He was hiding in the metropolis, stalking the glut of glamorous pretenders that flocked to glitterwood seeking fame and stardom. His name was Kearne Jarecki. He was quiet, shy, reserved ... until he turned into a raving , maniac on provocation. And there was plenty of provocation as the wantons failed to find the success that was their due and slipped lower on the scale of humanity ... finally accepting jobs as nude models ... in any house at all. Some of them were never heard of again. Anita, the sultry Mexican minx. Terri, the petite blonde. Pam, the raven-haired vixen. Helen, the brazen one, delighting through each shame the perverted Jarecki offered her. Kathy, the redhead, who was tired of the casting-couch routine and all the fat, greedy producers. Hilda, the madam who made all the flesh appointments. Kaye, the model master. Mara, the ill-fated blonde bombshell. But it was Matt Schaffner, solid and square, who wanted only to be Terri's salvation and ecstasy....
CHAPTER ONE
The girl, a sultry-eyed, pouty-lipped Mexican, had once been a ravishing, exciting thing. But that was before shame and terror had done its ugly work, had eroded and withered that lovely face. Before shock had aged it ten years overnight, had cut a deranged web of lines about that mouth, about those eyes, had turned the velvet flesh into something coarse.
She was only 26, in the prime of her female sensuality; she possessed the kind of body commonly described as opulent. A body to make men clench their teeth, to set their hearts to racing, to twist their stomach into a sick, longing jumble. To cause other telling bodily reactions as well.
Just one night with a dish like that-
Her tawny legs were long and slim, the calves and ankles perfect. Glossed with sheer hosiery, pedestalled by high heels, they would set hands to trembling, they would have exuded challenge, exotic promise-
Her throat was long, graceful, with just a hint of puffiness in the under-chin. A throat that swept to a smooth clavicle-prominent shoulder structure, that zeroed male eyes In on the swollen globes of Anita's breasts. Breasts seemingly paler, more fine-textured, seemingly huge and luminous when emptied from her brassiere, displayed in the unflinching light of day.
The kind of girl who'd go over big in the girlie mags.
But, that was before. Before the psycho had so horribly abused her, defiled her without stop.
For this morning, as the nine o'clock Los Angeles sun felt its way through the drawn blinds, found her sprawled in painful disarray on the studio couch in his living room, Anita Moreno was not pretty at all. Fear had seen to that.
This morning, a Saturday, she wore no alluring stockings and pumps, no seductive gown. There was only the rumpled black slip which had climbed up to reveal her waist. There were only the searing ropes at her ankles and knees, across her lower thorax, beneath her breasts, knotted at her numbed wrists, tied firmly behind her back.
One other accessory: The twisted strip of cloth that dug into her mouth like a bit, creased her cheeks, ended in a tormenting knot behind her head. A gag that turned her bitter moans to animal gibberish.
Now she heard running water, a clatter of pans in the kitchen. Shortly she smelled brewing coffee, and despite her panic and acute discomfort, realized she was ravenously hungry. Still the man made no appearance.
Anita groaned, shifted on the couch, worked her legs and arms as much as possible to induce circulation. Her hands ached and tingled murderously sharp, shooting flames went through her legs. She fought the gag futilely. Water, she thought, if I could only have a drink of water.
Kerne. Was that his name? Yes, Kerne. The rest of it she couldn't remember. It was a funny name, Polish or something. Even when he'd called to set up the appointment, the name hadn't stuck.
Anita allowed her mind to backtrack, tried to figure how, with as much moxie as life had so prematurely forced upon her, she'd managed to fall into so deadly a trap as this. God, why hadn't she been warned right from the first? From the way the scrawny creep had looked at her, his eyes almost bugging out of his head, from the way he'd fought the shakes when she'd gone into the bedroom to strip.
And most especially, why hadn't she smelled something rotten when she'd seen how nervously he'd handled his Leica M-3? The whole layout had reeked right from the start. Every time she'd ever got into one of these home, living room studio deals she'd held her breath all the way through.
But then, she'd rationalized, why all the sweat? After all, if she was a free-lance model she had to cut it, qualms or no. Fifty bucks was fifty bucks. An easy hour's work. Besides, the little twerp would be a pushover for the first small breeze that came along.
She was experienced; she knew how to handle these sick types when they pushed for extras. And if they were too insistent, there was a rate for that too.
She wasn't getting any younger. It was obvious that the TV production companies weren't about to start casting Mexicans. She'd already gone that route with the legit movie firms. Bit parts were few and far between. A gal had to coin it when and where she could.
There'd been photog wolves galore since she'd ditched Kaye and her so-called agency, since she'd gone free-lance. They were all part of the general scene; that seventy per cent of them would make a pass was a foregone conclusion. You put an ad in the Times, sat back and waited, what else could you expect? Every-time they'd gotten anxious hands she'd managed to tame them. Either that or sell them. A shudder sliced her. But this Kerne guy had been something entirely different.
He'd calmed down in time, and Anita had grudgingly admitted there was a certain professionalism in his handling of camera and lights. His poses were almost original, his choice of color unerring. Most important, he hadn't laid a finger on her. Which was radical departure indeed, all things considered.
But still, she should have been warned by the psycho glitter in his gaze as he'd asked her to breathe deeper for a more provocative angle.
And then, when the hour was almost up-
She'd shrieked softly, her cry one of disbelief and surprise, appalled that such a small man could be so strong, as he'd wrestled her onto the same divan upon which he'd just finished posing her. Flashing stabs of light, like pearls on a string, had exploded in her brain as he'd brutally open-handed her across the face.
As if in a surrealistic nightmare the lengths of rope had appeared. And with an effortless, uncanny efficiency the man had tied her arms behind her, bound her ankles, had clamped the strip of cloth between her teeth.
Then, never once taking his eyes from her body, a silky, seething flow of vile words spilling from his lips, he had gone to his camera again clicked a picture of her in this trussed up state. Minutes later he'd quickly undressed before her stunned eyes. He'd taken gleeful delight in displaying himself, his readiness, to her.
His serpentine fingers had manipulated the rope at her ankles; the knot had dissolved. She tried kicking him, but he was too quick.
Until finally, her limbs feeling like they were on fire, her helpless, choking sobs battering the coiled rag, she'd lain in docile surrender. Her hands had twisted and wrenched painfully, ground into her back as his weight had come upon her.
And there, under the blazing eyes of the tandem flood-lights, the pain unbelievable; "Tramp," he'd hissed, dropping his hands, hurting her breasts, pinching and twisting her nipples. "You deserve this, you deserve to be punished...." He'd hurt her more brutally, had taken her with one animalistic surge.
He'd giggled at her muffled shriek. "Good, baby?" he'd mocked. "The way a man should treat street pigs like you. Here, more. More...."
He'd gone clean out of his mind then, had worked ruthlessly, delighting in the pain he'd inflicted. The barbarisms had dripped more vilely from his lips, he'd called her every rotten name in the book. Had added some that even Anita, in her years of rough experience, had never heard. Until it had seemed she must void her stomach, strangle. But in the end she'd managed some sort of control.
Afterward there'd been even uglier games. Incredibly vile games, the man pressing a gleaming stiletto to her throat when she'd balked. Games in which removal of the gag became mandatory. He'd knelt beside her face, he'd leered at her, mocked her. As Anita had gagged, forced herself to submit to his perverted desires.
Again, as he'd chuckled and groaned his demented pleasure and finally, announced his second release, she'd verged on heaving.
The deviations were watched and preserved by the Leica's unblinking eye (courtesy of the delay timer), the man often running between tripod and divan with deranged glee, seemingly deriving greater charge from recording her debasement on film than from the debasement itself.
He had shot picture after picture.
Until at long last, tiring of his sport, he'd killed the lights in his impromptu studio, had untied her momentarily, generously returned her slip to her. Then, re-tying her, checking his knots a last time, he'd slammed her back onto the couch, dismissed her for the night. "Fun, huh, pig?" he'd taunted at the last. "More tomorrow. You can hardly wait, can you?"
But now, abruptly, Anita's grisly reverie was shattered. For the man had entered the room. She shuddered anew at the smug smile on his face. She saw the camera hanging about his neck. What now? she quailed.
"Morning, sweetie," the man smirked, his eyes glittering as he appraised her rumpled condition. He went to the window, partially opened the blinds. "Sleep good?"
Anita rolled her eyes upward, saw the man studying a light meter. No, she thought. It won't start all over again. He focused the camera, framed his shot. In the only defense left her, Anita hid her face.
"Baby, " he murmured menacingly, "hold your head up. Unless you want some more bumps."
He took three shots, let the camera hang. "You wanna talk, kid?" He stood over her. "You gotta promise not to yell though. Not that it matters, the neighbors all took off already." He half raised her, cruelly squeezed her left breast in the bargain. "No screams? Promise?"
The woman nodded wearily.
When the gag was removed, she stretched her jaw, worked it sideways, tried to rout the anesthetized feeling in her cheeks. She was silent, her eyes conveying deadly hatred.
"Hungry, kid?" he asked.
After all this time her voice sounded strange. "Water. Could I have a drink of water?"
Moments later he was back, a glass in one hand, a sweet roll in the other. "Here we go," he smiled. He held the glass for her, and Anita drank greedily, almost choking.
She turned her head away. "That's enough."
"Here, take a bite of this roll."
"No, please. I'm not hungry. I'll be sick."
He slapped her lightly, gleefully. "Take a bite, I said!"
The woman forced down small bites of the roll, the sweet stickiness almost gagging her. By sheer will power she managed to finish, to keep the roll down.
While she ate, the man, using his left hand, pulled open her slip, darted his fingers inside, began to clutch and roil her breasts. And when Anita made no notice of the demeaning humiliation, concentrated on her eating, he became angry, let his fingers turn sadistic. He transformed the already raw nibs into searing aches.
"Please...." she choked.
"Please what, baby?"
"Please don't hurt me any more."
"Please don't hurt what?"
"Don't hurt my ... breasts...."
"Dig that refined tramp, will you? You can talk plainer than that." He pinched even harder. He prompted, "Don't hurt my boobs."
"Don't hurt my boobs," she hurried to repeat, the pain almost doubling her over.
Chuckling thickly, immediately tired of his sport, he said, "That's more like it." He removed his hand.
"Coffee, doll? You gotta have some coffee. Help you keep your strength up, put hair on your chest. We got a damned busy day head of us."
An eerie humming began in Anita's ears. "What are you going to do to me? You won't get away with this. You know that, don't you?"
The child-like slyness creased his face again. "I don't know anything of the kind. I don't care anyway. If they catch me okay; if they don't, okay too. I had my fun. It was worth it." It was obvious to the woman that in his deranged philosophy he was perfectly sincere about the statement.
Again she repeated her question. "What are you going to do? You can't keep me here like this forever."
He smiled too quickly. "You ever been to Anza? That's where we're going. A little picnic. You like picnics?"
"Anza?" she said. "Where's that?"
"It's a place. About a hundred miles south. You'll like it. A million acres of room all to ourselves."
Fresh, stunning panic hit Anita. "Please, no. You're not going to ... you won't kill me?"
"Kill you?" he said in teasing singsong. "Can you imagine a nice guy like me killing anybody?"
"Please," she started. Then seeing the weird, flickering expression in his gaze, she let it drop.
"We better see about getting you dressed," he said. "Can't go on no picnic like that."
The woman flushed, tried to form the words. That she should have to ask this filth, "Please, could I...."
"Could you what?"
"Won't you untie me for a minute? I'd like to use the ... bathroom."
This man snickered, stared directly into her face. He kneeled before her, fumbled with the ropes at her ankles. Then her knees. "Sure thing. Anything for a lady."
He helped Anita to her feet. "In there," he said.
She almost fell as the pain ripped her legs. For long moments she stood frozen, swaying. Her legs felt like a million red ants were swarming over them, biting and tearing. Gradually the pain lessened, and she could walk. "Please?" she looked down on him. "My hands?"
"Not a chance, honey. Here, let me help you." Crudely he lifted her slip tucked it into the coils of rope circling her abdomen. Then he stood back, appraising her with an ugly leer. "Go on, kid." He broke into cackling laughter.
A laughter that never let up all the while she was in the bathroom.
Anita was dressed now, the ropes on her wrists temporarily removed to facilitate the amenity. She wore the flashy black dress she'd arrived in last night, the sheer hose and needle-toed pumps. As final concession the man even let her comb her hair, touch her lips with lipstick.
Then he was twisting her arm, replacing the ropes at her wrists. "You can't take me out of here like this," she said. "People will...."
He drew the ropes painfully tight, knotted them briskly. Throwing her onto the couch again, he grappled with her ankles. "Can't I? People will nothing." Futilely she fought the replaced gag.
The desperation became a clawing, unhinging thing as he carried her through the house, into the connected garage. Where he laid her on the floor in the back seat of a late model Buick, covered her with a blanket.
In that instant before the dusty quilt came down she saw that there was no picnic impedimenta whatsoever in the car. Only the mocking glitter of the camera on the front seat. The dread crushed and smothered her. There was no doubt now, he was taking her some place to murder her.
The Buick picked its way through myriad side streets, lurching her cruelly. Then abruptly, the ride smoothed out, the car gained speed, and Anita sensed that her captor had turned onto a freeway. The Santa Ana most likely; it was closest to his house. She felt more than heard the rumble of traffic careening south beside them. Now and then the blare of an auto horn cut through her agonized torpor.
Heat built up beneath the blanket, causing her body to prickle maddeningly with sweat. Fear drove her body temperature up, while heat seeping up from the car's muffler intensified the torture. Her panic raged. I'll suffocate, she thought. She felt very dizzy.
When she awoke she realized they were a long way from Los Angeles. She had no way of knowing how long she'd slept, how far they'd come. The heat was intolerable now, her back was raw with pain from her cramped position. Her breasts ached. Viciously she tossed her head, attempted dislodging the blanket. She sobbed and pleaded against the gag.
"Easy, kid," the man acknowledged her stirrings. "We're almost there now. Another hour at the most. Then we'll have a nice little picnic."
The insane pressure built up in her brain. She'd never known such insane hatred. God, she wailed, I have to have a chance to get even with this filthy, rotten scum. To hurt him like he's hurting me.
Finally she forced her face free, she could gulp the clean dry air, she could savor the coolness bathing her forehead. The sun, even in October, was glaring, and she squinted against the sudden brightness. All she could see was blue sky, clouds, the automobile's interior. Idly she studied a puncture in the headliner near the passenger's door. How had that happened?
The man pushed the Buick hard; she could tell by the engine's roar, the way the car rocked on the curves, by the constant, whining acceleration as he swung out to pass slower traffic. Thinking of what would happen when they reached their destination, Anita wanted desperately to scream, to cry.
Perhaps, an hour later her hopeless lethargy was pierced by the man's gloating announcement. "Here we are, baby. Welcome to Anza-Borrego Desert State Park."
He braked the car and Anita imagined they were passing through a gate of some kind. Now the Buick slowed to a more sedate pace, she felt the road get rougher, more winding. Each time the car slowed her heart lurched up into her throat.
Not yet, she wailed inwardly. Please, not yet.
Finally, after a half hour more of tortuous passage through the park, during which time they went ten or fifteen miles into its most deserted heart, the man stopped the automobile. Killing the engine, he sat in tense silence, watching, waiting.
When no other auto appeared and he was positive they had the desert to themselves, he finally got out, walked around the Buick, and opened the trunk. Anita heard a dull, metallic clang.
"Shame on you, baby," he sneered as he opened her door, regarded her. "Your skirts worked up." He sadistically pinched her legs, hung on. "But nice, too, in a way." Now he, hastily undid the knots on her ankles and knees, pausing often to peer down the road, make sure they were still alone. "We got some walking to do," he shuffled childishly. "Shame you didn't bring some more comfortable shoes along. Instead of those spikes of yours...."
He flung the blanket aside, pulled her to her feet, steadied her briefly against the car. It was then she saw the snub-handled shovel, a length of rope caught in its handle, leaning against the fender. Another detail: The .32 caliber revolver in the madman's right hand.
"C'mon," he rasped, his lips twitching, "over there. Toward those ridges, baby."
Anita had no inclination to study the scenery. Her mind paralyzed with terror, it was no time for nature observations. The desert stretched endlessly away from them in all directions, shimmering and sliding before her eves. The dazzling white sand, the scrubby vegetation, the outcroppings of mud and rock formed a crazy patchwork quilt of color. The towering, apparently impassable bluffs in the distance, weird round-shouldered, convulted humps and planes, reminded her of white, plaster-of-Paris hams, the pinyon bushes and cac-it becoming clove stakes on their glaring surface.
Anita shuddered uncontrollably at the errie vista, at her plight.
The reflected sun blinded her as she stumbled forward, the rocks and shifting sand tore at her pencil-thin heels, twisted her ankles. A spiny cover of yucca snagged her stockings. Organ pipe cactus, purple tinge pear, cane cholla grew in profusion on the treacherous plain. The sudden heat seemed to have substance, seemed to be hammering her into the ground. Once her leg brushed a pincushion cactus and she lurched away in pain.
Perspiration drenched her clothes as she struggled forward. Twice she fell when the man shoved her too hard. Her legs felt disconnected. Still she pushed on, stealing sidelong glances toward the road, praying for sight of another car approaching. But there was nothing: only the silence, the snake-like ribbon twisting away across empty sand, here and there obscured by pinyon and smoketree.
By then they'd scrambled halfway up the hogback ridge, the man obviously having been here before. Once behind it, they'd be lost forever. Anita saw the Buick, looking like a small toy, in the distance. Even if someone came now they couldn't see the rope around her chest, binding her wrists, they wouldn't see the pistol.
She and her abductor would be taken for picknickers. Maybe rockhounds. Or even worse, lovers seeking isolation. Their adventurous bid for privacy would be honored.
There was absolutely no hope now, and her pulse thundered, maddened her. She wanted to fall, to burrow into the sand, to hide from the maniac in any way possible. But when she lagged, the pistol jammed cruelly into her back, hurrying her on.
Now finally, they started down the far side of the rocky ridge, the heel on one of Anita's pumps snapping off as she caught her foot in a craggy fissure. She limped on with only the indifferent, vacant-eyed desert as witness to her last moments of life.
Then, shuddering from a stupor, she heard no herding footsteps behind her. She turned slowly, to see the man standing in frozen pose, a dreamy smile on his lips, the shovel in the sand at his feet, the pistol tucked in his belt. The ropes he'd bound her with dangled from his pocket, the remaining rope was wound about his hands, the strand in between going taut, relaxing, going taut. There was something almost mesmerizing about the way he handled the rope.
Even more unnerving was the opaque cast to the man's eyes, indication of the supreme lunacy gripping him. He was wallowing in the perverted power he held over her, getting a tremendous wallop from toying with her, tormenting her during these last moments.
Then the graceful, writhing hands went still, the rope hung slack. The camera came up, was focused. "Hold it, kid," he slurred, "just like that." She heard a slight click, knew her terror had been registered for posterity.
He advanced. "This is it," he said. "Where we have our picnic." His hands came up, snaked around her head, undid her gag.
Instantly and impulsively, on the verge of crackup, Anita loosed a shrill scream.
Which bothered her captor not at all. "Go ahead, honey. Scream all you want. Maybe I'll make you scream another way after while. There's nobody here, only us. Let 'er go. Get it out of your system."
Anita sank into a dumb impassivity, her senses numbed beyond recall. She sagged, the burden of her terrible resignation too great to bear.
"Sit down," he said. "Make yourself comfortable."
"Sit down? Right here?"
"Yes, right here." His smile broadened. "You can watch me dig. I said sit down!"
Awkwardly the woman fell to her knees on the sand, curled her legs under her, sat with sloped shoulders, staring at the ground. Until she heard the sound of the shovel crunching into the sand. Like a lode-stone the noise drew her head up. And she contemplated the shape of her grave. , It was terrible what this final, unmistakable confrontation did to her. She straightened, threw her head back, strained at the ropes winding her wrists. "No!" she called, and broke into babbling sobs, in supreme panic. "Please, don't kill me. Dios mio, no!"
It was the final, intolerable torture, to face her grave like this, to watch it being dug, spade by spade, and it drove her over the brink, robbed her of any last vestiges of strength and dignity.
What happened then was ugly beyond description. As she fell forward, groveled and crawled toward him, digging her knees into the sand. "Please don't kill me," she implored, her face shining with tears, her eyes great, black holes burned into her head. "Please, I'll do anything, only don't kill me. I won't tell anyone what you did, I swear. Just let me go, right here even, and I'll never tell anyone. I'll forget it ever happened, I'll forget everything. I swear...."
She shuddered, went still.
"Anything?" the man said, a sick smirk on his face. "If I let you go?"
The hope that transfigured her face was pathetic to see. In her panic she tore at straws. Avidly she clutched at any last shred of chance left her. "Anything," she moaned fervently. "Anything you want. Only let me go, let me live."
The man helped her to her knees. Then he stepped back; raised the inevitable camera again, captured her frenzied expression with an indolent click. Then he came behind her, undid the ropes at her wrists. "Don't try to run," he warned. "I'll shoot you full of holes."
He helped her to her feet. "All right, kid," he said. "Get undressed. I'll let you go. But only if you promise you'll never tell anybody."
"I promise, I promise," she babbled. "Oh, thank you...."
When Anita got to her black panties he stopped her. "That's enough," he said, lowering the camera.
"C'mon over here. In the shade."
In reality, down deep inside her, Anita must have known she was deluding herself, that she shouldn't do the rotten things he ordered, that the fiend wasn't a-bout to spare her. But she was beyond ration now, running, staggering, falling into a limbo of terror and confusion, instinctive self preservation shutting out everything else.
The man undid his clothes, let them sag, stood before her. Cruelly he pulled her hair, brought her to her knees. "Go to work, pig," he chuckled thickly. "This'll be the greatest. Right in broad daylight. Give Daddy his kicks." He twisted her hair as she hesitated. "C'mon, damn you!"
Anita breathed a childhood prayer for forgiveness, let her eyes fall shut. Then she stiffened, held the man, guided him. The abomination began again. And desperate, fighting for a chance to live, she executed the caress with all the skill and sham enthusiasm she could muster. She made her captor groan and writhe and shudder.
Once she opened her eyes, caught him taking a close-range snapshot of even this. Then she returned to her extorted, ugly labors. And when the man squealed, when he held her head in a murderous, punishing grip, affected her direction himself.
At that most shameful of moments she almost wished she was already dead.
It was only a reprieve, not really a pardon For now, emerging from his trance, the man pushed her back, jammed his foot at her breasts, slammed her to the ground. "Thanks, pig," he spat, "for nothing." Giggling thinly, he retrieved the shovel, resumed scraping out the shallow grave.
Anita shrieked hideously. "You promised!" She raised herself on her hands. "Don't, oh, don't! Please let me go. I swear I won't tell...."
She made a sudden move, and the gun flashed in the sun. "Don't try anything," he hissed, his face demonic. "Just lay there like a good girl."
Anita collapsed into hysterical sobs, buried her face in her bruised, swollen arms. The click of the camera brought her alert again, and she paled to see the grave-her grave-finished.
Then he was upon her, his hands scrabbling for the rope, seemingly tying her hands all in one fluid motion. Then her ankles.
There was no time for further pleadings. For suddenly he was anxious to have it over. She screamed without stop as he jerked her hair, brought her up. "Dios...." she keened to indifferent skies. "Ayud me! Dios sagradot"
But God, much less the animal psychopath, wasn't listening. This man's breath coming in hoarse, sick groans, he looped a noose about her ankles drew it tight. Then, teeth bared in idiot grimace, he flung the rope about her neck, pulled back on the loose end, bent the woman's body back.
It took only a little while. Efficiently, almost as if he'd practiced the execution dozens of times before, he tightened the rope, exulted, all but slathered at each gulping, gagging yelp.
The body arched, swayed, fought with reflexive ferocity, the magnificent breasts rose and fell wildly, seemed on the verge of exploding. But trussed as she was, her spine drawn into a grotesque bow, the woman never had a chance. Soon the convulsions lessened, then ceased altogether. When he finally released the rope the body sprang forward, fell face down in the sand. And moved no more.
Agitatedly the man lifted the body, dropped it into the grave. He turned the face so the light hit it. Then the camera was poised again.
For a long time he prowled about the grave, an expression of ghoulish glee upon his features.
Then he was gathering her clothing, her shoes. Carelessly he dropped them into the grave, the tangled ball fluttering open, settling over her bare feet. Now a rain of gravel and sand cascaded upon the lifeless form.
Her shoulder-length hair, jet black and fine, had twisted at the last, a hank of it plastered against one wall of the grave. Too late the man saw it, casually hacked at it with the shovel blade, tucked it under the sand. A dozen more scoops of gravel, and the body was completely covered.
Minutes later the ground was level, gave no clue to the grisly secret it harbored. Before the day was out the wind would have raked and sifted the sand to fine, smooth consistency. Even if someone stumbled on this spot, but no one would.
Now the man started back, the gun concealed, his shovel in his hand, the camera banging his chest. A tag end of rope dangled from his pocket. As he cleared the rise he saw that the desert was still empty, cloaked in sighing stillness.
Kerne arrived home at 6:10 that afternoon. He was quite drunk. And yet not too drunk to remember what he'd done with this lazy, autumn Saturday. Already he was looking forward to the long Sunday yawning before him, a day he'd spend in his makeshift basement photo lab processing the five rolls of film, two color, three black and white.
In preparation for the glossy enlargements he'd make he went to a drawer, brought out a large manila envelope. With exaggerated care he ball-pointed an inscription on it.
Finally he held the envelope away, studied his unsteady printing.
Anita Moreno, it read October 14.
It was the first envelope.
CHAPTER TWO
The Larrabee Street apartment was nothing A special. Terri would have been the first to admit as much, with Pam falling all over herself to second it. Certainly the cramped quarters weren't worth the $150 a month the house manager had so imperiously demanded. He knew its location, feeding into Sunset Boulevard scant blocks from Doheny, was its salient selling point, that if these two lovely green horns didn't snap it up, there were others coming up the street at that very moment who'd fight for the chance to do so.
The rent was much too rich for Terri's blood, but Pam had painted such glowing pictures of their new off-the-Strip address that she'd finally caved in. But Still, exciting surroundings notwithstanding, it wasn't much of an apartment. Not when it took 75 of her 325 hard-earned, lucky-bucks monthly just to pay for a place to change her nylons.
Pam's "closer" had been her argument that so long as Terri had ostensibly fled Waterloo, Iowa to escape a deadly rut, to go "Where things 'swing' once in a while," why didn't they go where things 'swing' once in a while? And Maywood ($80 a month) wasn't it.
Thus: Ho for the elusive, ephemeral shores of the Hollywood district.
Where they'd been living for the past two months Which was precisely one-third of the total time Terri Cavan had been in Los Angeles. There were many times now, when she found it almost impossible to believe that only a half-year ago she'd still been suffocating in the stifling, sterile confines of her Iowa environment.
Crazy. Time, like everything, was relative. What had seemed an eternity in Waterloo, had passed in the twinkling of an eye in exciting, swinging Los Angeles.
The apartment consisted of five skimpy rooms: a bedroom with twin beds, an efficiency kitchen, a dinette in an alcove off the living room, a bath, and a living room measuring twelve by fifteen. According to the fine print in their lease the apartment was furnished. And so it was. In what Pam acidly reviled as "Mid-Century-Salvage-Shop."
But then Pam was always one to take an overly dim view of things.
An eight-foot-long, lemon-colored davenport took up one wall. On the room's opposite wall, flanking the fake marble fireplace, two tired chairs stood. While near the door (undoubtedly someone's idea of a gag) was a maple colonial chair, its cushions done in an antique print.
Two captain's chairs, several coffee tables and end tables, four or five production line lamps, an ornate, Baroque, gilded mirror above the cluttered mantel, a fairly new portable TV, a portable stereo phonograph with its speakers strung out on stingy feeder lines helped fill in the remaining blank spaces. Sleazy carpeting hid the floors.
There was one other artifact of furniture. That a bookcase in stained birch, only two of its shelves containing books. The top two hosted Pam's incipient record collection, one phonograph speaker. The next shelf down displayed Tern's extensive conglomeration of dog statuettes.
The remaining shelves contained a hodge-podge of books and magazines, most of them residue of the previous tenants. There were over twenty paperbacks of dubious content which Terri hadn't dared to open. But for some reason, the pack-rat mentality of the unread taking over, deeming books sacred, she'd been unable to toss out the pulpy things.
On the next shelf stood five books, which because of their hard covers, seemingly deserved a better fate. A battered copy of Hawaii (Terri had started it) a copy of Lolita (Pam's challenge reading, a book that totally baffled her), Rona Jaffen's The Best of Everything, an edition of Sex and the Single Girl (which both girls had plowed through and discussed avidly). And finally an expensive volume, whose abandonment neither of them could account for: Alfred Kinsey's Sexual Behavior in the Human Female.
Hawaii or Lolita hadn't been touched in weeks. Needless to say, Terri and Pam were no great shakes as readers.
The apartment's kitchen and bathroom, though maddeningly small, were modern. This was Pam's harping point whenever Terri bemoaned the exorbitant rent they paid.
The bedroom was also a la moderne. The twin beds boasted bookshelf headboards, there was a suitable vanity and double dresser, closet space was ample. There were Danish chairs, several barrel lamps which gave off muted light, gave the room a comfy, inviting warmth.
"Hell," Pam was fond of saying, "if we just kill enough lights around here, it's almost like modern times. But put 'em on and ... Ich! Might as well live in a pawn shop. All we need are some banjos and saxophones hanging from the ceiling."
Tonight there was no such grousing in the Larrabee Street digs. It was 8:35 of a Tuesday evening, and Terri watched a television show. While Pam, lying on a blanket on the living room floor, dressed in only her lacy brassiere and sheer panties, went through her calisthenics, put on a show which, had a man been there, would have induced a raging, growling assault.
It was during a commercial, as she lay flat on her back, raised her legs in unison, dropped them, counting a steady 1-2-3-4, that Pam ceased her exercising, lay puffing, looked accusingly at Terri. "What's with you, Ter?" she asked. "Are you defecting to the flab brigade?"
The smallish blonde, still dressed in her secretarial uniform (white blouse, dark pencil-slim skirt, stockings) her pumps exchanged for wooly slippers, looked away from the TV, smiled a wan apology. "Not tonight, Pam. I'm tired. That Wexler creep had me on the go all day long."
Pam clucked disapprovingly. "Naughty, naughty. You know what happens when you start letting down. Pretty soon you're letting two days go past, then three, then a week. Before you know it you'll be a candidate for size eighteen."
Terri avoided her eyes. "Tomorrow night. I'm just too beat. We're going to the gym, aren't we?"
"That's right," Pam grunted, cesuming her exercise again, her trim, tawny body contrasting excitingly to her black bra and panties. "Wouldn't miss it. You aren't sorry, are you, Terri?"
"Sorry? About, what?"
"Because I talked you into that gym bit. I was only looking out for your own good. You were getting kind of flabby, no skin tone to speak of...."
"It's all right," Terri interrupted. "I need it. I feel better for it. But tonight...."
"Okay, doll. Only you've been goofing off quite often lately. Been kind of moody. Stiff exercise knocks that out of you. You can't help but feel good, feel alive. How you ever going to be a movie star if you don't keep yourself in shape?"
Terri smiled patiently. "How many times must I tell you, Pam? I don't want to be a movie star. I had completely different reasons for coming out here."
"Don't snow me, honey. T know you. You're just like me, just like the others." She was kicking now, rapidly, effortlessly. "You ... want ... be . mo'om ... pictures. Admit it now."
"There are other reasons a girl comes to Los Angeles besides movies and television."
"Like what, for instance?"
"Well, the weather for one thing."
"Smog, you mean."
"Besides, Los Angeles is an exciting city. There are millions of things to do. I've told you all this before, Pam."
"Yeah, you told me. But I still don't believe it. With your curves, your innocent, baby face, you're a natural. But you gotta go looking. They won't come looking for you. Those days are gone forever."
Terri tossed her head, watched television again. "You're impossible, Pam. The only reason I ever even consented to sit in on that drama class, even this gym thing, was to have something to do, to please you. The way you kept harping...."
"And I'm going to keep on harping, kid. Until you see the light. TV's begging for ingenues like you. After all it isn't as if you didn't have any talent. What about that thing in Waterloo? Carousel, was it?"
"King and I," Terri corrected. "It was a small part in a tank-town community theater group. It doesn't mean a thing. Now will you shut up? I'm trying to watch this show."
"Nuts," Pam retorted. "We're talking about you, about your future. I don't think that Tuptim's a small part. And a city like Waterloo, sixty-five-thousand, isn't it?"
"Skip it. I don't want to talk about it."
"Just how long can you live on the sights and sounds of Los Angeles?" Pam persisted. "How long you gonna be hung up in that crummy office of ours? Great Western Insurance! Nuts. Great Western Grave's more like it. What're you gonna do with your life?"
"Well," Terri sniffed impatiently. "You act as if I was fifty or something. I'm only twenty-two. I'm getting by, I'm enjoying myself. One thing certain: that movie bit's not for me. I've seen what it's done to other girls, it won't happen to me. Remember Jackie Trane? How she went to pieces when that agent took her up to Tahoe for the weekend? He did things to her it makes me sick just to think about. You know as well as I do what Jackie is today. A common call-girl. Where did all her hotshot dreams get her?"
Pam's face grew thoughtful; she stopped kicking in mid-stride. "Jackie was a kook. She never had it in the first place. She caved in too damned easy. I, both of us, we'll be different."
"Will we? Maybe you will, but I'm washing my hands of the whole mess. I like my life the way it is. Uncomplicated. Someday I'll meet Mr. Clean, we'll get married and...."
"And you'll stagnate, turn into a meatball hausfrau. You talk so stupid sometimes." Pam's voice teetered on the precipice of a snarl. "That's not for me. I'm gonna be somebody in this loony bin someday."
"Rots of ruck, dear," Terri teased. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to salvage what I can of this show."
Pam didn't answer. Instead she threw herself into a series of twist-overs with vengeful ferocity, her shoulders flat, her torso twisting, her bare feet flicking at her hands, the exertion causing her refined, small breasts to bob and quiver in sensuous frenzy.
Had a man been there he'd have flipped his skull.
The sudden flurry of activity distracted Terri, and covertly losing interest in the TV show, she studied the thrusting body on the floor.
Even at this disadvantage, her face shiny with perspiration, her hair disheveled, Pam Lyon was still a beautiful woman. Her legs were witchy, her calves lush, taut and lean, twin avenues to sensual paradise. Her body was slim and long, her shoulders and hips narrow. In a slinky gown, in skin-tight Patinos, she moved with panther-like rhythm and grace, there was a taunting aloofness in her bearing. Granted, her breasts were small, a major sin in this day of inflation, but they were a decided asset to Pam's aura of svelte coolness. In clothes, as well as out of them, like now, she was breathtaking.
Pam's olive complexion set off her dark hair and eyes perfectly. She wore it in a boyish cut, a modified page-boy, her flaring black brows, the long arch of her nose joining to give her an Inca-Princess look. Her lips were exquisitely formed, slightly pouty. Her cheekbones were high and prominent, glowed with inner flush, gave her an animal vitality, reminding Terri, of all things, of the polished gloss of an autumn-ripened russet apple.
Regarding the proud, lovely woman, Terri entertained not the slightest doubt that someday, in her hard, unflinching way, Pam Lyon would attain her goal. If any starstruck girl in Hollywood at this moment would make it, Pam would. She would gouge, bite, kick, connive and compromise. She'd sleep around to get to the top if she had to. Proudly, premeditatedly at that; she'd have no regrets, feel no shame afterward. No holds barred. The devil take anyone who happened to get in her way.
All at once, seeing the almost cruel curve to Pam's beautiful mouth, Terri felt a rain of goose bumps pelt her arms and back. She tried to turn away, to concentrate on the waning TV program. But caught up in an uncertain wonder, she could not. While a recurrent question boomed in her brain. Why do these girls do it? Why do they purposely court heartbreak?
Abruptly Pam had enough of physical fitness. She scrambled up, executed four more listless toe touches, a half dozen knee bends, her body rippling in exotic agitation. Then she was gathering and folding her blanket. "Soap time," she announced tersely. And went to prepare for her shower, her perky buttocks veritably swaying as she left the room.
Leaving Terri alone in the living room, staring with unseeing eyes at the fluttery picture on the television screen.
Her thoughts were very definitely elsewhere.
There was no sham modesty in Terri Cavan's refusal to consider a TV or movie career. Oddly enough, it was the unvarnished truth that she'd come to L.A. for the climate, to escape a rustic small-mindedness that threatened to mold her into a priggish automaton before she was 25. She'd fled Iowa to climb out of a deep rut, to escape her pious, sanctimonious and hypocritical parents. If, in so doing, she'd broken their hearts, she was sorry. But there'd been no other way.
Just once in her life, she'd justified her actions, she'd like to try something on her own, she'd like to see what the rest of the world was like.
A world that wasn't made of prudish pettiness, where blue laws didn't exist.
Often she'd contemplated leaving home, living in another part of Waterloo, acquiring a circle of new, free-thinking friends. Which plan invariably went into the discard. It wouldn't be enough of a break, she wouldn't be far away from her parents.
Which is not to say that Terri was a frustrated wanton, that she lusted after a life on nonstop sin. This wasn't true at all. What she yearned after was independence, a feeling of not being constantly spied upon.
Despite its size, it sprawling industrial complexes, despite its Chamber of Commerce ballyhoo that here was a city on the move, Waterloo was, in reality, nothing more than a crossroads country village multiplied a thousand fold. Its main industries were farm centered. Stockyards, packing plants, farm machinery manufacture, grain millers, storers and shippers. These were the forces that kept the city alive.
And on Sunday afternoon you could always take a drive in the country. To Grandy Center, to Eldora, to Dunkerton. You could smell the pigs all the way.
Thus she'd traded that smothering world for one that was absolute antithesis. She'd traded the hot, muggy summers, the cold, damp winters, the insularity of her packing-plant-stenched environment for Los Angeles's smog and desert-like heat, for its bustling hedonism and incredible liberality, for is infinite sensations, experiences and vistas.
And though often chagrined during those first six months in L.A., she'd never once been disappointed. For its heady atmosphere and mad whirl had more than lived up to advance billings. It had been like learning to live all over again, like being alive, really alive, for the first time. She'd received insights, good, rotten and indifferent, into the ways of the world, insights she might otherwise never have known.
And there were insights to come. Insights that would have sent Terri, screaming her bestialization, back to the mundane security of Iowa had she been possessed of clairvoyant powers.
The transition wasn't achieved without certain setbacks and second thoughts.
Most grievous among these was the defection of her close friend Sue Watson, who'd been, from the start, the main instigator of their "escape" from Waterloo. The total impact of L.A. had been too much for Sue, and stricken by acute homesickness, she'd tearfully surrendered, returned to Iowa. To the last she'd tried coaxing Terri to join her. Terri had almost succumbed, but in the end, still intoxicated with the newness of her environment, she'd resisted, had remained in "The City of Angels."
The week following Sue's departure, as Terri returned nightly from her secretarial rounds at Great Western to face up to her Maywood apartment, was pure hell. An empty apartment, a room even, in Waterloo would have been endurable. But here she was utterly alone.
It was during that week that Terri Cavan had come closest to throwing in the towel, going home herself.
Then, on the following Monday, as she'd been busy in new policy filing, the tall, raven-haired girl had approached.
"Hi, Terri," she'd said. "It is Terri, isn't it? You the gal who's got the apartment? Bonnie Kief was telling me you need a roomie."
Pam Lyon had moved in the very next night.
Had someone purposely set out to find two opposites in character and purpose, he couldn't have done better that Terri and Pam had he dedicated his life to the matching. For where Pam was brash, poised and aggressive, Terri was timid, unsure and introverted. When Pam was tall and dark, Terri was small and blonde. Where Pam was endowed with a slim, classic body, her allure understated, Terri's attributes were more blatant, her breasts large, surging, taunting grapefruits, her hips and buttocks waggled and fought vigorously inside her skirts.
Where Pam was possessed of an indomitable, fiery drive, having come from New York with a half-dozen little theater credits, a stint as a department store model under her belt, Terri was content to drift, to let each day take care of itself, the most crucial decision in her life thus far being that which had brought her to California in the first place.
In reality it had been no great task for Pam to talk Terri into the drama course, into the gym sessions. For Terri, greedy for experience, was susceptible; she welcomed any and all emissaries from the outside world. It became something painfully close to envy with Terri. If she could ever become half as confident, as knowledgeable as Pam-
The woman who faced the TV set, her shoulders slightly slumped, her mouth curved in sad smile, was beautiful, but not beautiful in an obvious way. Hers was a loveliness that took second and third looks to be recognized, a subtle flowering that surpassed mere prettiness, became the essence of beauty.
The face was round, the brown eyes a trifle too small, the nose somewhat stubby. There was a sleepy puffiness look in her eyes, a .fullness of her under-jowl to reinforce the aura of fresh-waked innocence that clung to her. When Terri smiled it seemed she held back a secret, promised an unknown something to the man who would really care, who would champion her reticent, unstated cause.
A look of sad loneliness and seeking. A promise of monumental thaw to come.
Terri's hair was done in a bouffant, slightly ratted style; it was disarranged now, several wisps dangling over her forehead. At Pam's insistence she'd had it tinted a champagne tone, had let the hairdresser skillfully streak this with gray. She'd let Pam teach her to do her eyes so they appeared larger, more alluring.
The two touches were perfect, sheer inspiration on Pam's part, and intensified the ingenue lostness in her expression added a muted sexiness besides.
Often, studying Terri unobserved, admiring her tiny figure, the ebullient burst of her breasts', hips and buttocks, appraising the child's fine hands and wrists, the curve of her throat, the exquisite line of ankle and calf, Pam was hit by a strange sadness.
That greenhorn, she thought. That poor, simple greenhorn.
Once the plaint had even been articulated. Terri suddenly looking up, catching Pam's pitying stare, had said, "Pam? What re it? Why're you looking at me like that?"
"You poor kid," Pam had answered, caught off-guard. "You're really in for it. With that body, all those goodies. Then that baby face. You've got a long way to go."
Terri's face had fallen. "What're you talking a-bout, Pam? What kind of riddles...?"
"Skip it, Ter," Pam had recovered. "It's a riddle all right. One you have to solve for yourself."
But the implication of Pam's enigmatic statement hadn't gone completely over Terri's head. For, after all, no girl could be that naive. Terri wasn't as dumb as her bedazzled gaze would have her appear.
If the truth were known, Terri was no babe-in-the-woods at all. She was a non-virgin, twice-removed, having learned telling lessons in practical biology before she was nineteen.
Her initiation had occurred the summer after her high school graduation, an act of rebellion against her father who'd adamantly refused Iowa U. for her, insisted instead that she take a short term secretarial course at a local business college. Vengeful and defiant, she'd let a surprised Jim Clausen take her for a ride in the country after a movie. She'd all but seduced him herself.
As a matter of male principal Jim had let his hands wander, had put the heretofore inviolable Terri Cavan to another test. When he'd kissed her passionately, had felt her melt, had heard her breathing quicken, it had been impossible to keep his hands off those fast rising and falling mounds beneath her nylon T-shirt.
"Terri, baby...." he'd sighed as she'd let him cradle and caress each breast, as she'd hissed with delight and surprise at the tingling sensations he'd sent through her when he'd twirled and fingered her nip-plies. "You mean...."
"Yes, Jim," she'd breathed, her pulse insane in her ears, "if this is what you want. I do too." And she'd fallen back, had wanted to scream at the maddening feelings he was igniting for her. Her nipples had felt swollen, monstrous. Yet, as much as they'd pained her, she didn't want him to stop.
Brazen, vengeful to the last, she'd become impatient when Jim hadn't hurried things along. "Please, Jim," she'd finally said, "take off my shirt, my brassiere. Don't just..
The astonished boy had eagerly complied. And minutes later he'd stripped her to the waist, had sprawled her on the car seat. Where, kneeling on the floor, he'd run his lips all over her torso, from her lips to her waist. But mostly he'd centered at the magnificent, quaking breasts, he'd teased the nipples with his fingers, he'd made them alternately soft, then turgid. Terri had felt like someone was touching live coals to the raw nibs.
And she'd become, by the moment, more wild, more impatient.
Then, moments later, when his hands had slid on her bare legs, from ankles to knees, had tickled and tortured her. He'd let his hands slide, inch by inch, beneath her skirt.
She'd frozen, had wanted more of the deliriously wicked sensation, had felt she'd die if she didn't get more. Her vitals had bubbled, she'd turned to so much mush in his hands. Shortly, his lips working wildly to supply a smokescreen for what his hands were doing, he had touched her, had caressed, had become the very first male to know her.
She'd thought she'd faint from the delirious, intoxicating pain his touch awoke. When he'd gone further, rolled down her panties, let his hands caress and explore, she'd been unable to stand any more.
"Please, darling," she'd wailed, sitting up, holding his hands away, "not here. Take me somewhere. Out of the car...."
Thus Jim had escorted her to a grassy hollow some 400 feet from the road. And there, on a blanket, he'd moved into the final, transfiguring phase of the seduction. There, callow and insensitive tyro that he was, he'd proceeded to ruin everything.
To this day Terri could still remember the warmth of that July night, the way the full moon had glistened on Jim's tanned, nude body. She still got the shivers to recall her awe at seeing a man naked for the first time, at seeing the effects of his excitement, feeling a wondrous pride that she'd been able to do that for him.
But then, as Jim had moved to her, "No, no!" she rebelled shrilly as he had touched her, had begun to pressure her. "Please, no Jim! You hurt terribly. I can't stand the pain. Please, no! I've changed my mind."
"No, baby," he'd choked. "I can't stop now. I have to have you, to finish. I'll go nuts if I don't!" And no matter how Terri had pleaded and sobbed and thrashed, the lust-inflamed boy wasn't to be denied.
In the end, he had his way.
Blessedly that had only lasted a short time. As Jim, beginner that he was, had died almost as soon as he'd begun.
Afterward, both penitent, Terri still sobbing intermittently, Jim had taken her home. Terri hadn't slept most of that night. Shame-ridden and fearful, she'd lived the vicious evening over and over again in her mind, had wondered incessantly over the fact that some people actually derived pleasure from this humiliating, animal battle.
She'd seen Jim the rest of that summer, but only once, after a screaming argument with her mother, had she surrendered to him again. This time in her own living room, her parents out for the evening. Steeling herself, she'd found the pain less intense. He had lasted longer, had become slightly pleasurable. The tension and excitement had risen, had driven her partially out of her senses.
Only Jim had failed her again, had been delivered prematurely, had been of no further use to her. Had it not been for that she might have discovered the true meaning of love that night, the true meaning of being a woman.
But Jim hadn't helped. In the final summation he'd proved to be nothing more than a shallow boy, a greedy child.
"I'm sorry, Terri," he'd apologized afterward, so stupid in those matters that he didn't know that there were other ways of helping a woman find release and satisfaction. "I didn't mean for that to happen so soon. Baby, did you find anything at all?"
"Nothing," she'd hissed spitefully. "Did you expect I would? With you?"
Her parents had come home within the hour. And that had been that.
But neither of these events had been as repugnant as the night with Kent Lindner, a handsome, much-sought-after young man. A well-brought-up youth whom Mrs. Cavan was wild to have Terri snare.
The same boy who, before the night was out, had taken Terri to a roadhouse, had plied her with furtive jolts of wine from a hip flask, with innuendo and pawings of the rankest sort. Who, when sure that Terri was blotto, had hurried her from the hall, had been so excited that he'd hustled Terri into the car's back seat, had taken her right there in the parking lot.
After Jim's somehow respectful love-making, it seemed bestial that Kent hadn't even undressed her. Instead he'd flung back her skirts, unclasped her stockings, let them slither down her legs until they'd tangled in her pumps. Then he'd attacked her underpinnings. A metallic hiss then, and seconds later he'd crowded closer, jammed her head against an arm rest, twisted her back to a painful arc.
"You dig Ken, don't you?" he'd goaded as he'd claimed her. "You do, don't you? He's a good stud, ain't he?"
Afterward they'd driven back into Waterloo, stopping once more on a side road, where, once more in the back seat he'd abused her. Terri remembered little of that night. Except that at the end 'she'd dashed from the car, had vomited loud and long beside the road.
Needless to say, there was never a second date with Kent Lindner.
Yes, ma'am, Terri thought dourly, rousing abruptly from her introspective trance, focusing in the TV picture all at once, surprised at the depths of reverie into which she'd sunk. I know all about life.
I don't want any more. Not right away, and not outside of marriage at any rate, Helen Gurley Brown to the contrary. There must be something more to loving than pain and remorse, more than that residue of shame that hangs on for days afterward. Love's something that should be learned slowly, with someone who truly loves you. Something you don't acquire in ugly, hit-and-run fiascos in automobiles. Not from pigs like Kent.
She straightened in her chair, concentrated on the sounds in the bathroom. As the steady drumming of the shower suddenly stopped. She heard the tub squeak when Pam climbed out.
Terri returned to her goading thoughts, wondered what it had been in the first place that had triggered the remembrances of Clausen and Lindner. Those were things beside forgotten. Or was it like Sex and the Single Girl said? Was she getting that way?
She shunted the thoughts aside. It wasn't so. This was just one of those bad nights. She didn't need a man; there wasn't room or time in her life for a man now. She'd be stupid to let herself get involved m a romance right now. Especially when she'd just escaped from a restricting, stifling cage. There were too many things to get settled first.
Terri fell back in her chair and felt a small impact of wonder. Things like what? That nothing job at Great Western? The movies we take in when we get too shook? Our classes? The walks we take along the Strip? The stop-ins at the Villa Nova, at Cyrano's when we can raise extra loot? Things like this exciting evening at home?
The television was dead, Terri was staring into space when Pam emerged from the bathroom jerking at the ties of her white negligee. She looked puzzledly at Terri, then turned the TV back on. "The news, baby," she smiled. "Aren't you with it?" She sensed Terri's mood, tried joshing her out of it. "Or do you Iowa corn-shuckers only tune in the livestock receipts?"
Terri worked at a smile.
Pam adjusted the fine tuning, evaluated her fuzzy results. "That damned set. Don't tell me we're gonna get stuck for another service call." She shrugged, turned toward the kitchen. "How about a drink? Call it, I'm fixing. "
"No," Terri said, twinges of revulsion hitting her after remembering Kent. "Nothing, thanks."
"Get with it, Ter. Alcohol's the oil that keeps this smog-drenched fairyland going. C'mon, take an Orange Blossom or something."
Terri's voice firmed. "Nothing, Pam. I don't figure you. Here you work an hour to slim down, then turn right around and belt down calories a mile a minute."
"Don't be a nag, dear. I need joy juice, everybody does. Keeps us from going off the deep end. You'll learn one of these days. You'd better, in self defense if anything. Around here a gal that can't hold her liquor is asking for trouble. These Hollywood wolves eat little girls like you alive."
"Not this little girl," Terri said, finding herself wincing involuntarily, Pam's dig touching a tender spot.
"You'd better learn," Pam insisted, "before it's too late. No time like the present to start."
"Try me again tomorrow. Or next week."
Miffed, Pam wheeled, went into the kitchen.
Leaving Terri alone, seemingly shrunken and defeated in her chair, her eyes staring into space with steely determination, as though an invisible screen had been set up before her, as though flickering, mocking pictures were being projected upon it.
CHAPTER THREE
Matt Schaffner was assistant manager of the actuaries division at Great Western Insurance. As such he came into daily contact with Terri Cavan, she being one of the circulating secretaries in the vast steno pool the company employed. When Schaffner needed a girl to take dictation, when he needed a spool of form run through, Terri was invariably that girl. Which was fine by Terri. Anything, even typing tables for Schaffner, running mass forms for him, was preferable to working at the clattering, maddening banks of data processing machines, crediting the deluge of policy premiums that daily innundated Great Western.
If there was anything that drove her stark, raving mad, made her want to bang her head into the nearest unused wall, that was it.
Matt was a man of thirty, handsome enough, personable enough in his somewhat stodgy, non-aggressive way. He was tall, dark-haired, stood trim and erect, was possessed of physical attributes which made him quite a catch in the eyes of many and many a marriage-happy Great Western slavey.
But the fact was that Schaffner didn't want any of this flirty, bubble-brained breed. He wanted Terri Cavan; indeed he'd been conducting a low pressure campaign to ingratiate himself with her, to win her, make her Mrs. Matt Schaffner, almost from the first week she'd come to work at the insurance firm.
Terri wasn't having any. For Matt was, in her eyes, scant inches shy of being an absolute nonentity. She had and Pam often joked about her persistent swain. Granted, he was good for an occasional luncheon date, for a dinner and movie outing now and then. But beyond that, to consider him as husband material, to think of him romantically at all, was to laugh.
Schaffner was a man to put aside for a rainy day. And when the glooms became too intolerable, when she just had to get out of the apartment or go berserk, then she'd smile, say, "Why yes, Matt. I'd love to go out tonight...."
Which wasn't totally Matt's fault. The fact was that Terri was sincere when she announced her disinterest in men and marriage. So recently escaped from suffocating supervision and prying eyes, enjoying her hedonistic freedom in L.A. to the hilt, she wasn't about to surrender it, deliver herself to the minor bondage that marriage imposes.
Had she not been so busy simply living for the first time in her life, she might have regarded the man in an entirely different light. She might even been greatly flattered. She might have even given the clumsy man a chance to put his long-suppressed longings into words. She might even-
But, no. She wasn't that far gone as yet.
As second in command in the actuary division Matt drew down roughly $7,500 per. There was a chance that, in time, he might move up into the $9-10,000 bracket. But that was a gigantic if. He was stuck in a rut so far as Terri was concerned, both career-wise and personality-wise. The man she'd marry would have to possess more professional drive than Matt, would have to have more flair and dash. Security, pipe-and-slippers-by-the-fireplace, definitely weren't her idea of marriage's necessary ingredients.
No hurry at all.
Yet she was amused by the man, felt small stirrings of warmth in her heart this Tuesday morning as she sat before his desk and took his rambling dictation. Struck by a sudden streak of mischief, uncaring and brazen, wanting to shock Matt into something rash, she purposely jiggled her lovely leg, let her skirt ride up over her nyloned knees. And when the skirt didn't cooperate, she even pulled at it with her hand until she knew he could see her bare flesh above her stockings, her garter snaps. If the timid dope really concentrated he'd be able to see the gay red panties she'd put on today. When Schaffner's voice died, when he came to dead stop, she asked, "Mr. Schaffner?" Her eyes went wide in ingenus stare.
"Excuse me, Terri. My thoughts drifted. Where were we?"
His eyes were almost regretful when she reached down, modestly rearranged her skirts. "The tables submitted on December tenth...." she prompted.
"Oh, yes. Now, let's see."
The man reddened slightly as he interpreted Terri's teasing smirk, his dictation became even more snarled. And Terri felt sorry for him, thought him cute in his embarrassment. There are lots worse men than this one. Harry Gardner in accounting would have been around his desk by this time. That wolf! Her eyes narrowed. Why can't I let myself like Matt more?
"Let's drop the letter for now, shall we, Terri? I guess I've got other things on my mind."
Terri couldn't control the impish grin. Like what? she wanted to tease. "Yes, Mr. Schaffner. What is it?"
"Why can't you call me Matt? I've asked you to often enough. Not just on dates, but here, in the office too."
Terri feigned censure. "We were told at...."
"Yeah, I know. You were told at business college that office policy demands...." He winced. "Nuts to business college." He leaned toward her, his eyes ardent, almost pleading. Terri was reminded of a small puppy squirming on the floor to be petted. "How about it, Terri? Have lunch with me?"
You can't seem to understand I want to be alone with you. Pam gives me the creeps. Talk about grasping, opportunistic wenches...."
"It's a cruel world, Mr. Schaffner."
"Don't you be flip too, Terri," His expression became even more imploring. "How about tonight? I know a wonderful Italian place. We can take in a movie afterward."
"Sorry again. You know it's my drama class tonight."
"You still at that? I thought you were the girl who had no acting pretensions."
"I don't. But it helps pass the time. It's always an interesting evening."
"How about me helping pass the time? Don't we have interesting evenings? They are to me anyway."
Terri tried to be nice. "I promised Pam. I'm sorry."
"How about some other night this week?"
"I'll be busy," she lied. "I go to the gym on Wednesdays and Fridays. And . ." Terri attempted to sidetrack him. "These letters, Mr. Schaffner?"
"Matt," he insisted.
"Mr. Schaffner."
"How about next week? Will you go out with me then?"
"Maybe. Check with me then."
"The way you treat me, Terri. You forget I'm one of your bosses."
"Are you pulling rank on me, Mr. Schaffner? Somehow that's not at all like you." Terri's expression was grave.
"I didn't mean it that way, Terri. Really I didn't."
"Shall we get back to these letters then? You want me to read back again?"
A chastened expression grew on his face. It's incredible, Terri thought, how easily I can control him, how easily he caves in.
Schaffner said no more about a date during the remainder of the dictation session, he kept completely to business. When Terri left she knew he was smoldering in frustration, she knew his eyes were hungrily watching her legs, her hips as she walked out. Purposely she gave her hips more sway than was necessary.
Mean, she thought. Terri, you're getting meaner every day.
"I can't get over it," Terri said, cautioning herself to drink her Gin Buck more slowly. "All the times I've been in places like this it still gets me."
"What's that, baby?" Pam said, not once taking her eyes off the curvaceous, elfin blonde who was busily peeling off the squined, blue silk costume up to the postage-stamp-sized stage.
"That girl," Terri whispered, "Ramona, or whatever she calls herself. She's absolutely beautiful. Her body is magnificent! Why she's got these guys in a trance. If ever I saw a case of mass hurting...."
"So?"
"What I mean is that if this girl's so beautiful, if she has a body like that, why isn't she in the movies? Why doesn't she have a TV role? What chance do girls like us, like you, have?" There was genuine awe in Terri's voice. "She's so beautiful. Breathtaking, that body."
"Thanks a bunch," Pam regarded her innocent friend dourly. "I didn't know I'd become quite such a hag."
Terri smiled apologetically. "I didn't mean it that way, Pam. I mean, if every one of these girls is a knockout, what chance, really, does anyone have of breaking in? How can they make themselves do things like that?"
"Shh," Pam hushed her. "You want everybody to hear you? I'll tell you why they do it, for two-hundred clams a week. That's one helluva big reason."
"But this girl's so lovely. You'd think an agent or someone...."
"Maybe the lint-head can't act. Worse yet, maybe' she can't read. What then? You have to do with what you've got." Pam's chuckle was lewd. "And that babe's got plenty." Her eyes swept the small, moderately well packed lounge. "Anyway if you can judge by the way these slobs are gouging their palms."
Terri and Pam were in The Scarlet Garter, one of the newest 'trip parlors; a new one seemed to open up every other week along Sunset Strip. It was another in the long line of such illustrious flesh joints as The Body Shop, The Crazy Horse, The Pink Pussy Cat, The Largo. It was 10:30 Thursday night, and killing time before ankling down to showcase themselves-for Pam to showcase herself-at Cyrano's coffee house, they'd dropped in to appraise the new club's decor, to see if they had anything novel in the entertainment line.
The Scarlet Garter didn't. Their decorations were gaudy, brassy, consisted of sketches of nude females in frisky poses; the colors maroon, black and gold. The table girls wore costumes which left no doubt that each dolly's accessories were the genuine article. Each shapely right leg bore an oversized red garter, repetition of the club theme.
And like so many of the clubs on the Strip, there was no cover, no minimum. Only a steep $2.00 per drink making it mandatory that the peons nurse if they were to see themselves through one show. Which was exactly what Terri and Pam, peons deluxe, were doing.
There was the usual scattering of tiny tables, the small, twelve-by-eight stage, the stand up emcee, the three piece combo to the left to emphasize each movement, each feathery divestiture with an appropriate trumpet blare or drum roll.
And of course, the girls. The breathtaking, pneumatically endowed ecdysiast, who, in Los Angeles, had perfected the strip tease to its ultimate finesse, had made Los Angeles world capital of a rapidly disintegrating art form.
Like the ravishing blonde onstage at that moment, a toy doll of a woman, with firm, exploding breasts, with ebullient, charging buttocks, all complimented by an unbelievably tiny waist the most exquisite set of gams in captivity. Ramona Romance, the limp-wristed emcee had announced, the same Ramona who'd now peeled away the filmy blue harem outfit, was driving the men to hissing fits as she dallied with her brassiere, stroked her nipples with graceful touches and waves, finally flung it aside.
To reveal her bobbing, beach ball breasts, the nipples hidden by red, sequined pasties, her hips in bikini tights, a silk scarf blossoming over the waistband, jiggling, mesmerising, swaying maddeningly over the nether region . of her body.
For long minutes Ramona turned, bounced, and swayed her boobs outrageously, the monumental globes, on so small a body, making the males wince with eviscerating pain. Then, in deliberate, lowdown tease, she reached behind her, grasped the scarf where it emerged at her back, began drawing it between her knees. The act was accomplished in fits and starts, Ramona arching her body, smiling blissfully, eyes closed, as if deriving a terrific charge from the tickling. The drummer accompanied each tug with a rim-shot paradiddle.
Other than that there was no other sound in the club. Save for an occasional, betraying gasp of pain from some anguished male customer.
"Wowee!" Pam whispered. "How do those guys stand it? If I was a man I'd be screaming charging that stage."
"Pam," Terri admonished.
"It's the truth, kid."
Ramona finished her act, drew riotous applause. The emcee began spinning suggestive patter swiftly, silencing the male hecklers with deadly efficiency. In the pause Terri glanced about, saw the hungry male eyes devouring her and Pam. "Don't look now," she whispered to Pam, "but we've got an audience. Talk about being charged...."
Pam smirked, regarded the wolves to their right with veiled eyelids. "I really enjoy being a girl," she slurred.
Terri hadn't wanted to wear the blatant, off-shoulder gown; she'd protested it was too skimpy for January, it revealed too much bosom, made her look like she'd fall into public view at any moment. Then the witchy hosiery and spikes-
"Cool it, baby," Pam had argued. "If we're gonna lure an agent, a lead of any kind, we have to go loaded for bear."
"We?" Terri had retorted. "How'd I get into this? Remember me? The original movie-shy dolly?"
"You don't think I'm going out prowling by my lonesome, do you? That'd be worse than anything. You want them bozos taking me for a round-heels?"
And that had been that. Terri had dressed to the nines, had fastidiously labored over her make-up, had accompanied her star struck roomie on this unique Hollywood promenade.
Abruptly Pam turned back, gave the obvious salesmen-conventioneers a quick chill. "Squares," she sneered to Terri "We'd best clear this place soon."
Another stripper, this one in gold lame patinos, gold blouse, and a black, terribly strained vest, came onstage. "Let's stay through this one," Terri urged. "Isn't she the most beautiful thing? How can they make themselves...?"
Pam rolled her eyes. "Here's where I came in." She began gathering her cigarettes and lighter.
At that moment there was movement behind them, an aggressive hand closed on Pam's wrist, a chair was simultaneously drawn up. "Hold on there, Pam," a male voice said. "Not so fast. Old dad'll pop."
Pam wheeled, her face brightened. "Lloyd! Of all people. Where you been keeping yourself? Last I heard you were down in Mexico on that Luis Bunnel thing."
"Just got back last week." He instantly summoned a waitress, ordered a fresh round. "Hi, Jayne," he winked at her. At the same time freely ran his left hand up and down her mesh-stockinged legs. At which the tip-hungry girl curved her back, smiled dreamily, like a kitten getting its ears scratched. "What a rat-race down there," he turned back. "But I got my client in. Just a bit, but that's the way stars are born." He regarded Terri, his gaze slightly lupine, definitely interested. "I don't think I've had the pleasure."
"Excuse me, Lloyd," Pam said. "You surprised me so. This is Terri Cavan. My new roomie. Three months now. Just shows you how long you've been gone."
"Pleased," the man smiled, a very attractive, disarming something in his smile. "Terri Cavan. Very exploitable name. You're beautiful, baby."
Terri flushed, was at momentary loss.
"What a kid," the man sighed. "Get a load of that smile."
"This is Lloyd Deming," Pam said in mock snideness. "Don't get shook, Ter. He's a P.R. man. Dealing, in superlatives is his business. He's been lucky, he's placed a few gals. So now he thinks he's God's gift to Hollywood's undiscovered starlets."
"Don't knock it," the blond, square-jawed man said. "I'm good enough to run interference for you, ain't I? He had out his notebook and pencil. "What was that new address again, Pam? Now that I'm back again...."
Terri couldn't help but be impressed by Deming's savvy ways, by his supreme confidence and imperturbability. He was perfect match to Pam. Now he glanceed up, stared mockingly at Terri. "How about you? Put you down too? You want to be a movie star? I might come across an ingenue roll one of these days. God, you'd go over big. Maybe we can have dinner some night, talk it over."
"Don't do it," Pam chuckled. "He's one of the biggest wolves in L.A."
"Let little brown-eyes decide for herself." He wrote Terri's name in his notebook. "C-a-v-a-n? That right?"
"Yes," she smiled. "But really, I'm not interested ... "
'Funny how interested dolls get all of a sudden when someone dangles a movie contract in front of them. And that phone number?"
Pam reeled off the Hollywood exchange. "But it won't do you any good. She's strictly a home and garden type."
"L.A.," Lloyd said, staring at Terri unflinchingly, "has a way of knocking that out of people too." The drinks came then. "Here's to honor...."
"Lloyd!" Pam cautioned. "There are young ears."
He ignored her, plowed on. "To you too, Terri." They drank. "Where to from here?"
"Cyrano's."
"Cyrano's is out. Even I know that. The Pastiche is in now."
"We're still going to Cyrano's. I happen to know that Hartman still hangs out there."
"Hell, if you're courting that has-been...."
"Skip it, Lloyd. Cyrano's."
Deming raised his glass, and Terri had to smile at the feral mischief in his eyes as he grinned at her.
As further indication of Deming's blase attitude was the fact that he gave only passing glances to the performing stripper. Instead his eyes were everywhere else, appraising every female patron, every drink hustler, instantly spotting anyone who came in the door. He was a nervous companion, and yet he kept the girls in stitches with is account of. the shooting of Forbidden Nights in Mexico.
Then abruptly, the drinks gone, Pam was rising, shrugging into her fur jacket. "Onward," she said.
"Sorry I can't join you," Deming smiled, helping Terri with her coat. "But I have another appointment."
Pam's eyes were caustic. "I know what kind of appointment that is. Happy hunting. Show her the one with the four pillows, baby...."
"I'll be calling you," Deming purred softly into Terri's ear. "Think over what I said."
A goodly number of male eyes followed the stunning pair from the Scarlet Garter. But Terri didn't notice. She was preoccupied. And if she wasn't thinking over Deming's movie offer, at least her self-built wall of antagonism toward the idea had a very noticeable nick in it.
And wasn't Lloyd Deming a most charming, witty man?
Five minutes later they were entering Cyrano's.
CHAPTER FOUR
By 11:30 that Tuesday night, two weeks later, Terri Cavan had been convinced by a past master at the art of convincing green-as-green ingenues that the prone position is by far the best from which to conduct any enlightening conversation.
And if, by chance, further diversions should present themselves.
In a word, Terri was drunk. Polluted. A pushover for anything extra-curricular the man might suggest.
Her sales resistance was completely eroded. And within the hour she'd be sold a bill of good she'd never forget. "
She'd buy eagerly. Come back for seconds.
Perhaps thirds. It all depended on just how virile a man her escort proved to be.
Luckily Pam had been out of the apartment when Lloyd had called, had asked for the date. Which invite Terri, eager to try her wings, to prove once and for all that she wasn't the starry-eyed baby everyone thought, had tremblingly accepted.
And when Pam had mentioned their drama class that night Terri had begged off, had mentioned a sick headache. She was staying in, getting to bed early.
The minute Pam left Terri leaped into the shower. At eight, when Deming buzzed downstairs, she'd been ready, a devastating creature in very flattering black chiffon.
He'd taken her to La Scala, one of L.A.'s most fabulous restaurants. Which was, in itself, enough to turn any girl's head. They'd had cocktails, he'd plied her with compliments, had pointed out countless TV and movie luminaries eating there. There was a martini during dinner, a B&B afterward. Then, at Terri's specific request-she not wanting to bump into Pam by accident on Sunset-he'd taken her to a dimly-lighted, intimate club called The Blue Dragon on La Cienega.
More drinks. Insidious, purposely chosen concoctions that went down easily, gave no warning as to the devilish, undermining work they were doing. They danced to the soft, romantic music. Deming suavely flattering her, caressing her, dancing gracefully with her, playing her like a harp.
Lloyd was a charming, debonair man, his eyes where intense, they excited her when they locked with hers, his chatter, alternately serious and humorous, ground at her intuitive defense unceasingly. Until Terri came to the conclusion that she was enjoying this man immensely, that she hadn't enjoyed any man as much as this in her whole life.
And further: She didn't want this exciting, scintillating evening to end. She wanted to go on dancing, talking, laughing forever. Even if there wasn't the casual insertion of Hollywood talks, insinuation of the help he could be to the career of a woman so lovely as Terri, a woman so fresh and original.
Only one thing was wrong. She was so tired, her words were so hard to corral, to herd into comprehensible file. But even so, she didn't want to quit, she wanted to talk and talk. They had such important things to say to each other.
If only they could be some place alone. Where they could relax, be utterly themselves. A few more drinks, more of this delicious, meaningful talk.
It was as they left the Blue Dragon, waited for the boy to bring Lloyd's car around, that she leaned heavily on his arm, shuddered from the chill, said, "Oh, Lloyd, this has been heavenly. I hate to see it end."
"End?" he laughed softly. "But why? We're just getting acquainted. I don't mean to be forward, but couldn't we stop up at my place for a nightcap? I promise to behave. I've got some records you'd love. Please, Terri? This has been a night to remember.
Don't let's end it just yet."
Terri melted. "Yes, Lloyd. I think that would be wonderful. I'd love to see your place. Some music sounds great."
"And the drinks."
"And the drinks, too."
As he'd helped Terri into the car, taken the wheel, it had seemed the most natural thing in the world for him to put his arm around her, crowd her closer to him. And Terri couldn't remember when she'd felt so happy, so secure.
The music was lovely. Terri was especially moved by the plaintive, soulful passages. Deming's apartment was like something out, of a magazine, modern, beautifully appointed, neat as a pin, with soothing, low-key lighting. Certainly not the kind of place a man would take advantage of a woman, force her.
But as it turned out, nobody had to force anybody. Sitting next to Lloyd on his davenport, a snifter of some marvelous brandy in her hand, Terri was in seventh heaven. Suddenly she shivered, giggled to conceal her foggy condition.
"Terri?" Deming asked.
"I guess I got a chill outside. It's okay. It'll pass."
It seemed a humane, compassionate gesture when Lloyd put his arm around her again, pulled her close, let his other arm form a sheltering, warm, peaceful cove in which she could hide. Terri surrendered with no qualms whatsoever, felt an overweening affection fill her, sensed a sudden, debilitating tingling. Her nippies suddenly ached.
"There," he whispered at her ear, his lips tickling her, "there, you'll be all right. Let me warm you." And as his lips continued to slide and tease, the heady irresponsibility, the intense yearning to lean, to depend upon someone, became overpowering. Fear instantly faded, suspicion evaporated like morning fog.
It was so right in his arms, so perfect. She was such a little girl. She needed someone to take care of her. And she laughed softly, sighed. She sipped more of her brandy, brought her head back to his chest immediately, burrowed herself even deeper against his warmth.
"Lloyd," she purred, "you are so nice...."
"Not half as nice as you are, angel." With that he touched a floor switch with his toe, plunged the room into even murkier glow. He let his lips graze Terri's velvety forehead, he smiled smugly at the way she sighed, let her body go totally limp in his arms.
Things happened very swiftly after that.
As Deming tenderly adjusted Terri's head, raised it for a playful, soft kiss. His lips grazed hers, sent an electric current to the tips of her toes. And while she was startled, slightly frightened, her fears quickly melted as he raised her brandy glass to her lips, carefully held it for her while she sipped.
Another kiss. Of longer duration this time.
Terri giggled, squirmed closer, felt jittery as her nipples went taut inside her brassiere, as she pressed her breasts against Deming's chest. Peaceful, she mused muzzily. So peaceful. Lloyd won't hurt me, he won't do anything naughty. He just wants to hold me, keep me warm.
She almost drowsed off as he let his one hand slide the material of her skirt and slip against her nyloned knee. She felt so good, so wonderful. If this was what he wanted, why not? Hadn't he been awfully good to her?
She started, fought to shake off the daze that had numbed her brain. As she realized that Lloyd had unbuttoned the front of her gown, was, even now, toying with the brassiered contours of her suddenly stinging breasts.
"Lloyd," she murmured drowsily, "I thought you weren't going to try anything like that...."
"Relax, baby," he soothed, his voice incredibly gentle. "You were so lovely sleeping there. I couldn't help it. You're so beautiful. I just had to touch you. Let me, please. This is all I want. I swear...."
His eyes burned into hers, dripped with longing and sincerity. He's so sweet, so loving, she thought fuzzily. How can I say no to him? "Yes, Lloyd," she whispered. "If that's all. Promise?"
"I promise."
Again she surrendered, wondered at her helplessness before this man. She almost dozed again. But as his fingers slid and pressed. her breasts, as they converged at her tingling nipples, she came alert, broke from her torpor to better savor the maddening attention.
She shivered again, felt spearing fire, knew that if she didn't stop him now, shake herself from this stuper immediately ... Yet she felt so weak, so confused.
Terri fell back into Deming's arms, let him have his way with her.
He smiled even more demonically, became more bold by the second.
She jerked, tried to right herself as his one hand crept to her skirt, rested briefly on her knee. "Lloyd, you said you wouldn't. Please, no ... "
"I can't help myself, darling," he sighed. "You're so beautiful, so desirable...." His hands moved more arrogantly. "Please, Terri, yes...."
A long shattery sigh broke from her, a monumental shudder pierced her. "Yes, Lloyd," she said.
And sensing an absolute, body-hollowing surrender, she collapsed again, evilly and completely gave herself to the enjoyment of his maddening touch.
The brandy was gone, the lights seemed even dimmer now, a persuasive record played on Deming's hi-fi now. And Terri, her body awash with an awesome desire and aching, dully watched, marveled at how skillfully-how like a beautiful ritual-the man undressed her. She marveled at her lack of fear, at lack of guilt.
Then, she opened her eyes, saw herself naked to the waist, her gown and slip gone, dressed now in only her panties, garter belt, stockings and heels. She watched Lloyd's head lower, inch by inch to her turgid, pointing nipples.
She capitulated completely. A pinched whimper escaped her throat. I need Jhis, she thought dazedly.
Otherwise why would my body betray me like this, why wouldn't I fight him? Women have needs, this is all part of my physical well being. I need a man, this man. Medicine, that's what he is. He'll be so wonderful. It's been ages since I've known a man I'm a woman, after all.
She twisted, sighed as his lips found her nipples, as the incredible, liquid fire closed for them. Be good to Lloyd, she continued. He's been good to you. So good. Oh yes, be good to Lloyd. In voluntarily her arms came out, trapped his head, held him close.
"Lloyd, oh, Lloyd...."
Her body stiffened, arched to welcome him as she felt his hand breach the elastic of her panties, as she felt his fingers spearhead, claim her. In sign of abject, eager surrender, she steepled her knees. And as he found her, as he tickled, she clamped to his hand, dug her sharp heels into the cushions of the davenport. She was wild and dizzy, she wanted to scream, to chuckle. She ached.
"You angel," he gritted. "You ever lovin' angel...."
Terri shivered briefly as he deposited her nude body on the cold sheets. Then he whipped the covers back over her, turned in the darkness to disrobe. Terri hugged herself frenziedly, let her body warm the fine percale.
"Darling," she sighed. "Oh, please hurry."
Terri felt like a snarling, clawing tiger was prowling inside her, snarling and clawing. Please, oh please, she raged. Someone take this terrible, wild feeling from me! "Lloyd, baby. Oh, please!" she whimpered.
Lloyd chuckled arrogantly in the distance.
The bed creaked, she felt a draft as the blankets were pulled aside. Instantly she was clawing herself to Lloyd, frenziedly kissing his lips, his face, the smooth, hard flesh of his shoulder. I've never felt like this before, I've never actually wanted a man before. Lloyd, you devil, what've you done to me? She almost loosed an earthy chuckle.
He was no sooner couched there than she brought out her arms, clung to him, herded him to her. She thought she'd scream when his proud, dominating power felled her. The pain was there, but pain that was not pain, but exquisite ecstasy.
Momentarily Deming paused, let her savor his dominating forces. "Wow, baby...." he groaned huskily. "How many before me?"
Instantly Terri understood, and in her longing not to be taken as a novice, she proudly blurted: "They weren't like you. They weren't as good as you. They never made me feel like this."
"You damned well right they weren't as good as me," he boasted. "And the thrills just beginning. What a going over I'm gonna give you." His body jolted hers. "Honey, if I have to make a movie myself, put you in it ... I'll never get enough of this. Man, oh man! You're tearing me up...."
"I want to!" Terri gritted, digging her teeth into his shoulder, feeling an evilness balloon for her, threaten to explode and rip her from head to toe. "I want to give and give. Darling, I feel so strange, so wild. I want to hurt you, make you howl. ."."
"You're hurting, tiger," he laughed thickly, "really hurting. But hurt like that I can stand." His body continued with mind-stunning stamina. "The rest of my life."
"Yes, yes," Terri, transformed, completely out of her head, driven by a primitive lust, seethed. "That's right. Be an animal. Take me." Her body goaded. "More, more. Oh! You magnificent lover! Wonderful, I never thought a man could...."
Suddenly she was suffocating. Viciously she kicked the covers away. "Don't stop," she shrilled. "Never stop! I'll die if you...." Her teeth dug again, her fingers taloned his back, guided and prompted. While her own body greeted him.
She became even more heathenish; lust was everything, it transformed her to an unabashed wanton, courtesan. "More, damn you!" She punctuated each word with a wicked, constricting act of her own.
The bodies wrestled and fought, almost as if in the throes of maniacal self destruction. Deming marveled at the ingenue wildcat, while Terri did some wondering of her own, amazed at this unhinging passion that had lived so long deep in the wellsprings of her psyche without her knowing of its existence.
"More," she gasped. "Oh, more. Go, damn you. Go, darling, go!"
Suddenly a transfiguring, paralyzing thing happened for Terri. As, innocent that she still was. never having known the true glory of love before, she felt like the ganglia at the base of her skull were being pincered, she felt like a thousand watts of electricity were careening down her spine, searing, tearing, tightening. Making her ache, making her want to scream.
It was a sensation she'd never known before. What she raged, is this? What's happening to me? Oh, no. This has to stop. I'll go insane if this doesn't stop.
Her body froze, became a paralyzed, sodden lump-While the wildest, most incredible fires raged, threatened to suffocate, annihilate her. Yet she welcomed the fires, wanted them with all her heart.
She became aware of the muffled shrieks breaking from the darkness, came momentarily to her senses, realized they were snarling from her own throat.
This was magnificent! She'd never known, could never get enough of this ecstasy, of this transport!
Deming, experienced lover that he was, knowing exactly what he was doing for the lust-crazed child, didn't stop, not for an instant. The longer he held her in this blissful state, the longer he kept her adrift in that exotic limbo, the more proud, the more of a man he considered himself.
And when Terri's screams died, when she broke from her rigid torpor, began to attack him anew, he worked even harder, faster, even more proudly and dedicatedly. He blasted and rocked her.
Shortly he was rewarded. As Terri froze once more, let the guttural, sobbing cries rupture her throat.
Terri had actually discovered the true meaning of physical love for man and woman. Now she knew, once and for all, the total secret of love.
Knowing, still greedy, she sobbed, attacked Lloyd again.
Only this time she was cheated. For suddenly the man released a throaty curse, worked more swiftly, more desperately. Terri knew small fear that he would hurt her. But no. Seconds later she helping him, he groaned, went dead as he achieved his own glory. She knew the true completion.
While Terri, selfish child, frustrated beyond control, sobbed at the helplessness of woman without man, at her insane dependency. "Again, darling," she pleaded. "Please, again. Don't leave me like this...."
After a time Deming could talk. "Sure, baby again," he gasped. "But give a man a breather, will you? We've got all night." He fought for breath. "Terri, where'd you learn that? I thought I'd die...."
"Don't talk," she pleaded. "Only...."
"Only what?"
"Love me. Oh, again. Please...."
He fought her hands. As they dug and gathered him, sought to revive him. "I gotta get some more brandy for you," he laughed. "Jet fuel."
"Yes," she muttered thickly. "More jet fuel. So's we can go to the moon."
Later, the brandy gone, Terri's hoyden efforts to revitalize Lloyd proving successful, she said in a timid, shattery voice, "Darling, what was that Pam was talking about? With the pillows? Would you show me?"
"You don't know what you're asking for," Lloyd breathed, shaking his head in the dark, further amazed. Yet thinking how earthshaking that stunt would be with a delight like Terri.
"I don't care," she sighed. "Whatever it is I want to know. Show me. Lloyd. Please."
He broke from the bed, went into the living room, brought satin sofa pillows. Then half-lifting Terri, he arranged them for her. So that her body was raised from the bed, her head down.
He took her then, eagerly, held her briefly.
"Good, baby?" he chuckled lewdly.
"Good?" she choked. "Exquisite." The aboriginal fires were instantly stoked anew.
"Work, honey," she choked.
Deming laughed insolently, did exactly as she told him.
It was almost three when Lloyd Deming finally dropped a teetering, weaving Terri Cavan off before her apartment building on Larrabee Street.
Needless to say, Terri didn't go to work the next morning. Badly hungover, sick at heart to remember the previous night's debauch at Deming's apartment, she wished she was dead. Pam took one look at her upon arising, made a quick, pointed call to Great Western and announced Terri's illness, and that she'd be detained herself.
"You think I didn't know something fishy was up last night?" she accused, the sound of her voice booming inside Terri's brain. "You think I believed your note? I knew you were with some guy. And when you weren't home by two. I figured just who he was. You were with Deming, weren't you?"
Terri nodded into her pillow, the effort making thunder roll inside her brain.
"I thought I warned you about him. I told you, you'd get burned. He got what he wanted, didn't he?"
Again Terri nodded, her face a mask of misery. "I thought I could handle him. I wanted to find out for myself. I get so tired of everybody treating me like a baby."
"And did you handle him?" Pam snapped sarcastically.
"No," Terri said. "He got me drunk. It was like I had no will of my own. It was like he owned me. Anything he wanted, I wanted to."
"That rotten creep. It figures. I only hope you had sense enough to play safe. If you didn't you'll never get a second look from that parasite."
It was at that moment that Terri broke from the bed, darted toward the bathroom. Where she vomited without end. When she emerged, crawled back into bed, looking more dead than alive, Pam kept after her.
"Level with me, Terri. Once and for all. Was he your first?"
In her misery Terri didn't have the will to fabricate. "No, there were others before him."
Pam's smile was grim. "Well that's one consolation. That hound can't claim another virgin anyway." She shrugged, covered Terri anew. "It isn't the end of the world, honey. If that's the worst thing that ever happens around here, you can consider yourself damned lucky."
"I'm so ashamed," Terri sobbed. "If you could know how I acted with him, the things I did and said...."
"He has a way with women," Pam said tiredly. "I know."
"You mean ... you and Lloyd...?"
"Much as it hurts to admit it. Way back, when I still believed the blowhard could help me." Her face became wistful. "Every gal's got to surrender one time or another.' If she's gonna get ahead in this hellhole."
She braced her shoulders, forced a smile. "I gotta go, kiddo. I'm late. You sure you'll be all right? If you want me to, I'll stay home...."
"No," Terri insisted. "I'll be okay. Just give me a few hours." And as Pam went out the door: "Thanks, honey. I don't know what I'd do without you." I "You're not doing so hot with me," Pam retorted acidly.
In the long silence that followed, as Terri mentally recreated the things that had happened with Deming, when she recalled the devastating sensations that had overcome her, she wanted to sob with frustrated confusion. What happened to me? she raged inwardly. What does it mean? Why was I so easy? Drunk or not, did I have to act like a back alley tramp? How come I begged him?
Even as much as the exertion cost her in pain, she shook her head to blot out the ugly picture. Was that me shrieking and begging like that? Again and again?
The bitterness welled up, threatened to choke her.
I need sleep, she thought. Everything looks dark now. If I could just sleep. Like Pam says, there are worse things.
Her physical weakness finally overcame Terri. And she lasped, ten minutes later, into a haunted, fitful sleep.
At first when the phone rang, jarred her from her doze Terri debated not answering it. Then thinking it might be Pam calling from the office, she lifted the receiver. And instantly knew she'd made a mistake.
"Terri?" Deming's oily, gloating voice sounded, "I just took a chance on catching you at home. I hope you're feeling all right. I want to tell you how sorry I am about what happened last night. I didn't mean for things to get out of hand, really I didn't. But I was carried away. You are a maddening creature, you know. Can I make things up to you, Terri?"
It was here that Terri finally had presence of mind enough to cut him dead. Hurling a curse into the mouthpiece, she said, "Drop dead, damn you! Get lost! I never want to set eyes on you again!"
Then she slammed down the receiver.
Afterward, still breathing hard from a double dose of nausea and indignation, she was sorry she'd given him that much satisfaction. She should have strung him along, made him pay through the nose for what he'd done. She was smarter, stronger, now. She could lead him on. And when payoff time came-
How she'd love to hear him howl in frustration.
Then harking back to Pam's words, "Every gal's got to surrender one time or another...." the bitterness formed into diamond-hard resolve. There's still time. If that's the way the world's made, I can be just, as tough as the next one. If that's what those bloodsuckers want I might as well see tangible reward if I'm going to sell out.
Another disconnected thought grew in Terri's brain. Why not? Why shouldn't I give the movie and TV thing a whirl? If Pam and Mr. Pelletier at the drama school think I've got talent, that I could make it. If that leech Deming thinks I could succeed, why not? Pam'll help me, I know she will.
She became drowsy. So long's you're here, kid. What's the harm? The vultures are already moving in. Now an image of Deming's leering face returned. Your day will come, sucker. I'll find a way to get even, to use you.
And when I do-
It was in the midst of these vitriolic thoughts that Terri gradually let her weakness and queasiness take charge. Ten minutes later she finally sank into a soothing, recuperative sleep.
The woman wasn't as pretty as Kerne had hoped. She was older than the Romance Time flyer had indicated, she wasn't half as attractive as the photograph that hag at the Vermont Avenue agency had showed him. She was thirty if she was a day, her nose was too big, slightly crooked, her teeth-were overlarge, protruded unattractively. Besides, her complexion was coarse, she had a small mole on her forehead.
Helen Gould, he refrained. He got confused at times. He'd got three names for his tenspot, the other dolls' names kept getting in his way. Helen, his pretty, scared witless Helen. Damn, hadn't she yelped when he'd driven into the garage, strong-armed her?
Just the remembrance made Jarecki squirm where he stood, fanned an evil hunger in his vitals. He loved it when the bags fought, when he had to hit them, force them to do the things he wanted from them. It made him all wild inside when they bawled and gasped and begged.
And it had been so long, hadn't it? With the exception of that babe just after Christmas in the Deni-son Arboretum, there hadn't been a woman since Anita. That had been a long, long time. And now-February. He'd been very patient, forced himself to be content with his pretty photographs.
But a man can be just so patient, he growled inwardly. It's been too damned long! The world, these filthy, degenerate tramps, they owe me this.
There were compensations however. Helen's body was adequate, her legs were long, slender. She was a bit lardy in the middle, but her waist was narrow, her breasts were high and firm. Better still they were big, ripe melons, plump handfuls. He liked his women to have big boobs. That tramp in the park had been a cheater. There'd been nothing there when he'd jerked away her brassiere. Maybe that's why he'd hurt her, punished her so bad. She'd had it coming!
Granted, Helen Gould was at a decided disadvantage in showcasing herself. No woman in the world would look tempting with ten yards of rope tied around her arms and ankles, with a gag between her teeth. With terror bulging her eyes.
She lay full length on Jarecki's davenport. One of her gold pumps, pulled off in the scuffle, lay on the floor. Her skirt, a pretty, pleated thing, was high on her legs, revealed her black girdle. One of the buttons on her gown was torn loose.
Still the woman fought hysterically, animal yelps filtering through the twisted gag. Which pleased Jarecki, excited him all the more. Caused his sick stirrings to start anew.
The man hovering over his victim was small, slight, stood no more than five-six, weighed perhaps 140. His hair was reddish brown, straight from too much hair goo. His struggle with the larger, heftier woman had mussed it somewhat. His ears were large, bat-like, he had a sharp, thin nose, a receding chin. At that moment, his eyes clouded and demented, the man reminded Helen of nothing so much as a shivering, forlorn Chihuahua dog.
But there was nothing timid, nothing weak about this man. So the hapless woman had discovered, like Anita Moreno, when she'd let him drive her to his place, supposedly to pick up a forgotten wallet. Once inside the garage he'd instantly overpowered her. And laughing dementedly, he'd dragged her inside the house, had tied her with incredible speed and efficiency.
But what Mrs. Gould, a divorcee of two years, couldn't know was that this wiry squirt of a man was a construction worker, a mason by trade, that years of outdoor straining and lifting had put steel into that small frame, had given him arms like iron bars, hands like a vise.
She'd screamed once. But when he'd hit her, nearly knocked her head off her shoulders, she hadn't screamed again. Instead she'd gone limp with terror, had let him tie her with no further resistance.
But now, seeing the lunatic expression in his eyes, she reflexively fought for her life.
"I'll take that gag off," Kerne said, "if you'll promise not to scream. Scream and I'll have to hit you again. Promise?"
Her eyes staring, Helen nodded tiredly.
When the rag was pulled away, she croaked, "What are you going to do to me? You won't get away with this. The police, they'll find me, they'll...."
"Police?" he sneered. "You think I care? They can only catch me once, kill me once. And until they do I don't care about them, about their silly laws...."
Jarecki pushed his face menacingly into hers. "You be a good girl and nothing'll happen to you. I don't want to hurt you. I just want to love you, I want to take your picture."
"My picture?" she quailed. "Are you out of your mind?"
His face hardened, became cruel. "Don't say that. Don't you ever say a thing like that to me." He threatened her with his open hand. "I'm going to take your picture, whether you like it or not. With your clothes off."
The woman recoiled, sagged against the cushions. "You can't mean it. I don't understand...."
But Jarecki paid her no heed. Instead he went to a closet, began hauling out floodlight tripods, his camera tripod, he began stringing cords all over the floor. While Helen, her eyes astonished, watched him wordlessly.
He paused, regarded her coldly. "You want to undress for me? Or do you want me to take care of it for you? Either way. It doesn't matter to me."
"You can't be serious. You mean, just like that? Right here? Please, let me go. I swear I won't cause you any trouble," she became maudlin, "what did I ever do to you?"
The words touched a sensitive place in the man's brain, jarred him. It was like a coal was burning there, paralyzing him. For a moment his eyes glazed, he was lost within himself. It seemed he was a child again, back home on Ransome Street with his mother and father. Only now it was he himself, in childish self-pity, who was uttering those same words. As his mother tied his wrist with ropes, prepared to suspend him from the banister spokes of the second story landing, to let him hang in the opening of the downstairs closet.
"Mother, please don't. I won't be naughty again," the ten-year-old boy pleaded. "Don't make me hang. What did I ever do to you?"
But his mother hadn't listened, she never did. And muttering her eternal threats, she kicked the foot stool from under his feet, slapped him repeatedly across the face. "Fifteen minutes you'll hang there. Next time you won't steal, understand?"
How many nights had Kerne awakened from a sound sleep to hear his father's sibilant whisperings and whimperings in the hall. "Please, Caroline, open the door. I've got my rights, I need you. My God, I'll go crazy if I don't...."
How many nights had Kerne heard his father retreat to his own room, sobbing and cursing under his breath as his mother's door had remained closed.
At fourteen Kerne had endured his last whipping, his last spell of being hung by his wrists while his mother droningly berated him. One night he simply didn't come home from school. He wandered north, got a job in the vineyards, didn't come back to L.A. until he was twenty. He'd gone to the house on Ran-some Street. It, along with his parents, were gone.
Kerne had never looked further.
And now at the age of 26, the toll of his mother's fanaticism was making itself felt upon the world.
"Oh, please," Helen Gould's voice brought him from his reverie. "You have to let me go. Don't make me go through with this."
A maniac fury enveloped Kerne. And possessed, unthinking, moving instinctively, knowing his mission was to punish unclean tarts like this, he took two steps toward Helen. Anyone who would advertise herself, pander her body.
He slapped her twice, the sound of the blows loud, ringing in the room. "Undress, I said!" Again, revealing his mastery of rope lore, he had but to touch the bonds, and they came loose, were quickly peeled away.
"Again?" he gritted as she didn't move. She opened her mouth as if to scream. "Again?" he repeated.
Sullenly, blindly, her sobs choking her, the woman pulled herself up, began to run zippers, undo buttons. And when she pulled away her black lace slip, revealed her matching girdle, brassiere and panties, the man snickered arrogantly. "You were really expecting a big night tonight, weren't you, pig? Pretty, very pretty. Stand up, I want a picture of you like that."
Then, for the next fifteen minutes, as the terrorized female posed, as she turned and arched her body, as she peeled away garment after garment, stood finally naked before him, the camera clicked without stop, the floodlights were adjusted, the sibilent commands flicked through the still, diseased air.
With each passing minute the evil glaze in Jarecki's eyes grew, his voice became more breathy and seething, his hands trembled more uncontrollably. He was very obviously ready for the next segment of a long line of depravities he planned for his unwitting female pawn.
It had been so long since that girl in the desert-
Now he feverishly fused with his camera, adjusted the Leica's time-delay control. Then he moved toward the woman. She quailed, almost retreated. But something in the madman's eyes froze her, paralyzed her.
"Do you want to die, Helen?" his eerie voice intoned. "Or are you going to do everything I tell you?"
"Please," she gasped, "haven't you done enough?"
"Enough?" He snickered. "Hardly. The fun's only beginning." He twisted her wrist. "Answer me, dear."
"You won't kill me?" she pleaded pathetically, her eyes great and frantic in her face. "You promise?"
"I promise," he mocked her gravely.
"What do you want me to do...?" Her voice broke.
He wound his hand in her dark-brown hair. He tightened his grip. "On your knees, pig. Here, by me."
The woman's face collapsed, went gray. "No, oh no! Not that! I beg you...."
At that moment the camera clicked, caught her sick terror, recorded it for posterity. Jarecki snickered, went to the camera, adjusted it anew. He turned on Helen. "Now, do as you're told."
Then he began fumbling with his clothes.
Wallowing in depraved sensation as he was, Jarecki still maintained control enough to move from time to time, reset the camera for still another documentation of perversion. When Helen faltered, tried to pull away, gagged in insane disgust, his hands became more brutal, he almost pulled her hair out by the roots. Shrieking and sobbing, she had to, in the end, let him bring her back.
His groans, his phlegmy chuckles and slatherings, the way he swayed and bucked, would permanently be etched in her brain. For the pitiful small time her life had to run.
Finally, when the man was driven to the brink, could stand no more of the extorted homage, he tore himself away. "That's enough of that," he rasped. "I got other ideas for you." He lifted her face, laughed at her. "You can undress me now. Show me who's boss, trash. Show me who's your master. The way men were meant to be, not women."
Shuddering and whimpering, the woman crawled up, began to unbuckle his clothes. Then she untied his shoes, peeled off his socks. Then Jarecki was finally nude, revealed to her.
Even then the pervert couldn't sidestep further, new sadism. Flitting to his camera again, he adjusted the delay timer. Then he flung the unfortunate creature back, wrenched her by the legs, arranged her face down on the davenport.
Laughing, cursing, he went to her, took her in a unique and bestial way. He cackled and taunted as the female screamed, sobbingly pleaded for mercy, for surcease of abysmal pain.
"You like me, don't you, pig?" he called. "This is the way all you high-and-mighty dolls should be treated. To show you the man's the master." He attacked her more viciously, reveled further at her wails "Hurts good, like a man should. But you can take this, can't you? All you pigs can. You just have to find out once...."
Mercy an absolute unknown in the lunatic's philosophy, he went crazy, brutally. When he heard the slight click of the camera's shutter, he became even more cruel, more ruthless. He dug his fingers into the woman's flesh, pinched for all he was worth.
And brief moments later the pain was, for a time, taken from Helen. She let her broken, torturing screams of outrage die, let heartbroken wails and sobs take their place instead.
But the fiend wasn't finished yet.
Now he reloaded the camera, went to her, forced her to play, to hurry the inevitable regeneration processes.
Again he stalked the cringing, crawling woman. This time he attended her near normal fashion, delighted in torturing her breasts while he took her a second time, he bit her shoulders, her arms, her neck.
He paused only to strike her.
The night went on.
And when Helen felt she couldn't go on, when she felt she must stop or go stark raving mad she stirred from her brutalized daze, found herself dressed again. Everything except her panties. These the man kept for grisly souvenir. She moaned in disbelief to find the gag, the ropes replaced. Suddenly she died inside.
He lugged her into the garage, dropped her into the back of his car. Even then, the garage door closed, he insisted on taking a flash shot of her lying there in such agonized, abused disarray.
"We're going for a ride," he announced, backing the car from the garage. "You ever seen sunrise on the desert?"
Then he began to laugh to himself. As if he'd just heard the funniest joke in the world.
Now he jammed the accelerator, drove more swiftly through the nearly deserted, indifferent night.
CHAPTER FIVE
Terri was having dinner with Matt Schaffner at a fabulous restaurant called the Mediterrania, an eaterie located on N. La Cienega. She was intrigued by her surroundings, realized Matt cared very much indeed if he wanted to blow this much loot merely to wine and dine her. And while she couldn't reciprocate in intensity of feeling, she still felt more than kindly toward him this night.
The restaurant decor was perfect. The massive' stone pillars, the rough, exposed beams, the aged brick walls exuded an aura reminiscent of sun-drenched Mediterranean villas and patios. The waitresses, colorfully gowned in peasant costumes, added greatly to the Mediterrania's charm.
After the sumptuous meal they took a rich-hued aromatic cognac to settle things. By then Terri was feeling very self assured and cosmopolitan indeed. She felt slightly ashamed of her earlier disregard of Matt. Perhaps he wasn't as much of a dud as she'd thought.
At least she could trust him. Which was more than she could say for Lloyd Deming.
Now, as they dawdled, savored the expensive atmosphere, she found it hard to concentrate on Matt's dry shop talk. Instead she glanced around the spacious dining area, studied the beautifully gowned women, wondered at the May-December combinations she saw. The blonde in the V-cut velvet, her breasts all but spilling out; she couldn't be more than 21 or 22. Yet her fawning, pawing dinner companion was easily in his 50's.
The scene made her slightly queasy. What price success?
"I'm sorry, Terri," Matt said, "I must be boring you. Anyone who'd talk business at a time like this...."
She whirled guiltily, forced an attentive smile. "Not at all, Matt. It's interesting. You've got some fine ideas...."
"So fine," he teased, "that if I asked you, you couldn't remember a single thing I'd said."
She grinned shamefacedly. "Well, Matt...."
He reached over, touched her hand lightly. "It's okay, Terri," he said. "It's my fault. I had no business going on like that. Small wonder I have to practically Shanghai you to get you to date me."
"You know it's not that bad, Matt. We always have a wonderful time when we go out together."
"Yeah? Is that why we go out so seldom?"
"Please, Matt. You know I'm very busy. The gym, my acting classes. Otherwise I'm always amenable to a date."
"Why Terri?" he said, his eyes burning into hers. "Why all this busy, busy stuff? Are you seriously considering a movie career? There are other things a woman of your character should be busy with."
"What sort of things, Matt?"
"Things like raising a family, keeping a house, taking care of a loyal, loving husband."
"Who?"
"You know the answer to that, Terri, before you even ask. You know I'm crazy about you."
"And if I'm not ready to settle down yet? If I haven't decided what I want to do with my life? Maybe being a housewife and mother isn't my idea of life's end-all and be-all."
"What is then, Terri?" His smile was small, but gentle.
Terri felt swift mounting irritation. Why does he have to start this? When we're having such fun? "I don't know," she snapped, looking down at her hands. "Do I have to decide right now? I've got time. Maybe I just want to drift for a couple years. Until I find myself."
She frowned. "I told you about Waterloo, about my parents...."
"Yes, you told me. You were rather blue that night as I recall. But that was two months ago. Surely you must have come to some decision concerning your life by now."
"I don't have to, Matt," she argued. "Is there a law or something? Sometimes you remind me of my dad with your talk of goals and responsibility and...."
She glanced up, saw the hurt in his eyes. "I didn't mean it that way, Matt, honest I didn't. It's just that I only recently got away from having someone breathing down my neck all the time. I don't want to jump right back into that frying pan again."
"I understand, Terri. I can't help being terribly concerned about you. I guess my life's wound more up in yours than, by rights, it should be. I've been knocking around eight years longer than you have. I'm an Angeleno by birth, I know what goes on in this crazy city. People who drift, who don't have clear cut goals are begging for trouble."
Recollection of the fiasco with Deming hit Terri. Momentarily she hated Matt for hitting the nail so unerringly on the head. You can say that again, Buster.
"Can we change the subject?" she said, straining for flippancy. "Seems I've gone through this before. With you, with Pam...."
Fearing he'd gone too far, Matt said, "Sorry, Terri. I didn't mean to pry. It's only...." He frowned, balled his hands into fists. "If I only didn't care so much about you, Terri."
Her irritation melted. It was her turn to touch Ms hand. "Don't Matt, please? I'm sorry, but I'm not ready to commit myself as yet. Even on little things. And on something as important as marriage...."
"How about this movie bit? Are you interested? I know that your friend Pam's gone on it, she still believes in fairy tales. Has she converted you?"
"Really, Matt," she smiled modestly. "Do I look like movie star material? When you see the beautiful women all around you? It's silly. Look at that blonde over there. The one with the fat man. If anyone's movie star material...."
"She's too skinny."
"You're prejudiced."
"Hear me out, Terri, please. I think you're beautiful in a unique, quiet way. I think if some of those agents or scouts ever really took a good look at you, looked into your eyes...."
"Matt, you're making me blush."
"I live in constant fear that it'll happen." He dropped his eyes, a burr of emotion on his voice. "Because if it did, I'd never have a ghost of a chance with you. I'd have to buy a ticket to see you. Just like the other slobs."
For long moments neither of them spoke. And moved deeply by the sincerity of Matt's words, by the way his voice had gone shattery at the last. Terri couldn't look directly at him, lest he see the film of tears in her eyes.
She covered his hand with hers. "You're sweet, Matt," she whispered. "Very sweet."
Then she stirred in her chair, put on her gloves, gathered her handbag. "Don't you think we'd best leave? Or have you changed your mind about the show? Nine o'clock, wasn't it?"
They saw an adventure movie that failed to capture Terri's attention. She had more volatile things on her mind. Midway through the feature Matt took her hand. A gesture of affection that Terri permitted. If this little thing made him happy what was the harm, after all?
She wondered if Lloyd Deming had even done anything so square as holding a girl's hand. Probably not. And recalling how devilishly he operated, how his expert finesse had turned her into putty in a matter of minutes, she began to tremble.
"Terri?" Matt asked. "Something wrong?"
"No nothing. Just a chill."
She'd been very glad it was Matt beside her and not Deming.
His courage buoyed up by the small intimacy allowed him in the theatre, Matt dared to kiss Terri as he saw her from the car. Standing in the shadows just outside the door of her apartment building, he timidly raised her chin with his hand, gave her a small, quick peck on the lips.
It was a furtive, frightened kiss, nothing manly in it at all. And yet, taken by surprise as she was, there was something sweet and poignant about it also. Briefly her heart raced, she anticipated a repetition of same.
But no. With a hurried, soft, "Thank you," Matt was hurrying down the steps.
Terri smiled wistfully, somehow pityingly as she saw Matt almost bang the car parked in front of him in Ms hurry to get away.
As she started up the stairs she could still feel the kiss. The smile grew, became mischievous. It was a sweet kiss, a little boy's kiss, she mused. Then she began to giggle, as she reached her floor, she laughed softly to herself.
The laughter died instantly, her happy expression was immediately blasted as Terri let herself into the apartment. As she saw Pam sitting on the davenport, her arms around a weeping, red-eyed redhead she'd never seen before.
"Pam, what is it, what's wrong?"
Pam sent her a fierce glare, put her finger to her lips. Instantly Terri froze, stood there with her mouth agape.
The redhead was apparently drunk or sick. Or both. For she didn't see Terri come in.
In between bouts of wracking sobbing, the tangled incoherent tale of woe gradually took shape.
"I didn't know what to do," the redhead gasped. "God, Pam, if you knew how long I've been after a part, any part. I haven't got a cent left to my name. If I don't get a check from Mom soon, I-I'm gonna have to take to the streets. I don't wanna do that. Then when Larry Coulter told me that Three M Productions was looking for a comedienne type, when he gave me this producer's name...."
She stifled a sob, looked up, saw Terri. "Who...?"
"This's Terri. My roomie. Terri, this's is Kathy.
She's had a bad break. Sit down. You might as well hear this." She held the shaking girl closer. "Go ahead, Kathy. What then?"
"His name was Gary Spallas. 'Yes,' he told me, 'they were still looking for a girl for that part. Was I interested in testing for it?' "
It became more and more obvious to Terri that Kathy had been drinking ever since the as-yet-unrevealed disaster had occurred. She saw the hi-ball glasses on the table, surmised that Pam had helped the cause along.
"Was I interested in a million bucks?" Kathy gulped. "I wanted that part, any part. If you just knew how long I've been chasing, been gettin' the run'round. Oh, if this guy'd just give me a chance. Yes, I told him, yes....
"Then he got this funny look in his eyes and asked about my credits. When I didn't have any, he got all vague again. Then he told me to stand up, he wanted to see my legs, how I walked.
"Next thing I knew he waved me to his desk, he was running his hands on my legs, gettin' real fresh. And when I shook him off, told him I didn't dig that kind of stuff. He smiled and said he expected cooperation from his stars-to-be. If I didn't want to play, well forget it."
Kathy broke into a new spate of weeping, couldn't speak for long moments. "Damn, I wanted that job. I had to have it. I didn't know which way t' turn...."
"And you gave in?" Pam finished for her. "You let the lecher louse have what he wanted?"
"I didn't wanna, I tell you. But when I saw that chance goin' out the window...." Kathy paused, sucked in her breath noisily.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Pam said gently. "Would that help?"
"I don't know," Kathy blubbered. "I suppose it might help to talk to somebody, get the damnable thing off my mind."
Pam motioned Terri to sit down. "Go right ahead, Kathy. We're listening...."
"Right there in his office it happened," Kathy began reluctantly, her voice thick, stopping often to recollect her thoughts. "He sat behind his desk, made me undress in front of him, told me jus' what to do. He kept stopping me, telling me to turn this way'n that, to push out my breasts, to hold 'em lift 'em and pose 'em. He made me come over to where he sat, let him touch me.
"He was a weirdo or something, he wanted me to prance around in just my garter belt, stockings and shoes. He kept thinking up things faster'n I could do 'em."
"The rotten louse," Pam sympathized.
"Then he dragged me behind the desk and made me touch him. When he got all worked up, he wanted me to open his clothes. A real weirdo.
"Then I had to move to him in the chair, he pulled me closer and took me, just like that, made me take care of things. While all the time he kept pulling at my boobs," Kathy's voice broke. "God, I don't wanna tell any more."
"Go ahead," Pam said softly, reassuringly. "Get everything out, honey. It'll be for the best."
"Then he finally got undressed, fooled around me some more. The nut even cleared his desk, made me get on it. Still in my stockings and shoes. He took me standing up, he giggled and called me sick names."
"Damn," Pam groaned.
"Finally he had to finish up. And he put me on his davenport in a nutty position. He like to broke my neck. Talk about slow, I thought he'd never finish."
"And you?"
"I didn't want to, honest. But I couldn't help it. The way he kept working. All of a sudden I began responding. He got a big yak out of that. He was still yakking when I finished."
Kathy began to snuffle again. "Even then he sat there naked, lookin' at me while I dressed, making cracks about my figure, about how good I'd been, about the different poses he'd put me through."
"He wasn't your first, was he?" Pam asked incredulously.
"Yes," Kathy wailed, "he was. I was a virgin until this afternoon. Oh, Pam, he was terrible...."
"So then what?" Pam asked. "Did you get the part?"
"No...." Kathy broke into a new fit of shrill misery. "That's what kills me. When he'd got what he wanted he told me the part's filled. And we've both had our fun. If ever I hated a man, wanted to kill somebody...."
"You poor kid," Pam soothed. "That rotten, double-crossing animal! Of all the...."
"The corker was he gave me ten bucks. Ten lousy bucks! He tore my stockings, I should get myself a new pair. He laughed at me when I started bawling, laughed me right outta that office. He said I should keep in touch . ."
Terri felt choking hatred gather in her throat, and she wondered after" the decency of a world such as this. Was there no justice, no shred of compassion and humanity?
Pam comforted the hysterical girl, patted her shuddering back, poured soothing endearments over her.
When Kathy calmed slightly, Pam half raised her. "C'mon, baby. I'll take you up to your apartment, tuck you in. Get a good night's sleep. You'll feel better in the morning, I know you will. The world always looks pretty black at a time like this. C'mon, honey. Upstairs."
As Pam ushered the crushed girl out the door, some of her consoling words carried back to Terri. "It couldn't been worse, Kathy, " she said. "He could've strung you along, used you for weeks. Then given you the kissoff. It could've been lots worse."
. Then the door closed behind them, Terri was alone. And the bitterness, the sense of helplessness, the eternal futility known only to the have-nots, swamped her.
Is this the only answer, the only recompense the world had to offer? Was this justification for every indignity the little people of the world have to suffer?
It could have been worse?
Suddenly the world seemed a much less desirable place in Terri's mind. It seemed sick and unappetizing, very mean and heartless indeed.
Terri and Pam were out on the town. Pam talking of movie contracts, insisting that she and Terri bypass the more sleazy Sunset Boulevard joints, hit the more in places. Spots like the Pastiche and the Crescendo. Terri, sailing under false colors, not admitting even to herself that she subconsciously entertained thoughts of a movie career.
It was the Pastiche, a combination coffee house and cocktail lounge featuring an inobtrusive jazz trio and a beautiful Negress chanteuse named Kiki Carter, that the cold dread and sense of unreality came down hard, made Terri wonder who and what she was, what she was doing in such a place, what wild, hazy goals she was pursuing.
And who, she thought acidly, is fooling who?
It wasn't merely their surroundings that annoyed her. It was also the unarguable presence of present company, the easy recognition that the lounge's clientele was made up of eighty per cent females. All young, all beautiful, all hopeful. All available.
They sat in clusters all over the room, in twos and threes and fours. With here and there a more adventurous type, alone, nursed a coffee expresso or $2.00 martini as if her life depended upon it.
While elsewhere, badly outnumbered, at tables, at the bar, were the men. Again in twos and threes, waiting like vultures, sure that sooner or later their patience would pay off. Most of them had no movie connections. But in the time the dolls must face up to reality, they must admit they were women first, career-hungry automations second. That they needed men.
As the wee hours came on, the chicks, chilled by another night's failure, became more vulnerable, needed a shoulder to cry on, strong arms to nestle against
"Look at that blonde," Terri nudged Pam. "Why do they cheapen themselves so? I hope I ... we ... never become that obvious...."
Pam turned, appraised the indicated female. A .gaunt blonde, her hair long and straight, hanging down her shoulders, who toyed with a pink, foamy drink, nervously smoked a cigarette. She was dressed completely in an eye-capturing gold lame outfit, the skintight blouse accenting her high, extremely pointed breasts. She wore clinging slacks, absolutely nothing beneath them. Her feet were clad in matching pumps, the heels exaggeratedly high, the toes daggersharp.
And more damning, she was completely alone.
"Ugh!" Pam said. "That doll's begging for a good bed session. Talk, about fakes! That's the most she'll get out of parading herself like that."
"But why?" Terri persisted. "Can't she see what she's doing to herself?"
"Maybe the kid's desperate. Like about ninety per cent of all the dolls you see here. She's tried everything else, so...." Pam's face hardened, her hand trembled slightly as she sipped her brandy. "Maybe she's an absolute zero, doesn't know any better."
The cold despair mounted within Terri. The jazz combo and Kiki Carter's ballads went right by her. She studied the glut of women around her, wondered at the panic and desperation only partly hidden beneath those too-quick smiles, those beautifully made up, confidence-exuding faces. What inner hell did they endure, what stories of compromise and sellout lay behind each arrogant, supreme mask? It was an almost tangible thing, a suffocating, closing-in-on-her thing. It almost had an odor. Cloying, sweet, like in a funeral parlor.
The mordant stench of success at any price.
She was rocked by the thoughts. Is this what I really want? What ever got me started on this? What ever made me, for a minute, consider that I had talent or beauty enough-or venality enough?
She fought to concentrate on the doleful blues number. But her attention was distracted by movement on her right. Where she saw a flashy brunette, dressed in a sizzling, red satin gown, a thing with a fringe of tassels at the hips. A discotheque dress. A girl who'd obviously given up early and was, judging from her vapid smile, already drunk. She winked at a pair of men across the room. Their arrogant smiles, the way they rose, went to join the brunette, the knowledge of what would happen in some cramped room on one of the Strips feeder streets, an all-night round robin involving three participants, made Terri feel slightly ill."
"Do we have to stay here? I'm bored. Let's move on?"
"Okay," Pam said. "No reason to stay. Nothing doing here anyway. Haven't seen likely prospect one."
Then, as they came onto the street Terri's bitter revulsion was further reinforced when they saw the two girls, neither of them in their twenties yet, one dressed in a black, synthetic leather coat, the other in a down-to-the-knee coat sweater, idling outside a florist's shop. They were incredibly lovely in a childish way. An illusion they sought to dispel with heavy make-up, outrageous hairdos.
Instantly Terri recognized the twosome for what they were. Streetwalkers. These were girls-children-driven to this comedown, making out as best they could Starry-eyed kids who's banged their heads against an indifferent wall, had made no dent, whatsoever.
Here was where it all ended. Now, as the pair moved away, their high heels clicking on the walk, going in pursuit of a solitary man ahead, it felt like some one had plunged a hypo into Terri's heart, injected a freezing compound.
Suddenly she was trembling. "Hurry," she said to Pam. "I'm freezing."
It was at the Crescendo that Doug Jordan and Hank Snow moved in on Terri and Pam. And Pam, opportunistic to the last, immediately sensing a free ride in the ultra-expensive club, encouraged them, kicked Terri warningly when she saw her cold-shouldering the tall, handsome specimen named Doug.
Hank Snow, apparently, was a friend of some long standing. He was, Pam informed her, a liaison man with one of the independent TV outfits recently established out on Culver, a good man to know. Whereupon Hank introduced Doug as a free lance publicity man with all kinds of invaluable contacts. Again, another valuable man to know.
The men's chatter was flip, rapid fire, humorous. And whether they were the important operators they proclaimed themselves to be or not, they weren't afraid to spend money. And before long a happy-go-lucky, swinging evening was underway. A welcome turn of events to Terri, and despite her earlier misgivings and dire reflections, she found herself having a wonderful time.
They danced to the medium-slow offerings of the orchestra and Doug turned out to be an excellent dancer, Terri relaxed, basked in the sheer glow of fun which was, obviously, to be the evening's keynote. As they whirled and glided on the floor Doug spun off jokes at a frantic clip, and Terri laughed nonstop.
But the lighthearted mood the laughter stopped abruptly at 12:08. As Pam herded Terri into the ladies, out-lined an abrupt change in plans. A party was in the offing; Hank had an invite, Doug did not. She wanted to go. Could Terri take care of Doug?
"I'd just as soon not," Terri pouted. "How come Doug can't go to the party?"
"It's a snooty-snoot affair. Inside people. Hank can't risk antagonizing certain powers that be. It's a break for me, darling. I'm sorry you can't come, but that's the way things go. Doug's got his car, he'll see you home."
"With or without a mauling?"
"You're a big girl now, Terri. That's your worry."
"And if I just choose to walk out on my own?"
"Don't be stupid. Why hack Jordan? He isn't snowing you. He's got contacts. Be good to him, you never know where it'll get you."
Terri glared. "I know just where it'll get me. In a wrestling match. Bruises, torn nylons. The whole bit."
"Play it your way," Pam snapped. "I can't nursemaid you forever. Pm going with Hank. You do what you like."
Terri and Doug stayed at the Crescendo for perhaps twenty minutes after Pam and Hank left. But the glow was decidedly off things; they drank, talked listlessly. Other things were definitely on then minds.
Finally Terri said, "It's getting late. We'd better leave. I am a working gal. And eight A.M. comes awful early."
"You sure you want to go right home?" Doug purred in his most seductive manner as they waited for the attendant to bring his car around. "Maybe a little ride? I could show you some of the sights. You've only been in L.A. a short while you said? You gotta see Mulholland Drive. It's a clear night. It'll be beautiful up there about now."
Terri's heart revved up, and suddenly she was possessed of a most sadistic idea. She was tired of everyone treating her like a little kid, of being regarded as an absolute mark and nincompoop. Even by this preening, junior-grade Casanova. In his eyes she was an absolute pushover.
I'll show you how easy I am, she lashed inwardly. Looking up at him,' smiling demurely, she said, "That sounds like fun, Doug. But only for a little while."
Behind his smile she could visualize him already carving another notch in his bedpost.
They left the more crowded thoroughfares, began climbing up Coldwater Canyon Drive. And presupposing Terri's ignorance of the fact that Mulholland was one of L.A.'s most notorious passion-parking pits, he painted an extravagant picture of Mulholland's aesthetic features, dwelt upon the night-time view of Los Angeles the vantage point offered.
Not too much later he subtly, or so he thought, played his ace card, began flattering Terri, told her that she was perfect for a new TV series he had an inner line on. If she'd say the word, he'd put in a plug for her. While Terri, playing the awe struck ingenue to the hilt, leaned back into the cushions, gushed at all the right places. While to herself she thought acidly, Who do you think you're snowing, Busterr I've gone this route before. Save it for a real hick, will you? I've had my schooling; you don't give me lesson two.
"Really, Doug?" she said in feigned breathlessness, "could you really do that? I'd appreciate it so much, I'd be so grateful ... "
But as the car continued to climb, as the concentration of deluxe houses thinned out, the mountain walls seeingly closing in on them, shutting them away from the world, she had dour second thoughts. What if I can't handle this wolf? It's a long walk back. But I'll be damned if I'll surrender.
Finally Doug slowed the car, eased it into a deserted outlook point. Instantly he killed the engine, punched the car radio, brought on soft, dreamy music. "Isn't that something?" he chuckled. "Talk about views...."
And with no more ado than that the egocentric boob raised his arm, put it around Terri, pulled her close, let his hand fall over her shoulder, lightly graze her upper bosom.
Terri as part of her plan, resisted not at all. Momentarily awed by the glittering, winking ocean of lights below, the city stretching into infinity, she had thoughts for nothing else. "It is beautiful," she said sincerely, her heart briefly stunned by the magnificent panorama. "I've never seen anything so gorgeous...."
Jordan, positive this innocent was signed, sealed and delivered, almost gloated. Then, after waiting an appropriate length of time, he turned Terri gently, positioned her head offered a passionate, devouring kiss to her. A husky murmur grew in his throat.
As per plan Terri surrendered to Doug's arrogant advances, led him on. She answered his kiss fervently, let her arms wind about his neck. If a pushover is what this bozo wants-
There wasn't time for talk. Positive he was going to score, Jordan limited himself to breathless flatteries and endearments. "You're such a beautiful baby. Terri. I wanted to kiss you, to touch you from the first moment T saw you. You gorgeous little doll...."
The kissing became more and more inflaming. Jordan was no amateur, he kissed with a vengeance, displayed a virtuosity that would have knocked any less embittered girl off her pins in seconds flat. And onto her back, panting and wild.
Still Terri surrendered to him, parodied rising excitement, let her breath hiss in her throat, let her breasts churn and dig against his chest.
Then, when his kiss played a very exotic version of hide-and-seek, when his hands crept up her waist, attacked her breasts from beneath, began to caress and swirl, his skilled fingers tweaking and twirling, making them ache almost immediately-
Terri accused herself savagely, you are a pushover after all, aren't you? You're digging this. If this was any other man, a man who really cared, wasn't so blasted in love with himself, you'd let him, wouldn't you? At that instant the repugnance rose in her throat, nearly choked her. She hated herself very much.
It was then that Jordan, certain the kooky kid had come completely unglued, began sliding his hand on her bare bosom, let his fingers dive inside her brassiere. While his other hand arrogantly fled beneath her skirt, slid on her nyloned leg.
Terri shuddered, fought for strength, almost forgot her vainglorious resolve. The double teasing, as his finger caressed her breasts like dials, as his other hand gradually became more compelling, more delightful, more will-stealing. Lay back, baby, she told herself. Lay back and enjoy everything. A guy like this, a professional swain, will give you a going over you'll never forget. Her legs trembled.
But then one of her nylons popped, and the runner irritated her, reminded her of her parting words with Pam a scant hour ago. The self revulsion was immediate back. Her molten fires were instantly extinguished.
Abruptly she tore herself away from him, went to the opposite side of the seat, hurriedly arranged her clothes. "That's all, Doug," she snapped imperiously, triumphantly. Mockingly. "Party's over. It's time we went home."
Jordan used to having some chicks get frigid on him at the crucial moment, plowed right back, tried to embrace and kiss Terri anew. "Baby, baby," he sighed, "you know you don't mean that...."
The sound of Terri's savage slap seemed to hang in the close air for a long time. "No!" she spat. "That's what I mean. You think I'm that easy on the very first date? Take me home, Doug. Right now."
The man, unconditioned to refusal, suddenly caved in. "You teaser," he rasped. "You filthy, little teaser! You purposely strung me along, you wanted to get me like this, then flip the switch. Teaser...." He amended the term, made it very ugly and earthy indeed.
"Careful, Doug, darling," Terri seethed. "Don't say anything you'll be sorry for. Maybe next time, Casanova "
"There won't be a next time," he growled, starting the car.
"A quitter, huh?" Terri mocked, swamped with an insane sense of conquest. The frustration in his eyes, the whimpering defeat in his voice was almost too good to believe. In some small measure it made up for the humiliation she'd suffered at Deming's hands, for the cheap way he'd used her. "What's the matter? Can't you take a challenge? Where's the fun if every girl rolls over and plays dead the first time out?"
"You teaser," he muttered once more. "Of all the rotten stunts...."
"You are quitting. Can't stand the gaff, can you?"
"I'll get you yet, Terri. Just you wait." Then he backed the car from the turnoff, headed down.
"Maybe you will, maybe you won't," she chuckled, leaned back into the seat again, supremely confident, restored once more. "But if you're willing to try...."
"I'll get you one of these days. I can wait. I'll be calling you."
"You do that little thing, darling," she sneered.
It seemed the drive back down into the city was interminable. Neither of them spoke again the rest of the way.
"Wipe off that lipstick," Terri said as Jordan dropped her off at her place. "You look awful silly."
Sometime during the night Terri awoke, looked to Pam's bed, saw it empty. She glanced at the clock, saw it was four.
Pam, she supposed snidely, was probably still very busy. She went back to sleep, dreamed some very wild dreams indeed.
CHAPTER SIX
Alone with Matt Schaffner in his Russell Avenue apartment, Terri couldn't help but be reminded of what had happened to her the last time she'd ventured into such a trap. Yet, happily tipsy feeling that nobody could ever hurt her again, the remembrance lost its power to aggravate or embitter.
Matt was safe; seduction was the farthest thing from his mind. After all, she mused, rolling the sherry in the snifter glass, hadn't she had to all but sandbag Matt before he'd consented they visit his apartment in the first place?
Terri was, without a doubt, sailing. Her total victory over the egocentric Jordan still a warming memory, she'd come out with Matt tonight, determined to have herself a ball. The drinks before and after dinner had set her up perfectly, and now she was a play-in kittenish bundle of mischievous woman.
When Matt had suggested a movie, she'd refused. Flustered he'd offered to take her to a club, have some drinks. Which still hadn't been the answer.
"Well then, what do you want to do?"
Like a bolt out of the blue the madcap idea had hit her Sans benefit of second thoughts she'd blurted, "Let's go to your place. I've always wanted to see where you live."
Matt had paled. "I assume you're kidding," he'd said.
She'd bounced childishly in her chair. "Nope. I'm not kidding. Your place." Then, more to tease and fluster than anything else: "We'll see what happens from there on. I leave that to you."
"Are you sure that's proper?"
"You'll be safe, dear. I don't bite."
"I didn't say you did." Matt's face was bewildered. "I'm just wondering at the propriety involved."
"I won't compromise your virtue if you don't compromise mine."
And now, in Schaffner's apartment, the zany mood still prevailing, Terri was having a ball, was purposely needling him with innuendo of the broadest sort. Knowing full well that when the time came she'd turn things off just as easily as that. , Momentarily, recalling the surprising attack of sensuality that had hit her with Doug that night on Mulholland Drive, some of the moment's bawdy mischief was diluted.
What got at me anyway? she accused. Another minute there and I might have surrendered.
What did it mean? she'd asked herself countless times since that night. Was Los Angeles' easy moral climate getting to her? Were the things witnessed during her brief time in this thrill-crazy city changing her standards that much? Had living with the scheming, opportunistic Pam Lyon corroded her, made her scheming and opportunistic also?
After all, living with a freethinker like Pam was enough to undermine anybody's morals. And lately Pam had become even more confiding, had told Terri things she'd never dreamed existed. Concerning her personal life, that of her friends, of L.A. in general.
There had been nights when, strangely titillated by such frank talk, Terri had found it hard to sleep. And aroused by the talk, by the memory of that night at Deming's apartment, she'd tossed and turned in bed for hours. Until, much as she hated herself for doing so, she had to find some sort of mechanical release.
Teasing her nipples, twisting beneath the covers, she knew an overpowering sensual need. Then she'd let her hands steal over her quaking flesh, touching and caressing. At the end it had been all she could do to stifle her whimpers, her sighs and gasps of intense release, to keep Pam from hearing her private exertions.
What is happening to me? she raged in the clear light of day. Am I becoming some sort of sex fiend or something? Is this thing becoming too important in my life? Does that initial, overpowering urge hit different women at different times?
The thoughts nettling Terri, she shook her head, brushed them aside. Taking a generous sip of her wine, she watched Matt, at the opposite wall, going through his records, looking for something appropriate to play on his hi-fi.
Momentarily the air was filled with the plaintive, soft strains of a solo violin. Terri smiled, leaned back against Matt's worn, comfy davenport. "Nice...." she slurred.
"One of my favorites."
"Beautiful, Matt. Now, will you come sit down?"
"Anything else? Something to munch on? I've got some goodies out in the kitchen."
She held out her empty glass, stretched her body into a breast-swelling curve. "More wine if you've got it. Food is not uppermost in my mind."
When here turned, decanter in hand, she pulled him down. "Now sit still. Let's enjoy the music, together."
Still edgy, Matt sat a distance from her. "Matt," she said, suddenly possessed of the strongest urge to needle the stuffy man into some rash action. Fun, she thought. It's fun to be a woman with a man like this. "I think you're afraid of me."
His expression was pained. "No, that's not it at all. I just don't want to appear forward."
"So? What's the matter with a man being a little forward? That's their bit, isn't it? To be a ... little ... wild?"
She exulted inwardly as Matt squirmed. Isn't he funny? The man's impossible. He's not for real. He fell silent for a time, stared miserably into space. "You like my apartment?" he finally said by way of changing the subject.
"It's very nice, Matt. Small and comfortable. Very conservative. It's just what I expected."
"Is that supposed to be a crack or something?"
She popped her eyes in comic dismay. "Nope. No crack. It's just you, Matt."
"I hope that's good. Nothing flashy, I realize, but I've been saving money, investing. I'll be damned ... darned, Terri ... if I'll move my wife into some cracker box in one of those developments. I'm getting ready."
The wine cut in more disastrously. "Have you picked the girl yet?" Terri teased, getting some perverse charge out of making Matt sweat.
He turned on her, reproach and hurt in his eyes. "You know very well I have, Terri." His voice dropped, he looked down at his hands. "If-if she'll have me.
The cruel streak persisted, Terri was seized by a longing to shake the man to his roots once and for all. What was the harm? If he went too far she could always stop him. "Maybe Matt, that girl would like more direct demonstration of that affection. She doesn't expect that he'll have to be the one to make all the moves."
He turned to her, disbelief in his eyes. "Terri, you don't mean...."
"You kissed me the other night, Matt." The slow burning fires within Terri suddenly hissed, flared, made her suddenly jittery. It felt some evil hand was sorting her desires, twisting and pulling. That same feeling she'd known at Deming's apartment. "Why don't you kiss me again? Like now? Am I so repulsive? It was a sweet kiss, you know...."
Suddenly she didn't care. Desire was a rampaging thing for her. She wanted that sensation again, no matter where it led. She needed that cleansing wildness, she needed a man. And if she couldn't give herself to Matt, if she couldn't trust him, what man could she trust?
I'm a woman, the justifying refrain returned, I have a woman's needs. And if I don't choose to be married just yet, does that mean I have to go without? That I have to wait while this terrible longing claws me all up? Matt, don't make me wait. If you want me, here I am. I'm yours.
Matt's eyes were wide, astonished. For long moments he merely stared at her, his mouth half open. Then, his expression transformed into something eerie, desperately determined, he moved to her.
"Terri, darling...." he breathed. "You're so beautiful. So precious to me...." She was in his arms, her body was being bent back, his lips were slowly descending. And despite his clumsiness, despite the rough way he bent her, she gloried in his masterfulness, she thought his lips would never reach hers.
Then the stinging, delicious contact was made. And her arms twined around his neck, pulled him ruthlessly to her. Her lips were pressuring his; it seemed she'd suffocate if he didn't stop soon. Still she clung to him, drove and twisted her mouth.
"Terri," he husked as they broke the kiss, as he looked at her, awesome confusion in his gaze. "I don't know what's happening to me, to us. I didn't mean...."
"Never mind," she cut him off. "Whatever it is, it's all right. It's what should happen for a man and a woman." Her arms tightened, her wild fury became even more debilitating. "Again. Oh, please, kiss me again."
Their kiss lasted longer this time, became more sense-robbing, more passionate.
"Matt," she gasped when they broke no. "Please, turn out the lights."
Dazedly, things happening altogether too fast for the mild-mannered man, he rose, stumbled about the room, extinguishing the lights.
He found her in the darkness, immediately gathered her into his arms, searched for her lips. When he found her, a low whimper formed deep in his throat. "My darling, my darling."
And if, at this tardy moment, Matt lost control, wanted to pursue their passion to its ultimate limits, Terri had already been out of touch for a long time, she was wild to have him, she felt she'd die, that she'd go mad if she was denied now.
Now his timid hands found her heaving breasts, trembling touched them. "Terri," he breathed, "you won't...."
"It's all right, darling," . she sighed. "I want you. Take them, enjoy them all you want."
Gradually his hands became more confident, riled and gathered them without stop. And when his fingers began tormenting her nipples it was like someone driving white-hot needles at them.
Suddenly she groaned, pulled away. "The record, Matt. It's over."
"Damn the record!" he hissed.
"Play it again. Turn it over. But don't just leave it."
She felt a chill as he deserted her. Groping in the dark she found her wine, downed it in a desperate swallow. As Matt fumbled with the phonograph-in the dark, she feverishly ran her zippers, kicked off her pumps. Then the slip, her brassiere went sailing, she was clad in only her panties, garter belt and stockings.
Matt felt his way back. "Terri, what?" he gasped as his hands encompassed her naked breasts, as they slid on the silky texture of her panties, careened a-cross her legs, recoiled as if burned. "No, we mustn't!"
"Why mustn't we?" she taunted. "You're a man, I'm a woman. There are times like this. At least I think you're a man. Prove to me that you're a man, Matt."
The taunt stung, hit home. His voice was gutter-al, frantic. "We shouldn't, darling. We have to save this. For when we're married. I love you, I want to wait, to...."
Terri's voice was a vindictive snarl. "I said now, Matt. What makes you think there's going to be a marriage? What if I never give you another chance like this? Are you going to turn me down? This one chance...."
"I don't understand, "he groaned. "What's happening to us? Have we lost our minds?"
Terri's words were thick, aberrated. "Now, damn you! Now. Or else...."
An agonized groan breaking from him, Matt gathered her in his arms and lifted her. Now he moved toward the bedroom. Terri's hands fluttered, locked on his arms.
In the background the music built up again.
Terri chuckled muzzily at Matt's clumsy efforts at disrobing her. He was such a little Teddy bear. A new realization speared her. He was a virgin, she was positive. How sweet, how appropriate, she marveled.
"Tell me, Matt," she whispered aa he knelt at her feet, peeled off her stockings. "Will this be your first woman? I mean .."
"Yes," he muttered. "I swear, Terri. With no other woman. I've saved myself...."
Terri's exultation mounted, swelled, lashed inside her. Good, this is going to be spectacular. I'll teach him, I'll take him by surprise, shock the living hell out of him. Undressed at last, she fell back, looked to where now Matt, naked also now, stood beside her. She used the dim light to advantage, appraised his figure, was seized by an insane lust as she saw how rugged a man Matt was. Suddenly her breasts burned, ached from wanting him.
Still Matt stood by the bed, stared at Terri's magnificent, golden body. "You're exquisite, Terri, so beautiful," he choked. "I never thought a woman could be so lovely."
"Please, Matt. Don't make me wait. Take care of things ... of me...."
When he awkwardly moved to her, Terri, caught up in a delirium of desire, sat up, gathered him, cradled his head in her arms. Her breasts hanging heavily, swaying like ripe, opulent melons, she brought his lips to them. "Kiss them, darling." she chanted. "They want you so."
Matt shuddered convulsively, his voice rasping, almost sobbing in frantic desire and gratitude. Then bracing himself, freeing one hand, letting it slide a-long her body, his lips closed to the rosettes, each in turn, to trap and torture them. It seemed the man wanted to attend to all the niceties of lovemaking at once.
And Terri felt like she was on fire. Like she'd fall apart at the seams at any moment, explode from the mounting pressure. "Darling," she gasped, "good, good." An awesome tremor hit her.
"I can't wait, darling," she gasped finally, pulling his lips away. "I have to have you now. Now...."
"You're sure?" Matt choked. "You won't hate me afterward? If you were to hate me...."
"I'll hate you now," she spat. "If you don't take care of things soon. Please, Matt!"
Then, as proof positive of her need, she boldly sent her hands on a frank reconnaissance, found Matt, agitated and tormented him. Then, unable to wait, she was lifting him, arranging.
There was no hesitation, no opportunity for savor-ance. Her lust, his lust were overpowering. Each needed the other with an unhinging need. Their identities were, for the moment, totally lost. There was only this healthenish desire, this agonizing ache and pain and clutching. There was only this moment, enlarged, magnified, surpassing any counterfeit delights the world could offer. There was only this giving and taking.
All else faded to nothingness. There were only these gratifying sights overshadowing the earth, driving each out of his mind with ecstatic mania given and received.
Terri had a transfiguring glory at the knowledge that this love hadn't been extorted, hadn't been tricked from her. It was a thing of her own volition, a gift of the moment, an undeniable compulsion. She wanted to give herself to this man, she wanted him unreservedly, in this most exciting of of moments.
And as added bonus, she wantonly wanted to rob him of his virgin gift. She wanted that satisfied gasp of relief.
"Yes, yes!" she called as the man labored for her "That's right, so good, so right. Baby, baby...."
While the astonished Matt, groaned deeply in his throat, telt pain back up on him, become intolerable. He clenched Terri tighter and gloried at that magnificent mind-robbing, clinging, hurting ecstasy. Faster.
Still faster. Terri was tearing him to pieces. "My beloved," he managed to rasp, "I never thought anything could be like this. You're wonderful! The things you do...." The rest was lost in a choked gasp.
Now he was amazed when Terri began to choke and shrill her impending release. When her arms became iron bands, like a maddened bronco, spurred him on. "Now," she squealed. "Now, damn you! Go!" Her body froze. "Yes, yes. Oh, oh, darling." A ragged growl ruptured her throat.
"Darling, darling," he called as his pleasure became more intense. He heard a creaking, knew he was clenching his teeth with all his strength.
Then the pain became too great, he could forestall sensation no longer. Gibberish cries poured from his mouth, primeval words erupted from some dafk cave in the most subterranean depths of his psyche.
Terri called out ecstatically once more, praised him. She screamed and fought him, announced still another glory.
Matt's screams blended with hers, formed a chorus of shrill and hoarse chords. Became an exalting, beautiful paen to rapture.
Then gasping and sighing, they both collapsed, clung to each other with fanatic desperation.
"Forgive me, darling," he pleaded when he regained his breath. "I don't know what happened. I didn't want this, to defile you. I...."
Terri caught his head, drew it against her breasts, muffled the rest of his words. "There is nothing to forgive,' she said "This happened, that's all. I needed you. It any one should ask for forgiveness it should be me. It was my fault, Matt ... "
"I'll marry you, Terri, I'll make this right by you. I'm not the kind of man who takes advantage of a woman, who...."
Again Terri shushed him. And in a mysterious, calm tone, said, "And what if I don't want to marry you, Matt?"
The man halt rose, stared at her, was shaken by the beautiful, enigmatic smile on her lips. "I don't understand. If you didn't want to marry me, why...?"
"You're such a little boy sometimes, Matt," she whispered. She stroked his hair. "I can't explain why this happened. Let it go at that. I wanted you, I had to have you. And that's all."
"That's all?" he croaked "Don't say that, Terri."
She laughed. "I don't mean it that way. What I mean is that you don't have to feel you have to marry me. I'm not ready to be married yet. To you, to anybody. If this isn't enough, to have each other when we need each other-" she paused, clutched his head tighter to her "-then I'm sorry. But that's the way things have to be."
"You mean," Matt fought her hands, stared into her face, "that this is all you want? Just because we need each other ...?" .
"That's exactly what I mean. If we're careful and don't get greedy things will work out beautifully for both of us. If I can't trust you, darling...."
A monumental shudder ripped Terri. "For now, this has to be enough."
Stunned, acting on instinct alone, Matt attended her anew. "I don't understand. I don't think I ever will, Terri."
"What's to understand?" Still lust charged, still greedy and hurting, she sighed, "Just enjoy. I'm a woman, you're a man. Isn't that answer enough? You were good, Matt, and I want you again."
Dreamily her hands moved on his face. "Soon," she crooned. "Oh, soon...." Then her hands slid a-cross his damp chest. "Here, let .Terri help you, baby. Don't be shy, I won't hurt you. There, Matt. Oh, what a man. Lay still, let Terri play...."
Then when Matt was ready, when he rolled and tossed on the bed, fought to pull Terri closer, she still delayed. "You won't think badly of me, will you, Matt?" she purred. "If I try something? A thing I've heard about...."
"No," he gritted. "How can I refuse you when you've got me like this?"
Then Terri was bending to Matt. Boldly she dropped her hands, guided him. A long sibilant sigh issued from her lips. "That's marvelous. No, Matt, be still. Let Terri take care of everything. Hold my breasts, my nipples. That's all. That'll help."
She arched, shuddered. "Oh, Matt." Now she worked swiftly, the coarse humming started in her throat.
That night it was Terri's turn to get home at four A.M.
Two months had passed. Life had settled into a rut for Terri and Pam. They went through their daily rounds; work at Great Western, housekeeping chores, desultory reading and TVing, attendance at the gym and drama classes, the occasional forays onto the Strip, Pam's visits to casting and agents' offices. Beyond this, the more frequent dates Terri was having with Matt Schaffner.
It was June, and L.A. became hotter by the day the smog grew more choking, more eye-burning. Terri missed the flow of the seasons. There was none of the exuberant bloom, of slow change from cold, snowy winter to balmy, greenup springtime that Terri had known in Waterloo. Christmas had been a most dismal travesty. When the peace-treaty gifts had arrived from home, had been put under the aluminum tree, Terri had sobbed intermittently throughout the entire day.
But now-June. Summer clothes and shoes, the infrequent treks to the beaches, the riot of color as gardens and flowerbeds came into full glory.
Terri was halfheartedly satisfied with her life, she felt she'd found what she was looking for in Los Angeles. She had her freedom, diversion, a career of sorts. More important she was maturing, being seasoned in one of the world's most sophisticated and exacting moral climates.
She'd never heard from Lloyd Deming or Doug Jordan again. Nor did she care. Now and then Pam arranged blind dates, offered to fix her up with a nice man, but Terri wasn't having any. Several times during their forays to the Sunset Boulevard flesh-spots there'd been attempts at pickup by fast-talking Hollywood wolves. But while Pam was interested, Terri was not. Pam deserting her those times, Terri had returned home alone.
If that was Pam's speed, she'd fumed, it wasn't hers!
Yet, who was she to sit in judgment? At least Pam was being honest about her meanderings; in many cases she was promoting, attempting to further her career. She'd been moderately successful. There'd been a bit role in a TV show. She had that extra exposure to add to her credit list.
Terri was still drifting, she was still maintaining her curious liaison with Matt. When Pam made sly digs at the frequency of their dates, at Terri's wee-hour homecomings, Terri laughed them off, avowed she wasn't that kind of gal, and Matt wasn't that kind of guy.
Terri couldn't explain the impasse to herself. Often, upon returning home from some particularly steamy session with Matt, she'd lain awake for hours after-trying to puzzle out the reason for continuing the odd affair.
What was so damnably wrong and evil in having a lover? she raged these times. Even if it was patently stopgap, a loveless thing. Matt took care of things admirably, he helped extinguish her fires when they raged out of control. He adored her, took care of her, accepted this side of her, tolerated the excesses she craved when she had a little too much to drink. Never having known another woman, he accepted her wanton streak as normal femininity.
Those nights she questioned herself too severely, calling herself vile names, she sought comfort in the thought that it was unnatural for a woman to keep herself constant until marriage, meander into spinster-hood, suffer the torments of frustration for years at a time. And when life had passed her by, when at 38, she finally found the right man? Would she want a man who was still virginal at 38? Didn't the same thing apply to females?
Matt, despite his harpings, was nevertheless very much of a man, he took care of his fire-tending chores conscientiously. Granted, she'd had to teach him, knock some of his reservations out of him. But each time they rendezvoused, was better than the last. Matt was learning to throw himself into love with real gusto.
Even to the pillow bit Deming had taught her. Which was a variation Terri keenly enjoyed occasionally. Matt had rebelled at first. But then, just to please Terri-and they'd both derived transporting delight from their fantastic, simultaneous finish.
The boy was definitely learning. She'd make a man of him yet!
There were drawbacks, however. There were times she got so tired of arguing with the honor-bound man, she didn't care whether she ever saw him again or not.
For Matt, Victorian at the core, was determined he would-as he so quaintly put it-"Make an honest woman of her." No amount of squabbling, of coolness, of refused dates would make him see otherwise. He loved Terri, he wanted to enjoy this love under the sheltering umbrella of matrimony.
"I need a man," Terri bluntly announced those times. "There are nights when I get blue, when I need someone to talk to. And, frankly, there are times when I need loving. If it wasn't you, Matt, then I'm afraid it would be someone else. I'm a flesh and blood woman, dear. I can't change that. When I need a man, he'd better be there. Would you like that? Would you like me to become promiscuous?"
At which Matt's face would become an anguished, frightened mask. The thought of his beloved passing herself around indiscriminately was maddening. Just visualizing another man touching her was enough to send him into a frenzy.
"You're the only man who's ever touched me," she lied with owlish solemnity, "I've never known another man like this. What's happened has happened. And now that I've known love, I don't want to go without."
"You won't have to go without," he invariably wailed. "Marry me, whether you love me or not. I've got enough love for the both of us. In time, perhaps, you'll change, you'll learn to love me. Give me that chance to try...."
Around and around they'd go, Matt becoming more agitated, unable to fathom a turn like this, all but tearing his hair with aggravation and frustration.
"I don't want to marry you, Matt. I don't want to marry anybody. I have to have time to think, to live, to truly get to know myself. To know what I want out of life. We only go through this world once, I can't afford to make a mistake. Don't you see? I'd be obliged to live it out, wrong choice or not."
Then, when it seemed their argument had become a dog chasing its tail, she invariably applied the clincher: "We don't have to go on like this you know." she'd announce coldly. "I'm tired of your nagging. If you don't like our arrangement, say so." She'd sigh wearily here: "I'm sure I can find someone who'll be glad to take your place."
Which was just like touching a white-hot brand to Matt's eyes. And he'd cave in, he'd plead, he'd beg forgiveness. If this was the basis on which she wanted their relationship to continue, he'd agree to the terms.
And what ever happened to the girl like the girl that married dear old dad? Where do girls like Terri come from? Are they programmed on computers, punched out on data cards?
So the days, the weeks, the months passed. And Terri, though confused, admittedly dubious about her future, concluded that, for the most part, her life was exactly as she wanted it.
A job, a friend, things to do. And when that sensual element in her psyche rebelled-a man, a steady, secure, rock of a man. A place to go, an arrangement that was safe, convenient. And infallible.
And one fine morning there would be a warning swell, an ominous thunderhead perhaps, on the placid sea of her existence. A storm, emotional or otherwise, would come up, would savagely rock her cozy little boat.
Then it would be time to make her decision.
Until then she'd be content to drift with the lazy tide, gorge on hedonistic diversions, let the passing of days and weeks ripen and mature her.
There was a forbidding undercurrent making itself known in Terri's sluggish existence insofar as the way things were going at the apartment between her and Pam. It was a subtle transition, going totally unnoticed until, too late, it was full-blown and undeniable. A change which, by the end of June, seemed to cast an ominous pall, foster a cancer in what had been, heretofore, a gay, confiding, happy-go-lucky relationship.
Another symptom was the way Pam was shortcut-ting her acting classes, letting her gym visits slide, the way she was gone so many nights to keep definite appointments-never explained to Terri.
"I had a date," she'd evade, "a new guy. He's got an in with Universal." Or: "I had to go over and talk to Kathy again. She's got a hard row to hoe."
None of which was at all convincing.
Terri, honoring that privacy, not wanting to make any unnecessary waves, didn't press further.
Pam also seemed to have more money than usual of late. Pam suddenly began to splurge on clothes, on shoes, on personal items. Again, Terri making discreet inquiry as to the source of this windfall, there was no convincing explanation. "My folks sent me some money. I got a friend who plays the horses. He put me onto a good thing. I cleaned up. Two-hundred smackers...."
Again Terri didn't press. If Pam wanted to tell net, she would in her own good time.
Then there were the strange phone calls every now and then. There was the way that Pam would leap for the phone, vicious anger in her eyes, the way some of those phone conversations would be terse and con-committal, a furtive dialogue of yes's and no's. Conversations that would invariably send Pam into a frenzy of showering, changing and primping. Not too much later she'd be cruising out the door, a laconic "Gotta see a man about a horse...." trailing in her wake.
It would be one or two before she'd return home.
Something was very wrong, Terri concluded. Something was very fishy, indeed. But, proud of her newfound maturity and self sufficiency, she refused to pry. Pam's got her life to live. I've got mine.
Give Pam time, she'll come around.
If this atmosphere of disquiet wasn't disaster enough, other, more devastating catastrophes waited in the wings, threatened to destroy Terri.
On that dismal, cataclysmic morning in early July, she posed nakedly before the full length mirror in the bedroom and saw the unmistakable physical changes in her body, saw the dullness of her complexion
She inventoried the physical discomfort she'd known of late, the small bouts of nausea, and admitted the panicky truth about the dangerous two weeks-
There wasn't the slightest doubt in the world now.
Suddenly it seemed the walls were caving in around her, that her whole smug, secure existence was crumbling. And Terri was finally forced to face the truth: Matt was going to be a father.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Pam lay naked on the white bearskin rug. while overhead the hot floodlights flattened her with heat, made her sweaty and restless. "C'mon, Pam," the weasel-faced photographer said beyond those blazing lights, "put some oomph in it, will you? I'm not taking art pictures, you know. That's better. Good. Now move your right leg. We wanna keep our customers, don't we?"
"Damn!" Pam cursed. "You want your pound of flesh, don't you? You'd think you were paying two-hundred an hour instead of forty. Maybe you'll want a free sample afterward too."
"Could be," the man said laconically. "Don't knock it. You've still got a good body, you don't have to pose for this stuff." He needled her. "But if you're getting tired of the money I can always find another gal who's dying to take her clothes off, go through any routine I say. Just give Benny the word...."
"Ahh!" Pam pretended an arrogance she didn't feel. "Don't get all excited, Benny. Can't a gal even gripe once in a while?"
"Seems you been doing an awful lot of griping lately."
"Sorry. Pve got things on my mind."
"Don't let it show. It ruins the shots. And when the psychos out in radio and TV land are paying a buck apiece for glossies like these, they deserve happy little tramps." The man came forward, leaned to where Pam lay.
"Now get on all fours. Yeah, like that. Let those boobs hang. Check. Raise your head. Now, caress those boobs," he snickered. "Unless you'd rather I did that for you."
"No, thanks, sport, " Pam snapped. "I just pose." She rose, teetered on her knees, touched her nipples.
"Okay?"
"Prima. Now cheese, please." Benny retreated to his camera. "Perfect, doll. Look left a little bit. Wowee! What a frame-"
"Spare me the commentary, will you?"
"Now, stand up, kiddo. Get your hands under those boobs, make like you're offering them."
Pam grimaced, felt her stomach heel over. Then she shrugged, it's a living.
In the days following her acceptance of the fact that she was pregnant, Terri moved in a sleepwalker's trance, she existed in a state of permanent shock. While the panic, the desperation, the sense of being trapped constantly hammered at her brain. What could she do?
And though she screamed inside, ached to share the grisly secret with someone, she knew she could not.
She cursed Matt for his carelessness. She cursed herself for trusting calendar mathematics as implicitly as she had. Stupid! After all, anyone with half a brain would know that accidents were bound to happen.
There was a perfectly simple, perfectly easy out, of course. She could tell Matt. She could consent to become his wife.
She could forsake her dreams, surrender her freedom once and for all.
No, she raged in maniacal defiance. They won't get me that way! There's got to be an out! I'll find one, I'll kill myself looking for it before I give in to them!
Them being the persons, forces and circumstances that had ruled and pushed and crowded her all her life. Someone-something-had always been pushing her, had been fighting to cram her into a conformist mold. Her mother and father, Pam, those Waterloo boys. Then Matt, the Hollywood wolves. The whole damned world!
And now, in a monumental push, Matt again! Trapping her, getting his own way at last. Matt how she hated even the sound of his name!
Wouldn't he laugh and rub his hands gleefully, think that now, once and far all, he had the upper hand? She'd have to knuckle under, to be his now.
The humiliation of such a sellout formed a crucible in which was molded the most vehement resolves of all.
They-Matt-none of them-would win! She wouldn't let them. She'd die first!
It was then that Terri found a solution to her problem. Distasteful as it might be, she decided there was only one way out. That alternative was to find a willing doctor, pay his price for his special services. She'd tell nobody of her downfall.
It was further testament to her deteriorating morality that Terri saw nothing wrong at all in this decision.
The matter of finding a doctor wasn't as difficult as it might sound. For in a sprawling, greedy metropolis like L.A., all kinds of doors are openable if one has the key to turn the latch.
There was a woman at Great Western, a harridan file clerk in Receiving named Hilda Fedderman, a woman who drove a Cadillac to work. It was rumored, Terri was certainly not the first to get caught among that vast army of single females, that Hilda knew a man who knew a man. Hilda, as go-between, took hers off the top, lived like a queen at the expense of those deluded ninnies who believed that love-or passion or whatever-superseded everything, conquered all.
Terri discreetly cornered the saggy-jowled Hilda late one afternoon, guiltily out-lined her problem. And very quickly understood how the intermediary could afford so fancy an automobile, the expensive rings and wristwatch she wore. Without batting an eye, fitting her price to Terri's circumstances, she demanded $500.
When Terri hesitated, she hypoed her with further fear, said forbiddingly, "You'd better get with it, dearie. The farther along you are the more dangerous things become. Another three weeks can make a mighty big difference."
Terri had told Hilda she'd be in touch, had fled, feeling contaminated just from talking to her.
Somehow, by dint of Scrooge-like frugality, Terri had amassed a savings account of $300 since coming to Los Angeles. Never thinking of attempting to bargain with the parasite, she wracked her brain to devise a way to raise the extra $200.
Not wanting to expose herself, not wanting to be beholden to Matt in anyway, she dismissed the idea of borrowing the money from either him or Pam. She knew Pam, worldly wise as she was, would tumble immediately.
In fact she'd been extremely cold and distant with Matt ever since her grim discovery; she'd refused the consecutive invitations to dinner, the other more questionably, suggestive invitations to visit his apartment again. Which only served to turn Matt sullen, intensified their strained relationship. Pam, noticing Terri's dark mood and total preoccupation, had, upon inquiring, been given a similar brushoff.
There were loan companies. But again she decided against this also. There was an easier way. A quicker way. All she had to do was to badger Pam, air certain suspicions she'd arrived at in regard to Pam's nighttime absences, to her new prosperity, to the cryptic phone calls she'd been receiving of late.
And suspecting the worst, she justified this fall from grace in a hardboiled way. If this is how the world's made, why shouldn't I jump into line too? After all, in the long run, wouldn't this be the least messy way out? No papers to sign, no payments to make?
Pam jerked like she'd been jabbed with a hatpin, her face turned white when Terri brutally confronted her two nights later, laid things on the line.
"Pve figured out where you've been going all these nights, honey," Terri said evenly, her eyes capturing holding Pam's. "I've figured out what all those phone calls are about, where you're getting all those pretty new clothes."
Pam fought for composure. "Have you, Terri?"
"I never thought I'd see the day when you'd slip so bad. Level with me, Pam. You're hustling, aren't you?"
"You smart witch!" Pam exploded. "For two cents I'd slap your face. You think you know it all, don't you?"
"I think I must be awfully close to the truth to get you as riled as that. I'd like some pretty things too, Pam. I want in. You want to tell me about it?"
"You greenhorn. You don't know what you're talking about. Much less asking to be let in. Is that what you really think? That I've become a call'girl?"
"You don't leave me much choice," Terri smiled acidly. "Unless you level with me, tell me the truth...."
Pam's grin was equally arch. "You really want to know, huh? You think you've got guts enough to go through with a gig like this one?"
"I can only judge for myself. Spill it, Pam."
"Okay," she said, near malevolence in her tone, "you asked for it, kiddo. Since you're so damned nosy."
Then, in a blunt, unflinching way Pam revealed just what her moonlighting venture involved. She told her about putting her name on an agency list, a sleazy, two-bit operation that catered exclusively to photographers, professional and otherwise, who specialized in taking nude shots for girlie magazines.
But the enterprise was even more sticky than that. She told how she went-for a price, usually $40 an hour-to amateur photographers' homes, posed in the nude for shots that would go into their own private collections.
Terri was aghast. This was almost worse than she'd suspected. "Pam," she breathed. "How could you? I thought you were the girl with such rigid standards, the girl that knew all the angles."
Pam's eyes registered mixed self pity and bitterness. "How long do you expect a person to keep banging his head against the door? How long's a person supposed to go on hoping and waiting?" She shivered. "Let's not kid ourselves, hon. I'm not gonna make it. I know it now. Never in a million years. No matter how many guys I sleep with. Sure I got talent, looks, a figure, but that isn't enough. You've got to have the breaks too."
She paused, shook her head, tried to get control of herself. "You were the smart one in the long run, Terri. You didn't believe any of it for a minute. I was the sucker, the daydreamer kid." She looked at Terri, vengeful anger in her eyes. "Well, this kid's had it. Up to here. Since I can't do anything else with this frame of mine, I might as well make it pay off for me.
"I sold out. Terri. I'm going to keep on selling out. I'm making good money now. What with my secretary dough and all. I'm moving up, getting in with some of the better known photogs. Who knows? I might clean up." She sucked in her breath, threw out her chest. "Before these old lungs start to droop."
Terri jerked as if she'd been slapped. "Pam!"
"What's the matter? Wise up, baby. The world's vulgar and cheap and rotten. Everybody's out to take you for all they can get. Take it from one who knows. Get out, Terri, while you still got a chance."
"No," Terri said, the fear fading, her own dire plight remembered. "I'm not getting out. I want in. I could use some extra dough. You're not the only girl in the world who likes pretty things."
Pam's eyes narrowed. "Are you sure that's all there is to it? Say, you're not in a jam are you?"
"No," Terri lied, forcing conviction into her tone, "I just want a dozen pairs of nylons in my drawer at one time. I'd like to buy a dress, some new shoes, whenever the fancy strikes me. Is that too much to ask?"
"You sure you want to try this? I know Kaye would be glad to put you on. Those photogs dig baby-faced types."
"Kaye? Kaye who?"
"Kaye Travis. She runs this so-called agency."
"Aren't you afraid of going to a strange man's house? Posing in the nude? What if he tried something?"
"You are green, Terri. The legit boys we don't have to worry about. They've got studios, reputations to look, out for. But when we go out in the binter-lands we team up. One pose, one watches. We take turns, split the proceeds. It all averages out, but it's perfectly safe."
"But how can you do that? I mean just up and strip for a man you've never seen before?"
"You get used to it, Terri. After a while it doesn't mean a thing."
"Tell me more about it, Pam. Everything."
And while Pam detailed the dubious operation, emphasized the ease with which the money was earned, Terri's mind was already racing ahead of itself, she was already making up her mind. Three or four sittings, she calculated. And I'll have that two-hundred.
Only three or four sittings. I can demean myself that much. I can quit just as soon as I've raised the money.
Anything she vowed. Anything to get out of this damnable trap!
CHAPTER EIGHT
There were three depravity-clogged envelopes in Jarecki's print file now, all carefully labeled, the prints dog-eared by now, grease stained from constant handling.
Anita Moreno, October 14, the first one read. Then came Helen Gould, February 10. Then Kitty Milford, May 3. And after tonight, the visibly disturbed man thoughts: Mara Casino, July 17.
The unsuspecting fool was undressing in the bathroom at this very moment. While Jareck, shakily arranged his tripods, prepared for the posing session. Briefly he paused in his labors, stared into space, his smile eerie, his head twitching as he tried to concentrate. The pain was back, that damnable pain! It seemed his head buzzed all the time lately. The pressure was getting greater.
Lately all he'd been able to think about were the girls in those envelopes, the way they'd screamed and begged for mercy. Recalling the things he'd done, there were times when it was all but impossible to keep his mind on his job. Rakowski, the mason boss, had been on his back constantly of late.
She's pretty, his mind wandered, real pretty. Mara, what a nice name. Mara, what a stupid woman. To advertise like she did, to come here alone. She's green, that's certain. He stifled a chuckle. But not for long Mara, not for long.
Tomorrow's Saturday, baby. We'll go out to the desert. You'll like the desert. So much you won't want to come back.
He dropped a 36 exposure roll into his camera, clamped it shut. Mara, we're gonna have such fun together. Now Jarecki frowned as he tried to bring up an elusive thought.
This Casino girl's gonna be good, he exulted. Not like Kitty Milford. She was a bad one. All kinds of trouble.
He recreated the May murder, remembered how Kitty had changed her mind at the last minute. Something in his smile had frightened her, had betrayed him. Lucky her roomie was gone, nobody'd seen him hit her, carry her down the fire escape.
Even when he'd brought her here, had torn her pretty things off, that had been no good. Kitty was so frightened she'd only moaned, stared, she hadn't given him any struggle at all. Anything he'd wanted from her she'd done willingly. She'd acted like a robot, she'd cheated him of his fun.
But he'd got even with her in the end. His stomach twisted as he recalled that thing with the knife. She'd been dead by then, of course. But he'd got revenge. Her body had been in five pieces when he'd fin-nally buried her.
The maniac shook his head hard, tried to blot out the pictures. I don't like to think about that. Sometimes I do, but not now. Something's wrong. I get all confused sometimes. I can't think of anything else but these girls, the ropes, those pictures. It seems I can't wait. Something's wrong with me.
At that moment the woman, a pretty blonde, slight and slim, emerged from the bathroom, dressed in a cute, pink, terrycloth robe. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Jarecki," she smiled self consciously. "But I wanted to make myself pretty as possible. I'm just getting started in modeling, I want my customers to be satisfied...."
Instantly the man's pulse raced, the searing pressure was renewed in his head. He fought to be calm, but found it hard to do. "You are pretty, Mara," he said in a hushed tone, "very pretty. I'm sure we'll get along just fine. I'll recommend you to all my photographer friends."
"I'd appreciate that, Mr. Jarecki," she smiled winsomely. She glanced around. "Where would you like me to pose?"
"There, on that rug I've put down. Here, I'll take your robe."
Mara Casino hesitated slightly. Then she slowly undid the ties, handed the robe to him. Reluctantly, very much a tyro at modeling, she turned, revealed herself to him. Instantly she was sinking down onto the rug.
The fever careened through the man's veins again as his eyes roved over the woman. Her flesh was extremely milky, soft and clear. Her blondeness blended with her flesh, made her a rhapsody of muted pink and gold. Even her nipples were pale, complimented the total picture. His eyes darted, his smile broadened, became a caricature of lechery.
He shivered, swayed slightly where he stood. He could already feel the texture of her back, her breasts. He could already hear the sobs and pleadings when he began to hurt that pristine flesh.
"Mr. Jarecki?" she said, small traces of fear in her gaze. "Are you ready?"
He broke from his trance. "Oh yes, Mara. Forgive me. I was woolgathering. Here, we'll try a few full length shots. That's right. Lay on your back, straighten your legs. Now, move your right knee."
The modeling session was begun.
As the hour went on Jarecki touched Mara more and move in setting up the poses. And while she was jumpy at first, gradually she became used to it, made no protests.
Perhaps if the woman hadn't noticed the man's jittery state, commented on it, things wouldn't have happened as quickly as they did.
"Mr. Jarecki," she smiled. "Are you all right? Your hands are trembling so badly...."
It was then that the man lost touch. An animal snarl breaking from his lips, he pounced at the prone form, pinned her arms with his knee. When she screamed, when she fought, he slapped her viciously. Her cries died as quickly as they'd started. Mara looked up with great, terrified eyes. Blood ran from the corner of her mouth.
"Please, what ... if she gasped, her face chalky. "What are you going to do to me?"
"I'm going to kill you," he hissed. "Unless you do as you're told. Obey, or you'll be sorry."
He straightened, never released the pressure of his knees on her upper arms. Again he fumbled with his clothing. Her face turned to rubber, collapsed into disgust. "No, no!" she pleaded hoarsely. "I can't . ."
"You can," Jarecki taunted. "You'll like this. Once you get started. Ain't you ever tried this before? Don't put on airs for me. You know you have." He reached out, pulled her hair, raised her head. "Be a good girl. I don't want to have to hurt you."
Then the sick thing began. As the woman, addled and stunned, did everything he told her to. And as she continued to attend him, as he rocked her arms sadistically, Jarecki began to giggle and sigh.
"Faster, damn you!" he ordered. Then, screaming, he didn't hold back, he freed himself of these monstrous tensions. He chuckled shrilly as Mara sputtered.
He left her briefly, focused his camera, took several pictures of the sprawled body. Then setting the timer, he came back to her, savored her groans as his knees crushed her arms again. "Get me ready again," he ordered. He had to slap her only once before she fought herself to him again. The psychopath laughed in heathenish glee as the camera clicked, captured the perverted scene.
He went to reset the camera anew. This time he dragged the blonde to her knees, wrenched her head back ruthlessly. Almost eagerly, wanting to shortcut pain, she moved to him.
The camera clicked again.
Shortly, possessed of an intolerable lust rejuvenated by the dedicated woman's efforts, he was pulling her to her feet, dragging her to his bedroom. Where he tied a gag to her mouth, flung her face down on the bed. Before she could scramble away, he produced the omnipresent ropes, bound her wrists, her ankles to the uprights of the brass four-poster.
A moment later the camera, a single spot was moved into the bedroom, he was taking shots of his victim in this trussed condition. Then, satisfied, he killed the light, moved to her. "You ever loved like this, honey?" he snuffled. "You haven't? You should. All girls should."
Naked now, he brutally claimed her. The black evilness threatened to suffocate him as she fought her bonds, screamed through her gag. "Scream, baby," he called. "Scream your damned head off. That's what I like. Scream, Mara, scream."
The scene became even more incredible, more gruesome. As the poor female knew the full fury of his attack As he went crazy, let his hands reach under her, dig savagely at her squashed breasts.
His chuckles became unearthly, terrifying. Purposely he raised his head, turned hers, spat at her face. Then he attacked her even more ruthlessly.
They reached Anza-Borrego at noon of the next day. The temperature was easily in the high nineties, and the roads were virtually deserted. Careless and confident today, Jarecki took little pains to conceal Mara Casino's fettered condition. There was nobody to see. Minutes later he was pushing her before him, forcing her to climb the sandy, shifting, steep hills.
Mara sobbed brokenly and without stop.
Cursing the heat, but taking his time nevertheless, the fiend stopped often to take more close-ups of his victim's agony-wracked face. She was no longer pretty; she had become a hag overnight.
He let her watch him dig her grave, he taunted her throughout. And then, when it was ready, he mocked her, offered Mara her life. Under one condition. She must beg, she must grovel, and humiliate herself before him. And like the others preceding her, the foolish child believed. She begged, she committed any hedonist thing he asked.
In the end it was all the same. He forced her to strip, he raped her once more.
He took a long time with the rope, toyed with her for ten minutes, gave her breath, took it away. Gave it again. Then at last, he chuckled as she gasped her last.
He took pictures of her naked in the grave. Then throwing her clothes in, he shoveled the sand back.
For a long time afterward he stood there, trembling as if caught in the throes of a malaria attack. Finally, calming himself, he started over the hogback in the direction of his car.
A dry wind whistled through the scrub. A half hour later no trace of the newly disturbed patch remained.
CHAPTER NINE
A week had passed since Terri had faced down her roommate, had demanded in on the shady modeling; venture. And growing more desperate by the day, Terri had yet to receive her first call. Until one evening, terribly upset, she openly accused Pam of a double cross.
At which Pam became belligerent. "What's with you, Terri? You got ants? Those Great Western paychecks spend, don't they? Why the rush? I had to wait a month for my first call. Those regular gals got things sewed up tight." She'd regarded Terri more intently. "What is the big rush, kid?"
Terri had immediately backtracked. "Nothing, Pam. No real rush. Only I'd like to get started, that's all."
"There's something you're not telling me, Terri."
"No, Pam. Honest, there's nothing...."
"The lady doth protest too much. It seems to me you're sure's hell all hepped up over getting extra money."
The subject had been dropped as of that moment.
And this Friday evening, an empty, directionless weekend yawning before her, Terri felt very low indeed. She was glad for the privacy. Pam was gone shopping, with an 8:30 hair appointment after that. And Terri had time to think to evaluate the going nowhere happenings of this past week.
The nausea was stronger in the mornings now, she knew that before long she'd suffer full-fl-edged morning sickness. Then how would she keep things from Pam? From Matt? For certainly, upon discovering the truth, Pam would run to him, blab all.
Thought of Matt made her wince. She actually felt sorry for the poor boob now. The bitterness against him had faded, and merely remembering his bewildered, hangdog expression these days as she refused date after date, made her feel sad. He was sure she'd found another man, that he'd lost her once and for all.
Terri, sat in the bedroom, buffing her nails, stopping to assess herself in the vanity mirror from time to time. Just the sight of her lusterless complexion, of the dark patches beneath her eyes, drove her into deeper panic. God, where will I get the money?
Another dark thought hit her then, made her feel even worse. As she recalled the newspaper item she'd read which had detailed the imminent downfall of those directionless girls who came to Hollywood, got into trouble. Her misery intensified. That police chief had certainly called the shots, she concluded. Here's the prize example, the prize sap. And if this wasn't bad enough, she'd been crowded into a corner, was on the verge of complicating things even further. That is, if she ever got a call from a photog, if she ever got around to stripping down, letting him take pictures of her.
Couldn't it happen just like the newspaper article predicted? Couldn't she queer herself up even more? Couldn't this posing bit lead to progressively worse and worse self vilifications? Couldn't she, in her jammed up mess, lend herself to more depraved things in time? Until she, like those kids she'd seen outside the Pastiche that night, would be forced to sell herself to the highest bidder, night after night?
All the nights of my life, she thought frantically. Until I'm too old, too ravaged. Until a man won't give me a second look.
And what then? What depravities would she commit then?
A convulsive shudder racked her at that moment and she realized that she was being overly morbid, she was only feeling sorry for herself. Seeking diversion, anything to shut out the despondent thoughts, she went to turn on the TV set. It was at that moment that the phone rang.
A man's voice, breathy and shaky, said, "Is Pam around? Pam Lyom? Kaye told me I could get her at this number."
"No," Terri said, her heart racing, realizing what it was the stranger wanted, "she's not here right now." Instantly she conceived a wild, rash plan. If Pam wasn't here to mind the store, what was the harm in her taking over? "Maybe I could help you," she said, fighting to control her voice.
"Well, not really," he said. "I'm a photographer.
"I was looking for someone to pose tonight. I called the agency and they gave me Pam's number."
Terri took a deep breath. "I'm a model," she gulped.
"You are? You know what kind of modeling I mean, don't you?"
"Yes, I know. I do that kind of modeling."
"This is my lucky day," the man laughed softly. "I'm willing to pay fifty an hour. If you can come tonight."
Terri's heart leaped. "Yes, that's fine. I'll come right over. Where's your studio?"
"Ah, there's no studio. I work in my own home. I'm an amateur."
"Oh. Well, I don't know. I should bring someone with me. I could check around here. One of my girl friends might come along with me."
"Forget it," the man snapped. "I don't operate that way. I don't like to have a third wheel breathing down my neck. I thought maybe ... you ... alone...."
That admission should have been warning enough to Terri. But frantic as she was, she wasn't thinking straight. "I shouldn't," she said. "But I do need the money. I guess I can come alone. What's that name and address?" , She listened carefully, had him spell the name. There was one inscription already on the telephone pad. The kitchen faucet was leaking, and as reminder: call the plumber. It was beneath this that she wrote: Kerne Jarecki, 1225 Downey Road.
"Where you located?" the man asked.
"On Larrabee. Just off Sunset."
"Hollywood, huh? That's a long way. I'm in East L.A. What d'ya say I pick you up? Cab fare'll murder you."
"That would be very nice. If you're sure I'm not inconveniencing you...."
"It'll be okay. Give me an hour, huh? About eight."
"Fine, I'll be waiting."
Then, the final arrangements made, the phone put down, Terri was up, dashing around the apartment to get ready.
It was as she emerged from the shower, feverishly patted herself dry, that the phone rang again. Filled with dread, fearing that the man had thought better of the deal, was calling to cancel, she went to answer.
And was all but bowled over to hear Doug Jordan's voice after all these months. A strange perversity filling her, she was determined to use her brief time to the best possible advantage, string him along.
"Hi, Terri," Jordan said, squeezing arrogance into his voice. "Long time no see."
"You can say that again, Doug. I thought you'd sworn off me once and for all."
"I thought so too. But dolls like you bug me. You got under my skin, I guess. I wonder would you give a guy a second chance?"
"That all depends. What do you have in mind?"
"I'm having a little weekender at my beach place at Balboa. A little party. Thought you'd like to join us. Big kicks...."
"How little a party? Like maybe just you and me?"
"Honey, you're reading my mind."
Terri grinned devilishly to herself, said, "Sounds exciting, tell me all about it."
And as she listened to the wolf spin out routine number 214, she unconsciously wrote Balboa beneath Jarecki's name and address, doodled around the edges, drew myriad lines about it, sprinkled the pad with stars. All the while gushing over Jordan's description of the weekend. Until, finally, fearing she would not be ready when Jarecki arrived, she cut him short.
"Look, Doug, that thing sounds wonderful. But no. I'm booked up for the weekend. Maybe I can take a raincheck?"
Jordan's howl was a painful thing to hear, and Terri giggled, held the receiver away from her ear. "Please, Terri," he pleaded in wounded tones. "Cancel out whatever you've got. We'll have a ball. If you don't dig the solitary bit, I'll invite some other kids in. Honest, I...."
"Sorry, Doug, but I've got to run. Some other time."
Her voice dripped with deliberate sarcasm. "Don't wait so long." Then she hung up on him.
Immediately she was running for the bedroom, flinging the towel aside, going for fresh undies.
At 8:06 the downstairs buzzer rang, and Terri grabbed her purse, a silk scarf, charged for the door. At the last minute she decided to leave a message for Pam. In her extreme haste she picked up an envelope on the coffee table, scribbled a barely readable: Don't wait up, Pam. Date night!
Then she bolted out of her apartment, took the stairs two at a time.
The mousy little man was nervous, just as nervous as she was, and Terri, after a few words with him, felt her fears slowly fade. Mr. Jarecki was absolutely harmless. She'd taken her chance, reckless though it might be, and it had paid off. He looked like the kind of man who could be teased, worked. He might even want to keep her for two hours, splurge a whole hundred.
Her mind, spinning like an adding machine, was once more running ahead of itself.
They got on Santa Monica, took it to the Hollywood Freeway, followed it south until it ran into the Santa Ana. Then, minutes later, the smallish, big-eared man turned off, began picking his way through the somewhat rundown neighborhoods surrounding Downey Road. It was an area that Terri had never been in before, and she sensed slight apprehension.
But when the man spoke to her, smiled that small, timid smile at her, she was reassured, she wondered what gets into types like this. That he'd have the courage to even contact a woman, ask her to pose in the nude was remarkable in itself.
"You're very pretty, Terri," he said, sending her a furtive, sidelong glance. "What about your roommate? Is she as pretty? Is she a blonde like you?"
"Some people say she's much prettier. She's got black hair, looks like an Indian princess."
"I'm sure you're just being modest. She couldn't be more attractive than you."
"Why, thank you, Mr. Jarecki. That's very nice."
"I'm not just saying that. I've photographed other women before. Like tonight, I mean. You're by far one of the loveliest. You're going to be one of my best models."
If Terri noticed the sudden, feverish glitter that flickered in his eyes at that last statement, she thought nothing of it. She was too busy thinking ahead, to the time when she'd have to disrobe before this stranger. Also, woman to the last, she was more than slightly flattered at the man's words.
A very subtle change came over Jarecki as they drew closer to their destination. His body grew more rigid, he clutched the steering wheel hard, made his knuckles white. This Terri didn't notice. But she did catch the man staring at her knees where her skirt had pulled up, she felt a small elation that even in her below-par condition, she could still tempt, still be that appealing to a man.
Shortly they reached Downey Road. Jarecki slowed the car, watched traffic more closely. It gave Terri a twinge as they cornered, passed a vast, rambling cemetery. Momentarily it seemed prophecy; her fears were back.
Then they were turning into a drive, the man drove the car into the garage. She wondered at the fact that he closed the garage door before he came around to let her out. But, her heart hammering as her moment of truth approached, she shrugged, thought no more of it.
Again she wondered, as they entered the snug, tiny house at the humid closeness within. Staring a-round she saw all the windows were closed, the blinds and drapes were carefully drawn.
Jarecki must have seen the look, for he said, "Some of my models, when they get in the ... altogether ... have complained about drafts." He touched Terri's arm lightly. "You can undress in the bathroom if you like. Or in the bedroom. It doesn't matter."
Terri hesitated.
"Yes?" he said.
Terri remembered the briefings Pam had given her. "I wonder, could I have the money now? You said fifty, didn't you?"
Jarecki smiled in flustered fashion. "Oh yes, I forgot." He fumbled in his wallet, brought out two twenties and a ten. "Maybe I'll want to keep you longer," he said, giving her the money. "We'll see how things work out."
"Thank you. Anything you say," Terri grinned, then went into the bedroom. And, as she tremblingly undressed, she lashed herself for not packing a robe. Damn, she quailed, it's going to be awful. Walking into that room, naked, just like that.
Then remembrance of her predicament slammed her, and her resolve firmed. There are worse things, she concluded.
For a long time she stood behind the closed door, completely naked, breathing deeply, trying to work up courage to go out. It was quiet in the house, and she could hear Jarecki humming softly under his breath, she could hear a metallic clatter as he arranged his tripods.
I can't go through with this, she wailed to herself. I just can't. I'll die, I know I will.
The words were immeasurably more portentous than Terri could ever begin to know at that moment.
And now, taking a deep breath, she finally mustered up the courage. She turned the knob, strode furtively down the short hallway and entered the living room. "Well," she said blurrily, "here I am."
Her stomach kicked as she saw the way the man froze in place, the sick light that flared in his eyes as his gaze swept over her, lingered at her breasts.
Terri forced herself to walk into the room's center, she choked up inane words. Anything to keep herself from swaying, from surrendering to panic, from bolting. "Here? Is this where you want me to pose?"
Momentarily the man was speechless; he only studied her, an enigmatic, eerie play of expressions on his face. His eyes burned holes in her body. "You're more beautiful," he sighed finally, "than I'd have dreamed. You should go without ... clothes ... all the time."
"Really, Mr. Jarecki...." In a gesture of modesty she let her hands slide, cover her body.
The man leaped to his camera. "Don't move!" he spat. "I want you just like that."
The camera clicked. The modeling session had begun.
Terri was amazed at how quickly her embarrassment faded, how, not more than fifteen minutes later, she thought nothing at all of parading naked before the stranger. Even the pose in which he asked her to cup her breasts with her hands, paste ecstasy on her face-nothing fazed her now.
This isn't so bad, she conceded. Not at all. Maybe I'll get to like it, I'll want to model all the time. Even after I've earned enough to-
Suddenly she looked up from where she knelt on a cushion, long silk scarves trailing across her body. Her heart froze, her blood turned to ice-water. As she saw the aberrated smile, as she heard the snuffling, filthy laugh that breached his lips. Now, he unbuttoned his shirt, opened his clothes, heeled off his shoes at the same time.
Her face blanched, her hand involuntarily came to her mouth, muffled a loud gasp. "No! Oh, no!"
The madman's eyes impaled her, pinned her in place. Now, as he pulled off the trousers, kicked them away: "Don't move, Terri. If you do I'll break your neck." His eyes were hypnotic, terrifying. "Not a peep, understand? Not a sound!"
As if turned to stone, her mouth agape, her eyes bulging, Terri obeyed, didn't-couldn't-move. She watched him as he stripped to his skin, proudly, unashamedly displayed himself.
A soft cry burst from her as he lunged, flung her back onto the soft, pile rug. But the man struck her, whipped her head to one side. Terri swallowed the rest of her screams.
"I'll kill you" he chanted in a viscous, slobbery voice. "Just try that once more!"
Without another word he jammed his knee at hers. His utter indifference to the pain he was inflicting further petrified Terri. Her heart felt like it would explode, it seemed she'd choke on her stifled screams.
Then his weight crushed, the monster fought to kiss her, his hands attacked her breasts, twisting, pinching, pulling. There was no remnant of tenderness or mercy left in that depraved mentality now. His every touch cried pure sadism! He wanted only to humiliate, to defile.
Terri tried to avoid his slippery kiss. Instantly her breasts were on fire as he clenched them. She screamed. Still the pressure remained, the pain grew more eviscerating. Dumbly she capitulated, gave him her lips.
He kissed her like a famished animal. While his hands abused her nonstop. One now deserted her breasts, plunged to her legs, gripped her. Terri thought she'd lose her mind from the pain and outrage.
He rearranged himself at last.
Terri came to from her hysterical coma, realized he was taking her hands, forcing them to his body. He slathered. "You play. Do something nice for me...."
She rebelled momentarily. Until she could stand this punishment no more. She let her hands gather, worked almost avidly. Anything to forestall pain. The maniac hissed, began to tremble. His hands defiled her further, his lips tortured, made her feel like burning coals.
Finally, adrift in an idiot trance, the man arranged her. Forgetting other sadist tricks, disregarding the 'usual agenda entirely, he thrust her shielding, clawing hands away, took her in a brutal fashion.
Terri babbled incoherently, blinded by tears, her soul ravaged. It was as if a membranous cloud had been drawn across her brain. There was light, there was sound, there was the eternal agony. But there was no recognition of its source, there was no clear picture embossed on the walls of her conscience.
He hurt her bad, thinking not of her pleasure, only of his. Then moments later, as his finish was close, a gibberish flow of words spilled from his lips. Not satisfied with this, he drove his thumbs to her shoulders, pinched hard, forced her to say the filthy words after him. While the cruel body kept working hurriedly.
Afterward she lay sobbing hysterically, her face buried in her hands. While Jarecki mocked her, moved about the room fussing with his camera equipment. Then, when he was ready: "Look, baby. Look what Kerne's got!"
She moaned, forced her head up, fought to focus her eyes on the black shape atop the three spindly legs. The floodlights seared her eyes. "What...?"
"A movie camera, stupid. Isn't that wonderful? You're going to be a motion picture star. Fun, huh?"
Now he wound the small camera, he trained it on Terri's crouched form, he focused it carefully. Then he went to Terri, twisted his fingers in her hair, brought her moaning to her knees. "I want you a-gain, baby," he seethed. "Only I ain't ready. I think you know how to fix that, tramp. All you pigs do." He almost tore her scalp off. "Like this, animal!"
Terri gagged, fought a last time. But when the pain became intolerable, when her brain was swimming in a sea of snarling, crackling fire-
She let him guide her, she let her hands come up hold him. She did exactly as he bid her.
The lunatic's chuckles were faster, he moaned hoarsely, began his litany of filth anew.
Terri's mind broke from its moorings, floated an aimless course, ceased to function entirely. "Kill me," she wailed in hysterical plea. "I'm dead already. I'll never be alive again."
Terri's luck, as usual, was holding good. Her first time out of the box, and she'd drawn this ghastly consequence. She'd struck out, but good. Wasn't this the story of her life?
"That's good, right?" Jarecki mocked, his voice phlegmy. "You pigs dig that, don't you? All of you?"
He twisted her hair harder. "You like that, don't you? Say so, tramp."
Completely dazed, her mind dead, she couldn't begin to rebel. She paused in her ugly work. "I like this," she clicked.
"Good, witch. Because you're gonna get lots before I'm through with you."
Then Terri's mind truly let go. It was heeling and yawing wildly inside her brain. She moved on sheer reflex alone. A heavy black curtain settled over her senses. And though she remembered that she'd done something, was doing something, she couldn't, for the life of her, remember what it was. , The fire flared in her brain anew. She raised her head, strained up. Her hands tightened and gathered She continued the horrible humiliation.
A sharp pain, like a spear, attacked her spine.
She wanted to scream. But she was too tired, too bestialized.
She only wished that terrible, shrill laughing would stop.
Upon returning to the Larrabee Street apartment at ten that Friday night, Pam was surprised to find Terri gone. And yet, when she found the hasty note on the coffee table, she was reassured and took the news with equanimity. Though the note gave no details, she assumed that Terri was with Matt Schaffner.
When she went to-bed, she was still wondering at the fact that Terri had given no advance warning. But then the kid was a gold-plated kook, there was no telling what stunt she'd pull next. Also Pam pondered the fact that Terri hadn't gone out for two weeks, decided there'd been a lover's quarrel. A quarrel that would undoubtedly be patched up before the night was over.
And with that she'd pulled up the sheets, checked the clock once more. One A.M., the glowing dial read. Have fun, baby, she'd thought. And had, shortly thereafter, fallen into a deep sleep.
She was slightly worried upon awakening at ten the next morning to find that Terri's 'bed hadn't been slept in, that Terri was nowhere in the apartment. Kiss and makeup, baby, she'd mused sarcastically, but this? How deep a rift was that anyway?
Her worry intensified as eleven o'clock came and went and there was still no sign of Terri. Had the kid forgotten that she had a 12:30 hair appointment of her own?
Still she held off, expecting that Terri would come ankling in at any moment, a dreamy, half-baked smile on her lips. That nut!
Pam knew that Terri and Matt were sleeping together. And though Terri had never admitted as much in so many words, she was willing to bet a bundle that the twosome were together this A.M.
But when noon came and there was still no trace of Terri, Pam knew she had to take action. She was beginning to get worried. And snoopy or not, she'd have to give Matt a jingle.
She tried to be as casual and roundabout as possible. After all, if Terri hadn't spent the night with Matt, she didn't want to go queering things with him, did she? "Hi, Matt," she said. "Pam. I'm calling to check if just by chance Terri might be there? We had a little argument a while ago, and she stomped out of here sore's hell. I thought she might just have dropped by."
And while Pam talked she acidily concluded that she was being about as subtle as a ten-ton steam roller.
"No," Matt said puzzledly. "She's not here. Did she say anything about stopping by?"
"No, she didn't. But I just took a flyer. In the mood she was in, hard telling where she'll go."
"I haven't seen her in weeks. Except for the office. You don't happen to know what's with her, do you? I thought we had a little thing going. But lately it's been cold shoulders from morning to night."
"Same thing around here. The kid's been acting awful strange. She dummy's up every time I corner her, You haven't seen her? You wouldn't con me now, Matt?"
"No," he insisted. "I wouldn't kid about a thing like that."
"Okay, Matt. I'll call elsewhere. Maybe she's with,, one of her girl friends."
"Pam? Call me back if she doesn't turn up, will you?"
"Can do, Matt. 'Bye-bye."
Then Pam was truly mystified. As well as vastly disturbed. Where could that kid be? Of all the stunts! Terri, couldn't you have let me in on it?
Immediately she whirled, went to Terri's closet, began to inventory her clothing. No, she hadn't taken a powder, everything was there. She couldn't even begin to figure which outfit the kid had worn.
For long minutes she paced the apartment, her brow furrowed, worry mounting by the second. It was then, as she passed the phone stand for the fiftieth time, that she saw the heavily doodled-upon note pad resting there. She took it up, studied it carefully, tried to find some clue in the starred and curly-cued scribblings.
The plumber legend puzzled her. Then the Jarecki name and address. Had Terri called a plumber? Was Jarecki a plumber?
She concentrated on the filigreed Balboa inscription.
Then she remembered. There was only one Balboa that she knew about, only one person she knew who had a place there. She should remember. Hadn't she been lured there herself, hadn't she been seduced by a past master? Doug Jordan came instantly to mind.
Had Terri been suckered into one of his famous weekend orgies? Had she been persuaded to stay longer than she anticipated? Jordan was a good persuader.
There was only one way to find out. Immediately she was pulling the directory from the drawer, turning to the J's, jotting down both his L.A. and Balboa number.
After letting the phone ring an even dozen times at both numbers, she gave up.
What did this all mean? What kind of gig was Terri pulling anyway? She'd been acting so spooky lately. What was she mixed up in? What was her deep, dark secret?
Once more she ran to Terri's closet, rechecked. Her swim togs were still here. Certainly she wouldn't run off with Jordan for a beach weekend and leave them behind. Pam shook her head angrily, made a dour grimace.
There's no telling what that squirrely kid might pull.
Out of sheer desperation Pam went to the directory again, looked up the Jarecki number. Again, after letting the phone ring a dozen times, getting no answer, she hung up.
Just for something' to do, something to keep her mind busy, to shut out the dread that was moment by moment becoming more pronounced, Pam busied herself with lunch preparations.
But when the sandwiches and coffee were ready, she found she couldn't force the food down. She was simply too upset.
She realized there was absolutely nothing she could do about Terri's disappearance. She couldn't call Matt, she couldn't call the police. For if Terri was with Doug Jordan, it certainly wasn't a fact she'd want announced to Matt. What then?
The futility threatened to crush her.
There was nothing to be done.
Except to wait, to hope that Terri would show up any minute, come skipping through that door with some explanation as to where she'd been.
And beyond that, to call the three numbers every hour on the hour.
To wonder who this Jarecki might be. He was no plumber, that was certain. At least not according to the yellow page listings. The name was unfamiliar to her; she couldn't even begin to imagine what part he might have to play in Terri's life.
She was still putting her money on Jordan, once she got hold of him.
Pam called the three numbers all afternoon, all evening. Always it was the same, nobody answered.
Finally, at midnight, beside herself with worry, not knowing which way to turn, on the verge of calling the police a hundred times, and yet, at the last minute, holding off for very extenuating reasons, she finally gave up. When the last round of calls had raised nobody, she reluctantly admitted there was nothing more she could do.
Taking some sleeping tablets, she went to bed. Even then, the sedative didn't keep her from having a restless night, from dreaming the most terrifying sort of dreams.
CHAPTER TEN
Terri AWOKE SHORTLY AFTER DAWN ON SATURDAY morning. And lying on the davenport, naked beneath the sheet Jarecki had thrown over her, her limbs numb from the ropes, her jaw on fire from the gag, she had more than enough time to think about the things that happened to her during that night-marish night. She had time, finally, to reevaluate her shallow philosophy, see it for the shabby thing it really was.
Her body ached in every bone, muscle and fibre. Not just from the ropes sawing her flesh, but from the sadisms the pervert psycho had inflicted upon her. Her breasts felt like they were raw, her legs were bruised, and stung and burned.
She knew conclusively that there was no escape. That when Jarecki had bestialized her beyond the bounds of human decency, he'd take her somewhere, kill her.
She'd be erased like an insignificant insect, her passing unmarked, unsung. She'd have counted for nothing; it would be as if she'd never been born in the first place.
In a way it wouldn't matter. After the things the fiend had done to her, had forced her to do, it seemed that death would be far, far preferable to continuing through life with those indelible scars branded upon her conscience.
But conversely, the thought of dying unnoticed, unmourned, and unavenged, maddened her, made her want to scream with terror and frustration.
There must be an out! There has to be a second chance!
A chance to prove that self and sensation and smug ego isn't life's only meaning. I must have that chance! Let me prove to the world just how stupid, how wrong I was! Let me prove myself useful!
During the hours that passed between dawn and the time Jarecki finally awoke, Terri kept drifting in and out of a terror induced stupor. The ugly pictures kept sliding and flipping before her ravaged mind.
Pictures of what the pervert had done. How many times had he attacked her, practiced indescribable variations, had deluged her with sick, lunatic words and insults? How many times had he, even though no longer capable of the man's role, made her perform that vile ritual for him? Had he embellished heathen-ishly on the humiliation?
Until, weary and exhausted, he'd finally given her rest.
Guttural moans broke from her throat as she recalled that shameful thing he'd committed at the end, just before his ability had deserted him for good. When he'd made her kneel, her head on the floor.
It was in the midst of these vile reveries that Terri sank into a deep, recuperative sleep. Not to awaken until eight or so, when she started up, found the monster standing beside her, pinching and pulling at her all over again.
"C'mon, sleeping beauty," he gritted. "Time to get your little chasis back to work again."
Threatening her, he undid the ropes, laughed at her agony as the circulation returned to her limbs. Then he allowed her to visit the bathroom, insisted she bathe. He sat on the edge of the tub throughout watched her, ordered he to do certain ugly things, taunted her incessantly.
He abused her clean body for a time, making her stand before him, arch and turn and pose before his eyes, making her bend, allow him vile liberties, shamelessly. Then, bringing her handbag, he ordered her to, "Pretty yourself up."
They ate a skimpy breakfast, Terri still naked, finding it hard to keep food down. Especially with Jarecki sitting across from her, talking cruelly with every bite she took.
Next he twisted her arm behind her, shoved her into the living room. Where, sitting in a chair, Terri kneeling beside, him, he extorted a by-now, all-too-familiar homage from her. Giggling thickly, he didn't release her until his deliverance had been achieved.
Then, all but slathering at the mouth, he went to his print file, dragged out the glossy enlargements of his four previous victims. Which he opened one by one, spread the photographs before Terri, made her look at each picture, seethingly described how each act had been committed, detailing the outcries of each victim during each phase of her befoulment.
The account excited the man tremendously, turned him even more wild-eyed, more depraved.
It was a critique which stole every last hope from Terri, filled her with numbing despair. Her end would be just as ghastly, if not more ghastly, than that of any of her predecessors. The man was mad, absolutely mad!
It was when Jarecki opened the Kitty Milford file, shoved the pictures, one by one, at her, that Terri finally caved in.
She screamed, nearly fainted. Abruptly she was viciously fighting Jarecki. When he held her, began to describe the session in gory detail, she called, "Let me go! I'm going to be sick!"
At which the man cackled, released her, followed her to the bathroom, watched her void the meager contents of her stomach.
The contents of the last envelope proved to be so much anti-climax.. Terri, her brain dead, stared at the shots with dull-eyed gaze. The variations were very familiar now, they had lost all power to shock.
The Mara Casino envelope desposed of, the room, indolently threw the batch to the middle of the room, let them fan in wide arc on the carpet. "I've got your envelope all ready, Terri," he said, squeezing the words from between closed teeth. "When I get back from our little ... vacation ... I'll develop all these pretty shots, blow them up. And those movies, won't that be something? It's a shame I didn't think of that movie camera sooner. Baby, some of the things we did...."
Terri faltered, forced the words up: "Vacation? What are you talking about? Aren't you going to...?"
"Take you out in the desert? No, baby, not yet. That can wait. Sunday's soon enough. You're too special, I want more of you. There's this cabin up in Tujunga Canyon, a buddy loaned it to me for the weekend. We're going up there...."
"No, no," she moaned. "No more. Kill me, only don't...."
Jarecki didn't hear her. His face scheming, his smile blissful, he caressed Terri's breasts. "IVe always wanted to have all kinds of time, to have a place where I could let my babies scream and blubber all they want. With nobody for miles around to hear them."
Terri slumped, surrendered herself to the crushing torpor. It felt like someone was hacking at the back of her brain with a dull pick-axe. She wanted to sob, to howl her frustration. But there were no screams left now.
"There are lots of things I haven't tried yet," he continued, and gave Terri a push. "Go on! Get dressed. I wanna clear this joint in a while."
Terri struggled up, began looking for her clothes. Finding the black brassiere she'd thought would add spice to last night's "modeling" session, she put it on. Jarecki's eyes never left her.
"I'll tie you to a tree out there," he snickered.
"There's a stunt I've heard about. Honey, what a time we're gonna have...."
Terri's hands felt like they were made of blocks of concrete. She simply couldn't make the snaps close.
It was 10:20 on Sunday morning before Pam finally raised someone at Doug Jordan's Beverly Hills address. And beside herself with fear, she virtually screamed into his ear: "Damn you, Doug, where've you been? I've been trying to get you for hours."
"Down in Tijuana, Pam. Man, did we have a blast."
"We?" Pam grated. "Did Terri go with you? Is she there now?"
"Terri?" Jordan's voice was amazed. "No, she's not here. I went with some guys. Did she tell you she was going some place with me?"
"Damn! She didn't tell me anything. I can't find her. She's been gone since Friday night. I don't know here she is. Did you call here Friday?"
"Yeah, I did. Had a party going, thought she'd like to sing along. But she said no, turned me down cold."
"Did she tell you where she was going? Doug, I'm all but going out of my mind worrying about that kid."
"No, she didn't say a thing. Oh. Hey, wait! She did cut me awful short, she led me to believe she was going someplace in one helluva hurry."
"But no names, no nothing?"
"No, Pam. I'm sorry. Do you think it's serious? Is there anything I can do?"
At her wit's end, Pam took out her helplessness on the innocent man. "No! There's nothing you can do! Nothing anybody can do!" And with that she slammed down the receiver.
Then she knew the truest meaning of panic and indecision. There was only one thing left to do. The police. Then she reconsidered. What if this Jarecki was some new boy friend or something? What if she'd gone off for the weekend with him? Frantically she dialed the E. Los Angeles number again, cursed loudly when there was no answer.
And in her desperation, knowing that she must do something or go stark raving mad, she took the only out left to her. She called Matt Schaffner.
The man was aghast, badly shaken by the time Pam had finished telling him of Terri's by-now, forty hour absence. "I thought I told you to call me," he growled, "if she didn't turn up. Why didn't you? What in hell are you thinking of?"
"I'm sorry, Matt," she said, on the verge of tears, "but I just couldn't. I thought she was with some other guy, I didn't want to tell you that."
"I see," he said grimly after a significant pause. "I suppose you had to do it that way." Then bitterly: "After all, you girls do have your secrets."
Then Pam hurriedly told him about their one remaining clue. The name Kerne Jarecki inscribed on the phone pad, the Downey Road address.
There wasn't a moment's hesitation. "I'll be right over," he snapped. "We'll have to go over there. We'll find out where she is, if we have to shake heaven and hell to do it. Give me fifteen minutes."
"Hurry, Matt," Pam breathed. As she hung up, she thought how marvelous it was to have a real man to make decisions, to take things into his strong hands. Then she was scrambling to get into her clothes.
The traffic on the freeways was something fierce, and it was 11:30 that blistering hot morning before they reached the Downey Road exchange. And as they came close to the Jarecki address Pam found it hard for her to breathe. She looked at Matt, saw his tense jaw, the insane anger and determination in his eyes. She decided she wouldn't want to be the man to cross him at this moment.
The Jarecki house was a small bungalow, with a larger than average lawn, a fence and high hedges isolating it from the rest of the neighborhood.
Pam's heart sank as she sat in the car, watched Matt ring the doorbell without stop, rouse no one within. Then she saw his determined stride as he came off the porch, started around to the back of the house, she was up, out of the auto, going in pursuit.
"What are you going to do, Matt?" she said, amazed and alarmed at this new decisiveness of Schaffner's. And to think that she'd regarded him as a Milquetoast all these months. It was unquestionable proof of the truism that there are some men who rise to strength only when a bona fide emergency or crisis threatens.
"I'm going to break in," he rasped. "There's something fishy going on here. Consequences be damned, I'm going to find out what it is."
Then he was charging the back porch, a trellised, vine covered thing. He was slamming his bulky shoulders against the door. With each thrust the lockplate sagged that much more, until it broke free.
They fled into the dark, murky house, fought to focus their sun-seared eyes, to distinguish features within. They saw the small kitchen, the residue of the skimpy breakfast, the two coffee cups still in place. They smelled the stale odor of whiskey and sweat.
Instantly Matt went through the kitchen, down a short corridor, to the living room. "My God!" the involuntary bark broke from his throat.
"Matt! What is it?"
"Pam...." he choked, "don't come in here!"
Which was like jarring her with a thousand watts of electricity. Wild horses couldn't have kept her out of that room.
Her face went white as she saw the photographic equipment, as she saw the chaotic mess the room was in. Then her eyes fell upon the dozens upon dozens of glossy, depraved photographs littering the floor.
"Terri," she gasped. "Dear God, what did he do to you?" She stifled a scream. Then, when she saw the photographs depicting the body of Kitty Milford, she began to moan like a wounded animal.
Matt shook her roughly, reinstalled some control in that shocked system, tried to get Pam to talk sense. "I don't understand this at all. What was going on with Terri? What was she doing with a maniac like this?"
Instantly Pam fit all the pieces together, understood perfectly why Terri had fled the apartment without leaving any word. She understood perfectly what had been going on throughout these indecisive hours since Friday night.
She tried to tell Matt about her moonlighting venture, about how Terri had been bound and determined she'd participate also. Incoherent as the account was, its import was indisputable. And his face turned gray and wan, a grimace of sick disgust twisted his lips.
Afterward Pam was unable to remember how the man had stomach enough to force himself to prowl that house, to sort through all those photographs, come to the decisions he did. Huddled in a terrified, shuddering ball, she felt him shake her, show her a leaflet he'd found somewhere in that mess of photographs and envelopes.
Anza-Borrcgo Desert State Park, the desert-vista illustrated cover read. And instantly Pam recognized that background! It was the same desert setting that predominated in so many of the photographs on the floor.
"Here," Matt rasped. And he shook open the folder, displayed the large map of the park inside. Upon which, in red ink, were drawn four, meticulous X's at various spots along the park roads. "What do you make of this?"
Pam couldn't speak. Her head spun savagely. She realized, that even at this moment, out on that same desert, this madman was blithely hacking at Terri, defiling her, choking her, burying her. "Matt, oh Matt," she wailed. "We're too late...."
The man's face ashen as it was, was still determined. There was resolution there, patient acceptance of the fact that he had unwittingly played a part in this tragedy, that he was irrevocably committed. Someone he loved, whose death would put a gaping hole in his life, was in danger. He had to help. He had to do something-anything!
Again Pam was amazed at the cold, dispassionate way Matt went to the phone, dialed the police, tersely and calmly detailed their grisly find, the fact that Jarecki was, at that moment, in the desert with his latest victim. "No," he said adamantly, "I won't wait here. I'm leaving immediately. We're going to Anza-Borrego. I'm going to find that man and kill him with my bare hands."
Impatiently he repeated the Jarecki address, gave his own name once more. Then he hung up. "Come on, Pam," he said, folding the map, putting it into his pocket. "Let's get out of this madhouse."
Coincidence and chance play a greater role in most people's lives than any of them will ever begin to admit.
Thus it was twenty minutes later, in the height of the noon hour traffic, as Matt and Pam entered the Santa Ana Freeway, heading south, that a most incredible thing took place.
They were ten miles on their way, traffic holding at a steady sixty miles per hour, Norwalk approaching on their right. When, abruptly there was a slowing in the traffic flow, heads in the cars ahead began craning to the right.
Then, simultaneously, Pam and Matt saw, instantly understood the meaning of the belief-ravaging scene.
"Oh, no!" Pam gasped, her words shattery. "It can't be. Not just like that! Not right on the side of the highway! Stop, Matt!"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The depravities of the twenty-odd hours Terri and her abductor spent in that forest-hidden cabin in Tujunga Canyon all seemed to blend into one perpetual miasma of reeking pestilence and pain and humiliation. The endless inventory of perversion was blurred in her brain, she remembered only a few of the individual quirks the monster forced her to perform.
He did tie her to the cabin bed and experiment. He did take her naked into the woods, tie her to a gnarled, stunted pine, assault her anew. Once she remembered being tied by her wrists, being hung suspended from the cabin rafter for a half hour or so. While Jarecki, wild for variation, had tortured her nonstop.
But mostly she was grateful to forget. For after all, when a person's flesh is consumed in a gasoline fire, when he is numb with pain and hopelessness, who is to quibble over whether it is an arm or a charged ear that agonizes the most?
And Terri's soul was truly charred. The very fact that she was sane, that she could still formulate coherent words and thoughts was miracle in itself. Someday, should she live, she might be able to recall the gruesome interlude, she might be able to inventory degradation.
Jarecki saw to her toilette himself that Sunday morning. When Terri, unable to respond, couldn't even wash her face, comb her hair. Becoming impatient, he slapped her, shook her, made her apply skimpy makeup.
At 10:35, they were ready to leave Tujunga Canyon. A new irresponsibility and arrogance born within the man, positive he'd crushed Terri's spirit once and for all, he didn't tie her, fling her in the back as he'd done with the others. Instead, he was determined to have her ride beside him in the car, he wanted to flaunt her, his barbaric crimes before an unseeing, indifferent world. He wanted to further torment Terri, give her a last, fleeting look at a world which soon would be torn from her.
Threatening her severely, the revolver lying in his lap as he drove, they started down the mountain.
They reached La Canada by 11:30. They were rapidly immersed in the noisy, blurring welter of humanity once more. Pasadena was behind them. They took the Pasadena Freeway, joined the Hollywood. The Santa Ana was ahead. Today it didn't matter if he took the long way around. Let the kid enjoy herself. There was a shortcut he knew of at Bueno Park.
Terri stared sully, straight ahead, saw none of the cities, none of the human glut through which they cleaved. There was a wall of resignation that couldn't be breached, a lassitude that obliterated the least inkling of rebellion, of last ditch escape. She was going to die, there was no questioning the fact. It had been ordained by a power greater than her poor mentality could comprehend.
But gradually, as they drove, as Terri saw the cars beside and ahead of her, as she saw buildings and houses, people dressed in Sunday finery walking on the streets adjunct to the freeway, a change came over her.
It was as if this re-identity with the world had fanned a puny spark of resistance, triggered a new will to live.
Looking to the right, her eyes listless, Terri saw a compact auto, the husband driving, the wife beside him. While in the back seat, a giant picnic basket between them, two adorable girls of five and six, bounded expectantly on the seat.
An even greater pain blistered Terri's heart. Wouldn't it be wonderful to be going on a picnic? With your husband, with children, testament to the enduring love marriage must bring? She felt a fiery pang in her throat. She would never know what it was like. Not now.
Strangely she thought of Matt. Would he have made a good husband? Would he have been gentle and kind and loving?
It was something she'd never know.
The spark was fanned to flame. The rebellion grew.
And when Jarecki turned to her, hissed another taunting oath at her, she decided. He was supremely confident, positive she was totally cowed. Almost as if daring her to grab for the gun so carelessly balanced in his lap, waiting for her to attempt an escape.
The lust to live, to gain some modicum of revenge upon the monster became stronger. The hate made her heart race, caused the sweat to begin on her forehead, down her back. What do I have to lose? she evaluated. I'm going to die anyway.
But she was so afraid. She was only a woman; she was weak. Yet the hatred burgeoned, became more crucifying. Until her body ached from wanting to vent that hatred somehow. And thus, still feigning resignation and brutalized lethargy, she began watching for her chance. If, some place soon, they hit a traffic snarl, if the man would be distracted for the slightest moment-
Her heart pounded unmercifully, it seemed she couldn't hear, couldn't think.
"Getting anxious, huh, baby?" Jarecki taunted. "Can't wait to go picking desert flowers, can you?"
Terri didn't answer, she only stared straight ahead, fought to keep the secret determination from flaring in her eyes. Then, not more than five minutes later, a Thunderbird heedlessly changed lanes, almost hooked bumpers with Jarecki's Buick.
She heard him curse, heard the squeal of brakes, saw him jerk the wheel hard to avoid a collision. The pistol slid halfway off his leg. Terror and desperation coating her brain with roaring flame, she lurched for the weapon, grasped it, pulled away from Jarecki. threw herself away, against her door. Instantly her finger found the trigger. The confused Jarecki turned, stared into the ugly muzzle of the gun, saw the crazed expression in the girl's eyes.
"Stop! Stop this car," Terri breathed, her voice snagging, betraying her damnable weakness and uncertainty. "I'm warning you, do as I say, or I'll kill you where you sit. I'll kill us both."
Grinning like a momentarily foiled fox, Jarecki worked his way into the right lane. And then, Norwalk coming up next, he found a turnoff. "There," Terri hissed. "Stop in there."
Pretending defeat, he killed the engine, turned halfway toward her, his hands even with his shoulders. "C'mon now, Terri," he wheedled. "You didn't really believe I was gonna kill you, did you? I was only kidding, I was only going to scare you a little. Give me that gun now...."
Terri hit the door handle, felt a draft as the door swung open. Cautiously, never taking her eyes off Jarecki, she began sliding out of the car. If she could just put distance between them, keep him at bay until she'd hailed a car, any car-one of the highway patrol vehicles especially.
Her skirt tangled in the door handle. She glanced away for the briefest second. Instantly Jarecki was upon her, he had his hand on the pistol, was squeezing her fingers unmercifully, twisting her wrist. She couldn't pull the trigger. And she screamed hideously, expended a last ounce of strength, got halfway out of the car.
Still she held the gun, grunted as she jerked one last time, pulled the man off balance. Until she was in the hot sun, the gun still in her hand, Jarecki's hand still clamped over her fingers, twisting her wrist. Then Jarecki fell halfway out of the car, balanced himself on the pavement with one hand.
Terri continued to scream, kept pulling, her terror lending her superhuman strength. Somehow she dragged Jarecki from behind the car. And there, in full view of hundreds of cars, the vicious struggle went on. Those who looked could see the horror-stricken girl, they could see the sun glistening on the nickel plated pistol, they could see the life-and-death struggle. Even over the whine and roar of traffic they could hear her ear-splitting screams.
And yet, though the cars slowed down, not a single one made a move to veer into the emergency apron, not a single car stopped to aid Terri.
The struggle seemed to last for an eternity, Jarecki having control now, holding the gun high over their heads, his arm around Terri's neck, choking. She felt herself blacking out, gave a final, savage, last wrench.
The gun came down, the man lost his grip, and her fingers scrabbled for the trigger. There was a deafening roar, and she felt a searing pain in her right leg, and knew she'd only managed to wound herself.
She realized that this meant the end, if no one, in the whole world was willing to help her.
Her head spun crazily, red and silver lights twinkled behind her eyes. She was falling, she was so weak.
And she realized that Jarecki was pulling her back toward the car.
She heard a horrendous squeal of breaks, coming from somewhere out in outer space.
Then the darkness closed down. She remembered no more.
"The horn!" Matt roared at Pam, not taking his eyes off the mad scene to the right for an instant. "Lean on it for all you're worth. Don't stop! I'm going over!"
Then, cutting sharply, bluffing out a man driving a Caddy, he veered into a hundred feet opening to his right, braked hard. The Caddy braked behind him. He heard a crash in the distance, a tinkle of glass. Then, the horn still braying, Pam frozen to her appointed chore, he cut right once more, made a Dodge squeal its brakes. Horns were blowing everywhere.
He made a desperate, last chance swing toward the emergency area, felt a crunching shudder as the Dodge plowed into the side of his Chrysler. He jammed the accelerator, cursed to find the engine dead. It seemed the air was alive with squawking, shrieking geese. Until he realized the sound was that of frantically applied brakes behind. As cars for a mile back came to an emergency stop. More crunching thuds sounded.
The Dodge driver was cursing him. But Matt paid him no mind. "Down, Pam!" he roared as he broke from the car, saw the rusty-haired man turn, aim the shiny pistol.
Enraged, not thinking, seeing only Terri's blonde hair where she'd fallen to the blacktop, moving on reflexive energy lust alone, Matt ran full tilt toward the astonished, off-guard Jarecki. Twice the pistol roared, and Matt heard a whistle, sensed a rush of air inches from his body. Irate drivers behind him hit the ground as if all pulled on the same string.
The gun bucked once more, the fourth bullet going wild. And Jarecki, whirled, tried to run.
Schaffner caught him from behind, leveled him with an expert tackle. The revolver went flying, skittered into the grass. "Don't...." the smaller man screamed.
As Matt picked him up, whirled him, drove a ham-sized fist into his face, the fury of the blow simply obliterating his nose. "Scum...." Matt groaned, in a lunatic trance now, as he swung again, demolished that ratty face still further. Now, as Jarecki fell forward, screaming, his hands to his face, Matt brought up his knee, buried it against the psycho.
Jarecki went down, he screamed and clawed at the unyielding pavement. Matt hoisted him to his feet once more, began hammering at that bloody mask. And as blow followed blow, as Schaffner felt the jolting shots all the way up into his shoulders, into the base of his skull, he came as close to going berserk as he ever wanted to again.
Pam came running then, saw the bloody blob of meat that had once been a face, began screaming at the top of her lungs. "Stop him...." she wailed.
But when no bystander moved toward Matt, she whirled, picked up the pistol, hysterically fired the remaining two shots into the air.
Then she flung the gun away, and moving in near trance herself, ran to help the still unconscious Terri.
At that moment two highway patrolmen, their squad car trapped a quarter mile back down the freeway, broke through the crowd, charged Matt, caught his arms, dragged him off the hapless Jarecki.
"Kill!" Matt choked, almost sobbing, "let me kill the slimy scum!"
The police held him until he was calmer. "There ain't much left there to kill anyway," one of them grunted.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Kerne Jarecki's lawyer pleaded vehemently with him, urged him to plead not guilty by virtue of insanity.
It is to Jarecki's small credit that he was adamant on this point, refused to do so. "I knew what I was doing every minute of the time," he testified. "I'm not crazy. I wanted to hurt those girls, I wanted to punish them for the rotten trash they were. It was my mission. I would have killed more of them if I could have. They were bad; they deserved to die."
When the reporters cornered him he laughed, pretended disdainful braggadocio, and said, "I guess I'll go to San Quentin. I've got this coming. I want to die. After all, they can only give me one shot of gas. There isn't anything worse they can do to me."
He blanched, stiffened slightly as one reporter gritted, "And that's the shame of the century too. I sure's hell could think of some things I'd like to do to you."
And though the state appointed psychiatrists and physicians declared that he was a sado-masochist, had always felt inferior to the opposite sex, chose this grisly way of proving himself otherwise, they nevertheless adjudged him sane, saw no reason to recommend clemency by reason of mental breakdown.
Jarecki was in the L.A. County jail infirmary for two weeks after being apprehended. And when the doctors considered him strong enough to be moved, he was installed in a cell. From which he was removed some 24 hours later, taken for a long ride. To the Anza-Borrego State Park. The judge, a convoy of reporters, police department photographers and officials escorted Jarecki all the way.
Jarecki was reported as telling one police official of his predeliction for rope: "It seems when I was a kid," he said, "I always had rope around. I was playing with it, practicing knots, twisting it, wrapping it around my arms."
Jarecki was almost proud when the police dug up the Casino grave, uncovered the evidence.
He was shaky as they reached the grave where Kitty Milford was interred. But he quickly recovered, even smiled slightly when it was discovered that scavengers had got to Kitty first. Her bones were scattered over a block wide area.
The Helen Gould grave revealed only a twisted skeleton, draped in faded, molded clothing. A large ant hill had to be torn down before the digging could begin.
The uncovery oi Anita Moreno proved to be the most grisly of all. The skeleton was found exactly where Jarecki indicated, was desert-cured, white and dry.
Jarecki's photography equipment was exhibited during his trial. As were certain of the photographs he'd taken of his unfortunate victims. There was no doubt as to the judge's verdict once these sick souvenirs were passed around.
On October 16, Jarecki was sentenced to death.
One month later, at San Quentin, the cyanide gas pellet was dropped into the acid catalyst. Observers claimed that Jarecki smiled icily throughout. At least until the gas did its ugly work.
On the day Jarecki received sentence, Terri was released from the hospital where she'd been convalescing ever since the grotesque nightmare with Jarecki had taken place. It was Matt Schaffner who came to get her, moved her to a new apartment in the Griffith Park area. Pam was there to welcome her, to be her companion and sometime nurse until the time that she was absolutely sure of what she wanted to do with her life.
Matt had been her constant companion, her most frequent visitor during the long weeks Terri had been hospitalized. Her parents had come from Waterloo, had proved more hindrance than help, had finally been sent back home. It was Matt who assumed all Terri's expenses, who constantly sent flowers, who talked to her, read to her, brought her thoughtful gifts, who had done everything in his power to keep Terri's mind from dwelling an that heathenish nightmare.
It was Matt who had finally taught Terri the true meaning of love, who had shown her what maturity can mean. It was Matt who impressed upon her the meaning of responsibility, the gravity of the debt she owed to a life that had been spared.
To Terri it had seemed as if, for the first time in her life, her eyes were truly opened. She could see her goals now, she could accept the fact that life's quieter virtues offered far, far more challenge, more adventure than any hedonistic seekings could ever approximate.
Of course, during this self realization seminar, there bad come a time when unpleasant things had to be discussed. Matt had been so kind, so patient, so gentle with her. And little by little Terri had been brave enough to tell him just what had happened previous to her marathon vilification, and the reasons she'd consented to become a nude model in the first place.
Then, as Terri had told him about the baby, she'd been vastly moved, had known the depths of quiet, abiding love, a love she'd never known had existed within her. For Matt pl-edged himself, vowed he'd spend the rest of his life making this up to her. He declared his love anew, asked her to marry him once more.
Terri had consented to become Mrs. Matt Schaffner, had been amazed to the depths of her being that this man should still want her.
She ached with loneliness when he was gone, she brightened immeasurably as his visiting time came, as she heard his eager footsteps in the tiled hall.
She flowered when he came to her, gently, ardently kissed her.
She discovered what it was to love a man. And though the doctors gave only a fifty-fifty hoped beyond hope that she would give normal birth, present Matt with the baby he wanted-she wanted-so badly.
It was time to begin living.
Even then, amidst all this happiness, all this anticipation, Matt had been magnanimous to the last. He'd urged her to take all the time she needed to decide for certain. He would not press his proposal at a time like this.
And even though she knew what her answer would be from the very moment he'd reapplied for her hand in marriage, she saw the wisdom of the waiting period, consented to it.
And after three weeks of seclusion, in San Francisco (Matt having affected a transfer from Los Angeles to this branch), in a vestry ceremony, Terri Cavan became Mrs. Matt Schaffner.
It was only a matter of the most preposterous coincidences that the date was November 16.
