, and skipped. She had hopped out the door of his car, turned a corner, and been swallowed up by the night, and all her promises had turned out to be as worthless as a Confederate dollar.
He still found it hard to believe that had happened. But it had happened; the event had taken place precisely as he remembered it, and there was no use pretending it had happened any other way.
All right, he thought, lighting another cigarette; let's put the old brain to work on this big-deal problem. Do it the way Sherlock Holmes used to; analyze, dissect, identify all the pieces of the puzzle, then shift them around until they fit into place and make sense. It shouldn't be too hard to do that.
First of all, Rene had promised him everything, the works, with no holds barred. He'd felt the force of that promise the moment he'd laid eyes on her, and the ease with which she'd allowed him to pick her up had only intensified the promise. That was the starting point.
And the promise had continued through their conversation at the bar, in the words they'd exchanged while walking to his car, in the car as they were driving toward "her place" for the big blast. Promise, promise, promise growing stronger with each passing second, leading up to the moment when they'd parked in that dark patch and closed the convertible up so that no "one could see them.
Then: Grab, Zip, Clutch and the promise was on its way to fulfillment.
That was the crux of the problem right there. No girl goes as far as that unless she intends to go the whole way.
Right?
Wrong.
Rene knew precisely how far she intended to go, and her ideas about promising were completely different from Jeff's. So far, fine. But no farther.
And at that point, which would have been bad enough all by itself, she had added insult to injury by taking off on him without even waving good-bye.
All right, he thought, the breakdown of events was complete. Now let's take a look at the people involved.
Me first: In the light of what took place, what am I?
A jerk? A sap?
Those, and more. I'll tell the world.
And what about Rene? What is she?
There's only one word for her, and it's just about the worst thing you can call a woman.
Rene's a tease. There's nothing lower than a tease.
So there it was. Old Sherlock had reduced the problem to it's component parts. Jeff was a clod for allowing himself to be taken in, and Rene was ten different kinds of witch for having led him on.
She was a tease, and if she had been sitting across his kitchen table from him at that instant he probably would have strangled her, because that was exactly what she deserved.
But she wasn't sitting across from him. She wasn't within reach at all. He didn't even know where to locate her. Sure, she had told him where she worked, but he imagined that information had been just as false as all her promises. And he doubted very much if she lived anywhere near that corner where she had abandoned him. It had been a big lie, a four-star fraud, and she left him without a single clue for getting even. Getting even....
The bitterness of his anger was getting harder and harder to swallow. His rage was doubled by the fact that there was no way for him to get even. He was stuck with things just the way they were.
He doubled up his fist and began beating it softly against the table. The coffee cup danced in its saucer, slopping cold coffee onto the formica. He was in a dangerous mood.
The phone rang.
The sound was unexpected and it brought him down to earth with a thump. He had been in the midst of a fantasy of revenge on Rene, he had been dreaming that he had her tied down on his kitchen table, naked and screaming because he was about to take from her all the things she had cheated him of. He looked at the table top and had to blink his eyes several times before he was sure that there was nothing there but a coffee cup; the fantasy had been very vivid.
The phone rang again.
He shook the last wisps of fantasy out of his head and went into the other room. He couldn't imagine who would be calling him on a Saturday morning. Whoever it was, he made up his mind in advance to talk as briefly as possible; he wanted to get back to his fantasy. This morning at least, he preferred the world of imagi nation to the world of reality.
He lifted the receiver. "Yes?" he said curtly.
"Jeff?" asked a female voice.
He narrowed his eyes. He hadn't expected to hear a girl on the other end, and the sudden, insane idea that his caller might be Rene made his vision go black. The impression lasted only a second. It couldn't be Rene. It was as impossible for her to reach him as it was for him to find her. They were safe from each other.
"This is Jeff," he said.
"Hi," said the girl. "This is Janis."
"Janis?" He scowled. It took him a second to remember who Janis was.
"I called to tell you I was sorry, Jeff."
"Sorry for what?"
She paused, and he could almost hear her puzzlement being transmitted over the wires. "For standing you up, of course. You know, we did have a date last night?"
"Oh, yeah." It's funny, he thought to himself, how a single thought can drive all the other thoughts out of a man's head. He'd been so busy taking his mental revenge on Rene that he'd forgotten about Janis altogether.
"Did you go to the bar where I was supposed to meet you?" she asked.
"Yes."
"I was wondering. Honestly, Jeff, from the way you sound, I wouldn't be surprised if you'd forgotten ail about our date."
"I didn't forget. I was there."
"How long did you wait, Jeff?"
"Till seven or so."
"Oh. I called the bar, you know?"
"Did you?"
"Yes. At seven-fifteen. I guess you must have left by then."
"That sounds about right."
"I'm sorry I missed you."
"Uh-huh." He felt into his pocket for a cigarette, and discovered he'd left the pack in the kitchen. He was suddenly very anxious for this conversation to be over so he could return to the serious business of making and mentally attacking Rene.
"Jeff?"
"What?"
"Well, for heaven's sake, don't you want me to tell you what happened?"
"How do you mean, what happened?"
"Why I didn't show up, of course. I think I owe you an explanation. Honestly, you sound like you're drunk, or something. Are you all right, Jeff?"
"I'm fine," he said.
"Do you want to hear about it, or not?"
"Go ahead."
"You're making it awfully hard for me, Jeff. You make it sound as if I committed a terrible crime, or oh, I know I must have ruined your evening, but I really couldn't help what happened."
He was beginning to get interested in what she was saying. An idea was forming in the back of his mind. It was too early to identify the notion, but he felt that it had something to do with his thoughts about Rene, about getting even....
"I'm sorry," he said. "I just got up. Tell me what happened."
"Well, I know it sounds silly, but I got stuck in a subway tie-up"
"In a what?"
"The subway. I was taking it uptown to meet you, and the thing just conked out on me. A power failure, or something like that. I don't understand those things very well." I see.
"So I was stuck in the tunnel, along with all the other poor slobs, Jeff, we sat there for a whole hour with out moving. It was terrible. I kept thinking about you, wondering as the time passed if you were still waiting for me. It was so frustrating, Jeff. I couldn't call you or anything."
"Uh-huh."
"Well, there wasn't a thing I could do but wait. I knew it couldn't last forever. And finally, they fixed whatever it was that was wrong and managed to get us to the next station. The first thing I did was to run to a phone, and that wasn't easy because everybody on the train was looking for a phone, to call home or call their dates and explain what happened. But I found an empty booth finally, and I called the bar and asked the bartender if you were there. He called your name, but he didn't get any answer. You must have been gone by then."
"That's right." The idea was growing, taking shape in his brain like a dark cloud. It seemed so perfect that he was almost afraid to look directly at it.
"I got a taxi and went to the bar," Janis continued. "I thought maybe you'd just stepped out for awhile and might come back again. But when I got there, you weren't around."
"I didn't go back to the bar," he said.
"So I called your apartment, figuring you might have gone home. But there was no answer at your apartment,"
"I didn't go home."
"I know. So then; well this must all sound terribly silly."
"What do you mean?"
"It must sound as if I was really desperate for a date the way I chased around trying to locate you. I don't want it to sound like that. Jeff. But really, I did want to see you. I'd been looking forward to seeing you all week."
"I understand."
"So I described you to the bartender, and asked him if anybody of that description had been in the place that evening."
Jeff frowned. "Oh? And what did he tell you?"
"He said yes. He remembered you. You'd sat at the bar until around six-thirty or so. and then you'd moved to a table in the back." She paused.
"That's right," he said.
"You picked up a girl."
"That's right."
"The bartender said she was very pretty. He said you and the girl left together."
"Janis, look...."
"Now wait a minute, Jeff. You're forgetting why I phoned you. I called to apologize. I'm the one who was at fault, not you."
"All right." The idea was almost completely formed. It scared him and pleased him at the same time. By now, he could see beyond any shadow of a doubt that the notion was perfect.
"Don't get me wrong, Jeff," Janis was saying. "Under the circumstances-not seeing any sign of me or even hearing from me-you were perfectly within your rights to pick up another girl. I understand exactly how you felt. If I had been in your place, I probably would have gone looking for another date myself."
"It's just too bad it happened at all, Janis," Jeff said, injecting a warmth into his voice that he did not feel.
"True," she said. "But we can't change any of it now."
"No, I guess not."
"Did you have a good time with her, Jeff?"
He almost laughed out loud. He barely managed to hold the impulse in check, but laughing at Janis' question would hinder his newly-formed plan. He suppressed his laughter, and played it straight.
"Not bad," he said. "But I don't think I had as much fun as I would have had with you."
"That sounds like a snow-job, Jeff."
He made his voice smile. "But it was you who called to snow me. Remember?"
"Yes, that's right, isn't it?" She giggled. "Okay. Let's just say that the whole silly misunderstanding has been straightened out. Will you buy that?"
"Sure. Janis. Why not "
"Fine. So now what?"
"How about tonight?" he asked. "Tonight? You mean, a date?"
"Of course. To make up for the one we missed last night."
She giggled again. "My feminine instinct tells me to play hard to get, but I don't suppose I'm entitled to that after what happened."
"You're beating around the bush, Jan. Give me your answer."
"All right. The answer's yes."
He grinned to himself. "Good. Shall I pick you up at your place?"
"That'll be fine. Jeff?"
"Yes."
"Where are we going? Do you have any plans?"
"Oh, I don't know. Dinner first, I guess. And after that, well, let's just see what develops."
"I'll bet you have a gleam in your eye," she said teasingly.
"Could be. You'll see when I pick you up tonight Eight o'clock suit you?"
"Perfect. I'll be waiting for you."
After he'd hung up, Jeff went back to the kitchen. He reheated the coffee and poured himself a fresh cup. The plan he had formed had brought his appetite back, so he scrambled himself some eggs. A couple of times, he caught himself whistling, and that was something he rarely did.
As he ate, he thought over his scheme. It was perfect.
It was so perfect, it was practically poetry. Maybe he couldn't get even with Rene, but he could take out his revenge on women in general through Janis. By the time he was through with her, she'd know better than to ever tease a man again.
He remembered her question on the phone: "Do you have any plans?"
Baby, he thought; you don't know the half of it.
When he finished his breakfast, he left the apartment and went for a walk, just to stretch his legs and kill time.
He never once even glanced at the morning paper, and so he didn't see the screaming black headline plastered across the front page.
Things might have worked out a lot differently if he had.
Saturday:
It's afternoon now.
I've decided to return to this journal for awhile in order to set down some of the ideas my thinking has produced.
The major question involves death.
I have never given much thought to death before. Up until now, my life has been mainly preoccupied with women. The procuring, the mastery, the use, and the pleasure they can produce. One might say that my mind has been dominated all these years.
That, then, has been my one prime interest.
Does this new element-death-affect that interest?
When T take a woman, I beat her senseless. There Is pleasure in that, although pleasure is not the reason. In order to enjoy myself, I must be alone. If there is anyone to watch me, anyone in the world aware of what I am doing, then the pleasure is spoiled. I must be alone.
So, when I find a suitable girl in a suitable place, I remove the identity from her. If she is not aware of what I am doing-if she is unconscious then I am truly alone, free to do whatever I choose.
It is a good system but, of course, there is a certain amount of risk involved.
An unconscious girl can return to consciousness. It has happened to me several times. No sooner had I stripped my victim of her clothing, filled my hands with her breasts, perhaps even begun to work my pleasure, than she would suddenly return to her senses and begin to scream. So I would have to hit her again, before her cries could bring enemies and destroy all my pleasure. I would hit her until she was again senseless, and then try to pick up the thread of my lust, try to regain my interrupted pleasure.
It is, as I said, a good system.
But it has its limitations.
If the girl awakens before I am finished, then everything is ruined.
And so we come to the question of death.
Death is one form of unconsciousness from which no one ever awakes. When you are with a dead person, you are truly alone, absolutely solitary, completely free. A dead girl could never come to her senses and scream. Kill a girl and she is yours. She can never return. You can be alone with her, be yourself, do what you wish without fear of your enemies, with no eyes watching, no minds judging you, never a soul to know you or your deed.
Death.
A dash of spice in the familiar intoxicating liquor of life, and now I have tasted it.
Will I taste it again?
Will I ever be able to resist the lure?
The girl I killed last night was only the beginning. She was the key which opened a door, and I must now explore the new worlds beyond the door, new domains of pleasure and delight....
And as for death....
Well, is death only part of my pleasure, or is it a pleasure in itself? Will I derive more enjoyment from the familiar act, or the strange new act of death?
What is to be my future?
In a very short time, I will have another woman, and perhaps learn some of these answers.
CHAPTER SIX
Actually, Brenda had known the whole time she was in the back yard that Hal was watching her.
Brenda had a woman's knack of knowing when male eyes were looking at her. She had developed this sense only during the past year or so, along with her budding breasts and rounding hips and buttocks. At sixteen, Brenda was physically mature, and with this maturity had come a mental development, the first realization of the female weapons at her disposal. And that, of course, was the beginning of true womanhood.
Brenda also had good ears. She had been lying in the sun, slowly curing her young flesh to the proper stage of golden color, half asleep and not thinking about men at all. She had been roused from her torpor by the sounds of Hal moving around in his apartment upstairs. She heard him walking around, doing things, and that set her thoughts in his direction. When she heard the distinctive rush of the shower water, she realized he was in the bathroom. That meant he was near a window which commanded a perfect view of where she lay.
So it was really no great trick for her to feel the sudden pressure of his eyes watching her from up there. Her feminine instincts told her the truth beyond any doubt. Hal wasn't taking a shower. He was staring at her through the window of his bathroom.
She continued to lie there for awhile, basking in the twin warmths of the sun and a man's yearning gaze. And when that became boring, she decided to put on a show for him. She knew what he wanted to see and, though she craftily withheld that just long enough to torture him thoroughly, she eventually let him see her.
She turned into the sun, faced the window where he watched, raised her arms, and showed him her breasts.
She could almost swear she felt his shock and hunger pattering against her bared flesh, like a fine, warm rain The sensation pleased her. Knowing he was there, knowing he was watching her, lusting for her, seeing her all nude and glowing in the sunlight-knowing these things did something to her young chemistry. Before she even knew what was happening, her tender nipples had tensed and risen from her breast.
And so, partially to torture Hal and partially to please herself, she began to handle the lustful little buttons with her fingers. The sensation of her own fingers handling her nipple, coupled with the knowledge of what she was doing to Hal, sent waves of delight through her adolescent frame.
She continued for several minutes, luxuriating in the thrills of pleasure her touch produced, continuing as long as she thought she could get away with it.
When she finally stopped, she discovered two things had happened.
Hal was no longer watching.
And she was In The Mood.
All this had happened that morning.
Now it was Saturday afternoon, and Brenda was still In The Mood. That's how she thought of it-In The Mood-with capital letters. It was her own private term for a hunger she had begun to understand only recently. When Brenda was In The Mood, she had to find release or she would go positively crazy.
In many ways, Brenda was an average teenager. She went to a local high school, always managed to get at least passing grades, participated in the normal number of ordinary teenage activities. Her parents-Hal's landlords-were quite proud of Brenda's apparent normality.
But in other ways, Brenda was far from average. Her parents knew nothing about Brenda's activities with boys.
And neither her parents nor the boys knew anything about her activities with Ted.
She sat in her room on the second floor of her house, and thought about things-about being In The Mood, about the fact that she had a date with a boy tonight, about Ted. and about Hal.
She could hear Hal moving around above her head. She wondered what the sight of her had done to him. The idea of the effect she must have had on him made her grin.
That Hal, she thought, he was really such a poor slob. He never seemed to go anywhere, never had a date, never did a blasted thing except go to work or sit around his apartment. She often wondered what he did up there. She had heard strange noises in the night several times, so she knew he frequently occupied himself with something secret while the rest of the house slept.
She was pretty sure she knew what he did up there.
She wondered if he did that with dirty pictures, with his eyes open or closed. She wondered what it would be like to watch him. She wondered what his reaction would be if she were to go up to his apartment, strip oft all her clothing, and let him look at her while he did.
She wondered what i-would be like to do that for him, Someday, perhaps, she would go up there, and find out just how far she could go with him. She had wanted to for some time now, but the fact that he lived in the same house as her parents, together with the fact that he seemed so damned shy and stupid, had prevented her.
One of these days, when the time was right.., However, today was not the day. Today was Saturday, and she had a date tonight with some stupid boy or other, and she didn't much want to keep that date. What she really wanted was to go see Ted.
She was In The Mood, and Ted was the only one who could satisfy her when she felt that way.
She sat on the edge of her bed for a while chewing her lip and trying to make up her mind what to do. At last, she reached out, picked up the phone, and dialed Ted's number.
The phone rang twice.
"Hello?"
"Ted? This is Brenda."
"Hi. honey. What's up?"
"Oh nothing. I just felt like calling you. I've been thinking."
"About what?"
"You know, things."
Ted chuckled "Things? That's a new word" Brenda laughed. "All right then, you know what I'm thinking about."
"Sure I do, honey."
"I'm In The Mood, Ted." .
"I figured."
"Something funny happened."
"Really? What was that, honey?"
"Oh, I was sunbathing out in the back yard, and that roomer-the young creep who lives upstairs he was watching me."
Ted chuckled again. "Did you give him anything to watch, honey?"
"I sure did," Brenda said
"Mmmm. Too bad I wasn't there to see you myself."
"Well, anyway what happened waa that I got In The Mood You know?"
"Yes, honey."
"And I-I started thinking about things."
"You mean, you started thinking about me. Isn't that right, honey?"
"All right, that's what I meant. I started thinking about us."
"Mmmm," said Ted.
"Are you going to be home tonight?" Brenda asked. "Funny you should ask that, honey. It just so happens I am."
"What about your folks? Are they going to be home or not?"
"No They're going to a movie. To the late show."
"Then I could come over?"
"Sure. We'd have plenty of time together. And you know something, Brenda?"
"What?"
"I'd like you to come over, honey."
"Would you?"
"You bet your life I would."
"Ted, listen, there's just one problem."
"What's that?"
"I have to go out with this dopey boy tonight. I have a date."
"Can't you break it?"
"No. My parents would have a fit if I did. He's the son of some guy my father has business with, at something like that. Anyway, I have to go out with him."
"So what are you going to do?"
"I'll ditch him, I guess. That's the only thing I can do. I'll think of some way to ditch him, and come right over to you But I just wanted to tell you about it in case I was late."
"All right."
"But I will ditch him, Ted. Believe me, I will."
"I believe you."
"Ted?"
"Yes, honey?"
Brenda drew in a long breath. "T want you to make love to me."
Ted paused before answering. "I know, honey."
"I'll be over just as quick as I can."
"I'll be waiting for you." Brenda hung up.
She sat staring at the telephone, but she wasn't seeing it. Her mind was filled with a vision of the evening to come. She was more In The Mood than ever.
She thought of Theodora.
She thought of Ted's breasts, Ted's buttocks, Ted's creamy skin.
She thought of how much she loved to be loved by Ted.
No boy in the world could possibly equal the pleasure she derived from being with Ted.
Brenda was indeed a most unusual teenager.
But the most unusual thing about her was that she was a Lesbian.
The sun inched down the sky, the clouds gathered in the west, and gradually Saturday afternoon turned into Saturday evening.
That's the time when, as tradition dictates, young men and young women go out together on dates. Saturday evening is the time to howl. The work and school and duties of the week have been left well behind, and the beginning of next week's business is still far enough away so you don't have to think about it. And that makes Saturday evening a sort of island in the middle of your problems. A time that belongs to you, and only to you, with no bosses or teachers or anyone to tell you what to do with it.
Saturday evening is a great time.
For most people.
However, for people such as Hal, Saturday evening held no particular charm.
He had just finished eating his solitary supper and was sitting at the tiny table in his kitchenette. The window of the room faced west, and from where he was sitting he could see the colors of the declining sun draining slowly out of the sky. In a short while, it would become dark. Then the lights would come on and the music would start and the drinks would flow and fellows and girls would begin the long round of enjoyment that was their Saturday night heritage.
Everyone would be out having a good time.
Everyone, that is, but Hal.
Hal didn't have a date. Hal never had dates. He supposed he could have talked a girl into going out with him. After all, he wasn't bad looking, and even though his job didn't pay much he spent very little on himself, and so had more than enough money to treat a date right. Basically, then, there was only one reason why Hal had no one to go out with this Saturday evening. He lacked the nerve.
And that was the core of Hal's problem in general.
He was nervous with girls. He didn't have enough poise or self-confidence or whatever you wanted to call it to speak intelligently to a girl, although he was a fairly intelligent young man. When he looked at a girl, he couldn't see her as nothing more than another human being, no more gifted or unusual than himself. All he could see was a sexual image. It was impossible for him to see a girl and not mentally peel all the clothing from her. His mind was totally dominated by thoughts of loving, which was understandable considering that he never had.
He looked at a girl, and he thought of loving. And, to Hal, that was dirty. It was wrong, it was evil, it was a terrible vice.
So, seeing a female on that basis, it was impossible for him to talk to her. Hal was deadly afraid that if he opened his mouth, all his secrets would escape, like a cloud of bats from a cave.
Being unable to talk to a girl meant that Hal had no way of asking her for a date, or of conversing with her if by some chance she were to ask him for a date.
As a result of all this, Hal never had a date.
And as a further result, Hal had never loved.
Not at all.
He'd never even so much as laid his hand on a girl's breast, although he dreamed about it. He'd never seen a girl's body completely unclothed, except in photographs. His mind filled in the missing details; how nude breasts felt to the hands, how a pair of female legs might feel, what the touch of a girl's lips might be like to various points of his anatomy, but this was pure speculation. His dreams were unsupported by experience.
With all this, however, Hal remained a young man of normal appetites. The fact that he couldn't love didn't mean that he didn't want to.
He wanted to very much.
But he was afraid to go looking for love.
So he compensated the only way he knew how, the only way experience had taught him.
Alone.
Oh, he could pretend he wasn't alone. There were photographs-the ones in the bottom of his trunk--and they provided company of a sort. He knew if he stared at them long enough he would begin to imagine that the girls in the pictures were real, and not just patterns of chemicals on a piece of paper. And now and then, on very good nights, on nights when his tormented imagination was really working on all cylinders, he could even succeed in imagining that the men in the photos were himself, that he was the one holding that girl's breasts, that his lips were kissing her, exploring her legs....
Imagining this, and with his hand to help him, he found pleasure.
It wasn't really very much, but it was all Hal had.
So Saturday night had come again, and Hal was wondering what to do with it. He could, of course, spend the evening the way he usually spent Saturday evenings, alone with his fantasies and his photos. But the business with Brenda that morning had spoiled him for the evening. He'd had his pleasure twice in too short a time, and if he were to try that again tonight it would probably be more of an effort than a delight. Things could get that way if you tried too often.
But still, his thoughts kept coming back to girls no matter how hard he tried to think of other things.
He couldn't get the image of Brenda out of his thoughts.
Brenda.
How beautiful she'd looked sitting out there in the sun. How soft and round her breasts had seemed; how inviting her rosy nipples had appeared. The fantasy he'd experienced while watching her had been one of the most vivid he could recall. He had almost imagined he held those breasts, that his lips had kissed their contours, that his hand had explored to the folded material of her bikini bottom.
It had all seemed so real that even now he had a difficult time convincing himself that it hadn't actually taken place.
But it hadn't, and he knew it.
All that had happened was the same old thing.
He sighed, got up from the table, and carried the dishes to his sink. He wondered if he should wash them, then decided not to bother. He felt a need to get away from his apartment this evening, go somewhere, any where, as long as it was different. To a movie perhaps; he didn't care much for movies, because they were frequently about love of one kind or another, but they never came right out with it the way his photos did; they teased and tantilized and never satisfied. He had gone to see a nudist movie once, a movie that had actually shown naked women in color and motion-not all of them, of course, but enough to excite him-and that had been the worst experience of all. He'd been terribly aroused by that movie, but he'd been unable to do a thing about it, because he'd been sitting in a theatre surrounded by people, and if he had so much as made a move they all would have known what he was doing and laughed at him.
And yet, a movie was one way to kill the evening. And the evening had to die.
He stood by the kitchen window. The light was fading on the western horizon. It was almost completely dark. Down on the street-Hal's kitchen window was in the front of the house-he could see the lights coming on. Occasionally a car whispered past, and once he caught a glimpse of a fellow and girl riding together and laughing.
The sight of that only made him feel worse.
He heard a noise. The front door had slammed down below. He leaned forward a bit to see who was leaving the house.
It was Brenda.
She was dressed in a white blouse and a gaily-patterned skirt, but Hal's mind saw right through her clothing, saw back to that morning, saw her again the way he'd seen her in his imagination at the moment when his hand and his body had trembled together in uncontrollable delight. The white blouse momentarily blurred to become the white mounds of her breasts; the multi-colored skirt became the blanket on which she had lain.
Unwillingly, Hal felt his passion rise.
Instinctively, his hand, reached out, but the first touch reminded him that that would not be good. Now was too soon. There would be an ache and strain and the reward would not be commensurate to the effort.
And then he would have to wait even longer until the next time.
That was the only kind of restraint he could ever practice. He contained himself with the promise of greater satisfaction in the future. The longer he waited, the better and more complete the eventual release would be. He had proved that over and over again in periods of abstinence that had lasted as long as a week.
Of course he had been in the hospital with flu during that week and he had been very weak which made the effort easier to resist. Also, he had been in a room with three other men and he was afraid that the sound in the darkness would expose him.
Still, he had gone for a whole week. And it had been the best of all satisfactions the first time after. And with all the nurses he had seen to feed his fantasies, it had been wonderful for weeks afterward.
So he did believe that some virtues had their rewards. And that, coupled with the probability of some ache if he tried again now, made it possible for him to abstain.
Then he saw that Brenda was not alone. And his whole body turned cold and limp.
She was with a boy a short, heavy, bespectacled youth who looked about her age. By the boy's sport jacket and the way his hands nervously clasped and unclasped behind his back as he and Brenda walked down the street. Hal knew that the stranger was Brenda's date.
Despite the fact that he looked like a creepy debater-type, Hal felt a surge of angry jealousy. It was a feeling akin to the one he experienced when his eyes focused on his photos after the act and he saw that it was actually another man in the pictures.
It was not him.
And this was not him walking with Brenda. And jealousy and envy and hate formed inside him. He had always felt the possessiveness of longing, the priority of lust for Brenda. She was more his than any of the other girls he saw because she lived in the same house with him. Often he imagined them lying in bed, their bodies directly in line, separated only by flimsy partitions of wood and plaster which his fantasy quickly disintegrated. At sixteen he expected that Brenda had never had any real experience and that was another bond between them. Sometimes he imagined that he had been waiting all of his life for her just as she was now waiting to receive her initiation from him.
But that thought curdled him with fear because it projected him into the act itself. He did not know exactly what to do or if his body would respond. But it was unnecessary to go that far for him to experience satisfaction from his dream. Just the two of them in their own beds, touching themselves and thinking of the others was enough. It was beautiful!
And then today he had seen her almost naked. Surely no other man had ever done that. It didn't matter that she had not exposed herself to him knowingly. It didn't matter that perhaps she did not think of him at night, did not touch herself, did not, perhaps, even sleep in the same part of the building as he did. His acts made each incident real enough; his mind made it so.
And his longing made her belong to him.
Watching Brenda and her date disappear around the corner, Hal's mind retained her lovely image for a moment after. Then he felt the hunger for the sight of her.
He must see her. Tonight; especially tonight after what had happened this morning. He knew that his pictures would never again satisfy him as had the sight of Brenda. Now even the sight of her fully clothed was preferable to those impersonal photographs. He had an object that was personally his, not mass produced and distributed by the thousands. Let the poor rats who had nothing else slaver over their photos and pin-ups and nudist movies; he lad a living woman who had been naked before him and him alone.
He couldn't let her out of his sight.
He grabbed his coat and hurried out. Locking his door, he tried to remember if he had locked his trunk. He thought he had, but he couldn't be sure. If he un locked the door now to go hack and see, Brenda and her date might have gone so far away he would lose them.
He couldn't take the chance. It wasn't really much of a risk because Brenda's folks never came up to his room.
At least they never had. There war no reason for them to. None. He could not think of one.
But what if they did tonight for whatever reason? The thought fastened like a bat to a cave on the roof of his brain. Much as he tried as he ran down the street, he couldn't shake it off. It hung there and leered at him witn the horror of unimaginable terrors.
But he couldn't stop. He kept running.
When he rounded the corner, he almost knocked over Brenda and her date. They had stopped before the window of a jewelry store to admire the watches.
Hal felt his face flame crimson as she looked at him and then as she smiled-a smile that could never interpret except that it made him feel naked and vulnerable-he felt the flush suffuse every inch of his body.
"Hello, Hal," she said sweetly.
Hal nodded, feeling that his head was on springs. His throat was too dry and constricted with fear and embarrassment to try to talk.
"This is Morgan Davis, Hal," Brenda said tilting her head with just the slightest indication of conspiracy. "Morgan, this is Hal Kirby who lives at our house."
"Hi there," said Morgan extending a soft, pink hand, an embarrassed moon grin lighting up his moon face.
Hal took the hand and squeezed it briefly. The softness reminded him of what a creep Morgan looked like and how easy it would be to beat him up. For a second, he almost wished that Morgan would provoke some sort of an argument so that he would have a reason to fight him. Then he would have Brenda back again and they would go up to his room and take off their clothes and....
Morgan's indisputably non-combative smile dissembled the fantasy. He was definitely not looking for a fight. In fact, he looked decidedly frightened.
"Where are you going in such a hurry?" Brenda asked, coquettishly. Folding her arms behind her back, making her breasts rise and push out toward Hal invitingly-she leaned against the store window. "To see a girl, I bet," she said.
Hal tried an experienced bachelor's smile which didn't work. He still couldn't trust himself to speak. He merely shook his head.
"Hal never brings any of his friends back to the house," Brenda said, ostensibly to Morgan. "T don't think that's a good sign. It means he has secret friends," she said, giggling.
Morgan permitted himself a nod of his head, agreeing with Brenda in opinion and humor.
"That-that's not true," said Hal.
"Oh I bet it is," teased Brenda. "I bet you have lots of secret friends that Mommy and Daddy would be just shocked to see. Older women, I bet. Isn't that true?"
The image of older women that popped into Hal's negated what Hal had thought before. Despite her age, she seemed to know much more than he did; it was not impossible that during those nights when he imagined her lying in bed thinking of him. she had not been alone. And someone else had been touching her. And she had decidedly not beer thinking of him.
But he couldn't be sure. She was so young.
His confusion was consummate.
And then Brenda compounded it by saying, "Morgan and I were going to a movie, Hal. Would you like to come, too?"
Morgan looked mildly surprised; a flicker of disappointment passed over his face like a wisp of cloud over a full moon. But then, out of politeness or fear, he took up his cue and said, "Yes, would you? We'd be glad to have you come."
"I-I don't know," Hal stammered, hating himself. Say Yes, say Yes, say Yes, his blood thunderd.
"Oh come on," said Brenda. "You can sit on my right and Morgan can sit on my left and I'll hold hands with both of you."
The thought of Brenda holding his hand-the hand that had so recently touched himself-turned Hal's insides to soup. The idea struck him as so exotic that he thought he felt his passion beginning to rise, to humilitate him right there in the street. He thought Brenda saw too, was aware of that when she laughed, but it was the idea of two dates that actually seemed to amuse her. And linking her arms with Hal and Morgan, she led them down the street toward the theater. mind were the women in the photographs in his trunk. Again he felt his face flush-the old fear that everyone could read his mind.
"Are you in Brenda's class?" Morgan asked, stupidly Before Hal could say anything, Brenda said, "Oh, Morgan. Don't be foolish. Hal is much much older than we are. Twenty-three or twenty-four at least. Aren't you, Hal?"
"Twenty-five," he said, on firm ground there, being able to speak without fear of contradiction.
"I'd love to be older," said Brenda. "Twenty-one, at least. You can't really do anything until you're twenty-one. Anything that's not illegal anyway," she said, batting her lashes, unashamedly flirting.
It confused Hal. One moment it seemed she was trying to embarrass him, talking about his secret friends, and the next she seemed to be playing up to him. He tried to read the real meaning in her large deep eyes but all he saw mirrored there was his own confusion. Her eyes seemed to laugh at him and yet urge him on, to be laughed at further. He wondered if she was the kind of girl they called a "tease," the kind who tried to get men excited only to disappoint them. He had never met one of those but he had heard talk and read stories about them. Some of the men in the office said that Rene was a tease, but he didn't believe that. Rene seemed much too innocent. Every girl seemed innocent, except for prostitutes like that one at the bar.
And except for Brenda, now.
The way she was talking and the way she looked.
The sudden transformation of dream into reality left him bewildered and inert. Only a few minutes before his desires had dictated that he not let Brenda out of his sight, that he follow her and let his mind r-eave fantasies from her every gesture And now here he was sitting in the darkness of the theater (as dark as his bedroom) and actually touching her flesh.
Her hand was entwined with his.
Of course, her other hand was entwined with Morgan's, but Hal's excitement was too great to be diminished by details. The essence of Brenda seemed to be her hand. As she had closed it about his, each touch of each finger seemed to be another descent into the world of pleasure. When at last, all of her, soft, cool, small fingers were in contact with his own trembling paw. it was like connecting the final wire or electrode.
A very palpable shudder had gone through Hal. He could feel it from his scalp, which tingled warmly, to his toes which seemed to curl involuntarily.
But his fingers were incapable of any response. They lay numb and stiff in embrace of Brenda. Feeling was transmitted through them but only by the greatest effort of will did Hal feel he could move them. When Brenda moved her hand, opening up new worlds of tactile pleasure, Hal felt himself grow warm and sodden. He felt perspiration come to his forehead and armpits but oddly, his palm never grew damp. His fingers remained five sticks, five icicles, five stalactites.
He did not know what movie they were watching.
He had paid his money and filed in behind Brenda and Morgan but his mind was blanketed by confusion m and fear and excitement and it did not receive the garish message of the advertisements outside or the trumpeting announcement on the screen as the picture began. , Brenda's fingers tightened about his which told him that parts of the movie were exciting; they caressed his wrist while lush symphonies played to convey the message that the movie was, in part, romantic, they jiggled slightly in accompaniment to her laughter which let him know that there was comedy.
But other than that, the parade of phantom images on the screen appeared and disappeared as in a surrealistic dream. They went through their motions but it made no sense to him, his eyes and ears received stimuli but no brain message was accomplished.
He thought of nothing but Brenda and her hand.
And at the height of his fantasizing, he envisioned a never never land where he was all courage and she was all compliance (and Morgan didn't exist) and with the slightest of effort, he could move his hand and move her hand and with the whispering lightness of a cloud, her hand would softly settle to his clothes and caress.
But he fought off that ecstatic notion because, of course, it made his desire increase. He cursed himself for being so greedy, for wanting fulfillment so quickly. The pleasure of her touch was enough; it was agony that was ecstasy, enough to fill a hundred of his self-indulgent dreams.
He felt her hand tugging lightly at his and a thousand needles at delight raked through his body.
He felt her fingers squeeze and her palm touched his palm and he was transported through planes of exquisite sensuality.
He felt her urge him slightly to her and he thought he would swoon with the happiness of the flesh.
And then her kitten soft voice said: "Hal, come on. It's time to go."
The movie was over. The lights were on and all around them people were filing in and out. Morgan stood at the end of the aisle looking unhappy and petulant.
"Are you all right?" Brenda asked Hal. "Were you asleep?"
"No."
"You're funny, you know."
"I am?"
"Yes." She snuggled closer to him, behind Morgan as they pushed up the aisle. "Don't you like girls?" she whispered.
"Yes. I like them. Girls," he said dumbly.
"You could have fooled me," Brenda said. "The way you held my hand. Morgan was almost crawling all over me and you just sat like a statue. I guess you're just a gentleman, right?"
He nodded.
"I like that," she said. "I like a boy that respects a girl and doesn't try to do everything right at once. I like you," she said, "better than Morgan."
Had he been told he had just been elected President of the United States, Hal could not have been more thrilled. He wanted to take Brenda up in his arms and crush her to him. He had no idea what would follow the crushing but an urgent desire to press her gratefully to his body clawed at him like a vicious cat.
"I like you," he said. And was shocked to hear his voice.
"Do you?" she said. "Do you, really?"
He could not stop himself; he could say nothing more. He nodded vigorously.
"Well then would you do me a favor?" she inquired.
Anything, his heart shouted. Anything, anything, anything. Ask me to climb mountains, to dive to the depths of the sea. Ask me to fight wild beasts, to build skyscrapers, to fly. Anything, anything, anything, ask, ask ask.
"Yes," he said.
They were in the lobby now. Morgan had been briefly separated from them by the milling crowd. Now he was fighting his way back, like a swimmer struggling against the tide. He was two people from them and gaining fast so Brenda spoke quickly.
"Get rid of Morgan for me," she said. "Please!" Her eyes implored at the same time they commanded., Hal felt strong and powerless. He was pleased at the chance to show his obedience but yet unhappy at the task set before him.
Get rid of Morgan?
Why?
How?
The second question seemed more vital than the first. It grew even more so as Morgan came rolling up to them, a dismayed smile stretching his features. "Well. Why don't we get something to eat or something?" He addressed this suggestion to the space between Brenda and Hal, as if uncertain whether Hal was still joining them.
"Excuse me for a minute," said Brenda and headed off to the powder room.
Hal watched her leave with a growing sense of anguish. At the entrance to the lounge, she turned, mouthed some words he did not hear but understood. Then she winked, giving purpose and determination to his efforts. His heart crashed like an angry bird inside the confines of his rib cage as he turned to face Morgan.
"Listen," he said
"What?" said Morgan amiably.
"Brenda," Hal said.
"What about her?"
"Ahh," said Hal.
Morgan could find no adequate response to this.
"Ah, have you known her long?" Hal asked with desperate friendship.
"Uh-uh," said Morgan. "But my father does business with her father. That's how we got to know each other. This is our first date." He said this last shyly but with a touch of anger, as if a first date were a rite which Hal should have had the decency to respect and not intrude upon.
"Do you like her?" Hal asked, blushing.
"Yes. Sure I mean, who wouldn't? She's a knockout. Don't you think so?"
"Yes," said Hal, heart sinking.
"I know," said Morgan, sadly, knowingly. "I could tell that you liked her, too. Did you ever take her out?"
"Yes," Hal lied.
"Often?"
"Yes."
"Oh. Did you ever go steady with her?"
"Yes," said Hal feeling himself slide down the long ladder of commitment. "Oh," said Morgan.
Hal felt the time to make his move had come But what move? "Listen," he said. "We're going steady now, Brenda and I," he added unnecessarily.
Morgan looked uncertain, suspicious. "What do you mean?"
"Uh, we had an argument," said Hal. "So she went out with you. But we patched it up so now, you know...." he drifted off, unable to finish coherently.
"You mean you two still like each other and all," Morgan said miserably.
"Yes," said Hal, believing it as he said it.
"Well, what do you expect me to do? I mean, I had a date with her and all. I mean I paid for hsr movie and everything. My father's going to be sore about this. He's going to be plenty sore."
"I'll pay you back for the movie," Hal said. He pulled out his wallet. "Here," he pushed two dollars into Morgan's hand.
Morgan looked at the bills as if they had been dropped by a bird. "Well, what do you want me to do now? I mean, what do you want me to do?"
"Why don't you leave?" Hal said, his bluntness shocking him.
"You mean, go home?" said Morgan.
Hal nodded.
"But's only about nine o'clock." said Morgan. "It's Saturday night. What do you expect me to do? I mean, it's not right, is it? I don't think it's right. My father is going to be sore about this "
Hal still held his wallet in his hands. It had helped alleviate things once; he had begun to think of it as a panacea, a talisman. "Here." He pressed a five dollar bill into Morgan's hand. "But don't tell your father anything about this."
Morgan stared at the new bill resting on top of the other two. "I don't know " he said. "Saturday night and I'm going home by nine o'clock."
"Go somewhere," Hal suggested "You've got the money. Go somewhere."
"Where?"
"I don't know. Another movie."
"That's stupid."
"Well, then go wherever you want to go."
"You know where I want to go?" Morgan said, a light coming to his eyes, shining out from the prisms of his glasses.
"Where?" asked Hal.
Morgan leaned toward him. "To get loved," he said in a low, hard, shockingly adult voice.
"Get some what?" said Hal. knowing what he meant but unable to contain the surprise of his reaction.
"You know," said Morgan.
"Oh," said Hal.
"So?" said Morgan.
"So?"
"So I don't have enough."
"How much?" Hal asked. "Don't you know?"
Hal shrugged, trying to make it seem as if he didn't care.
"It's ten at least," said Morgan. "Fifteen if you want them to do anything good."
Hal felt his role. Another five slipped from his wallet and was pressed into Morgan's hand.
"Fifteen if you want them to do anything good," Morgan repeated. "And you know what I like to have them do?"
Hal didn't. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to continue bargaining with Morgan. He took another ten out of his wallet and placed it on top of the other bills in Morgan's fat hand. "Here. Now will you go?"
Morgan's hand closed tightly around the bills. A smile wormed across his face. "You bet," he said, moving toward the door. "And you want to know something? I didn't really like her in the first place. Not at all," he said, his voice shrill. "Not one bit."
He turned and ran from the theater.
Hal felt only relief. He had been on the edge of that familiar precipice where he felt he was about to lose control. Once he had started paying Morgan off, he had the chilling feeling he would be doing so forever. The horror of the blackmailer gripped his heart and he saw himself endlessly doling out bills from a never-depleted wallet to sponsor Morgan's increasingly intricate adventures in romance.
His own indulgences had taught him the impossibility of ending something short of completion. Once begun, everything had to run to its complete fulfillment. Tonight, for example.
He was now aware that he was destined to do more than merely watch Brenda.
Tonight was the night in which he would be more than a mere spectator.
Tonight all of his photographs would come to life and he would be a part of them.
Tonight all of his fantasies would be enacted in the flesh.
He knew it; he could feel it. His arms and legs became goose-fleshed and his desire again started slowly to assert its presence.
But he knew now he could control it. He could and he would.
For tonight was the night he had waited all of his life for.
And he felt that Brenda had been waiting, too.
He sat down on the couch facing the powder room door and waited for her to emerge. His body was tensed with excitement. His eyes were alive with desire but on his face was a quiet, pleased smile. To the innocent onlooker, he might have appeared to be the most patient collected young man in the world.
Smiling, he waited.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Anyone could see that Janis Reagan had deep purple eyes, cupids-bow lips, and raven-black hair that she wore in a twist and down over her left ear. Anyone could guess that she had a fair-to-fine body but speculation was made difficult by the fact that she wore mostly shifts, that shapeless gift to the shapeless women of the world.
Jeff Turned had a slight edge. He knew that Janis Reagen's eyes rolled back when she was in the throes of a particularly passionate moment.
He knew that her cupid's-bow lips were soft and warm and seemed to go liquid under the probing exploration of a man's tongue.
He knew that her raven-black hair was as fine as cotton candy and that Janis loved to let it down until it almost covered the startling large brown nipples of her lush white breasts.
He also knew that her waist was narrow, her hips were wide, her legs were long and so she wore shifts simply because they were fashionable.
Last but not least, he knew that her legs were soft, firm, white pillows that looked delicious.
That was as much as he knew. At that point, Janis Reagen went on vacation.
Jeff had seen her six times before then, laying his traps with the craftiness of a starving hunter. In turn he had been kind, cruel, loving, cold, tender, brutal, passive, angry, pensive, impulsive, juvenile, mature, fatherly, brotherly, and even a bit motherly. In short, he had tried to be all things to Janis Reagan feeling that whatever her inclinations, he would satisfy them in part.
Janis Reagen was suitable, one of the few suitable women Jeff had met in months. Short of marrying her, he had decided to do almost anything necessary to make her his bed partner. His progress was as easily gauged as tide level on a pier. She had his watermarks all over her.
Her lips had yielded their honeyed wares on the first date. She assured him that she was not the kind of girl to do anything on a first date, not anything at all, but the drinks, or the music, or whatever it was (this with an intimate smile) had robbed her of her resistance and she had necked with him as if they had both been ordered to ship out in the morning.
On the second date he had discovered that her breasts were real. She permitted him to cup them outside her shift-while she moaned and breathed like a diesel, swaying in his arms.
Her breasts were revealed to him in all their splendor on the third date. As he caressed them, making the stupendous nipples grow to erect stiffness, she squirmed in his embrace as if on fire. When he had plunged his lips to her succulent breasts and lavished kisses and nipping bites at them, she had risen, her back arched like a cat electrified, her nails had clamped into his back like pincers and a shudder of seismographic intensity shot through her.
She had experienced her finish.
Then she had fallen back limp and exhausted, drained of passion and everything but resistance. Unable to enjoy that, she had refused to let Jeff have his way and, not too keen on loving an inert body, Jeff had acquiesced and the evening had been short.
The same thing had happened the fourth time they had met. Although she feigned shame over her premature gratification, it had been gratification all the same and she could not fully erase the smile. Jeff interpreted a part of that smile to be at his expense. She had finished and he had not. He was angry but not as angry as determined. It was better than having her frigid, he rationalized. All that was required was a new approach.
He decided upon the Southern route; attack from the shore and move slowly inland. It had worked for Jackson, no reason why it shouldn't work for him.
Around the knee cap he encountered unexpected resistance. This was on their fifth date.
"No. Jeff," she said, brushing his hand away.
"Yes." he hummed into her ear. adding a dab of tongue and replacing his hand.
She covered it with her own, as gently as if she were leading him in prayer. And tenderly lifted his hand and placed it to her breast. It might have been the action of a Madonna. Jeff was touched and moved. His hand caressed slowly, while his lips lashed warmly at her mouth. Slowly the buttons of her shift gave way; they wrestled in silent frenzy and his hands went behind her and unclasped the hooks of her bra. Her breasts fell free; giant white teardrops, beckoning to him.
In a loving, tender, affectionate gesture, he nuzzled his face to the warm mounds, tickled them, grated the nipples gently with his teeth, pressed their tips against his eager lips....
And she rose, her back arched, her nails clamped into his back like pincers and a shudder of seismographic intensity shot through her.
He had been hoodwinked again!
On the sixth date, he had been Sherman; callous, merciless, marching undeterred to his destination, brushing away any and all resistance.
He had engaged the enemy in mid-leg and on that snow-white battlefield, they had rocked back and forth, toward victory, toward defeat, see-sawing until it had become more of an Indian wrestle, a test of strength, than a seduction.
He had stopped kissing her. He had stopped caressing her. He had stopped murmuring words of endearment and admiration in her ear. Grunting, straining, teeth tight, jaws clenched their hands had locked in fierce battle and they had struggled.
Finally she had shouted "Stop!"
He had stopped and was ashamed at what they had been doing. That was closer to rape than seduction.
She had been as ashamed, realizing that it had been as much her doing as his.
Then they had had a long, deadly civilized discussion about the nature of their relationship, of their relationship as individuals to the world, to their own small societies, about conventionality and non-conformity, marriage, and religion.
Well, was she or wasn't she? It all boiled down to that. Jeff was less tactful than he had wanted to be, but he felt more frustrated than he thought was humanly possible. Even in his ungratified high school days he had never claimed so much and gotten so little. The humiliation drove him to unpolitical extremes.
"Listen, Jan," he had said, his eyes burning, his throat raw from the countless cigarettes and six cups of coffee he had consumed during their discussion, "it's either you do or you don't. If you feel for me what I feel for you, then you'll want to. If not, well, I don't see any point in us going on."
It seemed to him that the omission of the word love was as glaring as a missing sun. He knew it would have clinched his case if he had said he loved her but the word had always come hard to his lips. He had said it to only three girls; the first two had been when he was young enough to be excused, the last was a girl whom he had genuinely loved. He could not bring himself to use the word promiscuously now.
"I'll have to think about it," Jan said. "I don't know."
"Of course, baby. You think about it." He had kissed her good night, lightly, a kiss that could go either way. If she decided against him, it would serve as goodbye; if not, it was a promise of how gentle a lover he could be.
He gave her a week to decide, gave a great deal of thought to the day of the week on which he would call her and the night he would see her. The more he thought about it, the more confident he became. If he knew anything about girls, he knew that this one would come along. He had given her too much pleasure with the preliminaries for her to resist the final consummation.
Unless, of course, the preliminaries were everything to her.
He had heard of girls like that. They had one special area which was the ultimate in satisfaction to them. The breasts. The buttocks. Just some caresses or kisses or stimulation of that particular zone and they were off in a way which not even the full act could duplicate.
He dismissed the idea that Janis could be one of those. If she had enjoyed the preliminaries so much, it was because she would enjoy the main event even more.
He called her in high hopes.
There was no answer.
He tried five more times that night, giving up at 2:30 a.m., furious, imagining her in the arms of some docile milk-toast who was content to kiss her breasts.
He called the next night. Six times. There was no answer.
The following day he called her office and found out she was away on vacation.
She was gone two weeks. He had fretted most of that time, seeing all the work he had carefully contrived undone by some pituitary Adonis in bikini briefs and a mahogany tan. He wrestled with the problem at night-having nothing else with which to wrestle. He went out once, a blind date, just to go out, but found himself so absorbed in thoughts of Janis that as soon as they settled in the coziness of the couch in the girl's apartment, his hand went immediately to her breast.
The girl was not as pleased as Janis might have been. She shrieked and bolted upright.
It was just as well. In the fast moment of contact, Jeff had discovered that the girl's assets were mostly artificial. Grinning lewdly, he had said good night. It was about the only smile he had during those two weeks.
But she had sounded happy to hear from him when she returned. They had made a date for Friday night, at the bar at which she had never showed up. He had interpreted that to mean that she had changed her mind.
Then she had called Saturday and he could tell by the eagerness in her voice that she had made her decision for him. It would not just be teasing tonight. Tonight would be the time to cash in all the markers he had been holding for almost two months.
Tonight.
It would have been the culmination of a dream.
But for that girl last night. The humiliation still rankled him. In good faith he had given her the most precious thing he had. his passion. And she had abused it and left him feeling ashamed and emasculated.
He wished she was around so he could pay her back In person But that was impossible so a proxy would have to no.
Janis.
He would even the score by making Janis feel as humiliated as he had. He would use her passion against bet as that tease had used his against him.
Women. They all stank for his money.
Love 'em and leave 'em. Jeff thought. The only rational philosophy for these troubled times.
He sat on the sofa facing her, a drink in his hand, a smile on his face and hate in his heart. She was wearing a hostess gown slit up the side, bare on the shoulders. It said she had no plans to leave the house that evening. She had gone to Miami for her vacation and her skin glowed with a mellow honeyed tan. The familiar French twist terminating on her left shoulder gave her an Asiatic look tonight.
"You look beautiful," Jeff said. "Just beautiful." There was bitterness apparent in his tone.
"Thank you, kind sir." She was sitting in a lounge chair big enough for two. She inclined her head in a grateful nod. her eyes smiling.
"I was surprised when you called," he said.
"Were you? Why?"
"I was surprised when you accepted a date with me when I spoke to you last week. After our discussion, I mean."
"Our discussion," she repeated. "I've thought a lot about that, Jeff. An awful lot."
"So have I."
"And what conclusions did you come up with?" she asked.
"A nuclear test ban is the only sane policy."
Her laugh was a titter, a race across the scales, too shrill and too piercing.
"I amuse you," Jeff said. "That's good."
"I think you're very amusing," she said. "Is there something wrong with that?"
"No, ma'am. We aim to please. Satisfaction guaranteed."
A frown passed over her face as he said that. "What's the matter, Jeff? Are yon still mad about last night?"
"No, ma'am. Subway tie-ups happen. Nothing you could do about it."
"Then what is it?"
"What makes you think everything isn't just peaches and cream, fine and dandy, cotton candy? Tell me about your vacation. Did you make any, ah, interesting friends?"
"No, the hotel was almost empty. I didn't mind though. I really needed a good rest, not a social vacation."
"I see. Social life all taken care of, eh?"
"Jeff. What is it?"
"What is what, mademoiselle? Je ne comprend pas.
I don't understand."
"I don't understand," she said. "You ask me out and then you come over here and sit like a stick and make sarcastic comments about everything I say."
"I asked you out," he said. "Funny. I had the impression it was rather thi other way around. If not in fact, then certainly in intent."
"All right," she said. "I'll admit it. I'm not ashamed of it. I wanted to be with you, Jeff. I like you. I enjoy your company. I wanted to be with you last night, too, and I didn't deliberately cause that delay no matter what you might think. I was under the impression that you wanted to be here with me. too. Was that wrong?"
"Opinion, hearsay. Who can contradict it? What is the truth?"
"Jeff, don't mock me please. I know you're very much more intelligent than I am but please don't make fun of me."
"I thought that was precisely what you wanted, my dear. For me to make fun of you. Isn't that the idea behind this whole charade? Behind all this social intercourse? A little small talk, a few drinks, a laugh or two and then into the sack. But never without the chit-chat first, to make it all legitimate. No matter how much two people may want to be in each other's arms, society and convention require that first they go out and have some fun; then they can go home and crawl into the sack."
"Is that it, Jeff? Do you want us to go to bed now? Is that what's bothering you?" She looked sad.
"Me? Nothing's bothering me, boss-lady. I'se as happy as the sky is blue. I whistle a happy tune. Zippity doo-dah, zippity day."
"Jeff." There was agonized pity in her eyes. "You called, Madame?"
"Jeff." She stood up and came toward him. He didn't move to accommodate her When she was standing before him, he looked up to fix her with a hateful stare.
"Jeff. Tell me what you want. I'll do it." Her voice was low. humble.
"What I want or what you want, little lady?"
"Jeff."
"He who seeks the pleasure of others seeks in reality only his own."
"Jeff." She kneeled down before him.
"Ah," he said, looking at her. "No bra, I see."
A smile started at the corner of her cupids-bow lips.
"No offense meant, ma'am. Just my acute powers of observation. Newspaper training. Dies hard."
Her arms reached out and encircled his waist. She pressed her head against his chest. He felt her soft breasts touch his stomach
"Jeff, darling," she said. "I've missed you so much."
"The lady is gracious."
"Jeff, please stop that." She took his head in her hands, staring at his face with need and passion in her eyes.
"It's time, isn't it?" he said. She nodded.
"It's time, it's time, it's time," he said wearily. "The end and the beginning. It's time to go to bed."
He lifted her to her feet, and, hands touching, they walked into the bedroom.
The night table lamp was on. She moved to it and turned it off. In the darkness he could barely make out her silhouette as she moved into his arms. They kissed; their tongues clashed. She moaned and pushed her breast and shoulders against him.
His hand slipped over her shoulders, caressing the warm flesh, and down to the sides of her breasts. He held her, one hand under each arm and moved her from him.
He heard her breath exhale as the contact of their bodies was broken.
"Get undressed," he said.
"But. Don't you-"
"Get undressed," he repeated.
A pause and then she began to obey him. He watched, barely seeing her. The gown dipped to her feet, revealing her in panties that glowed like white fire, as white as her breasts. She slipped from her high heeled slippers and crawled onto the bed.
"Take off the panties," he said.
She slid the panties down her legs, reached her hand over the side of the bed and let them drop. She moved back, nestling her head into the pillows, and waited.
He thought of leaving her. Of walking out right then and leaving her to burn it. humiliation.
That would have been payment to the girl last night.
But that was not enough.
He had a more poetic justice in mind.
His brain filled with it as he began to undress, snapping open his belt buckle, opening his clothes with a harsh, rasping sound.
When he was naked, he lay beside her, opened his arms and she rolled into them. She gasped in delight as their bodies touched, their lips merged and their legs bumped together.
His passion climbed involuntarily. He wanted to remain calm but the sensuous touch of her against him made it impossible. His kisses became more urgent and more frantic. She moved his hand to her breast and he squeezed in ways that her groans told him were most pleasing. His other hand slipped onto the small white mound of her middle.
It was enough.
An impatient little cry escaped her lips and her nails began to claw at him. He could not resist one final torment and bent to bite at each nipple which was erect and hard.
It was almost too much. Pulling at him, she was already thrashing on the bed.
"Please, Jeff," she murmured. "Oh, please, please, please."
He was ready, too. He took her.
With a sharp hiss of pleasure-pain, she brought him to her. There was a moment of confusion and then they were on a frenzied journey across the face of the moon. He whipped her with all the strength of his hate and was repaid in pleasure and she fought with all the passion of her need and was rewarded with fulfillment.
Working at their height, his heart thundered against his chest and then every nerve in his body seemed to explode and he was there ... leaping suspended into space ... airy, light. . tingling.
And an involuntary smile stretched his features. He tried to fight it away of will it off. but could not.
Damn, he thought. She would have to be good!
Afterward, purpose returned.
Lying beside him in the darkness, she was just another girl, a body, no longer a lover He remembered his revenge, thought to dismiss it because he lacked the strength but then remembered the laugh of that girl.
Every muscle in his body tightened.
"What is it?" Janis asked.
"Nothing."
"Tell me. darling." She ran her hand over his chest, scratching gently.
"Let's get dressed and go out for something to eat," he said.
"I've got plenty in the house. What would you like?"
"Let's go out."
"But why darling? It's so much trouble. I'm so comfortable." She snuggled against him. "I feel like taking a ride," he said. "Again?" she said. "So soon?" He had to laugh.
"I'm sorry, darling," she said, "But T couldn't resist it. Are you surprised to hear me talk like that?"
"Should I be?"
"Well, I assumed that I gave the impression of being a well brought up young lady I try to."
"Your smile gives you away."
"Really? What kind of smile do T have?"
"A man-eating one."
"Now you're the one who's talking nasty," she said cutely.
"Do you think it's nasty?"
"What you said or what you mentioned?"
"What I mentioned."
"I don't know. I never though about it."
"Think about it now?"
"Why? Would you ... do you like that sort of thing?"
"Every man does."
"I-I don't know, Jeff. I just don't know. I have thought about that. I guess every girl has. But that just seems so ... well, so unnatural."
"It's not," he said. "Nothing that two people want to do together is unnatural."
"I don't know Do you have to have my answer right away?"
"Uh-uh. Ten minutes will do."
"Where will we be in ten minutes?"
"In my car," he said.
"And where will your car be?"
"Parked."
"Where? In some romantic spot, I hope."
"Oh very romantic," he said. He visualized the street and the alley where he had parked with the girl the night before. He saw the garbage cans overflowing by the entrance to the alley and the alley as dark as the mouth of Hell. "A garden of Eden," he said. "For Adam and Eve."
"What about the snake?" she said. "Wasn't there a snake in that story, too?"
"I'll take care of the snake, dear," Jeff said. He sounded more knowing than he was.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was a long hall, dirty but very well lit, with a row of benches down one side. Crushed cigarette butts lay all over the black composition floor, and dog-eared papers crowded one another on the bulletin board across from the benches. The doors spaced erratically along both walls all contained frosted glass panels with numbers on them: 202, 204, 206, on and on.
The bench Hal was sitting on was very uncomfortable. It was made of wood, with a slatted wooden back, and it was not only as hard as marble, but it was also shaped wrong for the human spine and the human back side. Hal shifted this way and that, trying without success to get comfortable, glancing at the other benches to see if any of them looked better, and deciding regretfully that they all looked alike. Hard, ancient benches like this were found all over the world, wherever officialdom sat Except, of course, that most benches of this type were heavily scarred over the years by the initials of their transient occupants, plus occasional dated and brief sayings of one type or another. These benches in this hallway were free of graffiti, but that was only to be expected. How many people, after all, will take out a knife and start carving up the furniture at Police Headquarters?
Police Headquarters.
Hal shivered. The discomfort of this bench had let him forget, for just a little while, the horrible situation he'd suddenly found himself in, but now the memory of recent events came pouring back in on him and he sat there beneath its deluge and shivered in misery.
First, Brenda. He had waited and waited, and then he had waited and waited, and then he had waited and waited. He had understood Brenda's trickery long before he had allowed himself to believe it, but finally he'd had no choice but to acknowledge that he had been shamefully used. There was a further lounge entrance on the opposite side, of course, and another staircase. Brenda had not merely ditched Morgan, she had ditched Morgan and Hal at once.
It wasn't all the money he'd given Morgan that bothered him. It wasn't even the loss of the promise of adventure for later on tonight that bothered him; he hadn't really and truly believed he would find happiness with Brenda this very night, with Brenda or with anyone else, that had only been a more realistic fantasy than usual. No, what bothered him, what ate into his mind and soul like spilled acid, was the way he had been used. The mockery of it, the easy cruelty of it!
Now, for the first time, he had proof to go with his old fear, that his inner self was exposed and naked to the pitiless world. How would Brenda have dared treat him this way, if she didn't know the truth about him, know him for the weak and spineless and a guilt-ridden ineffectual weakling he was?
Suddenly, as he shuffled with bowed head out of the movie theater and onto the black laughing streets, suddenly a new resolve came to him, an idea and a resolution so violent, so incredible, but so utterly right that he didn't try to back away from it for even a second. From the instant, the very instant, that the idea came to him he knew it was good and knew it was necessary and knew it was the first step toward salvation. Never again would a Brenda treat him this way, nor would a Rene leave him tongue-tied.
The idea was so simple, so beautiful, so correct, that he couldn't believe he hadn't known it all along. Throw them out! That was it, the whole thing in a nutshell, throw them out!
The pictures. The whole way of life that went with them. Peeping at girls from hidden vantage points, out. The whole kit and kaboodle in the trunk, out.
Oh, he knew that wasn't all there was to it, that he wouldn't wake up tomorrow morning any different, that the Hal Kirby he had reluctantly lived with all these years would continued to share this flesh and mind, but it was a first step, and nothing in the world is more important than a first step.
After all, what kept him from sleeping with girls? He couldn't talk with them, sirrply. And what kept him from talking with them? Guilt and fear of exposure. And what was he guilty about, what didn't he want exposed? His shabby substitutions, his collection in his trunk. And why did he resort to these shabby substitutions? Because he couldn't sleep with girls.
A circle, that's what it was, a vicious circle. Break it at any point, and eventually the while circle must collapse, like puncturing a balloon. So away with the shabby substitution, away with them forever. And where would that lead? To a lessening of guilt, a lessening of the fear of exposure. And where would that lead? To an ability to talk with girls. And where, in sum, would that lead? Loving girls.
As these encouraging thoughts developed in hi-head over the course of his walk homeward from the movies, gradually his slumped shoulders straightened, gradually his bowed head raised, gradually his dragging feet began to pick themselves up and stride out with purposeful rhythm. He could do it. he could do it, he could do it.
So home, and up the stairs, and into the room, and two bulky men in brown suits were sitting on his bed and looking at his pictures.
He hadn't locked the trunk!
He gaped at them, and they looked expressionlessly at him. Then one of them got to his feet and said, "Harold Kirby?"
"Wha-wha-wha-"
"Police," the man said!, and waved his hand to magically produce a wallet. He waved his hand again and the wallet flipped open to show a badge. One more wave and the wallet disappeared.
Hal said. "Wha-wha-wha-"
The second man got up and said, "Nice collection you got here. You got a suitcase?"
"I don't-wha-a suitcase?"
"Easier to carry than the trunk. In the closet here?"
"Y-yes."
While the second man was transferring Hal's collection from the trunk to the suitcase, the first man said, "Where you been, Harold?"
"I-I-"
"Come on, Harold, get over it. We been here awhile now, the three of us."
Hal swallowed. This was worse than the worst, worse than the most terrible thing he'd ever imagined. The police! Brenda's parents in here was the most terrible thing he'd ever thought of, and this was so much worse he couldn't even imagine it. Police. Newspapers. Jail and publicity and utter ruin.
Just when everything had changed! Just when he'd been coming home to throw all this away, to start a new life!
The first man said again, "Where you been, Harold?"
This time he could answer. Shock had been replaced by numbness; first Brenda and now this. The injustice of it all hit him like novocaine "I went to a movie," he said.
"Alone?"
He hesitated but it was easier to say he'd been alone. After all. in essence he had been alone, hadn't he? In essence "Yes," he said
"You often go to the movies alone?"
"Sometimes."
"You ever go with girls?
"To the movies?" He knew he was evading the question, but it embarrassed him too much to answer. The policeman shrugged. "Sure, to the movies."
"Not usually," Hal said "Not usually? But sometimes?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? When was the last time you took a girl to a movie?"
Belatedly, he realized he should have said he'd gone with Brenda tonight, and then none of these questions could have gotten started. But if he lied now, about some other girl on some other date, wouldn't they check up on him? He said, "I don't remember."
"Give me the name of any girl you've ever taken to a movie."
"I don't remember."
The other policeman said, "How about Rene Clinton?"
Rene? The question made no sense to him because he had seen no newspapers today. He said, "No. No, I never took her to the movies."
"You ever follow girl:, home after the movies?"
"Oh, no! No, I wouldn't do that."
The two policemen looked at one another, and one of them said, "Downtown," and the other one nodded. They had the suitcase full of pictures now, and each of them took one of Hal's arms, and they marched him out of the room and downstairs and into a plain black car parked at the curb. He was too frightened and too baffled and too stunned to resist.
They brought him here, to Police Headquarters, and they sat him down on this bench and they told him not to go away. Then they laughed and took his suitcase into room 208. And here, ever since, he had sat.
When he'd first come in, there'd been no one sitting on any of the benches, but about fifteen minutes later another man came in escorted by two more policemen in baggy brown suits. The other man was seated on the next bench over to Hal's right, and the two plainclothesmen went into room 208.
Room 208 was getting a lot of business. Detectives-they had to be detectives, because they were all stocky and rumpled and tough-looking-kept going in and out of that room, some of them glancing at Hal and the other man sitting in the hallway, most of them just marching on by, a few pausing to grind yet another cigarette butt into the composition flooring.
After awhile, another trio came in, a civilian in the middle and detectives flanking him. This was an older man than either Hal or the guy down on the other bench. This was a man in his forties, with shirt sleeves rolled up and a heavy paunch and a sharply receding hairline.
He came in. looked curiously at the man to Hal's right, glanced expressionlessly at Hal, and went straight on into room 208. He stayed there about five minutes, then came back out, caught the eyes of the man to Hal's right and shrugged expressively, as though to say, "What could I do?"
A few minutes later, the door to room 208 opened again, and another man stuck his head out. "Jeffrey Turner," he said.
The man to Hal's right got up and walked down the hall and was swallowed by room 208. Hal sat quietly, hands in his lap, and didn't think about Jeffrey Turner at all. He thought only about himself, and what they would do to him. He'd had those pictures in his possession, and someone might have seen him spying on Brenda this afternoon. How the police had caught up with him didn't matter, only the fact that they had caught up with him and now at last the punishment he'd been evading all these years would be meted out to him.
A feeling almost of peace began to settle down over him.
Until he saw the bartender go by, Jeff wasn't worried. He didn't know what he'd been pulled in for, but since he hadn't done anything illegal lately it didn't matter what the police had in mind. But then he saw the bartender go by, the one from the place where he'd been waiting for Janis last night, and all at once he had the feeling he was in big trouble. He still didn't know the details, and he was still certain they had the wrong guy for whatever it was. but seeing that bartender there told Jeff that all sorts of hell was just around the corner.
If he just hadn't been engaged in that stupid vengeance routine, this probably wouldn't have happened.
Vengeance against the wrong girl, at that; that little witch Rene last night had really thrown him oft the track for awhile. So off the track that he'd wound up down there again in the same neighborhood where she'd given him the business, for the poetic beauty of giving the business back, if not to the same girl, at least in the same location. So that's why he'd been there when the cops showed up. And otherwise? Would they have been interested in him?
Well, it depended on what they wanted him for, and he still didn't know that. But if the bartender was down here to identify him-and why else?-then it most likely had something to do with the little tease Rene. And this was where she'd last seen him. so if she were behind all this it made sense for the cops to look for him here.
His suspicion, only half admitted to himself because it scared him so much, was that Rene had not been satisfied with merely teasing him, but had gone even farther, had sworn out some sort of warrant against him for attempted rape or something like that. If that was the case, he had more trouble than he could use, because no man in the world could beat an accusation like that.
If only he hadn't gone back there!
Well, he had. His initial plan was to get his revenge in the apartment, walk on out of there and let it be ended right then, but then Janis, the squirming, demanding flesh of her, had gotten to him, and his initial plan was discarded. Like Captain Ahab. he had had no choice. He had to take this great white fish at least once before he could think about anything else.
But then came the refinement of the plan, and the justifications for having left it in the first place After all, he told himself, he'd spent a lot of time and effort and money on this chick, getting her set up for the loving he'd just given her. If, after all his extortions and all his earlier disappointments and all his scheming and planning, if after all that and after having finally gotten that beautiful body unwrapped and supine upon a bed, if after everything he had simply walked out without finishing the job, he would have been punishing himself at least as much as her. He would have been, in a manner of speaking, cutting off his nose to spite his face. Something like that, anyway, something like that.
So he didn't cut off his nose or something like that. To continue the Ahab analogy, he had taken his harpoon and attacked the turbulent white body, and then stood aloft awhile like a shipwrecked sailor riding a bucking whale, and only when that was finished did he think about anything else, about his plans and his need for vengeance.
Thinking back on it now, from the vantage point of hindsight in a Police Headquarters corridor, he decided he must have been temporarily insane. Rene had tantalized him and mistreated him so brutally and so effectively that he'd actually been off his nut there for awhile. Going around filled with nothing but thoughts of vengeance was more than stupid; it was slightly neurotic.
Taking one's vengeance on the wrong person, knowingly, was more than neurotic; it was slightly crazy. And the vengeance he chose, well. .
They had dressed, after finishing their interpretation of Mob, Dick, and they had gone down to the car. and Jeff had been so full of the cunning and intricacy of his plotting-that he'd even held the car door open for Janis and offered her a little bow as she entered the car Then he trotted around and got behind the wheel and she said, "Where are we going, exactly?"
"Where we can be alone, exactly," he said, and reached out a swift hand to brush it across her breasts; the fastest and most effective way he knew of distracting her."
She distracted beautifully. "Ohh," she said, and her features got a little lax for just a second. A girl constructed as she was, it was a miracle she didn't give herself a premature finish every time she put on her bra. Or maybe she did.
Idle speculation. He had no time for that. He drove rapidly across town to the section of alleys and warehouses where he'd been brought last night by Rene. For the last few blocks he drove more slowly than usual, looking this way and that, half-expecting to see the little witch in person, striding along the street with all that useless equipment jouncing and jiggling away to the permanent distraction of every-no. Not permanent. If he saw her tonight, he wouldn't be at all distracted, not at all. If he saw the girl who called herself Rene tonight, he knew exactly what he would do about it.
But he didn't see her, and he hadn't thought he would. She was probably ;n some other part of town tonight, he thought, treating someone else as she had treated him. Sooner or later she'd get herself in trouble that way, in serious trouble. She'd get herself beaten to within an inch of her life, or raped, or maybe even killed. And she'd have no one to blame but herself.
Well, she wasn't around here and he hadn't expected her. The girl sitting beside him would have to do. And she would. Nicely. Anything he wished. He'd already made sure of that, back in the apartment.
He parked where he'd parked last night, and turned to Janis as he had turned last night to Rene, but his plans tonight were not exactly the same, not exactly. Similar, but not exactly the same.
He kissed her, and she snuggled close to him, breath and body warm and inviting, soft and pliable to his hands and lips. He said, "Did I pick a good neighborhood?"
"Mmm. Touch me." She tried to pull one of his hands to her breasts.
But he resisted, saying, "Not yet. You know what that does for you."
"I want that to do for me," she said. "I feel so good."
"Well, what about me? Don't I get a chance to feel good?"
"We can make love again," she said. "Any time you say." She plucked at his hand some more, stodgily resting on her knees. "Touch me nice," she murmured. "Touch me the way I like. You know you can do anything else you want."
"But you'll feel good alone." he told her. "All by yourself. If I touch you, you've at least got to do something for me."
"What?"
"What we talked about before, back at the apartment."
She glanced at his clothing and hesitated She'd already told him this was something she'd never done be fore, and he was sure now that was something she'd never do of her own volition That only made this all the better, all the more proper for his revenge.
His hand brushed lightly across her clothed breasts again, to help influence her thinking. She moaned and tried to capture his hand to bring it back, but failed. Even in that one short caress he'd felt the hard knobs of her nipples through her clothing.
"Come on," he whispered.
"All right." She kissed him convulsively, then broke away and said, "Just so you touch me."
"But not at first," he told her. "I think you've got a shorter fuse than I have right now. I want us to finish together."
"Finish?" She looked doubtful again. "You mean you want me to, to keep on, you want me to-"
"Till the finish. And I'll keep pleasing you till the finish." His hand raised and tweaked her near breast, and flitted off again.
That decided her. "All right. I will."
"Good girl. Good girl."
He sat back at his ease, a smile on his face, and watched her begin. He let her do that all herself, opening his clothing, everything, rill her head bumped the steering wheel, and he shifted slightly so that wouldn't happen again.
That lasted a good long while, a lot longer than he'd anticipated, probably partly because his thoughts were vengeful instead of amorous, and partly because his position seated in the front of the car wasn't at the moment the most comfortable in the world.
From time to time she raised her head to whisper, "Touch me! Start touching me!" but he always refused, saying, "I'm nowhere near ready. You keep breaking like that, I'll never be ready."
But he was getting ready, despite himself, despite the direction of his thoughts and the awkwardness of his position. Or maybe ready isn't precisely the right word. He'd been ready for a good long while now; at the moment he was nearly ready again.
Then he was delayed by a pedestrian, an anonymous male passerby who emerged slowly out of darkness, walked on by, and disappeared again into darkness somewhere behind the car. It seemed to Jeff that the stranger glanced in as he passed, and he wondered if Janis could be seen from that angle. Not that it mattered.
Then, a minute later, nothing mattered, nothing at all. His own physical urges and Janis' unstinting persistence finally paid off and all at once he screamed like a rocket, and seconds later was merely sitting exhausted behind the wheel, smiling with a double-edged contentment while Janis sat bolt upright beside him and glared. "You didn't! You promised and you-"
"Get out of the car," he said.
She stared at him, open-mouthed.
He reached across and pushed the poor open.
"Go on," he said. "Get out."
"You can't-"
But he could. He did. Half-pushing, he got her out of the car, and then she was standing on the sidewalk, still not understanding and not believing, staring in at him. "Jeff, what in the world-"
"You walk that way you'll find a cab," he told her. He locked the door he'd just exited her though, and rolled the window up.
She stayed a few minutes longer, shouting at him through the closed window, while he sat in the car and smiled and lit a cigarette. This then was his revenge. To be completed by the woman and leave her frustrated and incomplete. Okay, Rene? See what I mean? How do you like it now, Rene?
How Rene would have liked it he'd never know, but Janis didn't like it at all. After shouting most of the sharp-angled words in the English language through the closed window at him, she finally turned on her heel and went stalking off, so mad her hips jiggled like a watermelon on the back of a wagon going along a dirt road. Odd thing that. He'd never noticed before how anger makes a woman's muscles tighten up, to look as hard and smooth as a bowling ball. Interesting physiological observation. He continued the observation till she finished jiggling on out of sight.
Even then all hadn't been totally lost. If he'd just started the car then and driven away he still might have been all right. If.
Well, he hadn't. Still temporarily insane, he'd stayed right where he was awhile, sitting in the car right where he'd been parked last night. He lit a cigarette and contemplated the blank and silent street and he wallowed awhile in the comfort of his revenge.
Until the cops showed up.
The first he knew that the bubble had burst, the ship had left the dock, the balloon had sailed without him, the first he knew that everything till now was merely prologue, the first inkling he had that he wasn't the captain of his fate or master of his soul after all, came to him-like to the hero of a Greek play-in a message, from a messenger.
The messenger tapped on the window glass next to his left ear. Startled, Jeff turned his head, and looked into a pair of exceptionally cold eyes. Below those cold eyes, a thin-lipped mouth delivered the message: "Get out of the car."
There was such authority gleaming in that face and those words and that tone of voice that he didn't even think about arguing or refusing. He just opened the door and got out of the car.
There were two men standing there, and then they identified themselves as police officers Jeff was unsurprised. Baffled, yes, but not surprsed. Then they asked him what he was doing here, and he really didn't have an answer for them. "Just stopped to light a cigarette," he said, knowing it was lame and stupid, but what else could he say? Anything even close to the truth would have involved far too much explanation.
Well, anything less than the truth wouldn't do. The first thing he knew, he was sitting on a bench at Police Headquarters, with a nervous little cretin sitting nearby, and he had no idea why he'd been pulled down here, though he had the feeling it was something serious. Then he saw the bartender. and understood immediately it had something to do with that little tease from last night.
And then a man stuck his head out from a room down the hall and said, "Jeffery Turner," and he knew the time had come He got to his feet and walked forward, feeling the cretin's eyes on him.
CHAPTER NINE
Once out of the theater and away from both those blundering fools, Brenda could control herself no longer. As she skipped along the empty sidewalk, hurrying for her rendezvous with Ted, laughter billowed up from her throat, pealed past her moist lips like a constant ringing of an evil bell. What a fool that Hal was! And what a pig that Morgan! A perfect pair they made, one fool plus one pig. They ought to marry. Then the fool could ride the pig to the fair, and they could both win booby prizes for worst in their class.
The imagery delighted her. She skipped along, bouncing and billowy, sixteen and as fresh and round and juicy as an unpeeled grape, leaving behind her in her wake jagged strips of laughter for the man behind her to snuffle over and follow, pulling himself along the thread of her laughter like a mountain climber scaling sheer rock. But she didn't see him back there, wasn't at all aware of him. She was aware only of the ruin and devastation she had left behind her and the delicious embrace that waited in front of her.
Some of the streets she traveled were full of pedestrians, some were nearly empty. If she had slowed on any of those empty streets she might not have made it all the way to Ted's, but she didn't slow. There was too much anticipation in her for any delay.
The porch light was on at Ted's house, and she laughed again in delight. If this were a boy Ted was expecting with her parents out, there would be no light on to show the boy to inquisitive neighbors. But another girl coming over to visit? What could possibly be wrong with that?
People were so banal. Even in their apprehension of evil they were banal. If you committed a sin they didn't understand, they didn't call it a sin. People, as a general rule, were utterly stupid.
Brenda bounced up the stoop onto the porch and rang the doorbell. When the door opened, there was Ted, barefoot, wearing a robe and a secretive smile. "I thought you'd never make it," she said.
"Wait till I tell you."
Brenda stepped in and Ted shut the door then patted Brenda's hip gently, insinuatingly. "Still in the mood, honey?"
"Don't you know it." Brenda laughed and turned around. Ted didn't remove the hand that had been against Brenda, so as Brenda turned the hand slid across her hip and came to rest on her waist. Brenda made a little movement against the hand and said, "We'll talk later. I'm so In The Mood right now I could melt away like a candle."
"Then let me show you what I've got for you," Ted told her, and opened her robe.
Ted was wearing nothing beneath the robe. She, as much as Brenda. refuted the popular notion of the Lesbian as either built chunky like a truckdriver or a skinny gym teacher built like a Maypole. Theodora was, in a word, abundant. Breasts as lush as vanilla sundaes, topped by a right red cherry. A middle nearly flat, but with the slightest suggestion of a taut rounding to it, gleaming firm flesh that would be warm to the touch and smooth as satin. Rich hips, blooming out like a mighty nation form a tiny waist, twin round globes behind as sweet as fresh-baked rolls. Strong legs, but smooth and creamy.
Brenda stepped closer to all this abundance, her eyes gleaming in the hall light. "Oh, Ted, am I in The Mood! Oh, baby, let's go upstairs."
"Choose to see who goes first," said Ted.
"All right. Odds."
"Evens," said Ted.
They brought their hands forward simultaneously. Brenda had two fingers extended, and Ted one. "Me," said Brenda, "I go first."
"That's right." Ted kept her finger extended.
Brenda paused long enough to reach under her skirt and pull her panties off. Carrying them in her left hand, she started up the staircase, Ted directly behind her. Ted's hand slipped under Brenda's skirt. Brenda giggled as she climbed the stairs, and it seemed as though it would take her forever to get there, and also as though she wouldn't mind very much if it did. Ted, though, kept urging her and saying, "Come on, honey. You aren't the only one in the mood. I'm getting so I feel that way myself."
"Oh, wow."
At the head of the stairs, Brenda whirled suddenly and put her arms around Ted, pressing their bodies close together, tight together, panting, "Kiss me! Before we go in!"
They kissed, soft feminine lips curshed against soft feminine lips, searching and roaming, their hands stroking the full warm roundnesses of breast and hip and leg, until Brenda at last broke away and gasped, "Oh, come on! I can't wait any more!"
They hurried together into Ted's bedroom. Ted stepped out of her robe, and then helped Brenda in her frenzy to remove her clothing. Then, both naked, they fell into bed together, and into each other's arms.
They then became very involved with each other, totally absorbed by what they were doing, so totally and completely absorbed that they heard no sound other than the sounds they were making themselves. They didn't hear the tinkle of glass breaking in the vicinity of the back door, didn't hear the sounds of someone moving cautiously through the kitchen and dining room and living room, didn't hear the sounds of someone creeping on all fours up the stairs, didn't hear anything at all except their own breathing and the small sounds of their love-making.
Sunday:
It has been Sunday now for fully ten minutes, t am exhausted, emptied, depleted as I cannot remember ever having been at any time in the past. I have spent the last few moments of Saturday and these first few moments of Sunday glancing back over this chronicle, this record of my love affair with silence and darkness, my recurrent assignation with the husk of woman, and I can find no comparison at any point with this feeling that overwhelms me now, and which I can describe only as being what one would feel if it were possible for one to drown while on dry land.
I will try to find enough strength to put everything down here in this journal now tonight, while it is still as clear in my mind as a branding with a live poker. My arm is actually trembling as I write, but write I will nevertheless. This travelogue through the landscape of my nightlife has come across its first, its very first, volcano.
The questions of desire and death were insistent with me all day, as I have already recorded. What connection might there be, one to the other? What linkage at a level deeper than thought, deeper than habit, deeper than emotion, deeper perhaps than instinct itself, down in the primal dungeons of the mind what twisting chamber connects these two basic facts, the fact of desire and the fact of death?
Ah, and how must it relate to me?
Well, but isn't sleep the little death, the petty death? Isn't unconsciousness in all its forms a form of death? And haven't I therefore been insisting upon a symbol of death in all of my encounters heretofore? And now, having at last understood this symbol I have been all along offering myself, doesn't it seem right and proper that I should replace the symbol with the actuality?
It seems to me that I can remember a time, long long ago, when I wasn't even employing real women in my romance, when-memory fades like a dying stereopticon-in some fashion I can no longer understand, I even used a symbol of woman rather than a woman. When at last I understood the symbol for what it was, I replaced it with woman herself, didn't I? And wasn't that replacement, that transplanting, more than successful? And shouldn't therefore this additional replacement of reality for symbol be just as successful?
Tonight, after a full day of meditation, I went out again, to test my hypothesis. I roamed at first in the same black neighborhood where last night I met the woman who inadvertently gave me this new discovery, but tonight I was unsuccessful there. I saw only one woman, and she was in an automobile, near the alley of my late love, but not alone. No, far from alone. She was doing something disgusting with her companion. I will not stain these pages with the details.
There are people with no restraint, no decency, no feeling for order and correct behavior.
But she doesn't matter, that filthy woman. What matters is what I found later, in a far different neighborhood.
It was the laughter that first attracted me to her, laughter like that of last night's love, a laughter of darkness and twisted alleys, a laughter that called out for the stone knife of an Aztec pric-I or the calloused silencing hand of myself, upon which hand the laughter would close in upon itself like a worm impaled with a pin.
Closer and closer to her I hastened, from shadow to shadow, from wall to wall. Young she was, young enough to remind me of my redhead, but full and round as that long-ago blonde. (How I wish now I could have another chance with all of those, every one of those' To silence them forever, to snuff out the spark, the candle flame of life, and then! What glory it is!)
When, never having slackened pace or given me the slightest opportunity to catch up with her and make her mine (a phrase that now bears for me levels and plateaus and echoes of meaning far beyond that of its normal usage in the placid outside world), when, I say, still unpossessed by me she turned inward from the street to a house with a porch light on, I thought at first I had been cheated, that this one-like some others in the past, one cannot forget one's defeats in the glow of one's victories-would remain separated from me by luck and happenstance. My assumption at that point was that this house and this girl went together, that she had simply and naturally returned home from whatever outing had filled her evening.
But there was something odd about it all, something that just didn't ring true. I saw. my quarry ring the bell, and although it is possible she would ring the bell for entry into her own home it is not likely. Then I saw the door opened by a second girl, as lush as the first and about the same age, and wearing a robe. Again, it is possible for two girls of the same age to live in the same home-fraternal twins, for instance, the sort of twins who do not look alike, or an orphaned cousin but once again it is not likely.
I want to be objective in this chronicle, an emotionless reporter, so I must tell the truth about myself. At the time, left empty upon the sidewalk outside that house, my mind was not as analytic as that last paragraph would imply. Most of this logical progression is the result of hindsight. At that moment, on that dark street, I was guided more by my hungers than by my mind.
But I did notice some additional facts. The porch light remained on, so other people were expected. The garage beside and behind the house stood with gaping doors, empty. It seemed to me likely that the adults of the family were out, leaving only the child or children at home. One daughter, perhaps? And a school friend had come to visit with her?
It was un-likely to be a babysitter who had answered the door, dressed in a robe.
I took risks. I freely admit it, and I caution myself here in print to be much more careful in the future. It is very likely the extreme danger into which I deliberately thrust myself tonight that is partially the cause of my present weakness and exhaustion.
What I did was circle the house and enter by the rear into a darkened kitchen. Already the plan had entered my mind, already the use I had for two female bodies at once. The answer to the question which had plagued me all day long had perhaps been dropped providentially in my lap. Time would tell. Time, and the strangest experiment of all.
A slow and careful perusal of the ground floor told me it was empty. On opening the cellar door I gazed into a blackness so total that I could be confident no human thing was present within it. So, the second floor.
With infinite care I crawled up the stairs, moving on all fours so as to more evenly distribute my weight and create less likelihood of encountering a creaking stair. As I moved upward, slowly and ever more slowly, gradually I began to hear small sounds, small murmurings and kissings, the tiny protestations of springs at shifting weights.
I stopped, when all at once I identified the sounds. They were amorous, of that I was certain. Had I made a terrible mistake? Were there others presents, were there boys here for the girls? And would they all at once descend on me, tear me from my protective darkness into the glare and the light?
I was nearly to the top of the stairs, and I could see all but one of the second floor doors. The ones I could see, whether open or shut, entered upon dark and empty rooms, of that I could be sure. Light, however, was flung on the hall floor from the doorway outside my line of vision, and it was from there that the sounds were coming, in increasing rhythm and abandon.
I had gone this far, I must go on.
I crept forward, on up the stairs and onto the carpet at the top, where I remained on all fours and crept to the lighted room. Peering around the door frame, at last I saw them and understoood.
They were on the bed, the two girls, naked and gleaming, their limbs bathed in perspiration. They were in hungry embrace, in obscene variance upon that decadent misuse of the body I had seen earlier tonight in the automobile parked near last night's success.
I looked, and saw them, arms clutched convulsively around one another, muffled moans and growls emitting from their throats, and such disgust I felt that bile filled my mouth and a stink of putrefaction seemed to clog my nostrils.
How can anyone want more than the husk of woman when the consciousness of woman is capable of the acts I have seen tonight? I walk the mean streets, surrounded by vicious unnatural hungers, the decadence of Rome and the putrescence of Byzantium. Beneath the sleek flesh of those around me lies corruption and horror.
Yes, my instincts had always been right. In rendering my loves unconscious, I had been nullifying, at least for awhile, the corruption and evil within them, leaving only the body, beautiful and good, for my pleasure. In going farther, in rendering them permanently dead, snuffing out the bright gleam of rot for good and all-like cutting away the gleaming green rotted portion from an otherwise edible orange-how much more worthy I could make my mates!
Well, this was what I wished to test, and here for my purposes were two beautiful bodies containing two of the most corrupt souls in the Occident. Blinded and deafened by their own awful hungers and-more physically-by their straining limbs, they could not become aware of my presence until too late, too late.
A small religious statue stood in ineffectual disapproval upon the dresser to my left. There is the mark of their corruption, that they could so behave even under the gaze of this religious representation, of a figure they had surely been taught to respect and to worship.
I became, as it were, the instrument of the statue. The statue smote the topmost of the pair upon the back of the head, with all my might, the solid base of the statue tearing through the less-solid base of her head, shattering the skull and driving shards of bone purifyingly to her brain. She simply stopped, did not leap or cry out, but merely ceased her actions and was still.
I moved swiftly The other one had a scant second to realize that something was wrong, before with one pull I rolled the dead one aside, exposing her to my aim, and swung this time my naked fist, exploding against the side of her jaw, driving awareness from her eyes and mind and leaving her as limp and quiescent though more alive-than her late friend.
Now I had two of them, one alive and one dead. I moved both to the floor, and stretched them out there face up, side by side. The dead one, her only wound on the back of her head, looked no different from my point of view. The question was not, at any rate, one of looks.
My usual preparations were unnecessary. Both were already nude. I arranged their limbs, arms at their sides, and then I began my experiment.
First I knelt between them and explored their breasts. Both had fine breasts, full and firm and bouyant, with large magnificent nipples. My left hand stroked the breasts of the live one, and my right hand stroked the breasts of the dead one. and soberly I considered, dispassionately-as much as was possible, under the circumstances-I made up my mind.
The living breasts displayed, after a minute, one advantage. The nipple rose, hardened, scraped invitingly against my palm. Score one, then, for the living.
There were further tests, some won by the living and some by the dead. But, I must confess, I was prejudiced in favor of the dead all along. And I believe I found sufficient merit to justify my prejudice.
For one thing, the dead one cannot suddenly return to awareness while I am still there. That fear, which has always been with me till now and which has somewhat dulled and limited my pleasure before this, will never bother me again.
For another thing, with the live one, I am incessantly made aware of her presence, that she is still there. Her heart, for instance, which I can sense beating within her chest, beats and thumps away just as though she were conscious all the time, recording everything I do, everything about me. And her breath groans in my ear and brushes across my face. And sometimes, I remember, sometimes in the past, even though the woman has been positively unconscious, her body would occasionally instinctively react to my actions.
How much better the husk, the true husk, the empty vessel! No matter what I do then, no matter how long I stay or what attentions T perform, she will not awake, she will not respond, she will not be. Just minutes ago this husk contained an evil and perverted consciousness which delighted in the body? misuse But that consciousness now is gone, and the beautiful blameless body remains.
Back and forth from one to the other, testing, comparing, judging. I judged not only the physical assets of these two, the differences between them resulting from their present states, but I judged also my own reactions, my own preferences. Surely, from that standpoint, there was no contest. With the breathing, living woman I enjoyed myself as I always have, which has always been sufficient for me and certainly never left me unsatisfied. But with the other I discovered layers and levels of pleasure undreamt of. Now at last, in total confidence and total peace, I could let myself go with great gulpings of pleasure, with delight and joy and total release.
For the last part of my experiment. I had to discover if the difference between the two women was the result of their present states or some other cause. I had to know, in other words, if the pleasure I had received with the dead one would be equal to the pleasure I would receive with the other if she, too, were to be dead.
When, therefore, I was ready to conclude the experiment, I made the second one dead, and devoted my attention exclusively to her, only occasionally reaching across the empty space to find the breast of the other one.
I had to know which was better. T have experimented and now, dear diary, now I know.
CHAPTER TEN
The room-it wasn't really an office-was large. In lieu of desks there were a pair of heavy oaken tables, as scarred and burnt and battered as the benches out in the corridor. Several of the chairs in the room matched the tables, implying that they'd once been a set. Now the chairs were even more battered and beaten than the tables and several chairs of different parentage were also present.
One of the tables was close to the wall, just beneath a window with heavy-gauge wire imbedded in the glass. There was a phone on that table, and several piles of papers. Both table tops were decorated with soggy-looking coffee containers. The other table was in the center of the room, directly beneath a weak overhead light with a green reflector. A lamp on the table in the center of the room was connected to the wall outlet by a long extension cord. The lamp was out.
There were three men in the room Jeff recognized two of them who'd arrested him. One of them sat in a chair at the end of the table, his rumpled coat open and his tie pulled down from his collar. He was sipping at a steaming container of coffee. The second officer was perched on the edge of the table, hanging on by one buttock. The third one was holding the door for Jeff.
"Sit down there," the one standing by the door told him, pointing to a chair beside the table. The chair faced along the side of the table and the lamp at the end faced toward it.
Jeff sat down The three men stared at him for a long, silent moment. His face flushed and he grew restless. "Look." he began, "I wish someone would tell me what this is all about."
"What's your name?" the one perching shot at him.
"Jeff Turner. But you already know that. I've been telling people my name for the last half hour but nobody's been telling me anything. What's going on?"
"Where do you work?"
He told them that and bit back his anger. Evidently they were going to do things in their own way in their own good time. As an honest and peaceful American citizen their high-handed attitude outraged him, but anger would avail him nothing.
"What were you doing where you were picked up?"
"I was lighting a cigarette," Jeff said. He could play the game too. If they wanted something from him they would have to be damned good to get it.
"Do you always shut off the engine and turn off the headlights when you stop to light a cigarette?"
"Of course," he told them, smiling now that he could turn the tables. "Doesn't everybody?"
Out of nowhere a hand crashed into the side of his face whipping his head around and hurting like fury. It took him a moment to react. He came halfway out of his chair reaching for the cop who'd slapped him. There was the scuffle of chair legs and rubber-soled shoes against the dirty wooden floor and hands were pulling him back into the chair.
"Hey! You can't do that to me. What the hell is going on around here?"
The two men held him firmly and the third one came closer now. "Look, you may be a bundle of laughs when you're with your friends. But right now we're interested in answers, not comedy. We ask the questions and you give the right answers and you won't get hurt. You're in bad enough trouble right now without adding to it."
"What kind of trouble? What did I do?"
No one answered. The men looked at each other, then back at him and the two holding him released their grips. He remained in the chair, knowing it would be foolish to attack the third officer again.
"What were you doing parked there?"
"I was with a girl."
"Now we're getting somewhere. See how quick a slap in the chops improves your attitude? What girl?"
Jeff had anticipated the question when he'd answered the first one. But the small talk comments had thrown him oft his guard He didn't know whether or not he should tell them about Janis. If she were brought into this thing he was sunk. Whatever the trouble was she'd take delight in making it worse for him after what he'd done to her.
That witch that Rene. From the moment he'd run into her he was in one kind of mess or another. If it hadn't been for her he never would have tried to take revenge on Janis. But then, if he hadn't wanted revenge he never would have gotten Janis to do that for him.
"What girl? What's her name?" the cop prodded.
Jeff didn't know enough about what was happening to lie with conviction. "Janis Reagan."
"Where is she now?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. She got out of the car and walked away. I don't know where she is."
"Why did she get out of the car?"
There were limits to what he would tell them. "Why does any girl get out of a guy's car?" He gave them a sheepish smile.
"That's one of your favorite spots, isn't it?"
"What do you mean?"
"You take all your girls there to make out?"
"No. I don't usually go for that kid's stuff in a car.
"Are you telling us you've never been there before?"
"With a girl, you mean?"
"Yeah, with a girl."
"No. Nev...." Jeff stopped short. The alley was where he'd been with Rene. And the guy who tended bar in the place he'd met Rene was sitting right outside.
"Why'd you stop? Either you've been there before or you haven't?"
"I was there only once before." Jeff turned his eyes down and mumbled his answer, wishing he knew more about what was going on.
"When was that?"
"Couple of days ago."
"With the same girl?"
"No. A different one."
"Who?"
"I don't know her whole name. Rene ... something. She never said."
"That's the girl you picked up in the bar on Friday night?"
They knew all about it. Had that tease made some kind of complaint against him just to louse him up some more? Hadn't she been satisfied just with leaving him hanging on the hook like that?
"Yeah. That's the girl. What does she say I did to her?"
"You know better than that," the interrogator said, his voice relaxed now. He turned to the other two and said, "I didn't think it would be this easy. He admits being there with her. That's all we need."
"Damn it!" Jeff shouted. "Either tell me what's going on or let me call a lawyer. I'm not answering any more questions."
"You better call a dozen lawyers. Turner. They'll take you to a phone after they book you."
"Book me! For what?"
"Rape and Murder."
The words stopped his heart with an icy thrust. "I didn't murder anybody. I swear I didn't. I don't know what you're talking about. Who am I supposed to have killed?"
"Rene"
They told him all about it. About finding the body, about staking out the alley area, about tracing back Rene's movements the night she was killed. The way they told it he could already feel the shaved spot on the back of his skull where they would attach one of the electrodes when they strapped him into the electric chair.
When they were finished with the story they were going to take him out to book him.
"Wait! Please wait a minute," he pleaded. "I tell you I didn't do anything. Let me tell you what happened."
They thought he was going to make some kind of confession and sat him down again. He told them everything. He told them about being stood up by Janis. He told them about picking up Rene. He told them what she'd done to him.
"And that's the last time you saw her? When she walked away from your car?"
"That's right. It's the truth. I swear it."
"You were mad weren't you? You went after her. You caught her, pulled her into the alley and gave it to her good. She wasn't anything but a tease and she deserved everything she got. But you had to hit her with that brick to keep her from screaming."
"No, no, no. Sure I went after her. But by the time I got out of the car she was gone. I didn't find her." Jeff was sweating now. And pleading.
"A jury of nine-year-old kids might believe that story," the officer said. "We know better."
Jeff slumped back in his chair. One of the men tapped him on the shoulder and when he looked up motioned for him to rise. They were taking him out to book him!
"All right, I lied!" His voice was flat and expressionless.
"Now we're really getting somewhere," the cop said. "It'll go a lot easier on you if you save us a lot of time and trouble and tell the truth."
He told them the truth. He told them again what Rene had done to him. And he told them the way he'd felt about it afterward. They lost interest when he told them the same story again but this time he told them about Janis and his motive for taking her to the alley to park...." and that's why I was parked there when you arrested me. I threw her out of the car before she could get her kicks. I left her hung up just the way that other witch had hung me up."
The three cops looked at one another for a long minute. Then the one who'd been asking the questions shrugged his shoulders and looked at Jeff. "It makes a better story that way."
"You believe me, don't you? I didn't rape her and I didn't kill her."
"I don't know what I believe. As of right now, though, you make the best suspect." He looked at the other two men again. "Book him on suspicion. Then let's talk to that bartender again."
"How about the kid?" one of them asked.
"I've got an idea about him. Let him sweat there awhile. It won't hurt him."
Hal straightened in his chair when the door opened, eager to face his punishment, finish it, and start constructing the new Hal. He saw the policeman come out with the other guy between them. They were holding his arms. His face was blank and his feet moved woodenly.
Hal's jaw dropped open. He'd never seen anybody arrested before. From the expression on the guys face it must hurt or something.
The two policemen disappeared with their charge around the corner of the corridor and came back a few moments later alone. They went back into the room and closed the door.
Hal stared at the closed door, its upper half made of smoked glass. The light inside threw the silhouette of a man onto the glass door. The door opened again. One of the men came out into the corridor and Hal smiled nervously at him. The man ignored him and walked over to the truck driver type.
"It's about time," Hal heard the other man say. "I got a living to earn and I got to get my rest." The man rose and walked toward the room beside the officer. "I'm willin' to cooperate and all that but I got better things to do than sit around a damned police station gettin' blisters from them lousy benches. I already told you guys all...." The door closed quietly, shutting out the rest of the man's sentence.
The door was closed only a few seconds. When it opened again all three policemen came out with the man. "I'll identify him, all right," he was saying to them.
Hal stood up "Uh, Officer" he said as they walked passed him. They stopped, and Hal continued. "What about me, Officer? I've been sitting here quite a long time now. When are you going to get to me? I was here before either of these other gentlemen."
All three policemen grinned at one another. Then one of them said, "You just sit right there, buddy. You're next now. Don't worry about it. We'll be right back to take care of you."
They turned then and started walking slowly back down the hallway. When they reached the end of the corridor, just before the turn, they stopped and all four looked back at him. One of the policemen said something to the truck driver type who looked back at Hal for a moment, then shook his head slowly from side to side.
Then they were out of sight.
Hal stared at his watch and even then it took a long time. The sweep-second hand seemed to be moving in slow motion from numeral to numeral.
The men came back alone and Hal looked at them expectantly. One of them nodded and he followed them into the room. He sat and they stood around him in a little semi-circle.
He knew Rene. They worked in the same office so he knew her. But he'd never dated her He'd never even asked her fur a date He didn't tell them he couldn't find the courage to ask net for a date.
"After work Friday, I stopped for a drink, then went home. I didn't go out again all evening."
"Do you usually stay at home on Friday nights?"
Hal nodded Where was there for him to go Sometimes he went out to buy new pictures but most of the time he stayed in his small apartment.
"You got many girl friends?"
He shook his head.
"You got any girl friends?"
He shook his head again They were asking him all kinds of questions but none about the pictures. When were they going to ask him about the pictures? And what did Rene have to do with the pictures? Why were they asking questions about her?
"You know that Jane pretty well, don't you?"
Hal shook his head again. "I never talk to her if I can help it."
"Why not?"
"She's so-so beautiful. I get nervous when I'm near her."
"But you thought about her a lot, didn't you?" His blush answered them.
"And you thought about her when you looked at those pictures of yours?"
"And you wanted to do things to her like in the pictures?"
"And you finally got the courage on Friday night? You followed her from work and when she got nit of the car you went into the alley with her. And you grabbed her and threw her to the ground. You hit her with that brick when she screamed. Then you took off all her clothes and did all those things to her."
What were they talking about? Rape? And hitting Rene with a brick? He wasn't here because of anything to do with the pictures! They had him confused with somebody else!
"I went home Friday night, right after I stopped for a drink."
"Where did you stop for that drink? Name the bar!"
He told them and one of them wrote it down.
They tried a new tack. "You make much money selling those pictures?"
"Sell them! What would I want to sell them for. I buy them to keep them."
"Where?"
He told them that, too. He told them about the ones he got in the mail from California and Canada, and about the ones he brought in that little place downtown. He was very confused by then. There was something about raping Rene and hitting her with a brick. And the questions were coming so furiously he didn't have time to think. He told them everything.
The phone rang and one of them sauntered over and picked it up. "Yeah," he said into the mouthpiece.
Suddenly his body went tense. "What!" he shout ed into the receiver "Get a car around front. Quick!"
He slammed down the phone and whirled around. "They got the louse. It wasn't either of these guys."
"You Mire?"
"He was caught with the bodies of two girls Some guy came home and-I found him in his daughter's bedroom. Cha:-cd the rat four blocks and smashed his head to a pulp against the curbstone Some punk kid named Morgan Davis. But he's dead already. They're waiting for us out there now to wrap it up."
"Let's go then."
The three detectives rushed out of the room leaving Hal sitting there with his mouth hanging open. He sat a moment longer after they were gone then rose slowly to his feet. Whatever that call had meant everything had been so confusing-he was pretty sure they were through with him. But no one had really said anything to him.
He walked around the room slowly, looking down at the floor and not really seeing anything. With his earlier resolve to change himself and his habits had come a wonderful peace and an internal strength. He was getting character. They could keep all the pictures. He wasn't going to sit around here any longer waiting for someone to tell him something. If they wanted him they could just go out and look for him.
He walked out of the office and turned toward the entrance of the building. The new Hal swelled and grew within him with each step he took. Now that all that picture business was behind him he had to start with the basics of the well-rounded man. He had to make up for so many years of solitary and lonely pleasure. Girls were first on his list.
He had to get one!
How?
It wouldn't be too hard. In that bar the other day that woman had picked him up. If it hadn't been for the pictures in his wallet he might have bought her a drink. And after the drinks there was no telling what might have happened. Well, he didn't have the pictures in his wallet any more. Now he could present his proof of age if anyone asked.
It should be fairly simple then. All he had to do was find the right kind of bar in the right kind of neighborhood. The right kind of woman would come along quickly enough. It wouldn't be easy, he knew. But it would be a hell of a lot easier now than it would have been three days ago.
He walked out of the building, nervous as he stroller past the front desk with the uniformed sergeant behind it. But no one stopped him. No one even glanced twice at him. Out in the street he turned toward the avenue and on the corner he stopped to get his bearings. The section of town he wanted was only eight blocks downtown.
He whistled for a cab and said to the driver, "Take me where I can find some feminine companionship."
"I got just the place for you, pal," the driver said. "But it'll cost you a fin for me and the madam gets twenty bucks."
A house of prostitution!
That was even better. He looked upon this first experience as something necessary to be gotten out of the way. What better place than in a house of prostitution. With a professional woman that would be even easier. "Let's go," he told the driver eagerly.
The lawyer came just as they were releasing Jeff. They'd put him m a lineup, then booked him then let him make his phone calls. He picked a lawyer out of the yellow pages of the telephone directory and told him to come over.
But by the time the lawyer arrived they were already letting him go. Jeff paid the lawyer twenty dollars for his time, then dismissed him. Then he headed for the interrogation room to talk to the three detectives. He only found one of them.
The man told him everything and he left weak and shaken. He had come very close to being tried for his life for something with which he was only slightly connected.
It was a hell of a way to enforce the law. But it was an even worse way to live. He picked up the release form for his car and cabbed over to the police garage.
Once in the car he had to force himself to drive slowly home. All his instincts screamed for him to head for a place of safety with his foot mashed to the floor. There was no danger any more, but he was still filled with panic.
In the apartment he locked all the doors and windows and poured himself a half glass of straight bourbon. That disappeared in three quick gulps and he poured another. This second drink he sipped more slowly, the liquor taking hold now and relaxing him.
He could not shake the thought of his close call. Even though he'd been perfectly innocent he'd almost gone to the electric chair. If they hadn't caught that other fellow he wouldn't have had a prayer in the world. The police had established the motive. They'd put him at the scene of the crime. He had no alibi for the time of the crime.
The most troubling thought was that it could happen again.
Any time.
It could happen to him or to any other bachelor. It was one of the dangers of his kind of life. And it was a danger he no longer cared to run. What did he know about the girls he picked up? One of the next ones might turn out to be a female version of the nut who'd murdered Rene.
Although, as he and probably a hundred other men could testify, she was one girl who deserved what she'd gotten.
But what was the way out? What was the answer? A man couldn't stop needing girls just because there was a risk attached to getting them.
The jangling of the phone broke into his thoughts and he picked up the receiver.
"Hello," he said weakly.
"You rat." Janis said from the other end of the line. "You owe me an explanation."
"Please, Janis...."
"Please nothing, you lousy fink. I ought to call the police."
"Oh hell, don't do that. Give me a chance to apologize and explain. It was a rotten trick and I'm sorry for it. But if you'll listen to my reasons maybe you'll understand and forgive me. Just don't call the police. I've been at their tender mercies for the last few hours and it was terrifying."
"Maybe a little terrifying was what you needed, you crumb. Going around doing things like that to girls. You ought to be put away some place."
"Janis, please! They arrested me on a murder charge."
"Murder!"
It was all a mistake and they released me. I want to tell you all about it. It's part of the reason for what I did to you."
"Murderl" she said again, her anger replaced by astonishment.
"It was terrible. I'm still shaking. I don't think I can drive. Would you come over here to my place and let me tell you all about it? Take a cab and I'll pay the driver when you arrive."
"Well ... I don't know. After what you did...."
"Please!"
"All right. I'll be right over."
"And pick up a bottle of Scotch on the way, will you? All I've got in the place is half a bottle of bourbon."
She hung up and Jeff scurried around hiding the mess of bachelor living. When the apartment was reasonably presentable he took a quick shower and shave and dressed in fresh clothing.
Janis rang the buzzer from downstairs and he went down and paid the cabby. All the way up in the elevator she watched him warily. And she entered the apartment nervously, he took her coat. Now she was dressed in slacks and a sweater and her body was still great.
He mixed drinks and sat down beside her on the sofa. She took her glass and moved as far away from him as possible. He cast about in his mind for the best way to begin.
She began for him. "It wasn't what you made me do," she said softly, looking away from him. "I'd never done that before but I really didn't mind. It was part of something we were going to do together. That's what hurt. How could you do something like that to me? Why?"
"I was getting even," he told her. "With me? What for?"
"No. Not with you. I was getting even with all women."
Then he told her the whole story, beginning with being stood up Friday evening and running right through to his release from the jail cell. Once or twice she tried to interrupt but he talked her down. During his relating of the occurrences, she rose twice and refilled her glass, listening to him as she moved.
When he was finished she was silent for a long time.
"I think I understand," she said finally. "At least I understand how you felt. But I still don't see why you had to take it out on me."
"It wasn't just you, Jan. Though you were part of it I bad to get even and you happened to be there.
The way you are helped though."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you teased me, too. You kept promising to love me. Then you finished as soon as I touched you. That happened several times. When you were through you weren't interested in me. It was almost the same as with that other girl."
He had her there. What he'd done to her had been at least in part her own fault.
"Do you think we can forget everything that happened today? Can we start all over like it never happened at all?"
She smiled softly and intimately and he knew everything was all right again. "I don't want to forget everything. Some of the things I want to remember because they were nice. And one thing I want to remember because you owe me something. You have to make up for that."
He patted the sofa beside himself and said, "Come over here and I'll make up for it."
She sat down beside him and came into his arms. He crushed her to him and kissed her deeply. She sighed and tightened her arms around him. When the kiss was over she moved her lips to his ear and whispered softly.
"There's only one way you can make up for what you did." She moved her shoulders to push her breasts against his chest.
"I know," he answered, sliding one hand down her back.
"It's something special and you have to do it first so we can start even again."
"What is it?"
"I did something for you. Now T want you to do that for me." Her hand dropped to his lap and squeezed.
Behind his closed eyelids he saw her naked, saw the gentle rise of her abdomen, the thrilling sweep of her naked and tender legs. The idea of pleasing her excited him immensely.
For an answer he kissed her wildly, and reached to start her sweater up over her head.
With the sweater and bra gone and her breasts bared they were sidetracked for awhile. He held and squeezed her breasts until she was almost out of control. Then he kissed the nipples and she shuddered through a culmination.
He thought that would be enough for her and started to open his own clothing but she stopped him, demanding that he fulfill his promise. Her tight slacks came off more easily than he had thought possible. Her panties seemed to magically disappear.
They shifted around on the sofa. She stretched out and he knelt beside her on the floor. "Just tell me what you want me to do," he murmured as he lowered his kiss to her magnificent curves.
He caressed her ribs and dipped at the oasis of her navel and she sighed and rolled from side to side. He moved downward and brushed his lips over her legs, then explored the shadowed hollows behind her knees.
She peaked twice in rapid succession while he was busy there and when he raised his head he could see that she was completely absorbed in her passion. Her hair was in wild disarray. Her eyes were glazed Her nostrils were flared and her panting lips were dried and cracked.
Before he could lower his head again she flipped over onto her face. "There," she panted.
His lips explored the trembling spheres. Those irridescent and dimpled globes were even more sensitive than her breasts. She screamed with need as another peak wracked her being. Her hand stroked his cheek as he thrilled her.
Then she was on her back again and her hands were clasped in his hair and were guiding him.
She started screaming the moment his lips found her and continued right through to the nerve-shattering end but he only heard her faintly through the roaring of desire in his own ears.
She was drained completely when that was over. Her body was limp and her eyes were closed. Only the rapid rising and falling of her bosom told him she was even alive.
In a peculiar way he was drained too. It came to him as a shock that he could have found so much pleasure without thought of himself. He sat beside her, drinking in the sight of her with his eyes, waiting for her to stir.
She was one helluva woman. She had more passion in her than any five other women he'd ever known. It would be a shame to have this thing between them end.
Why did it have to end?
He couldn't do any better than her for a permanent bed partner. She would keep him so completely drained of passion there wouldn't be room in his life for anyone else. And if he married her he wouldn't have to run the risk that had gotten him arrested.
She opened her eyes when he rose and stripped off his own clothing. He picked her up, one arm behind her knees and the other under her shoulders, and carried her into the bedroom. She wrapped her arm around his neck and smiled softly.
"We're even now," she whispered as he stretched out beside her.
They looked into each other's eyes for a long time and a grin spread slowly over her face.
"I think it's better when we're not even!" she whispered.
"What?"
"If I do that for you again you'll owe me. Then you can again and I'll owe you. Won't that be delightful?"
"Is that any way for a wife to act with her husband?"
She rocked back as though he'd struck her. "Do you mean it? Are you serious?"
"Completely. What do you say?"
"I don't know if I want to marry you if we can't do this to each other. Why don't you try that once more and see if you want to do without that for the rest of your life."
She bent to him and the exquisite pleasure rolled his eyeballs back in his skull. Before they had finished they'd discovered a way to love simultaneously. And when that was over there were lots more things for them to do.
Neither of them went to work that Monday. They didn't even leave the apartment. On Wednesday they took out a marriage license The were married on Friday.
They spent the weekend in unlicensed pleasure..
After six months they should have been sated. The physical thing between them should have faded and they should have grown tired of one another With that as the initial basis for their marriage they should have been seeking a divorce after the first six months.
