Across the Rio Grande, far off the beaten track, stood a huge, three-story mansion guarded by an iron gate. You had to be known to get past this gate. And it cost a hundred dollars per person just to get past the front door. But it was worth every cent of the money-if you wanted the wildest and weirdest night of your life. For this was the House of Lust. You could get anything you wanted here-drinking and dancing, all kinds of gambling, stag movies, a floorshow where the strippers started with a G-string and wound up with company on the stage ... a secret room where performers joined the audience in an indiscriminate melange of bodies. It was sensational, it was sick-making-and it was very dangerous!
CHAPTER ONE
The bellhop wore a ten gallon hat, tight pants, and high-heeled riding boots. I imagine the tight pants are very attractive to women guests of the hotel but to tell the truth they didn't do a thing for me. The kid unstrapped the two pieces of luggage from the rack on the trunk of the Austin Healey and waited while I unfolded myself from the front seat. I'd driven straight through from Los Angeles, and my bones ached.
The facade of the hotel was done in pink stone and glass and was just a little too cute to suit my taste. Some of this modern design looks good, but only when all the lines and colors work together. When they are just a little off, the whole thing is kind of awkward. This one was kind of awkward. The furniture in the lobby went with the design of the building, the chairs low and small with slanting backs.
The bellhop led me to the desk clerk and set my bags down while the clerk assigned me a room. The clerk wore no stetson, but otherwise his costume was the same: tight pants in a dark blue color, an equally tight western-style shirt with pearl buttons, this in a lighter blue, and a white silk handkerchief neatly folded and wrapped around his throat.
The clerk finished his business on the phone and looked up at me. Most people have to look up at me. The average height of the American male is five feet eight and a half inches. In my stocking feet I run a good six inches taller than that.
"Yes sir," the clerk said with an efficient snap to his voice.
"The name is Bell, Herb Bell. I have a reservation."
He gave me a flash of white teeth to show we were friends and turned to take some cards from a file behind him. He leafed through the cards until he came to the one with my name on it and turned back to the desk.
"Yes sir, Mr. Bell, here we are."
I didn't know where we were and I was about to ask, but he slid a registration blank in front of me and stuck a pen in my hand. I'd made the reservations a week ago when I decided to take this vacation. I picked the hotel from a brochure put out by the El Paso Chamber of Commerce. This was the town's deluxe hostelry, from now on I was going to travel only first class.
The registration blank required my name-printed, my signature on the bottom, and my home address. I went along with them on the name. Last name first: Bell, Herbert L. My mother had been frightened by a novel by Sir Walter Scott and my middle initial stood for Launcelot. Needless to say I never used my middle name. In fact I rarely ever used the last half of my first name. Herb was good enough. In the space requesting my home address I put down California. That's all they needed to know. Anything more specific was none of their damned business. I signed on the bottom of the form and handed it back to the clerk.
He looked it over to make sure it was filled out correctly, then smiled up at me again. If he smiled once more I was going to think he was making a pass at me. "Room Five Eleven," he said, handing the bellhop a tagged key.
The elevator was five steps to the right of the desk. On the way up to the fifth floor he tried to make conversation. "You in town for business or pleasure?" he asked.
"Yeah," I answered. He got the idea and shut his mouth.
Normally I don't mind when a waiter or a bellhop tries to increase his tip by making small talk, but this time I was weary right down to the bones of my toes and I was in no mood for pleasant chit-chat. Pushing a sports car eight hundred miles, even on relatively good roads, is a hell of a lot more tiring than pushing a Caddy the same distance. And I had pushed the Healey all the way from L.A., nonstop.
The elevator stopped and the doors slid back with a hiss. I had been looking down at the tops of my shoes because my head felt too heavy to hold up. When I heard the doors open I started out of the elevator and ran smack into the largest, hardest pair of breasts I'd ever seen. They punched into my chest and flattened against me. Then their owner bounced from my chest to the carpeted floor of the corridor.
She fell in a tangle of skirt and legs. My eyes flicked from the sweatered cones of her breasts to the flash of her white thighs and then to her face. She'd landed hard on her rump and her face was twisted with pain. She put one hand tenderly to her backside and looked up at me.
"If you're through taking inventory you can help me up," she said coolly.
"I'm sorry," I said, holding out my hand to her. "I didn't see you."
"If I thought you did that intentionally,' she said, her voice like an iceberg, "I wouldn't be talking so nicely right now."
If the tone of her voice was nice then, I'd hate to see her when she was mad at somebody. She took hold of my hand and I hauled her to her feet, surprised at the weight of her. When she stood up I saw why she felt so heavy. She was a big girl. She had to be for her breasts to come as high as my chest. And of course she was a blonde. But not a blonde like you see in the magazines these days.
Her hair was long and it fell like a golden waterfall down over her shoulders. Her eyes were a funny shade of gray, large and cool, but they looked like they could smolder with passion if she was in the mood. I mentioned her breasts before, but they were big enough so that another mention wouldn't be out of line. They were covered with a sweater now, and I imagine she had a bra underneath. With breasts that size she'd need a brassiere just to keep the damned things from bouncing right off her chest when she walked. They stuck out from her chest like twin torpedos, and looked just as lethal. When I looked at them I forgot all about being tired.
Below her breasts she had a slim waist and then the flaring curve of a magnificent pair of hips. Those flaring hips Spoke volumes about the ultimate function of a woman's body. This one was built for sex. Between those hips was the gentle swell of her belly and then the long columns of her legs.
She was easily five feet nine inches tall and must have weighed in at around a hundred and fifty pounds. On her it was a hundred and fifty beautiful pounds. In these times when women embodied the philosophy behind low-calorie meals she looked like a steak and potatoes dinner. And suddenly I got hungry.
"You can let go of my hand now," she said.
I hadn't realized I was still holding on to her. This one was too good to let get away. "Look," I said. "I'd like to buy you a drink as sort of an apology for knocking you on your ... knocking you down."
She grinned when I almost said the dirty word, and that's why I almost said it. When somebody makes a slip like that the listener somehow feels friendlier toward him. It makes the speaker an individual instead of just a body.
"Not this afternoon," she said, her voice about two hundred degrees warmer. "But I'll take a rain check."
With that she swept past me into the elevator and the doors closed. The bellhop was leaning against the wall, my bags at his feet and a silly leer on his face. "Let's go, laughing boy," I said. "Fun's over."
He hefted the suitcases and led me down the hall. The management of the Hacienda Hotel gouged their guest twenty-eight bucks a day for room Five Eleven and when I stepped inside I could see that the place was almost worth it. The room was large, very large. It had to be because the bed was so big. That bed was big enough to be used as the playing field for the Rose Bowl. And if not the playing field then at least the staging area for the floats from the parade. It was seven feet from side to side and almost eight feet from head to foot. It looked big enough for a family of four.
Next to the bed was a large night table and opposite the foot of the bed a chest of drawers. When I unpacked I would put my drawers in the chest of drawers. Hell, I was so tired I was getting giddy.
Anyway, on the other side of the bed there was a large open space and a glass wall. The glass wall had sliding glass doors which opened onto a terrace, and beyond the terrace I could see the swimming pool and golf course. Just inside the terrace doors was a sofa, coffee table, and easy chair. The damned place was big enough to be the waiting room of a railroad station.
Laughing boy set my bags down and checked the bathroom for towels, toilet paper, and a fresh tissue-wrapped glass. He also flushed the toilet to see that it worked. For these small services and for carrying the two suitcases he expected to be tipped at least a dollar. I made him work for his money.
I dropped onto the bed and began to untie my shoes while he fidgeted near the door. "Call down and have them send up a bucket of ice," I told him. "And stick a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door."
He picked up the phone and growled into it while I stripped off my socks. The sign was in the top drawer of the chest along with the ever-present Gideon bible. He slipped the string over the outside knob of the door and came back towards the bed, his hand stuck out in front of him, palm up.
I peeled a single off my roll and dropped it into his palm. He lost the worried look and the bill disappeared into his pocket. "If there's anything special you want just ask for Earl," he said.
"What do you mean special?"
"Anything at all," he told me. "If you want a bottle after the bar is closed I can get it for you. If you get lonesome I can arrange for somebody to keep you company...."
"I'll remember that," I said.
He closed the door quietly behind him.
Bellhops hadn't changed much in the twenty years since I'd hustled suitcases. They were still part-time pimps, and connection men for poker games. In any town there are two people who can direct a traveler to the fleshly pleasures. Bellhops and cab drivers know more about a town than even its mayor. Laughing boy was not exception. He was a hustler, a sharp kid with a head on his shoulders. If people were willing to pay for such things as an after-hours bottle or the directions to the nearest poker game, why shouldn't he take their money? It wasn't as if he were corrupting them. If he didn't take their money somebody else would.
I flopped back on the bed and felt the excellent mattress push up against me. After twelve hours behind the wheel of the Healy that mattress felt damned good. My ears still rang from the continuous drone of the engine of the car and my eyelids felt like somebody had poured sand under them.
There was a discreet knock at the door and I sat up in bed.
"Come in!" I yelled.
The door opened and a waitress came in with an ice bucket in her hands. She was a tiny little thing, no more than five feet high, and she looked as fragile as two-hundred-year-old lace. She was Mexican, with black bail' and soft brown eyes. Room-service waitresses were a new twist, but I could see the shrewd thinking behind it. She had a menu tucked under her arm.
Having pretty girls as room-service waitresses was bound to increase business. A guy comes into a strange town on business, he checks into his hotel and has a couple of hours to kill before he makes his contact. A good-looking broad comes to his room with a menu, and if he wants to keep her there for a few minutes just to look at her he has to order something. I wondered if the girls were available for some other service besides hauling food and soiled dishes.
She set the ice down on top of the coffee table. She was wearing a very short skirt and when she bent over, I could see the flash of black that was her panties. She straightened and turned back to me.
"Do you wish to see the menu?"
"Just leave it over there. That'll be all for now."
I dug a half dollar out of my pocket and flipped it to her. She caught it neatly and swept out the door, her hips working like a finely oiled piece of machinery.
When the door closed behind her I felt my weariness wash over me. It was a good tiredness, coming from long hours of physical exertion, and I wanted to just lie down and close my eyes for about a week. But I knew that if I stretched out right then I'd never get to sleep. I had to unwind first. A hot shower and a couple of stiff belts would put me more in the mood for a year's sack time.
I bounced the larger of my bags onto the stand at the foot of the bed and flipped open the locks. Under the shirts was a half-empty fifth of Jim Beam Bourbon. I dug it out and went into the bathroom for the glass.
I couldn't see any sense paying ten or fifteen bucks for a bottle of booze when I always carried one with me anyway. I chunked a couple of ice cubes into the glass and splashed the bourbon over them. I like bourbon, in fact I drink nothing else, but it's no good unless it's cold. I set the drink down to cool and stripped off my clothes.
By the time I was naked the ice had worked its cooling magic. The mouthful of booze went down smoothly and exploded warmly in my stomach. I smacked my lips and threw down the rest of the drink. As I poured another I felt the first flush of alcohol begin its job of loosening the knotted muscles of my body.
I filled the glass about three quarters full this time and took it into the shower with me. I soaped and drank, and rinsed and drank, and then stood with the water beating down on the nape of my neck as I added hot water to the mixture until the stuff coming from the shower head was three quarters pure steam. The hot rinse was something I picked up in Japan during the war. That's the real war-World War number Two. When you talk about the war nowadays most people think of Korea. I don't want to take anything away from the kids who caught it over there in all that frozen mud, but the Police Action was kid's stuff compared to the jungle fighting on the islands in the Pacific.
Anyway, I had been in long enough to knock off my quota of Japs and I was lucky enough to get assigned to occupation duty after we baked Nagasaki and Hiroshima to a crisp with the atom bombs. Those first few lovely months of occupation were almost worth the malaria and jungle rot and dysentery. They were wild, wacky, wonderful days with the Japs goddamned anxious to please the conquering Americans. Two weeks after I stepped off the plane in Tokyo I had a little chick and one of those paper pads and the whole arrangement cost me the equivalent of a couple of cartons of cigarettes a month.
Her name was Toma Nakayama and her father had been an official in the government. He was thrown into prison by the first wave of occupying troops and little Toma was left to fend for herself. In those days everything was scarce in Japan and the only way for a single girl to be assured of three squares a day was to hook up with some GI. I was a GI and Toma hooked up with me.
Every day, when I got home from the camp, she would have my bath ready for me. I came into the house and she would be waiting, kneeling beside the door to remove my shoes. Shoes off and feet stuck into a pair of felt slippers, she would lead me to the bedroom and take off the rest of my clothes. Then on to the bathroom. We had one of those tubs sunk right into the middle of the floor, about four feet square and three feet deep. Alongside the tub was a low wooden stool. I would sit down naked on the stool and she would dip up water from the tub in a wooden bucket. After she poured a couple of bucketsful of water over me she would soap me up and then rinse me off. That procedure took care of the hygiene end of the thing as far as the Japanese are concerned. The rest of the ritual was strictly for pleasure.
Once I was clean I would ease myself into the scalding hot water of the tub. The Japs could just hop right in, but I had to take it slow. I would stick my feet in first and then ease the rest of me down into the water. The tub was deep enough so that just my head and neck stuck out. The water was so hot that my face would soon be dripping with perspiration. After ten or fifteen minutes of soaking and getting used to the heat I'd be ready for the next part of the procedure.
Toma would come back into the bathroom with a bottle of cold beer or a small jug of hot sake. She would set the booze down beside the tub and then strip off her kimono. She'd get into the tub with me and we'd drink the booze and play around. Sometimes we'd never make it into the bedroom to finish up. Sometimes we got so involved in that tub that we finished the whole thing right there. Whenever that happened Toma would giggle about it for three days afterward.
So that's how I picked up the habit of the hot rinse after the shower. I would, of course, have preferred a sunken tub and a broad to help me, but in this country the hot shower was all I could expect, and it was better than nothing.
I came out of the shower about half bombed and I wondered why. Usually it takes a lot more booze to get to me. Then I realized I hadn't had anything to eat in about six hours and then it had only been a quick hamburger and a cup of black coffee to keep me awake on the road. No wonder I was getting stoned, my stomach was emptier than a bank three days after the stock market crash.
I lit a cigarette and scrubbed myself dry with a hotel towel. If there was nothing else good about the place at least the towels were big and fluffy. My mouth tasted like a cotton ball after the boll weevils have been at it and I thought about brushing my teeth, but I was too tired.
Back in the bedroom I poured myself one final drink and pulled back the bedspread and blanket. Two pillows behind my head were enough to prop me up and I crawled naked between the sheets. I was still too tense to fall asleep and when I closed my eyes I could see little flashes of light against my eyelids.
Those few minutes when you lay in bed and try to fall asleep are a bad time. During the rest of the day you're busy, occupied, and you can control your thoughts, but when you're lying in bed and trying to relax your mind runs rampant. The things you don't want to think about push themselves up into your consciousness and nag at you.
I'm no different from anybody else. I had things in the back of my mind which I preferred not to think about. Some of those things were fairly recent and they bubbled up to bother me then. In the week since I'd made the reservation at the hotel I'd been able to make sure I went right off to sleep when I hit the sack. So now these things were troubling me for the first time.
I sipped slowly at my drink and stared at the place where the ceiling met the top of the wall. After a couple of seconds my eyes unfocused and the bitterness began to boil in my gut. A week isn't really long enough to forget much. It's not long enough to forget five years of a marriage or eight years of a business partnership. When a guy loses both those things at the same time it can really hurt.
But maybe I was just feeling sorry for myself. The last year of the marriage hadn't been very much to talk about and maybe I was sorrier for losing the business than I was for losing Juney.
The trucking business was eight years of my life erased in one fell swoop; eight years of sweat and worry, of sleepless nights and pushing rattletrap trucks beyond their limits. It was eight years of sixteen and seventeen-hour days. And it was eight years of friendship with George Galanis, the big soft-voiced Greek.
I'd started out as a hod carrier in the construction business. That was back in the days when they didn't have elevators on partially completed buildings, and the only way to get material up to the men working on the top floors was to carry it. I spent almost a year lugging hundred and fifty pound loads of bricks up the skeletons of buildings. I quit when I saw there wasn't much of a future hustling loads of bricks up six stories. The most I could expect was a promotion to bricklayer.
My next job was driving a dump truck, and that was a little more like it. First of all it was a lot easier on the back. And secondly the pay was better. I worked hard, taking all the overtime I could get, and saved my money. For six months I didn't touch a drop of liquor or date a girl because I didn't want to spend the money. At the end of those six months I had enough for the down payment on a dump truck of my own.
With the help of a bank loan I bought a second-hand truck and went into business for myself. I remember the first day, and my feeling of pride when I saw my name on the door of the cab. This was the time of the big post-war construction boom and I made money. It would have been impossible for me not to have made money. I didn't make a lot, but it was enough for me to pay off the loan on the truck and take out another on a second truck. Oh boy, then I was really in business. I even had an employee.
For a couple of years things went along smooth as silk. And then suddenly, there were enough houses in southern California. There was still construction going on but it was big stuff, office buildings and apartment houses, and the big outfits got all the work. Hundreds of small businesses like mine folded almost overnight.
I was lucky enough to be able to unload my trucks to another outfit and the Bell Sand and Gravel Company ceased to exist. For about a month I lived like a playboy. At the end of that month I sat down with my check book and almost cried when I saw that I had tossed away almost two thousand in that month of pleasure.
Right then I tightened up. I'd come out of the business with a few hundred over the twenty grand mark, which wasn't bad considering that I started with nothing more than a sore rump from bouncing around on the front seat of one of those trucks, and now I had about eighteen grand left. I put the eighteen thou away in the interest-paying vaults of a bank while I looked around for some kind of business to invest in. To keep myself occupied I took a job driving again. This time it was long distance hauling and I was pushing a big six-wheel tractor trailer. I was a pretty good driver and when I got the feel of the six-wheel job they pushed me up to an eight-wheel rig and the cross country run.
I had no family and no ties and I enjoyed the job. It gave me a chance to see most of the country and wherever I went it was fun and games between hauls. The eighteen big ones rotted in the bank until nineteen fifty three. By that time I had another bank account with a few grand stashed away and I was getting bored with the routine. I had been almost everywhere and seen almost everything and I was itching for something new.
By that time I'd known the Greek for about a year. He owned and operated a truck stop-diesel fuel and sandwiches-just outside Indio, California. I stopped in there one day, liked the place and the Greek, made it a regular stop whenever I took a rig through that area. I made it a practice to pull in there and leave the truck to be fueled while I spent a half hour over a mug of coffee and a sandwich. The Greek's was one place where I didn't have to worry about watching the pump.
If I was there when the place was empty the Greek would draw himself a mug of coffee and we would shoot the breeze for a while. We got to know each other pretty well. Anyway, one day I was doing some general bitching and telling him I was thinking about quitting, and the next thing I knew we were talking about starting a trucking outfit of our own. I had the experience, he had the connections and the land for a garage and warehouse, and all we needed was about fifty thousand in cash.
It was one of those conversations where we were day dreaming, and it sounded like a good idea. When I told George about the money I had in the bank we started to talk serious business and three weeks later Bell and Galanis-Hauling was born.
It was tough at first. Hell, it was tough all the time.
It never did get to be a soft touch. That first year we only got business by cutting our rates to the point of starvation. In fact our food and rent money had to come from the profits of the restaurant and diesel fuel. Things were so bad the bank was beginning to worry about the money it had lent us. We economized by cutting overhead to the barest of minimums. Our drivers had to make their own repairs and I drove a double shift every day.
Once we got our foot in the door we started to make a little money. The shippers found they could depend on us to meet a schedule and uegan to send a little more business our way. So we hired more drivers and I came in off the road to handle the administrative end of the operation. George helped out as much as he could, but he was pretty busy with the restaurant.
We both worked hard. The business grew and soon we were able to afford some new trucks. The thing seemed to snowball. The more cash we took in the more we poured out on new equipment, and the more we spent on equipment and drivers the more business we got. A sort of vicious cycle, but a lovely one.
I met Juney during the second year of the business. She was a receptionist at one of the outfits we dealt with, and I met her when I went over to see about some money they owed us. At first there was nothing special about her. She was just another broad; a nice one, but a broad.
We dated for about six months and every time I'd toss a pass she'd duck it neatly. She'd go for a little necking after a date but she always put on the brakes when things began to get hot and heavy. It's funny but the more she turned me down the more I wanted her, and pretty soon I found myself telling her I loved her. I don't know, maybe I did love her. Once I'd said it, and I didn't think I was giving her a line, the next step was just as obvious to me as it was to her. If we were in love then we must want to get married. It never occurred to me that there was any other way of doing things. I'd had plenty of other women but this was the first time I'd said, "I love you."
The two-carat ring I slipped on her finger gave me a few more privileges. Now it was alright for us to do anything short of the actual sex act. It wasn't that there was a sudden loosening of her attitude, but she allowed me to go further and further each time we went out.
I remember one of the high points of our courting period. Juney and I had been to a couple of the clubs along the strip and we'd had a great time. When we got to my apartment she was about half bagged and her brown eyes were sparkling. I hung our coats in the closet and she sat in the living room while I broke out the ice and mixed the drinks. I dropped a couple of albums of Sinatra's ballads on the hi-fi and turned off all the lights but one. We drank and listened and when we finished the drinks I took her in my arms.
Her mouth was hot and wet and open when we kissed and I heard her moan deep in her throat. I kissed her mouth and her ear and her throat, and then I slid my lips down to the bared upper slopes of her breasts. My nostrils drank in her perfume and the musky odor of her body. I was as hot as a two-dollar stove in January after the first kiss and she was going pretty good too, but not as strong as me.
She enjoyed it when I kissed the upper part of her breasts and she tangled her fingers in my hair to press my face tighter against her. My fingers found the zipper at the back of her evening gown and pulled it all the way down to base of her spine. The top of the gown fell away, leaving her breasts naked. I let my lips wander over the white flesh, circling around the nipples until she forced one into my mouth. I took it between my teeth and bit gently and she moaned again.
One of her hands left my head and went to my lap. She grabbed a handful of my trousers and gave me a good squeeze. Up to then she'd always called a halt at that point, but this time the light was still green. I went ahead full speed.
I twisted her around until she was lying full length on the sofa and I was sitting next to her. I grabbed one breast in my hand and put my lips to the other one. My other hand I slid under her skirt to touch her nylon-covered leg. She still gave no indication that she wanted me to stop so I slid my hand up along that leg until it slid off the nylon and onto bare flesh. The skin of her thigh was hot, I could feel the muscle tremble against my palm.
I moved that hand up further until I touched her panties and she gasped. Then my hand was under her panties and she was rolling her hips against it, rubbing herself. Now she began to take an active part in the proceedings. Her trembling fingers found my zipper and pulled it down and her hand dove inside my trousers. It was the first time Juney touched me and I almost ended the show right there.
The record ended and we were disturbed by the mechanical noises as another record dropped down. I almost cursed aloud when Juney begged me to stop.
"Wait ... please," she panted. "No more."
I pulled away from her and she sat up. It wasn't the first time she left me with nothing but an ache between my legs.
"Can I have a cigarette, please?" She asked, her voice low and husky.
I lit us a pair of smokes and handed her one and we settled back to listen to the new record. She made no move to cover herself up and I began to hope we might have another session, picking up where we left off.
She dragged deep on the cigarette and looked away from me. "Herb," she said. "I love you very much. And right now I want you so bad my belly hurts with it."
"I know what you mean," I said. "I'm not exactly free of pain, myself."
"But at the same time I want to wait. It's only a few months till we're married and I want to make our wedding night something special."
"I may die of lover's ache before we ever get married."
"You don't understand," she told me. "I'm not trying to talk you out of anything. I need some release just as badly as you do. I want to be able to let myself go and not have to worry. I want to be able to completely enjoy it when you touch me without having to think about when to say stop."
I was beginning to get the idea. "In other words you want me to be the policeman. You want me to stop before we lose our heads." I must admit I didn't like the idea. If she wanted to stop, then she ought to be the one to say when.
"That's not what I mean. I want you to promise me that no matter what we do, no matter how involved we get; you won't go all the way. I'll do anything you want me to, except for the final thing. And you can touch me or kiss me or put your hands anywhere on my body, anything at all except for actual intercourse."
It sounded funny to hear her use that word. "Let me get this straight," I said. "You're saying we can do things to each other, anything we can think of, so long as we don't actually make love. You're game for everything but that."
When she looked at me she actually blushed, but nodded her head. "But you have to promise."
"I promise, I promise," I said as I reached for her.
She came into my arms like a wild woman and soon she was completely naked for me. I lingered in my exploration of her body with hands and lips and eyes, and when I knew every square inch of her I stood up and removed my own clothes. She stared hard when I took off my trousers but her face was a blank and I couldn't tell what she was feeling. I stretched out beside her and took her in my arms and her hot wonderful body was pressed against my naked flesh from chest to thighs.
My hand slid down her spine until it came to the lush jut of her rump. I squeezed a handful of that soft flesh and then slid my hand around to the front of her body. She moved herself to allow my hand full access and then locked her thighs around my wrist. Her chest heaved and her eyeballs rolled up in her skull as I sent her to heaven and back again. When it was over for her she kissed my chest and thanked me tenderly.
Then it was my turn. I didn't have to show her what to do. She knew, and I was glad she knew. I rolled onto my back and she kneeled beside me. Her hands were gentle and tender, then forceful and demanding. I thrilled to her expert manipulation. It was damned near as good as making love. And when she leaned over to put her mouth on my body it got even better. Her mouth was hot and skilled and it got better and better until I thought it was the best it could be. But I was wrong. It got still better....
In the rest of the time before we were married we discovered other techniques that were even more pleasureable. We found for example that if she knelt on her hands and knees and I came at her from behind it was just as good as making love. In this case we didn't use the portion of her body usually associated with sex, but the mechanics and sensations of the thing were just the same....
No matter what we did it was better than the time before. Even if we repeated the same thing it was better.
And on our wedding night we really made love. I was glad she'd made us save something because that wedding night was better than all the other sessions rolled into one. We made love continuously from ten o'clock at night till five the next morning. Her first climax was so stupendous she passed out. And she was so grateful when she came to that she spent the rest of the night thanking me. A little more gratitude would have killed me.
We came back from our honeymoon trip two weeks later, but the honeymoon really lasted about seven months. In that time I paid more attention to Juney than I did to the business. We both wanted to start a family right away. After all, I was making a good living.
Hell, I was making a lot of money. I was making so much money right then that Juney couldn't spend it as fast as I made it, not with her own car, and not with all her charge accounts.
We bought a house and I gave her a blank check to furnish it. I must admit I did wince a little when I added up all the bills, but I didn't complain. And she did a wonderful job of decorating.
After seven month Juney and I were pretty well used to one another and I began to devote more of my time to the business. We were doing great and I had all the work I could handle. Every time I balanced the books at the end of the month George and I would get drunk in celebration. At the rate of our business at that time, if it continued to grow both George and I would be millionaires before too many years passed.
Of course things didn't quite work out that way. We'd been riding the crest of a big business boom. When the wave passed and things got back to normal we still made money, but nothing like before. After we'd been in business six years our net worth was over a hundred thousand dollars. Not bad for a Greek hash-slinger and an Irish hod-carrier.
When I turned most of my attention back to the business Juney found other things to keep her busy. She joined clubs, worked for charities and threw parties. And my life was full and rich. I had a wonderful wife, a good partner and a steadily growing business.
The only thing missing was children. I was past thirty-five by then and I began to get anxious. Four years of marriage and no children meant that we ought to look into the thing. Both Juney and I went to the doctor. He peered and probed and checked and took tests and I sweated the whole thing out. I was afraid I was the one who couldn't have kids. It never occurred to me that it might be Juney.
The doctor's report was a hell of a shock. Juney was as sterile as an operating room. She could never have kids. Something went out of our marriage when we got the news, and it never came back. But the strangest thing of all was that no matter how bad I felt, and I felt terrible about the whole thing, I still couldn't suppress a feeling of gladness that it wasn't me. Maybe the guilt about feeling glad threw the monkey wrench into our marriage.
After that I began to spend more and more time away from home. I took every chance that came along to travel. And when there were no reasons to travel I made up some. One good thing that came from all this traveling was that I managed to expand our business by about fifteen percent. I traveled all over California to talk to people and get their hauling business.
Then one day I returned home from a trip to San Francisco to find Juney and the Greek waiting for me at the house. I walked in, set my bags down in the hall, and they hit me with it smack between the eyes. Juney and George were in love.
We were quite modern and civilized about the whole thing. We sat and talked about it for almost three hours and at the end of that time I agreed to sell out my half of the business and go to Mexico for a divorce. Even though Juney and I had drifted apart it hurt, I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing how much it hurt.
George and I settled on a figure of seventy-five thousand for my share of the business. Juney wouldn't contest the divorce and she wouldn't ask for any kind of settlement. All she wanted besides her freedom was the house. I signed it over to her and moved into a hotel while George got together the money.
So there I was, almost forty years old, lying in a hotel room. No wife, no business, no friend. All I had was seventy five grand in cold cash. I knew that a part of my life was over. It had ended just as surely as if I had died. Tomorrow or the next day I would go across the International Bridge at El Paso to Juarez and in a couple of hours I would have a divorce.
Then it would be a new man and a clean fresh start. My drink was finished and my cigarette had burned itself out in the ashtray. I closed my eyes, testing to see if I were ready to fall asleep. This time I didn't see any little flashes of light. I set the glass down on the nightstand, pulled the covers up under my chin, and rolled over on my side. I guess I was asleep in five minutes.
CHAPTER TWO
I came awake all at once. My fatigue was gone and I felt wonderfully rested. I even felt better than I normally do after a regular night's sleep. Booze does that to me. If I have a couple of quick snorts before I hit the sack, I sleep deeper and better and wake up all at once. There is no half-awake period between full sleep and full consciousness.
Outside my glass wall it was dark. I kicked the blanket off and stood up to yawn and scratch my belly. I think that right at that moment I felt better, both physically and emotionally, than I had in years. The pain of my life breaking into tiny pieces had washed away with my fatigue. Now everything was ahead of me, there was no place to go but forward. And I was in a pretty good position to go ahead.
A quick session in the shower left me tingling and alive. I shaved carefully and unpacked my raw silk suit. It hadn't wrinkled too badly in the suitcase, so I put it on. The clock in the lobby said nine thirty and I hoped that the dining-room was still open. I was ravenous.
There was a different clerk behind the desk. "Which way to the dining room?" I asked.
He looked at me and then at the clock. "I'm sorry, sir, but they've stopped serving by now. The coffee shop is still open. You can get a sandwich there."
He pointed toward the coffee shop and I went that way. I was really in the mood for a nice thick steak, but I'd settle for anything I could get.
The coffee shop was empty. It was between rush hours, too soon after dinner and too early before the bars and nightclubs closed. I went in and took a seat at the counter. From the kitchen I could hear the rattle of dishes and the steady steam hiss of the dish washer. I pounded my hand against the counter top and waited for somebody to wait on me.
The swinging door into the kitchen opened and an impish little face peered into the room. The rest of her stayed behind the door. Her lipstick was chewed off and there were circles under her eyes, but in spite of this she had the jaunty elfin look of a leprechaun. Her hair was cut in jagged points and it lay flat against her skull. The uneven line of her bangs came halfway down her forehead.
When she saw me her lips pursed. "Oh," she said. "I didn't hear you come in."
I smiled. "What have you got for a hungry man?"
She came all the way into the room and moved behind the counter to stand in front of me. She hunched her left shoulder at the menu on the wall behind her and said, "We've got everything there except for the Boston Cream Pie and the steamed carrots."
The menu was little more than a list of sandwiches and ice cream sodas. "If I asked you real nice do you think you could scrounge up a steak somewhere? I haven't had anything to eat since about eleven o'clock this morning and I'm starved."
She grinned in sympathy. "I'll see if I can get one from the dining room chef, but you'll have to pay the full dinner price."
"I don't care. Make it a nice thick steak."
"I'll pick it out myself."
She went back into the kitchen and over the noise of the dish washer I heard the sound of another door opening and closing. Her face had been deceiving. When she came all the way into the room and I saw the rest of her body the elfin impression almost disappeared. She was about five-two and lean. If her breasts and behind hadn't been so prominent I would have called her skinny, but the fore-and-aft bulge of her uniform saved her from that. Her breasts and butt weren't overly large, but they were definitely there. You couldn't possibly mistake her for a boy.
Even with all her leanness I had the impression that she had at one time been much heavier. There was an aura of tight control about her body, and her flesh seemed somehow to be wasted, or tortured and dieted to its present size.
She came back with a perfectly lovely hunk of raw meat. It took both her hands to hold it and she carried it on a piece of brown wrapping paper.
"How's this?" she asked, holding the steak out to me.
"Perfect," I said. "Now see how fast you can cook it."
"How do you like it?"
"Medium. Dark on the outside and still a little pink at the center. And don't trim it. I'm hungry enough to eat it all."
She went into the kitchen, came back a moment later without the steak. She gathered silverware and napkins from someplace under the counter and set a place before me.
"What vegetable will you have with the steak?"
"Give me a double order of french fries, an order of fried onion rings, and some string beans. Oh yes, and bring me some bread and butter."
Her eyes widened as I made my requests. "That's some meal. It sounds like you're ordering for six."
"There's an awful lot of me to feed," I told her.
Her eyes ran over me from the top of my head to the point where the counter cut me in half. She looked slow and long and I could tell she liked what she saw. Her tongue flicked out over her lips in a nervous gesture and she gave me a half smile.
"You don't look so big."
I stood up slowly to give her the full effect of my height and her eyes widened. There are lots of men bigger than me. Some of those freak basketball players run over seven feet. But I'm broad as well as tall. From the time I was sixteen I earned my bread by blood sweat. I'm getting a little thick through the waist but even in my prime I never weighed less than two twenty seven.
"I change my mind," she said. "My God, you're a monster."
"Yeah, me and Frankenstein, but I'm better looking and hungrier."
Ten minutes later she brought my steak and potatoes and I sent her to the bar for a bottle of beer. She brought the beer, poured half of it into a glass-keeping the head small-and left me alone with my food.
I fell to with gusto. The food was excellent, the steak tender and juicy, the potatoes crisp and brown. She'd added a pat of butter to the string beans and they disappeared with the rest of the food. When I pushed the plate away it was bare as Mother Hubbard's cupboard. There wasn't a crumb left anywhere.
I belched appreciatively and finished the last of the beer.
"Hey," I yelled and she came bouncing out of the back room.
"I was watching you eat," she said. "You really mean business. I don't think I ever saw anyone pack it away like that."
"I'm not finished yet." I told her and her eyes widened again. "Now I'd like a cup of black coffee and a nice shiny apple."
She brought the coffee and I lit a cigarette to go along with it. There are only two times when I drink my coffee black. Once, of course, is when I'm hung over. Then I drink black coffee and eat plenty of ice cream. Sounds terrible, doesn't it? But it really works. The other time I drink black coffee is after a heavy meal. It seems to me that sugar and cream after a good piece of meat spoils the after taste, which is the best part. The full flavor of a good meal lingers for hours after that meal has been eaten.
The apple, of course, was to keep the doctor away. I' bit into it and sucked at the juice as it ran down my chin. The girl was standing a couple of feet away, her elbows on the counter and her chin resting in her palm. She was watching me, fascinated by the way I ate, and she giggled when she saw me struggling with the apple. I finished the thing in five mouthsful and smiled appreciatively when she brought me a toothpick before I asked for one. The toothpick was primarily for the little pieces of apple skin that always get caught between your teeth; but it really caps off a meal to sit back and pat your full belly with one hand while you pick your teeth with the other.
The tab came to five dollars. I handed her a ten and asked, "What's your name?"
She looked like she didn't know what to do first. She had the bill in her hand and was ready to make change, and at the same time I asked her a question. She seemed all upset when I asked her name. Finally she turned to the cash register and rang up the money. A moment later she turned back to me with four singles and four quarters clutched in her hand.
I took the money and absently stuck it in my pocket. "What's your name?" I asked again. .
"Millie, Millie Gention."
I reached into my pocket again and brought out a dollar for a tip. When I held it out to her she pushed my hand away. "Take it," I said. "You deserve it for that excellent meal."
She seemed to suddenly regain her composure. She smiled and said, "Oh, I couldn't take your money. I got a kick out of watching you eat. It's a pleasure to serve somebody who really appreciates food."
I put the buck back in my pocket and turned to walk out of the place. I stopped at the door and looked back. She was watching me like she was expecting me to say something.
So I said something.
I said, "What time do you get off work?"
That was what she had been waiting to hear. "I get relieved at eleven."
"I'll be waiting in the bar," I told her, and left the coffee shop just as two teen-aged gangsters walked in. They were dressed in the southwestern version of the uniform-faded, skin-tight levis, dusty brown high-heeled boots with pointed toes, magnificently tooled wide leather belts with lethal looking buckles, hair tortured into the shape of the south end of a northbound duck, and five and three quarter gallon stetsons with viciously rolled brims. The hats were black, of course, as were their very tight shirts. They strutted when they walked.
I watched them swagger into the coffee shop and order whatever it was they ordered. Then I headed for the bar. A bar in Texas is like a bar in no other state in the union. It seems like the Texas law-makers can't decide whether they're for or against the consumption of alcohol. As a consequence of this confusion Texas bars are permitted to sell only beer and wine. Whiskey is sold only in liquor stores and cannot be consumed on the premises. You'd be amazed at the number of Texans who can get smashed to the eyeballs on beer.
The room was decorated in lots of dark wood, with subdued lighting and leather booths and chairs. There was no juke box and I was glad. Instead, the music came into the room from half a dozen strategically placed speakers. It was quiet, unintrusive stuff probably piped in from the local FM station, if there was a local FM station.
I took a seat at the bar and ordered a bottle of local beer. It was cold and tart and went down smoothly. The bartender took a dollar and didn't bring me any change. That's a hell of a lot of money for a small bottle of beer. I would have preferred bourbon, especially at these prices, but I settled for what I could get.
I passed the time by watching the antics of the other patrons. A couple of the men standing belly to the bar were obviously ranchers in town for a once-a-month evening of relaxation. Their leathery brown faces were split in permanent grins and they drank like prohibition was coming back tomorrow.
While I watched, a tall black-haired woman came in and sat down alone in one of the booths. Her body was a treasure house of lush curves and jutting mounds and her dress did little to conceal "it. The front of the thing was split damned near to her waist and could only have been held up by magnetism or glue. The skirt of the thing was slit on both sides and the slits were so high they threatened to reveal the flesh of her backside when she sat down and crossed her legs.
In spite of the dress I couldn't make up my mind whether or not she was a hooker. She carried herself with an air of poise and sophistication and she could well have been the wild daughter of one of the wealthier townspeople.
One of the ranchers noticed her and stumbled away from the bar to weave to her table. He sat down so heavily I thought the chair was going to split apart under him. He smiled at her and she returned his smile. I watched their lips move and heard the murmur of their conversation, but I couldn't hear what they were saying.
The man said something and the girl's face hardened. Then she said something and he shook his head negatively. I could almost hear the alcohol slosh around inside his skull. The each had another chance at the conversation and smiles appeared on both their faces. They stood up and the girl helped the drunken rancher from the room.
So she had been a whore. That red-faced Texan was a lucky man. Pro or not the girl looked like a hell of a good time between the sheets. Two men in plain clothes came in and bothered a couple of GI's from the local Army post. They left again in a couple of minutes and the bartender seemed glad to see them go.
He saw my questioning look and grinned. "State Liquor Authority," he said, indicating their departing backs with a thrust of his chin. "If they come around too often business falls off."
I smiled back at him to show that I too realized that such authority was a pain in the rump and he responded by setting one up on the house. At a buck a throw one free drink considerably reduces the total cost and I felt better about it.
Millie showed up about ten minutes after eleven. She was wearing a two piece outfit of some shiny material. The skirt snugly fitted her hips and the long-sleeved top buttoned up to her neck. Her breasts pushed out against the soft material and beckoned invitingly.
"Hi," she said breathlessly as she slid onto the bar-stool next to me. "I took a few minutes to change."
"No sweat," I told her. "You want a beer?"
She made a face and I laughed. "I hate beer."
"All right then, let's go someplace else. You pick the spot, I'm only a visiting fireman."
They brought my car around front and I was glad the top was down. It was a warm evening with a sky-full of stars. She hopped in and settled her lean haunches in the bucket seat. Since I'm a little bigger than she is it took me somewhat longer to bet behind the wheel. She laughed at my maneuvers as I doubled my legs under me and twisted and turned.
"How come a big man like you owns such a little car?" She asked.
"How come big guys always go for tiny girls," I countered. That one caught her in mid-laugh. It struck close to home and she didn't know the appropriate reaction. Intelligently, she said nothing.
"Getting in and out is the only problem," I continued. "Once I'm in the car fits me like a glove."
"Isn't it supposed to fit like a car?"
I was in the seat by this time and I kicked the engine over. "I'd rather have this little old piece of British tin can than all the twisted iron in Detroit. This is a car you drive. American cars you aim. And who needs a car that completely changes designs every three years? These cars have had the same basic body design for over ten years. And another thing, American cars are built-to fall apart in a couple of years so the owners have to buy new ones. These cars are built to last. With the right care a guy can own one of these for twenty years. They're faster and safer to drive. At a hundred and twenty miles an hour in this car I have more control and more stopping power than most Detroit sedans have at sixty."
She put her hands to her ears to stop my cascade of words. "Enough, enough. I give up. I'll never buy another American car as long as I live."
I laughed along with her. "I'm sorry," I said. "Automobiles are a pet peeve with me. Once I get started it's difficult to stop. But no more of that for tonight. Where shall we go?"
"The only two places near here where we can get a decent drink are across the border in Juarez and across the state line in New Mexico. Take your choice."
"Which is better?"
"In New Mexico they have dance bands. In Juarez they have floor shows. It's up to you."
I can dance when the situation arises, but like most big men dancing is not my forte. "If it makes no difference to you I'll take Juarez. Which way do we go?" She pointed and I drove.
I whipped the Healey out of the circular driveway and into the stream of traffic. I drive hard and take advantage of every break in the traffic pattern. The Healey hummed to my touch as I snaked through tight spaces using the gear shift more than the brakes. When we hit a clear space I threw it into overdrive and kicked down. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Millie holding on to the handle on the dash board.
The car was in fourth gear over-drive and the tachometer needle hovered around the forty five hundred RPM mark. We were doing close to ninety. She was sitting forward in the seat, stretching her neck so her head came above the level of the windshield. The rush of air over the top of the windshield whipped her jagged-cut hair into a froth. Her eyes were closed and she was grinning from ear to ear.
The hotel was on the outskirts of town and it was necessary to drive through the main part of town to get to the bridge into Juarez. I slowed down when we began to hit traffic lights and pedestrians and she settled back in her seat, her eyes glowing.
Traffic into Mexico was heavy at that time of night and it took us ten minutes to get across the bridge. On the American side I stopped and paid the toll keeper thirty cents for the privilege of driving into Juarez. Cheap enough. We were stopped again on the Mexican side and declared our nationality. All you do is say "American" and they wave you on with a big grin. I don't know what other nationalities they expected coming across the bridge from America.
I'd been in Juarez twice before. Both times I had business in El Paso. But I really didn't know the town very well. On both my other visits I'd been traveling without my wife, and my evenings across the border were spent in the red-light district. I didn't think Millie would be interested in that.
We found parking space on the main drag-which is the only safe place to leave a car at night-and I covered it with the tonneau cover before we walked away. The cover wasn't a hell of a lot of protection. It was held on by snaps and a reasonably dextrous six year old could get in; but it made me feel better to know the thing was covered.
The first place we went to was called La Fiesta. It was a pretty plush joint, the waiters dressed in tuxedos and the wine steward wandering around with his keys jingling. A tiny table cost me a buck palmed to the head-waiter. This was not the kind of thing I expected in a Mexican night club. And when I looked at the liquor menu I damn near got up and walked out. Drinks here were more expensive than the beer had been in the hotel bar. hotel bar.
It's funny the way a guy can be with money. Back in the hotel I hadn't minded slipping the bellhop a buck just for carrying my bags. I figured it was worth a buck not to have to lug the damned things myself. But to pay inflated prices for liquor got my goat. It makes me feel like a sucker when I think that right down the street in a dingy little bar some other slob is getting the same liquor at probably half the price. It was costing me so those phony waiters could wear tuxedos.
Millie seemed to get a big kick out of the place, so I went along for a while. If the extra investment paid dividends, I wouldn't mind at all. She ordered a whiskey sour, extra sweet, and went for the bonded bourbon. Just before the waiter brought our drinks the band stopped playing and the people on the dance floor went back to their tables.
The lights dimmed, the band played a fanfare and a voice boomed into the room over the PA system. The guy rattled off a whole bunch of jazz in Spanish and then switched to English. He went through a bit welcoming everybody to the club and congratulating them on their excellent taste. It was standard nightclub hokum. Then he introduced the first act of the floorshow.
The spotlight opened on center stage to reveal a man and woman. The woman, her black hair piled high on her head, wore a long evening gown with a ruffle skirt and a low-cut top. The guy standing next to her wore tight pants with the waistline up under his ribs and a very short jacket. On his head he had a flat wide-brimmed hat with a tie-string going under the chin.
There was a light sprinkle of applause and the man and woman went into their dance. They did the whole tourist-slanted routine, stamping their heels into the stage, snapping their fingers, making faces at the audience. Strangely, when they were finished they got a lot of applause. Even I could do that kind of dancing.
After the dancers we drank our way through a group of singers, a guitar player, and then the one really good act of the evening, a trumpet player. But what a trumpet player. This guy could almost make that damned horn talk. He played straight and from the guts. When he was sad you could almost see tears dripping from the bell of his horn, and when he was happy the horn seemed almost to giggle out the music.
After the horn played we listened to the feature act, a second-rate American singer, drone his way through a couple of numbers, and then the lights came up again. The full band was replaced by a four-piece combo and people got up to dance again. We'd had three drinks each by this time and Millie's eyes were shining.
It was time to get on with the business at hand. "Dance?" I asked her.
She nodded her head and we stood up. She was so tiny I was afraid to hold her too tight. She came into my arms and the top of her head came only half way up my chest. I danced stooped over so I could get my mouth somewhere in the vicinity of her ear. I made it through a whole number without stepping on her toes and decided to quit while I was ahead.
Back at the table we order another round of drinks.
"Isn't this a fabulous place?" she said, when the drinks had been delivered.
I grinned. "Yeah, I guess it is. But now that we've seen the floor show I've got an urge to hit another spot. What do you say?"
She knocked back half her drink in one gulp. "I don't care. Whatever you want."
The waiter brought the check and when we left the place my wallet was almost fifteen dollars lighter. The next place was a lot more my style. They served the beer to the tables in bottles and hard liquor was half a buck a throw, but they didn't know about things like whiskey sours. For them whiskey was sour enough just like it comes from the bottle. I got a big kick out of the floor show too. Instead of all kinds of phony dancers and guitar players this show was simply a succession of strippers, most of them bad. But even a bad stripper is more interesting than some skinny, longhaired guy squeaking his vocal chords.
Maybe it was my imagination and maybe it was that they saved the better dancers for the end of the show, but the longer we sat there the more I enjoyed it. The feature strip was something I had never seen before. It started with a completely dark stage. When the spotlight came on it revealed a blonde in a bathtub. She seemed to have just finished her bath and when she stood up to reach for a towel she was completely, nude. My eyeballs almost popped out of my head when I saw that she didn't even have a g-string on.
Next to me I could feel Millie stiffen at the sight, and I wondered what she was thinking. But I didn't wonder long. There were more interesting things happening on the stage.
The dancer grabbed a towel and did things with it that made my hair stand on end. First she patted her shoulders dry and then she moved the towel to her breasts. Those fleshy spheres jiggled and flattened as she pressed the towel against them.
My attention was partially distracted when I felt Millie's thigh press mine under the table. I returned the pressure and put my hand on her knee. She didn't draw her leg away.
" On stage the stripper had finished with her upper torso and was whisking the towel back and forth across her fanny. And what a fanny it was! She had turned her back on the audience and was bent so her behind stuck out towards us. She was rubbing that towel across her rump like she was polishing shoes. I expected to see my reflection there when she finished.
There was no reflection.
She finished her fanny and turned her front to face us. Now it was evident that she used peroxide. Her natural hair color was jet black. She spread her thighs wide apart and dried each thigh teasingly. Then she passed one end of the towel between her legs and grabbed it behind her. She dried a most sensitive portion of her anatomy with a sawing motion of the towel and I suppose every guy in the audience wished he were that towel.
My hand found its way under Millie's skirt and I could feel the muscles in her thigh twitch.
The dancer had moved from the tub to a large bed. She lay flat on her back with her feet towards the audience and whenever she moved her legs she exposed her most intimate charms. She pantomimed a dream session with some phantom lover and the act was over.
I didn't feel like waiting around to see any more. In my belly I could feel excitement bubbling over and I knew Millie was feeling the same thing. We walked back to the car on passion-stiffened legs and five minutes later were roaring southward on the Pan American highway.
It would have ben simpler and quicker to take a hotel room right in Juarez, but I knew most of those places were real flea-bags. Out on the highway there were some really deluxe motels. I was old enough to wait fifteen minutes.
I passed up a couple of seedy-looking places and finally turned the Healy in at a place called the Blue Swan Motel. Millie stayed in the car while I registered. The blowsy broad behind the desk took my money and gave me a key with no questions. When I had signed the register she pointed to a cabin in the back of the court and I was on my own.
Millie helped me snap the cover over the cockpit of the car and we went inside the cabin. So far our evening together had been strangely silent. We had a couple of drinks together, danced together, watched a bunch of strippers together, but we hadn't done much talking. It was as though it were understood from the minute I walked into the coffee shop that we would wind up the night sharing a bed.
I closed and locked the door and she came into my arms with a rush, throwing her firm little body against me. Her mouth was hot and wet and open and her tongue flicked against mine. She laced her fingers behind my head and rolled her open mouth across my face.
I put my hands to her waist and lifted her against me. Her arms tightened and her feet dangled, but already her hips were working eagerly and her loins were rubbing against me.
She broke the kiss by forcing her hands between our bodies and pushing herself away. "Wait," she said. "Put me down."
I lowered her to the floor and heard her move in the darkness. First there was the sound of her shoes against the floor, then the metallic snick of a zipper, and finally the rustle of her clothes. She was undressing in the darkness. I took the hint and quickly removed my own clothes. When I was naked I tried to find her but it was too dark.
"Where the hell are you?" I finally asked.
She answered with a giggle and I located the sound in the darkness.
"Stop playing games. Say something or I'll turn on the lights."
"I'm over here ... on the bed, silly. Where else would I be?"
I moved toward the sound of her voice and bumped my shins against the edge of the bed. It hurt and I swore softly. I would have preferred some light on the situation but she evidently liked the darkness. It didn't matter a hell of a lot.
I felt around the bed and finally grabbed hold of a handful of bare skin.
"That's me," she said.
I couldn't think who else it could be. What I was touching turned out to be a shoulder. I ran my hand down her arm to her wrist and moved her hand to my body.
"And this is me?" I said.
"Well, hello. Fancy meeting you here in a dark motel room," she said as her fingers closed thrillingly around me.
I crawled onto the bed and pulled her warm nakedness against me. She was hot and eager and my searching fingers soon told me there wasn't any need for preliminaries. This baby was raring to go.
I was raring to go too but I hesitated. I was afraid if I threw myself on her I'd smash her flat. She solved the problem for me. Her tiny fist pushed me flat on my back and she rolled over on top of me, her lips finding mine in the darkness. Her breasts flattened against my chest and her loins and the apex of her thighs writhed against my belly.
She pushed herself down along my body until she was in the right position. When she was low enough for the coupling her mouth came only to the middle of my chest. She sat up then, her eager fingers between our bodies, holding, positioning, directing the joining.
When she had everything arranged to her liking she lowered herself with a hiss of indrawn breath and I felt her incredible softness close over me. Soft warmth, moist heat, and my blood began to boil.
Once we were joined she stretched out on top of me again and her knowledgeable loins did all the work. Her mouth got into the act too, her teeth nipping the skin of my chest, her tongue flashing at my flat hair-circled male nipples.
My passion rose so quickly that I was afraid the whole thing would be over too soon. But she sensed the high state of my excitement and slowed down her eager rhythm just before it would have been too late. She kept it slow and steady for as long as she could. Then, with a small cry from deep in her throat, her hips and loins went wild, smashing against me with repeated frenzy.
When it happened she didn't keep it a secret. "Oh God," she screamed shrilly. "Hold me tight. I'm there, I'm there!"
I was there too....
It was dawn when we drove back across the bridge and into the United States. We had to stop for cus-stoms inspection just inside the border. The customs man came to the car with a smirk that said he knew what we had been doing. Hell, he wasn't so damned smart. Any kid in the country old enough to go into a drug store and buy a copy of The Carpetbagger would have known what we'd been doing. After all we had been doing it all night, both of us had dark circles under our eyes and fatigue written across the slack muscles of our faces.
The customs man accepted my word that I wasn't smuggling anything into our great country and I drove on. Millie directed me through town to her house. The building was in the last stage of crumbling pride which comes just before the slum label.
She told me how to get back to the hotel, kissed my cheek and got out of the car. Just before she turned away from the car she said, "Do me a favor. From now on eat in the dining room." Then she was gone.
CHAPTER THREE
Her parting remark haunted me all night.
I slept fitfllly, awakening repeatedly to toss and roll and tangle myself in the sheets. I couldn't tell from the tone of her voice whether the remark was a slur on my masculine capabilities, or a plea for me to keep temptation from her.
On the one hand I never before had any complaints from women; on the other, she'd seemed just as eager as I. Unless she had a husband or lover somewhere in the background I could see no reason for her not to want to see me again. I was sure she left that motel room just as satisfied as I was.
Every time I awoke I looked at the watch lying on the nightstand beside my bed. The luminous hands seemed to creep through the night. Once I awakened three separate times in the space of one hour. The day dawned pink and cloudless and I forced myself to stay in bed until I knew the kitchen would be open. There was no point in wandering through the empty corridors of the hotel. Even if I couldn't sleep.
At eight thirty I rolled out of bed and stumbled into the shower. I felt light-headed from lack of rest and my body was drawn with fatigue. Room service promised to send up a pint of orange juice and a pot of coffee and I went into the shower. Somehow a shower always helps, at least for a little while. No matter how tired or hung over I am, a session under the running water always revitalizes me.
After I rinsed the soap off I stood under the hot water and silently cursed Millie Gention. In one ill-chosen phrase she had completely destroyed my night's rest. After the shower I spread shaving cream over my face and proceeded to slice off the top layer of my skin, taking the beard along with it. Just as I was washing off the residue of the lather I heard a knock at the door. "Come in," I called. "The door's open."-I grabbed a towel to dry my face as I heard the door open, then close.
"Put the coffee on the dresser and bring me a glass of the juice."
I heard the sound of feet moving across the carpeted floor and turned back to the mirror to comb my hair. The bathroom door was part open and in the mirror over the sink I saw it swing open wider. A hand bearing a glass of orange juice was followed into the bathroom by a body. Just before that body appeared in the mirror I remembered that this hotel used waitresses for room service. And there I was, naked as a newborn babe. Nakeder-I was a hell of lot more developed than an infant. And all my development was in plain sight.
"Wait a minute," I yelled.
It was too late. She already was in the room, staring at me with wide eyes and a mouth shaped like a perfect circle.
"Senor," she gasped, standing stupidly in shocked surprise, her hand stuck out in front of her with the glass of juice.
I had two courses of action open to me. I could screech like an outraged virgin and huddle with my hands covering myself from her gaze, or I could be completely nonchalant, as though I was used to pretty little Mexican girls surprising me naked in the bathroom.
If I took the first course of action I would appear foolish. There is something inherently undignified about a grown man huddled down with his hands over his loins. If I took the second course she might think me completely out of my mind, but I'd retain some dignity in the process.
I was as nonchalant as a naked man can be in the presence of a fully-clothed and very pretty girl. I turned towards her and smiled. Good morning," I said, taking the glass from her hand.
She was too surprised to even move. Her mouth was still pursed in that surprised "O" and her eyes bulged. I drank about half the glass in one long swallow and turned back to finish with the comb and brush. I could see her reflection in the mirror and noticed after a couple of seconds her face relaxed and a tiny grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes ran down my body and then back up again, and strangely I felt myself becoming excited.
I stalled with my back to her as long as I could, waiting for her to go into the other room. I suppose I could have draped a towel around my hips, but by then I was committed to nonchalance. Below my waist I knew my body was awakening to the first stirrings of my excitement and I didn't want to turn around in that condition. But she left me no choice. After a few seconds of stalling I knew she wasn't going to leave that bathroom.
She asked for ft.
I turned and her eyes nicked to my loins. The grin tugged harder at her lips. She didn't move as I stalked past her into the bedroom and her breasts in their starched blouse brushed across my arm. She followed me. I signed the check and handed it to her, and still she made no move to leave.
Of course, she was waiting for a tip. Desperately I looked around for my trousers, and finding them dug out a dollar bill. Now she no longer looked at my body, her eyes found and tried to hold mine. The expression on her face could only be described as avid, there were signs of definite interest in her eyes.
I suppose I was getting used to being naked in her presence. Eitiier that or my excitement was beginning to affect my thinking. Either way, when I handed her the dollar and watched her open the top two buttons of her blouse to tuck the dollar bill between her breasts I became interested.
She left the buttons open after putting the money into her personal version of the First National Bank and shifted her hips to a jaunty angle. I kept looking away, but her eyes drew me like magnets. They were big-overly large for her small face-and brown and deep and soft. I imagined I could see a flicker of flames in those orbs. Her desire to smile finally won out, and her lips split back over her white teeth. The pink tip of her tongue peeped at me from behind her teeth.
She was waiting for me to say something and my mind was a complete blank.
"Are you the same girl who brought me the ice yesterday afternoon?" I asked finally.
"Si." Her voice was soft and throaty. And still she stared, smiling and waiting.
"You must work a long day if you begin so early in the morning."
The absolute idiocy of that statement coming from a naked man in a room alone with a waitress will give you an idea of how far off balance she had me.
"What's your name?"
"Consuelo. Consuelo Cerezo." Even when she talked she smiled. And that smile was beginning to take on a hungry air.
"Well, Consuelo, that will be all for now," I said, turning to pick up a fresh pair of undershorts.
"Oh?" She said, a little disappointed. "You are sure that is all you require?"
Now I had the upper hand and I was beginning to feel more sure of myself. I was so much more at ease that I even postponed putting on my shorts. I stood with them dangling from my hand, facing her, my body exposed to her now-hungry eyes.
"Yes," I said. "At nine o'clock in the morning I'm sure that's all I require."
That damned smile of hers finally faded. She picked up the check and moved to the door.
"If I want something else some other time, say-this afternoon, how do I find you?"
The grin returned. "Ask for me by name when you call for service," she told me. Then she was gone.
I felt like a new man. Consuelo's evident interest in me as a male had restored my faith in myself. My ego was whole again and I whistled tunelessly as I dressed. The small coffee pot held a little over three cups of coffee and I finished them all before I slipped into my jacket and left the room.
The first desk clerk, as efficient and officious as ever, was back when I turned in my key. He gave me the full expensive-guest treatment, a "Good morning" and a smileless grin.
After a short wait my car was brought around and I headed out into the fresh dry warm morning air. Downtown El Paso was a snarl of traffic as the stores and shops opened for the day's business, and I got a kick out of snaking the Healey through impossibly small spaces. When I got across the border into Juarez I found the town still asleep. The streets were almost empty, just a few industrious shopkeepers were busy sweeping the sidewalks in front of their establishments. The only real business in Juarez at this hour took place in the innumerable bars which stood with their doors wide open like hungry mouths to the morning sun.
I drove past people hurrying down the side-streets, hands shaking and legs unsteady, seeking that first drink, the one that's supposed to cure your hangover. I always wondered where that silly notion came from. How in the world can more of the same stuff which made you sick make you well again? The only time I ever tried it as a cure the odor of the liquor made me so violently ill I threw up for almost two hours. And then I was so weak I had to stay in bed for the rest of the afternoon.
A couple pf blocks further on I got out of the tourist section and into the residential-business section. Here the people were wide awake and the shops open. Here business went on as it did everywhere else in the world. The shopkeepers, not having to depend on late sleeping tourists for their income, were up and functioning at the regular hour.
I found the City Hall and the office buildings surrounding it, slid the Healey into a parking space. In the breast pocket of my suit was a slip of paper with the name of a Mexican lawyer. I checked the address against the numerals on the face of the building and went inside.
There was no elevator so I had to climb the stairs. By the time I got to the third floor landing I was puffing. Hauling a body the size of mine up three flights of stairs is no easy task. The corridor was cool and dim and from behind the closed doors I could hear the sounds of busy activity.
Every second door I passed bore the double inscription: ATTORNEY-DIVORCES. If I didn't already have the name of a divorce lawyer, it would have been easy to find one.
My lawyer's office was at the far end of the corridor. His door had pebbled glass inserts instead of just plain panels of brown wood. This status symbol probably meant his fees were higher than those of his fellow lawyers. I opened the door and found myself in a small ante room. A couple of leather chairs sagged against the wall and a low wooden railing split the small room in half. Behind the railing was an empty desk, and behind the desk a closed door.
"Hello," I called loudly. "Anybody home?"
From behind the closed door came the scuffling of feet, and a moment later a tall blonde appeared tucking her blouse into her skirt as she came. The Mexican lawyer and his American secretary obviously engaging in indoor sports while they awaited their first sucker of the day.
I guess I was the first sucker.
"Yes sir," she said coolly. I guess she was angry that I had interrupted her fun. What a hell of a way to take a coffee break.
"I'd like to see Mr. Soto."
"What is the nature of your business?" She asked efficiently.
My business was none of her business.
"It's personal. I'll discuss it with Mr. Soto."
"Mr. Soto never sees anyone without knowing the nature of the service they will require," she said. The nosy bitch wasn't going to give up.
Neither was I. "In that case I'm sure I can find another attorney to handle my problem."
She let me get as far as the door.
"If you'll wait just a moment, sir, I'll ask if Mr. Soto can see you immediately."
I turned and smiled at her, and she disapeared into the other room. She came back a moment later, held open the gate in the railing for me. "Right this way, sir.
I guess I expected to see a greasy, fat little man with his hair pasted flat against his skull when I walked through the door. Instead I saw a tall thin hawk-faced man moving around the desk toward me. He was smiling, holding his hand out to me.
We shook hands. He motioned me to a seat and closed the door. Then he moved back around the desk and sat down.
"Now sir," he said in perfect English. "What can I do for you?"
"My name is Bell," I told him. "Herbert Bell. I want to make the necessary arrangements for a divorce."
"I see," he said, and reached for a printed form from a pile on the corner of his desk. Under his perfect English I could detect the lilt of a Spanish background and I wondered at his Anglo-Saxon appearance. He had a Spanish name and looked like English nobility. If you're puzzled about something the only way to find the answer is to ask a question. I asked, "Are you Spanish?"
He smiled. "I see you're puzzled by my appearance. Yes, I am not a Mexican. I was born in Madrid of Castilian ancestry. It is a popular, though erroneous, North American belief that because Mexicans tend to be small and swarthy, all Spanish-speaking people are small and swarthy."
He said it like he knew it by heart, as though he had to repeat it for every lame-brained divorce-seeking American who came into his office. I felt like a penny looking for change.
"I'm sorry," I said. "It was a stupid question."
He softened at my apology and the smile returned to his face.
"It is unusual for the husband to seek a Mexican divorce," he said. "In most instances all we see are aggrieved wives."
"I'm not what you could call aggrieved. Not in any sense of the word. My wife and I feel it best to part company. And since she is the one who made the request I felt that I should get the divorce. It's an amicable enough parting. There is no financial settlement."
He nodded in agreement. "It is the only civilized way."
We talked a few minutes more and he skillfully extracted all the pertinent information from me without seeming to pry. As we talked he made notations on the printed form in front of him and after about ten minutes the preliminaries were concluded.
We shook hands and he escorted me to the door. "If you're in a rush," he said as we stood in his office door. "I can arrange everything before lunch."
"Not at all," I told him. "I'm combining this trip with a vacation.
"Good. Then if you return at two o'clock this after-non we can complete the formalities."
I was amazed to realize when I walked out of his office at a few minutes after ten that I was as good as divorced. A stray thought popped into my mind and I wondered if Juney and the Greek were waiting for the divorce decree before hopping into the sack. Then I realized they'd probably enjoyed each other many times on my frequent business trips. How else could they have decided they were in love? For a minute I was angry. The outrage of the cuckold flashed through me. But it only lasted a moment. If Juney didn't love me than I was better off without her.
Daytime in a tourist town is a hell of a place to kill a few hours. And in a tourist town like Juarez it's even worse than hell. The main attraction in this border town is sexual titillation. The tourist can see strip shows which are more revealed than those in any city in the United States. He can buy pornography. He can purchase fifteen sweaty minutes in the dank arms of an unwashed prostitute. But all these things are available at night, after dark. Even whores and strippers have to sleep. And since their busiest hours are between midnight and dawn, they sleep from morning to evening.
Of course for a price anything is available. But if I wanted a woman there were easier, cleaner ways than rolling with a sleepy-mouthed slut. I had four hours to kill and no plans. I could shop for souvenirs. I knew from my previous trip that the shops were full of genuine Mexican artifacts made in Japan. It was strange, if it had been twenty years ago and I was a young kid with five bucks in my pocket, I couldn't resist spending that five dollars as soon as possible. Well, I had considerably more than five dollars and it was twenty years too late. There was nothing in the shops I wanted.
So I hopped into the Healey and drove back across the border to the hotel. Before I was halfway there the hot southwest sun had made its presence felt. Once over the bridge and through the customs inspection I pulled the car to the curb and took off my jacket and tie. With my shirt collar open I felt a little cooler. As I completed the drive I was sorry I hadn't taken my sunglasses with me that morning. El Paso is some four thousand feet above sea level. Add to that the fact that the area is notoriously lacking in humidity. Multiply all this by a warm, almost semi-tropical climate and you arrive at the inevitable conclusion that it gets pretty damned hot when the sun shines. Needless to say, the sun almost always shines.
So I had a legitimate right to perspiration.
I entrusted the Healey to the hot-rod happy hands of the parking-lot jockey and winced as he roared away from the hotel entrance. Up in my room I found a pair of swimming trunks in the bottom of my suitcase and headed for the pool.
The pool was empty. Its unroiled water, clear and cool looking, invited the invasion of my body while the lifeguard dozed in the shade of a large umbrella. I dropped my towel and cigarettes on one of the lounge chairs and went to the diving boards. I had my choice of three boards. The one meter board was too low to really experience the thrill of hurtling through the air, and the three meter board was a hell of a long way from the water It was too far to fall. T chose the tvsr meter board and climbed the six steps of the steei ladder.
The boards, obviously had been chosen for durability and not for excellence. They were good enough for once-a-year swimmers and divers, but a really good diver wouldn't dare to risk his exhibitionist skill on one of them. They were made of metal and their top surfaces were covered with a fibre glass film filled with a mixture of pebbles and ground glass. The purpose of the film and ground glass was to limit the slippeyness of the board. I prefer the old system of burlap matting. The hairy burlap gives much better footing than ground glass and pebbles. Besides, it sounds dangerous to walk on ground glass.
I walked out to the edge of the board and tested the spring. It was much too soft for any attempt at something fancy like a double somersault with full twist. I couldn't do a double somersault with full twist anyway. The best I'd ever been able to manage was a half-twisting one-and-a-half somersault.
I took a few tentative hops on the end of the spring board and then let it bear the full brunt of my weight. I came down hard and felt it thrust me high into the air. When the board was relieved temporarily, I hoped, of my weight it vibrated against its metal support structure.
"Craaang," it went, the sound bouncing hollowly off the stone wall of the pump-house nearby.
The lifeguard came awake in a rush and almost fell off his chair. He looked wildly around for an instant until his eyes found me, then he settled back in his chair. I saw all this while I was still in the air hurtling back to the lip of the spring board. I came down on the board again, thank heaven, and flexed my knees to absorb the protesting thrust of the board. Now that I had an idea of what the board would do with my body when I pounced on it, I was ready to get my feet wet.
I paced off four long steps from the edge of the board and turned to face the water again. The lifeguard, evidently satisfied that I knew what I was doing, had dozed off again. I shuddered to think what would happen if I couldn't swim. But I could swim and I let him sleep. If he was anything like lifeguards at other hotels, he'd had a busy night servicing some of the female guests, the ones who wanted to learn to swim but insisted that their first lesson be given on the relatively safe springboard of the hotel's excellent mattresses.
I judged the distance to the end of the board and set myself. My feet took three quick steps and one long hop, I hit the end of the board with all the force I could muster. The end of the springboard dipped dangerously close to the surface of the water and then whipped back upwards carrying me along with it. When it reached the top of its arc it launched me savagely into the air.
I went up and out, and as I flew I threw my head back and my arms out to my sides. My back was arched, thrusting my chest forward, and from the hips to the tips of my toes were one rigid straight line.
My body reached the apogee of its arc and then turned down towards the water. I could see the clear flat surface rushing towards me. Just before my body struck I whipped my arms over my hand, clasped my two hands together, and tucked my head down between my arms. My body cleaved the water in one long straight line and made only a very small splash.
I opened my eyes under the water and felt the sting of the chlorine. My arms whiped from over my head back to my sides and my legs scissored my body through the water. I swam under water all the way to the ladder and hauled myself, puffing and panting out onto the warm cement. As I came out of the water I heard the sound of two hands clapping. Someone was applauding and having a normal ego I naturally assumed he, she or it was appauding me. I looked around.
She was standing at the far end of the pool, down where the water is shallow enough for the six-year-olds. But she sure as hell wasn't a six-year-old, I remembered that much from the feel of her breasts punching into my chest when I bumped into her coming out of the elevator. She was wearing a Chinese coolie hat, sun glasses and a terry-cloth jacket that came just to the top of her thighs. From where I was standing that looked like all she was wearing.
I grinned at her and walked toward where she was dumping herself into a lounge chair. She returned my grin.
"Hi," I said.
"Hi, yourself. For a man who promised to buy me a drink you sure aren't wasting any effort trying to find me."
"I've been busy," I explained.
"If you've had enough aquatic sport for a while, sit down," she said.
She picked her legs up and stretched them before her while her hands opened the buttons of her shorty robe. The front halves of the thing peeled back to show me the biggest breasts in the least amount of material I've ever seen. Yes, it was a bikini, but on her it was a hell of a lot less bikini than any I'd ever seen a woman wear. The top was about as wide as a belt, and it covered even less skin. Both the upper curves and under swells were completely bare and beautifully tanned, the belt-sized top covered only the tips of her nipples. I liked the way those breasts thrust straight out from her body even with no support. With breasts that size she must have tremendous muscles to hold them up.
From the naked undercurves of her breasts all the way to the apex of her thighs she was all bare honey-colored flesh. The bottom half of her suit was so low on her belly a flea would need a passport to get from there up to her navel. The bottom of the suit was a triangle of cloth about five inches wide at its invested base, and it tapered to nothing as it disappeared between her thighs. It seemed to be held on by a thin string which ran around her body, biting deep into the soft flesh of her hips.
Her voice broke into my thoughts. "Oh yeah, I forgot you were a looker, always using your eyes."
I grinned. "And you're still a shower, always leaving it around where people can stare at it."
"That's my business." She said it with a laugh in her voice.
"When it's around where I can see it, it becomes my business too," I told her.
"Silly, that's not what I meant. I meant I get paid to let people look at me."
"Let me guess," I said, feeling sure I knew her occupation. 'Model?"
She shook her head. "In show business then?" This time I got a nod. 'Stripper?"
"I have been, but not right now. Now it's just plain dancer-in the back row of the chorus line."
"If they put you in the back row I'd love to meet a front-row girl. On second though, I think I'd be afraid to meet a front row girl."
This time her laugh was loud and long. It rang clearly through the air and was a pleasure to listen to.
"They put me in the back row because I bounce too much when I dance," she said, indicating the offensive portion of her anatomy with a sweep of her hand. It was a long sweep to take in all of her proportions. I could see that she might conceivably have more bounce to the ounce, and there were a hell of a lot of ounces.
"I think it's a shame they hide you in the back row. Such abundance should be right out in front where everybody can have the pleasure of seeing it."
"Yeah," she said sarcastically. "The producers are square."
"Well, now that I've found you again, how about that drink I promised?"
"Uh uh," she said and my hopes fell. "They only serve beer and that makes me fat."
I envisioned all those lovely curves destroyed by rolls of hanging flab and I winced. "I certainly wouldn't want you to get fat. But I do have a bottle of very fine bourbon up in my room. If you really want a drink we can always go up there and get one, or more than one."
She laughed again and it still sounded good. "You sure don't waste any time, do you? I'll bet if I went up to your room right now I'd be fighting you off inside of three minutes."
"Who me? I'm as harmless as a sixty-five-year-old on social security."
"I know all about sixty-five-year-olds. I see enough of them hanging around the dressing-room backstage. Besides, who said they're so harmless? My grandfather had a paternity suit against him when he was over sixty."
"Was he convicted?"
"Damned right he was. He was so proud that he confessed to the whole thing. I always wondered if he was just grabbing credit or if he really was the father of that baby."
"Maybe it was just a family myth."
"Couldn't be," she said, shaking her head. "I was around at the time. The kids in my high-school class kidded me about it for over a year after it hit the papers."
"Let me see," I said, "High-school, that must have been last year." I knew it was an awkward compliment as soon as the words left my mouth.
She accepted it graciously. "You're close. It was the year before." The way she said it I knew that wasn't true either.
"Since we're such good friends already I might as well know your name. Mine's Herb Bell."
"Mine is Laurie Yost."
"That must be your stage name. What's your real name?"
"Everybody thinks the same thing. Just because I'm in show business I must have changed my name. That is my real name." There was a slight edge to her voice.
"Well, Laurie, if I can't buy you a drink then how about a quick dip in the pool."
"Can't do it," she said. "I wish I could, but I've got a show to do tonight and I can't get my hair wet."
"Don't you ever have fun?"
"Only on my day off."
"Ah, now we're getting down to basic information. When is your day off, and how about spending it with me?"
"I'm off the day after tomorrow, and it all depends on how you want to spend the day. I still don't want to go to your room for a drink."
"I'm easy to convince. What do you like to do?"
She grinned again, and this time I could see we were going to be very close friends some day, close enough maybe for her to come up to my room for that drink. "What I like to do," she said, "I don't like to do with men I don't really know."
"If that's all that's stopping you, what do you want to know about me? Go ahead, ask me anything you like."
"I only have one question right now. The rest will come later."
"Go ahead."
"Are you married?"
"What time is it?" I asked. "Almost noon."
"I am married. But in a little more than two hours I won't be married."
"Oh, I get it. The Juarez scene."
"I don't know how much of a scene it will be, but that's the general idea."
"I have a policy," she said, "never to talk to married men. Anyway right now I want to get a little sun. Come back when you are a free man."
"Tonight I'm coming to the show. What time are you free?"
"I'm never free. The show is over at two a.m. But I've got a date for tonight. You'll just have to wait til) the day after tomorrow."
She closed here eyes and tilted her face back to the sun. The large brim of her coolie hat shaded only her forehead and eyes. It was obvious that our conversation was at an end.
I stood up and walked to edge of the pool. When I hit the water I made as much splash as I could, hoping that some of it hit her. Four fast laps winded me completely and I decided it was time for lunch. With only coffee and juice for breakfast I was good and hungry.
My stomach rumbled all through my shower and downstairs again I hesitated between the coffee shop and the dining room. I decided on the dining room. The napkins were cloth instead of paper and the tablecloth was sparkling white. A waitress appeared the minute I sat down and I ordered the chopped steak luncheon, with a double order of french-fried potatoes instead of a vegetable. In the dining room I couldn't get beer with my meal, so I settled for a tall glass of iced tea.
I ate slowly, enjoying every mouthful, and when I finished it was time to head back to Juarez.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was even hotter than it had been that morning, so I decided to dress casually. What the hell; divorce was the same whether I wore a suit or a bathrobe. I wore slacks and an open-necked sports shirt. I carried a sports jacket, just in case there was some complaint when we went to see the judge.
Traffic was still heavy across the bridge. This was the third trip I'd made and it had always been heavy going into Mexico, never coming back. I was beginning to think most of these people were on one-way trips. Maybe they were embezzlers on the run.
The blonde in Soto's outer office gave me an arch smile which meant of course, that her boss had told her all about me. "See," her look told me silently, "I found out in spite of you."
I ignored the grin and waited while she announced me. She came back to her desk and sat down carefully before she said, "You can go right in, Mr. Bell."
Soto leaned across the desk to shake my hand, and when we were finished with this ritual test of strength I sat down. He pushed a form in front of me and handed me a pen. The form was of stiff blue paper, folded down the middle. When I opened it I saw that inside was some tissue paper on which was printed what I supposed to be my divorce decree.
"Sign in the three places I have marked," he told me.
I signed and handed the paper back.
"Now all we need is your wife's power of attorney and we can go directly to the court."
"We need my wife's what?"
"Power of attorney. We must have her agreement to the divorce before it can be legal back in the United States. It wouldn't do for you to be divorced only in Mexico."
"But I didn't know I needed anything like that. I don't have her power of attorney."
"I'm afraid it is necessary. Without it we cannot proceed with the necessary arrangements. I thought you said your wife agreed to this divorce?"
"She does agree. I just didn't know I had to bring something like that along. I'll have to send for it."
"Yes, that's the only way. I'm afraid there will be an additional fee. You see, I will have to go through all the arrangements again when we have the document from your wife."
I knew nothing about the machinations of Mexican litigation. If he said he wanted more money I'd have to pay him. I told him I'd be back when I got the power of attorney and left his office muttering under my breath. I was mad at the delay and mad at him for not telling me sooner. On the other hand it was all my own fault. I should have investigated all the particulars before coming down here.
It occurred to me as I drove back to my hotel that lawyers have a very definite and dangerous advantage over their clients. The redundant and ridiculously entangled language of litigation puts the client in the position where he has to take the lawyer's word for everything. For all I knew, Mexican law required no such power of attorney. Maybe it didn't even require my signature. I only had the lawyers word for it, and he was only interested in me as a client-a fee-paying client. The longer he could stretch this thing out the more money he could ask for. The worst part of the whole deal was that I had no choice. All I could do was follow his instructions, and when the thing was over pay whatever he asked. If I didn't pay he'd hold up the legal proceedings. And if he did gouge me, how would I ever find out? He was in a perfect situation. Fifteen minutes after I got the divorce I'd be gone, in another country.
Back at the hotel I sat down to draft a letter to Juney. But how to begin? How do you write a letter to an about-to-be ex-wife, asking her to send you a document to speed up that divorce? "Dear Juney," I began ... No, Juney was a little too personal. "My dear June," I began again ... Still no good, she wasn't mine anymore. I tore that one up too and got out a fresh sheet of paper. "June," I scribbled simply across the top. "There will be a slight delay in the divorce proceedings. I've just discovered that I need...."
It was still no good. I crumpled the third effort and tossed it after the first two. Writing was no good, I'd have to telephone. I picked up the receiver and waited for the switchboard operator.
"Yes sir," came her voice over the line, metallic and emotionless.
"I'd like to place a long distance person-to-person call to Northridge, California."
"Whom do you wish to speak with and what is the number, sir?" Appalling efficiency.
Suddenly I realized that phoning would be just as awkward as writing. I would have to say the same things I had to write.
"Never mind the long distance call. Connect me with Western Union."
A telegram would be the easiest way. I could make it short. No explanations would be necessary. A telegram was much less personal and it suited the situation perfectly. It would be just like some business deal, flat, emotionless, just the right tone.
The phone clicked and buzzed in my ear and another professional telephone voice came onto the line. "Western Union," the voice sang. "May I help you?"
"I want to send a wire to Mrs. June Bell at thirty-five dash twenty-four Covello Street in Northridge, California."
"Yes sir, what is the message?"
Mentally I counted the words. Good, it came out exactly ten. "Slight delay. Require power of attorney. Send Airmail Special Delivery. Herb."
She read the whole thing back to me, took down my address-that is the hotel's address-and said it would go right out. I hung up the phone and sat back. In my mind's eye I saw a slip of paper bearing my message being set down in front of a teletype operator. The operator would send the message, his fingers echoing the letters on the piece of paper in front of him, without ever really reading the message. The teletype machine converted my message in to electrical impulses which would travel along telephone wires all the way to California, where another machine would reconvert the impulses in to letters printed automatically in triplicate. One copy of the message would be torn off, sealed in an envelope and sent out for delivery. Another copy of the message would be sent to a woman sitting before a telephone. The woman would telephone my wife and deliver the message by phone. The actual piece of yellow paper with the words pasted on it would be delivered later.
And what would Juney be doing when the phone rang, or if the phone didn't ring, what would she be doing when the Western Union boy rang the doorbell? Would she be alone with that Greek bastard on my big white bed? Would they be making love when the phone or doorbell rang? Would she be in the throes of ecstasy when my message was delivered, an ecstasy given her by someone else?
The first pangs of regret flooded through me and I was sad. It really hadn't been so bad with her, even after they told us she was barren. Maybe if I had tried a little harder we could have made a go of it anyway. I was mad at myself for not trying harder, and I was mad at her for being the way she was. I was even mad at George, the Greek, for being the one she fell in love with.
When a man starts to think about all his past mistakes, there is nowhere for his spirits to go but down. I was so low I felt as though I'd been swimming in a bubbling vat of blue dye. Here it was the middle of a fine sunny afternoon and I felt so far down in the dumps I couldn't sec over the, mounds ol garbage.
I don't get like this very often. But then I don't get a divorce very often cither. When I am like this, there is only one thing for me to do. It's the same thing every other red-blooded American male docs when he gets all strung out.
The bourbon bottle was still half full and I poured a stiff hooker even before I called down for ice. I stalked around the room with the glass in my hand, sipping at it as I closed the drapes of the window wall and turned on one small lamp. I intended to get thoroughly grogged and I didn't want to do it in bright sunshine.
The soft knock on the door came just as I was stretching out on the bed.
"Come in," I called.
The door opened and a figure stepped into the room. The entranceway was in shadow and I couldn't see the face. It was a girl.
"I thought you were going to ask for me by name?" the voice said.
I grinned in the dimness when I realized it was Consuelo, the room service girl who'd spent a goodly portion of that morning staring at my naked body.
"Close the door," I told her. "And lock it. Then bring the ice over here. I hate warm booze." II drinking is one way to forget your problems, I thought, then drinking and making love is an even better way.
She stepped into the small circle ol light thrown by the lamp and I saw that she no longer wore the uniform. Instead her lean ripe body was encased in amazingly tight slacks of some shiny black material. Those pants of hers were so tight I wondered how she kept gangrene from setting in. Above the slacks showed a strip of bare brown belly, and then a frill)', white, loose-fitting blouse which did little to hide the hard jut of her pear-shaped breasts.
She set the tray down on the nightstand next to the bed and put her rounded rump on the edge ol the mattress.
"Here," I said, handing her my glass. "Put some ice in this and then mix one for yourself."
She took the glass and reached for the ice bucket.
"How long can you stay before they send out search parties?" I asked.
She indicated her clothing with a fingernail. "I've been off for over an hour. I was waiting for your call."
"What made you so sure I'd call?"
"I wasn't sure, but I hoped."
I took my drink from her and watched her pour a second for herself. I moved to the far side of the double bed and made room for her to stretch out beside me. The bed jiggled and bounced when she moved, and I had to balance my glass. Finally she was settled beside me, her head resting on a pillow and her feet stretched out before her. From my position, her lean legs looked about four miles long. She picked up an ashtray from the bedside table and set it on the spread between us.
"Do you think we ought to have the floor girl come in and turn down the bed for us?" she asked, with a lilting laugh in her tone.
"I think we'll be able to manage between us."
It was extremely pleasant to lie there with her beside me and the prospect of sex to look forward to. The limits of our relationship were so clearly defined by her attitude that there was no need for any pretense of haste. Both she and I knew that we would finish the afternoon, or night, or next morning, with nothing between us but bare skin and pleasure.
But all that would come later. Right then I wanted to drink and talk. "How often does something like this happen?" I asked. "What do you mean?"
"How often do you wait around and hope for a phone call from some particular room?"
I was staring straight ahead at the wall beyond the foot of the bed. She was lying beside me, the ashtray between us, staring in the same direction. We were whispering because the intimacy of the darkened room seemed to require it.
"I don't think that's any of your business," she answered, her voice expressionless. "Unless of course you intend to propose marriage."
"I'm not even divorced yet. And then I have to wait twenty-four hours before I can remarry. I intend to wait a hell of a lot longer than twenty-four hours."
"Then why do you ask?"
"I don't know. I suppose I'm just naturally nosey. You're right about it being none of my business, but it's not a state secret either."
The hushed tones in the darkened room obliterated any sense of the bright sun shining outside my window wall. In fact it destroyed any sense of there being any world at all beyond the confines of these four walls. Suddenly we were in limbo, hung up in a gap in the fabric of time and space.
"You men are all the same," she sighed. "Even the most enlightened of you still operates on the double standard. At one and the same time you believe that good women have no base, ugly sex desires, and yet you demand that your women achieve fantastic completion in bed. You simultaneously damn and desire the nymphomaniac."
Those words and ideas surprised me, coming from a hotel maid. I grunted and she continued.
"A long time ago I gave up trying to be innocent and lustful at the same time. Most men condone female immorality and desire to violate innocence, and when they are finished they turn around and damn those same women with filthy names and ridicule. Don't you ever stop to think that for every man who unzips his trousers outside the marriage bed there must also be a woman? One of the most shattering blows a man takes in his life is when he realizes that at. the same time that he was enjoying the illicit bliss of an adulterous bed some other man was enjoying the same pleasure in his bed, with his wife."
Her words were striking a little too close to home, and I wanted her to change the subject. "Give me a refill, please," I said, handing her my empty glass. "And make it a stiff one."
"Is what I'm saying a little too strong to take without the help of liquor?" She took the glass and sat up to reach for the ice and whiskey.
"I have other reasons for getting stoned. But don't stop talking now." I accepted the implied challenge of her tone.
She twisted back onto the bed and handed me an almost full glass. When I took the glass I looked at her face and her deep brown eyes, and for just a second she looked as if she were twelve years old. Her lips were spread in a small smile.
"I think I've just about exhausted the subject," she said.
"Talk about something else. Tell me about yourself."
She looked into my face for a long second, puzzled by my interest. "What is there to tell? I'm a human being; a female human being. My nationality is obvious from the color of my skin and my accent. And I am employed as a waitress in this hotel. There is nothing else pertinent."
"You're a hell of a lot more than just a Mexican waitress in an American hotel. Waitresses don't spit out ideas like those you were just talking about."
An intriguing grin flickered on her face again. "You know my name, and my age is not important. I was the only child of a judge in the civil court and a female descendant of the original Spanish invaders. My parents were modern people and I was allowed to attend the University of Mexico. In my last year both my parents were killed in an automobile accident. I used what little money they left me to complete my education. Armed with a University degree I set out to make a career for myself, only to find that women are not appreciated among the ranks of the employed intellectuals. Everybody advised me to marry and settle down to have a child a year, until I no longer was capable of bearing children. This is the way of my culture.
"But I didn't want to get married. At college I had been exposed to the American idea of love before marriage and I must admit it attracted me. Since I wasn't in love with anybody, I didn't marry. I took whatever jobs I could find, but the pay was low and the work backbreaking. An influential friend managed to arrange an entry visa for me and I came to this country in hope of better employment. But nobody in this part of the country wants to hire an educated Mexican girl, either. I took this job when I was very hungry.
"It's not a bad job. The work isn't difficult and the pay is double what I might earn back in my own country." She paused here to sigh and sip at her drink. "Sometimes I wonder how long it will take me to forget all my education and effort."
"It sounds like a difficult life," I commiserated. "But I imagine there are people, even in this country, who would be more than willing to trade places with you. It's all in the point of view."
"I am not complaining," she said. "You wanted to hear about me and I told you. Would you rather I had fabricated some romantic and mysterious tale?"
"No, but all this doesn't tell me how you came to those conclusions of yours about men and sex."
"My views of men, have come from simply being a living human being. Those of sex are the natural result of logical and unemotional thought. If I am a human being, then I am subject to the same emotions .and passions and desires as other human beings-including male human beings. This means, of course, that I have the desire for sex and the capacity to enjoy sex. I find certain men attractive just as men find certain women attractive. It's a simple matter of need and fulfillment of that need."
It was time for another drink, and this time she took my glass and filled it before I asked. She lay back, handed me the fresh drink and there was a long empty silence in the dimness while we sipped. I put about half the drink away before I decided that the afternoon was going to go to hell unless I started something. I set the drink down on the floor under the edge of the bed and put the ashtray next to it.
She knew what was coming, and when I turned back to her she was ready, her drink safely out of the way. I rolled over on my side and she came slowly to my arms, her face looming larger and larger as she came closer. At the last moment her lids dropped down over her limpid eyes and our lips touched.
Her lips were pursed and pressed tightly together, they were warm and hard against my mouth. My tongue traced the contour of that tight mouth and I feit her pursed lips soften and open. My tongue flicked over the smooth glassy surface of her white teeth. Her jaws opened and my tongue was in the hot cave of her mouth, seeking, finding, and twining against her tongue.
I was lying on my left side with my left arm under her shoulder. I put my right hand over her body and my palm touched the strip of bare skin above the waistband of her trousers. Her skin felt cool and smooth to the touch. My fingers forced themselves under the edge of her slacks and brushed against the beginning swells of her rump. Her hips jerked when I touched her and her lower body pressed against me. My arm under her shoulder tightened and her small hard breasts were crushed against my chest.
She moaned softly at the full contact and her hand came to rest on my hip bone. I moved my lips from her mouth to her ear and my tongue explored the pink-brown shell. She writhed again and her hand forced itself between our bodies to my trouser-covered loins.
My zipper was but a moment's work for her tiny skillful fingers, and then her hand was inside and warm against my bare flesh. I returned the courtesy of the caress by pulling her blouse down off her shoulder and baring her breasts. She wore no bra, the way was clear for my lips. As my face came close to her body my nostrils were filled with the musky woman-smell of her, a heady perfume, and my senses reeled with delight.
Her breasts were as hard as weapons and as demanding as overlords. My lips touched the warm ripe skin and a moan erupted from deep in her belly. I could feel her stomach muscles trembling against me. My mouth traversed the rising slope of her breasts and challenged the peak, the swelling, hardening, thrusting peak of her nipple. It sprang between my lips and my tongue flicked at it.
Her hand tightened convulsively on me and I sensed her growing urgency. My need was growing too, as she could easily tell. But this slowly-rising pleasure was so delightful I wanted to prolong it as long as possible.
I pulled the other shoulder of her blouse down and transferred my lips to her other breast, starting at the first swell and slowly climbing the peak as I had with the first breast.
"Aaaaaaah," she sighed when my lips closed over the second nipple.
I let her feel my teeth on that turgid bud.
"Ooooh, yes," she groaned. "Bite me. I love it."
I bit her.
She loved it.
So I bit her again.
She loved it even more.
I lavished all my ardor on those twin ripe mounds of delight and she responded with complete abandon, urging me on with hotly whispered words, her shoulders twisting to present first one breast and then its twin to my pleasure-giving mouth. She was so engrossed in the pleasure I was giving her that her hand lost me inside my trousers and became a tightly clenched-fist trembling against my hard belly.
I pulled away from her and her eyes shot open. "Don't stop," she pleaded. "Not yet."
But there were other greener pastures for my lips. I knelt beside her, my fingers found the button and zipper at her hip. Even with these opened the slacks clung tightly to her body and I had to peel them from her like the skin from a banana. The sight of her clad only in wispy panties, with her blouse crumpled about her waist, was infinitely more exciting than the sight of a peeled banana.
When the slacks were gone I hooked my fingers under the elastic of her panties and drew them down over her hips and heaving belly, down along the smooth columns of her thighs, down over and off her tiny feet.
She tried to remove her blouse, but her trembling fingers fumbled with the buttons. Impatiently, she grabbed the two front halves of the blouse and ripped them apart, the buttons popping and clicking off the wall.
Now she was completely naked. From the shiny black of her hair to the red of her lacquered toenails she was a smooth expanse of hot naked flesh. Her brownness was disturbed only by the white of her eyes and teeth, the darker brown of her swollen nipples.
Her navel was a cup of nectar for my lips. I placed one hand on each side of her hips to support my weight as I leaned over her belly. Her flawless flesh trembled under my lips and it heaved with her gasp when my tongue lanced into her navel. I pressed my tongue and mouth hard against her and she writhed her hips and belly against my face. Her fingers tangled in my hair and pressed me even tighter to her perfect body.
"Go back to my breasts," she whispered pleadingly, and her fingers urged my mouth in that direction. I let my head move with the pressure of her hands and my mouth skidded along her body, the flesh now slick with sweat. Up from the belly, over the road of ribs and to the softer undercurves of her breasts my open lips and flashing tongue moved.
Her hands clutched tighter in my hair and she began to whimper with every breath when my mouth again found her nipples.
"Oh ... Oh ... Oh ... Oh!"
I was still kneeling beside her. The pressure of my mouth forced her to keep her shoulders flat against the mattress, but her hips twisted and she whimpered as she rubbed her loins against the material of my trousers. I let my hand find and grip the hard-balled muscle of her left buttock, my fingers slipping easily into the groove, and her whimpers became gasps of delighted pleasure. I gripped harder, kneading the flesh like dough and her voice came torn and jagged from her passion-taut throat.
"More ... more ... Oh God, sooooo good ... That's it
... Don't stop ... Harder, please...."
The sense of her rising ardor and her urgent need pleased me as I had been pleased by no other woman in my life. Suddenly all I wanted to do was slake her desire, my only need was to fulfill her.
I let go of her buttock and placed my palm flat against her thigh, high above her knee. She twisted her hips back to the bed and spread her legs wide apart to give my hand ready access to the intimate core of her body. Her knees pointed at the ceiling and were spread in a wide vee.
Her body opened to my investigation like a flower opening to the morning sun. When my fingers probed her body she gasped to fill her lungs with much-needed air, her breasts heaved against my flesh. Her legs clamped tightly around my hand and my fist was lost in the taut hollows of the inner-side of her thighs. A high keening cry, like that of a dove, came from the back of her throat, as she writhed in the throes of magnificent completion.
"Eeeeeeeeeh."
The cry stopped and she was rigid and unbreathing, her eyes squeezed tightly shut and her hands balled to fists at her sides. Every muscle in her body sprang to bold relief under the softness of her skin. Body taut, holding her breath, she savored the paroxysms of her peak and then went limp with a sigh.
I made a move to let her go and her hands gripped my shoulders, pulling me down on top of her.
"Hold me," she pleaded softly, her eyes mysteriously wet. "Hold me tight."
I stretched out beside her and took her in my arms. She came up against me and tucked her head in the hollow of my shoulder. I felt her shoulders heave and there was a sudden dampness where her face was touching me. She was crying.
"Shhhh," I whispered soothingly, and held her while she cried it out.
When she finished sobbing I let her go and turned away to light two cigarettes. I turned back to hand her one and her eyes where shining at me. She took the cigarette and lay back, puffing at it and staring at the ceiling.
I let her smoke half of it before I spoke. "I'm sorry," I said softly.
She turned to me, surprised. "What are you sorry about?"
"I'm not sure, but I made you cry and I'm sorry."
She smiled as she came across the open space of bed to rest her head on my chest. When she spoke her voice reverberated and rumbled inside me. Her cheek was pressed against me and I could only see the inky blackness of the top of her head.
"You shouldn't be sorry," she whispered. "I was crying with joy. It was so good, and you were so gentle and kind and perfect." The last words came out in a breathless rush, and she stopped.
My hand idly found the nape of her neck, traced the ridges of her spine all the way down to the lush spheres of her rump. She giggled and twitched my hand off her body.
"Stop," she scolded mockingly. "I want to talk. I want to tell you how wonderful it was for me."
"I know. You don't have to talk about it."
"Please, I want to. It never was that good for me before. There have been other men. I'm not a lilywhite virgin. A man checks into the hotel and calls down for room service, and when he see me he hands me the ten-dollar offer. Most of the time I spit in his eyes, but sometimes...."
"Stop! Please, I don't want to hear any more," I told her. I knew what she was going to say, and I really didn't want to hear it. "As far as I'm concerned you were born the minute you came in the door this afternoon. Nothing ever happened before."
"You can't change the facts by not listening to them."
"I don't want to know them. It doesn't make any difference to me, I have no right to your past. It's a dead past, let it rest in peace. You said yourself it was never like this before. That's good enough for me. This is something new and different. Let's not spoil it by trying to compare it with old worn-out memories."
She sat up and pulled away from me. The corners of her mouth were pulled downward and her face held a puzzled look. "I was talking about sex, but you were talking about something else."
"So what?"
"So I don't want to hear that kind of talk. I want nothing to do with these emotions." Her voice was cold and hard now. She scrambled off the bed and reached for her clothing. "It was fun. It was kicks. Thanks a lot, you were wonderful. I think it's time we took a rest." She slipped her panties on and stood up to wiggle into her tight slacks.
And then I was mad. "Hey, what about me? You hand your kicks. It was great for you. Don't I get the same consideration?"
"Some other time," she told me as she slipped into her ripped blouse. "I owe you one."
She was running scared, and she was dressed and gone so quickly that I didn't really have time to think about it. One minute she was naked and lying next to me with her head on my chest and her heart full of gratitude, thirty seconds later she was dressed and heading out of the door. My unfulfilled need fed the flames of my anger and I silently cursed the closed door as I reached for another drink.
CHAPTER FIVE
It took a long time to drink myself unconscious, and then I only slept a couple of hours. After Connie walked out the door I poured myself a stiff belt and lay back to think about what had set her off. She'd been about to tell me of all the men she'd been to bed with, and when she was finished with a complete and detailed list she was going to tell me it had been better with me than with all the others put together. But I didn't want to hear that story and when I stopped her she became angry and cold toward me. She'd said I was talking about something besides sex.
I drank and pondered, carefully reviewing every word I'd said. Of course! That was it! She thought I was talking about love. Impossible! Love with a girl I knew for a total of two hours? Out of the question! It was all a simple misunderstanding. I would explain it tomorrow and collect the debt she owed me.
And then another thought pushed its way through the soggy tissue of my brain. Why hadn't I wanted her to talk about all her old lovers? If this was only a quick boff, a roll in the hay for laughs, why did I object to hearing about all the other men she'd laid? What possible difference could it make to me?
But it did make a difference. And it made a difference for the same reason it was so different when I was kissing her and touching her. I'd been so involved in giving her pleasure that I forgot all about myself. That had never happened to me before. Not even with Juney had I been able to control my own desires for so long a time. Juney had been the instrument of my own desire. The giving of pleasure had increased my own excitement. But with Connie it was as if the giving of pleasure was an end in itself.
Only now, long afterward, did my own needs rumble and roll within me. Suddenly I felt like I was sixteen again. It was the same as it had been when some little fourteen-year old tease had gotten me all worked up on the back seat of the car and then called a halt to the whole thing just when it was getting interesting.
I poured myself another drink and pushed Connie, Juney, the divorce and the trucking business out of my mind. I'd begun this afternoon with the intention to get really smashed. By God, I was going to do it. But it would be easier and nicer with pleasant things on my mind.
So, I pushed the unpleasant things away and turned back the clock in my brain. Behind my closed lids I saw a file drawer in my brain slide open. The drawer was labeled Pleasant Memories and the file folder was labeled Sixteen.
The file folder opened and there I was, sixteen years old and standing in the crowded corridor of my high school. It was the ten-minute intermission and I was headed for my next class. This was to be the last class of the day. Then would come football practice, and after practice I had a date with Marcella.
I thought about skipping practice and meeting Marcella a couple of hours early. That would give us more time before her mother came home. But if I skipped practice the coach might throw me off the team. He would anyway if he knew I was breaking training every afternoon with Marcella. At least I thought I was. Does having sex violate football training rules for a high school player? Anyway, if the coach threw me off the team I would lose Marcella too. The only reason for my popularity was that I was big enough and mean enough to play pretty good right tackle. By the middle of the season I was top defensive man in the league.
The next fifty minutes dragged by. I kept looking out of the window and at the clock on the wall behind the teacher's head, and at the sweatered breasts of the girl sitting next to me. When she saw where I was looking she took a deep breath, arched her back to make them look bigger and gave me a wide smile. I grinned back and looked away. There was better stuff waiting for me.
Finally the bell rang and I scrambled out of the classroom just ahead of two other hurrying students. The girl with the breasts got lost somewhere in the shuffle. I stopped at my locker to dump my books and grab my jacket, and was off to the locker room. One of the coaching assistants had the equipment cage opened and was handing out pads and uniforms.
I stripped and hung my clothes on a hook over the bench. First came the athletic supporter with its solid plastic shield to prevent crushed testicles in the wild scrambles after the ball was hiked. Then shoulder pads, hard surfaces clacking as I slipped them on and laced them down tight. Next hip and kidney pads, and finally the shin guards. Over ah this padding and protection I drew on my pants and faded practice jersey, finally put on the heavy sweat socks and cleated boots. My helmet under my arm, I clacked out of the dressing room and onto the playing field.
Some of the other guys were already out there, running and jumping, rolling on the ground to loosen up their muscles and get the blood circulating. Since this was Friday and we had a game tomorrow it would be a light practice-a run through all the play patterns and very little body contact.
The coach came out, blew his whistle, and practice began. I had my blocking assignments down pat for all-the plays and loafed through offensive maneuvers, half my mind looking forward to Marcella and the two hours before her mother came home from work. When we switched to defense I pulled away from the tackles at the last minute. The coach would decide if the tackles would have been effective.
After a half hour of defense the coach sent us on a four lap run around the field and we called it a day. I'd worked up a pretty good sweat out on the field, but was in too much of a hurry to take a shower. I scrambled out of my uniform and into my clothes, was the first one out of the locker room.
Marcella lived four blocks from school. I walked to her house and went around to the back door. The bell rang inside and a moment later she let me into the kitchen. As soon as the door closed behind me she was in my arms, her wet open mouth pressed to mine. I kissed her and felt the spark of desire leap to flame.
She broke the kiss and put her lips to my ear. "Hi handsome," she whispered.
"Hi yourself," I said, pushing her away. "What have you got to eat? I'm hungry."
"You're always hungry," she chided.
And she was right. Every bit of food I could scrounge free meant I would be a little less hungry after dinner. It wasn't that my folks were cheap and didn't spend enough money for food, it was just that we were damned poor and lived on a very tight budget. My mother put dinner on the table and we would eat, and that's all there would be or we wouldn't have lunch the next day. I got enough to keep me alive and healthy, but never enough to fill my stomach completely. Besides the excitement of her body, Marcella represented a source of food.
"I've got a couple of sandwiches ready for you," she said opening the refrigerator and taking out a plate. "And we've got an extra quart of milk."
She set the plate on the table and I fell to with a will. The sandwiches were thick slices of rye bread with slabs of cold roast beef. I filled my mouth, chewed, swallowed half the mouthful, and washed the rest down with half a glass of good cold milk. Then I repeated the whole thing until the two sandwiches and the quart of milk had gone, disappeared into my stomach.
Just as I finished the last of the milk I looked at the clock to see how much time we had before Marcella's mother was due home from work. Her father had been killed in a bad automobile accident a couple of years ago, so her mother earned the bread for the small family. Her mother was a lawyer, as her father had been, and they had a damned good income. The clock said four o'clock, which meant we had maybe an hour; an hour and a quarter would stretch it.
When I was a hungry sixteen, and there was food in front of me, I didn't think of anything else until I finished eating. Now that I was through I was surprised to find myself alone in the kitchen. I stood up and looked around.
"Marcie!" I yelled good and loud.
"Upstairs, in the bedroom," came her muffled reply.
I walked through the quiet dim house and up the carpeted stairs to her bedroom. The door was closed and I wondered if I should knock. The hell with it. I pushed the door opened and walked into the room.
She was standing in front of an open closet and my eye caught the flash of her white body as she slipped into a robe. I sat down on the bed, kicked off my shoes before stretching out. She held the front of the robe closed and came across the room toward me. When she was two steps from the bed she let go and the halves of the robe fell open, revealing a white vertical stretch of skin and nipples and shadowed navel, with a sparse patch of light blonde hair at the groin.
I looked until she was too close, and then she was in my arms, the heat from her flesh warming me even through the layers of my own clothing.
Marcella was one step above the girls I'd been dating for over a year. With other girls a session in the movie balcony or on the back seat of a borrowed car always ended too soon. They would always call a halt to the proceedings just when I wanted to go on to the end. And they had peculiar attitudes toward petting. They allowed almost any intimacy, I could touch and pet and stroke them anywhere, but they refused to reciprocate. It was all right for me to arouse and satisfy them with my hands, but they considered it nasty of me to ask that they do the same for me.
When I met Marcella I thought she was going to be another in a long line of frustrating females. I found out different the first time I took her to a movie. We were in the last row of the balcony and all alone in the dark. When I slid my hand up over the mound of her burgeoning breast she gasped and let her hand drop to my lap. I was so startled I almost pulled away.
But even Marcella set limits to her sexual endeavors, and I was still-technically at least-a virgin, so was she. Of course I was a lot better off than before, but there was still a certain amount of frustration and longing for the ultimate sensation. I felt sure that after enough wild petting sessions with her I could convince her to go all the way.
Marcella drew the line at actual intercourse. Anything less than that was okay. We began with mutual stimulation and experimented until we discovered she had a fondness for a particular type of caress. I agreed to do her this personal favor and in her gratitude she performed the same favor for me. Sometimes we took turns, and sometimes we twisted around and did it at the same time.
She lay on top of me and as she kissed me her hands opened the buttons of my shirt. She pushed the shirt out of the way and moved her lips to the naked skin of my chest, her hardening nipples drilling holes in me just above my belt line.
Her teeth nipped and her tongue flashed and I slipped my hands under the loose edges of her robe to her body. She was warm against my palms, then hot and damp with perspiration. I filled my hands with her taut young buttocks and squeezed. She groaned and her hands crawled crab-like across my body to my belt.
She opened my trousers and pushed my shorts out of the way, her mouth moved lower on my body-ever my navel and across my hard belly. I thrilled to her hot lashing tongue and slipped one hand between her hard thighs. She was already ready her muscles quivered when my fingers touched her.
We played for a long while, my hand teasing her and her mouth kissing all over me. When I could stand the teasing no longer I pushed her away. "It's getting late," I said hoarsely. "We better hurry."
She stood up and let the robe drop from her shoulders. Than she bent, grabbed the cuffs of my trousers and pulled. The pants slid down over my hips and I arched myself up off the bed to make it easier. In a moment I was as naked as she, and the whole hot length of her body was pressed against me.
I rolled over, she lay on her back and I kneeled beside her. The cherry tips of her young half-formed breasts were sweet tidbits in my mouth, she sighed and writhed her body as I kissed her breasts. She put her hands against the top of my head, pushed my mouth down along her body. I paused to flutter my lips over her flat little belly, let the pressure of her hands drive my lips lower.
Her feet were in the air and her thighs spread in a lustful vee. I-kissed the inside of each of her knees and then trailed my tongue down along the flesh of her thighs to the apex of her body. She groaned in anticipation, but I stopped short of the mark. I kissed the backs of her thighs and the inner sides of her thighs and the trembling hollow of her belly between her jutting pelvic bones....
"Please," she whispered plaintively. "Don't tease me any more. Do it now."
Instead I put my hand to her again and my finger slipped into her body. My thumb slid down into the groove between her buttocks.
"Oooooh," she groaned, her hips twitching spasmodically, "what are you doing?"
My mouth was busy on her belly and I couldn't answer. I don't think she expected a reply.
The place my thumb went gave me an idea. I pulled away from her and turned her over .with a quick flipping motion. She flopped onto her belly and before she could protest I was kissing the jut of her buttocks, my lips and teeth fully exploring those round hard spheres.
I kissed and touched her until she lost all control of herself and her body was a twitching, groaning, trembling mass of flesh. Then I slid my hands under her hips and lifted her until she was supported by her knees. Her face and shoulders still rested on the bed.
I moved behind her, my hands on the globes of her buttocks. The fire raged in my loins as I moved closer until I was touching her in the furrow between her buttocks. She tried to move away from me, but I held her still and forced myself against her body. The heat of her flesh sent bolts of pure pleasure up through my body and I began the steady rhythm of love. After a few seconds she stopped trying to get away from me and began to move her hips in time with my rhythm....
I was riding the crest of a warm whipping wave as it roared toward some far off beach. The wave moved faster and faster, its crest foaming and bubbling and whipping. There was a roaring in my ears and suddenly I could see the hard sand rushing toward me.
The wave unleashed its awesome power and I was Hung tumbling from the crest, my body wracked with strange sensations as the waves and sand beat at me.
I missed her mother by about two minutes that night. And the next day in school, during our lunch hour, Marcella told me how great it had been for her. It had been great for me too, we had discovered a new form of pleasure. About a month later, again in the afternoon after school, I. convinced her to try actual copulation. From then on everything else was mere preliminary. After her initial fear passed she began to really enjoy making love with me, and from then until graduation I was the most un-frustrated kid in school.
The file drawer in my mind closed again and I was back in my hotel room. The air in the room was stuffy with cigarette smoke and my mouth was dry. I didn't know I was drunk until I tried to stand up. Then my knees wobbled and the room seemed to spin around me. The ashtray on the bed was overflowing with butts and the liquor bottle was empty. No wonder my mouth tasted so bad.
I dumped the ashtray and liquor bottle in the waste basket and stumbled into the bathroom. This time I took a cold shower. I hate cold showers, but I wanted to be sober. It was after nine o'clock in the evening and I had plans. Plans which included the blonde dancer from the back row of the chorus line.
The shower helped, and by the time I was standing in front of the mirror with my razor in my hand the chance of slitting my own throat was much reduced. My hands trembled slightly and my head was a little light, but my legs were steady and my stomach was rumbling with hunger.
I got my other suit out of the closet and made a mental note to have the first one cleaned and pressed the next day. I'm not a fancy dresser, but I have a taste for expensive clothes. These two suits had set me back almost three hundred. They were of good material and I got plenty of wear out of them, but if I wore one more than two days it always needed pressing.
The damned dining room was closed again by the time I got down there and I was hesitant about going into the coffee shop, but there was no other place to get food. I was already dressed so it was too late to order something from room service. Besides, what the hell was I afraid of in that lousy coffee shop? She was only a lousy waitress, a quick one-night stand. If I bothered her that much she didn't have to make with the conversation.
Into the coffee shop I went, and as luck would have it another waitress was on duty. I ordered two hamburgers and a side of french-fried. That was the second time in one day I'd had hamburger. For dessert I had two cups of black coffee, terribly bad coffee, and about half a pint of vanilla ice cream. The coffee and ice cream were protection against a hangover and getting too smashed later on in the evening. My plans included a lot of drinking, but I wanted to remain in full control of my faculties.
I found the night club, and in return for a crumpled dollar bill the headwaiter obliged me with a good table. He must have mistaken the denomination of the bill, I'm sure he thought a dollar sufficient for only the .poorest table.
It was a large room, about half full, and there were seventy-five or maybe a hundred people sitting at the tables. The women were bareshouldered and sparkled with jewelry, and the men were properly dark-suited. The hum of conversation was just loud enough to drown out the girl singer. She was terrible anyway.
After the singer the chorus line came out on stage to kick its heels at the audience. I spotted Laurie immediately. It wasn't hard, her breasts were bouncing so wildly I was afraid they were going to come right off. She saw me too, threw me a grin and a wink. I watched the twelve girls parade around for a couple of minutes and then the next act was ready to come on. If anyone had bothered to look past Laurie's magnificent body they would have seen a pretty good dancer, but then I don't suppose too many people ever looked beyond the flesh.
The next act was a comedian who switched to blue material when he couldn't get much of a reaction from the audience. The blue gags didn't get any more laughs than the straight routine.
I listened for a couple of minutes and then summoned the waiter with a raised hand. I almost expected him to give me permission to go to the men's room. He supplied me with paper and pencil and I sent a note backstage.
"How about a glass of wine instead of beer?" The note said.
The waiter took a dollar bill and the note and disappeared through some curtains at the side of the room. He came back a moment later, gave me a broad smile and a wink, and went off to serve some thirsty people.
Laurie came out a moment later. She was wearing an evening dress, and her blonde hair hung down to her shoulders. Somehow her shoulders looked barer than even the barest woman's shoulders in the room. Maybe it was because of the hair, and maybe it was because she had more shoulder and more chest than any woman in the room. Her dress also left most of her chest bare.
She came to the table, smiled at me and sat down.
"I'll take the wine," she said. "But you still owe me a drink."
"It's a deal," I told her.
The waiter took her order and came back a moment later with a tiny glass of red wine. She sipped half of it in one swallow and set the glass down on the white table cloth.
"I have half an hour before I go on again," she told me.
"What about your date for tonight?"
"What about him?"
"I was sort of hoping he'd changed his mind,-or been called away on business."
"No, he's still around. What did you have in mind?"
"I'm in the mood to celebrate," I told her. "I've got a pocket full of cash and it's burning a hole. I thought if I had somebody like you with me, somebody who knows the right spots in this area, we might go out and really paint the town."
She smiled and her eyes sparkled with interest. At the mention of money she brightened towards me. "What kind of fun are you looking for?"
"Whatever we can find. A little gambling, if it's available; champagne, the best night clubs we can find."
"Celebrating your divorce?"
"Yes," I lied. "But don't get your hopes up. They told me I couldn't legally remarry for twenty-four hours. That's not until after three o'clock tomorrow afternoon."
She gave a short harsh bark of laughter. "Don't look at me," she said. "I'm too young to get married. There are too many places I haven't seen and too many things I haven't done for me to tie myself down with a husband. There's a whole hell of a lot of fun in the world. I've got time to be unhappy when I'm an old woman."
"Good," I said. "What about it?"
She licked her lips and looked at me thoughtfully. "I haven't been on the town on a really wild wing-ding in a long time."
"We'll have nothing but laughs," I prodded.
"If I do go with you, I want you to understand it doesn't automatically mean we'll end up in bed. Whatever happens will happen, but I want to make the decisions as they come up."
"Who me?" I said innocently, burlesquing big eyes. "I'm as harmless...."
"Yeah, yeah, you gave me that routine before. There just isn't any such thing as a harmless man." She paused and thought for a minute, struggling with herself. Then, "Let me make a phone call. If I can still break this date we'll have a party."
She was up and gone, and while she was at the phone I ordered another glass of wine for her and a bottle of beer for myself. Hell, there was a two buck minimum in this joint and I might as well get something for my money, even if it was only beer and wine.
She came back to the table with a broad grin and threw down the remainder of her first drink before talking. "Lover," she said, "You've got yourself a girl guide for the night. But I'm warning you now, I'm an expensive companion."
I gave her a wink and a grin, tested to see just how eager she was about the whole thing. "Maybe I'd be better off with a call-girl. Might get away cheaper in the long run."
"If that's all you want you should have said so sooner," she snarled.
"Take it easy," I said. "I was just kidding."
Her face softened again. "Are you going to sit here until two o'clock?"
"Is the show worth seeing that many times?"
"Hell no. Tell you what, meet me in my room at two-thirty. Room five twenty two."
She went to her dressing room and I walked out into the lobby. I had over three hours to wait and I didn't feel like sitting in the bar. The lobby newsstand had an assortment of paperback novels. I bought the one with the prettiest and nakedest girl on the cover and went back to my room. But I couldn't concentrate on the thing so I called down to the desk and left a call for two o'clock just in case I fell asleep.
Then I took off my jacket and shoes and tie and stretched out on the bed with a cigarette. My mind wandered and I began to think it odd that I should consider my high school days as fond memories. Sure, that was the time of my emergence into the adult world, and of course I should fondly remember my first sexual encounters; but seen dispassionately no adult's adolescence is a good time of life.
It seemed I lived those years in a state of total confusion and anxiety. I was confused by my sudden attraction to females, and a little frightened by it; and I was always self-conscious of my worn and patched clothing. I wouldn't even have been able to play football if the coach hadn't given me his old pair of cleated boots. In the classrooms I managed to maintain an air of unconcern, while inwardly I was jealous of the ease with which some of the others seemed to grasp problems and answer questions.
My only area of adequacy was on the football field. Here I excelled, I was better than anybody else, and that made up for a lot. I suppose I was a lot better off than some of the guys. I could remember the fringe people, the hangers-on who were always there but never doing anything.
Maybe it was better to be one of those people. They led simple lives, uncomplicated, unmarred. They grew up, took jobs, married other people just like themselves. A little house in a development, a two-year-old car, a pension and a gold watch after thirty years with the same company, a television to supply ninety-nine percent of their entertainment, maybe one or two children, evenings with a couple of cold cans of beer and three or four hours of westerns on TV. Saturday afternoons it was more beer. In the Spring and Summer it was baseball, in the Fall football, during the Winter they watched basketball, running out to the kitchen during the commercials for more beer and pretzels.
A guy like that doesn't wind up at the age of almost forty sitting in an empty hotel room in a strange town. A guy like that has the warmth of his family around him. Maybe he helps his son rebuild an old wreck of a car, or carefully inspects the young men who come to date his daughter. In the darkness of the night he has the warm comfortable body of his wife beside him. He probably doesn't avail himself of the opportunity of that body too often, but it is there when he wants it.
On the other hand how many of those slobs could ever amass seventy-five thousand dollars? How many of them have anything more solid than the half-paid-up thirty-year mortgage, the car badly in need of tires and an engine overhaul? I was laying around feeling sorry for myself when I should have been pitying the men I was envying. What would any of these men leave behind them when they died?
If nothing else, they would leave lives behind them-the lives of the children they had spawned. Would I do that much?
CHAPTER SIX
The phone woke me and the switchboard operator intoned, "Two o'clock, Mr. Bell."
I rolled out of bed and sprinkled cold water on my face. Ten minutes later I was dressed and standing in front of the door to room five twenty-two.
"Who is it?" The muffled voice came in answer to my knock.
"Herb Bell."
"The door's open."
I turned the knob and walked into the room. It was much smaller than the one I had; the single bed, dresser, night table, and easy chair cramped the place. Laurie was in the bathroom. The door was open a crack and I caught glimpses of pink as she moved back and forth.
"Grab a chair," she said. "You're early."
"I got tired of waiting."
"I'll only be a few minutes. There are some magazines around somewhere. Look around. I just have to finish my make-up and put on some clothes."
"If you need any help I'll be right here."
"Thanks a lot," she said dryly. "I've been dressing myself for quite a while. My mother insisted on it when I got to be five."
"Too bad, but it just proves what I've always said."
"And what is it that you've always said?"
"Today's mothers are ruining it for the young men of the world. They over-train their daughters.
And then those daughters turn around and become mothers."
"Nasty, isn't it?" she said.
"Not really. As a matter-of-fact I kind of like the idea."
"I'm not talking about becoming mothers, I'm talking about the over-training."
"Oh, that."
"Yes, that. Now find a magazine, will you? I can't talk and put on makeup at the same time."
I turned my eyes away from the crack in the doorway and its glimpses of naked flesh, very fleeting glimpses, and looked around the room. It was probably the cheapest room-and-bath in the hotel. Its color scheme and cheap furniture were completely anonymous. I knew that behind the closet door and in the drawers were Laurie's clothes and affects, yet the room might just as well have been echoingly empty. The room was in absolute contrast to the vibrant and flamboyant girl who slept there.
Idly I wondered how many men had shared the narrow perimeter of that twin-sized bed with her. I forced my mind away from such thoughts and to a stack of magazines on the open lower half of the bedside table. They were all movie fan magazines, and I picked one at random. On the cover was a picture of Hollywood's latest heart throb, a handsome young man with dark curly hair cascading over his forehead. He had an impossibly phony name, Tattered Shirt, or something, and an impossibly phony biography.
I scanned the lead story and then flipped through the rest of the magazine, stopping to inspect the pictures of the almost naked starlets. Los Angeles was my home town and I knew the truth behind these pictures. Most of these girls earned a meager living hustling hamburgers in one of the innumerable drive-ins scattered through the area. Some of them, the hungrier ones, prefer to sell their bodies to the girlie magazines and pornography makers. It's easier than spending eight hours a day running around between cars and dodging the grasping hands of seventeen-year-old lotharios.
The second magazine had as its lead a picture story about Elizabeth Taylor and her escapades while filming Cleopatra. The pictures were designed to show as much of Elizabeth as the law would allow, and the accompanying story slyly hinted at her sexual indiscretions, if there were any. She was a wildly beautiful woman who sacrificed her life for the adulation, jealousy, and admiration of a hundred and eighty million Americans, and now she had to live the lies the studios made up about her.
"Hey," Laurie called. "Are you still out there?"
"Sitting and waiting."
"That's what I was afraid of. I didn't expect you so I left my bra and panties out there."
'Come and get them. I won't mind."
"I'm sure you won't, but I'm not coming out there. Hand them through the door, please."
"Where are they?"
"In the top dresser drawer you'll find piles of them."
I opened the drawer. Inside was. a rainbow of feminine underwear. There were panties in pink, blue, mauve, white, gold, flaming red, black. There must have been thirty pairs, and tumbled among them were three black net brassieres.
"What color do you want?" I asked.
"Pick anything you like. This is the only chance you'll get to see them."
I picked the red ones and stuck my arm through the partially opened door. She took the panties from me.
"Okay, where's the bra?"
I grinned at the blank door. "I don't believe in bras," I told her. "In fact I come from a long line of non-bra believers. They're no good. They cover everything up, and constrict the blood circulation, and they're no good for the muscles. I don't think you ought to wear a bra."
"Yah, you and your father and your grandfather. But if I don't wear a bra I draw crowds quicker than flies to fresh garbage. Now be a good guy and get me a bra."
I took a bra from the drawer. They were all black so I had no decision to make. Of course it wouldn't match the red panties, but the contrast would be nice, red mesh around the loins with white flesh pepping through, tanned belly between, and then black mesh, again with white skin showing.
"Here," I said shoving the thing through the door. "I hope the damned thing doesn't fit."
"It won't, if that'll make you feel any better. None of them do. They just don't come large enough. But it's the best I can do."
I heard her grunting and struggling as she put the things on, and then, "Hey, Charlie ... "
"It's Herb," I corrected.
"Yeah. Hey Charlie," she was showing me her opinion of my teasing. "Now you can hand me the black outfit from behind the closet door."
"You've got clothes on now. Come out and get it yourself."
"Look," she said, temper edging her voice. "At this rate we'll be here till morning. Maybe if you wouldn't try so damned hard you'd make out better in the long run."
That convinced me.
I took the hangar down from behind the closet door. It was a two piece outfit, kind of a suit. Black and severely tailored-a skirt that would come to her knees, and a jacket-like top that would cover her from shoulders to skirt top. The neckline of the top was cut in a generous vee.
I handed it through the door and two minutes later she was out of the bathroom, black of suit, tan of flesh, and marvelous gold of hair. She was more beautiful than any woman had a right to be, and yet it was the kind of beauty found in a marble statue-cold, regal, imposing. For all her sexual attractiveness she seemed a flat two-dimensional person. Well, I was only interested on one of those dimensions-the physical one.
She wore eye shadow and lipstick and face powder, just exactly the right amount of each, never too much, and the whole picture was alluring.
"Well?" She said after my eyes had run up and down her body a couple of times.
"Beautiful," I told her. "But I didn't expect anything less."
She gave me a smile in return for the compliment and sat down on the edge of the bed. With her knees bent like that, her skirt seemed to crawl halfway up her thighs. She grabbed a pair of stockings from the foot of the bed and slipped them on one at a time, her hands smoothing and working the nylon until it lay flat and untwisted against her skin. Then she reached up under her skirt and pulled down an elasticized garter. This she clipped to the stocking top and her hand disappeared under the skirt again to search for another garter.
I watched, marveling at the perfect symmetry of her legs and at the promise of the shadow under her skirt. Despite her talk to the contrary, I had no doubt that I would make love with this woman some time before noon tomorrow. And thus assured I was in no hurry. It didn't matter when.
She finished with the last garter and stood to let her skirt fall over her thighs. Pit)'. Her shoes were under the bed and her handbag on the dresser top. In thirty seconds she was ready.
Out in the corridor as we walked toward the elevator I offered her my arm. She slipped her arm under and around mine and drew herself close to me. I expected to feel the ridges of her bra against the outer edge of my bicep, but there was only firm softness.
She giggled when she felt my muscle stiffen. "I decided to give you a break," she said. "But make sure you don't get trampled in the rush."
"Baby, I'll be close enough to be first in line. That's all that really counts."
The elevator whisked us down to the lobby and the parking lot attendant roared up to the steps with the Healey. I opened the door for her and she looked at it for a long minute. "Do you wear it or drive it?"
I smiled. "I don't allow women, even pretty women, to talk that way about my British mistress. I don't just drive her, I love her."
"Maybe you ought to take her out tonight instead of me."
"I don't think they'd let her in any of the places I want to go."
"Oh well," she said slipping into the car and flashing her thighs as she pulled her legs in after her. "I guess I'll have to settle for being second choice."
I closed the door after her. "You'll get to love her once you know her," I said as I walked around the car and got in behind the wheel. I started the engine and took off in a burst of speed all out of proportion to the Healey's size and reputation. Under the hood the big Corvette engine throbbed and roared as I tickled the carbs with my toe.
"Where are we going?" I asked once we were on the empty road.
"Juarez," she shouted over the noise of the engine and the rush of air past the open cockpit.
I worked the car through the curves of the road and the turns from street to street, whipping past the tired sentinels of the traffic lights, giving Laurie the thrill of a four-wheel power-slide into a ninety-degree right-hand turn.
Her eyes were wide and her mouth was split in a sickly grin as the tone of the engine changed whenever I shifted gears. The speedometer needle stayed near eighty all the way to the bridge and only the tachometer registered the change in engine speed.
I slowed down about two blocks from the bridge and drove the rest of the way at a sedate pace. When I dropped down to thirty she relaxed in her seat.
"Do you always drive like that?"
"Didn't you like it?"
"I don't know. But you better not drive like that in Juarez. The cops there shoot at speeders because they can't catch them in the old rattletraps they drive."
Once across the bridge she directed me to a part of town where I had never been. Here the homes were set on large plots of ground, well landscaped, with plenty of trees. The homes were magnificent ten and twenty-room places with lattice-work windows and green-corroded copper roofs. It had never occurred to me that there might be rich Mexicans, and now the irrefutable proof was before my eyes.
We drove through this section and the houses got bigger and further apart. Five minutes more and there were long stretches when we didn't see any houses, only trees and open fields and the road before us.
"Where the hell are you taking me?"
"It's only a little farther," she said.
We came around a bend in the road and the Healey s lights flashed across an iron gate set in a very high stone wall.
"Stop here!"
I pulled up to the gate and stopped. Beyond I could see only the black shadows of trees and the dusty white of a moonlit gravelled drive. Laurie got out of the car and walked to one of the stone pillars flanking the gate. She opened a metal plate in the pillar and took out a telephone reciever. I was too far away to hear what she said, but a moment later the gate swung noiselessly back and she got in the car.
In the rear-view mirror I saw the gates swing shut again and heard the loud clank of the lock. The drive wound through the trees, doubling back on itself many times. I drove slowly, unsure of the road, and it took five full minutes before we pulled up in front of a huge three-story mansion. Every window in the place was ablaze and music spilled out into the night.
"I haven't been here in a long time," Laurie said. "I don't know too many men who can afford it."
"What do you mean?"
"It'll cost you a hundred dollars for each of us just to get past the front door."
Two hundred dollars! I winced at the sum.
"You wanted a wild night and this is the place," Laurie went on. "Don't worry. It's worth the money."
I left the keys in the ignition. If they charged so much to get in they wouldn't fool around with chickenfeed like car-stealing. Besides, there were no other cars in front of the house so I imagined someone would take the Healey and park it somewhere.
We went up to the front door and Laurie rang the bell. A peephole in the door opened and two eyes peered out at us. For a minute I thought we were lost on the shooting set of the Untouchables. I expected to see a machinegun when the door was opened and we walked inside. There was no gun, but the hulking man who opened the door looked like he wouldn't need one if he went into action.
I'm big, but this guy was bigger in all directions-taller, wider. He looked like a bull on two legs.
"Wait here," he growled, shutting the door behind us and disappearing into another room.
He came back a moment later preceded by a short, tuxedoed, hair-slicked-down man with a pockmarked face. The man smiled when he saw Laurie.
"Hello Miss Yost. We haven't seen you here in quite a while."
"I've been busy, Frank. And broke. This place could get to be an expensive habit."
"Well, we're glad to see you whenever you come around. Who did you bring along tonight?"
"Frank, this is Mr. Bell. He's a friend of mine."
Frank looked me over carefully before extending his hand and I'm sure his cold eyes missed no detail of my dress. His grip was quick and loose and he let me go immediately. I had the feeling I was holding a dead mackerel when I shook his hand.
"Welcome to the club, Mr. Bell. I'm sure you'll enjoy yourself."
I pulled out my billfold and counted out five twenties and two fifties. Frank's eyes counted the rest of my roll. He took the money and it disappeared into his pocket.
"You know your way around, Miss Yost. If you don't see what you want, don't hesitate to ask." He went back into the room from which he came and we were alone in the entrance hall.
"Well, what'll it be?" Laurie asked.
"What have you got to offer?"
"Drink and dancing, gambling, floorshow where the strippers start with a g-string and finish with company on the stage, stag movies. Take your choice."
"You pick the first attraction of the evening. I want to keep you happy."
"Let's see how the roulette wheel is running tonight," she said, her voice already tight with expectant excitement.
She led me up the stairs and down a short corridor. The doors of the big room were open and inside I saw crowds of people around half a dozen long wide tables. The room was filled with the buzz of conversation, the clack of the ball against the roulette wheel, the click of chips and the snap of cards. An almost naked girl was dealing blackjack at one of the tables, and the players were paying more attention Jo her cleavage than to their cards. At two other tables hot dice games were in progress and the exhortations of the shooters rose above the noise of the other people in the room. Two roulette wheels were in operation, the crowds around them' silent as the ball spun and settled. The only emotion these people showed was an occasional groan or grimace when the ball refused to grant them its favor. At the last table, over in the corner of the room, a poker game was-in full swing, the players grunting their bets.
I exchanged four more fifties for a stack of chips and gave Laurie half the stack. We found a place at the roulette table and Laurie watched the wheel for three plays before making her bet. She put a ten dollar chip on number thirty-six, which, if it won, would pay off at odds of thirty-six to one; and she put another thirty dollars on the red.
The wheel spun, the little ivory ball dropped, clacked around, and settled. It was red but not thirty-six. I riffled my chips and watched her slowly lose the hundred dollars I'd given her. When she was out of chips I handed her half the remaining stack but she turned away from the table.
"No more tonight," she said. "I'm too cold. I couldn't win tonight if I covered all the numbers every time. But why don't you try your luck?"
"Not at this game. I prefer craps. At least I know something about the odds in that game."
"Well, let's go." She still had the gambling excitement in her, even if she knew better than to try and win herself. She would be just as happy to stand beside me when I threw those dice.
The action at the crap table was fast and furious. The stick man flipped the dice around the table, keeping up a steady drone of chanted commentary as he moved. I used my size to shoulder us through to the table and we waited patiently for the dice to come around to us. I made three side bets against the shooters and won all three times. When the dice came around to me I had a hundred and thirty dollars in chips.
I bet thirty and rolled the ivory cubes between my palms. They were wet and sticky from the perspiration of the last shooter and I called for fresh ones. The stick man's frown as he discarded the old dice and selected a fresh pair from the stack in front of him made me uncomfortable.
I rattled the new pair in the hollow of my hand and threw them down the table hard enough so they both bounced off the felt board at the end.
"Seven. A natural," the stick man intoned.
"Let it ride," I said.
"Place your bets ... Coming out. No more bets," he hummed as I shook the dice and threw them again.
"Eleven, another natural. Pay the shooter." The stick man's sing-song litany was so well rehearsed he must mumble it in his sleep every night.
There was now a hundred and twenty dollars in front of me, including my original thirty. "Let it ride," I said.
"You're faded."
I shook the dice and flung them. They caromed crazily from the board at the end of the table and one settled immediately with a five showing. The other dice was spinning on its axis and everyone at the table waited breathlessly for it to stop.
When it came to a halt, with two spots pointing up at the ceiling, an excited buzz ran around the table.
"Another natural. Pay the shooter. Get your bets down. He's hot!"
The hundred and twenty was now two-forty. Subtracting the thirty dollars I'd started with that left two hundred and ten dollars. Still ninety dollars behind the game, including the hundred Laurie had lost and the two hundred it cost us to get in.
"Let it ride," I said.
Laurie gripped my arm excitedly. "Be careful. That's a lot of money. Maybe you ought to take some of it off."
I shook my head and picked up the dice. The other crapshooters settled into an expectant silence and I launched them down the table. They bounced and stopped.
"Six the point. The point is six. Who's betting with him? Who's betting against him?" All this as the stick man scooped up the dice in the end of the grooved stick and brought them back to me.
"No more bets," he said as I threw the dice again.
"Five. No point," he said when the dice stopped bouncing and spinning. The excitement around the table was so thick you could almost cut it with a knife. I'd made three passes in a row.
The dice went down the table again and there was a gasp from the people who saw the number first.
"Six. Pay the shooter. Four in a row. Get your money down," the stickman called.
He dropped the dice into a hole in the table and brought me a fresh pair. I hefted them, looked at the four hundred and eighty dollars worth of chips on the green baize in front of me, and passed them back to the stick man.
"Pass the dice," I told him.
He looked at me sharply as I picked up the double handful of chips, there was a disappointed murmur from the people around the table. They wanted to see me shoot again. I was hot and they wanted to see how many passes I could make. Four in a row was enough for me. Besides, I got suspicious when the stickman changed the dice.
Laurie was bubbling with excitement and she clung close to my arm as we walked away. "Now let's go get that drink I owe you," I said, smiling.
I changed the chips back into bills. Two hundred and fifty dollars profit isn't bad at all for ten minutes quick work. My arm was lost in the abundant softness of Laurie's bosom as she led me to the bar in a large alcove just off the main gambling room. I don't know about Laurie's brandy, but my bourbon was excellent. The drinks were poured from unlabeled decanters and it was impossible to tell the brand names, but the bourbon must have been at least fifteen years old. It was smooth velvety stuff that glowed pleasantly in the pit of my stomach.
Laurie sat beside me, her eyes wide and her nostrils flared with excitement, and I knew I had the key to her soul, the trigger, the panic-button of ecstasy. She was a girl who lived in a world of glib sophistication, a world of sharpies and angle players, smooth talking men who had no trouble talking their women off their feet. No amount of wooing would part her thighs for me. She was too used to that kind of thing. She responded to a kind of secondary sexual excitement, gambling. All I had to do now was to find a way to convert her excitement to the kind I wanted.
We each had another drink and the bartender informed me that there was no charge. The hundred-dollar tee covered all food, liquor and entertainment, only the gambling tables required additional cash. Since that was the case I had a third shot of the excellent bourbon and Laurie joined me with a third brandy.
"Are you going to go back and plays some more?" she asked wnen she finished her drink.
"Let's see what else they have to offer." I held out my arm and she pressed it into her bosom again. "Don't direct me," I said. "Let's just wander around and explore the joint."
We-walked back through the gaming room and out into the corridor. There were two other doors on this corridor, both closed and locked. We strolled to the opposite wing of the house and as we walked the music we'd heard as we first drove up became louder.
The room was huge, even larger than the gaming room, and it must have been three or four rooms when the old mansion was still a residence. It had been rebuilt so that the floor sloped down slightly from the door towards the blank outside of the building. The walls were hung with dark velvet drapes, double lounge chairs were spaced throughout. The double chairs were set out in checkerboard fashion so that no two chairs were side by side and there was an equal open space between each.
The music wafted into the room from some hidden orchestra, probably piped in from another room, and the only lights in the room were multi-colored spotlights. There were five of them along the back wall and they were all aimed at a raised stage area. The stage was also hung with the lustrous purple velvet drapes and at the moment we entered the room the stage was empty.
I led Laurie to one of the lounges and we sat down. A moment later the hidden orchestra struck a fanfare and. the stage draperies parted to reveal a tall black-haired woman in traditional stripper's costume. Her face was stark white and her eyes heavily made up so that she resembled every young boy's idea of a vampire.
Her dress, such as there was, was made of a black cloth which caught highlights from the glaring spots. The waistline was right up under the heavy overhang of her white breasts, and from there it flared loosely down to brush the floor at her feet. Above the waistline the dress was split into two narrow panels of cloth which reached high enough to cover the tips of her breasts. From fingertips to elbows her arms were covered with long gloves.
The fanfare died away and the music had a heavy throbbing rhythm behind it. The woman moved down to the center of the stage and began to sway in time with the rhythm. Her body had the plastic quality of a willow tree, supple, bending, swaying to the pressures of the music. Her arms floated out from her sides and she slowly stripped off first one glove then the other.
Now the music quickened slightly and the rhythm drove harder. Her two hands floated back to her body and touched a spot between her breasts. Suddenly the top part of her dress snapped away, leaving her breasts naked. They were heavy as ripe fruit on a tree at the end of the growing season, and the lower curves hung below the high waistband of the dress.
"Cigarette, sir," a voice at my side said.
I tore my eyes away from the stage and turned to see a completely naked girl, young, lean, small-breasted, hollow-thighed. A cord around her neck supported a cigarette tray. From my position on the lounge chair I was looking directly at the shadowed mystery of the apex of her thighs. The sight so startled me that for a long minute I couldn't speak.
The young girl bent forward and I looked into the tray. Instead of the usual cellophane-wrapped packages of cigars and cigarettes I saw about a hundred loose brown papered cigarettes with their ends twist-ed to keep in the loose tobacco.
I knew marijuana sticks when I saw them and I nudged Laurie. "Want a stick?"
She looked at the girl, then at me, then at the girl again. Her eyes flared when she saw my much-too-evident appreciation of the nubile beauty of the naked girl. "No," she said, shaking her head. "Send her away."
The girl turned to leave and I caught her with a hand against the bare flesh of her thigh. "Could you bring us a double bourbon and a double brandy?" I asked, hoping the liquor would come from the same supply as the stuff at the bar.
"Of course," she said, apparently surprised that I should even think such a minor request impossible.
She disappeared into the dimness and I turned my eyes back to the stage. The stripper was rolling the waistband of the lower half of her dress down along her body. First her ribcage, then her belly came into view. She paused and writhed her hips suggestively. Then her hands returned to the dress. She rolled it lower and her navel winked at me across the distance from the stage; then the dress fell to the floor around her ankles.
She was completely naked as she daintily stepped away from the pile of black cloth. I was startled to discover that the black-haired girl's natural color was blonde. Now she wore only stockings that ended half way up the hard muscles of her thighs and a diamond-like necklace around the white column of her throat.
Out of the confines of the dress she moved fluidly around the stage in time with the music and her hands hefted the swollen spheres of her breasts. The music quickened again and the driving rhythm seemed to set the very air of the room to throbbing. The girl came down front center on the stage and spread her legs wide apart. With feet motionless she kept time to the rhythm by swaying and grinding her hips while her fingers teased her nipples.
Those nipples, which before had been flat brown spots on the ends of her breasts, now suffused with blood and became cherry-red thrusting buds standing out from her flesh. She raised a breast to her mouth, kissed the nipples, and then repeated the action with the other breast. Her mouth left shiny wet spots.
Her hands moved away from her breasts to her belly, then down along the outsides of her thighs. At the knees those hands changed direction and began and upward journey, this time along the inner side of her thighs. They fluttered upwards along the taut muscles until they were stopped by the juncture of her thighs and torso. Now she took one hand away and putting it over her head, began to bend backwards, her body forming an arch with her long black hair falling down to brush the floor.
What a hell of a way to sweep the floor, I thought idly, excitement throbbing in my loins. As I watched I became aware of the sound of hoarse breathing beside me and turned to see Laurie staring at the stage with wide eyes and flared nostrils. I put my arm around her shoulder and cupped her breast through the material of her suit jacket. She groaned and her hand fell upon my lap.
On the stage meanwhile the dancer supported the weight of her body with two feet on the floor and the arm over her head on the floor behind her, exhibiting her most intimate charms to the audience. The hand she'd left at her loins tightened into a fist with only one finger protruding. That finger probed and touched and then dipped into her body. Her hips rocked from side to side and her belly and breasts tremble while the music built to a crashing crescendo.
The girl collapsed in a heap of white sweat-shiny flesh and the stage went dark.
I turned toward Laurie and found her mouth with my lips. Her lips were dry and her mouth hot as my tongue slipped between her teeth. She threw her other hand around my neck and mashed her face against mine, her tongue in frantic combat with my own. We were lying on our sides now, facing each other, and I slipped my hand inside the neckline of her jacket.
Her breasts seemed to swell into my palm and I felt her nipple hardening. She moaned deep in her throat and writhed closer to me so our loins rubbed. Her hand let go of my trouser front and moved to my buttocks to pull me tight against her thighs. The muscles of those thighs trembled as we writhed together.
"Your drinks, sir."
I had been about to roll Laurie over on her back and throw myself down on top of her. Instead I broke the searing kiss and looked up across her shoulder. Again I was staring right at the juncture of the naked young girl's thighs. She bent forward to bring two glasses into my field of vision.
Laurie and I sat up and took the drinks from the girl's hands. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a bill. At that point I didn't even care how large the bill was as I thrust it into her hand and waved her away. She turned to go and I watched for a moment the seductive sway of her rump and the way the spheres of her buttocks rubbed together.
I knocked back half the drink in one long gulp just before the hidden orchestra sounded another fanfare. The drapes on the stage opened again to reveal another woman in a stripper's costume. I was beyond the stage of watching a woman take her clothes off some thirty feet away. My body demanded more tactile sensations.
Laurie's hand returned to my loins and she gripped my ready flesh. I transferred my drink to my other hand and placed the inside hand on her thigh under the hem of her skirt. She brought her legs together, trapping my hand, and her own grip squeezed tighter.
We stayed that way long enough to finish the drinks, then I rolled over on my side to press my lips against the shell of her ear. "Let's get out of here," I whispered. "Let's find some privacy."
We stood on trembling legs and walked out of the room. Laurie led me to the staircase and up to the third floor of the building, the top floor. The corridor was empty and quiet. There was a single door at the end of the hall and that door was closed.
We walked to the door and Laurie opened it to lead me into a small ante-room. All around the walls of the ante room were hooks about five inches apart and at shoulder level. Half the hooks had clothes hanging from them. Laurie closed the door behind me and began to unbutton her suit jacket.
"Take your clothes off," she said hoarsely. "And hurry."
Her jacket came off and her tremendous breasts came into view. Her nipples stiffened and they stood out from her breasts like pointed accusing fingers.-I reached for her as she dropped her frantic fingers to the button and zipper at the side of her skirt.
She pushed me away. "Not now. Take your clothes off. Hurry."
I hung my jacket on one of the hooks and opened my shirt collar. My tie went into my jacket pocket and I opened the buttons along the front of my shirt. Laurie stepped in front of me, knelt down to untie my shoes. She was completely nude now and I could see a red line in the flesh of her waist where the elastic of her panties had pressed.
My fingers trembled as I looked at the fully exposed lushness of her body. Her generous hips, buttocks and thighs matched the lushness of her breasts. Her waist was amazingly tiny for so big a girl and her pink feet were small and well-formed.
I stepped out of my shoes, hung my shirt on the same hook as my suit jacket. Now there were only trousers, socks and shorts. I reached for the zipper of my fly, found her hands already there pulling the zipper down. I stepped out of the trousers. She pulled down my shorts. And then I wore only socks.
She was still on her knees before me. I raised my left foot and she pulled off my sock; then the right foot. Her hands came to my thighs and gripped hard as her eyes stared at me. Her pink tongue flicked out to moisten her lips, her head darted forward to bestow a quick kiss on my awakened and trembling body.
I tried to grab her head and hold it against me but she was too quick. Her lips touched me for a fleeting muscle-wrenching second and then she was standing. Her hand reached out toward me and I thought to take it in my own. But she slid it past my hand to take hold of my body.
She led me to an inner door and opened it. Inside the room was a sight such as I have never seen. The room was decorated in the same manner as the other room on the floor below. But here the lounge chairs were filled with naked groups and couples. Some of the groups had grown so large they spilled off the chairs and onto the floor.
Everywhere around me I saw couples in various stages of sexual embrace. The variations seemed endless. On the stage at the other side of the room a young girl hung tied to a frame of crossed timbers. Her body was covered with cross-hatched whip marks. Before the girl, on the floor with her back to the audience-which didn't seem to be paying too much attention-knelt a second naked girl. Beside her lay a discarded whip. The girl on the floor was caressing the body of the girl hanging from the crossed timbers....
I was so amazed I couldn't even respond to the flagrant lust before me. My eyes stared at the stage as Laurie led me to an unoccupied lounge. Two huge, naked negro men came on stage and untied the girl. One of them stretched her out on the floor, knelt between her thighs and launched himself upon her small body.
Around me I heard empathetic groans as women watchers vicariously experienced the sensations of the young girl....
Laurie took my hand and put it between her legs. Suddenly all the liquor and lust of the evening flooded through me and I turned to her. She moaned as she came up against me and I felt myself borne up in a rising cloud of excitement. Her body was an unknown world for me and I explored it with searching hands and pursed lips.
She groaned and writhed under me as I kissed first her breasts, then her heaving belly. My fingers teased between her legs and her hips surged eagerly against my hand. When I had completely explored the front of her body I turned her over and let my lips flutter over her shoulders, down along her spine, over each trembling jutting sphere of her rump, then down along the back of her leg.
A whimpering whining sound came from deep in her chest as she turned over again and spread her thighs wide apart, feet in the air, toes reaching for the ceiling. She slid her hand between our bodies, grasped me. I found her flesh hot as flame, drove deep into the core of her.
Her muscles tightened around me in joyous combat, her thighs locked around my hips and her knees drummed against my spine as her body heaved and twisted in passion. I supported my weight on my elbows and my lips closed over the sensitive nipple of one of her breasts. Her frantic writhing doubled and her nails raked my back. I felt them digging and tearing at my flesh, but there was no pain.
The cloud of my passion floated higher. All sense of the other people in the room disappeared and I was alone with Laurie among the stars. Her body heaved as I thrust again and again and we floated through the cold of infinite space.
The heat increased as we moved faster and faster, closer and closer to the sun. I felt fear, and joy, and lust, and my skin began to burn with a fantastic flame. Laurie's body tightened convulsively around me and I felt the rhythmic gripping contractions of her muscles. Her whole body became rigid, a scream tore from her throat and echoed through the endlessness of space, her nails scored my back and shoulders. . I felt myself being swept into the blazing heat of the sun, and just as I thought I was surely going to die the whole universe exploded in a fantastic display of flashing colors and shooting stars.
Long minutes later I lay beside her and we were back in the room. My chest heaved as my lungs fought for more air. Beside me Laurie's limbs still twitched convulsively. She groaned and rolled over on her side to face me. "Thank you," she whispered.
Later we were joined by more people and I remember being entangled in a delightful endless chain of flesh. A woman's mouth was glued to my body, my hands were filled with breasts and thighs, and my face was buried in the breasts of still another woman....
Sometime during the festivities I must have passed out. When I awoke Laurie was sleeping beside me and the rest of the room was empty. I awakened her, we dressed and went downstairs. Outside the sun was already shining and we stood exhausted while we waited for the car to be brought to the front door.
It was ten o'clock in the morning when we got back to the hotel. I kissed Laurie tenderly at her door and went to my own room. Too tired even to remove my clothes, I flopped down on the bed and fell deep asleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I was in the steeple of a church as large as the universe, and two hands so huge each finger was larger than my body were tying me to the clapper of one of a series of fifteen bells. The hands tied me securely, handling my body with a strange gentleness. A moment later I saw the great bronze shell of the bell begin to sway. The arcs were short at first, increasing as they moved and coming closer and closer to the clapper.
Down at the end of the row of bells the smallest one, the one with the highest pitch, was the first to begin to toll. It tolled a measured tone four times before the next one in line was swinging a wide enough arc to begin to ring.
Two bells now and all the time I was swinging closer and closer to the smooth curved surface of the inside of the biggest bell. I knew that when my bell began to ring I would be smashed to a pulp like an audacious insect. One by one the bells picked up the tolling. The sound reverberated through my body, the sound vibrations pushing me against my bonds.
The thunderous sound beat upon my brain, seeking the shatter the sensitive tissue as my body swung closer and closer to destruction. Now panic filled me. The sound of the bells flooded my body and I couldn't think. I struggled against the ropes, writhing desperately to get loose before I was smashed to bits of flesh and hard pieces of shattered bone, sticking to the inside of the bell in a bloody mush.
Ten bells were ringing.
Twelve.
Fourteen.
Now I was so close to the inside of the bell that I could see the tool marks on the smooth bronze. My bell made another arc and I felt the cool metal gently brush my naked chest. Another arc and it pressed firmly. The bell swung away, far away, to the end of its arc, and came hurtling back towards me. I knew this was the time. When that bell struck me I would be dead. It came closer and closer, faster and faster, as its huge weight picked up momentum.
My eyes bulged. My mouth opened to scream....
Suddenly I was awake and the phone was ringing in my ear.
I shut my eyes against the pain and my groping hand found the receiver.
"Gurgg," I mumbled.
"This is the desk, Mr. Bell. We have a special delivery letter here for you. Shall we send it up?"
I silently cursed the mentality at the other end of the line. But when I opened my mouth to vent my impotent rage all that came out was "Gurgg."
"Very well, sir. We'll send it right up. Thank you." I put the receiver down as gently as I could and rolled over on the bed. I was still fully dressed and my neck was wet with perspiration. My head felt as though all the spaces between the cells of my brain had been stuffed with evil-smelling cotton of unknown origin.
My mouth and throat were parched, my tongue felt like it was made of sandpaper. I cannot describe the terrible odor which arose from my mouth and assailed my nostrils.
The knock at the door echoed in my head and it kept up like an endless canyon reverberating the "Halloo" of some stupid tourist with a brownie camera. I stumbled off the bed and almost fell flat on my face. My legs refused to support me and my head felt like it was detached from my body. I crawled to the door on hands and knees, having trouble even with that, and held onto the door knob to haul myself erect. Afraid my body would shatter like glass, I moved very slowly.
I opened the door and stuck my arm out. Someone in the hall pressed a piece of paper into my hand and I quickly shut the door again. Letting myself slowly down to the floor, I crawled back to the bed.
The ticking of my watch sounded as loud as the firing of a cannon. I raised it in front of my eyes and desperately tried to make out the time. My eyes kept blurring but I thought it said something like eight o'clock. I didn't know if it was day or night.
With an effort I managed to force my eyes to remain open, and in a little while I began to feel better-if being physically capable of sitting up in bed can be considered better. I suppose it is. Anyway I sat up and struggled out of my jacket. The effort took so much out of me I had to wait ten minutes before I could manage the shirt and tie. Then another wait and I kicked off my shoes and socks and got my pants down as far as my knees. All in all it took almost half an hour for me to get my clothes off.
The terrible smell coming from my mouth was the byproduct of some misguided chemical reaction in my stomach. It felt as if the hydrochloric acid and digestive juices were at war with some foreign substance. The flipping of my stomach and the gagging of my throat told me there was about to be another battle in the war. I made it into the bathroom a split second before the clash of the troops. Kneeling at the font of the commode, I heaved my guts out for twenty minutes.
Contrary to popular belief, I didn't feel any better after I threw up. In fact, if such a thing is possible, I felt worse. If my mouth tasted bad before, the addition of bile and partially-digested liquids and solids made it taste a hell of a lot worse.
I used the edge of the sink to haul myself erect and washed out my mouth with cold water. That did help. From the sink to the shower was only four steps but they were the longest four steps I ever took. I moved in a roundabout way, edging along the wall and leaning against it as insurance that I wouldn't fall on the tiled floor of the bathroom.
By the time the shower was finished my knees felt only half as weak as they had before. I made it into the bedroom standing up, an occasion I celebrated with a weak cheer, and kicked my soiled clothes into a corner. Bending over to pull back the blankets set my head to pounding again, but the cool freshness of the sheets made it worth the effort.
With a sheet drawn up over my chest I picked up the phone and sent out an SOS to room service. They promised to give my request emergency status, and a short time later some idiot was knocking at my door again. This time the door was unlocked.
"Come in," I whispered loudly. And when the door opened, "Please don't rattle anything."
I heard rattling and it tore at my eyeballs. A cart rolled to the side of the bed and with my eyes closed I could hear someone breathing.
"You look terrible," a voice said.
I knew that voice, and opened my eyes. It was Connie.
I groaned. "Are you the only waitress on room service? How come every time I call you get sent up here?"
"I'll ignore that insult because you look so bad."
"Yeah, I feel bad. As long as you're here you can be of some use. Prop me up and feed me some of that ice cream. I don't think I could manage it with the way my hands are shaking."
She slipped the extra pillow behind my head. Then she sat down on the edge of the bed, prepared to spoon vanilla ice cream into my mouth.
"What happened to you?" she asked as she picked up the spoon.
"I'm in no mood to be shouted at," I said. "Just feed me and go away and let me die."
"But I'm almost whispering," she said.
"Well, it sounds like shouting." . , "Now I know what's wrong. You're hung over."
She began to feed me and I gulped the cold stuff as quickly as I could. It helped put out the fire raging in my belly. When the ice cream was gone she held the coffee cup for me and I downed the hot black coffee in quick sips. When I finished that she wiped my mouth with a napkin and sat back.
I felt a lot better now. My head still throbbed and my body was weak, but I knew I would live. "Now I'd like a cigarette," I said and she rose to get one. "In my jacket over there in the corner," I told her and she found my cigarettes.
"My memory is still not too good, but I think I'm supposed to be mad at you." I told her after she lit the butt and handed it to me.
She gave me a sheepish grin. "I acted like a ten-year-old," she said. "I'm sorry."
"Your apology is accepted, and if I thought it safe to raise my head from the pillow I would kiss your cheek."
She bent forward and kissed me instead. Her lips were soft and cool and gentle, and somehow more soothing than anything else since I woke up.
"You better get back to work before they fire you," I told her.
She looked hurt that I wanted to get rid of her, but she gathered the dirty dishes and wheeled the cart out of the room. Just before she closed the door I said, "Come back when you get through."
Her face brightened like a sunrise in a cloudless blue sky. She blew me a kiss, closed the door, and I heard the cart rattling down the hall. I was alone with a cigarette in my hand and food in my belly. There was great improvement in my health. Before I had felt like I was in imminent danger of dying, and now I was only seriously ill-polio or something as opposed to terminal cancer.
It suddenly occurred to me that if I was ill there must be some reason. I knew logically, of course, that this debilitating illness was nothing more than the great grand-daddy of all hangovers. Now I tried to remember the circumstances of my evidently monumental drunk. I searched and probed the corners of my memory and things began to form in the fog. Indistinct wisps took on form, solidified, became concrete memories.
And then I was sicker than I had been when I first awakened. I remembered everything with startling and disgusting clarity. I remembered the drinking, the gambling, the floorshow and the orgy room. I almost threw up again, but was too weak to make it into the bathroom so I chocked it down.
It was strange that my attitude toward my escapade should change so in a few short hours. When I had been at the club with Laurie Yost I had greedily courted every exciting sensation. I had been eager, more than eager, to taste the forbidden fruits of her body. And even now that was not so reprehensible. But the memory of the other things, the things that followed our initial pleasure, lashed me like whips.
With my eyes closed I could see myself entangled among all those bodies, and even though I was alone I blushed. I had acted like a five-year-old loose in a candy factory, glutting myself with every available piece-and all the pieces were available.
I remembered that after a while the performers on the stage joined the audience so that it was all one big show, with the participators also the viewers. I had been disporting myself between the thighs of a girl who could have been no more than sixteen and I remember looking around me to see Laurie excitedly entertaining both of the naked negro men. All three of them were standing up, Laurie's white flesh in contrast between the two shiny black bodies. She had her thighs around the hips of one of the men, and the man behind her pressed close against her. They made a sandwich, white chicken meat between two slices of dark whole-wheat bread....
Then, sometime later on, the young girl and I were joined by another woman, and then two more.
And even while wave after wave of sexual sensation tore through my body I remember seeing Laurie and a redheaded girl engaged in the classic lesbian embrace.
But lesbianism was not the only perversion evident that night. There was the sado-masochism mentioned before, and finally two instances of male homosexuality, in one of which I almost became involved. After exhausting myself with the four women I staggered away to give my aching loins a few minutes rest.
In one corner of the room I saw a tremendously fat man and a young boy who was probably a street urchin, picked up and brought here for that precise reason. The man was fondling and kissing the boy, who stood frozen in terror before him. Then the man stood up and turned the boy around so his tight young body was presented to the mountain of flesh....
And I stood watching, too far gone in lust to be horrified.
I felt a hand touch me and my body reacted automatically while I stared, too fascinated to tear my eyes away. The hand touched me and stroked me and the excitement built up in me. When I reached oat to return the caress my hand encountered a hard hairy body. I should have smashed in his perverted face, but I didn't. Instead I pushed him away from me and turned my back. A couple of minutes later I found a woman who was also watching the proceedings and we made love....
Now, as I lay in my hotel bed, disgust tightened like a fist around my vitals. I was supposedly a mature man, almost forty years old. How could I find pleasure in a childish and perverted orgy of misguided and filthy lust?
I shuddered when I thought about it.
The more I thought about it, the more details I remembered. And I began to compare Laurie's love-making with Connie's. Where as Connie had been gentle and sweet, tender and grateful, Laurie had been harsh and demanding. Laurie made love with such frantic haste that it seemed she thought it might become impossible in the next ten minutes. Her only interest was in her own physical gratification. She had a preference for particular kinds of caresses, and she demanded that I do these things to her before our bodies were joined.
And once our bodies were joined, her voracious loins tore at me until she found release. When she was through with me she moved away to find herself another source of stimulation. I had the feeling that if there had been no men or women present to gratify her, she would have used any object she could find. With Laurie it had been two mindless bodies in fleshy conversation.
Making love to Connie was completely different, and I still marveled at the complete lack of urgency for my own gratification. Now I was looking forward to the next time we made love. I wanted to see if the difference was still there, and if it also held true for my half of the pleasure.
I stubbed out my cigarette and turned off the light. Sometime during the night I came awake enough to realize there was a warm smooth body next to me in bed, but I didn't awaken fully.
The next thing I knew it was morning. I could tell because sunlight was shining in from the terrace. I opened my eyes and tested my body. All the symptoms of my hangover were gone as though they had never existed. I was wide awake, and my face split in a grin. Connie lay beside me, the blanket and sheet kicked off her body. Her hair was touseled and her mouth was puffy with sleep.
She looked like a slim dark-haired nymph from one of the paintings of the classical age. She was one of the servants who attended the lush, full-blown beauties who were the primary subjects of those paintings. And somehow I preferred the servant to the mistress.
I got out of bed, showered and shaved. When I came back into the bedroom she was still asleep. Even while asleep she had sensed my leaving the bed and now she lay sprawled across its entire width, her limbs spread-eagled, all her charms freely displayed.
I sat down on the edge of the mattress and put my palm down on her belly. She was so small that my big hand completely covered her from navel to the juncture of her thighs. She moaned when she felt the pressure of my hand and her nipples sprang to ruby hardness. Even in her sleep she responded to me. I took one of those nipples between thumb and forefinger, rolled it back and forth.
Again she moaned, and this time she tried to turn over. My hand on her belly prevented this and her eyes fluttered open. She saw me and smilec sleepily.
"Good morning," I said softly.
She grinned wider and her voice was low and throaty when she spoke. "Hello. Have I slept too long? What time is it?"
"It's too late," I told her.
"Too late for what?"
"For me to crawl back into bed with you." I pressed down with my hand and she giggled. I felt that laugh under my palm as it rippled through her body.
She took hold of my wrist with both her hands and tried to lift my palm off her belly. I pressed harder and she fought fruitlessly, giggling as she struggled.
"Let go," she pleaded. "I have to get up."
"Why?" I asked.
"Never mind why, just let me get up."
"What if I don't?" I teased.
"Then you'll have the messiest bed in the hotel."
I feigned a horrified expression and withdrew my hand. She scrambled up off the bed and disappeared into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. I threw open the doors to the terrace and stepped out into the warm sunny morning. It was still too early for the sun to be uncomfortable, and I felt its pleasant bite on my naked body.
Then I remembered the letter and searched through the pile of clothing until I found it. My fingers shook as I tore the envelope open and unfolded the sheaf of papers. It was the power of attorney and I breathed a sigh of relief. For some reason I had been afraid Juney might have changed her mind about the divorce. There was no personal note, just the legal document.
I stuffed the envelope into a drawer and walked to the closed bathroom door. "Hey," I called. "I'm going to have them send up breakfast, okay?"
"Why not?" came her muffled reply.
"I thought you might not want anybody to see you here."
"What do I care? Do you think I'm ashamed of you? I'm not, I'm proud!"
I ordered breakfast for two and also called the valet service to have my suit picked up and cleaned. In the dresser I found fresh underclothes, fresh slacks and shirt, and I was dressed when Connie came out from her shower. Droplets of water glistened against her black hair and on the proud jut of her breasts.
"I know you're proud," I said. "But you'd better get dressed. They'll be here with breakfast pretty soon."
She giggled as she walked across the room toward her clothes, her hips swaying jauntily. "What do I care if somebody sees my body? They know it's there and they know what it looks like."
"Maybe you don't care, but I do. I don't want strangers looking at things which only I should see."
She gave me a teasing grin and slipped into her clothes. The knock came at the door just as she was buttoning her blouse. We ate on the terrace with the life-giving sun kissing our bodies, and it was utter luxury to lean back with a cigarette and close my eyes. We dawdled over the coffee and our hands met across the table.
"What time do you have to be back to work?" I asked.
"Not until eight this evening. I'm on the night shift for the next six nights. Why do you think I was able to bring your food last night?"
"I didn't know whether it was night or day. But if you don't go to work until tonight, how about spending the day with me?"
"I'd love to," she said, smiling. "What will we do?"
"First I have to see a lawyer in Juarez about my divorce. After that we'll have the rest of the day free."
"Why not call him first?"
"Can I call across the border from the hotel?"
"Of course."
I gave her the lawyer's name and she put the call through. It was easy for her once she was connected through to the Mexican operator. After a few moments she handed me the phone.
"Mr. Soto?"
"Speaking."
"This is Herb Bell. I've got that document I needed and I'd appreciate it if you could expedite this matter.
"Mr. Bell, if you can be here by eleven o'clock this morning I can have you divorced by noon."
"Fine," I said. "Great. I'll be there at eleven sharp."
I hung up and turned around. Connie was out on the terrace again and her back was toward me. I came up silently behind her and wrapped my arms around her. She sagged back against me and I kissed the delightful shell of her ear.
"This is wonderful," I murmured directly into her ear. "All of a sudden I feel completely at peace with myself and the world."
She pressed my arms tighter against her, and her hard buttocks rubbed the front of my trousers. Her neck arched backward, turning her face up to the sim and exposing the sensitive column of her throat. I kissed her there tenderly.
She sighed and her voice was soft when she spoke. "I feel like that too. I knew it the other day, but it was something I never experienced before and it frightened me. The whole idea frightens me. It means that all my life I've had the wrong idea."
I could hear the tears begin to build in her voice, and I held her tight. "Shush now, don't cry. Nothing before matters."
"It does, it does. I thought it never would matter, but it does. How can I go back and undo my whole life?"
"You can't. You don't have to."
But you don't really know anything about what's happened to me," she wailed. "You only guess, and you're willing to forget it. But I don't want you to have to forget or ignore. I wish there were nothing to ignore. I'm no good. I have nothing to bring to you, no purity, nothing. I'm just a cheap Mex slut with a work card that lets me cross the border every day."
I spun her around and slapped her hard across the face. Her sobs stopped abruptly and her hand rose to her reddening cheek. I could see the perfect imprint of my hand on her blazing flesh.
"Now," I said harshly. "We have to get one thing straight between us before we go any further. You are mine. You belong to me and when I say something that's the end of it. If I tell you the sky is red and the sun is blue, as far as you're concerned that's the gospel truth and you wouldn't dare question it. Is that clear?"
She brushed a final tear from her cheek with the back of her hand and sniffed back the last of her sobs as the corners of her mouth made a small sheepish smile. She nodded her head in answer to my question and her black hair bounced in the sunlight.
"Now go wash your face. We have to get me a divorce this morning."
When she came back there was no trace of crying and her eyes seemed to shine from deep within. She curled her small hand into mine and let me lead her out of the room. Just before we pulled away from the steps of the hotel she leaned across the gearshift and transmission hump in the cockpit of the Healey and planted a big firm wet kiss on my cheek. I grinned and spun the wheels pulling away.
Soto was waiting for me when we arrived. The blonde sent us right in to his office and I caught his puzzled look when he saw Connie. He gave me another piece of blue stiff paper folded in the middle and I opened it and signed it in the places he'd marked.
Then the three of us went out of the office and down into the street. Soto led us across the square to the court house. It was a typical Mexican building with an interior court where half a dozen disreputable looking characters were lounging. It looked as if it had been left here by an American movie company when they made The Adventures of Pancho Villa.
We went inside a door and I expected to see a guard with crossed bandoleers of rifle ammunition on his chest. There was no guard. We walked down a long corridor and into an office with a long counter to separate the workers from the strangers who might wander in.
Soto lifted a hinged portion of the counter and held it for us, setting it down again after we had passed through to the area behind the counter. A couple of clerks regarded us disinterestedly. They knew why we were there, and probably couldn't care less. They saw people exactly like us every day of the week. Connie caused a couple of raised eyebrows but she walked by with her head held proudly.
We went through another door and into a small room with only two desks. One of the desks was empty, and behind the other was a young man, perhaps thirty-five. Soto explained that this man was the judge. Hell, he didn't look old enough to be a criminal, let alone a judge.
Soto and the judge spoke rapidly in Spanish for a couple of seconds and then the lawyer handed him the blue folder. The judge signed it and motioned for me to sign. Then everybody shook hands and smiled.
After the handshaking and the smiling was over, Soto led us out of the courthouse and into the street. "That is all there is to it," he said. "You are now a free man. Of course, it will take a day or two for the papers to go from the court to your embassy and then to your own country, but you are legally divorced as of right now."
I thanked him and paid him, and he walked off smiling and whistling. Connie and I were alone on the sidewalk and I felt a sadness about the whole thing. It seemed a kind of waste that any person should be forced by circumstances to resort to this cheap factory-like divorce system. It is one thing to find that two people cannot make a success of their relationship. In such cases a divorce should be granted in dignity. It is quite another thing to struggle to make a go of it and then have to degrade yourself in these cheap surroundings.
Border towns have three attractions for Americans: cheap and sordid sex, readily-available narcotics and quickee divorces.
Connie must have sensed my mood, for she slipped her hand into mine and squeezed gently. I looked up and saw her regarding me with somber, dark-hued eyes.
"What shall we do this afternoon?" she asked in a small voice.
I shrugged my shoulders. The blues had hold of me again.
"Can we have a picnic?"
She seemed to want one so I nodded my head. "We'll need food and things," I told her.
She flashed her quick grin and tugged at my hand. "Come with me," she said. "I know where to get everything."
We walked south beyond the courthouse, in the opposite direction from the International Bridge and farther away from the tourist section. We made a couple of quick turns and I was lost in a maze of buildings. I followed along behind Connie and after a couple of more turns we came out into a big square. This was the open-air market.
On all four sides of the square were buildings which housed butcher shops, vegetable stands, shoemakers and tailors, while in the center of the square were shaded stands set up by the small farmers who lived on the outskirts of town. These people brought their own produce to market, and sold it directly.
The market was a mass of shouting fruit squeezers and gesticulating merchants. No item had a set price. There were some items with their prices penciled on brown paper bags, but no native of the area would consider buying anything at the asking price. Only a tourist behaved in such a foolish and ridiculous manner. Here everyone bargained. And although I couldn't understand the language, beyond a few choice epithets, the facial expressions made everything clear.
The buying of a wicker basket to hold our eventual purchases took over twenty minutes. First we found a stall shaded by an awning under which the basket weaver sat and worked on his wares. Connie seelcted a basket from the display and held it up in the air. The weaver looked up from his work, glanced quickly at the basket, then at me, and quoted a price. Connie screamed outrage that I thought the brown-suited cop lounging near-by would surely come over.
The cop seemed not even to hear her and the basket weaver rose wearily from his work to come to the front of the stall. He looked at the basket carefully this time and quoted another price. Connie shook her head so violently her hair whipped all the way around the side of her face. Then she made an offer and the weaver gave her a look he usually reserved for mental incompetents. The look was full of pity and disgust. He took the basket from her hands, set it back in its place and turned back to his work.
After he was seated again he looked up and quoted still another price. This time Connie's tone was wheedling as she countered with an alternative price and the weaver quickly shot back with a price I'm sure was somewhere in between. The bargain was struck and Connie paid the man.
The official rate of exchange is twelve and a half pesos to the dollar. There are a hundred centavos to the peso. This gives us a total of twelve hundred and fifty centavos to the dollar. Connie handed the man a dollar bill and I think he paid her back all in centavos. He just kept counting coins until her doubled palms overflowed. Maybe they don't use paper money in Mexico.
Once we had the basket the rest was easy. Connie made three or four quick stops and the basket was full. I know it was full, I was carrying it. The longer I carried it the heavier it seemed to get. I began to wonder how many people she was going to invite to this picnic. It seemed to me I was carrying at least enough food for a full day's meals at the hotel dining room.
We stopped once more on the way back to the car-this time at a liquor store. Again Connie made the purchases and I just stood around with my mouth shut and a grin on my lips.
I loaded everything into the Healey and Connie directed me south out of town, then east. For a while we were in open country-on pretty lousy roads I might add-and then we passed through a small town called Saragosa. It couldn't have been any more than ten miles from Juarez.
After Saragosa we turned off the main road-that was the main road?-and onto a cowpath. Now I was traveling slowly, about ten or fifteen miles an hour. We traveled along this cowpath for almost twenty minutes and then Connie informed me that we were there.
I didn't know then, and I don't know now, exactly where there was, but if she said stop, it was good enough for me. I stopped. We got out of the car. And then we proceeded to walk for another fifteen minutes. Hell, this wasn't a picnic, it was an overnight hike.
We walked through a grove of trees and came to the shore of a beautiful, sparkling blue lake. And here finally I was allowed to sit down and rest. After a cigarette it was back on my feet and tramp around the lakeshore for a while until she found a spot she liked.
The spot she finally selected looked suspiciously like the place we first came out of the woods. But by this time I was too tired to care. Dammit, I was too tired to picnic!
CHAPTER EIGHT
After our safari ended I took a short nap. I guess I was still under the influence of that hangover, at least a little. I found a warm rock and stretched out. It seemed that I had only just closed my eyes when she shook me roughly to awaken me.
"Come and eat," she said. "Everything is ready."
I was surprised to discover that I was quite hungry and I guess those packages couldn't have been that heavy after all. We finished the last scrap of food between us and then luxuriated, full bellied, under the bright afternoon sun.
I took off my shut and used it as a ground cloth under my back. Connie lay beside me, her head in the crook of my shoulder. We smoked and watched the white clouds, like ships, scudding across the sky. I wasn't asleep and I wasn't quite awake as we lay there digesting our food. I felt like a huge, sleepy, well-fed boa constrictor sunning myself on a rock in the wilds of the jungle.
Alone there I had the feeling that civilization was a horrible figment of my imagination, that the stress of living among a hundred and eighty million other people was merely a bad dream. With my eyes closed and the warmth of Connie's body beside me, only the whisper of the trees and the tiny splashes of the lake reminded me of reality.
We lay quietly for about an hour and then I became restless. Connie must have been dozing for she mumbled when I moved away from her. I walked along the edge of the lake for a few yards and it struck me that my interlude was over. I was no longer between lives. The old life was finished and I was already involved with the new.
If I let my mind wander I could picture my life with Connie as it would be a few years from then. We would be married. I would be established in some kind of business. We might even have a child or two. The pleasure we knew now would be gone, of course, destroyed by the steady intimacy of living together. The feeling of contentment and peace I now knew when I was with her would return on only rare occasions, if at all. Our lives would be filled with the tiny thousand-and-one problems of daily existence. There would be arguments, fights, long periods of bitterness, sulking, recriminations.
Such things seemed completely out of line with our feelings right then, but I knew they were inevitable. If we stayed together they would come as surely as the moonrise. The thoughts were disquieting. I knew I would end up in the same situation as I had with Juney; except that this time I was sure the love would last.
But would it necessarily last? Might I not discover something about her, or she something about me, which would choke off the tenderness, kill it, destroy it in the same way the news of Juney's barrenness had destroyed that love? There was no guarantee of permanence.
This time, of course, I would be better able to face those problems. I would be forearmed by experience. I gave the lake a wry grin when I remembered my determination to wait a while before remarrying. Yet here I was, divorced a couple of hours and ready to stick my foot in my mouth again when I opened it to say, "I do."
And what did I know about this girl, this beautiful little Mexican with the deep brown eyes and black hair? I refused to listen to any of her stories about herself, sure that it would be easier if I knew none of the details. But what did I know about her as a person? What kind of woman was she? What were her likes, her quirks, her twitches?
I only knew she was beautiful, and that she evoked a great feeling of tenderness and protectiveness in me. I suppose that's all you can expect to know about anybody.
Two hands clamped down over my eyes from behind and a voice said, "Guess who?"
"Martha Washington?" A giggle.
"Margaret Truman?"
Another giggle.
"Jackie Kennedy?"
"I am not as skinny as she."
"I give up then. I can't guess who it would be far out here in the woods."
She ruffled my hair and gave me a playful shove. "Silly, you know who it is."
She came around and sat down at my feet. "Let's go swimming," she said.
"We have no suits."
"It won't be something you have never seen," she told me.
I wanted to swim, too, but I also wanted to tease her a little. "What if someone were to come along and catch us running around without any pants on?"
"No one ever comes here. And what if they did? I am not ashamed of my body."
"I was thinking about what might be happening after our swim."
Her eyes lit up and her lips spread in a wide smile. "If they watch that I am sure they will learn something."
She stood up and her fingers moved to the buttons of her blouse. One by one she pushed those buttons through until the blouse hung open from her shoulders and the inner curves of her bare breasts were exposed to the sun and my gaze. Her shoulders shrugged and the blouse dropped to the ground.
Her flesh was smooth and evenly colored, the breasts a shade or two lighter than the shoulders. They stood proudly out from her chest, their pear shaoes calling to be caressed.
I reached out toward her and she danced a few steps away like a nervous filly. Her breasts jiggled when she moved and her nipples, hardening from the caress of the sun and air, wove crazy patterns before my eyes.
Now her hands went to the button of her loose-fitting skirt, and it dropped away from her hips. Only a pair of transparent panties covered her now. Those panties hid nothing; instead they served as a frame for the perfect picture of her lean, ripe womanhood.
She waggled her hips at me and her fingers hooked under the elastic of the panties. Down they came, slowly passed the navel, the elastic stretching tightly as it passed over the wideness of her hips. And then the panties were gone, dropped to her foot and kicked away."
The shadowed mystery at the juncture of her thighs was the center of focus of her body. Below were the columns of her legs, smooth, tapering, muscled. Above was the flaring out-curve of her hips, then the sharp indentation of her tiny waist. In the center of her belly the dimple of her navel winked at me. Under the sheen of her fine skin I could see the outlines of her rib cage. And in the middle of her chest the dark fruit of her nipples seemed to beg for a kiss. Her shoulders and arms were smooth and slim and the column of her throat led upward to her head and face.
The face alone had its special attraction. Her jaw was strong and her lips full. Above those lips her nose, with flaring nostrils, wrinkled as she made a face at me. The cheekbones stretched her skin over hollow cheeks and her brown eyes seemed to be a thousand miles deep.
She raised her arms above her head in a pretty pose and turned slowly around. Her back was flawless with wide smooth shoulder blades that swept down to her narrow waist and flaring hips. For the first time I saw that even though she was a small woman, she was no weakling. Along her spine in the center of her back there was a deep indentation as her back muscles flowed out and away from the spine itself, dividing the back into two symmetrical halves.
The division and symmetry were picked up and carried on by her hard, rounded, dimpled buttocks, each a perfect sphere in itself. They were like ripe apples ready to be picked from the tree. She raised herself up on her toes and the movement caused a ripple all along the muscles of her legs. I saw those muscles pull against the confining skin, and her buttocks jiggled.
Ambivalent emotions flooded through me. I saw her as a desirable woman and I wanted her. At the same time I was awed by the sheer perfection of her body and I felt as if I was viewing a work of art, perfect and untouchable. She completed her turn and came down from tiptoe facing me again. Her impish grin disappeared when she saw the feelings registered on my face.
She took a half step toward me, then spun around to run into the lake. I came up off the rock on which I was sitting and chased her as far as the edge of the water, my arms reaching for her. She hit it in a long flat dive and I winced when I thought of the hard surface of the water punishing that perfect body.
When the splash died away I had a moment of panic. She was still under water. My fingers tore at the fastenings of my clothes and I was almost naked when she came up for air twenty or thirty yards from shore. She came up blowing and splashing and waving her arm at me. I was relieved when I saw she was all right.
She swam like a young playful seal, diving under and then sliding up and back into the water again, her body glistening in the sun. I dove in and gasped at the surprising coldness of the water. I swam rapidly for fifteen strokes and my body warmed up. When I looked up she was nowhere to be seen.
A hand, her hand, closed around my ankle and I was perked beneath the surface. The water was clear and tinged with green from some fresh water algae.
For a minute she looked like some strange underwater monster. Little clusters of bubbles were caught against her body as she jackknifed and swam away through the water.
I surfaced, caught a deep breath and went down again. Below and to the right I caught a glimpse of her as she swam behind a crusted rock. My feet scissored and my arms pulled me through the water toward her. Her head came oVer the edge of the rock, she saw me, and took off again with her feet and legs flailing the water.
I caught her when she ran out of air and shot towards the surface. I came up underneath her, goosed her, and laughed so hard at her startled reaction that I almost swallowed the lake.
Her indignation was evident. "Dammit, that was not nice," she said as we trod water.
"But it was fun," I countered.
"Some fun. How would you like it if I did that to you?"
"I don't know. Think you're fast enough?"
We were about six feet apart and she shot towards me. I backpedaled and put my hand against the top of her head, forcing her down deeper into the water. Her hand brushed across my thigh, locked behind my knee. I gulped a quick mouthful of air just before she pulled me under and then let it all out when her finger struck home.
I was laughing and coughing and spitting all at the same time.
"There," she said. "How do you like it?"
I was laughing too hard to answer.
Her serious and indignant face started to break up into a smile and she tried to suppress it. It didn't work and in a moment she was laughing along with me. There we were, two naked people treading water in a lake God knows where in Mexico, laughing like a couple of idiots.
I took her in my arms and our laughter stopped suddenly as our water-slick bodies touched. The water seemed to magnify the incredible smoothness of her flesh and she gasped when we touched. Our mouths locked in a flaming kiss and our eager bodies strained together.
Slowly we sank beneath the surface of the water as our hands fluttered over each other's body. I caught her buttocks and kneaded the firm flesh while her hands slipped between us to grasp me as though I were a life-line.
Her thighs locked tightly around my hips and I thrust hard into the secret flesh of her body. Far above us I could see the surface of the water like a crazy mirror and we were almost to the bottom. Her muscles tightened around me and our passion soared. My hips thrust eagerly and I could feel the passionate response of her.
I wanted to stay there, fifteen feet beneath the water's surface. I wanted very much to stay there at least long enough to finish what we had started.
But the need for air was making me dizzy, I was beginning to see little black spots floating in front of my eyes.
My hands pulled at the water and my legs kicked. Connie too must have run out of breath, for she unwound her legs from around my hips and shot toward the surface alongside me. We floated on our backs for a couple of minutes, catching our breath.
Our lighthearted attitudes of a few moments ago had disappeared as soon as we felt the full force of our passion.
"Come on," I said, rolling over on my stomach and stroking for shore. Behind me I heard her splashing as she followed.
As I walked out of the water I realized we didn't have a blanket with us. The shore was rocky and there was no place for us to lie down nude. The ground would slice my knees and her back to shreds.
She took my hand when she came out of the water and we walked into the grove of trees. Here it was cool and dark and the ground was covered with lush grass.
We embraced and her mouth was a cave of fire, her tongue the flame. Her hard breasts drilled into my chest and her wet belly smacked against me.
I ran my hand down from her shoulders, down along her sides to her hips, slid them around to cup her rump. She moaned deep in her throat and her hips jerked eagerly against me.
We sank to the ground and my lips tasted of the fruit of her nipples. Her flesh was cool and hard in my mouth and I let my tongue flick back and forth across the turgid bud. Her hands locked behind my head pressed me tighter to her sweet flesh.
Her belly was smooth and hot under my hand and my fingers pressed deep. Her thighs spread wide and my hand slipped between them. Her muscles clenched as my seeking fingers found the secret of her body. My teeth closed over one nipple and my fingers touched the quick of her soul.
Her eyes squeezed tightly shut and her head rammed back against the soft ground as she rolled it from side to side.
She groaned and muttered something in Spanish, her fingers clenched into fists which beat against my back. I knelt between her spread thighs and probed with my loins until I touched her body. Then I stopped.
"What is it?" she asked, gasping. "Don't stop, do it, do it now I looked down at her tiny form and was afraid I would crush her. She looked so fragile and small I was afraid I would hurt her.
She knew why I was holding back. Her hands slipped down along my back to my hips and she pulled me closer to her. "Do not be afraid," she said. "You won't hurt me."
I tried to be as gentle as I could, but there must have been a lot of pain for her anyway. Her face screwed up and she suppressed a scream. I moved slowly then, gently, and her clutching hands urged me to full knowledge of her body. Each fraction of an inch must have been sheer torture, but she refused to stop.
Slowly her face relaxed from its painful expression and her eyes opened wide. Her voice was soft and deep and our passion seemed in abeyance as she explored the full wonder of our union.
"Oh," she said softly. "This is wonderful. It's all new, like it never happened before. I can feel the throbbing of your blood in your body and the beat of your heart hits against my breast."
I let her bask in her special joy until she was ready to continue. And then we rode a flying cloud to the stars. Our passion floated us up into the sky in an effortless soaring building swoop. Her flesh clutched at me, the rhythmic contractions of her inner body thrilling me to the depths of my soul, and then we were there, at the peak. Our bodies trembled, our muscles clenched spasmodically, and we floated back down to earth.
Later, much later, she lay beside me silent and thoughtful.
"A penny," I said.
"What?"
"A penny for your thoughts."
"I was thinking how impossible this is, this thing between us."
"Stop that. I don't want to hear that kind of talk. I told you before we belong together. When we go back to the hotel you will quit your job and I'll check out, and we'll go away together. In a few days we'll get married somewhere and find a nice place to settle down."
She said nothing.
When it began to get dark we dressed and gathered up the picnic things. The walk back to the car seemed longer than the walk to the lake. At first I thought we were lost, but after a few minutes of wandering we found the cowpath and followed it until we came to the car.
She was strangely silent during the entire trip, speaking only to give me directions, and I kept glancing at her out of the corner of my eyes. Her face was an impassive mask and her lower lip was caught between her teeth. She seemed to be involved in some kind of problem and didn't respond to any of my lighthearted jokes.
I left her in the lobby of the hotel and went up to my room to pack. She was going to go to the kitchen and tell them she was quitting. I had both suitcases opened on the bed when the phone rang. It was Connie.
"I can't leave tonight," she told me. "They have asked me to work out the night shift and give them at least a little time to get another girl for tomorrow night."
"To hell with them," I said. "Let's leave now." I don't know why I was in such a hurry.
"They have been very nice to me for as long as I have been here," she said. "It wouldn't be right for me to leave them short-handed like this. I'm going to work out this one shift. When you go to bed leave your door unlocked and I'll come to you when I finish here."
Her mind was made up and I didn't have much choice. I hung up the phone and finished my packing to discover that my suit was still at the cleaners. So it was a good thing after all that we were to wait until morning..
I found that paperback book I had started the other night and settled down to finish it. I was just getting into the good part, the part where the hero makes love to the beautiful spy from Russia, when a knock at the door disturbed me.
"Who is it?" I called.
"It's me, Laurie. Can I come in?"
"The door's opened."
She came in and closed the door behind her, her lustiness seeming to flow effortlessly across the room toward me.
"Aren't you working tonight?" I asked.
"Uh uh, this is the day after tomorrow, remember? My night off."
"Oh. I forgot all about it. Listen, I'm sorry if I spoiled an evening for you, but I don't feel much like going out."
She looked surprised. And I don't blame her. Even I was surprised. It didn't happen very often that I turned down a dish like this one.
"That isn't exactly what I came to talk to you about."
"Then what do you want?"
For an answer she reached into her purse and drew out a brown manila envelope. She handed the envelope to me.
"Look at these," she told me.
I opened the envelope and drew out a sheaf of twenty snapshots. For a minute my shocked brain refused to accept the evidence of my eyes. The shots were pictures of me taken at various times during our evening together at the place in Mexico. There were shots of me at the gambling tables with my arm around Laurie. There were shots of us at the bar drinking together. There were shots of us together on the double lounge chair in the third floor room. And there were shots of me and some of the other guests in that room.
Some of the shots were of things I had forgotten by the time I woke up. I looked through the sheaf of pictures and then up at Laurie.
"So?" I said.
"So they want five thousand dollars for the negatives of those pictures."
I let that sink in for a minute.
"How do you figure in this deal?"
"I work for them. They have pictures of me which would ruin my career if they were ever to let them get into circulation. They threaten to make a few hundred, copies and mail them to every newspaper in the country if I don't cooperate with them."
"And what happens if I don't pay."
"They'll send copies to your wife and your boss. They'll ruin your life." I smiled then.
"How do they even know where I live? All I put down on the hotel register card was California."
"They're not stupid," she: said. "When you left your clothes on the hook they went through your wallet. They know all about you, where you live and where you work."
I smiled even broader this time. It was really getting good. "It's a little too late to ruin my marriage. I just got my divorce."
She was getting nervous. I wasn't acting like any of the others she'd probably pulled this little game on. "There's still your job, your reputation in the community." She said it hopefully.
I shook my head to show her there was no hope. "It's no good. I don't even know where I'm going when I leave here. I have no job or reputation to protect."
"Are you saying you won't pay?"
"I'll give you five dollars for this set of prints for my scrapbook, but that's about as high as I'll go." She shook her head disbelievingly. "They'll ruin you.
"I just told you there is nothing they can do to me. And even if there were, I wouldn't pay them. If I paid them once I'd be on their list for life, I'd be hooked just the way you are. If you'd refused to help them the first time you wouldn't be in the predicament you're in now."
"If I'd refused to help them my name would have been mud in every agent's office from The Village to Hollywood. Once those pictures got into circulation I'd have ended up just like Candy Band. Making stag films and taking heroin."
"What happens when you go back and tell them it won't work?"
"I don't know. They'll be surprised. It never happened before. I'm not sure what they'll do."
"What are you going to do?" I asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, why did you go along with them in the first place?"
"To protect my career."
"Good. And what kind of a career have you got now? Better yet, what kind of career can you ever have? Even if you make it big you'll always have mem on your neck. You're hooked."
Her eyes widened as she saw this aspect of it for the first time.
"Why don't you go to the police?"
She shook her head. "The whole thing happens in Mexico. They have all the cops over there on the payroll."
"But the place is run by Americans. They blackmail American citizens. And I don't think the police would bring a case against you if you helped them break up the ring."
The idea appealed to her but she was still afraid.
"You're better off than just going on this way. The deeper you get involved the harder it will be to break away. And suppose your big break came tomorrow. Suppose some producer saw you and offered you a contract. Do you think they'd let you go? Hell no. You're worth too much to them as a steerer bringing sheep into their joint to be fleeced. I'll bet they don't even pay you."
She shook her head again.
"Why should they?" I went on. "They've got you by the short hairs. When they pull you jump."
She was a pretty miserable kid when she left my room. She even forgot her pictures. I looked through them again and stuck them in a corner of the suitcase.
I felt good, kind of righteous, like a big daddy. The opportunity to sit back and moralize and give advice had lifted my spirits. I suppose it was foolish. I picked up my book again and returned to the big scene. The hero was just about to take the spy in his arms.
I must have read myself to sleep. I remember waking up sometime later with the light still on. The bed beside me was empty. I shut off the light, crawled under the sheet and went back to sleep.
CHAPTER NINE
Two days in a row I woke up with that God's-in-His-Heaven-All's-right-with-the-world feeling. I even thought I heard the chirping of a bird somewhere outside. I stretched luxuriously in the bed and turned to say good morning to Connie. But the bed was empty next to me, the pillow undented. Maybe she went home after work to pack a bag. That's what I told myself, but I didn't believe it.
I got out of bed, shaved and dressed. Still no Connie. Downstairs I told the simpering desk clerk I would be in the dining room in case anyone was looking for me. He looked at me queerly, but promised to relay the information. My apprehension had no affect on my appetite and I packed away a good-sized breakfast, finishing off with three cups of coffee.
Still no Connie.
Upstairs again I wore a hole in the carpet pacing back and forth and crushing out half-smoked cigarettes. By noon I was ready to go out and look for her.
I waited until after lunch and then asked around the hotel for her. No one in room service seemed to have any idea where she might be. There was no one around who had been on shift with her last night.
I went up to my room and found two men waiting for me. They were the same two men I'd met at the gambling house. I walked into my room and saw the dapper one sitting in a chair quietly smoking a cigarette and cleaning his fingernails with one of those little pocket tools. The other one, the big one who'd answered the door was sprawled out on my bed.
"Come right in, Mr. Bell," the one in the chair said. "We've been waiting for you."
I closed the door behind me and walked to the sofa to sit down. The ox rolled over on his side to fix me with an idiotic glare and the little one, Frank, came over to stand in front of me.
"We understand that you don't intend to deal with us," he said.
"You understand right."
"I don't think you realize how damaging these pictures could be, Mr. Bell. If we were to...."
"Hey, Frank," Oxhead interrupted from the bed. "Let's stop talking. Let me hit him a couple. That'll convince him."
Frank ignored the interruption and went on. "If we were to distribute' those photographs as we threatened it would ruin you."
I snorted. "If I were to raise the point of my shoe off the floor very rapidly it would hit you right between your legs. I guess that might ruin you."
He glanced down at my foot and stepped back a pace.
I went on. "You people seem awfully concerned about my moral standing in the community. Let me give you a little tip. Forget it! Mind your own business! I explained to the girl last night that there was nothing you could do to me. I'm divorced. I don't work for somebody else. In fact I don't even know where I'm going when I leave here. If you were to get those pictures printed in every newspaper in the country, they couldn't do me any harm."
"Come on, Frank. Let me hit him." The big fellow had a one track mind.
Frank smiled. "She said you would be stubborn."
"Not just stubborn," I told him. "Downright uncooperative. I will not give you one cent. If that's clear you can turn around and slither out under the door."
I was getting pretty angry. There were more important things on my mind just then. I needed to think and I was worried about Connie. I didn't have the time to sit and trade innuendos with this smudged carbon-copy of a Chicago hood.
He lost his temper too, and when his temper went, so did his caution. He stepped in close to me and leaned over to fill his hand with my lapel. I was leaning back relaxed against the back of the sofa and he shoved his face into mine. He had bad breath.
"Look, I'm tired of playing games widr you. Either you pay up or...."
He finished the sentence in a strangled cry as he fell back away from me with his hands held tenderly to his crotch. I did what I had threatened to do-I kicked him right smack between the legs.
For a man as big as he was the guy on the bed was pretty fast. I had just time to get to my feet before he was on me. His big arms swung through the air and his rock-like fists smashed into me, one into the side of my head to explode colored lights behind my eyes, and the other to my kidney, sending a bolt of pain shooting across my back.
The force of his blow threw me halfway across the room, I was flat on my back when he came to me. What happened next was something I had seen in wrestling matches but never tried before. The ox grabbed two handbills of shirt-front and hauled me to my feet. I came about halfway up and grabbed his arms just above the elbows. Then I jumped straight up in the air and kicked both feet into his stomach. He grunted like a slaughtered steer. I came down on my back with both my feet still planted in his gut and my hands on his arms pulling him over me.
He was trying desperately to let go of me but I had a good hold on him. I pulled him over my feet so he was balanced on them, his own feet off the floor. His tremendous weight carried him over my head, and I helped him in that direction with a thrusting kick of my feet. Now I had a choice of action. If I held on to his arms he would turn completely over in the air and land flat on his back. If I let go he would sail over me and land head first.
I let go and waited for the crash. It was even louder than I expected. Then I scrambled to my feet and looked around. Frank lay curled in a little ball, tiny mewling sounds coming from his throat and his hands cupped over his crotch. Tears of agony ran down his face. The other one, the big guy, lay just as he'd fallen. He'd struck head first in the corner, his head hitting both walls and the floor at the same time. He wasn't moving and I wondered if he was dead or just unconscious.
I lifted Frank off the floor and threw him down on the sofa. "As soon as you can walk, get your playful pal out of here. And tell your friends anyone else who comes around can expect the same thing."
I lit a cigarette and sat down to wait for them to leave. In the normal course of events in this world a big man is at a disadvantage. Everything is too small for him-beds, clothes, chairs, meals, women, everything. Only on certain rare occasions have I ever been really thankful that I was born large. This was one of those occasions. I shuddered to think what might have happened if I had been five feet nine and a hundred and seventy pounds of flab.
Frank stopped mewling like a lost and hungry kitten and began to straighten himself out. He moved slowly and gently, afraid to jostle himself. If looks could kill I suppose I would have been stretched out on the floor alongside the ox. His eyes flickered with hate as he stared at me.
"Bell, you bastard, you asked for this." His voice was a hoarse screech. "The price has just doubled. It's ten thousand now and we're not selling a few lousy negatives. If you ever want to see that Mex broad again you'll fork over inside of twenty-four hours."
I was on him in a second. His face blanched with fear when I grabbed him.
"What are you talking about?" I shouted.
I had him by the throat and was holding him off the couch. I shook him back and forth until his teeth rattled and his eyes rolled around in his head. He gurgled and squawked and a stream of saliva ran out of the corner of his mouth.
"Talk to me," I told him when I stopped rattling him.
"The girl, the one who works here in the hotel, we've got her."
It took a few more shakings but I got the whole story from him. It seems that even before Laurie took me out to that place they had me marked as a pigeon. Someone had followed me around since the day I'd checked into the hotel. Then Laurie went back and told them of my refusal to play their game. They'd grabbed Connie from the hotel. It wasn't blackmail anymore. Now it was ransom.
They would have preferred to make a less risky deal for five thousand, and Frank and his friend had been sent along to make one last try. But since I wouldn't go for that they were forced into the kid-napping-for-ransom business at ten thousand. They were taking a chance, of course. Connie might have been only a quick roll in the hay to me, someone for whom I wouldn't part with ten thousand.
But it had worked. I couldn't afford to call their bluff.
Frank hauled his friend to his feet and they staggered to the door. They left on a chilling note. With the door still open Frank turned back to the room. "If you don't pay we won't get rid of her right away," he said. "The boys out at the house will use her for a while, and then maybe we'll use her in a couple of the shows. You'd be surprised how convincing a whip and a few shots of heroin are. Or maybe when we're through with her we'll sell her to some whorehouse in Mexico City."
With that parting shot they were gone, and thirty seconds later I was pounding on Laurie's door. It took a few seconds for her to answer and she opened the door in a robe, her face still fuzzy with sleep. I slapped her hard and pushed my way into the room, locking the door behind me.
"You bitch, you no-good rotten bitch."
She held her hand to her face, her eyes wide with shocked surprise. "What are you talking about?" she screamed.
"They've got Connie."
"Who the hell is Connie?"
Then I told her all about it. About Connie and me and the visitors I'd just entertained. It took a few minutes, and by the time I'd finished I'd calmed down a little.
She went to the dresser and pulled out a bottle of liquor. There was only one glass in the room and no ice, but I wasn't interested in the social niceties. She poured herself a stiff drink and I slugged it right from the bottle. The booze seemed to help.
"What are you going to do now?" she asked.
I didn't know myself so I didn't answer.
"I guess you'll have to pay them, huh?"
Ten thousand dollars was a hell of a lot of money. It represented a good percentage of a lot of years of sweat and work. I didn't want to pay those lice in the worst way.
"Remember what I was talking about last night?" I asked.
"Yeah, it kept me up most of the night thinking about it. I tossed and turned and couldn't find the guts to go through with it."
"You better find the guts somewhere because you're going through with it whether you like it or not."
"I can't. I can't do it."
"I'm not going to pay them, and I'm not going to leave that girl there. Either you go to the cops with me and get off easy because you help, or I go alone and you get flushed down the drain with the rest of the rats. Make up your mind, we haven't got much time. They only gave me twenty-four hours."
It took a little more convincing but an hour later we walked into police headquarters. We'd taken a cab from the hotel and the driver made sure no one was following us before he dropped us a block away from the station. We cut through a big department store and a couple of alleys for insurance and we didn't waste any time getting inside the building. Of course, we were still taking a chance. They might have someone here on their payroll. But it was a risk we had to take.
Once inside the big municipal building I had an idea. El Paso Police Headquarters is located in the same building as all the other public offices. That one building houses the town government and also the offices of the US Immigration Service, the Federal District Court and, thankfully, the FBI.
We skipped the cops and went straight to the FBI.
The agent we talked to looked like he was still in college somewhere. He wore the approved style clothing and the stem of a pipe stuck up out of his breast pocket. His name was James McGivern.
A clerk in the outer office sent us down a long corridor with glass-enclosed cubicles on both sides. McGivern was in number ten. We went in without knocking. He was smiling and affable when we walked in and he was all serious business two minutes after I started our story. He took notes as I talked and when I was finished he was silent for a moment.
"This is a tricky situation," he said. "In one sense we have no power to act. The girl who was taken is not an American citizen and she is being held in a foreign country."
"But they took her from here and they're asking me for the money. Besides, they're not Mexicans." I guess I was shouting. "If it will make any difference Connie will be an American citizen as soon as I can marry her."
He shook his head. "That has no bearing."
"You mean there is nothing you can do?"
"I didn't say that," he said. "If all the particulars are true we can get all the cooperation we need from the Mexican authorities."
I started to say something, but he stopped me with a wave of his hand and reached for the phone. He talked for a long time and his conversation was all mumbling. Here and there I caught a word or two but I couldn't make any sense out of what he was saying.
He hung up and turned back to me. "Have you got the ten thousand?" he asked.
I shook my head. "I'd have to get it from my bank in California."
"No, that would take too long. We'll supply the money. Tonight you and Miss Yost will go across the border with a package of ten thousand dollars in marked bills. You'll arrive at the house at about ten fifteen. If everything works out all right we should have this mess cleaned up by midnight."
I felt a lot better and I smiled. "Five minutes ago you said you couldn't do anything."
"It was true. The FBI will have no part in this affair except that a couple of our men will be there to protect you. The whole thing will be handled by the Mexican authorities and the Immigration Service."
"And what do we have to do?"
"Nothing besides what I've told you. I've just been talking to Immigration. They've been suspicious of these people for a long time, and the Mexican authorities are also anxious to clean it up. When they make the raid tonight the whole outfit will go up, including the cops who are being paid off."
"What about the money?"
"You'll meet our men here at nine thirty. They'll have the package with them. You'll take the package and proceed to the house. Our men will be following you in another car."
"But what if they have someone following us, too?"
"Please, Mr. Bell. We're not exactly amateurs at this sort of thing."
"And the girl?"
"If she's still all right by this evening, she won't be harmed."
I wasn't relieved, but this seemed the best course of action. I amended their plan slightly. When all hell broke loose at the club I was going to find Connie, and God pity anybody who got in my way.
Laurie and I went down to the basement of the building and out through the garage entrance into an alley. We walked along the alley until we came to the kitchen door of a restaurant. We walked through the kitchen and out onto the main street. My stomach was jumpy and cold shivers kept running down my spine.
"What are we going to do until tonight?" Laurie asked.
"I don't know. I don't think I could take sitting around the hotel. How about a movie?"
She shrugged her shoulders. She seemed as nervous as I was. We found a movie theater on the next block and sat through two showings of a B-Western and a grade Z picture about a couple of guys who rob a bank and hide out in a nudist colony. They were both terrible pictures and they didn't improve the second time around.
By eight thirty I'd had enough of sitting in that darkened theater. My nerves were on edge and my stomach was growling. And I'd gone through the whole two shows without a cigarette. They have some stupid local law in El Paso that forbids smoking in theaters.
I grabbed Laurie's arm and pulled her up from the seat. "Come on," I growled. "Let's get the hell out of here...."
"I'm hungry," she said when we were out on the street.
We had hamburgers and french fried potatoes at a greasy joint two blocks away from the FBI office and then we started walking. We strolled along like a couple of lovers, holding hands and stopping every once in a while to look into store windows. I used these stops to check the people around us. I couldn't be sure we weren't being followed and I had a creepy feeling at the back of my neck.
Finally I spotted him. He was caught with only a window to look into and he seemed to be paying too much attention to the bras and slips and girdles in the display. Of course, I might have been wrong. He could have just been some poor innocent pervert. But I couldn't afford to take the chance.
I took Laurie by the elbow and we hurried down the street to the corner. Around the corner we stopped and leaned back against the building. A few seconds later he came hustling around the corner and he almost stopped when he saw us. He recovered quickly and hurried on by. When he was halfway down the block Laurie and I went back around the corner and down the main street into the first bar. We found a booth in a darkened rear corner, I ordered a beer and a glass of wine. I was sitting facing the plate glass window of the joint and saw our triend pass in front three or four times, looking for us.
At nine-thirty we went out the back door of the bar and down the alley to the side street. We followed the side-street route to the Municipal building and I was pretty sure no one was following us when we went inside. McGivern and another man were waiting for us.
"I decided to go along on this one myself," he said.
He turned over the package of money and reviewed our instructions. I asked him for a gun, but he turned me down. I wasn't supposed to get involved in die actual capture of those bastards.
A cab took us back to the hotel. I had my car sent around. While we were waiting I ran upstairs. In my suitcase I carried my one and only souvenir of the war. It was a titty-caliber shell casing into which a primer rod from a One-Oh-Five howitzer shell had been inserted. The whole thing was filled with lead to keep it steady when it was standing on end and it was pretty heavy. It was about nine inches long and would make a pretty good weapon. It was small enough to tuck under my belt.
I couldn't be sure anyone was following us from, the hotel so I stopped for gas on the way to the bridge. A car pulled out of the traffic stream right behind us and stopped at another pump. There was only one person in the car, a last year's model Chevvie.
I paid for the gas and watched in the rear-view mirror when we pulled away. The Chevvie pulled out right behind us and stayed about three cars back all the way to the bridge. When he followed me through Juarez and onto the back roads I knew he was our boy. I only hoped McGivern and his buddy were behind him.
The ox opened the door for us and he looked like he wanted to tear my arm off and beat me to death with the bloddy stump.
"Where's Frank? I've got the money and I want the girl."
He grunted and led us into a side room. Frank sat behind a desk.
"You look a lot better than the last time I saw you," I quipped.
He only smiled. I heard the door lock behind me and Laurie gasped. A fist thudded into the middle of my back and I plunged headlong across the room. The ox followed and picked me up again. When I was on my feet his fist whistled into my gut and I doubled over. The pain was excruciating. I grabbed my belly like I was holding it against the pain and my fingers closed over the end of the primer rod in my belt.
I looked up in time to see the ox's fist hurtling toward the back of my neck. I rolled out of the way. When I came to my feet the rod was in my hand. I swung with all my strength and the ox put up his forearm to block the blow. There was a satisfying crunch when the lead-filled shell casing smashed against bone. I struck again, this time using the weapon like a sword and thrusting it into the animal's ribs. He was howling and grunting at the same time when I put him out with a crashing blow to the side of his stupid head.
Frank was on his feet and struggling toward the door with Laurie holding on to him with all her strength. I ran across the room and grabbed him around the throat with my free hand, holding the shell casing in front of his face where he could see it.
He stopped struggling and I let him go.
"I owe you for this afternoon," he said. "The doc says it'll be a couple of weeks before I'm back in action. You'll never get out of here now. We've got the money and we've got you and before we bury you out in the woods you'll be sorry you ever learned how to walk."
"Shut up!" I said. "Or I'll smash your face in."
He looked at me and then at the club and he shut his mouth.
"Now, where's the girl?"
"It doesn't matter. You'll never get out of here now."
"If that's true then I don't have anything to lose by beating you to death right now."
His face went white. "Where's the girl?" I asked again. "In a room on the second floor."
"Is she okay? If you bastards touched her I'll kill you."
"She's all right, she's okay. Nobody laid a finger on her."
"We'll soon see. You're going to open that door and take us to her. I'm going to be right behind you. If anybody even looks at us funny I'm going to break your skull wide open. As you said before, I can't get out of here so I have nothing to lose."
I slipped the club up under my sleeve and the three of us moved out of the room. Frank walked with a peculiar mincing step, half in fear and half in pain from my kick. A couple of dark-suited apes looked at us curiously and then turned away. We walked up the stairs and down a corridor. Frank stopped in front of a closed door.
"Is there anyone with her?" I asked in a whisper.
He nodded his hear.
"Call them out and send them away."
He knocked on the door and there was an answering grunt from inside. "It's me-Frank. Come on out. I'll take over the girl."
The lock clicked and the door swung open. Two men walked out, looked at us, got a nod from Frank, and walked away toward the staircase. I shoved him into the room and Laurie closed and locked the door behind us.
Connie was tied to a chair. Her hair was mussed, her face was dirty and her blouse was ripped to reveal one naked breast, purpled with a large bruise. "Untie her," I told him.
He untied her and she rushed into my arms to bury her sobbing face against my chest.
"Did they hurt you?" I asked.
"Oh, Herb, I heard them talking. They weren't going to let us go when you came with the money." Her arms squeezed around me and I quieted her with an arm around her shoulders.
It was all over in ten minutes. First we heard a loud blast on a whistle and then there was a lot of screaming and a couple of shots. Feet raced through the house and orders were yelled in Spanish and English. When everything was quiet again we went out of the room and downstairs. In the hall we found McGivern standing with a group of Mexicans and Americans in uniforms.
The next few hours were a jumble of questions and statements and containers of coffee. I explained everything to Connie on the long ride to the Mexican police station and then I had to identify Frank and the ox. The pictures of Laurie were found and burned, and the cops didn't even hold her.
It was after three in the morning when they let us all go. Laurie rode back to El Paso with McGivern and Connie came with me. She wore a jacket someone had been kind enough to lend her to cover her torn blouse. Once we were in the car and everything was finished I felt a strange sense of anger.
"Next time," I said sharply to Connie, "when I tell you to quit a job you do as I say. This whole thing could have been avoided if you hadn't worked that one more night."
She gave me a small smile and cuddled close. "Yes sir. Whatever you say, sir."
I pulled up on the Mexican side of the border and turned the Healey around.
"Where are we going?" Connie asked.
"We're going to stay in the car and keep driving until nine o'clock in the morning."
"Why?"
"So we can make sure that nothing will happen until after we're married."
She smiled again, softly, and her eyes glistened.
Of course we didn't drive all night. I found a motel on the Pan American highway and we stayed there until almost noon. We didn't get much sleep.
