In his book, character analysis, Wilhelm Reich, M.D., writes: "The hysterical character's most outstanding characteristic is an obvious sexual behavior ... That explains the fact that the connection between female hysteria and sexuality has been known for a very long time ... The traits mentioned appear together with a more or less outspoken aggressiveness." The voluptuous Shiela managed to involve (and thereby kill) several of of her friends with Swami and his Mystique Temple. In a swinging religious cult that worshiped the fiery-eyed god, Shitoma, it appeared Shiela was to be the next sex sacrifice.
CHAPTER ONE
Have you ever seen thirteen pairs of men and women locked in sexual embrace and flopping around all over the floor like pairs of fish tied together and tossed on a dock?
Well, I have. But it's not only the sight of thirteen writhing couples that gets to you. It's also the gasping and the moaning and the shrieking as each couple strives to reach the ecstasy desired. If you are the female half of one of those couples, as I was, it gets to you even more. And if you are expecting that at any moment su will get your throat cut from ear to ear, it becomes even more hairy.
This caper began on one of the hot smoggy mornings that Los Angeles is famous for. Or, perhaps I should say, infamous for.
I'm Shiela Sharp. Although we have tried to improve the image of our profession, we're still known as private eyes or private detectives, even though we prefer to be called Security Specialists.
Business had been slow. I didn't take in enough cash during August to pay my rent. Fortunately, my dear old Aunt Phoebe had very conveinently died in July. Back where she lived they didn't have the here in California. So just before Labor Day, as I was sitting in the oversized phone booth, laughingly referred to as an office, and wondering how I was going to come up with $200 for rent by the first of the month, the mailman walked in. He handed me a stack of envelopes. I thanked him and turned and trudged toward the door.
I watched the door swing shut behind him and then glanced at the stack of envelopes in my hand. I began dealing off the top of the deck. Every damn one of the envelopes had a window in it. And, as I dealt the envelopes onto the desk, I mentally totted the amount of money involved. So, by the time I got to the last envelope, I was owing about $800.
The last envelope was one of those long jobs. It was the kind you can get in any dime store. And, rubber-stamped in the upper left corner, was the smudged inscription:
JEREMIAH P. WINSLOW, ATTORNEY AT LAW, P.O. BOX Z, Corn Center, Iowa.
I frowned at the envelope, trying to figure out who in hell Jeremiah P. Winslow might be. He had to be pretty damn poor if he had to rubber-stamp his name on the envelope.
I reached for a letter opened and slashed at the envelope. And from the envelope I pulled a folded sheet of paper which was as cheap and flimsy as the envelope.
While unfolding the letter a check slid onto the desk. I stared at it.
The check was for $3,000.
My hands began to shake so hard that I could barely shove a cigarette between my lips and get it fired. I dragged deep on my cigarette as I picked up the letter. It informed me that Aunt Phoebe had died in July and had willed me $3,000.
And so, after paying all my just obligations and my office rent, I took off for Lake Arrowhead for the Labor Day weekend.
Each morning the Blade reported that the temperature in Los Angeles was over one hundred degrees and was expected to climb higher. It also reported how many had died from the heat the day before.
So I patted my bankbook and decided I was going to stay right there by the cool shimmering water of Lake Arrowhead until the goddamn town decided to cool down.
The morning of the fifteenth, the Blade proudly proclaimed that once again Los Angeles was livable. The sea breezes were once again shoving back the hot air from the desert. So I packed up in a hurry and took off for Smogville.
And do you know what? The very next day, so help me, it was one hundred and ten degrees. And the weatherman leered and said that no relief was in sight.
I dumped the newspaper into a wastebasket beside my desk, lit a cigarette, and called myself fifty-seven varieties of damn feel and added a few more for good measure. After twenty-five years around Los Angeles I should have known better than to come back until mid-October.
I was reaching for the phone, to order my beat-up Edsel gassed and made ready for another trip to Lake Arrowhead, when Johnny Blatnik walked in.
I had worked with Johnny on several jewel heists when I was an LA cop on the larceny detail. And Johnny had laid me at least a dozen times and was always trying for thirteen.
So when he walked in that morning I scowled and said, "Not tonight, Casanova. I'm shoving off for Arrowhead in a few minutes."
He grinned and slid one hip cn the corner of my desk and lit a cigarette. "For some strange reason you think the only reason I come in here is to proposition you."
"Name one other reason," I said, reaching for the phone again.
His face suddenly became grim. "I want you to get back some ice for me."
I frowned and shoved the phone away again. I stared at him for a moment. "In other words, you're looking for a patsy."
He shook his head. "No patsy. Someone who can go into the Mystique Temple and come out alive."
I nodded. "Just as I thought, you're looking for a patsy."
"I never pay a patsy $5,000."
"Five-thousand dollars?"
He nodded. "Five-thousand dollars, win, lose, or draw."
I tapped my cigarette on a tray. "Since when did Jackal Insurance get so generous?"
His grin returned. "We're not generous. We know what you're up against."
I shook my head. "I'm not up against anything, Buster. I'm leaving for Arrowhead in a few minutes."
"Since when did you get so goddamn rich that you'd pass up a ten-grand annual retainer?"
"Ten-grand?"
He nodded.
"I still say, since when did Jackal Insurance get so goddamn generous?"
"And I still say we're not generous. I've been trying to sell this idea to the top brass for a long time-that they'd be ahead to retain one person instead of putting each job up for bid and trying to bead down the price."
I nodded. "And so now you're trying to get me to take a suicide mission by dangling a ten-grand retainer in front of me. Well, I have news for you. My Aunt Phoebe just died...."
"Yeah. And she left you a million bucks, I bet."
"Not quite," I told him.
"That's just it. So you're going to loaf around Arrowhead until you're flat broke. Then you'll come back to town and get on the phone and whine for an assignment." He got off the desk and stood up. "Well, after you've lived up your inheritance, and decide to go back to work, don't call me."
He headed toward the door. I watched him go. To hell with him.
He was yanking the door open when I said, "Wait a minute, Johnny."
He barreled through the doorway without looking back.
"Johnneeeeee!" I yelled, shoving back, then charging around the desk and running toward the door.
Just as I got to it I damn near got my face smashed in, as Johnny shoved the door open again. He stood there grinning like a goddamn baboon.
I wanted to slap his face. But you don't slap a ten-grand retainer. You fondle it. So I patted his cheek instead of slapping it.
"I thought you'd come around," Johnny said.
"Don't be so damn sure of that," I said. "I merely wish to explore the subject."
"Yeah. Well, I'm busy this morning. So go ahead and explore it. Then let me know what you discover."
Once more he headed into the hall. I grabbed his arm and yanked.
"You big goof," I said, tugging at him, "come on back in here. Perhaps we can do business, after all."
"I'm sure we can," Johnny said, allowing himself to be dragged into my cave.
He slid onto one corner of my desk again. "Still got any of that Scotch Mist in your bottom drawer?"
I nodded. I kept it for special occasions. And if this wasn't a special occasion, I had never bumped into one. So I pulled open the bottom drawer, lifted the jug, and squinted at it. It was half-full.
"I'd swear that this jug goes down at least an inch every day."
Johnny laughed. "The janitor probably likes Scotch."
I nodded and went over to the water cooler to get two paper cups.
As I slopped amber liquid into the two cups, I said, "So how are things out at the Mystique Temple these days?"
"Same as usual. Just one big blank wall."
I handed him a cup and lifted mine. "Here's to the Swami."
He nodded and tossed off his drink. He held out his cup for more.
"I'm glad I'm trying for a ten-grand pot," I told him, filling his cup again. "Otherwise I couldn't afford this."
He grinned. "Your name should be MacSharp," he said.
"Let's get back to business," I said, stubbing out my cigarette and lighting another. "First of all, you tell me you want me to recover some ice. And then you talk about the Mystique Temple. What gives?"
"We have no proof. But we think the Swami has branched out."
"Fencing ice?"
He shook his head. "Lifting it."
I stared at him. The Swami had always been involved in some kind of a wild caper. He had skated damned close to the edge of the law several times. In any other city, he would have been packed off to the nearest nuthouse. But Los Angeles was different. It loved to have such characters around. Good for the tourist business. So the Swami had never smelled the inside of a Los Angeles jail. And the Swami was smart. So I couldn't feature him going in for lifting ice.
"Why do you think the Swami is branching out?" I asked.
"He took delivery on a gold smelter last month."
I frowned. "But that doesn't mean anything."
"Doesn't it? What's he going to use a gold smelter for-to toast his black bread?"
"So how did you get this nugget of information?" I asked.
"We have ways and means. In fact, anything pertaining to gold or jewels is on the grapevine within a day. And that's good. But if Levi Stein buys a gold smelter, nobody even bothers to look up. But the Swami...."
"Yeah. But maybe he's shaking down the faithful for all their old gold."
He laughed. "Do you know any more bedtime stories?"
I dragged on my cigarette and then took a sip of my drink.
"Say, what's with you and the Swami?" Johnny asked.
"Meaning what?"
"Why do you think the Swami wouldn't be mixed up in a jewel heist?"
I shrugged. "For one thing, because he's too smart. Sure, he cuts it pretty fine sometimes. Anybody else would be thrown in the tank. But out and out robbery?" Again I shrugged. "I just can't believe he's that dumb."
"He isn't. He's got a real caper going. And, without knowing it, you guessed how it works."
I stared at him. "Talk sense, will you?"
"Sure. The heat is on back East. There are lots of second-story men out of work. So the Swami recruited them. Oh, I don't suppose he did it himself. He had one of his flunkies do it. In fact, none of these gigs ever come near him. They sit down front during service. A special plate is passed to them. They dump the loot in it."
I was really staring now. "Don't tell me they'd pull anything that stupid."
"It isn't stupid. It's damn smart. The cops aren't about to bust up a religious service."
"Yeah. But they could be waiting backstage to grab the plate."
He shook his head. "The Swami has some muscle men. No cop has gone in there and come out alive."
"And yet you have the guts to ask me to go in there."
"It's different with you."
"How?"
"Because you're a woman."
"What's that got to do with it?"
"Because, stacked as you are, the Swami will flip when he sees you naked. He'll have such hot pants he'll lose his cool."
"Yeah. And I'll probably lose mine, too, along with my head."
He grinned. "Are you chicken?"
That did it. Nobody was going to call me chicken. And I told Johnny so.
He pulled a leather folder from his inside jacket pocket and dealt ten C-notes on the desk. I gave him a receipt. Then he got the hell out of there.
So that's how I got into this caper, as the female half of one of thirteen couples who were locked in sexual embrace and flopping around in front of the altar at the Mystique Temple.
The door had no more than closed on Johnny than I grabbed up the phone and dug at the dial. Then I sat there sucking on my cigarette while listening to muted ringing.
"Good morning, Blade."
"Give me Editorial," I said.
The line went dead. Then a rough voice said, "Editorial."
"Is Mickey Finarty around?" I asked.
"Hold on."
In a few minutes I heard Mickey's Irish brogue.
"Hi, this is Shiela Sharp," I said.
"So when do you want to be laid?" he asked. "I'm booked solid for the next week. But perhaps the following week...."
"It's either tonight, or not at all," I told him.
"What's the rush?"
"The Swami."
The line buzzed.
"You still there?" I finally asked. "Yeah."
"I've never known you before to clam up," I told him.
"I was just thinking of all the ways the Swami has to disconnect you from your head."
"How many are there?"
"Too damn many. If you're smart, you won't go gumshoeing around out there."
"And if I do?"
"My paycheck just will not cover my bar bill and my bookie. So I won't have any money to send flowers to your funeral."
"I don't want you to," I told him. "Because there won't be any funeral."
"There will be if you go gumshoeing around the Mystique Temple."
"This could go on all day. I'm busy, and so are you. How about tonight?"
"Well, I got a cancellation about five minutes ago. But there's a new blonde down in Classified...."
"Take your choice," I told him, "And make it damn quick. Is it tonight, or isn't it?"
"Yeah," he grunted. "How about 8:00?"
"Sure. At my place."
But, as usual, it was nearly 8:30 when he came ambling in. He was tall and drooped over like a sunflower. And he was just about as skinny. His hair was sandy and rumpled. His florid face was freckled. His nose and his hands were too big for his body. But he had a perpetual grin, even though he always looked like an unmade bed.
He gave me a fishy stare as he closed the door. "You know I don't like to fee kept waiting," he said. "So how come you're not naked?"
"Simmer down," I told him. "I'm not about to soothe your libido until I get what I want."
He flopped in a chair and let his tongue hang out. "I won't be able to say a word," he croaked, "until I get something to drink."
"I'll bet your liver is pickled," I told him, heading into the kitchen. "So come on."
He followed me. From frequent romps at my place, he knew where I stashed the booze. So he headed for the cabinet door.
"Now lay off the fancy stuff," I told him, as he eyed the jugs.
He reached for a fifth of Scotch Mist.
"Oh no you don't," I told him.
He turned and stared at me with a grin. "Scotch Mist always give me a hard on."
"Yeah. The next morning. Remember the last time?"
He put the Scotch Mist back on the shelf and pulled out a fifth of Mule Juice. "You'll be sorry for making me drink rotgut," he muttered.
I-went over and grabbed the Mule Juice and put it back on the shelf. "Oh, all right. Take the Scotch Mist. And I hope you have a good hard on in the morning."
A few minutes later we were back in the living room, nursing our drinks and dragging on our cigarettes.
"So why your sudden interest in the Swami?" Mickey asked.
I shook my head. "You know better than to ask that."
"Yeah. Operative 69 is on the prowl again."
"So what do you know about the Swami?" I asked.
He took a long pull on his drink. "Nothing you can hang your hat on. But there's yards and yards of rumor."
"Go on," I told him.
"Well, first of all, his real name is Zuroc. Ian Zuroc."
"Where'd he dredge up a name like that?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Nobody knows. But it sounds as if it came from eastern Europe."
"So how did you find out his name?"
"I have connections."
"What's his background?" I asked. "Nobody knows."
"So he just suddenly sprouted up out of the ground one fine morning?" I smirked.
"You might say so. He suddenly popped up on South Main Street in an abandoned store building. At first, he worked the winos and the drifters. But that was slim pickings. Then, just as suddenly as he popped up, he disappeared. And about a year later he popped up once more, this time out on Wilshire, taking over the old Claptrap Tabernacle. And he had a financial angel somewhere in the background. But nobody ever found out who it was. And he called himself the Swami. You should know the rest of it. The Claptrap Tabernacle is now the Mystique Temple, and he spent at least a half-million dollars in improvements out there. And I still want to know your interest in the Swami."
I stared at him for a moment. Mickey Finarty could be a mighty good friend. But he could also be a mighty dangerous enemy. Because behind that rube look of his, there was a spring trap mind hooked to a computer. That's why I had always hooked into Mickey every time I took on a new case. Because he could always come up with the background information I needed.
So I said, "If you'll stay clammed, I'll tell you about the caper."
He nodded. "Okay. On one condition."
"I know, you want the scoop when the thing breaks."
"How did you guess that?" he asked with mock astonishment.
"I can't tell you everything," I said, "but I've got five-grand riding on proving that the Swami has branched out."
"How?"
"Lifting ice."
"
He damn near strangled on his drink. He spluttered and blew booze halfway across the room.
"What's that all about?" I asked.
He gasped and pulled his handkerchief and wiped his mouth. "You'd better lay off the pot and the acid," he told me. "One of these days you'll go on a trip and never come back."
"What do you mean by that?"
"The Swami's too damn smart to get mixed up in anything like that."
"Oh yeah? Who says so?"
"I do. And I've been around this kooky town for a helluva long time. The Swami is rolling in his millions. So why would he get involved with anything as crude as stealing jewels?"
"That's what I'm hired to find out," I told him.
He frowned and stared at me. "You're serious?"
I nodded. "And there's one solid bit of information already known-he took delivery on a gold smelter last month. Also, it's known that his raiders sit down front during service and put their loot in a special plate passed to them."
"
"That's crazy," Mickey said.
"Sure it is. Crazy like a fox. That way they don't have to go near the Swami. It isn't loot. It's part of the offering."
"And where do these guys get such an offering?"
I shrugged. "Who knows?"
"So why aren't the cops there to grab the offering?"
"I'm told no cop has lived to get out of there. So the cops are scared to go in there now."
"But they're asking you to?"
I shook my head. "The cops have nothing to do with this caper. It's private."
"But how dc you expect to stop the Swami from disconnecting your head?"
"Simple. Get him hot for me."
Micky laughed grimly. "Just because his pants are on fire, what makes you think he'll get smoke in his eyes? He'll see what you're up to."
"Perhaps so," I agreed. "If he does, then my head will be disconnected."
Mickey set his glass on the coffee table and stood up and stretched. "You have no idea the sacrifice I made this evening just to come over here and lay you. So the least you can do is stop stalling and start cooling my libido."
"There's nothing like ice water for that," I told him, getting up and heading toward the kitchen.
"Hey," he yelled. "The bedroom's that way."
"But there's no ice water in there," I told him. .
"Ice water, hell. Come on. Stop stalling."
That was Mickey Finarty. No moonlight or roses or singing violins. It was zip, zap, pow! And yet, for some reason, Mickey Finarty had laid more women than a theusand bricklayers had laid bricks.
So I veered left and headed into the bedroom. "Okay," I called, "come on, and I'll cool your rocks for you."
I gave a running leap toward the bed and then cartwheeled across it, landing lightly on my feet with arms still upstretched.
"Brave," he said, beating his hands together.
I cartwheeled again, this time toward him, and landed on the bed.
He came over and hugged me to him as his lips found mine.
My arms went around his neck and my tongue slithered between his lips to become a whirling dervish inside his mouth.
His left hand lightly caressed my breast and then his hand went down, to dive under my skirt. This guy really had technique. His smooth fingers lightly skated around over my hard muscular thighs. And as his hand glided around over the inner surfaces of my thighs, my arms clamped even tighter around his neck, my tongue became even more violent, and low guttural sounds escaped from deep within my throat.
His hand slid under my panties and lightly brushed over my joybox, but it did not linger. This drove me into even greater frenzy.
His fingers parted the curtains and slipped inside. My body stiffened and began jerking, as the guttural sounds became low moans.
I suddenly raised my hips, grabbed at my skirt, and yanked it high on my torso. Then I sat up and reached for the nape of my neck and yanked a zipper down.
He got hold of my dress and pulled it upward. And there I sat, now wearing only bra and panties. But not for long.
The bra was the next to go. Then I lay back and raised my hips. He shucked me out of my panties.
He pushed my legs wide apart, as I lay on my back. His dancing fingers dived deep within me, and made me wild. I gave a low scream as my body arched upward. I grabbed him and my fingernails bit into his neck. And then I exploded like an ammunition dump.
I was ready andhewas, too. He got up and dumped his clothes.-:
. He slid onto the bed beside me. And his nibbling lips started at my throat and began their southward trek, pausing only long enough for his tongue to bore into my navel.
He pulled my legs even wider apart. His hands again parted the curtains to my joybox. And his tongue dived inside.
I screamed and reared up and beat my fists on the mattress and began thrashing and rolling around. He had to grab my hips to hold me. And I exploded even more violently than I had before.
He threw his left leg up and over, straddling me. My hands came up to caress his buttocks. And, as he gradually lowered, my hands found his tool and guided it toward my mouth.
We were locked in love's embrace, with arms around the other, rolling and flopping all over the bed.
I finally shoved up and away. "Enough," I gasped. "Give it to me."
He circled around, grabbed my legs, and shoved them up and out.
My hand went down to help. He rammed. I screamed. And then I blew and he was wet to his knees.
He lay forward on me, pinning my legs to my torso, with my feet on either side of my head.
He began with long slow strokes. But not for long. My undulating hips under him were driving him berserk. And he was soon ramming me like a paving breaker. But I loved it.
We were headed for the wire. My nails dug deep into his back. His lips mashed against mine, and his tongue exploded between my lips.
A cataclysmic upheaval rocked and shook both of us, threatening to tear us apart. And he hugged me even closer to him, while my encircling arms threatened to crush his ribs.
And then we rolled apart, gasping and fighting for breath.
But I was still a jungle cat. I crawled over to him and my hot moist lips planted sucking kisses all over his belly. My right hand went down below to tug and massage. It seemed useless.
That's what I thought. But my lips zeroed in and went down on it, clamping and flogging. And he was soon a man again.
He rolled up off the bed, grabbed me, and flopped me over on my belly. Then he got me up on my knees.
He got between my legs, shoving them wide apart. My hands went down to help out. He parted the cheeks of my buttocks. And then he gently shoved.
I screamed and grabbed a pillow, hugging it to me. But I wanted more. He knew it. So he gave it to me.
As he rammed forward I rammed backward. We crashed together in headlong collision. It was wonderful.
He grabbed my hips and shoved forward. He withdrew. And then he went in again, this time through the back door.
I yelped and moaned. Then I silently lunged backward, and he was in to the hilt.
Once again I crashed backward against him as he came forward. And I was clamping as I had never clamped before. It was wild. It was way out. I was demanding jungle sex as I had never gotten it before.
My body was lathered with sweat, so slippery that he could hardly hang on to me. And there was a pungent fragrant odor from his sweating body that drove me wild.
There was one final collision and then it was all over. We both shattered at the same time, like two plates slammed together.
I fell forward with him on top of me, as we fought for breath. I had had it, finally. And he had, too.
"Goddamn," he gasped. "If you give it to the Swami like that, you can walk off with the silverware and he won't even notice."
CHAPTER TWO
I had two big fat problems-how was I going to get into the Mystique Temple, and how was I going to get next to the Swami?
But it was no big sweat, really, according to Mickey Finarty. He said that all I had to do was to put on a miniskirt and go to the Wednesday evening service. Because they always had a social hour after the Wednesday evening service.
So on Wednesday evening I first climbed into a miniskirt and then into my Edsel and took off for the Mystique Temple.
It was nearly 8:00 when I got out there, and that suited me just fine, because I wanted to slide in just as they were closing the doors and locking them. That way I could join the faithful who were lined up along the back wall. And I wouldn't be conspicuous. Then I would have a chance to size up the situation. The social hour was something else. I was going to give the Swami plenty of chances to get a flash of my white thigh before the evening was over.
Have you ever been out to the Mystique Temple? You haven't missed much unless you go for garish architecture and Victorian gingerbread.
It stands on about ten acres of what is possibly the most valuable dirt in Southern California, and just off Wilshire. It rides atop a high clay knob, like a feudal castle, and can be seen for miles. And so, perhaps, that's why the Swami-after adding on wings and expanding the main building, with umpteen turrets and spires-had the whole shebang gold-leafed. And so driving down Wilshire in the late afternoon, the Mystique Temple looked like a grotesque fireball as the searing rays of the setting sun bounced off it.
That night, it looked like a dime-store version of Westminster Abbey, stretching its spires toward the stars, with millions of candlepower being slopped all over it by floodlights.
I was lucky. I found a slot a block away. I climbed out, slammed the door, and didn't bother to lock it. If anybody was damn fool enough to want an Edsel, they could have it.
When I reached Salvation Drive, which was formerly Satan' Lane until the Swami raised hell about it, I turned right and then left toward the main entrance. The heavy wrought iron gates had been closed. But there was a narrow slot to one side that was still open. I angled toward it.
A beam of light shot across the archway. I suppose the average person wouldn't have noticed it. It was only about a foot off the ground. But, because of my training, I spotted it.
So when I got to the archway I stepped over the beam, being careful not to trip it. And as I did so I wondered what would have happened if I had walked through it. Probably bells would have rung and rockets would have gone off.
The walk ahead of me, alongside the guardhouse, was flood-lighted. And there was a long row of windows on that side of the building. So I wondered why the trip beam. Because the bull-dogs inside could easily spot anyone as they headed down the walk.
But they must have been expecting some wise guy to step over the beam. Because just beyond the beam the concrete sidewalk ended and an iron grille took over for about ten feet.
I didn't want to stop, as though afraid. And I didn't dare glance left through the windows into the guardhouse. But I was certain the bulldogs were watching me.
I had two choices-turn around and go back, or start across that iron grille. I wondered if my high heels would get caught. And what in hell was it there for anyway?
I decided to find out. I cautiously started across.
It was one of those gag gimmicks such as you find at an amusement park. Suddenly fans roared. Cold air blasted my pussy and my butt. My miniskirt shot upward and I looked like I was wearing a red tulip!.
But that wasn't all. Cameras were planted in the guardhouse wall and under the eaves. Flash bulbs popped. And I was photographed, practically au naturel, from every angle.
I still had two choices-to go back or to go forward. But by then I was so goddamn mad I wasn't about to go back.
Ahead, at the far end of the iron grille, was a turnstile. On either side of it was a high fence. If you wanted to go forward, you had to go through the turnstile.
When I lost my cool, I lost my judgment. Because if I had been smart I would have run for Salvation Drive-instead of going on.
Instead, I ran toward the turnstile and charged through it. Well, perhaps, I should say I intended to charge through it.
Because the goddamn thing was charged. When I grabbed hold of it sparks flew and I couldn't let go. And then the turnstile started going 'round and 'round like a berserk merry-go-round. And there I was, dragging my feet and being hauled around like a roped steer.
I couldn't get my hands loose. There was only one thing to do. I humped my butt and sat down on the spoke behind me. And I wondered if my dress would melt.
And then came the most ludicrous part of all. Merry go-round music started up. And there I was, spinning around so that everything was a blur, and wanting to heave.
Suddenly a gruff voice blared, "Why did you step over the beam? If you had walked through it, this wouldn't have happened."
"Go to hell!" I yelled.
"I won't," he told me. "But you will."
He must have turned up the voltage. My butt was sizzling. And I was spinning around even, faster.
"Shut that goddamn thing off!" I yelled.
"Not until you tell me why you stepped over that beam."
"I didn't see any beam. Just as I got to the archway I stopped to pull up my hose. And I always lift one leg when I do that. So I suppose that's how it happened."
"A likely story."
"Take it or leave it," I screamed. "But shut this goddamn thing off."
He must've thrown a switch. My backside was no longer sizzling. And the merry-go-round started to slow down.
A few minutes later I staggered away from it and leaned against the building, trying to heave. But nothing would come.
A squat burly pug came up and grabbed me. It was a good thing he did, because I was ready to topple over.
"Come with me," he ordered, giving me a shove.
He took me inside. Two other goons leered at me as I was headed toward a doorway. I was pushed into a small room which had only a table and two chairs in it. The door slammed shut behind me. I heard a bolt click.
I slumped down on one of the chairs and hung onto it. Because the room was still trying to make like a carousel. I still wanted to heave. But, in time, the room settled down and so did my gut.
I finally stood up and cautiously felt my backside. My dress hadn't melted. But I wondered if I had welts on my butt.
The door opened and in came the pug-ugly who had captured me.
"The Swami wants to talk to you," he said, heading toward a phone on the table.
He picked up the phone and punched a button. "I'm now in the interrogation room, Your Excellency," he said. "And I have the broad here."
The receiver rattled. He held out the phone to me. "The Swami wants to talk to you."
I took the phone as my captor went over to the door and planted his back against it and glared at me.
"What's this all about?" I asked.
"Why did you step over that beam?"
"
His voice was deep and vibrant. It sent shock waves through me. No wonder he came up so fast from South Main Street.
"I told your ape what happened."
"And I don't believe it," he said.
"Then to hell with you," I yelled.
"Calm yourself, my child."
"I'm no child. And I'm not your child, either."
"You will be," he promised me.
"Like hell I will!" I screamed. .
I was suddenly grabbed from behind. A big fat hand was slapped across my mouth so hard that I tasted blood. The phone was yanked from my hand.
"I'll have to call you back, Your Excellency, after she has learned how to talk civilly to you ... She won't have a mark on her, Your Excellency, I promise you that."
He laid the phone down as carefully as if it were nitroglycerin. Then, with both hands, he yanked me off the chair.
"How dare you talk to the Swami that way?" he grated.
"I'll talk to him any goddamn way I want to," I snarled.
His hairy left hand grabbed me by the throat until my eyes popped. Then his big right hand slapped me across the chops and back again, as if he were painting a door.
"This is only the beginning," he told me. "There's more. Much more. And it will go on and on until you wish you were dead. And the only way it will stop is for you to apologize to the Swami."
Have you ever had your tongue hanging out, and seeing double, and having your brains scrambled, all the same time? Well, perhaps then you'll understand how I felt about that time.
But molten lava is like the Arctic Ocean compared to my boiling rage at that moment. And so, addled as I was, I wasn't about to apologize to the Swami.
"You gonna apologize to the Swami?" he demanded, clouting me across the chops again. "Hell no," I gurgled.
He backhanded me again. "We'll see about that."
He gave me a shove, slamming me against the wall. I bounced off it in time to see him jabbing at a button on the base of the phone.
The door opened. The other two gorillas came lumbering in. All three of them grabbed me.
They hauled me to a closed door at the rear of the room. One of them opened it and I was dragged some more into a padded cell about ten feet square. It was a soundproof room.
The goon who had captured me came over. "Strip," he ordered.
I spit in his face.
Once more he grabbed me by the throat and gave me the paint-brush treatment with his big fat hand. And while that was going on, I felt the zipper tab at the nape of my neck being yanked down.
My dress was pulled down off my shoulders. I gurgled and struggled. But he clamped all the tighter until his fat ugly face began swimming around like the Cheshire cat. I was ready to black out.
"Simmer down," he growled, clamping even tighter.
The will to live took over. I wanted to breathe. So I gurgled, "Okay."
He kept his clamp on my neck, but released the pressure. I gulped what air I could. And he no longer looked as if he were swimming around in red ink.
My dress and panties were being shoved down. But I knew I had better not fight it if I wanted to breathe again. My bra was the next to go. I was soon as naked as a pair of tongs.
The monster suddenly started clamping on my throat, grabbed me, and whirled me around. Before I could run he had grabbed my arms from behind. He marched me to the center of the room.
He stood there for a moment, with his big hands still gripping my arms, from behind. I wondered what was going on.
I soon found out.
He shoved my arms straight up and held them there. I felt something going around my wrists. I looked up.
Leather straps were around my wrists. And they were hooked to metal rings on the ends of a pair of ropes from the ceiling.
I was suddenly yanked off the floor. Pointing my toes downward, I could barely reach the floor. And I swung there like a steer just before slaughter.
WHAP!
My butt felt as if it had been branded. I looked over my shoulder. One of the apes, with his sleeve rolled to his elbow, was swinging a rubber hose.
WHAP!
My butt got it again. So hard that I swung forward.
The other two gorillas came in from the front, each with his sleeve rolled and gripping a rubber hose."
And then I got it three ways-twice from the front and once from the rear. I knew how a ball felt being jabbed from all sides on a handball court.
WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!
They beat on me until I felt nothing. I could only hear the thudding of the three rubber hoses. I felt as if I was detached from my body and was looking down on the sordid scene as the three brutes, panting and sweating, kept swinging at me.
And then I blacked out.
I suddenly awoke, spluttering and feeling like a skinned polar bear.
I was down in a well, floundering around in ice water. I looked up. The three gorillas were grinning down at me from high above.
If I didn't get out of there, and fast, I would be a frozen corpse. I was treading water. I had nothing to stand on. The walls were blank and with nothing to hang onto. So if I stopped treading water....
"Are you going to apologize to the Swami?"
I looked up. I was ready to tell him to go to hell again. But, when your teeth are chattering as you stare death in the face, you suddenly become chicken.
"Are you going to apologize to the Swami?" he yelled again.
"Yes," I managed to yammer.
I saw a rope snaking down from above.
"Put that around you and we'll haul you up."
I crawled through the noose at the end of the rope and was suddenly yanked out of the water. But I swung like a goddamn pendulum and had to fight to keep from being skinned all the way up the shaft.
At the top, I clambered over and stood there shivering and looking like a drowned rat.
"This way," the tallest ape said.
Dripping water, I followed him across the concrete floor of a bare cell-like room to a closed door. He opened it and gave me a shove through the opening. I sprawled on another concrete floor. I heard the door slam behind me.
I was cold. So cold. Right then, I would have gladly dived into Hell.
But I soon changed my mind.
Because suddenly steaming hot water pelted down on me. I bolted toward the end of the room to get away from it.
It was a sauna bath. The steam swirled up from around the hot rocks as if I "were really in Hell. And I gasped and fought for breath and wondered if I were going to get out of there alive.
I suddenly felt cold air. I groped toward it. A door stood open. I went through it and into another small concrete vault.
The door slammed shut behind me. Once more I was blasted by cold water. I screamed and jumped up and down and slapped at my torso and legs as the icy needles bit into my flesh.
It stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Another door opened. I dived through it.
It was a dressing room. A stack of towels was on a nearby shelf. I ran to it and grabbed a towel.
I toweled myself until I was as red as a lobster fresh out of the pot. And then I began to get a feeling of exhilaration. I felt great. But I felt something else, too.
Between my legs, I was hotternell. Well, if that's what a sauna bath did for you, I was going to move to where they had one.
I slumped down on a wooden bench and ran my fingers through my damp hair. What a goddamn fool I had been. Johnny had told me that no cop came out of there alive. So, when I was grabbed, why had I fought it? I should have known that I couldn't win.
It was as silent as outer space in there. There were no windows; just frosted glass in the concrete ceiling shedding brilliant light down on me.
I wondered how long I was going to be a prisoner there. Though exhilarated, I began to feel sleepy.
I lay back on the wooden bench and stretched out. And I not only stretched out but I conked out.
Through the fog of deep sleep I felt soft hands stroking my body. I struggled and fought to work my way up to consciousness. But I felt so warm and languorous and comfortable that I did not really want to swim up out of the fog.
The soft hands were now caressing my inner thighs. They brushed the curls surrounding my cunt. And I climaxed as I had never done before.
That-blasted me up and out of the fog and back to reality.
I opened my eyes.
I stared up into dark brooding eyes that seemed to hypnotize me as a snake does a mouse. His face was gaunt and swarthy, capped by a mop of black curls. His nose, like his face, was long and lean, with flaring nostrils. His lips were thin, and his mouth was grim. He had a pointed goatee.
My gaze drifted downward. He was built like a greyhound, and he wore a flowing white silk robe with gold piping on it.
He had a face that looked as if it had been weathered by eons of time. Yet he had a youthful appearance. So it was hard to guess his age. Muddled as I was right then, I guessed his age to by somewhere between fifty and one hundred. I did, that is, until he moved and his robe momentarily parted to give me a brief glimpse of the biggest fattest goddamn hard on I had ever seen. Man, but was he hung! If he was one hundred, it's a pity all other men weren't that age.
"You have given us much trouble, my child," he said, in the same low vibrant voice I had heard on the phone.
The fight was gone out of me. So I mererly nodded.
His dark slim hands stretched outward. He took my hands and tugged me upward. "Come, my child," he said gently. I swiveled around and let him pull me to my feet and then I followed him to an open doorway and up a flight of concrete stairs.
He turned right at the top and I followed him into a small cozy room with gas logs blazing at one end of it. How soft the carpet felt on my bare feet as I sank into it ankle deep.
The walls were paneled walnut. The ceiling was maroon. There was a massive couch and several big chairs scattered around the room. At the far end was a desk with a straight chair in front of it and a swivel chair behind it.
He steered me to the straight chair and pushed me down on it. He rounded the desk and sat down in the swivel chair.
His dark eyes bored into me.
"Look at me, my child," he said, in a low voice.
My brains must really have been scrambled. Because I felt I had to do whatever he asked me to do.
So I stared into his mystic eyes. But all I saw were the smoldering fires of lust there.
He raised his right hand and opened it. A shining gold chain dropped from it. And on the end of it was the biggest diamond I had ever seen. It flashed fire and seemed to me as if it was alive.
CHAPTER THREE
The fiery diamond began slowly swinging back and forth as his smoldering eyes stared at me from just behind it.
"Keep staring into my eyes,' my child," he said.
What the hell else could I do? I was under already.
Back and forth, back and forth swung the fiery pendant while I continued to stare into the twin dark pools under those beetling black brows.
I fought for control. Though I was in the mystic realm which man still does not comprehend, I had a thin thread to reality still remaining. And it was tugging at the one small piece of my mind which was still not dominated.
I suddenly remembered my college days in a psychology lab.
Pain was the antidote for this poison.
But I knew that, even though I administered the antidote, I had better appear as if I were in a trance.
So I lei my eyelids get heavy and droop and finally close, but at the same time my fingernails were biting into my thighs. Pain flared. And as the pain became more intense I gradually floated back to reality. But I kept my eyes closed and let my body stump more and more until I had the appearance of one in a deep trance.
; "You are now my subject," he intoned. "Like all my subjects, you will do as I wish and obey my every order. If you hear me and understand what I am saying, try to raise your right hand." That was an old trick. The average peasant who was faking it would bite on that and raise his hand. And that would be a dead giveaway that he was a fake. Because it can't be done. Not at that stage of the game, anyway.
So I sat there, slumped down and motionless, wondering what was coming next.
"If you can hear me and understand what I am saying, respond in any way that you can."
That was more like it. I had passed the first test. But I wondered just how far under I really was. That would determine my response.
I determined to play it safe. I let the little finger of my right hand flutter. Then it was still.
"That is excellent," he said.
I had gone over the second hurdle. I had him fooled.
"You are now peaceful, so peaceful. But there is greater peace ahead for you. And now you will go deeper asleep. Deeper and deeper and deeper asleep. You are now even more peaceful. And you are going deeper and deeper and deeper asleep."
Well, he kept up that rigmarole for I don't know how long. And I slumped more and more and got limper and limper and hoped I was pulling it off.
And then I finally heard him say, "You are now so peaceful that you will do exactly as I say. You have a beautiful body. It is a shame to see it going to waste. So I shall nurture it."
Like hell he would! But I stayed drooped and limp, wondering what it would be like to be screwed by a reptile.
"Every Wednesday evening, from now on," he intoned, "you will come to service. You will also come to the social hour. And after the social hour you will come with me to my private suite. And there your beautiful body shall be nurtured all night."
"
I damn near shuddered. It was all I could do to stay limp and relaxed.
"You will need no sign from me," he said in a low voice. "Whenever you are near me you will be attracted to me and not wish to leave me. But after I have nurtured your body all night, I shall then squeeze your right nipple. And you will then wish to go out into the world again until the next Wednesday."
What a future for me. First I get screwed all night and then my right nipple gets twisted.
"I am now going to count to five. And after you awaken you will feel wonderful and alive. You will come and sit on my lap and kiss me and ask me to nurture your body for the rest of the night."
How I hell was I going to fake that?
"One; you are beginning to awaken a little. Two, your pulse is beginning to quicken. Three, you are beginning to stir a little. Four, you are beginning to awaken."
He clapped his hands. "Five," he shouted, "wake up smiling."
I had one helluva time bouncing up with a grin on my face. But I managed it. And I also managed to look around me, bewildered, and as if wondering where I was. "
And there he sat on a hassock near the couch I was lying on. He was naked. And he had a standup job such as I had never seen before.
I ran my fingers through my hair and tried to act befuddled and as if wanting to do something. He was watching me closely. I wondered if I could carry it off.
I slowly swiveled around and put my feet on the floor. I stood up and looked around the room as if still bewildered. I shot a glance at him. He was watching me like a cat beside a mouse hole. This had to be good.
Slowly I started forward toward him. When I got over to him I stopped and looked down into his lust-filled eyes and frowned. He said nothing.
I put one hand on his shoulder and hesitated a moment.
"Don't fight it," he said.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I sat down on his thighs, being careful not to get speared. Slowly, ever so slowly, my arms went around his neck.
I damn near gagged. But I mashed my lips against his, hoping I wouldn't puke.
I began planting kisses all over his belly, working down and down and down, while my hand never stopped massaging. And then my hot moist lips clamped on his cock as my fingernails lightly traced erotic patterns on his belly. He damn near exploded.
He rolled off the bed and stood beside it. He got me on my belly, grabbed my legs, and dragged me over toward him. He got me up on my knees on the edge of the bed, and parted my buttocks.
My hands went down to help out. He slowly entered me. I yelped. And then I began ramming backward against him to meet his forward thrust.
Once again the pressure was building within me. I began ramming harder and faster. That set him afire. And his movements speeded up and slammed against my buttocks with even greater fury.
And then I blew. Man, how I blew. And it wouldn't quit, as I slowly rocked back and forth, matching his slow strokes.
He suddenly withdrew.
"Put it back!" I ordered. "I want more."
"You'll get it," he promised me.
Once more he parted the cheeks of my buttocks.
He shoved. I screamed-because he had gone in the back door. .'.
He grabbed my hips and began ramming me with long slow strokes. And then I had the damndest sensation I had ever known. Both my joyhole and my bunghole began to vibrate.
Once again I began ramming back against him, faster and faster as his tempo speeded up. This was a business trip for him. But I hoped that I would get satisfied before he blasted.
And then it happened. Both my bunghole and my joyhole suddenly exploded at the same time, and two cataclysmic upheavals thundered through my body, threatening to blow me apart.
"Tell me when," he gasped.
"Now, now," I said, as my body stiffened. I suddenly became motionless, frozen like a statue, as he poured it to me.
I screamed as he grunted. The twin explosions within me were fading. I felt my strength draining away. And then he fell forward on me, mashing me flat on the bed.
We lay there for several minutes that way, fighting for breath. But I finally crawled out from under him and slid off.
I stood, looking down at him. He lay there on-his belly, snoring as if he had been sapped.
He hadn't twisted my right nipple. But, nevertheless, I was ready to go back into the world. But the question was, how was I going to get back into the world?
But if I ever did get back into the world, I promised myself, Johnny Blatnik could have his thousand dollars back and keep his ten-grand retainer. And, if necessary, I would shut up my office and be a beachcomber.
I padded over to the door, grabbed the knob, and twisted it while I stared at him. He didn't move or stop snoring. Good.
I slowly pulled the door back. The hinges didn't squeak. Good.
I stuck my head out and looked up and down the hall. It was deserted. So I silently moved into the hall and carefully closed the door.
I cautiously went down the stairs, wondering where the three gorillas were. So when I reached the closed door at the bottom of the stairs, I stood there and pressed my ear against it. Nothing.
I grabbed the knob and slowly turned it. Nothing happened. So I pulled the door back and peered into the room. It was silent and deserted.
I quickly moved through the opening and closed the door behind me. I wondered if I would have to walk through the cold shower and the sauna bath to get back to where I was stripped.
I moved across the room and opened the door on that side. The concrete vault was cold and damp but the floor was dry. So I quickly closed the door behind me and headed for the opposite door.
I was still cautious. I slowly opened that door and peered through the opening. It, too, was deserted. So I closed that door behind me and headed for the opposite wall.
The padded cell where I had been rubber-hosed was also deserted. There was one more door to go through. Perhaps that's where the gorillas were hanging out.
But that room was deserted, too. My clothes lay scattered on the floor. But my purse was nowhere in sight.
I grinned, wondering what their faces looked like when they opened my purse. Because all that there was in it were a coin purse with some silver and a five-dollar bill, and a lipstick and a handkerchief. There was no ID of any kind. I had seen to that. I had left my driver's license and other ID locked up in the glove compartment of my Edsel.
I quickly dressed and, carrying my shoes, I padded over to the first door I had been shoved through. Beyond that door was the main room of the guardhouse.
I reached for a switch beside the door and snapped off the light. Then I slowly opened the door.
Silence greeted me. There was only one brute out there now. And he sat in a chair with his back to me and his chin on his chest. He was asleep.
That seemed damned funny. Because if the Swami caught him asleep he would be sacked. So the others must be around somewhere.
The archway was by now probably blocked by a gate. So there was only one way out of there-past the sleeping goon and out the front door.
But if he woke up as I went past him or when I opened the door, then what?
A sawed-off ball bat lay on the floor at the end of one of the desks. I headed toward it and grabbed it up. Then I started toward the front door.
I moved as silently and stealthily as a cat, with my shoes in my left hand and with my right hand gripping the handle of the ball bat, as I stared at the hulking figure in the chair.
As I passed him, I gave him a final glance. Then I moved on toward the front door.
I grabbed the doorknob, twisted it, and pulled the door open. I glanced behind me. He was still asleep.
I quietly closed the door and stood outside in the cool darkness for a moment.
I turned and glanced through a small, shoulder height window in the door. Gargantua was still asleep.
As I was turning away from the window the rear door was slammed back. The other two gorillas lumbered through it, dragging a lanky form between them.
"Hey, Gus," the bigger brute yelled. "Wake up!"
The sleeping goon snapped awake and looked over his shoulder.
"Look what we found ransacking the Swami's office," the bigger one said with a grin. "But the Swami will be disappointed. Because he up and died on us."
I stood there, horrified, as they yanked the limp form upright.
It was Mickey Finarty.
I whirled and barged pell-mell through the darkness, across Salvation Drive, and I didn't stop running until I had reached my car.
It's a damn good thing a prowl car didn't come along while I was running down Wilshire with my shoes in one hand and a sawed-off ball bat in the other. Because I would probably have spent the rest of the night in an interrogation room, trying to convince a bunch of dim-witted cops that I always carried a sawed-off ball bat when I was out at night. And that I always took off my shoes and ran when I was out at night, just in case I was being followed. But I sure as hell wouldn't tell any cop what I had seen through the front door.
I yanked open the front door of my car and slid under the wheel. I was boiling. I slammed the door so hard the glass nearly split. And I sat there gripping the steering wheel, still seeing Mickey's battered bloody face as one of the apes grabbed his hair and pulled his head up.
I had dealt myself out of the game. But now I was dealing myself back in again. Mickey Finarty was an easygoing lovable guy. The only enemies he had on earth were the scum and the vermin such as I had seen out there this night at the Mystique Temple.
But if they had found Mickey ransacking the Swami's office, why hadn't they grabbed him and taken him to the Swami?
Why had they beaten Mickey to a bloody pulp instead of taking him to the Swami? And what was the Swami going to say when he saw Mickey's battered body? More important, what were the two apes going to say? How were they going to explain why they had battered Mickey instead of bringing him in alive?
There was only one logical answer to that. The two goons thought that the Swami had left the guardhouse.
So that meant that the three of them were up to their cauliflower ears in some kind of a dirty game. Mickey must have stumbled onto it. So they had to kill Mickey before he got a chance to talk to the Swami.
If so, then Mickey wasn't ransacking the Swami's office when they found him. They found him, wherever it was, with evidence tying the three of them to some kind of dirty business. So Mickey had to be silenced.
If all this were true, then the Swami was not to blame for Mickey's death.
But that didn't add up. Those three apes didn't have enough brains to fill. a thimble. They were musclemen. They did as the Swami ordered.
So the Swami must have ordered the two of them to work Mickey over. But they were too rough about it. And Mickey up and died on them, as one of them had said.
And so, even though the Swami might not be responsible for Mickey's death, he was responsible for Mickey being worked over. And he was going to pay for that, but good. I'd see to that. And I'd also see to it that the two brutes wound up in the morgue with tags on their toes.
But what were they going to do now with Mickey's body? Show it to the Swami? Or would they dump it and tell the Swami they had worked him over and then booted him out the gate?
If the Swami hadn't ordered Mickey killed, they wouldn't dare show the body to the Swami. So what would they do with the body?
I scowled and kicked that one around for a moment. Perhaps they would try to bury it on the grounds. Or they might load the body into a car and take it for a ride.
I reached under the front seat and my hand scrounged around until it closed on my key case. I yanked it up and fumbled for a key and shoved it into the ignition lock. I got the engine going.
I turned on the lights, put it into gear, and wheeled away from the curb. I headed up Wilshire and turned into Salvation Drive. The lights were still on in the main room of the guardhouse. But the big wrought iron gate stood Closed. So did the gate blocking the archway.
I gunned it and headed for the next cross street. I made a ll turn and headed back. I swerved into the curb and parked, with two other cars between me and the gate.
I cut the lights and the motor and sat there in the darkness wishing I had a cigarette.
Suddenly I yanked the key from the ignition lock and shoved it into the glove compartment lock and twisted it. The door dropped down. My hand fumbled.
Eureka! I pulled out a pack of cigarettes that were half gone. My hand explored again and found a book of matches. I put a cigarette betwen my lips and lit it. The cigarette was dry and the smoke was hotter than the steam from a volcano. So I couldn't inhale. But the nicotine got to me and I began to feel better.
I began to get sleepy. So I climbed out of the car and began walking up and dwon on the grass between the sidewalk and the curb. How good the cool night air felt. But my butt was freezing.
Suddenly headlight beams bored through the darkness from behind the main gate. And then a car rolled out over the sidewalk and turned right into Salvation Drive, headed toward Wilshire.
I dived into my car, got it going, and shot away from the curb as the other car turned right on Wilshire, headed west.
I stood on the brake at Wilshire, and then wheeled right. They were about a block ahead.
I hoped that they hadn't seen me pull out of Salvation Drive. Because if they had, I would probably wind up wearing concrete boots, too.
I loafed along, letting them get farther and farther ahead. But the street was deserted. So I didn't lose them.
I had them figured right. They finally headed up a ramp and onto the San Diego Freeway, headed south. They were San Pedro bound.
And that's just where they wound up, down by the docks.
I damn near lost them when they headed for the docks. I didn't dare tail them down there, with my headlights flashing. So I had to park my Edsel and go it on foot. It was darker than outer space down there. And I damn near walked right into them.
I pulled back just in time. They were just two dim and indistinct figures lugging something between them. But their shoe's scuffed on the pavement. So I let them get far ahead, knowing that I could follow the sound.
I trailed them through the darkness, down a rough brick street and onto a dock. By then, they were far ahead. But it didn't matter. Because I couldn't break up their party all alone.
So I went back down the dock to the street and turned right. I stumbled across the front of the building. Fumbling with my hands, I finally found the front entrance. I pulled the book of matches from my pocket and made a match flare. In the flickering amber light I could read a faded sign. It was Pier 19.
I waved out the match and headed back down the street toward my car, walking on my toes so my heels would not clack.
I heard the distant sound of scuffing shoes. They were coming back.
Still on my toes, I ran toward a big truck backed against a building, and crouched down in the darkness beside it.
The sound of scuffing shoes grew louder. They soon passed me, and the sound faded away to my left.
I wondered where their car was. It was too risky to attempt to tail them, even if I took off my shoes. So I stayed put.
And then from down the street to my left there was the sound of a car's engine. Headlights soon came up the street toward me. I stayed laid low.
The car passed me. I jumped up and ran into the street. The car was about three-hundred feet away. So I could see the license plate-CON 6969.
I stood there in the silent blackness, trying to force myself to relax. When the red taillights turned left at a distant corner, I dug out my cigarettes and lit one. Then I headed toward my car.
It was nearly 2:00 when I parked in front of Danny's Diner, an all-night beanery. I climbed out and headed across the street toward a dark and silent service station. I found a phone booth and got into it.
I left the door open so that the light wouldn't come on. A distant street light gave me enough illumination to see the dial. And then I remembered that I was broke.
I got out of the booth and headed back toward Danny's Diner and went inside. A short fat baldheaded guy with a red nose and a pair of jug ears was setting a mug of coffee on the counter in front of a big guy in a leather jacket. He looked up as I came in.
"Hi, Shiela," he greeted.
I nodded. "How's everything, Mike?"
I headed down the counter toward the other end. And I nearly reached the other end before I found a vacant stool.
Mike was busy frying ham and eggs and flipping pancakes for nearly fifteen minutes. But he finally waddled down to me.
"Do me a favor, Mike."
"Sure, sure," he said, wiping his hands on his dirty white apron. "What is it?"
"Loan me a dime." He frowned and stared at me. "I mean it, Mike. I'm broke."
"You in trouble?"
"Not yet. That's why I want a dime."
"For the phone?" I nodded.
Mike's big fat hand went under his apron and came out-with a fistful of silver. He dumped it onto the palm of his other hand and fished a dime from the mess.
"Sure you don't want more than a dime?" he asked, giving it to me.
I shook my head as I took it and stood up.
"Here, take another dime. You might lose that-one."
"You'll have it back tomorrow," I promised. "Don't worry about it."
I got out of the diner and once again headed across the street and toward the phone booth. Again I left the door open as I dropped in a dime and dug at the dial.
And then I stood there in the darkness, listening to muted ringing.
A gruff sleepy voice growled, "Yeah?"
"Yeah yourself," I said. "This is Shiela Sharp."
"So what kind of a goddamn mess are you in now?"
"No mess. But you and Mickey Finarty were bar buddies for years."
"So what?"
"So Mickey's just been dumped off the far end of Pier 19."
"What?"
"You heard me," I said. "Where are you?"
"Across the street from Danny's Diner." .
"I'll meet you there in ten minutes."
The phone slammed down. I hung up my phone and rubbed my ear, wondering if I would be able to hear again. And then I got out of the phone booth and slowly pegged across the street toward Danny's Diner, wondering what Jim Jarvis would say if it wasn't Mickey's body that had been, dumped off Pier 19.
Because Jim Jarvis was a police lieutenant ana head of the homicide detail. And he was also famous for his explosive temper.
CHAPTER FOUR
I was working on my third cup of coffee when Jim Jarvis walked in.
He slid onto the stool beside me. "If Mickey's still alive," he growled, "I'll break your goddamn neck. I was having the most wonderful dream. There was this naked blonde...."
"Skip the dream," I told him. "Mickey's dead. I saw him when they dragged him in. Then I tailed them down to the docks in San Pedro. They were lugging something between them and went out on Pier 19. But whether it was Mickey or not, I don't know. I suppose it was."
"But you know that Mickey's dead?"
"Yes. I saw him when they brought him in, as I said. One of the apes said that Mickey up and died on them."
Jim hauled out his cigaretttes and offered me one. I grabbed it as if I were having a nicotine fit. Then I leaned toward his flaring lighter.
"Maybe you'd better start from the beginning and tell me all about it," Jim said.
I did.
We killed that pack of cigarettes and had a pile of butts in the tray between us by the time I had finished. And Jim's long angular face looked even more gaunt and grim.
"The dirty sonsofbitches," Jim muttered, standing up. "Come on."
He tossed a bill on the counter, waved to Mike, and we headed toward the door.
My Edsel couldn't keep up with Jim's cruiser. So I left it behind and climbed in with Jim.
Jim was a tall, lanky, rawboned guy with a shock of unruly black hair and ferret eyes that drilled the truth out of everyone he talked to. And he had a short fuse.
As we roared down the San Diego Freeway through the deserted night, I stayed huddled in my corner of the seat, chain smoking, and listening to the constant chatter on the radio. LA was a sleeping city. But, according to the radio, women were being raped, children were being beaten, all-night markets were being held up, and mobs were looting stores in southeast LA. While the city slept, its vermin were awake and on the prowl, with violence the rule instead of the exception.
Jim sat ramrod straight, staring straight ahead, and driving as if he were a mechanical man. And I knew better than to try to talk or intrude on his thoughts. Jim was a corked bottle. He never showed any emotion, except when he was laying me. And damn little, even then. So it was no wonder that he was always popping his cork when the pressure got too great.
But smoldering hate was creating the pressure within him now. The way he was built, he could not show grief. And so, in time, I knew, his grief would explode into the open as seething rage.
He roared off the freeway and bounced across brick pavement, headed toward the docks. He reached for a mike and grabbed it up.
"This is Jarvis. What's the report?"
"A full crew is at the end of Pier 19 now, Lieutenant."
"Thanks," Jarvis muttered, before hanging up the mike.
At Pier 19 he rammed the cruiser into a slot and stood on the brake. He was out of the car before it had stopped shuddering. I climbed out and ran after him, trying to keep up with his long strides.
A garish scene was far ahead of us as we headed out on the pier. Floodlights had been set up to do battle with the drifting fog. Men were scurrying around. Red lights on cruisers were winking at us. And even from that distance "we could sense the grim urgency out there on the end of the pier.
When' he came up, no one paid any attention to us. They were all staring at the cold-murky water below. So we joined the group.
Jim soon backed away and headed toward a short stocky guy in a blue uniform and a shining black crash helmet.
"What's doing, Sergeant?" Jim asked.
The sergeant turned and looked up at Jim's dark face. "We're still grappling. No luck yet."
"What about the tide?"
"It's been going out for the last two or three hours. When was he dunaped?" . Jim turned to me.
"It "was about two o'clock when I got back to Danny's Diner," I said. "My Edsel doesn't ramble very fast. So I would say he was dumped between midnight-and one o'clock."
"Doesn't matter whether he was dumped at high tide or not. The tide's been going out since then. That's probably what they were counting on."
"Would divers be any help?" Jim asked.
"Not unless the body got snagged. If we don't' have any luck with grappling, we may send divers down."
A boat put-putted from out of the darkness and into the cone of light hitting the water at the end of the pier.
"There's rocks on the bottom between here and the pier," someone yelled from the boat. "We can't get in any closer.?
The sergeant nodded. "I've got two men ready to go'. I'll send them down."
He turned and strode away. And Jim and I stood there staring at the angry water below.
While on the force, I had seen this tense drama enacted many times. It had always made me shudder as I looked down at the cold churning water. And, if it was a suicide, I wondered how anyone could be so off his rocker that he could jump into it.
The wind was as cold as the water, and was whipping my miniskirt. My thighs and butt were nearly frozen, and my teeth began chattering.
Jim went over to an ambulance, yanked the door open, and came back lugging a blanket. He wrapped it around me and I stood there looking like a squaw. But how good it felt. And my teeth soon stopped chattering.
Another boat slid into the cone of light and fought to stay near the pier. A big bulky monster came to the side of the boat, clumsily climbed over the side, and slowly disappeared into the surging water. Another boat swept in. Another monster clambered over the side and slipped beneath the dark water.
And then we all stood there, tense and expectant, as one does when the jury is out.
Jim glanced at his watch. "They can't stay down there long. The water's too cold. I doubt if they find anything."
A distant buoy whistled. A fog horn moaned. A diesel blatted far behind us. And trucks faintly rumbled on the remote freeway. But they only seemed to make the silence there on the end of the pier even more oppressive.
A monster suddenly bobbed to the surface. A thich bulky arm raised up and-waved.
"He's found something," Jim said.
The diver was hauled onto the boat. His headpiece was removed. And we could see a shock of unruly red hair and a sweating florid face.
A winch went into action. Soon a dripping shapeless form broke the water and was swung abroad.
Jim started forward and I grabbed his arm. He had eyes only for the sodden figure on the deck of the boat, not for the edge of the pier.
The boat's motor roared. It swung in closer to the pier. A winch on the pier suddenly came to life and its cable whirred.
"We'll soon know," Jim said, backing away and circling the other men as he headed toward the winch.
I'll spare you the gruesome details. Because when the sea gives up its dead, even the most hardened turn away and want to retch.
That's why I did not follow Jim. Instead, I stood huddled in my blanket, beyond, the crowd of men, wondering if it was Mickey who had been dredged up.
Jim soon joined me. He said nothing. He didn't have to. One look at the bunched muscles along his jaw and the fires of hate in his dark eyes told me the story.
He headed down the pier with even longer strides than before. This-time I really had to run to keep up with him.
"Now what?" I asked.
"What do you think?" he growled.
"If you're thinking what I'm thinking," I said, "you're a goddamn fool."
"Get off my back."
"You'll be busted back to pounding a beat in Venice,"-I told him.
"I don't give a goddamn."
From long years of working with and knowing Jim Jarvis, I knew better than to argue with him. So I clammed up. But as I jogged along beside him, I sorted out every possibility. He had to be stopped for his own good and for my sake. If he barged into the Mystique Temple, berserk as he was at that moment, he would blast .everyone in sight. He'd also blast his career. And he'd blast my case, too. So he had to be stopped.
But how? That's what I was trying to figure out as I panted along beside him.
A floodlight bored through the blackness just ahead. And I saw my answer.
I dropped behind Jim. He didn't notice. He was in his own world of boiling hate.
As I trotted behind him I suddenly stooped down and grabbed up a short length of pipe. I speeded up. We were once again in inky blackness.
My right hand went up and over. Steel crunched bone. He fell backward and I tried to .grab him.
As I lugged him toward the dark building, I said, "Sorry, Chum. This hurts me worse than it hurts you."
Captain John Michael Quinn was a forty-year veteran of IA's finest.
Rumor had it that he had never made higher than captain because he didn't know when to keep his mouth shut, and that he was always telling off the brass. Another rumor had it that he had been "busted back to private.
He was big shaggy bear of a man with a grizzled grey crewcut, blue eyes under bushy brows, and a square jaw jutting out below a grim mouth.
He was head of the detective detail, and had been when I was on the force. And he always wore a rumpled tweed suit with a dingy white shirt and a battered blue tie. So he always looked like an unmade bed.
I had done undercover work for him several times, so I knew that beneath his rough exterior and his gruff manner he was all mush. He was one of the few men on the force who was fair and square, and willing to give the other guy a break. But I always tried to act properly scared when I went into his office while assigned to him.
Since Quinn had a short fuse, like Jim Jarvis, the two men had never gotten along. Jim, as head of the homicide detail, was under Quinn. When Jim was in Quinn's office, and we could hear them yelling at each other at full throttle, we used to make book on whether Jim would be busted back to a prowl car. But I always bet that Quinn would never sack Jim. And he never had, because Quinn was fair and square and Jim was an outstanding man.
Quinn was an old bachelor. Except for horse racing, and a fishing trip every summer, he had no outside interests. So he practically lived in his office. And if there was a hang-up on a case, he'd be out gumshoeing around at three o'clock in the morning.
So that's why I headed for a phone booth. If he wasn't at his desk, they'd know where to reach him.
I scrounged around in my pocket and found the second dime that Mike had given me. I dropped it into the slot and spun the dial. A few minutes later I heard the familiar gruff voice.
"Quinn."
"Don't you ever sleep?" I asked.
"What's it to you?"
"This is Shiela Sharp."
"Oh. What's cookin'?"
"I've just slugged Jim Jarvis with a hunk of pipe."
"You did what?"
I heard a crash. I knew what it was. His pipe had dropped out of his mouth and bounced on the desk. So I knew he was shook.
"Yeah," I said. "But I had to do it."
"Why?"
"Can you come on down here? When Jim wakes up, he'll break me up into little pieces."
"Woman," Quinn muttered. "Okay. Where are you?"
"Pier 19."
"Did they find Finarty's body?"
"Yes.. That's why I had to slug Jim."
"Stay put. I'm comin'."
His phone was slammed down. I got out of the booth and dug up what was left of the pack of cigarettes Jim had given me. I lit one and headed toward his cruiser. I had dumped the blanket in the ambulance before leaving the end of the dock, so now I was cold.
I climbed into the cruiser and sucked on my. cigarette while the radio chattered away. But I paid no attention to it.
I had really bollixed up the case. I had run out on the Swami while he was asleep. So what would he think when he woke up?
Perhaps the Swami had ordered the two apes to dump Mickey's body in the bay. So what would the Swami think when he read in the papers that Mickey's body had been recovered? The answer to that was obvious. He'd know someone had seen the body clumped. But he couldn't tie it to me. Or could he?
No demure damsel would do as I had done that night-stepping over the beam and telling off the Swami and acting like a berserk hellion. So he would know that I hadn't gone out to the Mystique Temple to seek religious inspiration.
Sure, I had no ID in my purse. But the Swami was a resourceful man. That's why he was where he was. So had he, somehow, established my identity before waking me up?
And was it possible that he had given me enough rope so I would hang myself? Was that why he had tried the hypnosis bit? By making certain I'd come to Wednesday evening service every week, he'd be able to keep tabs on me. Or did he want me coming to Wednesday evening service every week just so he could lay me?
And so, now what? I had faked being hypnotized. And if I didn't show up the following Wednesday evening, he would know I had faked it. And he would wonder how I knew so much about it that I could. If he was not already suspicious of me, he would be if I didn't show up at the next Wednesday evening .service.
I had gone out to the Mystique Temple that night hoping I could get next to the Swami. And I had blown it. If I went back out there again, it was entirely possible I'd never come out alive. The Swami wasn't the type to ask questions or have conclusive proof. He would know that I was up to no good. And he wouldn't hesitate to put me out of circulation.
But if I didn't go back out to the Mystique Temple, I couldn't get the answers for Johnny Blatnik. And more was involved now than that. Mickey Finarty was dead. And the Swami and his rats were going to pay for that, but good.
And then it hit me-Sandy Shea.
Sandy was my age. She had been hot front page copy for years. Only the Shea millions had saved her from doing time for everything from manslaughter to holding up a bank just for the hell of it.
I'd have Sandy throw one of her famous parties, with every big shot there, and invite the Swami, too. And I knew that the Swami would be there. Because he was always looking for rich pigeons to pluck.
Headlights swung around the corner. And a car pulled onto Pier 19 and stopped.
I climbed out and went over to it.
Quinn slid out from under the wheel as I walked up. "Where is he?" he asked.
"Farther out on the pier," I told him.
Quinn got back in the car and threw the rear door open. "Get in," he ordered.
I got in and Quinn reached outside and slammed the door shut. I was in a squirrel cage. I was a prisoner.
I suddenly got a sinking feeling. What if Quinn was taking me in for slugging Jarvis?
Quinn said nothing. He shut his door and threw the car into gear. He headed out on the pier.
I wasn't certain where I had rapped Jim. And I kept watching for some clue.
Suddenly I saw a piece of pipe just ahead. The car had nearly run over it before I could yell, "Here."
Quinn hit the brake. "Where?"
"I think that was the pipe I used. Then I dragged him over to the building."
Quinn shoved against his door and got out. He said nothing. He lumbered away, toward the building.
So I was a prisoner. Otherwise, why hadn't he let me out?
I could dimly see Quinn scouting around over near the building. He finally stopped and squatted down. And I began to shake. What if Jim was dead?
Quinn came back to the car. He backed through the opening and sat down on the end of the seat, with his feet still on the ground. He scowled through the steel grille at me.
"Why did you slug him?" he asked.
"Is he alive?" I asked.
"Sure. He's got a thick head. But why did you slug him?"
"Because he was headed for the Mystique Temple. He was mad. He was going to go out there and clean out the whole bunch of them. I had to stop him somehow."
"Yeah. But how did you know that Finarty had been dumped off the end of the pier?"
"Am I a prisoner?" I asked.
Quinn pulled his pipe and tamped tobacco in it. "Why do you ask?"
"Because if I'm a prisoner, I'm saying nothing more without an attorney present."
Quinn chuckled and lit a match. He sucked flame into the bowl of his pipe and finally waved out the match. "What makes you think you're a prisoner?"
"I'm caged back here."
Quinn's pipe gurgled as smoke billowed from it. "After you tell me all about it, I'll decide whether you're a prisoner or not."
"Okay. Let's just say that I was tipped that Mickey Finarty had been killed and his body was going to be dumped. So I tailed them down here to the dock. I saw two men going out on the pier, lugging something between them. They came back without it. After they had driven off, I got in my car and headed back to town. That's when I called Jim."
"Let's say that you weren't tipped," Quinn said. "Isn't that more like it?"
"I'm saying nothing more," I told him. "Now do I get out of here or don't I?"
Quinn sighed and punched at a button on the dash. Then he reached outside and jerked the door open. "Okay, out."
I crawled out and gave the door a shove.
"Okay," Quinn said, "you're not a prisoner now. So do you want to tell me about it?"
I did. With the wind flapping my miniskirt and freezing my butt. But I wasn't about to crawl back into that car.
Quinn sat there, sucking on his gurgling pipe, and squinting at me with his quizzical blue eyes. And I wondered if he was buying it.
When I had finished, he said, "What was Mickey doing out there?"
"Damfino. He knew I was going out there. Maybe he went out to try to keep an eye on me."
"Could be. But I doubt it. Our cars have spotted him several different nights, prowling around the edge of the grounds. When they'd stop and question him, he'd say nothing. But he was working on something. And tonight he tried to play hero. So he wound up dead. And you will, too. Blatnik was a goddamn fool to send you in there."
"Yeah," I agreed. "But Johnny said that a woman would be safe. Because if the Swami went for her, he wouldn't be suspicious."
"Bull!" Quinn snorted. "We almost nailed the Swami for murder last year. Had a witness and everything. Don't know who the broad was. We never found her body. But the Swami shot her in the head while he was laying her."
"And the witness got it in the head, too?"
"Worse than that. He had a hole blown clear through him. Some guy must've held a shotgun against his belly and given him both barrels point-blank."
"Some protection you gave him." I said.
"He climbed out a window while one of my men was building a drink for him. He must have been a human fly. There was nothing but a drainpipe running down the wall. And he was on the third floor. The next morning he was found at a dump, buried under a load of garbage. Someone noticed his feet sticking out."
"But why did he run?" I asked. "If you never found her body, how do you know the Swami killed anyone?"
"Can't go into that. But I know. And I know there were others. But we've never been able to get anything we could take into court."
I dropped my cigarette and stepped on it. Quinn was beginning to get to me. If I had known that the Swami was a Bluebeard, I would have told Johnny Blatnik to go to hell. But more than that was involved now. Mickey Finarty was dead.
Quinn swiveled around and pulled the door shut. "So that's why I'm telling you to stay away from the Mystique Temple. And if you don't, I'll figure some way to put you in Corona until we nail the Swami."
We stared at each other for a moment. Quinn wasn't one to fool with. He wasn't one to make idle threats, either. And I knew that Quinn was just the guy to put me in Corona if he made up his mind to do it.
"So what are you going to do about Jim?" I asked.
"You're changing the subject."
"Yeah," I admitted.
Quinn knocked out his pipe and grinned. "After Jim gets through with you, you'll probably wish you had gone to Corona before he woke up."
CHAPTER FIVE
I had a helluva time trying to reach Sandy Shea. It would have been easier to get to LB J. How I wished that Mickey Finarty was around. He had had the unlisted phone numbers of all the big shots in town. He had helped me out on several cases during the past two years. But he was gone.
And then I thought of The Weasel.
I pulled open the lower left drawer of my desk and stared down at the junk in it. I'm like Phyllis Diller. Why bother to file everything and waste time that way? It was much easier throwing everything into that drawer and then scrounging for items if need be.
I yanked out the drawer and set it on my desk. Then I started rummaging through the hundreds of slips of paper and the ballpoint pens that were half-shot, and the road maps and you name it.
Somehwere in the mess was the slip of paper I was looking for. I have a phenomenal memory for trivia. I can't tell you something important like the date Columbus discovered America. But I could tell you what the slip of paper I was scrounging for looked like. It had been wadded up and tossed into an ash tray at Sam's Bar and Grill when I was still on the force.
Suddenly I saw something brown. I dug it out. It was the wrinkled and charred slip of paper I was looking for.
I picked up the phone. And as I dialed, it occurred to me that perhaps The Weasel could do more than get Sandy Shea's phone number for me. He might be able to get a line on the Swami, too.
I could hear muted ringing. That's the way it had always been. The Weasel never answered the phone until it had rung for two or three minutes. Because if a guy would stay on the line that long, The Weasel knew he meant business. So I glanced at my watch and let his phone continue ringing.
After three minutes I was. ready to hang up-Just as I pulled the phone from my ear I heard his rasping voice say, "Yes?"
"This is Fanny," I told him.
He always called me that. Because, he said, I had a cute one.
"Yeah?"
"I need you," I said. "When and where?"
If words were silver dollars, The Weasel would have been a millionaire. He never wasted any.
"The sooner the better and wherever you say," I told him.
"Poggin's in thirty minutes."
"
I looked at my watch. "But...."
There was a click. I was too late. And my Edsel would never make it to Poggin's in thirty minutes.
I lit a cigarette and frowned. There was only one way to get there..Sooner or later I had to get a chewing. So it might as well be sooner.
I picked up the phone again and whirled the dial. I was soon connected.
"Jarvis."
"Got a headache?" I asked.
There was a long silence. I held the phone away from my ear, expecting to hear a crash at any second.
"You still there?" I finally asked.
"Yeah."
"Still love me?" I asked.
"Don't try throwing your butt at me. It won't work."
"I'm not," I told him. "You're just the guy to help me out of a crisis. That's the only reason I called you."
"What do you want?"
"I have to be at Poggin's in less than thirty minutes."
He let out a low whistle.
"And my Edsel doesn't have wings."
"So you want me to split traffic for you?"
"Why not?"
"Yeah. See you within five minutes."
Jarvis never lowered a phone. He always slammed it down as if he was smashing a cockroach. So I cradled my phone and beat the heel of my hand on the side of my head, trying to get the ringing out of my ear.
The I jumped up, grabbed my purse, and got out of there.
As I hit the sidewalk in front of my building, Jarvis swung his cruiser into the curb. I yanked the door open and climbed in. He pulled away from the curb, watched for an opening, and then gunned it. And as we shot down the street he kicked on the siren.
"This is the only way to go," I said with a grin. He nodded, staring straight ahead, and skillfully threading the big car through the traffic.
I settled myself in the far corner of the seat and clammed up, wondering when he was going to blast me.
He said nothing until he suddenly swerved to the right and slid along a red curb in front of Poggin's.
He looked over at me. "Thanks," he said. "Thanks for-what?"
"For stopping me last night. I'd have been busted off the force."
"That what Quinn told you?"
He grinned. "He told me worse than that. And when I got to work this morning, that hunk of pipe you hit tae with was nailed to the wall across from my desk, courtesy of John Michael Quinn."
I laughed. "I hope it's not nailed down so tight but what someone can use it on you again when you flip your lid."
I glanced at my watch. I had five minutes. "I've gotta go."
"I suppose it's useless to ask you why you're slumming at high noon."
"Yeah," I agreed, sliding out of the car. I looked over my shoulder, blew a kiss at him, and stood up. I gave the door a slam and pegged across the walk to the battered red door of Poggin's.
It was as dark as a bat cave inside, but the atmosphere was more like a tomb. There was no one in there except me and the bartender, who was busily polishing glasses.
The Weasel's favorite booth was at the rear and over to the right, in a niche behind the far end of the bar. And for good reason. Just behind the booth was an open doorway with twin drapes. Beyond the drapes, and to the left, was the stairs to the basement.
How The Weasel got into the basement and up those stairs was a mystery to me. And of course I never asked him.
I slid into the booth, facing the doorway to the stairs. Every time I sat in that booth I was determined I would see The Weasel come through the drapes. But I never had yet. And I didn't that day, either.
The bartender came back tome. I ordered a beer. He set it down in front of me as I was lighting a cigarette. When the smoke thinned out a little, there sat The Weasel across from me.
"So what hole did you pop out of this time?" I asked.
He grinned, popped a stick of chewing gum into his mouth, and said nothing. Then he sat there chewing on it and staring at me.
"I'm on a case," I told him.
"And only because I was down on the docks last night."
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
"You damn near got your head split open."
"You sapped him?"
He nodded. "You were heading onto Pier 19. He was laying for you ahead."
"Who?" I asked.
He shrugged and said nothing.
"So what were you doing down there?"
"Lookin' around. You drove under a light before you parked. I recognized your car. So when you got out I tailed you. Then I saw the other three guys.
"Three guys? There were only two."
He shook his head.
"Two guys," I repeated. "And they were lugging something between them."
"Three guys," he told me. "One was up ahead, scoutin' around. If the watchman had come along, he'd have been slugged. They didn't want no witnesses."
"So how did you get ahead of me?" I asked. He lit a cigarette. "There was a string of boxcars alongside the building. Remember?" I nodded.
"I climbed the first ladder and ran down the string of cars. When I climbed down at the other end I was ahead of him. So I went lookin' for him. I saw him flattened against a big crate. The other two guys went past him. Then he heard you comin'. I got him before he got you."
"Thanks," I said, reaching out for his hand and squeezing it. "Know who those creeps were?"
He nodded. "I was wearin' sneakers. So I ran ahead of them. There was enough light out there at the end of the pier so's I could peg them. It was Augie and Heinie."
"Know who they're working for?" I asked. He nodded. "Do you?"
That was an old trick of The Weasel's, turning a question around and firing it at you. So I did as The Weasel had done. I nodded.
"Who?" he asked.
"You tell me," I said.
He grinned. "I saw you out there with the cops. How did you know it was Finarty?"
"I didn't," I said.
He shook his head. "You wouldn't have gone back out there unless you'd known who'd been dumped. So how did you know?"
"I was tipped," I told him.
"Yeah. Now are we workin' together or ain't we?"
We sat there staring at each other for a moment. Finally I said, "I have to be sure whose side you're on."
He stubbed out his cigarette, frowning at it, and then he looked at me. "I've always been on your side, Fanny."
"Yeah," I agreed. "In the past, you have. But I'm sure the Swami has crossed your palm with many bills since I last saw you."
He grinned. "That don't mean nothin'."
"It's said you'll sell out to the highest bidder. I can't pay what the Swami pays."
"Have I ever sold you out?"
I shook my head.
"Remember the Morelli kill? I walked away from ten-grand on that one."
"For doing what?"
"Rub you."
That rocked me. "Who offered you ten-grand to rub me?"
"Ain't sayin'. But I had a grand shoved in my hand, with nine to follow. I dropped it on the floor and walked away from it. So why would I sell you out now?"
I grabbed his hand again. "I'm sorry."
"Needn't be. That's the way you stay alive, playin' it safe. So what do you want from me?"
"Help me nail the Swami."
He stuck another cigarette in his mouth and lit it. "That'd be choppin' off three-grand a year."
He sucked on his cigarette and stared across the room. I stayed clammed. It was his decision. But I knew that if he didn't play, he wouldn't sell me out.
He finally looked back at me. "Why do you wanta nail him?"
"Do you know that Mickey was murdered last night out at the Mystique Temple?"
"I don't believe it."
"I do. I was there. I saw it."
"You saw Mickey killed?"
"No. I saw two apes drag him in. They said he had up and died on them."
"So why blame the Swami for that?"
"The Swami knew what was going on. If they played that rough, it was because the Swami didn't care. So I don't give a damn whether the Swami ordered Mickey killed or not. He killed Mickey just as much as if he had shot him."
"And that's the only reason you wanta nail him?"
"There's more. But I would have backed off if Mickey hadn't been killed."
"So you're not goin' ahead with the other deal?"
"No. That is, if I nail him for killing Mickey, that will settle the other matter at the same time."
"And stop his heists?" I stared at him. "You know about that?" He nodded. "So what could you do about it?"
"They wanted me to get next to him and see what I could find out."
"You wouldn't have had to tell them about it."
"That's what Quinn says."
"Quinn's right," he told me. "Mickey's dead," I said. "And there's not a goddamn thing the cops can do about it. And from what I hear, this isn't the first kill. There have been others."
"Lots of them. When he gets tired of his dollies, he smashes them. Because smashed dollies can't talk. And he'll smash you, too."
"Maybe so," I told him. "But I'm going in. I've got a plan."
"What is it?" I told him.
He shook his head. "Won't work."
"Why not?"
"The Swami won't fall for it. Oh, he'll let on that he bought it. He'll let you get in deeper and deeper. Then he'll smash you."
I shuddered in spite of myself. "But I can't forget-what Mickey's face looked like that night."
"Yours will look worse. So stay away from there."
"Then if I go in, you won't help me?"
"I didn't say that. You know my number."
"But if you don't answer, and I'm in a jam and need you fast...."
He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. He struck a match and held the paper to the flame. Then he dropped it and beat out the fire with his fist. He held up the charred paper and grinned. "That's my trademark."
My grin matched his.
He pulled a pen from his pocket and scribbled on the slip of paper. He shoved it across to me. "If you can't get me at the other number, try this. I'll set it up with Limp so you can get through to me at any time."
Sandy Shea lived in a penthouse high atop a chrome and black marble monstrosity near Century City.
It was near eight o'clock that evening when I swung my Edsel into a slot, climbed out, and headed toward a pair of glass doors with gold filigree on them.
A doorman, dressed like a five-star admiral who had been through three wars, nodded and smiled and pulled open one of the doors for me. So I nodded and smiled, too, and slogged across ankle-deep carpet in a razzmatazz lobby such as you see in the movies. The walls were paneled with strips of floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and between the mirrors were panels made of leather, of burlap, and of wood, with each panel a different garish color, ranging from Chinese red to chartreuse to bilious green. Talk about psychedelic colors. By the time I got to the bank of elevators .I felt as if I had been on an LSD trip.
I found an open cage. I climbed in and jabbed at 25. The door silently slid shut. Muted music filtered down through a hammered brass grille above me. Cove lighting cast a soft glow like moonlight. The walls were blood-red leather with black buttons. And the carpet was moss green.
As the cage shot upward I thought backward to three o'clock that afternoon. The Weasel had come up with Sandy's private phone number. So I had called her.
As soon as I mentioned my name she squealed with delight. Where had I been all those years? Why hadn't I kept in touch with her? We'd chattered away for nearly ten minutes, saying little or nothing. And then I asked if I could see her. Of course, of course. How about eight o'clock that night?
When I last saw Sandy, the telltale lines of dissipation and wild living were already beginning to etch her face. So I wondered if she now wore a pancake make-up mask.
She told me where she lived. And how to get from the twenty-fifth floor up to her penthouse.
The cage stopped. The door rolled back. And I stepped into more thick carpeting in a wide silent hall with one wall painted mint green and the other side painted a deep purple. The carpet was gold. The ceiling was neutral.
I shuddered as I walked down the hall, glad that I wasn't rich. I would hate to walk up and down that hall, to and from my apartment.
At the center of the hall I found the narrow black door Sandy had told me about. And, beside it, the red-white-and-blue buUs eye button.
She had given me the code to use. A long. Two shorts. Another long. And then three shorts.
As I punched the button, I felt like a female James Bond. Of all the goddamn rigmarole.
Tinkling cymbals sounded, as though far off in the distance. The black door slid back. Lilting music drifted out of a solid gold cage with a black carpet. As I stepped into the cage I suddenly smelled the fragrance of apple blossoms.
The door closed behind me. And I stood there, wondering how long I was going to be trapped in that goddamn golden pumpkin.
The black door soon opened. I stepped out into a foyer with chartreuse walls and white carpet with brilliant red lightning bolts on it.
The black door closed behind me. I was caged. There were more black slabs symmetrically spaced in three of the walls. Which one of them was a door? None of them had doorknobs. There was no way out of there unless you. could dissolve into ectoplasm and filter through the ceiling.
The fragrance was constantly changing, from pear blossoms to magnolia to heather to jasmine. It was making me giddy. And the music was suitable for a shah's harem when he was trying to lay one of his dolls. And, as I stood there, staring around the room, I felt myself getting hot. I wondered if there was some kind of. aphrodisiac in the various fragrances, or whether it was the music, or a combination of both. It was like one of the old Fu Manchu movies on the Late Late Show.
. Suddenly one of the ebony panels straight ahead lifted upward. And in the opening stood a blonde vision in a screaming red pegnoir, slashed down the sides from hip level. It was belted at the waist. The bodice hugged her torso, and her milk-white firm and upthrusting breasts, with erect pink nipples, threatened to break free. Her belly was flat. And as she stepped forward, I got a flash of long lithe legs which were just as milk-white. And she was barefoot.
"Shiela," she purred, padding over to me and grasping my hands. She backed away, still clutching my hands. "Let me look at you. My, you're just as sexy as ever."
"Is that good?" I asked.
She gave a low throaty laugh. "We shall see," she told me. "We shall see."
CHAPTER SIX
We turned right through the doorway and entered a long narrow living room. The far wall was solid glass from floor to ceiling. And far below us, as far away as you could see, were millions of sparkling diamonds of light, as the city lay at our feet.
"What a view!" I cried, running over to the window.
I looked around the big room, rich with cocoa carpet, maroon walls, and eggshell ceiling. It was as luxurious as what I had seen of the rest of the building.
"This must cost you a pretty penny," I said.
Sandy nodded and took my hand. "Come on, I'll show you around."
Muted mood music, barely audible, drifted through the room. We went to the far end and entered a hall. To the right was. a small kitchenette that looked like a ship's galley. Along the hall, on either side, were luxurious bedrooms more startling and magnificent than anything seen in any magazine or movie. And the colors were so striking-almond, chartreuse, pale green, olive, brilliant orange, and even rich dark purple. Each bedroom had a different color combination, with startling contrasting colors that jolted you at first but were really harmonizing.
And then she let me into the master bedroom.
"This is my room," Sandy said.
It had a dark-orange carpet, black walls, dark green ceiling, andallthefurniture was brilliant white. It was dazzling.
"Come," Sandy said, taking my hand again.
We went through a doorway into the bath. In the center of the room was a huge sunken tub.
Sandy went to the wall, pressed a button, and the wall suddenly moved inward and around, and out came the John.
"How clever," I said.
And along one wall was a dressing table made of solid white marble with black swirls, and with a basin in the middle of it. Above that was a long beautiful sparkling mirror, with a frosted long brilliantly lighted tube casting a soft glow.
This layout cost Sandy at least five-hundred a week. It was nice to inherit a million clams, I decided.
Sandy, amused and smiling, took my hand again. "Come on."
She led me back into the hall and down it from whence we had come. Finally she turned right, into a small cozy den, done in various shades of blue, ranging from a dark blue carpet to a bright blue ceiling. A couch and a massive chair were brilliant red. And in one corner stood a mahogany bar. Sandy went over and behind it.
"How about some Chianti?" she asked.
"Fine," I told her.
I went over and picked up the beautiful wine glass with a twisted stem and then headed for the couch.
Sandy shook up a martini for herself. Then she joined me on the couch.
She clinked her glass against mine. "Here's to your good health and long life," she said.
I frowned and put my glass to my lips. "What do you mean by that?"
"The Weasel is a friend of mine, too."
I lit a cigarette and said nothing for a moment.
A clam was a blabbermouth compared to The Weasel. So I couldn't feature The Weasel talking to Sandy about me.
She must have read my thoughts. She smiled. "Oh, The Weasel didn't give away any of your secrets. And I can tell you why he talked to me about you."
"Okay, why?" I asked.
"Because he's scared for your life. He called to ask me to try to talk you out of your wild scheme. And to refuse to have a party and invite the Swami."
"Why the dirty little...."
"Now, now," she soothed. "Don't go off half-cocked. The Weasel's funny that way. He either hates a person or loves them to death."
"And he loves you, too?" I asked.
She shook her head. "Let's just say we're friends. He does jobs for me sometimes. If the silverware begins to run up missing, piece by piece, I have him tail the servants until he finds who's robbing me. Things like that."
I took a sip of my drink and returned to sucking on my cigarette. We said nothing for a moment.
"Okay," I finally said, "what do you know about the Swami?"
"Just what I've read in the papers."
"You've never met him?"
"Yes. A time or two. At cocktail parties."
"If you invited him, do you think he'd come to one of your parties?"
She laughed. "Would he! He'd fall all over himself getting here, and probably be the first guest to arrive."
"Then you'll do it?"
"On one condition."
"Name it."
"That you let me help you stay alive."
"Okay. Why should I object to that?"
"You shouldn't."
"Great. And now we have to figure out what kind of a cover I'll have. The Swami is smart. He'll check me out. So we can't claim I'm a rich heiress from the jet set."
"We'll worry about that later. I'll figure out something. And I'll throw the party next Monday night. That doesn't give me much time. But four days should be enough. So we can talk about that later."
She got up and went around the room, turning off the lights. The room turned deepblue from buried lights somewhere.
"Come," Sandy said, taking my hand. And we returned to the bedroom.
The bed was king-size. It looked to be the size of a football field.
The spread was a brilliant magenta. Sandy pulled it back. And the sheets and pillowcases were the most brilliant crimson I had ever seen. But how cool and smooth and slick they were.
We undressed, and then sprawled on the bed, belly to belly, hugging each other, with our lips mashed together while our tongues played.
How beautiful and smooth and thrilling her body was. Our hands caressed the other'sbody, exhilarated and charged with each new area discovered.
And then Sandy rolled me on my back, hugging me with her left arm under my neck, while her right hand gently caressed my breasts and skimmed over my belly and on to my thighs.
She lowered her head to my breasts, kissing them feverishly, and then her hot moist lips clamped on my nipples, while her right hand found my temple and her fingers went inside to play.
I blasted into orbit, and reality fled away from me. From far away, I was vaguely aware of her thrilling sucking kisses down over my belly, onto my thighs, and back to my navel, where her tongue bored in. She rammed me into an even higher orbit. It was so thrilling.
From way out there I pitied the thousands of poor misguided women who rejected this pathway to ecstasy. What they were missing! This was not the only pathway, nor would I choose it alone. But it was an exciting fillip before the main bout with a man.
And then I sensed movement of her body. It was rising, and then coming down again. And I dimly felt warm fragrant flesh pressed against my face, and the thrilling pungent female odor.
I was surging higher and higher, enjoying the scene with every fiber of my being, and never wanting to return.
But it was not to be. I knew that in time there would be the long long slide into oblivion. And then it began.
And when, once again, I awakened, Sandy was hovering over me, lightly kissing my breasts and stroking my body.
"You're wonderful," she told me.
I nodded. "So are you. But neither of us are as wonderful as that beautiful world way out there."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sandy and I had so much fun that night that we didn't want to quit. So it turned out to be an all-night date. And the first sprinkling of daylight began filtering through the window before we cuddled up together and went to sleep.
When I finally floated up into the Twilight World, where you feel deliciously comfortable and only dimly aware of what's around you, I finally managed to open one eye and squint at the bedside clock. It was nearly noon.
That bought me out of it with a jolt. Nobody except The Weasel knew that I was with Sandy. And, as I sat up and. yawned and scratched myself, I wondered who might have been trying to get in touch with me.
I looked over at Sandy. She was sprawled on her back, a beautiful goddess of sex with her golden hair splayed over her shoulders and her golden mound sparkling in the sunlight. Her legs were spraddled wide apart. So I crept to the foot of the bed for a better look. Her joybox beckoned. But I resisted the impulse. If we got started again, it might be dark before we could quit. There would be another time. Instead, I woke her up.
I lit a cigarette. Sandy moaned, still groggy, and picked up a small silver bell and shook it. Her house boy, Wong, popped up from nowhere. "The phone," Sandy said.
Wong nodded, disappeared, and came back with a French phone. Sandy nodded toward me. He set it before me and trailed the cord to the wall and plugged it in. Then he backed silently from the room.
I picked up the phone and spun the dial. I was put right through.
"Jarvis."
"This is your Lover Girl."
"Where in hell have you been?"
"Havin fun. After what I've been through, don't you think I'm due for a vacation?"
"Not yet."
"What's up?" I asked.
"Did you ever hear of two hoods by the name of Augie and Heinie?"
I stiffened. "Yeah. One will get you ten they're dead."
"Pay the lady off with Confederate money. How did you guess it?"
"Easy. You-know-who is probably sore because a certain bundle was fished up."
"Yeah."
"And," I went on, "I wonder what happened to Number Three."
"Who was he?"
"Damfino. But I have it on good information he was all set to split my head open as I went out on the dock that night."
"But he was intercepted?"
"You might say that," I said. "He was snoring peacefully when last heard from, according to my informant."
"According to the slip sheet, Hairy George was seen the next morning out at International, climbing on a plane. Our boys still keep a watch on all in and out flights, you know, to see what pugs are traveling. They noticed Harly George because his hat roosted high on his head."
I laughed. "He probably had an ostrich egg on top of his head. So no wonder he couldn't pull his hat down. He must have been out there on the dock watching the fishing expedition."
"Yeah. And he suddenly decided it would be healthier in New York."
"Have they tied you-know-who to the two kills?"
"The papers haven't, if that's what you mean. And we'll see that they don't, either."
"Good. I hope they were run over by a truck or something that looked innocent."
"Better than that. They were out on the Ridge Route, headed north. Probably seeking a healthier climate than LA. And they went over into a canyon."
"Was the car tampered with?" I asked.
"Not so loud. The press boys might hear you. We're sitting on that."
"Good. I'll keep in touch."
"WHERE ARE YOU?"
"Let's say I've gone underground for a few hours. But I should pop up by sundown."
"See that you do. Quinn was just asking if I had heard from you this morning."
"Give him my love," I told him. "Gotta run now."
I cradled the phone and dumped my cigarette.
"Trouble?" Sandy asked.
"You might say so. The Swami just knocked off two of his goons who muffed a job."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sandy threw a real bash the following Monday night.
I went up to her penthouse about three that Monday afternoon, so I could get togged out. My entire wardrobe consisted of two jersey dresses, one black and one red, and two years old, plus two tailored suits and some skirts and blouses. So I had nothing suitable for mingling with the jet set. But Sandy had laughed and shrugged and told me not to worry; to come up around three and she'd fit me out.
When I got to the twenty-fifth floor of her building, and headed down the hall toward her private elevator, I found a Pinkerton man already stationed beside the cage door. But he was evidently expecting me. He asked my name. Then he smiled, touched his thick fingers to his visor ed cap, and punched the r ed-white-and-blue bulls-eye button on the wall. The door slid back. And I stepped in.
When I left the cage and entered the foyer, another Pinkerton man blocked my way. He was behind a massive desk with a red phone on it, which had never been there before. But he, too, had been alerted. He waved me on with a big smile.
The ebony panel at the end of the foyer stood open, I went through the opening and turned right. And I stood there bug-eyed.
The huge living room now looked like a mortuary chapel just before some big shot's funeral. Huge vases and bowls of flowers were everywhere. And a long bar had been installed along one wall.
Wong came bustling in, lugging another vase of flowers. When he saw me he broke into a wide grin. "Miss Sandy is expecting you," he said. "She's in her room."
I headed into the hall and down it to her room. She lay stretched out on her bed, nude and beautiful.
She beckoned to me. I shook my head.
"We have only two hours," I told her. "Let's not get started with that again."
She sat up cross-legged on the bed and pretended to pout. "Well, will you stay with me tonight after the party is over?"
"I don't see why not," I told her. "But who knows who may get bumped off between now and then?"
She shuddered and closed her eyes for a moment. "How can you stand to live such a sordid life?"
"It's easy. I was born poor."
She laughed and plucked two cigarettes from a tray and put them in her mouth. She lit them and held one out to me. I took it and then backed away. She was so sexy. And I was getting hot.
"So what am I wearing tonight?" I asked.
"Do you like red?"
"Depends on the shade."
She got off the bed and went over to her wardrobe. She slid back a door and reached up toward the rod. "I've never worn this."
She pulled at a hanger and turned around. I stared.
It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. It was a long fire-engine-red silk sheath that would reach to my ankles. It had a plunging neckline and no sleeves, and glittered with black beads forming a design on the bodice and trailing down the skirt. It had no back, of course.
Sandy held it out. "Here, try it on."
I-was out of my dress in a flash. "I don't have the right kind of bra for it," I said.
"Who cares? We'll take care of that."
And so, just before five o'clock, Sandy and I stood in front of her big three-way mirror, preening and admiring ourselves.
I-was resplendent in the red sheath and wore red pumps. She was gorgeous in a blue satin formal with a diamond choker, bracelet, and tiara.
"You almost forgot your jewels," Sandy said, going over and opening a chest. She turned and came back to me.
"Do you like these?"
A gorgeous diamond necklace flashed fire. And there were matching pendant diamond earrings, too.
She put the necklace around my neck. I put on the earrings. And I stood there gazing in the mirror at myself, feeling like Cinderella.
"We must hurry," Sandy said, grabbing my hand.
It was five o'clock when we walked into the main room. There was a big guy in a white coat behind the bar. And white-coated waiters were scurrying around.
Wong was acting as butler. He looked magnificent in a soup and fish. And he stood just inside the door from the foyer.
"Come," Sandy told me, "Let's be the first to the bar."
We soon had a martini and went out on the terrace. Three long tables, covered with snowy white linen, had been set up at one end. The waiters were now busy setting the tables and placing the chairs.
We walked over to the edge of the terrace and looked out over the seared dusty city. Out there was the sordid world, with rapes and murders and robberies and struggling to make a buck so one could survive. While up there, all was beauty and serenity and luxury. And, as I stood there, I thought how strange it was that two different worlds could be so close to each other and never touch.
"Now don't forget your cover story," Sandy said.
I nodded and sipped my drink. "Do you think the Swami will come?"
"Of course. He was charmed right out of his shoes when I talked to him."
"But perhaps he'll be suspicious, since you've never invited him before."
"Not a chance. I told him I was most interested in his boys' camp. And I knew others would be, too. I hoped he could come and be able to talk with everyone about it. Because I knew how desperately he must need money for it."
I grinned. "A fat lot of money that would go to the boys' camp if you gave it to him."
She shrugged. "Doesn't matter. It's tax deductible. And I have a most unusual guest, too."
"Who?"
"Jacques Armand. He just flew in this afternoon."
"Who's he?"
"A playboy, I suppose you could say."
"And wealthy?"
She shrugged. "Who knows? He runs with the jet set and roams the world with them. He's very charming."
"Yeah. And did the Swami suggest you invite-him?"
Sandy looked surprised, "Why, yes, he did. Why?"
"Who knows?"
She frowned at me. "What's bugging you?"
"Nothing."
"You suspect something. You owe it to me to tell me."
"Who's acting as Security tonight, in addition to those Pinkerton men?"
"Nobody. Why?"
"Then I'd suggest you let me act as Security." I said.
"You can't get over playing cop, can you?"
That made me mad. "Sure, I can. But I smell trouble. And maybe it is because I'm a cop. But I should think you'd be glad if I saved you embarrassment."
She nodded. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken as I did. What's bugging you?"
"Just this. I want to know what's with this Jacques Armand. He might be a modern Raffles."
She frowned and bit her lip. "Then you mean he's working with the Swami?"
I shrugged. "Who knows? But I need to get to a phone where I can have privacy. I'll get a rundown on this Armand character."
"Come with me," Sandy said, taking my arm and heading down the terrace.
We walked nearly to the other end before she turned left. She led me to a closed door and opened it. I followed her inside. It was a small den, with a love seat and a desk and chair and phone.
"This is my hideaway. It's back behind the pantry where no one would think of looking."
I nodded toward a closed door. "What's beyond there?"
She walked over and pulled the door open. "See for yourself."
It was a storage room. And a closed door stood at the other end of it.
"That goes into the pantry?"
"Yes."
"Can it be locked on this side?"
She shook her head. "My, but you're being careful."
"I have to be. If the Swami even gets a hint of a suspicion that I'm a cop...."
Sandy nodded. "I understand."
She turned and headed toward the terrace. "Come out to the terrace when you're through. I'll be looking for you when you enter the main room."
She went out and closed the door. I stood there in the opening, scowling at the door at the other end of the storage room. Then I went over to it and opened it. The pantry was just beyond, and two guys in white outfits were busy in there. They looked up and stared at me. I stared back and shut the door. Then I tugged at a barrel and rolled it over in front of the door.
I went back into the den and closed the door to the storage room. I locked the door to the terrace. Then I went to the phone and picked it up. I quickly put it down and shoved back and headed for the door to the terrace.
I reached down and picked up my skirt and scooted forward as fast as I could. I caught up with Sandy. She looked over at me, surprised.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing," I panted. "But is that an extension phone?"
"No. It's strictly private."
I nodded and mumbled, "Thanks," and got turned around.
Back in the den, I again locked the door. I went to the phone and picked it up. I dug at the dial and dragged on a cigarette. I was lucky.
"Quinn."
"Glad to have caught you. This is Sheila Sharp."
"So what kind of devilment are you in now?"
"I don't know yet. I'll tell you later. I need some information fast."
"Shoot."
"Jacques Armand."
There was a long silence. Then a low whistle. "I thought so," I muttered. "Is he back in town?"
"Flew in this afternoon."
"Then he should have been spotted at International. But I haven't gotten the report yet. Where is he now?"
"Damfino. He's due any minute at Sandy Shea's cocktail party."
"At her penthouse?"
"Yes."
"You there?"
"Yes. And guess who suggested that she invite him."
"De Gaulle?"
"No, the Swami."
There was another long low whistle. "I didn't know they were tied together."
"I didn't either," I said. "They may not be. But...."
"But, hell. Something's up. Want me to send a man over?"
"He'd have to have a soup and fish. He'd have to know which fork to pick up."
"Ain't got such a man. I'm going to have to depend on you."
"I'll do my best," I told him. "You going to be around tonight?"
"Call in. They'll know where to get hold of me. And Shiela...."
"Yes?"
Again there was a silence. Then, "Be careful." He hung up. And I sat there and smiled. I knew Quinn was mush. But that's the first time he had ever told me that. He never had, when I was on special assignments for him.
And as I sat there, I heard a scraping sound.
The barrel!
I jumped up and went over to the door to the storage room. Then I went back to the desk and grabbed up my purse. I returned to the door and silently opened it. I slipped into the storage room and quietly closed the door. Then I slid between a stack of boxes and the wall and stood there, watching the door to the den.
The barrel was shoved back farther, and it scraped on the floor. Then the door clicked shut. I heard slow measured footsteps.
I opened my purse and gripped my .22.
The footsteps stopped for a moment. Then they began again. They were getting closer.
I stayed huddled back between the boxes and the wall. I wouldn't be able to see who was coming until he stood at the door with his back to me.
He wore a long white coat, like one of the supervisors from the caterer.
I held my breath. He stood there for a moment, and pressed his ear to the door.
I moved silently forward until my arms were free. My .22 was aimed at where his belly button should be when he turned around.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
He whirled around. His hand came out from under his left lapel. I fired. His gun clattered to the concrete and his hand spurted blood.
Monk Grogan. Handyman for any hood who needed a job done. I haven't seen him for five years. But once you see his shifty eyes, you don't forget them.
Who had sent him to get me? How did he know I was back there?
"Who sent you, Monk?" I asked.
He sneered. His left hand went behind him. He shoved the door back and barged through it. Before he could slam it shit, I picked up a small bag of sugar and threw it in the opening. The door slammed against it and bounced open.
Monk was unlocking the door to the terrace. He jerked it open and ran out and to the left. I hurried out on the terrace as fast as my heels and skirt would let me.
He was pounding toward the end of the penthouse, angling left, intending to go around it. He didn't see a hose running from the building to the shrubbery along the low wall at the end of the terrace.
The hose tripped him. He stumbled. He couldn't get stopped.
For a moment he lay draped across the wall at the end of the terrace, his legs kicking and his arms flailing as he fought to throw himself back on the terrace.
There was a long scream. And then he was gone.
I whirled around. Two couples were standing near the tables, laughing and chattering. They hadn't noticed.
I went back into the den and shut the door and locked it. Then I went over to the desk, slumped down, and grabbed a glass and a decanter of brandy. I dumped brandy into the glass and gulped it. I closed my eyes and let it burn all the way down. As it fanned out through me, I began to feel better.
I opened my eyes and stuck a cigarette in my mouth. My hands were trembling.
"Snap out of it," I told myself. "You're no raw recruit."
I reached for the phone again and dialed. Once more I was lucky. "Quinn."
"Remember you said for me to be careful?" I asked.
There was silence for a moment. "This Sheila?"
"Yeah."
"So now what?"
"Someone sent Monk Grogan after me." Quinn whistled. "Tell me about it." I did.
"So you'd better send a crew out with some blotters to pick him up," I said finally.
"How did he know you were back there?"
"That's what I'm going to try to find out. But your men can't come barging in here now. Sandy will give me the guest list. The caterer can tell us who he sent up here. Maybe Grogan hired out to the caterer, for all I know."
"I doubt it. The same crew doesn't work together all the time. He probably went bustling back there as if he owned the joint, got into a coat, and then went looking for you. None of the rest of the crew would pay any attention to him. But if Sandy took you back there, could she have tipped him?"
"I dunno. But I'm going to find out-and damn quick."
"Be careful. Check with me later."
"Right."
I dropped the phone and lit a fresh cigarette off the butt. I dumped the butt and picked up the phone and dialed again. Wong answered.
"This is Shiela Sharp. I have to get to Miss Sandy right away."
"She's very busy greeting the guests."
"Get her," I ordered. "One moment, please."
I sucked on my cigarette and poured more brandy. It wasn't very long before Sandy came on the line.
"This is an emergency," I told her. "Get back here at once."
I slammed down the phone. There was no use beating around the bush with her. If she had tipped Monk, she'd know why I had called her. If she hadn't tipped Monk, she wasn't one to play ring-around-the-rosy.
Sandy was soon at the door to the terrace. I unlocked it and let her in.
"What's this all about?" she asked.
I shut the door and locked it.
"Perhaps you know."
She whirled on me. "How should I?"
"Damfino. That's why I'm asking you."
We stood there staring at each other for a moment.
"What are you trying to tell me?" she asked.
"Remember how you thought I was foolish for worrying about the closed doors in the storeroom?"
She nodded.
"After you left, I struggled a barrel over in front of the door that leads to the pantry. If I hadn't, I might not be alive now."
Worry flooded her face. It looked genuine. But who knows?
"So what happened?"
"I heard the barrel scrape. I got out in the storeroom, closed the door to the den, and got between some boxes and the wall. And I let him come. Then I called him. He went for his gun and I shot it out of his hand. Then he went through here and out on the terrace and headed for the end of the building. He tripped over a hose and...."
Sandy looked as if she were going to be sick. I shoved the glass of brandy into her hand. "Drink up," I ordered.
She took a slug and fought for breath. "You mean he went over the wall?"
I nodded.
"Know who he was?"
"Yes. Someone sent him after me."
"To kill you?"
I nodded once more. "And what I want to know is how he knew I was back here. You brought me back here...."
Her eyes bored into mine. "And you think I told him?"
I shrugged and said nothing.
Sandy came over and grabbed my arm. "Now look here, kid. I've been wild in my time. But if you think I'd set you up to be murdered...."
We locked stares again for a moment. And then I finally said, "So who else knew I was back here?"
"Anybody who was in the kitchen. He could have seen us walking past the window."
"But how would he know to come in through the pantry?"
She frowned. "That's a good question. What was this man's name?"
"It doesn't matter, does it?"
"Perhaps. What was his name?"
"Monk Grogan."
She shook her head. "That doesn't ring a bell. What does he look like?" I described him.
"Why, he was up here this morning."
"He was?" I almost yelled.
She nodded. "Yes. Wong brought him in. He showed his credentials. He was from the telephone company. Said he wanted to check every phone in the place. So I brought him back here."
"Through the pantry?" She nodded.
"So that explains it. But how did he know I was going to be here?"
"Perhaps he didn't. Perhaps he was after someone else. But maybe you were also on his list. So he took you first."
"Could be," I admitted. "But I'm still wondering if someone might have known I was going to be here tonight. Is it possible that Wong let his jaw flap?"
She shook her head. "Wong has lockjaw."
I frowned and dragged on my cigarette. Then I looked at Sandy. "This is a wild guess. Were you working on your guest list when he came in this morning?"
"Why yes, I was."
"Then that explains it," I said. "Monk knew me from my days on the force. Somehow, he got a look at your list. When he saw us go past one of the windows, he decided to take me first. But I wonder who else was on his list."
"Jacques Armand?"
I shook my head. "But, by the way, he's just what I thought. A modern Raffles."
"And the Swami asked me to invite him."
I nodded. "So whether you like it or not, I'm going to be Security here tonight. In fact, I'm under orders."
"But be careful, or you'll blow it with the Swami."
"I think I have already. I think the Swami sent him after me."
"Then you won't get into the Mystique Temple?"
"Quite the contrary. The Swami will be glad to have me out there."
Sandy shuddered. "Now that this has happened, I don't think you should go out there."
"The Swami killed one of my best friends," I told her. "And the Swami's going to pay for it, but good."
Sandy started toward the terrace door. "Come on. I'll introduce you around."
As we went up the terrace, I saw it was filled with hubbub and laughing people-the Beautiful People of the jet set. Jewels were flashing everywhere. What an ideal gathering for Jacques Armand.
As we went forward on the terrace, headed toward the tables, I saw the Swami standing aloof and alone at the edge of the terrace, looking out over the city. Sandy angled over toward him. He turned and looked at us as we came up.
He looked regal and saintly in a white tux and a pleated white silk shirt with a white bow tie. Even his shoes were white. His long black hair was carefully waved; he had a Hollywood bob like Liberace. But his dark brooding eyes and gaunt face and goatee made him look like a man of God, set apart from the worldly sinners.
He glanced at me and I sensed a flicker of recognition in his eyes. But he did not change expression. Instead, he was all eyes for Sandy.
He walked toward us and reached out for Sandy's hand. "Ah, Miss Shea, I feel honored that you would allow me to come this evening to talk with you and your guests about my boys' camp. If you only knew how near and dear that project is to my heart."
Sandy went along with the gag. She nodded and said, "And we feel honored to have a distinguished guest like you. It was only last week that I heard about your project. It is most sorely needed. So I'm happy to have you with us this evening."
He had been staring deep into her eyes, ignoring me. But I sensed he was forcing himself to do so.
"Oh," Sandy said, "and I wish you to meet a very dear friend of mine." She took my arm and smiled over at me. Then she looked back at the Swami. "This is the Duchess of Sweibach."
He turned and let me bask in the full glare of his hypnotic eyes. He reached out and took my hand and gently squeezed it. "Charmed, I'm sure," he murmured.
We locked stares for a moment. And I wondered if he would tell Sandy that we have previously met. But he did not.
"I met the Duchess in Paris last year," Sandy said. "I've been after her ever since my visit to Los Angeles. And, actually, that's why I'm having this party tonight, so she can get acquainted."
"Of course, of course," he beamed. He looked back at me. "And have you been in Los Angeles long?"
He was like a cat toying with a mouse. He looked so bland and innocent. But that was a loaded question. Because he knew goddamn well I had been out at the Mystique Temple last Wednesday night.
So I decided to play his game. I said, "Only ten days. But you have no idea how frightfully lonesome I've been. It's so strange here. So different form my country."
He nodded. "Of course, of course," he clucked, sympathetically.
"I must get back to my guests," Sandy said. "Would you mind looking after the Duchess for a few minutes?"
It was a masterful performance. He was the gay blade, the bon vivant, the Don Juan, and a man of God all rolled into one suave sophisticated package in angelic white. "I'd be delighted," he told Sandy.
"Good," Sandy said, starting off.
He tucked my arm through his and said, "Come, my dear, I'll point out some of the magnificent buildings our city offers."
"Fine," I said, trying to keep step with him as we headed toward the other end of the terrace.
I was being given the guided tour. He pointed out the various buildings on the skyline, chattering away like a tape recording.
As we reached the end of the terrace and headed back, I decided to break up his act.
So I said, "And can we see the Mystique Temple from here?"
I felt him stiffen. But his benevolent face did not change expression. "Oh, you know about the Temple?" He hesitated a moment. "Ah, yes, of course. You were out there last eek, weren't you?"
He knew goddamn well I had been out there. But his soft velvet voice and manner indicated he attached no great importance to it. But I knew a damn sight better.
"Yes," I said. "You may not realize it, but you are well-known in our country because of your good works."
He nodded and beamed. "I'm glad. But it is the handiwork of God, not I, that is famous. I am merely one of his humble servants, carrying on the great work."
Bull! But I did have to admire his Academy Award performance, with an admirable mixture of humility and suave conceit.
"You're no doubt wondering what I was doing out at the Temple last week," I said.
He nodded and said nothing. But I felt his body tense. He was like a cat at a mouse hole.
"Even in my country, we know of your fame as a master of the spoken word. I have talked with many people who have heard you speak. So I wished to hear you."
He nodded and patted my hand which loosely gripped his right arm. But he said nothing.
"But I must admit," I said, "I still do not understand why I was treated as I was. Or why you should have such ruffians around you."
He continued to pat my hand. But I felt his arm tense. And he never changed expression.
"You must understand, my dear," he purred, "the differences between your country and mine. This is a relatively young society over here. So it has not yet developed deep cultural roots. It is still somewhat barbaric. I hope you understand what I'm trying to say."
I managed to get a bewildered look on my face. I shook my head. "But we still have barbarism in the undeveloped parts of my country."
"That isn't what I'm trying to say. I'm sure that in your country the temples and holy places are not overrun by tourists and by the curious."
"Of course not," I said, hoping I looked properly horrified.
"That's our problem here. So I have to take stern measures to protect the sanctity of the Temple."
"Of course, of course," I said, hoping he didn't think I was imitating him.
"And I want you to know I'm deeply sorry if you were embarrassed or humiliated by my men."
I gave a tinkling laugh. "You more than made up for any humiliation I may have suffered."
He smiled. "I'm glad you enjoyed my amorous efforts."
"If I may be so bold...." I said hesitantly. "Yes?"
I glanced up into his dark eyes, trying to act like a genteel woman of noble birth. "If I may be so bold," I repeated, "I hope it can be repeated."
He smiled. But it was not the smile of a man of God. It was the smile of a man with a hard on. And, as I glanced up again, I could see flickering lust in his eyes.
"I'm sure it can be repeated," he murmured, "if you wish it."
"Oh, but I do," I blurted.
Then I tried to look properly embarrassed. "I'm really not a brazen hussy. In my country, I would be considered such. But I hope that in a younger society, you have more tolerance."
"We do," he assured me. "Why shouldn't you express normal feelings and desires?" .."
We locked stares again for a moment. I wondered if he was buying it. But I knew that unless you X-rayed him, you wouldn't be able to see through his urbane affable crust.
"How would you like to have lunch with me at the Temple tomorrow noon?" he asked.
"I'd be delighted. And afterward...."
If I'd had a fan with me, I'd have hidden behind it and batted my eyelashes at him. So I did the next best thing by coyly glancing up at him.
He once more patted my hand. "I'm sure I shall be able to satisfy your every desire," he assured me.
CHAPTER NINE
It was nearly seven-thirty when Sandy drifted past me with a cute little redhead in tow. And from the way Sandy was clutching her arm, I knew Sandy wouldn't be wanting an all-night date with me. As they headed toward the bar, I wondered if Sandy was trying to make me jealous. And I also wondered if she was miffed because I hadn't romped with her that afternoon.
I watched them laughing and chattering while waiting for the bartender to serve their drinks. Well, to hell with her. Sure, I like all the byways of sex. But I like men, too. And, as I watched Sandy with her newest conquest, I wondered if Sandy was strictly for girls.
I had been drifting through the crowd all evening, martini in hand, making chit-chat for a moment and then moving on. I was the Duchess of Zweibach. And I tried not to let myself forget it. So I had one martini and called it quits. I didn't want to get swacked. I had to keep my eyes open. So, although I was gay and casual and carefree, I was as alert as a beagle hound.
Jacques Armand had not shown up. Sandy had heard nothing from him. It seemed strange that a man of the world like Jacques Armand, with impeccable manners and social graces as his stock in trade, would not have called to explain his delay or express his regrets. Even the Swami did not know where he was, according to Sandy.
So, as I floated around with a big smile and a happy manner, hoping that I looked as if I-were half-swacked, I was puzzling about Jacques Armand and where he might be.
Was it possible that, somehow, the Swami had heard about Monk Grogan? Just before dinner, Wong had come for the Swami and led him into the den. Nonchalantly, I had drifted that way, too. As I went down the hall, I glanced into the den. The Swami was on the phone. Fortunately, he had his back to me. So he did not see me. I wondered at the time why he had not closed the door. But, apparently, he had expected it to be a routine call.
It must not have been a routine call. I couldn't see his face. But if he were telling his bookie to put a C-note on Drag Ass in the third at Santa Anita, his fingers of his left hand had a half-inch ash and the glowing ember was nearly burning his fingers. No, the Swami was all wrapped up in that phone call. That's why I wondered if it was about Monk Gorgan.
Yet, after the phone call, he was just as gracious and attentive to me. He sat beside me at dinner. He was a marvelous conversationalist. And he kept me regaled with stories about his early years on a Missouri farm and later in college and the seminary. He was very witty. And I enjoyed myself immensely, while wondering if there was one thread of truth in the fabric of his yarns. And I also found myself wondering if perhaps he was guilty of the crimes and fraud he was accused of. And whether he had actually ordered Mickey Finarty beaten.
So I was glad when dinner was over and I could escape from him. But as we moved around, our paths would occasionally cross. And he would beam and smile and his eyes would momentarily glow with lust. He was indeed a difficult man to figure out.
But after receiving that call in the den, had he then closed the door and called Jacques Armand?
There was no answer to that question. And I didn't know where I could find the answer. If anyone had been going up and down the hall, they would have thought nothing of seeing a closed door. So they would not even recall it later, if I should ask them. And I didn't dare do that. When you're on Security, you have to blend with the crowd and do nothing to draw attention to yourself.
As soon as dinner was over, and I began to float, I kept my eyes open. However, there was no immediate danger. The excellent dinner, with rich food and dessert, had soaked up all the booze in the guests. So they were practically sober as they again headed for the bar when dinner was over.
But I knew that in an hour or so, when the guests got pickled, and their senses were dulled, that would be the time for a heist artist to strike. So perhaps that's why Jacques Armand had not shown up as yet.
But for the past half-hour, I had managed to keep an eye on the Swami. For all I knew, lifting ice might be one of his accomplishments.
It's surprising how deftly a real pro can slide a diamond bracelet off a wrist as it dangles down while a drunken dowager chatters away. Or even how a diamond necklace can be snipped and slid from around a fat neck. And without the wearer knowing anything about it. I had once seen a reformed heist artist demonstrate his technique. It was unbelievable. But, of course, it's much easier to do when the pigeons are swacked. Anyone trained in Security knows that.
Just then Wong signaled to Sandy from the foyer door. I slowly maneuvered in that direction.
A reincarnation of Errol Flynn came through the doorway from the foyer. He even had a red ascot. He wore a white tux, like the Swami. I couldn't help but notice the similarity of his mannerisms and physical appearance to Errol Flynn, on The Late Show.
Sandy was gushing all over him. I wondered if she had met him in Paris, too.
Then she took his arm and led him into the crowd. He stood head and shoulders above everyone else. So I could watch his facial expressions. I thought him warm and charming-until I noticed his eyes. They were cold and calculating, and continually darting around, even when he was talking to someone. That was the mark of a good heist artist; always casing the joint while hypnotizing the pigeons.
But when Sandy finally brought him over to me, and gave me the full treatment, I felt as hypnotized as a mouse with a cobra. No wonder he was the darling of the jet set. But I wondered what they thought the next morning when they found their diamonds missing.
I managed to work my way along not too far behind him. I didn't expect him to go into action on the first time around. But I was fascinated by the way the guy operated.
The room was filled with more smoke than a foundry, even though the three sets of French doors to the terrace were open. I began yearning for some decent air to breathe. In fact, I was getting giddy. And I knew it wasn't from one martini after that huge dinner.
So I decided to duck out onto the terrace for a moment. I knew I would feel better in a few minutes. Sure, it was risky. He might strike at least once while I was gone. But I knew my senses were getting dulled. You have to be clamshell sharp to spot the lightning movement of a heist artist's hand. And that I wasn't, at the moment.
So I headed out onto the terrace and toward the outer edge. I tried to breathe deeply and rhythmically, to absorb as much oxygen as possible in the shortest space of time. I even dumped my cigarette into a tray as I passed it. This was no time for smoking.
As I had done my first night up there, I stared out at the millions of twinkling lights spread out below and far from me. And I allowed myself to momentarily relax and enjoy the panoramic beauty of the scene.
"Ah, Duchess, I see that you, too, enjoy the beauty of the night."
I looked over my shoulder. It was Jacques Armand.
He was, indeed, a fast worker. True, he no doubt had an eye for beauty and pulchritude, after years with the Beautiful People of the jet set. But why me?
Because the Swami had fingered me. That was the logical answer. But why? Because I was the Duchess of Zweibach? Or because I was marked for extinction?
Jacques Armand, as tall as he was, had no doubt seen me duck out the door onto the terrace. So he had broken free and followed me.
I was the Duchess of Zweibach. And I played it to the hilt. I flashed my best smile and waved a Happy Hello as he joined me.
"It is beautiful, isn't it?" I purred.
"Just like the nights in your country," he said. "I'm sure you've many times enjoyed a view like this from atop the Klieburg Hotel."
I froze for a minute. He was wise to me. But I had to carry on.
"It's not as beautiful as this," I told him. "And there is no Klieburg Hotel."
"No?"
He sounded incredulous. I wondered if I could make it stick.
"You must be confusing Zweibach with some other country." I told him.
"It's next to Lichtenstein, isn't it?"
"Heavens, no," I snorted. "It's nestled in the Alps next to Switzerland."
He frowned and pulled his cigarettes. He offered me one. I took it and leaned toward his flaring light and blew a plume of smoke. If Europe was his playground, I was a dead duck.
Suddenly his face lit up and he broke into a big grin. "But, of course. I must confess I have never been there."
Spoken like a true diplomat. I glanced up at him and then away. He was giving me plenty of rope so I could hang myself.
"Is this your first trip to Los Angeles?" he asked.
"Yes. I have heard so many wild stories about it that I had no desire to ever see it. Then I met Sandy in Paris last year. She had such glowing tales about the city, that when she invited me to visit her, I decided to do so at the first opportunity."
"You're staying with her?"
Another loaded question. But I didn't hesitate.
"Yes," I said, hoping I had the proper amount of nonchalance in my voice. "She has a beautiful place here."
"Indeed she has. This is the first time I have seen it. But I must say it's fantastic."
"So there you are," Sandy said, hurrying toward us. "I've been looking all over for you, Jacques."
"I was just getting a breath of air. And when I saw the Duchess, I stopped to chat for a moment."
"Of course. You two should have a lot in common."
She took his hand and tugged, as she looked at me. "I hope you won't mind, Duchess, if I take him away from you. But there are other guests he hasn't met yet. And I understand, Jacques, that you're a marvelous pianist."
"I play for enjoyment, not technique," he said modestly.
"But you must play for us," Sandy insisted. She tugged at his hand. "Come."
He allowed himself to be led back into the main room. And, as they disappeared through French doors, I flipped my cigarette in a fiery arc over the wall and headed back inside, too. Perhaps, I decided, Sandy planned to keep him busy so he wouldn't get into mischief.
As I came in off the terrace, the bong, bong, bong of Chopin's Nocturne in C Sharp Minor greeted me. Jacques was already at the piano.
I worked my way through the crowd and finally came out beside the piano keyboard.
Jacques' hands were beautiful. His fingers were long and tapering. They were the hands required by a pianist-or a heist artist. His fingers were nimble; they had great dexterity. Qualities required, also, by a heist artist.
But I stood there enthralled, swept up by the music. The piano was his obedient servant and he was the master. They were as one. And Chopin himself could not have done better.
Again I began feeling giddy, surrounded by the jammed multitude. There was even less air there by the piano than there had been earlier when I was tailing Jacques.
So I edged my way through the crowd and once more headed out onto the terrace. And I stood out there under the stars, still enraptured by the magnificent sonorous voice of the piano. And I thought what a great waste of talent I had seen that night, with first the Swami and now Jacques. Both were magnificent specimens of manhood. Both had magnificent brains. What a pity it was their great talents had been put to criminal use.
There was thunderous applause. And then the piano was still. Jacques was no doubt leaving the piano. He would be back in circulation.
So I turned and hurried toward the nearest French doors. He was now an object of adoration. The ice had been broken. Now was the time for him to strike.
As I hurried toward the entrace, I damn near coUided with Jacques as he came out the door. I swerved to miss him and lost my balance on my high heels. He grabbed me and held me to him for a moment. An electric charge seemed to enter my body and explode deep within me as we made contact. Then he set me back on my feet and backed away.
"You must be more careful," he cautioned.
I nodded, still too jazzed-up to speak.
"Why don't you join me out on the terrace?" he asked, taking my arm.
Why not? How better could I keep him under surveillance?
So I let him lead me back across the terrace to the outer edge. Once again he offered me a cigarette and Ht it for me. Then he got one going for himself, and we stood there silently for a few minutes, drinking in the beauty of the night.
He finally glanced over at me. "Would Sandy be angry with me if I kidnapped you?"
I was startled. But I hoped it didn't show on my face, "What do you mean?" I asked, "Why don't we go out on the town? Los Angeles has many great supper clubs which are most interesting."
I hesitated. Was this part of the Swami's plan?
He once again took my arm and turned me around. "Come on. We'll find Sandy and see if we can be excused."
Sandy was over in a distant corner behind a potted palm. And she was still with the cute redhead. And I noticed they were both breathing hard. And one shoulder strap of the redhead's green formal was down off her shoulder. But I pretended not to notice.
Sandy was most gracious. Of course we could be excused. She tried to be casual, but it didn't quite come off. Yet, I knew that, for the moment, anyway, she was glad to be rid of me. And as Jacques guided me out through the foyer, I wondered if I had blown it with Sandy. Perhaps she wouldn't want to see me again. But, as I stepped into the elevator, I thought, what the hell? I never use people. I wanted her friendship. But if she was ready to dump me, I couldn't care less. She had served her purpose and properly introduced me to the Swami.
Jacques took me on a gay whirl of all the night spots. And as I danced the evening away, ugly reality began to fade. So by two o'clock, when the last joint had closed down, I was in a mellow mood, what with umpteen martinis and the most glamorous evening I had ever known.
So that's why, at two o'clock, I was a woman and not a cop. Swacked as I was, my dominant thought was that my escort was handsome and charming and a debonair man of the world. Suppressed for the moment was the knowledge of what he really was.
So when he suggested a nightcap in his hotel suite, I did not protest.
CHAPTER TEN
In the cab, and all the way to his hotel, his hand cautiously explored. Nothing crude. He was too worldly for that. But his hand would lightly brush my breast or rest for a moment on my thigh as he told me of his travels. Charged as I was, after hours in his arms an" with close body contact, I was wild with desire by the time the hotel doorman opened the cab door and helped me out.
Jacques knew what he was doing. And it was very effective.
First there were several martinis, with innocent conversation. And, as he sat beside me on a magnificent gold couch, his arm continued to lightly brush my breast, and his hand frequently landed on my thigh, but only momentarily.
Then he moved in for the kill. He let his arm rest on the back of the couch. And all the while he continued his chatter.
I was ready. As hot and as swacked as I was, I was concerned only with the fact that he was a man. And that, as a man, he could meet my surging needs of the movement. Gone now was the ugly reality of what he really was.
So I lay my head back on his arm and smiled over at him. He needed no further invitation.
His lips zeroed in on mine. His tongue lightly flicked my lips. I exploded. He felt the tremor in my body. Wise in the ways of women, he knew what had happened. He knew it was now safe for him to be bolder.
So his tongue bored between my lips and swam lazily around inside my mouth. His right arm hugged me to him. His left hand found my breast and gently caressed it.
I was a quivering, defenseless mass of passionate flesh by then. So I did not object when I felt one of my shoulder straps being pulled down. Nor dial I object when he pulled me forward and reached behind me to yank down a zipper. In fact, I let out ecstastic sighs as I felt my bra being freed.
I was naked to the waist, and I lay back once more against his right arm and offered myself to him. I was his, all his. And he knew it.
He lightly kissed my face and trailed kisses down my throat and onto my chest. His soft left hand was caressing my breast when his lips found it. And then they clamped on one of my hard erect nipples.
I moaned and arched my back. There was only one thing I wanted at that moment. And it was more, more, and more. And he knew it.
So he gently shoved me flat on the couch and pulled down my dress and panties. He soon had me completely nude. And then his lips went to work on me again, covering my body with kisses from head to toe.
He suddenly stood up and shucked. Then he knelt beside the couch and his lips once more found my nipples. And my fingers slid through his hair and tugged, as I hugged his head to my breast.
Then he pulled me on my right hip and gently pushed me until I was against the back of the couch. He slid beside me and we lay belly to belly.
Our lips mashed together, and our tongues came out to spar.
His hand found my breast. My hand crept down to tug and massage.
Five minutes later, we were in on the bed, still belly to belly and locked together and flopping around.
His long supple hands caressed my breasts as his hot moist lips clamped on my nipples. His right hand went on to roam, down and down and down. It found my cunt and slipped inside. I blew. Man, how I blew!
His lips now came up to find mine again. Our tongues flogged and twined.
His sucking kisses started downward again. At my navel, his tongue bored in. And all this time his fingers were playing deep inside me.
His lips followed his fingers. His tongue leaped out and went inside, as he pulled up my legs and spraddled them.
I blew again and again. And then his leg went up and over. He straddled me. And down he came. It damn near choked me, but I loved it. And, locked together, we rolled all over the bed.
It ended with me on my back. My legs were up and over.
And then, zaboom!
He was in. It felt like a bazooka in there.
He lay on me, clutching me to him, and his tongue sparred with mine again. He began with long slow strokes. It drove me wild.
I locked my legs around his torso. I was his, all his. He could do with me as he liked. And he did.
This was pure animal. This was carnal. I went into orbit again. I lay there, like a dog in heat, rising to meet his every thrust. I blew again and again. And reality began to fade.
We were headed for the wire. Dimly, I hoped we would make it together.
He let out a grunt. From far away, I heard myself screaming. A rosy haze surrounded me. It was as though I were in a dream.
I was barely aware of the full weight of his body on me. And I hardly noticed his movement as he slid downward on me.
I heard a click.
I saw the glint of cold steel.
That brought me out of it with a jolt.
His eyes glowed like those of a vicious wild animal, as his hand gripped the handle of the switchblade, hovering above my chest.
I was pinned down by the weight of his body. His left hand on my right shoulder clamped my torso to the bed. And I stared at the gleaming wicked blade poised above me.
"But why?" I asked.
"You have met my needs and relieved the pressure in me. And now I must do what I must do."
The blade began its slow descent. It was now or never. It was do or die.
I was pinned down. But my arms were free.
As my left hand grabbed his right wrist, the edge of my right hand slammed against his throat. I felt the cartilage crunch and crumple.
He let out a hoarse roar and fought for breath as he began to turn blue. His right arm was no longer Indian wrestling with my left arm. And his eyes began to bulge.
I managed to get my right leg out from under him. I pulled it up until my knee was on my breast. I got the flat of my foot against his face and shoved. His head snapped back. I kept shoving. And then he toppled to the left of me as I continued gripping his wrist.
I was off the bed in a flash. I fled into the other room and scooped up my purse. I dug out my .22 and ran back into the bedroom.
But I no longer needed to be afraid of him. He was wheezing like a busted accordian. He was as popeyed as a bullfrog. And he was as blue as the drapes at the window.
I went over to the bed and let him look down the barrel of my .22 "You're dying," I told him. "So why did you try to kill me?"
He could only gurgle. His eyes were beginning to glaze. I had done too good a job on him. Now I would probably never know who had sent him for me. But I had a damn good idea. Who else could it be, but the Swami? The two of them were tied together, weren't they?
But if the Swami suspected that I had killed Jacques, he would see to it that I had an even more horrible death. So, somehow, it had to be made to look like an accident.
I looked around the room. Then I went to the phone and lifted it.
"Give me the police downtown," I said.
That was my lucky night. I was put through at once.
"Quinn."
"This is Shiela Sharp. You'd better get Jim Jarvis out of bed and come over to The Sheldon Hotel. Suite 937."
"What have you done now?"
"Nothing. I was with Jacques Armand. He tripped and f ell. He slammed his throat against the back of the vanity bench."
As I cradled the bedside phone, I was suddenly aware that the room was as silent as outer space.
Jacques Armand was dead.
I stared down at his twisted blue face. "Why?"
I asked. "Why?"
His bulging eyes stared up at me but gave me no answer.
I padded out into the living room and built myself a double martini. I had zoomed from swacked to sober within one minute. And now I wanted to be swacked again, so the horror of it all would fade, and my brain could begin clicking again.
My shaking hand dumped the martini into a tall glass. To hell with the proper glass at a time like that.
I took a slug of the martini and let it eat its way down to my guts. And I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth as it fanned out and seared my insides.
As the pain passed, I felt better. I opened my eyes and got a cigarette going. Then I stood there leaning forward, with my forearms on the bar while I sucked on my cigarette.
The whole goddamn caper didn't add up.
The Swami was set up to handle my kill. He knew how to cover his tracks. And, from long experience, he knew how to dispose of a body and leave no ripples. Mickey Finarty was the exception. But I was to blame for that. If I hadn't tailed Augie and Heinie down to the docks that night, Mickey's body would have gone out to sea and never been heard from again.
So why had the Swami ordered Jacques Armand to kill me in his hotel suite? How was Jacques going to dispose of my body? And why had Jacques agreed to it? The Swami must have had some life-and-death hold over Jacques to make him do it.
Hypnosis. Could that be the answer?
I remembered the fiendish glow in his eyes as he held the knife poised above me. He looked more like a werewolf than a human being. And when he spoke, it was the mechanical monotone of an automaton.
Yes, that must be the answer. Hypnosis. Or rather, post-hypnotic suggestion. Because, even though I was lost in a fog, I had seen him transformed from man to beast, like Dr. Jekyll becoming Mr. Hyde.
I shuddered and took another slug of my drink.
But how had the Swami planned to dispose of my body? Was it possible the Swami wanted the police to find Jacques Armand with my bod?
Was it the end of the line for Jacques Armand? Had he out-lived his usefulness? Was this the fiendish way the Swami was going to be rid of him?
Jacques Armand was possibly one of the best heist artists in the business. Such people are born, not made. They have to have the quickness, the dexterity, and the suave physical appearance required for them to mingle among the pigeons without starting a stampede. Jacques Armand was a valuable piece of property. So the Swami was out of his skull if he intended to destroy Jacques Armand. What the second-story men brought in to him was peanuts. Jacques Armand was the key to riches for the Swami.
No, it didn't add up, and it didn't make sense that the Swami would deliberately try to destroy Jacques Armand.
So, why had the Swami sent Jacques Armand to certain doom?
The answer had to be that there was a plan for disposing of my body. The lobby was deserted when we had come in. We had come in the side door. So the desk clerk had not see us enter. So only the cabbie who had brought us to the hotel would peg us. And his testimony would not be reliable in court.
No, Jacques Armand would be home free the next morning if my body were disposed of. He had not tried to stab me. He had handled that knife as if it were a scalpel, and he were a surgeon. He w going to insert that knife at the proper place, an nowhere else. It was a thin blade. It would leave no jagged wound. The tip of my heart would be pierce and the knife withdrawn. No blood would seep fro the wound. It would not be seen unless you were probing for it. So there would be no blood le behind to condemn Jacques Armand.
But how had they planned to dispose of my bod;
I shoved away from the bar and went over to nearby window. I looked down. Then I opened the window and hung on to it as I leaned out.
It made me dizzy. I jerked back inside. But had seen enough.
Directly below me was a wide yawning smoke stack. No doubt rising from a blast furnace incinerator. I had read of such. By forcing oxygen over the fire, there was even no ash.
Jacques was a tall muscular man with long arms. He had great strength. He could probably have held my body by the heels with one hand, held on to the raised window with the other hand, leaned far out, and let my body drop like a rock into the wide chimney below.
I shoved down the window, closed my eyes, and shuddered. I felt as if I were going to be sick.
I went back to the bar and downed the rest of my drink. My guts really caught fire. But I no longer felt as if I were going to heave and float away.
I turned and went through the doorway to the bedroom and stared around the room.
I had told Quinn that Jacques Armand had fallen and slammed his throat against the back of the vanity bench. The back of the vanity bench was barely six inches high, if that. Just right for causing such a blow on his throat. When my foot had snapped his head back, it possibly broke his neck. That, also, would jibe with falling against the vanity bench.
But how was I going to explain how he happened to fall?
A golf bag lay along the wall to the left of the bed. The zipper tab on a pocket on the side of the bag had slipped down. A golf ball had fallen out of the opening and lay near it.
I ran over and grabbed up the golf ball. I put it down on the floor again, about a foot from where it had been, so the golf ball lay about two feet from the wall and about three feet from the foot of the bed.
Then I put one foot on the golf ball and looked at the vanity, backed against the wall opposite the foot of the bed. My foot shoved downward and backward. The golf ball rocketed under the bed, hit the wall behind me, bounced, and slammed against the wall to the right of the bed. From there it bounced directly across the room and came to rest near the wall to the left of the bed and about a foot down from that corner.
I nodded and stared at it. It could have happened that way.
I went over to the vanity and pulled the bench out and angled it, as though I had been sitting there and had neglected to put it back in place. I looked at the foot of the bed and back to the vanity bench, making certain the bench was at the correct angle.
I went over to the luggage rack at the foot of the bed and grabbed up a spare blanket which had been thrown across it when we ripped the bed open before falling on it together. I opened the blanket, so that it was about three feet wide, and laid it on the floor beside the bed. I slid the body off the bed and carefully jockeyed it onto the blanket, so there would be no bruises to indicate it had been dropped.
I tugged at the blanket and dragged it across the floor. Then I maneuvered the body off it and got it in proper position, with the head just below the back of the vanity bench and with the body angled toward where the golf ball had been.
I went back to the bed and stared at the body, just as I had seen Quinn and Jarvis do. I tried to see the body as they would see it. Then I went over and slightly shifted the arms and one leg. I went back to the bed and stared some more. It looked okay.
I ran into the living room and grabbed up my panties. I had wasted a helluva lot of time. I wanted to be dressed before they got there.
I barely made it. I was standing before a mirror and slashing at my hair with a comb when the buzzer sounded.
The knife!
I ran back into the bedroom and grabbed it up. I raced back into the living room with my thumb on the retracting button. I shoved the knife to the bottom of my purse, and with my purse in my left hand and dangling open, and the comb still in my right hand, I twisted the knob and opened the door.
"Come in, gentlemen," I said, poking my comb into my purse and snapping it shut.
Quinn and Jarvis stalked in and I closed the door.
"He's in the bedroom," I said, chaining the door.
By the time I turned they were going through the doorway to the bedroom. I went to the doorway and stood there.
They both went to the foot of the bed and stared at the body, as I knew they would do. My heart revved up. I wondered if I might have forgotten some minor detail. Because those two hawks never missed anything.
Quinn looked at me. "You say he fell and hit his throat on the back of that vanity bench?"
I nodded.
Both Quinn and Jarvis frowned and continued to stare at the body.
Jarvis looked at me. "Howinell could that have happened?"
I opened my purse and dug out a cigarette. "We'd been out on the town. We'd been drinking. We were horsing around. He was chasing me all around the place. I ran into the bedroom and made a U-turn, with him right behind me. I heard a helluva racket, and looked over my shoulder as I headed through the doorway into the living room. Jacques was sprawled in mid-air, spread out like a frog, and rocketing toward the vanity. I grabbed at the door casing to stop myself. So I saw it all. As he came in for a belly landing, his throat slammed against the back of that vanity bench. His head snapped back. And he crumpled on the floor like he is now."
"You haven't touched the body or anything?" Quinn asked.
"Of course not. I've been through the Academy."
Quinn nodded and turned and looked at the bed. Then he turned back to me. "Did he lay you?"
"Off the record, yes. But if you put that in the goddamn papers...."
Jarvis grinned. But Quinn stayed grim. And he merely nodded.
"What the hell did he stumble over?" Quinn asked.
I went over and joined them at the foot of the bed. I pointed toward the corner. "The way I figure it out, he stepped on that golf ball."
"Golf ball?" Jarvis and Quinn yelled together.
I nodded and turned and pointed to the bag of golf clubs along the wall. The zipper tab was still down. A white golf ball peeked out through the opening.
"I think one of the gob! balls rolled out of that pocket. I made the turn okay. But he made a wider turn and stepped on that golf ball. It must have slammed back and hit the wall at the head of the bed and bounced around like it was on a pool table."
The two men stared at the bag of golf clubs and then turned to gaze at the golf ball near the corner to the left of the bed. Then they turned and looked at the body, noting its angle.
Quinn looked at me. "How come you were up here screwing him? I told you what he was. You said he was tied to the Swami. The Swami wants you dead. So what were you trying to do, commit suicide?"
I shook my head. "We went out on the town. He was kind of gentle and considerate. I got swacked. So perhaps I was careless. But I thought that if I spent the night with him, as drunk as he was, he might let something slip. Although I was swacked, I was sober enough to be watching for some slip."
"And he made no attempt to harm you?" Jarvis asked me.
"No."
"Then how did you get that bruise on your left shoulder?"
"That was done in the heat of battle," I told him. "He didn't mean any harm to me."
Jarvis nodded and said grimly, "A badge of honor, I suppose."
"You might say that," I said. "So what else do you want to know?"
The two men looked at each other. Then Quinn looked at me.
"I guess you can go on home now," he said.
I nodded, lit my cigarette, and headed into the next room to get the broadtail stole Sandy had loaned me.
As I "was putting it on, Quinn came into the room.
"Was any ice lifted tonight?"
I shook my head. "I don't think so. I watched the Swami closely before Jacques got there at seven-thirty. I saw nothing. I couldn't keep tabs on both of them after seven-thirty. But I don't think the Swami is a heist artist. And I had Jacques under surveillance all the time."
Quinn nodded and pulled his pipe. "Okay, go on home now. But check with me in the morning."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was nearly five when I got home that morning.
I was smashed. So I did not even take a shower before conking out on the bed.
My main concern was with the diamond necklace and earrings. I am no jewel expert. But I'd make book on it that you could buy a yacht for less money than what you would pay for such a necklace-earring set at today's prices.
So I carefully wrapped them in tissue paper, put them into a small sack, and taped it shut. Then I dumped it into the post, as I call it.
I live in a big old-fashioned apartment high in the Hollywood Hills. Just to show you how old-fashioned it is, there's even a dining room with a huge round oak table and chairs so heavy you can hardly lift them. Grab one side of the table and pull. The two halves separate. The center post is hollow. That's where I keep everything of value.
I had the damndest dream. The Swami was trying to make me tell him something, and I wouldn't talk. So he had me strapped to a table. He flipped a switch and got out of there. And I nearly went out of my skull because of the shriH ringing of a bell that wouldn't quit.
I finally floated up into the Twilight World, and realized it was my phone.
Flat on my belly, unable to pry my eyes open, my hand reached out and scrabbled around until it found the phone. I fought to keep from going under again as I got the phone to my ear.
"Hello," I mumbled.
"Hi kid, this is Sandy."
"What time is it?" I asked.
"Nearly nine. You sound awful. What's the matter?"
"Nothing that one solid week in the sack wouldn't cure," I told her.
She gave a tinkling laugh. I wondered how she could be so goddamn chipper so early in the morning. She had told me never to call her before noon because she would never be awake. And yet, here she was on the line.
"I called to apologize," Sandy said.
"For what?"
"I must have really been pickled last night. I remember only bits and pieces. Such as Tammy Ryan."
"The redhead?"
"Yes. I can't stomach the bitch. So why I took up with her is beyond me. And I have the feeling I wasn't very nice to you last night."
"Forget it," I said.
"Did you have a good time with Jacques?"
"Sure."
"Anything exciting happen?"
"Yes. He's dead."
"What?" she screamed.
I wondered why she reacted that way. The previous afternoon she had mentioned him to me very casually. It was I who had asked if the Swami had suggested inviting Jacques. And she had said yes. I now wondered if the Swami really had suggested inviting him. Was it possible Sandy and Jacques had been lovers?
"He stumbled and fell and killed himself," I said. "You sound most upset."
Her voice was once again normal as she said, "He meant nothing to me, really. But a good hostess cherishes talented guests. They liven up a party. In fact, they make the party. I remember one party I had in Rome several years ago. It was a complete bust until Pietro Gusselli walked in. He's a droll little man who looks like Walter Mitty. He's a bank clerk, and he's very poor. But he's in great demand at jet set parties, because he can do impersonations and magic. That's why Jacques will be missed. Wasn't he a marvelous pianist?"
"Yes," I said, wondering if Sandy had ever gone to bed with any man and if she had ever been in love with any man.
"Well, I must roll over and get some more sleep," Sandy said. "I just happened to wake up and I thought of you. So I thought I'd call and apologize."
"Thanks," I said, wondering if I dared go back to sleep again. Because I might not wake up for two or three days.
"I hope we can get together again real soon," Sandy went on.
"Yeah," I muttered, as interested right then in sex as I would be in reading Lady Chatterly's Lover in Yiddish.
"Bye, kid," Sandy said.
There was a click. I shoved out my arm, and as I dropped the phone in its cradle, I went under again.
I began dreaming about bells again. It was some kind of a wild nightmare. But I finally floated upward enough to realize it was the phone again. I reached out and got it and mumbled something.
"I thought you had skipped the country," Jarvis said.
"Not yet."
"You did a great job faking that accident."
That jolted me awake. "What do you mean?"
"Just that. He didn't slam his throat against that vanity bench. What did you do, give him a judo chop on the throat?"
I began having visions of the little green room, with cyanide pellets dropped into acid under a chair, at San Quentin.
"He stumbled and fell," I told him. "How can you claim otherwise?"
He chuckled. "I really ought to write this one up for one of the journals. I'll bet that never before has a murder been established by the position of a man's dong."
"What in hell are you talking about?"
"You said he was chasing you all around the place. So it would be like a rooster chasing a hen. He would have a hard on. So when I rolled him over, his dong should have been headed toward his navel. But it was headed toward his knees. So that means he didn't have a hard on when he died."
"He was probably scared shitless as he came in for a belly landing," I said. "So he could have lost it by the time he landed."
Jarvis chuckled again. "This is our little secret. I'm not even telling Quinn. If you judo-chopped his throat, he had it coming. Or you wouldn't have done it. But I just wanted you to know you're not as clever as you think you are."
I was rocked. So all I could say was, "Yeah."
"Are you going outto the Mystique Temple today?"
"At noon. I'm having lunch with the Swami. Sandy introduced me to him last night as the Duchess of Zweibach."
Jarvis had a real belly laugh. "Where in hell's Zweibach?"
"Damfino. Sandy dreamed that one up."
"And the Swami bought it?"
"I dunno. Frankly, I now know how the guys feel when they're on Death Row. And how they feel when they walk the last mile."
"You have no business going out there. I ought to lock you up for suspicion of murder. Then you couldn't go out there."
"Now don't try anything like that. I'll be okay."
"Yeah," Jarvis growled.
"If you don't hear from me by six o'clock tonight, send in the cavalry."
"That I will. And perhaps sooner."
Jarvis slammed down the phone. Fortunately, I jerked my phone away in time. Then I shoved it back in its cradle.
Before I could go under again, the phone began having convulsions once more. It was Johnny Blatnik.
"How's it going?" Johnny asked.
"Okay."
"Got anything to report?"
"Yeah. Jacques Armand is dead." There was a silence. Then, "How'd it happen?"
"He stumbled and fell and slammed his throat against a vanity bench."
"How do you know?"
"I was there," I told him.
There was another silence. "I see. So when did you start screwing heist artists?"
"Last night. It was the greatest."
"Glad you think so. But insurance companies will take a dim view of it. So don't let it get around."
"I won't. But it was done last night strictly in the line of duty."
"I'll bet," Johnny snorted. "More likely it was because he was hung like a bull elephant. So you were there when he died?"
"Yes."
"And you made it stick that it was an accident?"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Just this. I don't know what the tie-in is. But I knew the Swami had his hooks in the guy. He was one of the Swami's puppets. And one of his lesser-known accomplishments was as a switchblade artist. Also, it's not generally known, but he was a sadist. He castrated a guy out here last year. The Swami caught the guy with one of his dolls. That's why I say he was one of the Swami's-puppets. So it's a wonder he didn't try to carve you up last night."
"I was lucky," I said.
"You sure were. So you'd better cool it the next time you get hot pants."
"Yeah," I agreed, wondering just what it was that I should cool.
"You been out to the Temple yet?"
"No. I'm going out today."
"Don't. When I made that deal with you, I didn't realize the danger. So now the deal is off."
"Because of Mickey Finarty?"
"That's one of the reasons."
"Quinn must have gotten to you," I said.
"It doesn't matter who got to me. The deal's off. But your fee paid, for your time. Send a bill."
"You promised me five-grand, win, lose, or withdraw. So you've withdrawn. So I shall get my five-grand."
There was a long silence. "You're holding us to five-grand?"
"Yes. And I'm going in anyway. So I'll earn it."
"Do you want us to spend it all on your funeral?"
"There isn't going to be any funeral," I told him.
"Spoken like a true hero. If I don't hear from you again, give my regards to Saint Peter and tell him I'll be seeing him one of these days."
"Don't count on it. You may wash out before you go on the trip."
Johnny chuckled. There was a click. So once more I hung up the phone.
Then I went so far under it's a wonder I ever came up again. I don't know how long it took my buzzing alarm clock and ringing phone to haul me up out of oblivion. Swearing like a drunken dock-walloper, I slapped the clock silent and grabbed the phone.
"Hi, Fanny."
That jolted me awake. "Hi."
"You're not going in."
"Who says so?" I asked. "I do. You're not going in."
"You're the third guy to tell me that this morning. So why ain't I going in?"
"Because you killed the Frog and His Nibs knows it."
"I did no such thing."
"The medical examiner says differently. He died from a judo chop on the throat."
"The hell he did. I was there and saw him hit that vanity bench."
"Tell it to the judge. His Nibs already has the medical examiner's report."
"Did you hear about Monk Gorgan?"
"Yeah. You sent him over the wall?"
"He stumbled and fell," I said.
"Seems like all your friends stumble and fall. At least that's the way His Nibs looks at it."
"Did he send Monk after me?" ' "Damfino."
"So why out there? Why not wait until I walked, into his lair?"
"That's why I don't think he sent Monk. But I dunno."
"What's on the grapevine?"
"Nobody's talkin'."
"What do you know about Jacques?"
"Not much. Why?"
"I hear he castrated a guy because the guy was playing around with one of His Nibs' dollies."
"Nobody talks about that out loud. So watch it."
"Okay. But I wish there was some way you could get in out there."
"There isn't.. So forget it. But I finally found out why you're hot."
"Why?"
"Mickey Finarty did some bragging before he got it. Mabbe that's why he got it. He bragged he had enough on the Swami to send him up for sixteen lifetimes. He mentioned several items, to prove his point. He dared them to knock him off. He said if anything happened to him, you knew where the file was. That you'd take it to the DA."
I felt like an eviscerated chicken. Why had Mickey given me the kiss of death? "So perhaps somebody else would be San Quentin bound if that file did go to the DA. So that somebody sent Monk Gorgan after me."
"That's the way the wise money figures it. So you're going underground. And you're not going out there today."
"And if I do...?"
He slammed down the phone. That was as good an answer as any, I decided, as I hung up mine.
I glanced at the clock. Then I fled the bed. I had a half-hour to get out of there.
As I stepped from the shower, a pillowcase was jammed down over my head and shoulders. My arms were grabbed. I kicked and struggled, but it was no use. I was trussed like a Christmas goose. Then I got the knockout punch.
Chloroform!
They'd dumped it on the pillowcase. I began to get sick. My legs turned to rubber. And the last thing I remember was being grabbed as my knees went out from under me.
I was in a roaring wind tunnel, with leaves of psychedelic colors whirling around me. And I was drifting and floating through blue fog, as if I were a blimp. Ahead, at the end of the tunnel, it was red, then green, then yellow, then orange, and finally white, and I slowly drifted toward it.
Through the blue fog I heard voices. It was as if it were a dream.
A man's voice said, "Yes, ma'am, she's very sick. The doctor didn't know what was wrong, so he's rushing her to the hospital."
And a woman's voice said, "My, I hope she gets along all right. She's such a nice person."
The fog rolled in over me again. But I remember having the sensation of being carried. And then I drifted and floated again, and knew no more.
I would drift out of deep blue fog and into fog that, was pale blue, where I could see the ever-changing lights at the end of the tunnel. And while in the pale blue fog I was dimly aware of what was around me. It seemed as if I were in motion. I could hear the sounds of traffic. And then I would drift into the deep blue fog again.
One time, when the fog was pale blue, it seemed to thin out. Little by little I became more and more aware of the sounds and the smells around me.
I heard a man say, "She's coming out of it. Get with it."
A needle was jabbed into my arm as hands clamped on my shoulders. Deep blue fog suddenly rolled in and I was aware of nothing more.
The roar of the wind tunnel began again. Once more the leaves of psychedelic colors whirled around me. The fog began to thin. Faintly at first, then brighter and brighter, I could see the multicolored lights at the end of the tunnel.
As I drifted toward the lights, I began to float out of the fog. And the roar of the wind tunnel slackened and finally stopped completely. The leaves no longer swirled around me. I was no longer floating.
I opened my eyes. I could see nothing. But the air was musty and reeked with the smell of stale urine.
My hands scrabbled around. I was naked. And I was lying on loose earth.
I sat up and felt as if I were on a berserk merry-go-round. But, in time, I stopped spinning. My head ached, but otherwise I felt okay.
Where was I?
I ran my fingers through my hair and tried to unscramble my brains. Everything was all mixed up. Bits and pieces of dreams and nightmares, and assorted odds and ends were all tied together like a crazy quilt. And all my thoughts were jumbled and seemed to rush out helter-skelter in a torrent.
I fought for control. Slowly I worked my way backward through time until the chaotic confusion of my thoughts suddenly stopped.
I had gotten home about five o'clock that morning, and had fallen into bed. I had been awakened by several phone calls.
I puzzled over the phone calls, trying to remember. Little by little, it all came back to me. I had been warned to stay away from the Mystique Temple. I had even been threatened with jail or worse if I didn't.
And I had bounced out of bed and run for the shower, knowing I had only a half-hour to dress. And I remembered that I was still determined to go out to the Temple.
I had luxuriated under a hot shower, suddenly cut it, and had danced around under icy needles. Tingling and wide awake, I had stepped out of the shower.
That's when everything began getting jumbled up. I had to sort through all the bits and pieces and try to make sense of them.
There was a pillowcase. My wrists were hurting. I was fighting and struggling. And then I became sick.
From out of the welter I finally remembered a smell. Chloroform. I continued probing and sorting. There was the man's voice and the woman's voice. Sick. Doctor. Hospital. Being carried.
I don't know how long I sat there, rummaging around through my thoughts. But I finally began to make sense out of the crazy quilt.
I had been grabbed and chloroformed and kidnapped.
But who had done it or ordered it done?
And where was I now? Why was I sitting naked, like an animal, on loose earth?
Like a monkey, I got on all fours and moved cautiously around. But I wouldn't go very far in any direction until I bumped my head against concrete walls. My exploring hands found them to be a rough blank surface. There was no windows. There was no door. So howinell had I gotten in there?
I tried to stand up. I bumped my head on more concrete. I dropped to my knees. The top of my head brushed against the ceiling.
I slowly walked around on my knees, with my hands probing the concrete above. Like the-walls, it was blank and rough. There was no opening in it.
I was getting air from somewhere, even though it was musty. In as small a space as that, I would have conked out with only the air in there.
My hands continued to probe. I finally found the answer. An opening the size of my fist near the top of one wall. And another opening the same size near the bottom of the opposite wall.
I sat cross-legged in the dirt once more, wondering what now.
Would I be left there in that black pesthole to die of thirst and starvation?
I felt the urge to relieve myself. I then realized why the air reeked, as I crawled over into a corner and squatted down. After I was relieved, I wondered if I should cover it with dirt like a goddamn cat.
I yawned. I was getting drowsy. So I stretched out like a cat and went to sleep.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I was jabbed awake.
I rolled over on my back and opened my eyes and Stared up through a hole in the ceiling.
I could see the legs of some guy standing spraddle-legged at the hole and jabbing a long pole at me.
"Come on, get out of there," he ordered.
I crawled back into a corner. "Get that goddamn pole out of here and I will," I yelled.
The pole was pulled up. I crawled over under the opening, got on my knees, and reached up to grip the sides of the hole.
He grabbed my hands and yanked me up.
"Watch out," I wailed. "You're scraping the hide off me."
"You won't be needing it much longer anyway," he told me, dragging me up and out.
I was skinned from my breasts to my ankles, and it hurt like hell.
Holding on to me with one hand, he kicked the cover back into place. Then he marched me down a concrete tunnel and up a flight of steel stairs.
I was cold. My feet were freezing. But the big ape clutching my arm stared straight ahead and paid no attention to my chattering teeth.
He finally stopped at a closed door, twisted a knob, and ' threw it back. He gave me a shove.
"Here she is, Harriet," he yelled.
A squat thick woman with a butch haircut and a cigar came through an open doorway. She wore a white shirt with short sleeves and open at the throat. Her arms were thick, muscular, and hairy. And her belly hung down over her plaid slacks. But her face was the most interesting part of her. She had five o'clock shadow and bristling black eyebrows.
She looked at me, pulled a sap from her pocket, and swatted the wide expanse of her muscular palm with it. "Get it there," she ordered, jerking her head toward the open doorway. Again she slapped the sap against the flat of her hand. "Make any trouble, and I'll use this on you."
I had seen her type at the jail. Get one notch out of line and she'd pop her joybox while sapping you. And if you didn't get out of line, she'd goad you into it, or claim you had, so that she could still get her kicks.
I sidled past her and went through the opening. Shower heads were spaced every few feet along the right wall. Toilets were along the left wall, with no partitions between them.
A bigger and older butch stood in the center aisle, her arms akimbo, staring at twelve nude women under the showers. The thong of a sap poked out from her right trouser pocket. And her lustful face showed her enjoyment of the scene.
"Get on a pot and relieve yourself," the other butch said from behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder. She still had the sap in her hand.
I headed for a John and squatted on it. I didn't enjoy having an audience. But her face showed she was enjoying herself.
I stood up and stepped on a lever.
"Now go on down to the other end of the room," she growled.
As I headed down the aisle, the other butch gave me the once-over. She almost drooled.
I ignored her and veered around her. She started to grab me.
"Lay off," the other butch bawled. "It's my torn now."
"Your turn for what?" I soon found out.
At the other end of the room, on either side of the aisle, were two booths with drapes across the front.
"Take the one on the left," I was told.
I shoved back the drape and went in. A doctor's . examining table stood there, complete with stirrups. There was a cabinet against one wall, with closed doors.
"Get on that table," she ordered.
I hesitated and glanced at her. She pulled the sap from her pocket and swatted my butt with it.
"Get on that table before I work you over."
I slid one hip on the table, swiveled around, and lay back.
She jammed the sap in her pocket, grabbed my ankles, and tugged me toward her. Then she shoved my feet into the stirrups and knocked my knees wide apart.
She jerked my joybox open and stared at it with lustful anticipation. I wondered what I was in for.
She yanked a board out from under me and shoved it somewhere down below. She lumbered over to the cabinet and opened the doors.
She carried a metal can and a bucket past me as she headed toward a sink beyond my head. I heard water running. I was afraid to look back at her.
She came back to the cabinet, dumped the metal can, and headed over to the table. Her left hand gripped my joybox again. Her right hand went down into the bucket and came up clutching a big bulb syringe. She rammed it into me. The water was hot and I squirmed.
"Lie still," she ordered.
"That's hot," I protested.
"So what?"
I had to lay there and take it. Her right hand made many trips to the bucket. And the stuff smelled like sheep dip.
She finally backed away and returned to the cabinet. She shoved the bucket in it and came back with a bottle and a small bulb syringe.
The operation was repeated with the smaller syringe. But it smelled as if I was being douched with fifty-dollar-an-ounce perfume. It was heavenly.
She turned the bottle and syringe to the cabinet and came back to me. Before I knew what she was up to, she had jammed three fat fingers into me as far as she could.
I screamed and writhed.
"Lie still."
The lust on her face changed to ecstasy as her fingers probed. She closed her eyes and a tremor went through her body, as she popped her box.
She withdrew her fingers and shoved against my butt, sliding me back on the table.
"Now get up on your knees," she ordered.
I stared at her and hesitated. Out came the sap.
"You asked for it," she gritted.
She grabbed me and rolled me over. She beat my butt until it was numb. I was so goddamn mad that I bit my lip, because I knew that the more I screamed the better her pops. I glanced over my Shoulder. She had a dreamy look on her face like a hophead on the drums, as she beat faster and faster on my butt.
Sweat ran down her face. Her big breasts were heaving and threatening to pop the buttons on her skirt. She finally had to stop because she was out of wind. And she stood there for a moment, gasping and heaving, with the sap poised, ready to beat another tattoo on my butt. But I didn't give her a chance. I lay still.
She pocketed the sap and grabbed my hips and yanked me up on my knees. She made another trip to the cabinet and came back with a tube of something. I couldn't see what she was doing. Then she yanked the cheeks of my butt apart and my back door got it that time.
I screamed again. But the more I screamed, the more viciously she jabbed. And she had an even more ecstatic look on her brutal face.
She finally shoved me flat.
"Get off and get out of here and get under a shower," she ordered.
My butt was on fire and jumping with pain. But I worked my way off the table while still on my belly. I stood up and headed toward the drape. I could hardly walk.
The other girls and the butch were nowhere around. I had the showers all to myself. So I got under one and grabbed a bar of soap. I had the water so hot I nearly parboiled myself. Then I leaned over and put my hands on my knees. How good the hot water felt as it gushed down my Valley of Passion, between my buttocks.
"That's enough," she finally ordered. "Get out there. Get out in the other room."
Dripping wet, I padded toward the doorway I had first come through. The hot water had helped. It was easier to walk. And the pain was simmering down.
As I cleared the doorway, she said, "Straight ahead."
I went through another opening and into a long room. Directly ahead was a table with towels on it. I grabbed a towel and began rubbing down.
Couches were scattered around the room. There was even a table with magazines on it. How thoughtful.
I heard a door close. I looked around as a key grated in the lock of the door I had just come through. We were penned.
I went over to the table. There was more than magazines on it. There was a long flat box with cigarettes and books of matches in it.
I grabbed up a cigarette and fired it. I dragged as deep as I could and spouted smoke from my nostrils like a dragon.
I looked around the room at the other woman. All of them were under thirty. I wondered where they had been dredged up. And what they were going to do with us now.
A Latin sexpot got off a couch and came over to me. "Welcome to the Legion of the Damned."
I frowned at her. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just what I said. All of us are damned except one. And she's not only damned. She's doomed."
"And who will that be?"
She shrugged. "Who knows?"
"You seem to know a lot about it," I said.
"I should. I was one of the Swami's dollies for nearly a year. My only sin is that I took on the janitor and the Swami caught me at it." She shrugged. "So here I am. For all I know, I'm the one who'll be doomed and damned."
"What's this 'doomed and damned' bit?" I asked.
"You'll see later."
"Not later," I said. "Now."
She squinted at me. "If those butchies knew I was running off at the head like this, they'd have a duet on my butt with their saps."
"This room may be bugged," I said. "So you'd better watch it."
She shook her head. "It isn't bugged. And the butchies won't be back for a while. They're upstairs now, tearing into each other. I know. I've seen this routine before when I was one of the dollies. We were forced to come down here once in a while, so we wouldn't be tempted to get out of line."
"So what's this 'doomed and damned' bit?" I repeated.
"It's part of the Druid sex rites. You'll be part of it in a little while. It winds up with one of the girls having her head on a block, like a turkey. And she winds up the same way, with her head in a box."
I shuddered and closed my eyes. I felt like I was going to b sick.
I opened my eyes and fought back the heaves. "So who gets clipped?"
"None of the girls know. But you'll be told at the start of the orgy that it will be the girl who gives the poorest performance."
"But you don't believe that?"
She shook her head. "It never works out that way."
She picked up a cigarette and lit it. She looked at me. "What did you do to be sent to the damned?"
"Plenty," I muttered.
"I've never seen you around here before."
"I haven't been."
She waved her hand around the room. "They're all Temple maidens who had fallen from grace. I'm the only dolly."
"And after tonight," I said, "what happens to all of you?"
"We'll be sold for cash."
I stared at her. "Like livestock?"
"You might say so."
"White slave?"
She nodded, "We'll all wind up in the cribs of Shanghai or Canton. So perhaps the gal with her head on the block is the lucky one."
"But who are the men at the orgy?" I asked.
"Rich guys. I've heard the Swami gets a thousand bucks from each of them for one night of lust."
"The Swami certainly has many sources of income," I said.
"That he has."
"Will he be at the orgy?"
"He's the high priest. He samples the merchandise first."
"But why the gal with her head on the block?"
"She's an offering to Shitoma."
"Who's he?" I asked.
"Shitoma is a she. The goddess of lust. You'll see her tonight, heavily veiled, and with her eyes glowing."
I looked around the room and wagged my head. I moved off to a distant corner. She soon followed.
"How badly do you want to get out of this nightmare?" I asked her.
"That's a silly question. There's no way out."
"There might be. You know the layout. You know the ropes. Together, perhaps...."
She shook her head. "Others have tried it. They've been thrown in the garbage grinder in the basement."
"Is that a rumor?"
"No. I knew three of them. I could hear their screams clear up on the top floor when they hit the blades. No thanks. I'd rather wind up in a crib than in that garbage grinder."
We stood there and stared at each other for a moment.
"Don't be a damn fool," she told me. "Even if your head does go on the block tonight, it isn't as bad as being thrown into the garbage grinder. It's over in a second."
"I'm going to bust out of here someway," I said.
"You've got less chance than a mosquito in a vat of DDT," she told me. "So simmer down. You'll just make it hard on the rest of us. Because every time a gal has hit the garbage grinder, the rest of them in the group got the ax. You'll be told that just before the orgy starts, so everybody will stay in line. So every one of us will be a stoolie. We have to be, if we want to stay alive."
I nodded and turned and went back to the table. I dumped my cigarette and lit another.
I once again looked around the room, wondering if all of them were brainwashed. Probably, or they wouldn't have stayed on as playthings for the Swami. They'd have busted out somehow. And I wondered if the Swami had used hypnosis on all of them. Probably.
I was the logical candidate for the ax that night. But perhaps the Swami would decide that was too quick and too clean. So I might wind up in the garbage grinder.
I wondered what time it was. With no windows in the rooms, you couldn't tell whether it was day or night. But it had to be almost six o'clock, or later. They wouldn't hold the orgy until long after six o'clock. So Jarvis should come charging in before the ax was swung. That was my only hope.
Or what about The Weasel? If he found out the Swami had shanghaied me, would he try to save me? That was a pretty slim hope. What could he do all alone?
Was there much chance of anyone going out to my apartment house and finding I had been rushed to the hospital in an ambulance? Very little chance, I finally decided.
I went over and slumped down on a couch, sucking on my cigarette, and tried to decide which would be the worst, the ax or the garbage grinder.
The cavernous room was filled with a hellish red glare from crimson fires leaping up from bronze pots, set on short massive stone columns, which were scattered throughout the room.
Across the front of the room were broad stone steps leading up to the low altar on the first landing. The steps then continued upward to the high altar on the top landing.
Behind the high altar must have been umpteen white mosquito net curtains, back to back. Because behind the netting, in a mixture of shadows and dim light, sat a huge foreboding statue with luminous red eyes glaring out over the room. Because of the netting and the shadows and the dim lights, you saw only the profile, with the features indistinct, except for the fiery eyes. This was Shitoma.
At the low altar, dressed as a red devil with black horns, stood the Swami. Flanking him on either side were the guards-giant brutes wearing red tunics, bright green jodphurs, and shiny black boots. They wore black hoods, with openings for eyes and nose, and each held a pikestaff as he stood at rigid attention.
And the fires of Hell also leaped from bronze pots on short massive columns on either end of the stone steps. So the devil at the low altar was in his element.
Just below the low altar was the chopping block. And beside it stood a burly giant in a long black flowing robe, and wearing a black hood, also with holes for eyes and nose. He, too, stood at attention, clutching a massive bronze broadaxe, as used by executioners during the Middle Ages.
Pads were scattered across the stone floor of the tomb-like room. And on each pad was a writhing couple.
I was on a pad just below the low altar, being rammed by a Neanderthal throwback with sloping forehead, buck teeth, and jug ears. He had bristling red hair and the simpy look of a rube, one cut above an idiot. But he had money. That's all that mattered. And he had paid the Swami a grand for the privilege of romping on me that night, and watching the broadaxe thud down, with a gal's head rolling into a basket below. How depraved can you get?
Before the orgy started, as the Latin sexpot had told me, we were duly warned to give a good performance. Because Frigid Fanny would wind up with her head in the basket.
I knew that it was only a question of time until my head would be on that block up there, even if I put on a virtuoso performance. But I also knew that I could cause the other twelve girls to lose their heads if I didn't stay in line and go all out as a goddess of sex.
So I put on a classic performance, groaning and moaning and writhing and clamping down on his ridiculous imitation of a cock. Hell, most buck rabbits have one bigger than he had.
But, as I said previously, it's not only the sight of thirteen writhing couples that finally gets to you. It's also the gasping and the moaning and the shrieking as each couple strives to reach the ecstasy desired. And if you are the female half of one of those couples, as I was, it finally gets to you even more. And if you are expecting that at any moment you will get your throat cut from ear to ear, it Becomes even more hairy.
But perhaps, I hope, you will understand why, in spite of myself, I got hot. Forgotten for the moment was the certainty that my head would be disconnected from the rest of me before midnight. Caught up in surging passion, my only thought was to ride the waves of ecstasy higher and higher, hoping to reach pinnacles I had never reached before.
My stud finally pooped out on me. But I was still surging and seething inside. So I got him on his back and went down on his chicken neck.
That's when one of the guards walked over to a huge circular brass shield, picked up a sledge, and swung it. It sounded like the tolling of doom.
I jerked upright. The Latin sexpot had told me what that meant.
One guard from each side marched down the steps and met just below the chopping block. Shoulder to shoulder, they marched swiftly forward.
They did a smart left face. Then another. They were headed straight for me.
Lake hell they were.
I jumped up and ran like a raped rabbit toward the rear. I circled around and headed toward the front.
Whereinell were Jarvis and the cops?
I saw the Swami bring his arm up and over. The guards charged down the steps and fanned out across the room.
Talk about broken field running. If I'd had a pigskin under my arm, I'd have made at least twelve touchdowns during the next five minutes. I zigged and zagged and weaved and ducked as the guards tried to close in on me.
Shitoma's eyes were now flashing fire. She was angry. And the Swami, in his red devil's suit, went down to the chopping block and laid his head on it, as atonement for making Shitoma angry. But the executioner, of course, ignored him.
I had to create a diversion. As I raced past one of the mats, I reached down and scooped up a towel. I headed toward one of the blazing pots. I glanced right and left and over my shoulder. I had ten seconds or less.
I threw the towel around the pot and grabbed it up. It was heavier than I thought it would be. But I was charged with adrenalin.
I took the stance of a discuss thrower. But it took both hands to lob the pot up and over.
It soared high and free and headed toward the upper level. As I ducked, a guard swerved and scooted away, I wondered if it would be on target.
I made a ll turn and headed back toward the front as the flaming pot crashed against the netting.
All hell broke loose. The sacred Shitoma was being exposed to mortal eyes. That was the sacrilege of sacrileges. For that, I was doomed to die.
The guards, like angry buzzing hornets, swept in around me. I was dragged across the stone floor and up the stairs and slammed down, with my head on the chopping block.
As the flames leaped higher, one of the guards planted his foot in the middle of my back to hold me flat. The High Executioner got in position, with one foot far ahead of the other, ready to swing his ax.
The ax went up and I shut my eyes, thankful-that it was this way rather than in the garbage" grinder.
There was a shot. I heard the ax clatter on the stone floor. I opened my eyes in time to see the High Executioner topple backward down the stairs.
The cavalry was riding in. Jarvis and a platoon of cops came charging up the steps.
The Swami took off that way. I bounced to my feet and was right behind him.
It was like a Mack Sennet comedy. We jumped on chairs and over tables and went 'round and 'round a grand piano in one of the rooms. I was getting winded. I wondered if the Swami was part jack-rabbit.
As we raced down a hall, he swerved to the right and into a room with nearly every conceivable type of ancient weapon hanging on the walls or laid out on tables.
He grabbed a dirk from a table, whir led, and threw it.
I went under it.
Before I could straighten up, he conked me on the head with a mace.
My eyes stared at each other. I wobbled around, out on my feet for the moment.
I grabbed up a broadaxe with a short handle. He took off, zigzagging like a rabbit. I gave it a healthy swing. Then I let go.
It was fool's luck.
As the Swami charged through a doorway at the other end of the room, the blade of the broadaxe buried itself in the back of his head and the handle vibrated. He sprawled headlong and lay face down, looking ludicrous with that ax buried in his head.
I stood there, puffing and panting and hanging on to a table, glad that it was all over.
I turned and headed toward the door I had entered by.
Sandy stood there. She was dressed in a red leather suit and high-heel boots and gripped a bull whip.
I stared at her.
She .came slowly into the room, staring at me. Suddenly her hand shot out. The whip whistled through the air and barely missed my shoulder.
"This time you die!" she snarled.
Was she nuts?
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
"How do you think the Swami got started here?" She jabbed a thumb at her chest. "It was I-I-who bought this place and set him up as the Swami. It was I who dreamed up the Swami bit. It was I who coached him and groomed him and made him into a sophisticated man. I spent years and millions of dollars building him up as a mystical leader of a religious cult built around erotic sex."
She pointed toward the far end of the room.
"There lies my million dollar investment-with an ax in his head. And you put it there."
She snapped the whip again, flicking my right nipple. It hurt like hell, and I rubbed it, staring at her.
Her eyes glowed with insane rage. She'd gone off her nut as she watched the ax split the Swami's head open.
But there was something more than the loss of the Swami as the leader of a cult which had caused her to flip.
So I said, "With the Swami dead, your jewel racket is, too. Isn't that right?"
She nodded, her lip curling, and her face contorted by hate for the one who had busted up her racket.
"But why, Sandy? Why? You've got millions. You didn't need the money. Why the jewel racket?"
"You've never been rich. So you wouldn't understand. It's the monotony that kills you. Everything is handed to you. There is no excitement."
She hesitated a moment. "Yes, that's it. That's it. The excitement. That's what jazzes up life so it can be tolerated. That's why I robbed that bank while I was in college. I was no longer a gawky rich kid. I got my eyes opened then, by the excitement of it all, and matching wits with the cops. That's when I began planning this racket."
She again looked toward the other end of the room. Hate once more twisted her face. She looked back at me. Her wrist jerked. And the wicked tip of the whip damn near cut off my ear.
She was nuts. Why fight her? Keep her talking until the cops came in. That was the best thing to do.
So I said, "But how did the Swami fit into the caper?"
"He was a religious leader. He was beyond suspicion. He could move freely from one country to another without being searched. The Temple is a sacred building, free from invasion by the cops. I needed such freedom. That's why I made the Swami a religious leader. He was a perfect front."
"And Jacques Armand?" I asked.
"He was a fool. He was always bringing the law down on me. I'm glad he's dead. But the Swami...."
Once more she stared at the other end of the room and got jazzed-up again. Her wrist came up. I danced to one side and the whip slashed only the floor.
"And you hired Monk Gorgan to kill me?" I asked. "Yes."
"But why?"
"Don't act so innocent. You've got Finarty's file. That's why you wanted to nose around out here."
"But I don't have his file."
"You lie." The whip whistled across the top of my head, stinging my scalp. "So you must die. And the file will die with you, because you're as greedy as Finarty. You wanted to blackmail the Swami, as Finarty tried to do. So you wouldn't leave the file where someone else would find it."
She slashed at me with the whip and started toward me. I backed slowly away.
"Why did Armand try to kill me?" I asked.
"Because I ordered him to. If he didn't, he knew I'd throw him to the cops for a murder he did in New York."
The whip was tossed aside.
She yanked a snubnose from her pocket and fired point-blank at me, ripping my left shoulder.
"Die, bitch, die!" she snarled, her finger clamping again.
I hit the deck. The slug went over me.
I reached up and grabbed something that looked like a machete off the table. I got in a half-crouch.
She fired again, but the gun jammed.
She was now defenseless. But I didn't want it that way.
I reached for the mate to my machete, stooped, and slid it along the floor to her.
"Get out of your clothes so you'll have freedom," I said. "We'll see who dies."
Glaring at me, she slowly unbuttoned her jacket and tossed it away. Her shirt was next and she shrugged out of it and dumped it. Then she got out of her boots and shucked down her jodphurs.
She stooped and grabbed up the knife. She stood there naked, cutting air with it. Then she lunged for me. It peeled a hunk off my shoulder.
We squared off again. And then, in the best swashbuckling manner, we began duelling, banging steel against steel.
We weaved and ducked and danced aside, each looking for an opening.
She swung. I went under it. She was off balance and her body was twisted around to my right.
I swung. She couldn't get out of the way. My blade sliced down her chest. And her right breast bounced on the floor.
She screamed. Blood gushed down over her belly. She would be losing strength fast. So all I had to do was to stay out of her way.
But it was not to end that way. She went berserk. She grabbed the handle with both hands and chopped with it as if she were chopping wood.
Then she began swinging with it, as if it were a golf club.
She was getting in too close to me. So I took a swing at her, to force her to back off. But as I swung, she did, too. Her body pivoted completely around. Her legs were twisted almost around each other. She couldn't duck or move.
I couldn't stop my swing. I tried to lunge to one side. But I couldn't overcome the momentum of the swing.
My blade swept in at the level of her shoulders.
Her head bounced across the floor.
And my swing carried me around so that my back was to her.
I heard her body fall as her machete clanged on the floor.
I ran to a window, shoved it up, and leaned far out over the sill. And then I heaved.
