Hunt's back was flat to the mat and he struggled beneath the wiggling body of Vern Masters. Hunt fought strongly, bounding his hips up and down, striking again and again at Vern's tight and unyielding thighs.
And suddenly, Hunt lessened his struggle.
He looked up at the sweating, handsome face of Vern. It made him even more aware of the plaster-tight togetherness of their bare bodies, of the crush of their flesh as they moved; face to face, hip to hip, chest to chest, and groin to groin.
Dizziness and remoteness swept Hunt with some pleasurable thrill that threatened his consciousness. And he knew that it was sexual and made of love made of the queer love of one man for another.
CHAPTER ONE
Hunt Stratford had no sooner closed his eyes, anxious for the sleep he hoped would black out the hot uncomfortableness of the trip, when the rickety bus jerked to a halt. Hunt's eyes sparked open. He tensed and looked straight ahead. At first he could see only the swirl of desert-land dust. Then it cleared and he saw the girl. Hunt relaxed back into his seat.
When the bus door creaked open, Hunt watched the girl as she moved up the steps. First she pushed the battered suitcase into the bus. Then she followed it; followed it sensually, stepping high, exposing thigh, making the skirt pull tightly against her hips, and breathing in a way that brought a jiggle to her large breasts, a jiggle meant to pinpoint the nipple-hardness of them against her thin, white blouse.
"I was afraid you weren't going to stop," she said to the bus driver.
"Almost didn't," he answered, holding out his hand.
"How much to the next town?" she asked.
"Two stops coming up," the driver said. "The Quinn Wrestling Camp and Harrington a few miles beyond it. Which do you want, lady?"
"Man I could dig that camp," she said, smiling, her wide, red mouth turning hungry-looking. "But I better take the town. I just hope it can take me. How much?"
"Three-fifty."
She dug into the bottom of her large, square purse, fumbled a moment, then extracted three crumbled bills and some change. She handed it to the driver.
He took the fare, glanced at the bills and said, "Looks like they been through a war."
"No, just a little front-line action," she said.
The driver pocketed the money, closed the doors, and jerked the bus forward with a hard lurch.
The girl lurched, too, but caught a silver pole and remained upright. She looked down the aisle and smiled at Hunt.
He held her look for a moment without giving any recognition to the way her eyes roamed his strong body. Then he turned and looked out the window.
The girl moved down the aisle. When she passed Hunt, she smiled again. He saw it from the corners of his eyes but did not turn from the window.
In a few moments, Hunt heard her settle into one of the seats at the back. He heard her sigh. He heard the rustle of movement as she apparently twisted and turned, attempting to find some position of comfort on the hard seats. Then he heard her sigh again. Then there was silence except for the grinding, creaking, rattling noises of the bus.
Hunt wondered about the girl, wondered why she caught the bus far from town and on a lonely road far from any community. Then he wondered why her destination was vague, as if she had no true goal. Then he decided that he wondered too much about everything, especially about women and his relationship to them.
Hunt made his mind a vacuum and kept his eyes glued to the fast moving Southwestern landscape as it passed his window. He heard movement behind him again, but ignored it until the girl stood next to him.
"I hope to hell you've got a light," she said, smiling again, a cigarette between her fingers and posed at her mouth.
"Maybe," Hunt said. He patted at his sport shirt pocket, then arched his hips as he slipped one hand into the pocket of his tight slacks.
He sensed the girl watching his motion, almost felt her eyes caressing at the thrust his body made as he searched for matches. Then he heard her sigh when he found a packet and relaxed back into his seat. He didn't know if the sigh was gratitude for matches, or if it had come from some satisfaction at the sudden, relaxing motion of his body.
Hunt reached the matches to her. She ignored them, brought the cigarette closer to her lips, then, half-turning she lowered to the space next to Hunt.
He hesitated, then struck a light and held it for her. She leaned forward slightly. Her knee bare, bronzed-color, and exposed along with six inches of thigh patted lightly at Hunt's leg. Then her breasts, nearly bare, too, Hunt observed as she leaned forward, touched at his forearm as she accepted his light, inhaled, then let the smoke pour from her lips which she had pursed like a Valentine's Day heart. "Thanks," she said.
Hunt nodded. He put the matches in his shirt pocket. He felt a rumble of feeling for the girl felt it and turned to look out the window again, rejecting the feeling, the girl, her body, and the sorrow and disillusionment it, and the body of any woman, represented to him.
She settled a little closer. She inhaled again, fuller this time, allowing a fuller exposure of the crevice of her breasts. Then she said, "What a crummy section of the country, eh?"
"Pretty bad," Hunt said. He turned and glanced at her.
"It's a hot damn country," she said.
"Yes."
"Awful, awful, hot," she said, the emphasis making it sound as if she did not object to heat. Hunt made no reply.
"You're going to the wrestling camp, aren't you."
"Yes," he said.
"I could tell. By your build, you know. Your big. Real big."
Hunt merely nodded.
"Oh, look," she said, leaning to look out the window, bracing one hand at Hunt's thigh and crushing her breasts to his side. "A water tower. And right in the middle of the desert. How do you like that?"
"It's part of a ranch," Hunt said. He felt a stir of desire within him. But he could not discern its origin, whether it had come from the girl's body and its closeness, or whether it came from her boldness, from her obvious availability. For a moment Hunt thought of all his past, it's growth and recent decline, and he thought of another girl's body which had lied and betrayed and finally caused a slam of crippling hurt. But then he decided that boldness should be met with boldness, that at least he should allow himself a physical test, even if such testing revolted his mind and emotions.
"There's another down the line," he said. "Here, you can see it better from here." He brought his arm around her back, let his hand trail from her shoulder to her waist. He hesitated. Then he gripped her hard at one buttock and pressed her closer to him and the bus window.
Her grip tightened at his thigh. It crept slightly upward and gripped tighter. Then, in a wheezy sigh of pleasure she said, "Yeah. Oh, man, do I ever see it. How do you like that? Another water tower. How do you like that?"
"I might like it pretty well," Hunt said.
He turned toward her and pressured at her buttocks until her body arched and faced his half-turned chest. Then, even knowing that he was involved in experimentation more than any true desire for a sexual interlude, he brought his free hand to her breast and held all of its heaviness in his palm like a vendor judging the weight of melons. Then he pinched and fondled, and gave it up to nip and feel lightly at all of her elongated nipple.
"Oh, man," she breathed. "I talk frankly. I'm hot." She dropped her cigarette in the aisle. .
Hunt answered by sliding his hand into the neckline of her blouse, feeling the bareness of her breast, feeling all of its hot, fleshy roundness in a circling caress before he moved his finger tips to her nipple to tuck and tap and play, pull, relax, pull again as he felt it grow even harder and longer, then fleck at it with a strong forefinger as it grew and grew and grew and became hotter then any sun-smacked desert land.
Her eyes went dreamy. They implored into Hunt's. And then her own hand moved higher on his body, grasped at the bulge of his slacks and duplicated the squeezing, relaxing, squeezing-again-motion which he had induced to her breast. Then she turned closer and crushed tighter, parting her legs, allowing them to stretch nakedly below her skirt before turning again for them to move in an attempt to gather Hunt's knee between them.
Hunt felt the heat of her breast. He felt her searching legs. And he felt her fingers speeding to induce passion where it was already bloated and ready. And again he thought of a recent past of hurt and sorrow and a woman, and he wondered if even a testing of himself could break through the cynicism that encased him, the bitterness that vanquished desire and thrill and the closeness of a girl's body. He decided that self-examination did, indeed, require a test.
He took his hand from her breast, brought it around her, made it parallel with his other hand at her buttocks, then he jammed her to him as he caught her mouth with his. He felt the long, hot, lean legs cuddle close, entwine him, convulse slightly as his knee wrenched upward. And he felt her fingers tighten even harder as she found more to please her. And he felt her tongue wicked tongue, playing, twirling, spinning dizzily, wet at first then dry, then wet once again as it caught moisture from his mouth, from its search within his mouth, a venture that touched at underlips, teeth, then mixed with his tongue in a hot sparring competition that was both defeat and victory as first one, then the other, subdued and claimed victory, then lost again lost delightedly before the new attack.
Hunt jerked her hard once more, felt the contact of his knee high up beneath her skirt. Then in a quick motion he pushed her from him and withdrew to the corner of his seat.
"Hey honey, what the--. "
Hunt jerked his head to the back of the bus. "Back there."
"Oh, yes what a relief I thought you were going to quit me and--. "
"Stop talking," Hunt said. He started to rise and the girl hurriedly left the seat and moved to the back of the bus.
Now, freed by the greater space of the back seat and concealed from the driver's rear view mirror, there were no preliminaries, there were no words, no sparring nothing but the immediate crush of their bodies together as they stretched long and tight together.
Hunt felt his tongue taken and imprisoned by the girl's hot mouth. He tasted the odd-mixed co-mingling of tobacco, lipstick, morning coffee and hot desire. And he felt the hand, squeezing, then becoming impatient with the obstruction of clothing and moving high to the zipper tab. He felt the click of its descent. Then he felt fumbling again, but only for a moment before he felt the savage grasp that was made against bareness; fingernails digging, hand circling and pressuring.
He slid both his hands low to her knees, then whipped them upward beneath her dress. Then one hand pried. But it was not necessary. Entree was immediate and anxious. Then there was a new feeling of moisture that in some strange way seemed akin to their wet kisses: a kin of sexuality half a body removed but close in an opposite-area response to touches and caresses.
The girl moaned and fought lower in the seat. Hunt heard the passionate sound as a distant cry, one which he had with another once thought real but was instead contrived, one that now seemed a very long time ago. And he felt the incessant motion against his body.
The girl's mouth pulled away from his and cuddled to his ear. "Oh, baby now, baby, now, now, now," she pleaded. She scooted lower, spread herself flat, stopped the motion of her hand and pulled, urging him to her.
"Come on," she said irritably as Hunt hesitated. "Right now, goddamn it. Right now. I'm going to if you don't come to me right now, I'll I'll--. " She pulled imploringly.
Hunt raised slightly. He half turned. He felt her guiding hand, saw her arching body. He gave himself in a gradual lurch, felt himself placed carefully. Then he undulated, raised his hips slightly and was ready to strike in all his massive fury when suddenly he stopped--stopped cold and flat as if a sudden memory swamped him and subdued him. He withdrew from his position of entrance. And the girl recoiled.
"Goddamn you," she hissed. "What is this? You get me hot and leave me. Goddamn you."
"Just be quiet," Hunt said. He withdrew completely and settled in the seat. He adjusted his clothing, listening all the time to the girl's hot, mad breath which leaped at him as if it would kill.
"You bastard," she hissed. "You must be a queer bastard get me ready all set to--. "
"Shut up," Hunt said. "Just shut up and leave me alone."
He pushed up from the seat and went back to his own. He slouched into it. He put his forehead against the window frame and shut his eyes. He heard the girl squirming and rustling behind him. He begged for sleep, even as he knew that it was meant as a defense, meant to black out the past, even the past of the pretty girl behind him.
CHAPTER TWO
Hunt stooped, turned his broad shoulders sideways, then descended the bus steps. Hot, dry, dust swirled about him. He breathed deeply and stretched, causing his chest to bulge and strain at the thin material of his sport shirt, causing, too, the muscles of his legs to pressure against his slacks like odd sized boulders anxious for release.
Hunt relaxed his pose, then reached to the bus stairwell and withdrew his small bag. The doors pumped shut, gears ground, and in a moment the small town bus jerked forward, causing new dust to fleck against Hunt's half-bared chest and to sting at his nostrils. He ignored it and turned toward the high arched entrance of a compound that was lined as far as the eye could see with high, white, picket fencing.
Upon a curving sign, and in delicate, Gothic lettering, the name, Quinn Sports Enterprises, glared down at Hunt. He smiled, thinking of the contrast, of the sensitive way the gruesome business of wrestling was announced. He turned and looked at the vast, flat Southwestern land which fanned around him in its lonely, desert form. He was very still a moment, as if contemplating all of the things of his life which had brought him to this entrance, those things of sadness and lost hope he was trying to escape. Then, stepping quickly, he walked through the entrance and headed toward the rings and cottages which were cluttered together a quarter mile away.
Hunt paused a short distance from the group which was standing below the center ring. He looked at them and suppressed a laugh. Bare giants, the sun glistening on their wet bodies, they surrounded a short man; so short he was only of jockey-size, and again Hunt was reminded of contrast. The athletes were dressed only in tight shorts. The small man was fully dressed in a black suit, black shoes, white shirt, and string-black tie. A black Homburg rested on the back of his head, which was obviously cue-ball bald. The man gestured toward the wrestlers grappling in the center of the ring. The men around him followed his gestures, intent upon his words, confirming all that Hunt had already heard about Barry Quinn; that he was the world's shrewdest promoter and trainer of wrestlers, one of the mighty Kings of the sports world.
The combatants in the ring ended their encounter. The group started to disperse. It was then that Quinn saw Hunt and raised his hand high in a friendly greeting. Hunt smiled and walked forward.
"Don't tell me don't you're Hunt Stratford I can tell from the build," Quinn said as Hunt stopped at the edge of the group, "Yes. And you're Barry Quinn," Hunt said.
"From the build," Hunt said, smiling more broadly.
The laughter increased, then quieted as the man eyed the new arrival.
Quinn stuck out his hand. "I'm glad you're here, kid. I've been expecting you." He paused and let his eyes travel over all of Hunt, professionally evaluating the strength and agility of the body. The dark eyes sparkled in approval, seemed even to approve of Hunt's short, curly blonde hair, blue eyes, and tanning, handsome face.
"Ummmm. I think my Scout knew what he was doing when he signed you up. I'm glad you're here, kid. Here meet the boys."
Quinn turned. In quick, brisk, but friendly fashion, he introduced each of the half dozen wrestlers. Each of them shook Hunt's hand, testing their new companion with their strong grips and having the test met by the newcomer's grasp. But, even with friendly looks and handshakes, there was in each of them a certain reserve, a certain suspicion and competitiveness that showed in their eyes as they appraised Hunt Stratford.
"Well, that's done," Quinn said. "Come on, I'll get you settled. Where are your bags?"
"This is it," Hunt said. He extended his small bag.
"Man you were really down and out, eh?"
"No. Just decided to leave everything behind me material and otherwise."
One of the wrestlers, a man nearly seven feet tall, laughed. Quinn turned to him and said, "What's the matter, Spike? Ain't you use to proper language? Well, you'd better get use to it. We got a college boy with us now."
Hunt glared at him, feeling an instant hostility, but he said nothing.
"You'll see how screwy it is when I get this kid in the ring," Quinn said. "Man what an attraction he's going to be with those looks, with that build, and a college education, too. Man I'd bill him as Golden Boy, but that's already been done."
Another of the wrestlers, shyly and with a light lisp, said, "I do like his build."
There was laughter again. But then Quinn said, "All right you slabs of ignorant meat, to the showers with you, then to any damn thing you please until dinner time." He turned and smiled at Hunt. "Come on, let's go to the house, I'll get you situated."
Hunt was silent as he walked with the little man toward the large, natural stone house which was set back from the cottages and rings, which seemed astute and remote from the athletic setting, like a dignified parent overseeing the play of children.
As they walked through the dust and onto the velvety green lawn that fronted the house, Quinn rattled in his quick, enthusiastic tone about the camp, his wrestlers, about the opportunities that would be Hunt's in the wrestling game. Hunt nodded from time to time, but offered no comment, but he felt enthusiasm grow within himself as he listened, and he knew that it had been caught from the small, sports promoter, that Barry Quinn was an extremely-likeable man, one who could be both feared and trusted, a man whom Hunt immediately admired although he was unlike any person he had ever before met.
"Here was are, kid," Quinn said. "Quite a palace, eh."
"Very nice," Hunt agreed.
He followed Quinn into the house, across the spacious foyer, through a mammoth, carpeted dining room, and into a large, book-lined study at the end of the house, which faced outward to a huge, back yard, complete with two swimming pools, a giant patio, tennis and badminton courts.
Quinn seated himself behind a desk and motioned toward a nearby leather chair. Hunt sat down.
"Now, the first thing I want to tell you, kid," Quinn said, "is that you're going to be somewhat on the spot around here with all the boobs in the camp. I've built you up quite a bit especially about your culture and education."
"I wish you hadn't," Hunt said. "It's not worth a damn."
"It is to me. It is to the wrestling game if we do it right."
Hunt laughed. "I hope you're right. All that it's brought me is trouble."
"I don't get ya, kid."
"Skip it. It's much too long a story."
Quinn leaned back in his chair, then said, "Well, I know something about you, naturally. Inter-collegiate wrestling champ, two years going, Phi Beta Kappa Key, pro-football offers which you turned down, a degree in sociology, hell if there's more it's got to be a woman."
Hunt flushed, and did not answer.
Quinn eyed him curiously, then slammed his hands on the desk top, abruptly changing the mood. "Anyway, as I was going to say, you'll be a bit on the spot. And probably you don't know it I doubt you ran into it in college, but there's a good number of wrestlers who belong to the queer-boys. They're liable to make a play for you."
"Do you mean homosexuals?" Hunt asked.
"Yeah, that's what I mean," Quinn answered. "But, I keep most of them in the cottages together so maybe they won't cause you any trouble. But I wanted you to know. And another thing, we've got broads here, too. Women wrestlers. Some of them are pretty wild, but a lot of them ain't. There's a lot of mixing in this camp, but I don't give a damn so long as everyone does what they're supposed to do in the ring and on cue, with no gimmicks of their own. Hell, a ladies society in town tried to get me indicted for running a free love camp, a place where they said all sorts of immoral practices went on, queers and deviations the works. All I did was laugh at them."
Quinn turned and shuffled through some papers on the desk. Hunt watched him, feeling a sudden uneasiness. He wondered why it had come to him, why he, a sociologist, familiar with every pattern of life, should now feel strain and anxiety for the world of wrestling he had chosen to enter, selected as a field which would supply the money he had never had, the all important money, the lack of which had caused the loss of love and happiness and hope: which had reduced him to a prowler of streets, a heavy drinker, a near-ass until he was approached by Quinn's scout and offered a contract.
Barry Quinn picked up a packet of papers and leafed through them. Then he looked at Hunt and asked, "This contract all right with you, kid?"
"It's fine. It's more money than I've ever seen."
"You shouldn't tell the boss that," Quinn laughed. "I might reduce the take next year."
"It wouldn't matter," Hunt said. "It'd still be more money than I could ever get other ways."
"It sure as hell is," Quinn agreed. "All right now, let's--. "
He stopped abruptly and looked past Hunt to the open door. Then he smiled broadly and stood up, pushing himself from the desk with a look of sudden, immeasurable delight.
Hunt turned. At another time of his life he would have gasped, actually uttered an audible sound in recognition of the beauty of the girl who stood framed in the doorway, smiling vividly, looking young and pert and gay. But Hunt made no sound. Instead, he turned from the girl as if the sight of her scalded him, forced memories that burned like a savage fire bent upon his destruction.
"Hi, honey, come on in," Quinn said. Then to Hunt, "Kid, meet my daughter, Liza, the greatest brat an old man ever had."
Liza laughed and walked toward them. Hunt did not turn to look at her, nor did he see her until she walked behind the desk, kissed her father on the cheek, then straightened and looked directly, and smilingly, at Hunt.
"Honey, this is Hunt Stratford," Quinn said.
"How do you do," she said, still smiling.
Slowly, Hunt raised and nodded to the girl. He tried to keep his eyes averted, but it was impossible to deny them a quick survey of the girl: a fevered trip up perfect brown legs, bare to the pinch of her tight shorts which V'd at her thighs in a tight crinkle of material, then to the bareness of her stomach below a loose bra which held breasts that bulged and quivered as she breathed. And Hunt could not help but notice the short curled, auburn hair, the green eyes, the casual spray of freckles about her small nose, and the wide, red, and wicked looking mouth.
"Ain't she a beauty?" Quinn said proudly.
"Hello," Hunt finally said.
"And not only is she beautiful, she's the best damn cook and housekeeper and daughter a man ever had. Ever since Mama died, she's run this place for me and--. "
"Oh, stop it, Daddy," Liza said. "If you keep on I'll hold out for a contract."
"And you'd get one, baby, for any amount you wanted. Now, I was just about to show Hunt to his cottage-maybe you'd like to do that for me, eh?"
"Delighted," said Liza.
"Good. It's number six. I thought I'd put him by himself."
Liza took a friendly step toward Hunt, a step that brought her body instantly alive in movement: in taut muscles twitching, in soft breasts jiggling. "Number six it is, then. Come on, Hunt, I'll show you where you'll roost."
Hunt stiffened. "No. No, I'll find it myself. It's all right, I'll find my way around."
Liza paused and looked at her father.
"Hey, kid, what's the matter? It's not every man I trust with this little brat of mine."
"I'll find the cottage myself," Hunt said. He took a step backwards.
Liza smiled coquetishly and said, "My, how odd you are, Mr. Hunt Stratford."
Hunt shot her a look, then nodded apologetically toward Quinn, to whom he said, "I'm just tired. It's been a long bus trip. I'd really like to get myself settled without conversation, without anything but a shower and a little sleep. Is that all right with you?"
"Sure, kid," Quinn said. His words came slowly, as if they mouthed his feeling of sudden uncertainty and surprise, some new consideration he was making of his' new, young, contract-wrestler.
Hunt turned and was about to depart the room when once again he was detained by the entrance of another.
"Hi, everybody," a tall, young man said. He, like Liza before him, stood for a second within the frame of the doorway, awaiting, it seemed, either the bidding welcome or dismissal of Barry Quinn.
"Hello, Vern," Quinn said. "You're just in time to meet Hunt Stratford."
The tall, willowy, young man, who seemed about twenty-five, smiled and walked up to Hunt. "Hi," he said. "I'm Vern Masters. And I'm glad to meet you, hope we'll have a lot in common."
"Well, you both went to college and that's a novelty," Liza said, looking first at Vern, then more slowly and curiously at Hunt.
Hunt shook the hand Vern offered. Then, as if anxious to escape, he looked again at Quinn and said, "Well, thanks. I'll go along and find my quarters now."
"Where are you putting him?" Vern asked Quinn.
"In number six."
He turned and looked at Hunt. "You're welcome to bunk with me if you like. I could show you the ropes around here, tune you in on the bills you'll be appearing on and so forth."
Hunt hesitated. He felt a jolt of fondness for the tall, young man, knew instinctively that his offer was one of friendliness. Yet, in the instant that he hesitated, Hunt felt the swell of some unknown emotion within himself, as if his decision now, simple as it might be, would be the answer for some new course of life upon which he had already embarked.
"How about it?" Vern prompted.
"Well, fine, I guess," answered Hunt.
"Okay. See you both at dinner," Quinn said, retaking his seat before the desk.
Liza smiled and walked closer to Hunt and Vern. She looked directly into Hunt's eyes, then said, "I'm not used to suffering rejections, Mr. Stratford. And I hope it doesn't mean that we're not going to be friends."
Vern looked at Hunt curiously but only smiled.
"No. Of course it doesn't mean that," Hunt said. "I'll I'll see you later."
"You certainly will," she replied.
"Well, off to the meat shed," Vern offered. He touched gently at Hunt's elbow, urging him toward the door. Hunt turned, and with the young man at his side, walked out of the room.
As they headed toward the cottage of Vern Masters, Hunt became aware of the young wrestler's quiet, the reserved and dignified way in which he carried himself. And as they paused at the door of the cottage, Hunt became aware again of the friendly touch at his elbow, the boy's quick smile, the nod that bid him enter and share his lodgings.
Hunt entered and paused by one of two cots. He felt anxiety come to him again, felt it erupt and pinch at his stomach, and although he tried for a quick adjustment of his thoughts, he could not bring the physical, inner calm he sought. The feeling was ominous. It was threatening. It was erotic, too. And it plagued him, made him recall all that he wished forgotten, made him recall, too, the recent presence of the beautiful Liza Quinn, and he wondered if his recoil from her, his disinclination to be with her a woman and his acceptance of the good-looking Vern Masters, was in some way symbolic of the life he had known, the life he was trying to forget, but could not forget. Then he wondered if the past was merging with the present and forging a future of the very things that had made up his recent, disrupted, uncharted and dissatisfied life.
"Well, this is home," Vern said.
Hunt turned and looked at him. He smiled. "Yes, home," he answered.
CHAPTER THREE
Hunt had slept in a stupor. But he had awakened refreshed, then jumped from his cot and walked naked to the shower stall at the end of the room. As he pushed open the door of the tiled cubicle, there was the sudden surge of water. He jumped back. Then he heard the light laugh of Vern Masters who stood beneath the shower; tall, thin, naked, looking dark-haired and Greek-boy-like as the water cascaded upon him.
"Beat you to it," he called to Hunt.
"Ooops. Sorry, I didn't know you were here."
"That's all right. Come on in, there's room for two."
For a moment there was hesitation again. Then Hunt stepped into the stall. He did it deliberately, as if his decision had come from an attack upon his own defenses.
The water enveloped Hunt. He felt the in-between temperature that served to soothe even as it refreshed. He faced up at the shower head, feeling the pressure of the needle-spray against his face, then he stepped back and allowed the same pressure to strike at his chest and waist, and at his thighs.
"Here's the soap," Vern said. "Want to do it on my back first though."
Hunt took the soap, then methodically and slowly he circled on Vern's back. Hunt could not deny the feel of the boy's back, could not deter the feeling he himself received as he rubbed slowly, then vigorously at the back of his fellow-wrestler. Vern leaned forward, bracing his hands on the stall wall.
"Man that's great," he said. "Had much practice?"
It was an odd question, Hunt thought. But he replied to it easily, saying, "Not quite like this."
"With gals, you mean, eh?" Vern queried. "Well, when I turn around you'll know I'm not like them."
Hunt laughed and continued soaping his new friend. Then he slowed his motion, and finally stopped altogether. As Vern raised up, Hunt quickly turned and faced the wall. Sudden embarrassment swamped him as he felt the phallic mark of growth, his response to soaping the naked back of another man. Quickly, Hunt soaped at himself, using the movement and the suds to veil that which had been created, trying, almost frantically, like a small boy caught in a youngster-felony, to conceal the involuntary growth which had come to him.
"Isn't this great?" Vern said, bumping against Hunt as he sought the water again.
"Yes yes, it's great," Hunt agreed.
"And so damned free like all the best things of life, I guess. Free as the sun and the lakes and the great plains, just as free as life can be."
Hunt did not answer. He busied himself with washing, keeping turned away from Vern. But in a moment, Vern turned, crowded close to catch the fuller impact of the water and it was then that Hunt saw that what had come to him, had also come to Vern, that the young man, without embarrassment, quite proud, in fact, stood facing upward at the water, stretching his body high and tight, and in that motion showing in all its strength, the full robust extension of his sex.
Hunt could not keep from observing the details of Vern Master's hardened self, and he could not help but think how much it was like himself, how the sameness of their bodies seemed, in that fact alone, to create a unity of their feeling, the quick affection each had for the other, even the naturalness of their dual nakedness beneath a pouring shower. But no sooner did Hunt think of it, then he rejected the unnatural thoughts. He turned and stepped out of the shower stall, snatched up a towel, then twisted and bound it around his waist.
He walked out of the bathroom, and went to his cot. In a moment, Vern stepped through the door and joined him. Still naked, still extended, Vern casually walked across the room and seated himself on the cot opposite Hunt. His body still glistening wet, but he made no move to dry it. He stretched on his back on the cot, propping his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling above.
Hunt looked at him and wondered about his casualness, whether it was a mark of Vern's disenchantment with his own body, or, conversely, that is was an awareness of it, the effect it had for himself and perhaps for others.
"How old are you, Hunt?" Vern asked, still staring at the ceiling.
"Twenty-seven."
"Oh. I'm twenty-four. Funny, but I thought you were older."
"It's the hard life I've lived that makes me look that way," Hunt said.
Vern laughed, then said, "Guess we've all had a bit of the tough days. But that's over, if you're with Quinn. This life is a cinch a rich cinch, if you play by the rules."
"I plan to do just that," Hunt replied. "How do you like Quinn."
"Great, so far."
"He is," Vern agreed. "What about Liza? What do you think of her?"
"I haven't," Hunt said. "I only just met her."
"She's a snooty little piece. And her daddy lets her run free always has.' Vern twisted and looked into Hunt's eyes, then he said, "But there's something dirty about her, just as there's something dirty about all women."
Hunt did not answer.
"What's the matter, Hunt, don't you read me."
"I think I do," he answered.
Still staring at him, Vern said, "Well, don't let it upset you. I'm never presumptuous. I am a homosexual, but believe me, Hunt, I'm the most discriminating kind. There aren't many who even suspect it."
Hunt wondered why he was not shocked, why he didn't register surprise. And when he spoke, he wondered why his voice remained even and clear, without signs of indignation or upset.
'Why did you bother to tell me, Vern?" he asked.
"I don't really know," the young man answered. "I guess I wanted to share the secret with you because I like you I know that already, you know that I like you. Then, too, maybe I told you this bit of gore to see your reactions see how you'd accept it. I'm pretty use to rejection in my life, so I guess I wanted to find out immediately how you'd take it, then I could be rejected or not and have the damn thing over with."
Hunt looked into Vern's dark eyes, then he said, "I'm not rejecting you, Vern."
"Good. I'm glad. I rather guessed you wouldn't. People like me well we have certain insights and--. " He stopped abruptly.
"And what?" Hunt asked softly.
"Should I really tell you?"
"Yes."
"Well, I guessed that maybe you've been through the route as I have, that you've had your belly full of broads and their dirty little mischief, and that maybe well, that at least if you weren't the same as me, you aren't repulsed by me, or by what I am, either."
'I'm not repulsed," Hunt said.
'I'm glad." Vern pushed up to a sitting position and faced Hunt. Then he laughed and said, "Do you know what I did before I became a wrestler?"
"No, what?"
'I was a chorus boy in musicals. Man did I have the dreams, Broadway, Hollywood the whole bit. But casting directors took one look at me and decided that I'd only work in big, tough, manly parts. Christ, what a joke. I'd read the part, and damned if I wouldn't start to twitter like a girl, even lisp some kind of Freudian defense to being the 'man' everyone wanted me to be, I suppose."
Hunt laughed. And he felt great admiration for the candidness of Vern Masters. He wished that he himself might be as casual about the abnormal turns sex sometimes took.
"What about you, Hunt? Have you been through the route?"
"I've been through it."
"And now how are you now?"
"I don't know. And I haven't been through the route as you have, Vern, this you should know in case you get any--. "
"I know, I know," Vern interrupted. "In case I get any false impressions about your availability as a lover, eh?"
"Something like that," Hunt said. "I've been through the route, as you call it, Vern, but I haven't detoured much."
"Maybe you should."
"Maybe. I don't know. There's a lot I hope to discover about myself here at Quinn's Camp. Maybe I've been a sucker all my life."
Vern looked at him sharply.
"I mean, maybe I've been a fool about a lot of things."
"Most of us have been," Vern said kindly.
There was silence for a full minute. Hunt, sitting with the towel around his waist, looked at all of Vern's body in a manner that seemed to be setting its value. And Vern's breath quickened, but he held his eyes on a steady line with Hunt's. Then, quite abruptly, he inhaled deeply, raised, and hurried to Hunt's side. He took a place next to Hunt on the couch. Slowly, but delicately, Vern put his arm about Hunt's shoulders, half-hugged him close as he moved his other hand to pluck at the towel and lift it from all that it concealed.
But he did not complete the action. Instead, as the first knock at the door jolted through the room, Vern jumped up and very quickly pulled slacks over his bare legs.
The knock sounded again, louder and longer this time.
Hunt looked at Vern, who, quite unexplainably, Hunt thought, had turned pale and seemed to have lost some of his steaming confidence.
Vern looked back at him, shrugged disappointedly, then said, "I believe that's for me I'm very much afraid it is."
Hunt watched him go to the door and pull it open as he took a step backward.
The man at the door was mammoth. About thirty, Hunt guessed, he was immense at the shoulders and girl-narrow at the waist. He must have weighed close to three hundred pounds and he stood well over six and a half feet. He was dark. His scowl was even darker, and the corners of his narrow lips curled upward in a mean look, one of obvious displeasure.
"Ah, Turk, I thought it might be you," Vern said.
"Did you?" the big man replied, looking first at Vern, then at Hunt.
"Yes. Here, meet my roommate, Hunt Stratford."
"Your roommate?" Turk exploded. "Thought you liked to live alone?"
"Well, Barry Quinn thought I could help get him adjusted to the camp and everything."
"Oh, he did, eh?"
"Yes."
Hunt stood up and walked to the door. He extended his hand to Turk, but the man declined it, merely nodded his head in a mute greeting. Then he turned to Vern and said, "You ready? Thought we'd walk before dinner."
"Sure, sure, right away, Turk," Vern answered. He hurried to his cot and wordlessly finished dressing. Then he waved lightly, but in a contrived manner, to Hunt, turned and followed the big man, Turk Otter, out of the cabin.
Hunt watched them from the door window for a moment, then he turned from it and returned to his cot. He stretched upon it, feeling suddenly tired again, knowing that his previous sleep and shower should have subdued any physical tiredness, knowing, too, that what he felt was a fatigue of mental and emotional combat a combat which involved two sides of his single life.
He closed his eyes. The setting sun's rays, peeping through an opening in the Venetian blinds, made colors spot and form through his closed eyelids, bringing shades that seemed from a world that was not real, colors that were originated for view by the subconscious alone.
Hunt pressed hard against his eyelids, forcing pressure which he hoped might relieve the fatigue. But it was impossible. He knew it would be, that it was always that way until he quietly, but in great detail, considered once again all the events which had brought him to despair and loneliness, those things of his life which were responsible, perhaps, even for the strange placement he had made of himself within the realm of a homosexual roommate.
Hunt brought his hands down, then, like a man in a coma, he crossed them over his waist. He remembered everything. He allowed his mind to recreate scenes as a projector does images upon a screen. He remembered, remembered, and remembered.
* * *
"I've got it I've got it," Hunt hollered, bursting through the door of his girl's small apartment.
She was seated on the couch. She looked at him coolly. She was dressed in nothing but a bikini swim suit, a low, and swooping, and skimpy suit that showed all of her body more boldly than if she had been naked.
Hunt waved the torn envelope at her, then hurried to her side. "I got the appointment, baby. Just the one we wanted. It's the Bowery in New York with all the bums and drunks and derelicts the world has ever known. It's the best assignment of the lot, baby, the very best. Hardly any money at all, but Jeeez, what an opportunity, what a chance to do the social work I want what a hell of a chance. We'll get married as soon as I graduate, then we'll--. "
"Sit down, Hunt, I want to talk to you," the girl said, her voice even and unemotional.
"But, baby, aren't you--. "
"Just sit down, Hunt."
He seated himself next to her on the couch. He turned her to him and sought her lips. She gave them coldly, without their usual opening welcome. He pushed her away from him.
"What the hell's the matter with you?"
The girl shifted her position. She moved a bit away from Hunt. Then she explained, "I'll tell you very quickly. We're through, Hunt. There's nothing between us any more there never really was there couldn't be."
"Nothing!" he shouted, remembering the churning of her body with his less than twelve hours earlier.
"Exactly nothing. I don't-I never have wanted the grubby life of a sociologist's wife. I'm not cut for it, baby, not cut for it at all. I think it's stupid. If you want, I think you're stupid."
Hunt restrained the impulse to strike her. And he did not trust his voice to speak. He remained silent. The girl did not. She continued, hard and hurtful, unmindful and uncaring of anything but the story she had vowed to tell, the tale of deceit and humiliation and misplaced trust.
No, she didn't love Hunt, never had, never could, really, he was great for kicks, not bad in bed either, but for a long haul Oh, no, baby, not this chick, if you want me you've got to put your money where your sex is that's right, you know the area, baby, because this chick is not going to waste herself holding the heads of old men as they puke out their rotten, drunken guts in some crummy corner of the slums.
"But after all we've had all we've shared?" Hunt wanted to know.
Then she told him the rest of it. "Why have I been with you for a year, baby, well I haven't not really, not all the time, that is, after all, while you're traveling around being a big man on the campus, a great big athlete, playing with your goddamn footballs and baseballs and wrestling other big hunks of meat around in the ring, well baby, you couldn't expect me to just wait, so I've had my own particular kind of ball games, if you'll excuse the bad pun, so let's leave it at that that I goofed you, you goof, that I have a habit of always being with the biggest while he's the biggest, but baby, now you're going to be a great big zero a stupid social worker and you're too stupid to even play pro football and make a little money. So go hold the old men's heads, wipe the slobber from poor little kids' mouths, because baby, I don't give a twitch of myself for any goddamn thing you do anymore."
He slapped her hard across the face. Then she gave a twitch, a good deal more, too, for, Hunt, violent with rage, with embarrassment for his naivity, after ripping her skimpy attire from her body, after slapping her prone to the couch, stood bared before her thighs, the delicate white moulds which had once opened welcoming and now had to be forced he stood there, poised for entrance, ready to take his physical revenge for a love which had been real and had been shunned. But he did not. Suddenly, the girl was much too dirty, much too made of filth to trust his manhood to its mystery. Instead, he raised and moved closer to her. He gripped her hair. Then, amid her crying protests, jerkingly, he lashed her again and again to the steaming and pent-up fury of his revenging manhood.
When he had forced her to a finish, he left her, blubbering the sad and mournful cry for her plight of forced orality. He didn't look back. He went to the nearest bar. He drank himself unconscious.
Somehow, and through the efforts of friends, he made the graduation ceremonies. It was the last he saw of the college campus. It was the last of his dreams of social reform, of work that thrilled and challenged.
A week later Hunt was in a bar in a city hundreds of miles from the girl he had loved, then cursed, abused, and left. He had not yet started to drink heavily. He was in the warm, before-drunkness glow of good-fellowship, of the feel for comradeship that needed the comrade. Hunt found him. He was a sailor. They drank together, then later, in the early morning hours, they left the bar for the sailor's motel room.
Undressing himself as he watched the sailor shed his uniform, Hunt smiled and said, "I'm a little new to this."
"Everyone is sometime or other," the sailor replied, stepping out of his shorts.
Hunt shed his last garment, too, then stood before the naked sailor, seeing the manhood reflection of himself as if viewed by a mirror. Then the mirror image broke, came to him, enveloped him in strong arms and brought the first man-kiss of his life to his lips which had opened for receiving, then opened more fully to catch and play with the hard, man-tongue, that seemed, Hunt thought in a daze, not so very different from the salty thrill women gave. It was a bad thought. He remembered the girl of his college town, the girl of dirt and degradation. He jerked the young sailor harder against his bare body, so hard that there was another clash, this of mixing, jamming manhood, which seemed not so very far away from the twirling, darting, whirling play of tongues: a higher, duplicating merger of the new found thrill of the play down under.
Locked together, they rolled to the bed. Then to the floor. They adjusted and arranged, rearranged, reversed their position of kissing to that of consumption, then they played, slowly and longingly, each bringing the other to a high, high peak, only to relax and descend in order to know the thrill of rise again. Then know it again. And again and again and again, until finally there was no more waiting, only the perfectness of giving and receiving. Hunt became confused: he did not know which role his emotions demanded of him; the giving or the receiving. The sailor made the decision. like an' eagle swooping upon its prey he kissed his way down Hunt's body until he paused at the muscled roll beneath his navel. Then he swooped again and, like the eagle once more, delicately found his prey, fondled it for awhile, then fought it to its short-life-'s end.
Hunt remained with the sailor for a week. Then the ships sailed, and with them went the sailor, leaving Hunt alone, confused, with a new found lust that had lost its vehicle.
He wandered the bars, slept the cheap rooming houses, made love to the women and boys of the street; without satisfaction, and when he could afford them, when a part time laborers job had paid off with something left over after the booze, after the inadequate food, after the cheap rooming house rent, after all that and before the next cycle of a futile existence. Sometimes, as he lived among the bums of the slums, he thought of the work he had once been willed to do. Then he would laugh. He would laugh very hard. He would laugh and laugh and laugh laugh until he nearly cried, then did cry and fall asleep.
Then, somehow, out of it there came a fight, a stay in jail, fights there, too, fights of such a nature that he was spoken of by law and criminal, then, finally approached by a scout representing Barry Quinn Sports Enterprises. Then there was the camp. And now there was his roommate, representing for Hunt the only lure, the only sexual solace he had known since a girl in a bikini told him of the games she had played while he worked eighteen hours a day being a college boy, and another eighteen, were it possible, at part time jobs to support the girl he loved the girl who diddled while he dabbled in sociology.
Hunt sighed. Then, as if not ready yet to give up the past, he pursued other memories, fleeting over some, lingering a bit on others as if testing them for happiness or unhappiness, until at last he remembered one of true happiness; a memory of youth's sexual awakening.
Hunt remembered the girl as vividly as if she stood before him. She was sixteen; he was a year older. Her name was Cheryl and she was built like a starlet; hips and buttocks tight and rounded in summer shorts, breasts bulging out of a frail halter, stomach flat and bare, the wink of her navel indenting flesh in a way that seemed wanton, and her legs long and bare and summer-brown above toes, brown, too, with the nails painted. And the toes were always wiggling, Hunt remembered, wiggling and moving, as if they gnawed for contact, as if they were an instrument of sex all by themselves. And once, they were.
They had gone to the beach together. They had baked close together on a blanket beneath the blazing sun. Then, somehow, the others had left the beach and they were alone. Alone and sitting opposite each other, playing a child game of burying their feet into the sand and swooping them forward like submarines until they surfaced above the sand and rocketed their mark against the others foot or leg. They laughed a lot, became engrossed in their game. And they moved closer. Then closer still. And Cheryl's feet grew bolder.
At first Hunt thought it was a mistake that her foot sneaking up from the sand rose and struck at the hard knot of his swimming trunks. But then the strike was deliberately repeated and he knew that it had become part of the game for her. He made it an innovation of his own foot attack against her. He scampered it high to the V she presented with her outstretched legs.
"Oh, Hunt, you got me," she said. She wasn't laughing now. Instead, her voice had gone lilting and sensual.
Then, as if to encourage new strikes against her young womanhood, she played her wiggling toes against him again. Then again. Then she did not withdraw them to the concealment of the sand but let them remain atop, tangled and moving rapturously against the strengthening growth of himself.
And as Cheryl played her feet against him, Hunt felt he could not speak, could not move, could do nothing but receive the caresses of her wicked little toes as they clung and pressured, tangled and burrowed and knocked hard and rubbed against the hard, man length of him which threatened a bursting threatened a ripping exposure from the cover of his trunks.
"Come on, Hunt baby," Cheryl said. "Do that to me again, too."
Hunt complied, even as she did not lessen her attack, did not miss a single instant of the action.
Cheryl scrambled her body a little closer. Hunt could feel the moistness of her against his foot and it seemed out of place on the dry beach. He looked at her as she braced her arms behind her and arched her head backwards. She looked very beautiful, her sun-glinted hair hanging loose to her shoulders, the muscles of her bare stomach convulsing in tiny ripples of response to the movement of his foot.
Then very suddenly it was over.
"Enough, baby," Cheryl said, twisting out of reach of his foot and withdrawing her own. T can't stand any more of it, Hunt baby, if I have more I I won't have anything left, if you know what I mean."
Hunt lurched to catch her in his arms. She came to him quickly. Their bodies plastered together, their mouths joined, their tongues frolicked and their hands touched and implored, begged, then touched again. His hand slid beneath her halter. Hers went lower, sneaked open the top of his swim trunks, then plunged within them.
He felt her shiver against him. It seemed odd to Hunt for her body was furnace-hot. Then he felt the shiver of his own stammering body as she grasped him and held him, cradling his young masculinity with her fevered fingers.
Then her hand withdrew as if it had been scorched. Hunt thought it marked the end of their love-play. He prepared himself to hear the blast he had already suffered from many other high school girls. But the blast did not come. Instead, he received an invitation.
Cheryl jumped to her feet. "Come on, hon," she said. "Let's move further back. Come on, hurry." She reached and tugged at his forearm. Hunt jumped to his feet.
He moved awkwardly as he, holding her hand, walked to where the beach was veiled by bushes. Once she glanced at the reason for his awkward movement and laughed. To reprimand her, he circled her waist with his arm and hugged her close to him as they rushed forward to find a secret place for their love a first love they had signaled that they would share.
They embraced while still standing as soon as they reached a place of circled concealment. And, still standing, they tugged at the other attire, anxious to part it and know the thrill of young love's bare contact. Cheryl pushed at the top of his trunks until he stepped out of them. Then she gasped. All laughter for awkwardness was lost before the sight of youth's strong manhood. Then Hunt parted her bra top and dismissed it to the ground. Then she became impatient and wiggled out of her shorts. Then they came together in a hard smack of flesh as they crumbled to the ground.
Their hands joined them together as they played. Her fingers were demons invoking the fire of desire within him. His were slower and more gentle as they moved up her legs, caressed at her thighs, then moved upward a mite more until he found his goal and finger walked to it, made a slight separation, then began the sensual circle of motion which brought muffled moans from her lips and a rhythmic bounce of her hips quickly attuned itself to his touch, caught his touch, made it her own as she spun her hips in happy delirium.
Hunt felt Cheryl's thumping body beneath his hand, under one arm, close to him, and he felt a flow of happiness and well-being that for a few moments precluded sex, transcended even the thrill of the sensual and was instead a part of some emotional peace; a satisfaction for self and ego, his physical being and his capacity for love.
"Ahhhhh, no more, baby," Cheryl cried. She pushed his hand away and relaxed her own grip. Then she whipped quickly to her back, braced her legs, reached her arms out in a V of welcome which duplicated that other V, the low, hot, welcoming entrance of girlhood.
He went to it. She grasped at his back and forced him close. Then closer still as she arched to grind against him.
And Hunt plunged the last fury of his boyhood into the panting, crying naked girl. And as he pounded, he knew that when it was over, manhood would have been attained.
Cheryl lurched and cried, held high and tight against him. Then hesitated and cried again. "Hunt Hunt, darling, darling, darling, I'm going to to to--. "
Her motion started again. Hunt met it.
"Ahhhhhhhhh, yes," she whimpered. "Yes, yes, yes." Then there was her eerie, "Ohhhhhhhhh. Eeeeeeeeee. Ah!" as her body convulsed in a final fury.
And Hunt felt the dam of boyhood open and flow and he, too, yelled out, yelled in joy and happiness and hope, and still she met him until they were both long past any greater giving. Then they relaxed, their bodies warm and soft. And then they slept.
The dinner gong sounded. Hunt shook himself from his reverie. He sat up on his couch and looked around. He glanced at Vern Masters' cot. Then he stood up, dressed quickly, and hurried out of the cottage to join the others at dinner.
CHAPTER FOUR
At the exact moment that the dinner bell sounded, Liza Quinn, her shorts unzipped and her bare legs kicking madly, rolled across the bed and away from the Quinn Enterprises top girl-wrestler, Nadine Bersc-like. Liza's bra-top was torn, revealing a waving nipple from one large, well-moulded breast. It seemed for all the world like a distress signal.
"That's the end, Nadine, now damn it, you stop or I'll tell Dad."
"You'll tell no one, sweetie," Nadine said huskily. She crouched by the bed, ready to spring across it.
"Nadine, I didn't come to your cottage for this. I came to tell you that--. "
"That you were through with me," Nadine finished for her. "Well, that's tough, sweetie, because I won't accept it."
Liza drew herself up very tall, making an appearance of one who was more than her five and a half feet.
Her posture was determined. And her voice carried the authority that made Nadine draw back, relax, then push back in a gesture of defeat as Liza said, "I mean it, Nadine. This was never for me anyway."
"And what is for you now?" Nadine asked, as she went to the closet, pulled a sweater from a hanger, then tossed it to Liza.
"Thank you." Liza slipped the sweater over her head and adjusted it at the waist, covering the dishevelment caused by Nadine's clawing fingers.
"Well, what is for you if it's not going to be me?" Nadine said.
"I don't know yet," Liza answered. Her eyes turned dreamy, then she answered, "But I know it's going to be a man."
"Cripes how dull can you get," Nadine said.
Liza went to the window, leaned on the sill and looked out. "I don't think it's going to be dull at all."
"When, you find out, when you're left disappointed and tearing up the bed sheets, come back to Mama maybe I'll be kind and let you try again. But in the meantime, consider me your enemy."
Liza looked at her, trying to determine if Nadine was serious or not.
"I mean it," Nadine said.
Liza knew it was true. She could see it in the dark eyes that burned in disappointment, hurt, and in a kind of thirst that was no longer for her body, but was instead for revenge, for the hope of hurt that might be inflicted against the one who had rejected her.
"I never really know if you're kidding or not," Liza said. She said it in a friendly tone, hoping by that to find an answer that might deny the attitude she saw and sensed.
"I'm not kidding, sweetie." Nadine said. She turned toward the closet door mirror, adjusted her clothing, then walked to the cottage exit. She paused, looked at Liza, then said, "That's the second dinner signal. Are you coming?"
"I'll be along in a minute," Liza said. She remained by the window as Nadine left the cottage, slamming the door behind her.
Liza watched the wrestlers, male and female, walk across the ground that fronted the dining hall, a huge building, very similar to the one she had known for two years at the small town college she had attended with disinterest and unproductivity.
Liza glanced at all the men wrestlers, seeking the tall, well-built figure of the new arrival, Hunt Stratford. He wasn't with the groups of two and three who laughed together as they entered the hall. Nor was he one of the individuals who raced to catch up with the others. But finally, just as she was about to turn from the window, she saw him. He walked alone. He looked lonely and she hoped her guess was right. She wanted him lonely. Then she wondered why it was so, wondered why she felt such an immediate attraction for him, an attraction that was sexual, too, one upon which she based a new found hope, the hope of disbanding herself from the brief spell of lesbianism she had fallen into with Nadine Bersc-like. Why should the genes of her desire reach out to a man whom she didn't even know, one who, strangely, had rejected even her offer of walking with him to his cabin. What is he running away from, she wondered. What's been so rotten in his life that leaves him panting not toward, but away from, women? Then she thought, But maybe that's good it makes two of us who are running away from something. Then she thought how absurd she was, thinking of, even mentally verbalizing thoughts about a stranger, a stranger whom she knew nothing about personally. But even as she thought how absurd it was, she felt a quiver of desire pulsate at her thighs.
* * *
As Liza felt sensuality come to her, she recalled that it had been frequently a part of her lately, that she had often experienced the lure and memory of sex sex with a man, hard, full, giving sex.
She wondered if it was because of Hunt Stratford, if there was something about him that caused this within her. Then she recalled his image, and remembered another, one who was a younger version of the handsome and strong young wrestler. A boy who had been her first lover the boy who knew her virginity.
Liza was fifteen at the time. The boy was eighteen and a high school senior. She had admired him for a full term before he finally asked her for a date. It was a date that was meant to mark the end of her girlhood.
They attended a drive-in theatre. The boy had a reputation for worldliness and Liza was shy when he called for her, continued shy, too, during the first of the double-bill movie program. But as it darkened outside and she saw young heads bobbing intimately together, she relinquished her hand to his, then did not object later when he encircled her with his arm. And, although she felt a new hunger within herself, and felt, too, a caution for that hunger, she did not object when he soon cuddled her breast with one hand. And soon his hand slid within her blouse to imprison the full, round flesh of her and play at lengthening her red hot nipple.
A bit later there were kisses. They were intense. They were of giving and sharp-tongued whipping. And they were of playing and sucking and nibbling and caressing. And then they did not offer enough.
The boy's hand satisfied that which kissing could not satisfy. He touched at Liza's thighs. He caressed the inner smoothness of them. Then he found and delicately touched at that which soon would be changed for all of her life.
"Oh, Tom, you shouldn't," she whispered.
"I should because I'm crazy about you, Liza," he answered. He caressed her harder, then made slight, forefinger stabbing indentations which brought a cry from her lips.
"Ohhhh, don't don't I can't stand it," she said.
He stopped. And Liza missed the manual love. But it was a delay that was meant to last only a moment.
"Come on, baby," the boy said. "Into the back seat with you."
"I shouldn't," she said softly.
"Sure you should. What the hell, you ain't a kid any more."
This pleased her. Liza had been trying to convince her mother for weeks that she certainly wasn't a child any longer.
"You'll you'll be careful, won't you?" she asked the boy.
The boy grinned. Then he reached past her to the glove compartment of the car. He extracted a small packet. He held it before her.
"Does this tell you how careful I'll be?" he said.
Liza did not answer. She felt both a horror for what she saw. and pleasure in it. A pleasure born from confidence. But it was by no means a reason for her to give consent to that which was so boldly presented.
"But I'm not going to do that," she said.
"All right, but come on, just get in the back."
Liza obeyed. She crawled into the back of the seat, aware that her legs were fully exposed, but not caring about it because of the dark, knowing that it brought concealment except for a sudden flash of white flesh.
Tom leaped into the back seat, too. They embraced. They kissed; long and wetly and lovingly, sometimes softly, often furiously. And again Tom brought soft moans from her with his caresses. And he soon induced her to caresses of her own against himself. For a few moments, Liza was subdued, almost cautioned, by the feel of the boy: she had no idea how one so young could be so strong, so virile, so hard and manly.
But soon she forget her escort's youth. Before she knew it her dress was whipped to her waist. Her panties were dislodged. And then she was being forced prone to her back, her head jammed beneath an arm rest, her legs wide and propped, and only slightly resistive as the boy raised above her, touched again, pressured at her thighs, then lurched and pierced her virginity.
She felt it with the pain of pleasure. She did not cry out. She did not resist. And she did not know how she learned so quickly to lurch and pressure, heave and withdraw, arch, hold, relax and arch again.
When the boy yelped she knew it would soon be over. For only a moment she wondered if it was to mark some end for herself, too. It did. Shatteringly so. She screamed and she heard the sound mix with some loud noise of the silver movie screen which was blocked from view, hidden from her eyes and full awareness by the pounding boy. And then, as she felt the swamp of her release mix with his, she did not care what of the outer world might be hidden from her. She cared only for the moment and its thrill.
Liza banished the memory. She pushed away from the window. Then she left Nadine Bersc-like's cottage.
Liza had already eaten. And she felt disinclined toward the table conversation of wrestlers, although she usually joined them for coffee and listened to their talk of wrestling and exhibitionism. But tonight she did not feel like it, although she played with the idea for a bit, thinking thinking that it would offer her the opportunity to meet Hunt Stratford again and perhaps get to know him better. But she decided against it.
When Liza left the cabin, she walked behind it, then down the long row of cottages, moving from those of the women wrestlers to those of the men. As she almost always did, she thought of the college appearance of the camp layout. And, as she thought of this, she thought of Hunt, recalled that he was a college graduate. His education had been a big attraction to her father, Liza recalled. It was this that Quinn wanted to publicize, to gradually build in the public's mind until Hunt sky-rocketed to a peak of popularity, both with the ringside fans and with those who were the television fans. She wondered how Hunt would respond to it all. Then she wondered why he was now a wrestler.
Liza continued walking past the back of the cottages, all empty, she was sure, because of the dinner hour. But, as she reached the end cottage, the one belonging to the fierce, Turk Otter, Liza heard sounds from within. She stopped. She was surprised. And she, for some reason she could not understand, was strangely aroused; aroused by the simplicity of voices from within a cabin that usually at that hour was empty.
She hesitated, considered how foolish she was, started to walk past the cabin, then, when she heard the distinct voice of Vern Masters she stopped. She took a step toward the open, rear window, then paused, then moved again and looked inside.
Vern and Turk were lying crosswise on the bed. They both stared at the ceiling. They were both nude.
Liza recoiled as if she had been struck. But, unable to keep away from the scene before her, she returned to the window.
Turk, lazily, reached and curled his big fingers in Vern's thick, dark hair. Then he said, "What's the matter, baby. You seem a little distant today."
"I am," Vern answered. He grew silent, and the big Turk joined his mood.
Liza felt her heart pounding fast, so fast that she was afraid it would in some way reveal her presence. She brought her fist to her mouth as if so stifle a cry, and she thought of the pose she made, knew that involuntarily she had come to a posture of shock and disbelief. She knew Vern Masters well. She couldn't believe he was a homosexual, especially one who could give himself in any way to the violent and ruthless Turk. But, even as she told herself that her eyes lied, she knew that it was true, knew that Vern had held this secret within him, held it and kept it from all of his associates, kept it from her father, too, from he who should know all about all who worked for him.
Turk sighed heavily, then Liza saw him lift a bit and cover Vern's face, blocking it from view as he kissed him hard. Again, Liza felt the churn of shock within her chest. The kiss seemed so incongruous to the manly bodies, so out of context with the hard muscled chest, the tough biceps, and the stretch of their awakening passion. Then Liza wondered why she considered it this way. Wasn't she, so recently involved with a woman, just as out of character, didn't she, if one had watched, agree that she seemed ridiculous and that the softness of girl-bodies mixing was a violation of nature? She questioned herself. She shuddered. She remembered the lesbian scenes she had played, then shuddered again. Then she forced quietness as the men broke their kiss.
"You are odd today," Turk said. "What the hell's wrong?"
"Nothing. Perhaps everything," Vern replied. "Maybe lately I just have some special loathing for myself. Suddenly, my life seems very involved."
Turk laughed roughly and said, "And I intend to keep it that way involved with me, baby."
Vern made no comment. Nor did the expression of his face change in any way.
Liza, watching him, sensed his feeling of unrest, of uneasiness and discontent. It was a feeling that was very much akin to her own recent disenchantment with her affair with Nadine Bersc-like. For a moment, she felt considerable compassion for the confused Vern Masters. But then it left her as the men started talking again.
"Do you think everything will work out all right, Turk?" Vern asked.
"I know it will. I'm going to make it work."
Vern raised a bit and looked at the dark, determined scowl on Turk's face. Then he asked, "Are you sure?"
"As sure as I am that your next to me on this bed," Turk said.
Vern laughed shortly, and it seemed the signal for conversation to end for love making to begin.
Liza stepped back a pace, wondering for a moment about the strange conversation, then forgetting it as she saw the men come together in a long embrace.
Their bodies locked; legs entwining, arms circling, mouths clamping together, the mighty strength of their masculinity fighting like combatants then caressing as lovers. Then there was their mutual reaching, grasping, and a sudden, impassioned blaze of motion as they writhed and jerked, slowed to fondle, then speeded once again. But suddenly, Vern broke his hold on Turk and rolled away.
"What the hell," Turk exploded. "What you trying to do, boy?"
"Nothing. I'm just not with it, Turk," Vern explained.
"Well you get with it, sweetie, and right now." Turk retook Vern in his arms, forced another kiss upon him, forced, too, the hand, now reluctant, to contact, to pressure, to manipulation, then, just as quickly, forced it to cease as Turk again wound his fingers into Vern's hair and forced his head lower, and lower still, from chest to stomach, where gradually Vern began the tiny kisses which seemed to be Turk's desire.
"Ahhhh, now you're with it, baby," Turk sighed. "Now you're the way you were meant to be."
Vern kissed at him harder. Then harder still, responding, it seemed, less from will than from command, more from some compulsion to do Turk's bidding than from any desire of his own.
Turk wrestled him lower, clamped him hard against his body, then arched, and as Vern raised a bit, leaving kisses for a moment in preparation for a greater closeness, Turk paused, then ground him to a dramatic and complete taking.
Vern complied, looking, Liza thought, like a dog playing savage on a resisting, rag-doll.
Liza remained at the window. She remained glued to the scene of homosexual love. She could not break away, she could not breath, so intense were her feelings for the fury of Vern's love-making upon the responding, but none-giving body of big Turk Otter.
She could not leave until the very end until that moment that brought an end.
"Yeahhhhhhhhhhhh," Turk wheezed. "Yeahhhh, b-a-b-y--. "
Liza pushed back from the window. Stunned, she stood perfectly still for a moment. Then she turned and, almost running, fled the scene.
Very soon she slowed, then stopped. Then she turned and faced the cottage, place of homosexual love. A strange excitement cause a stammer to come to her body. She considered it. Wondered about its cause, then recognized that it was a sexual feeling, one in which she had mentally transferred herself to replace another.
What a waste, she thought. Then she chided herself for the thought. But she could not help consider the image of Turk Otter. She shivered, thinking how repulsive he was. What a brute he was. Then she wondered if this revulsion and hate for a man of brute strength could cause sexual excitement to come to her.
Liza remembered the power of Turk. The great rippling muscles. The coarseness and violence of him. And as she thought of it, she could not keep from wondering what it would be like if he had invoked his power of sex to her instead of to the homosexual, Vern. She wondered what it would be like to be taken by Turk. And wondering about it, she visualized its scene.
She made the setting his cabin. She saw herself at his door.
Turk took two quick steps toward her. He was without finesse. He was crude and rough and hard. He cupped her chin, held it tightly and raised her mouth to his. He swamped her with his desire. Then he pushed her back a step, waited a moment, then raised his hand to the throat of her dress. He bunched the garment in a tight ball, then jerked her close again.
In a moment, he pushed her backwards again, still holding to the throat of her garment. He smiled cruelly, then whipped his hand downward, ripping the material from her body.
Liza felt the material strain against her body, then tear and part. She felt her breasts jiggle. She felt heat scourge at her thighs, and she felt it shoot upward to her breasts where it inflamed her tips, making them hard and pointed and reaching.
"Baby, you're something," Turk said. "You're something I'm going to tear apart split wide open."
He gripped her at the back of the neck. He slapped at her breasts with his other hand, slapped hard, making them pinken and hurt. But it was a pain that ignited desire within her. She reached for him, found the bulge of his mighty manhood and gripped hard. Then she gasped, thrilling at size and strength and virility thrilling at it all as she anticipated it hot and tight and very, very close to her.
She had only a few moments to wait. Turk pushed her to his bed. She sprawled to it, flat on her back, open and waiting and anxious.
Turk walked close, then paused, tall and nude before her at the edge of the bed. Then he bent over her. Liza was surprised that he delayed her taking for kisses; kisses that covered all of her body, starting at her throat, capturing her ears, descending to her breasts where they lingered, mouthed, bit, tongue-lashed and consumed before lowering even more and patting at all of her belly before descending again to linger, and bury, at her thighs.
"Ohhhhhhhhhh," Liza moaned. Then she undulated her body, twisted, turned, raised and lowered, intent upon feeling, hurrying it and making it grow as Turk remained attentive, even if rough. Then, when she felt there could be no more delay, no more preliminaries, she cried again, arched, and grasped Turk tighter to her. Then she fumbled at his head, gripped his neck and urged him upward and atop her.
He, too, was at the end of waiting. His face captured hers, his lips raised as she settled to meet him, then he raised high and lashed his huge power to her, within her, then deeper.
"EEEEEeeeeee," she cried. She felt the full impact of all his lust. And his lust was immense. But she did not deny it, repulsive though the man may be, she did not deter or restrain. Instead, she gave herself to him in great shrieking cries, in twisting and churning and arching. And feeling shook her, making her know that sexual response was not reserved alone for the accepted and admired, that it could come, too, from a man of brutality, crudeness, harsh and vulgar repulsiveness, that it was even these factors that caused her fascination for the mighty Turk.
At the very end, Liza yelped. Turk continued his pounding finale even as he, too, groaned in release. She strained, felt the dual release of herself and Turk, then strained once more, completed, utterly finished.
Liza took a step backwards. She blinked her eyes and shook her head, disgorging the mentally created scene. For a moment the images she had made, herself and Turk, shocked her. But then she dismissed them, too, and turned and hurried away.
When her fantasies were gone and Turk Otter's cottage was out of sight, Liza considered the consequences of all that she had seen at the cottage.
Then, hundreds of questions burned for answers. What of Vern's great friendliness with everyone? Was it a fraud, meant to cover the homosexual truth of himself? What of Turk, the power he seemed to hold over Vern? It seemed ominous. Was it? Did it have bearing on all the camp, perhaps upon the entire organization of Quinn Enterprises? Should she tell her father? Should she burden him, bother a man who was not well with the extra problems which might prove to be nothing? And what about Hunt Stratford? Did he fit into a homosexual pattern? Was it this which had caused him to react without friendliness toward her? Was this the reason he was so quick to accept Vern's offer to share a cottage? What did it all mean? What?
Was there some threat poised at all of them, or was it only the inner workings of her own mind, exaggerating matters because of her own guilt? Was something fierce about to happen to everyone in the camp? What could it be? What?
Liza did not take coffee with the others. Nor did she stop at her father's study to chat for awhile. She avoided everyone, and went directly to her room. She felt very tired, very frightened, as if some dark cloud had settled above them all, settled and rested high, awaiting only a cue for its dramatic explosion.
CHAPTER FIVE
Hunt was not prepared for Barry Quihn's signal to engage in a first practice match. But, during the two weeks in camp, during his training which Quinn had personally managed, Hunt had already grown to respect the little man's every decision. And he had grown immensely fond of the sixty year old, sports tycoon, fonder of him than Hunt had been for his own father. So, Hunt only smiled when Barry Quinn bid him enter the ring and perform in a full, one-fall practice match with his roommate, Vern Masters.
"Okay, kid, you're on," Quinn told him. "Now, remember everything I told you, if ya can, I talk a lot, you know. But remember, wrestling has become an 'exhibition', not a contest, and as an exhibition it's tremendous entertainment, but with you I want to do something different, something new rather, something old that's going to look new." Quinn paused and breathed deeply.
Hunt had heard the story many times, but he listened patiently as Quinn continued, saying, "I'm building you as an 'honest' wrestler, one who fights to win, who doesn't use dirty tricks, keeps away from the theatrics of the game, a guy who fights, and fights to win, a real clean type of contestant who plays bv the rules the way Jim Londos use to play the game. That's the way you're going to be billed. That's the way I want you to fight, no matter what the other guy might pull you're the hero, no matter what, you have to be clean and fighting against the villain every time you step into the ring. Okay, kid, go up and get your villain."
Quinn patted Hunt on the rump as he leaped to the top of the ring, then climbed through the ropes.
Hunt felt his muscles quiver. He knew it was a dual reaction; one of physical readiness, and one of nervousness for the engagement he was about to enter, real apprehension for it although it was only a practice bout. And he knew that the anxiety came from a great, overwhelming desire to please Barry Quinn, to perform in the way the kindly man wanted him to perform.
Hunt pulled on the ropes, did some deep-knee bends, flexed his muscles, bounced on his tones for a full minute, then turned and faced Vern Masters who stood tall and almost bull-whip agile in the opposite corner. Then Hunt glanced past Vern and made a quick sweep of the area around the ring. It was crowded with camp spectators. Hunt grinned, thinking how quickly the camp grapevine had spread the word, marveling at the interest seasoned wrestlers could feel for a newcomer. He saw Turk Otter at the edge of the ring. And there was Liza Quinn, too, apart a bit, but near her father. Several of the women wrestlers were in attendance, too, including the queen of them all, Nadine Bersc-like. And, mixed with them all, there were the trainers and managers, the grounds keepers, a cook or two, and several sports writers who seemed constantly in attendance at the camp lately.
Hunt looked away from the spectators. He looked at his opponent. Vern smiled, and Hunt thought that it seemed different, and he remembered how his roommate had become edgy and nervous, quick tempered sometimes, and a good deal different than the calm young man he had met only two weeks earlier. Hunt wondered what had happened to him. Then he wondered if perhaps it was caused by regret, if now Vern wished that he had not so quickly confessed his homosexuality, divulged this deep secret to one whom he hardly knew. Then, for a moment, Hunt knew some regrets of his own, even wished that he had not hinted at the same abnormality that had been a part of himself. But they had only talked of it once, he thought. Only once, and since that time they had been friendly, but without physical response, not either one for the other.
Then Hunt stopped thinking about it. A heavy gong sounded and he moved to the center of the ring, high on his toes, quick-stepping around the maneuvering Vern Masters.
In a moment, each locked his hands straight and tight at the other's shoulders. They grappled cautiously for a moment, pressured and relaxed, each awaiting some slight, false movement of the other which would offer a hold.
It happened before Hunt realized he had made a slip. He had relaxed the pressure of both his hands at the same time. It was all Vern Masters needed. He jammed his thumbs into the collar-bone hollows beneath Hunt's neck. He pressured mightily, and forced Hunt to his knees.
Hunt slumped, then gripped at Vern's wrists and pulled for freedom. He was successful. Vern pressured harder, forcing Hunt, still on his knees, to a position of subservience, facing his gapping mouth only inches away, from the young wrestler's groin.
There was a ripple of laughter from the spectators. Hunt heard it, and felt anger. But it was born not from them, but was instead for Vern Masters, for what seemed to be a deliberate attempt at humiliation, a contrived plan to put him in a position which resembled a posture of man-love.
Vern pressured harder. And harder still, making Hunt's head bend forward and rest against the steel-plate of Vern's concealed supporter.
There was more laughter. Then there was a gasp of appreciation.
Hunt, jerking again at Vern's wrists, twisted and rolled at the same time, flattening his opponent beneath him to feel the steam-roller sweep of his body as Hunt whirled over ankles and knees and thighs and chest and face, until he was clear and had quickly jumped to his feet again.
Vern was slow in rising. Hunt waited for him, breathing hard, yet noticing with satisfaction, Vern's bleeding nose, the bruised look of his cheekbones and the reddened ears, the evidence of Hunt's heavy body roll over the young man's body.
Vern seemed dazed and confused. But it was a bluff. like a panther leaping from a tree he flung his body crosswise at Hunt's mid-section, the flying-mare throwing him to the floor, making him bounce and shudder from the giant impact it had caused.
Hunt started to rise, but was again swept to the canvas by Vern, who rolled clear, then turned and flung himself atop Hunt's chest, pressuring and trying for a fall, urging the massive shoulders to the mat, steaming and hissing in exertion as he sought to make Hunt prone.
But Hunt resisted mightily, twisting first one shoulder, then the other free from the scratch of canvass, free even before the referee could begin a single count. And as he twisted, he arched with his waist, raising Vern who was plastered to him; face to face, hip to hip, chest to chest, and groin to groin.
And it was this that made Hunt pause in his efforts. As he felt the grinding of their tight shorts together, as he almost heard the clash of their steel beneath the trunks, a sensation of dizziness and remoteness came over him, made him feel not far from unconsciousness, made him feel that the competition was not a competition at all, that it was something else, something which was sexual and made of love made of the queer love of one man for another.
Vern grinned above Hunt's face. But Hunt hardly noticed it, so compelled was he by the feeling which had come to him. He twisted, but sensed that it was half-hearted, almost knew that like magic he had become disinclined for combat, was instead interested only in the feeling deep within him that Vern had created.
Vern tightened his entire body against that of Hunt's. He pressured, resembling a man atop a girl preparing for entrance. Then he pressured harder and ground his hips in a hard swirl against Hunt's flattened body.
And the feeling within Hunt grew and grew, came close to bursting, very close to erupting, and for a moment he thought the combat for him had ended, that all that remained was for him to lie still and give himself completely to the straining arch of his manhood which fought at enclosed steel for release.
But Hunt denied the feeling, rejected the end it offered, rebuked the delirium of any climax except that climax which was intended for the ring and the victory he sought within it.
Bracing his feet, gripping at Vern's forearms, slowly adjusting his knees, Hunt paused, then by the strength of neck and heels alone he arched as deeply as a hundred pound, hunting bow. He held the extended position.
There was a sound from the spectators. Hunt knew that it came from appreciation for his example of pure, massive, brute strength that seemed more than man alone was capable of performing.
Hunt held the high, arching position. Vern strained above him, fighting to recover his advantage. Hunt let him loosen his hold, then in a fantastic, bounding jolt of his hips, Hunt banged his own buttocks to the mat and arched high again, sending Vern Masters flying free, up and over and past Hunt's head, over the top rope and into the spectators like a man being shot from a cannon.'
Vern crumbled into the saw dust at the feet of some fellow-wrestlers. He did not immediately rise. Not until he was helped. He did not return to the ring at the end of the referee's count.
There were cheers from some of those who watched. There was some hand-clapping, too. And above it all there was the happy and enthusiastic cry of Liza Quinn. Hunt heard it. He recognized it. He ignored it and climbed out of the ring.
He went immediately to Vern Masters.
"Are you all right, Vern?" he asked.
Vern grinned crookedly. "Well, not quite, but I will be. Man what did you do? I thought I was a rocket."
Hunt laughed. In a moment, Vern laughed, too, but it seemed restrained, less free than Hunt had ever yet known it to be.
There was some laughter again. Then there was the jabbering congratulations from Harry Quinn:
"Kid, that was great really great something I never saw before and I've been around a hell of a long time. You've got to perfect that one though, a lot of wrestlers are heavier than Vern, it'll take extra work on your stomach muscles, your neck muscles, too, but kid, that little trick's going to be your specialty and it's clean, none of that eye-gouging and nose-nipping for you, no, sir, just plain, clean fighting that's going to help restore this game to where it belongs, we need the other, the exhibitions, but we need more of this type of wrestling, too, and kid, you're going to be the one who gives it to the fans."
Hunt accepted his robe from the referee. He pushed his arms through it, then looped the belt at the waist. He looked around, still hearing Harry Quinn's praise, but not thinking of it, not caring about it, thinking instead of the near unconsciousness he had known as his body twisted beneath the homosexual wrestler. Hunt remembered it, recalled the dizzy-heights feeling which had nearly come to him. Then he tried to forget it. But he could not. It clung to his mind like a stench of doom.
"So, kid, in a few weeks we'll start the billing we'll pace you, but if things go right, maybe there'll be only one world's champion in this business," Barry Quinn said, gripping Hunt's forearm and walking with him toward the cottages.
They were silent for awhile. Hunt resisted conversation, felt remote from all that Quinn had said. But he shocked to awareness when the little sports promoter said, "But something happened up there, I could tell. You had me worried. When Vern was trying in pin you, I thought you had given up. What was wrong? What happened to you then kid?"
"I don't know," Hunt blurted. Then added, "Tired, I guess. And confused. I was trying to figure what to do next to shake him loose."
"He's hard to shake," Quinn agreed.
"Very hard," Hunt said softly, remembering the scene so vividly that he felt a new quiver at his stomach muscles.
Barry Quinn grew quiet again. And during the lull, Hunt wondered about himself, wondered why it was he had come close to a sexual response during the physical exertion he had known with Vern Masters.
Was it born from affection? he asked himself. Was it a return of homosexuality to his life, the homosexuality that he had engaged in because of bitterness and hurt created by woman? He had thought himself through with it, perhaps tempted, at times, but by his will alone, through with it at anytime he wanted. And he wanted that part of his life over and done with, he decided.
"Okay, kid, you take it easy," Quinn said when they reached the door of Hunt's cottage.
"I will, Barry," Hunt replied.
"And, kid, I'm pleased, mighty pleased, and for more reasons than you could guess."
"I'm glad," Hunt said.
Quinn started to say more, then decided against it and merely smiled. Then, suddenly, the smile grew, and he said, "Better watch out, kid, here comes my brat to offer her congratulations."
Hunt's body alerted, grew tense and watchful. He reached for Quinn's arm to detain him a moment, but the little man was gone, laughing and waving, hurrying in a direction opposite that of Liza.
"Hunt, wait a moment, will you?" she called.
Hunt put his hand on the door knob, but waited as she drew near. He watched her approach. As usual, she was dressed in tight, white shorts. Her legs were bare, her feet in thongs, the toes sticking out like ten, bloody daggers. She wore no bra. Her breasts jiggled. And for a second, Hunt thought he could see the imprint of her nipples against the thin material as she moved. He looked at her. He saw the red curls jiggling in tune with her breasts, saw the pinch of flesh around her navel, saw her wide mouth in a bright smile. He looked at all of her. He recognized her great beauty. Then he rejected the image, turned and started to enter his cottage.
"Hey, wait," Liza cried. There was a desperate note in her voice.
And Hunt did, finally wait. He waited and turned and tried not to notice the seductive and sensual body as it stopped before him.
"My but you're unfriendly," Liza said.
"Sorry," Hunt said.
"Are you? Are you really sorry for avoiding me ever since you arrived."
"No. I guess I'm not."
She laughed. "Well, Daddy's right. You're honest."
"I have to shower," Hunt said flatly.
"I know. But wait just a moment. Please?"
He waited. He did not speak.
"Hunt, why can't we be friends?" she asked.
"No reason."
"But you act as if I'm poison. This is only the second time you've talked to me in two weeks."
"Sorry."
"Will, you please stop saying that."
"All right."
"Hunt, you were wonderful today," Liza said. "Really wonderful. You have no idea what it well, what your kind of wrestling can do for us for Daddy."
"I'm glad if he approves," Hunt said.
"He does. I do. Everyone does, I guess. You should have heard the sports writers talking after you dumped Vern."
"Is that all you wanted to say?" Hunt asked.
"No," she answered. She took a step forward and touched gently at his arm in a gesture of friendship's offering.
Hunt jerked his arm back a bit, then said, "So, what else do you want to say?"
"That I wish like the devil you'd stop being such a crab." She paused, and her eyes went wide as if in sudden recognition of something fierce. Then she said, "Or is there a good reason why you are such a crab why you avoid me like the plague, why you avoid all the--. "
"There's no special reason why I am the way I am," he cut in, quickly and defensively, as if deterring her from something of himself he did not understand either.
"All right, then prove it. Go with me to the beach party."
"Beach party?"
"Yes. Saturday night. It's at a lake not far from here. I'll warn you though, it's usually pretty wild. It's sponsored by the local newspaper. Everyone from the camp goes, I want you to go, too, and with me."
Hunt hesitated. He glanced into her eyes, then away from them as he remembered other female eyes, those eyes of long ago that conveyed love even as they planned deceit and ruin and the loss of a lifetime's hopes and dreams.
"Please?" Liza purred.
Hunt looked pointedly at her breasts as they rose and lowered with her breathing. Then, this, too, he shunned, as he glanced away. But strangely, as he turned from Liza and faced the window of his cottage, he thought of Vern Masters, remembered the tangle of their bodies in the wrestling ring, remembered, too, the passion he had felt, the explosion of his body that had threatened. Then he turned back to Liza, knowing that she offered him a testing of himself, a trial by woman fire which would perhaps bring answers about himself that remained, it seemed, forever elusive.
"Well, what do you say?" Liza asked.
"All right. I'll go."
"Good. And I promise you, Hunt, you won't be sorry. We'll have a wonderful time."
"I I hope so."
"We will. And now, into the showers to cool off." She laughed, turned and headed toward the big, stone house in the distance.
Hunt watched her go. He observed the sway of her hips, the gentle rhythm of them which seemed to come from within. Liza Quinn seemed different, he thought. But then he corrected the thought as he realized that one such as she could not be different, that beautiful women had to be the same in their desires, their vanity, and the hurt they created.
When she was nearly out of sight, Hunt turned and pushed open the door of his cottage. He hesitated, wondering why he had accepted Liza Quinn's invitation. But his hesitation lasted only a moment. This question's answer was all too clear. Hunt knew that he was to be with Liza as a defense, perhaps even as a determent, for the lust which was rising within him; a lust which was directed toward his attractive and willing roommate, Vern Masters.
Hunt closed the door, then leaned against it. He felt heavy with indecision.
CHAPTER SIX
"I'm sorry," Hunt said to Vern Masters. "I didn't hear what you said."
"I asked if you were going to the party at the beach this Saturday." He turned from the window then seated himself on the edge of his cot, staring at, and smiling at Hunt,, who was stretched full length on his own cot with a book open before him.
Hunt paused, then said, "I was thinking of it." He stopped and wondered why he felt a disinclination to admit his date with Liza Quinn.
"Oh, good," Vern said. "Perhaps we can go together."
Hunt did not answer.
Vern looked at him. His eyebrows shot upwards. Then he said, "Or do you have some other plans?"
"As a matter-of-fact, I do," Hunt said. "But it's nothing big." He gulped, wondering why he had added that.
"Don't worry about it," Vern said. "Well all be pretty much together anyway." He glanced down at the floor, then quickly looked at Hunt again. "By the way, did you hear the latest rumors?"
"Not for at least ten minutes," Hunt said, grinning broadly.
"Yeah. I know what you mean. Rumors are great here, just like in the army or navy. Anyway, this one seems to have some foundation of truth."
"What is it?" Hunt asked.
"It's being passed around that the old man's going to sell out."
"Barry Quinn? Sell out? How do you mean?"
"Well, he's been sick, you know, pretty damn sick several times before you got here. His heart's not the best. So, they say he's considering selling the camp, the contracts that's us, baby .and, the works. Sell it out to a syndicate. They've pressured him and it looks like he's being tempted."
"I don't believe it," Hunt said definitely. "And I sure as hell wouldn't spread that one around."
"You don't believe it?" Vern asked. "Why? What's so odd about the little old coot making a million or so?"
"What's odd about it is Barry Quinn himself. He
! doesn't get his kicks out of money. His life is all wrapped up in the sports game he'll never quit never."
Vern smiled slightly. It looked forced. And his voice held a tone of strain as he said, "You sound pretty definite for a guy who's so new around here."
"Let's just say I know something about people. And I know that Quinn's not the type of man who quits at anything."
"Maybe you just feel that way because he's giving you such a build up. Christ the publicity he's planning out for your first match. Man, pretty soon everyone will hate you for it. Then you'll find out Quinn hasn't done you such a favor after all."
Hunt tried to ignore Vern's tone of jealousy. And he tried to forget that this was the first time that anything like dispute had come between them. Yet, he could not help but consider it for a moment, and as he did so, Hunt realized that it was a part of a change which had come over his roommate, a component of his recent nervousness and unrest.
He pushed up on his couch, closed his book, then smiled at Vern. "Sorry, old buddy, if I've riled your temper."
"It's all right," Vern answered. "Forget it. I'm a little out of sorts lately."
"Yes, you are," Hunt agreed. "What's with you anyway?"
"Nothing special. I'm pretty involved in a number of things, none of which I'll bore you with."
"Maybe it'd do you good to talk about it."
"I'm sure it wouldn't," Vern said. He stood up and stretched, then grinned at Hunt and said, "But it'd do me a hell of a lot of good to keep you from throwing me over the ropes again. How about showing me how you did it?"
"Here?"
"Sure, why not? Just point me toward the bed though."
I Hunt stood up, then walked to the front of the room.
He turned to Vern who had joined him. "From where do you want to take it?"
"From the hold I had when you tossed me off."
"From the spot where you were trying for a pin, eh?"
"Yeah. I want to remember it. It might be the closest I ever come again."
Hunt hesitated, looking for some hidden meaning in his words, searching Vern, as he did himself, to see if he was anxious for this new encounter of their bodies. For a moment, Hunt considered giving up the re-encounter of their wrestling match. But be had accepted Vern's suggestion quickly, before he had even considered it, before he recalled the feelings he had known as he ground upward against the hard body of his friend. And now he hesitated, sorry for that which he had agreed to, but fearful that refusal now would admit self-doubt, a self-doubt that Vern, a homosexual, might recognize and use to his seductive advantage.
"Well, I guess here's about the best place," Hunt said, looking at a spot on the carpeted floor which fronted their cots, yet was a good distance from them.
"Yeah, that's fine," Vern said. "But like I told you, point me toward the beds, not the windows."
Hunt laughed and settled his back to the floor. He wore a tee shirt and tight slacks. Vern had on Bermudas and was bare from the waist upward. Both of them were barefooted.
"Ready?" Vern asked.
"I think so," Hunt replied.
He looked up at Vern, who was smiling down at him. Something faintly reminiscent was in the pose, some hint of a long past day in Hunt's life came to him. But he could not associate it with anything: not with Vern, nor wrestling, not the cottage setting, nothing of the present seemed to fit, and the memory, well veiled, did not come clearly.
"Okay, buddy, here I come," Vern said.
He lowered to his knees at Hunt's feet, then assumed a position atop Hunt's hard frame, duplicating the hold he had held on Hunt during their recent wrestling match.
Hunt kept his body relaxed, waiting for Vern to pressure his hold as signal for the new competition to begin. And as he waited, Hunt became very aware of Vern's lean body, became terribly aware of its leanness and hard muscles. Then, as Vern took position ready to tighten his hold, Hunt became aware of their hips smacking together, of the crush Vern's thigh made against his groin. In a second, Hunt felt growth rumble within him, then soar, and even as he felt it he knew it was mixing with a new strength that had come to Vern. But now, away from the ring, away from spectators and pressmen and Barry Quinn and his daughter, Hunt did not feel dizziness nor the hint of fainting. He felt only desire, the desire that ached for some unity of love, for some belonging, for a togetherness that would end loneliness and bitterness.
Vern strained his strength against Hunt's shoulders, trying for the flattening of him that he had once before tried for to no avail.
Instinctively, Hunt resisted Vern's pressure and arched upward, thrashing and grinding his hips in a hard, jarring impact against the boy's waist. He tried to dislodge him, but could not. Then, summoning his strength, Hunt relaxed for a moment, then pushing upward in the high arched thrust for which he had already become known. He strained and held the position, keeping Vern aloft and clinging to his body.
Hunt waited, prepared to snap down and upward, freeing him of his opponent. But he did not. He hesitated, and did not know why he did so. Then, in a moment, knew all to well why he waited, what it was he had waited to receive.
For a moment, Vern merely cuddled his lips into Hunt's neck. But then he raised and brought his mouth down in a hard crush upon Hunt's lips, fighting them open until there was room for his tongue to wander and implore, to whisk and tease and play and capture, then to be captured before retreating for more play, more twirling giving of his salty self, the secret taste of man-love given to man, made incredibly desirable, it seemed, because of the taboo for their closeness, their position, their wants.
Hunt remained straining upwards as he was kissed, as he in turn kissed back. But when he felt the clash of Vern's manhood pulsating against his own, he felt a tremor of revulsion and relaxed his body and started to pull away.
"Don't," Vern pleaded. "Please don't leave me" He kissed Hunt again, harder and more desperately.
For what seemed a long time, Hunt remained passive, but then, as Vern's tongue plunged deeper, Hunt's arms shot around his fellow and he pressured him tighter against his flat, prone body, tighter and harder against the rise at his groin, the rise which met that of Vern's in the sameness of intensity.
Vern rolled off Hunt's body, stretched on his side and pulled for greater closeness. Then they locked together again, fiercely, and in a pose that was both grotesque and beautiful, like the sculpture of a primitive art depicting men in lustful repose.
Hunt's head spun. Again he had the feeling of some long buried incident, some experience of a yesteryear which had significance for the very moment. But it eluded him, kept a distance from his mind, allowing him nothing but the fullness of feeling which Vern propelled.
Vern loosened his hand which was tight about Hunt's neck. It lowered. It fumbled, then it grasped, then it loosened again, fumbled with the metal zipper tab, then held it delicately, poised it, and in a clicking sound meant for revelation, brought it down swiftly to its very base. Then there was new fumbling. And new reaching. Then there was a hot-hand grasping.
And then Hunt Stratford pulled back and rolled clear of all contact with Vern, "Oh, baby, don't, not now," Vern begged.
Hunt jumped to his feet and looked downward. "No. It's not for me. Really it isn't. I know. Believe me, I know. I'm sorry, Vern. I understand. But I know me, too. And this well, I'm not for it."
"You are, you are," Vern cried. "Really you are, baby. Every man is, if he'll give himself the chance."
"Well, let's say that I'm not going to give myself that chance then," Hunt said slowly, still looking into the dark features of Vern's face.
"But, baby Hunter, please!"
His own full, given name, spoken in its entirety, struck him like a blow. Nearly two decades since he had been called 'Hunter', it jolted him, shocked him to the memory which had darted out of reach for days. But now it flooded upon him.
"Please," Vern said again, pushing upward, looking hurt and a little pathetic.
"No. No, not anything, Vern. Just leave me alone. I have to be alone." He paused and looked around, then, after first adjusting his clothes, he walked to the door and opened it. Then he paused and looked at Vern again. "I'll see you later." Hunt darted out of the door.
There was a stretch of woods where the trees stood like giant soldiers on guard at the rear of the compound. Hunt headed toward it, anxious for the shaded coolness, for the relief and quiet he would find there.
He' walked a hundred yards into the woods, paused, then seated himself on a moss covered slope. Then he gave himself to the memory Vern had brought back by the simple utterance of his full name.
Hunt had been about ten or eleven, not younger, maybe older for the light fuzz of pubic hair had begun to show but was not yet strong. His friend was about the same age, at the same stage of pre-adolescence. The friend was a fat boy, with rolls of flesh, especially at the breasts, making him look girlish and soft.
They played together a lot. All the games of youth, but particularly did they play at wrestling, a game which intrigued them both. One day the friend made a suggestion.
"The folks are away for the day. Let's play in the apartment."
It was a sound suggestion, one Hunt approved of, for it was bitter cold outside. They went to the apartment. They played at everything that captured their attention. Then they decided to wrestle.
"Let's take our clothes off," the friend said. "Then we can wrestle the way they do in the ring free, you know. If we had tights we could wear them. But we ain't got any."
They undressed. Then, in the center of the living room floor, they wrestled.
Hunt noticed the feeling sweep him as he was applying a full-nelson to his friend, bending him forward as he stood behind him. Hunt exerted and bumped closer to his friend. He felt the feeling increase, grow fiery hot. It made him feel weak, as if he was about to faint. But he could not give up the feeling. It was much tco enticing. He pressured harder, then, more deliberately this time, he jammed the youthful extension of himself against the thigh of his friend. The feeling swamped him again. Then, to conceal it, he made a great to-do with wrestling motions, grunting and groaning, whirling his friend around.
Then the friend broke away. He turned and looked at Hunt, pointed and laughed, then pointed to himself and laughed even harder.
They re-engaged in boyhood combat. They wrestled to the floor. They clung to each other, they squirmed and wiggled, they fought for freedom from the others hold, a freedom that was not really wanted. And the feeling of suffocation, invasion, near collapse, came to Hunt again and again. It was like a fearsome friend who called to offer pleasure, then instead of giving it, retreated.
But it came to him again, and in even greater intensity as he grasped the flesh-puffed girl-breasts of his boy friend and wound his legs about the fat midriff in a vicious scissor-lock. Hunt squeezed. Then he squeezed harder. Then it came to him. It came in a flood which subdued him, brought him to a gasping recognition of that which was happening. And he thought that he was dying, thought too, that if it was death that drained him, that it was not the awful thing he had expected. Indeed, he welcomed it, fought his legs tighter about his friend in giant efforts to thrash the very last bit of feeling from his body.
"Hey, Jeeez," was all the friend said.
Hunt made no reply. Nor did the boy friend speak of it again.
After that, they wrestled often, nude when they could, and when they couldn't they found a way for exposure, for the minute baring of themselves which was all that was needed for the mighty response to strike them again.
The green moss felt damp beneath Hunt. He stood up. He shook his head, half-smiling for the long ago memory which had finally represented itself. He turned and walked back toward the compound.
And as he walked slowly, he wondered if the past had implications for the present, if perhaps there had been some early, symbol prelude in that masturbatory play of young-boy wrestlers. Hunt wondered, too, if the significance of his first climax had in some, strange way, hinted at the future hinted at the emotional plight he now suffered. His hands had been on the boy, upon the boy's breasts, which were like a girl's, yet it had been the nakedness of his own sex which had aroused him. Hunt wondered about it. And he worried about it. But when he arrived back at the compound, he forced it from his mind, knowing that it was painful, and fearful that it might bring some strengthening of the homosexuality that was said to be in all men.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Liza Quinn started through her father's study door, then stopped when she saw the men departing. She looked at her father's face, saw that is was grim, then she watched as he walked with them to the back entrance of the study. She saw him dismiss the men curtly, all three of them, then when he turned again, she hurried to him.
"Daddy who in the world were those hoods?" she asked.
"Don't let them worry you, sweetheart," he said. "They sure as hell don't worry me."
"But, Daddy, who are they? What did they want?"
"Oh, they didn't want much," he said, half-kiddingly. "Just all of Quinn Enterprises, that's all."
"Daddy! You're joking."
"That's what I told them. That they were joking."
"But were they?"
"Afraid not, kitten. They wanted to buy me out. They knew before they came here that I wouldn't. But they came anyway. Thought they could convince me."
"How How did they try to convince you, Daddy? Tell me the truth."
Barry Quinn was silent for a moment. Then he gave his daughter a light pat on the rear, walked past her, then walked around his desk and seated himself behind it.
Liza moved in front of the desk and looked down at her father. From long experience, she knew that he was worried, knew, too, that he wanted to keep the worry to himself. She waited, looking at tiny beads of perspiration that dotted his bald head, seeing the white collar of his shirt wilting before the heat caused by his heavy, black suit, but knowing that it was useless to tell him to discard his jacket; the suit, the black tie and white shirt, were too much a part of her father for her to dare to separate them from him.
"You waiting for something, daughter?" Quinn said, smiling crookedly at Liza.
"You know very well what I'm waiting for, Dad," she said. "I want an explanation. A full one. Who were those men? What did they want?"
Quinn sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair. Then he said, "Well, I guess we might call them rivals."
"Sports rivals?" she asked.
"Yes, that, too, but with the emphasis on 'rivals', and we'd better not say that they're friendly ones, either."
"Stop stalling, Daddy, and tell me what it's all about."
"Simple. They want to buy all of Quinn Enterprises. The house, the camp all the wrestlers, the bills I have planned, the promotions, even the cooks and equipment boys."
"Huh," she said nastily. "They should know they can't do that."
"They know it now," Quinn said. "Actually, they've always known it, but I guess they thought they'd make a try for it anyhow."
"What else did they say, Daddy? There's more to it, I know."
"Well, nothing to worry about. It was all bluff, but they said they'd force us to sell that they'd do their best to ruin me."
"They can't."
"They could but they won't."
Liza placed her hands on the desk and leaned forward. Then she said, "Daddy, is there anything I don't know? Anything I should know."
"You know most everything, child. Most everything. Those hoods were from a syndicate, one that wants to expand expand, hell, one that wants to monopolize the entire wrestling game. They're coming close, too, damn it. They've picked up quite a bit of the competition. We're about the only group who's not playing footsie with them. Hell, child, can you guess what this business would be like if they did get a monopoly?"
"Of course. And all of it would be bad. There has to be competition, even in the theatrics of the game."
"Right, child, right. And there always will be competition as long as I'm around to fight them."
"Daddy they didn't threaten you, did they?"
"Only slightly, child."
"Physically?"
"No, they didn't get to that phase yet. They only mentioned finances."
"Are we in trouble that way, Dad?"
"No. Not any more than most people. We're mortgaged, but hell, who isn't?"
"It's going to be all right, isn't it, Dad?"
"You're damn-tootin' it is," he said. Then, he smiled broadly and said, "Let us not forget that we've got the hottest property in the business. Hunt Stratford. He's not only going to set a whole new trend in wrestling, but he's going to bring in a mint of money for us."
"You really think so, Dad?"
"I know so."
"I'm glad. He's nice."
"Oh, is he, now. And when did you get around to deciding this?"
"Almost from the first. But he's not nice in the way a lot of men are nice. Actually, he's pretty nasty."
"And this you like?"
"Well, it's different. And I think it's honest. There's nothing phony about his nastiness, anyway."
"Well, that's novel," he said with a laugh. "I've known people who were phony about being nice, but I never knew they had to be phony about being nasty."
"Stop it. You're confusing me," she said.
He plopped his small body forward and slapped the desk in surprise. "Hey, you look different. What gives."
"Nothing much. Just my hair. I had it set."
"My, my, going ritzy on the old man, eh."
"No. I've got a date."
"Who with with whom oh, what the hell, who's the guy?"
"Hunt Stratford."
"Mr. Nasty, eh? Where you going?"
"To the beach party."
"Hey, you be careful down there."
"I will. And Hunt will be with me."
"I didn't know he went for dates and stuff like that."
"He doesn't," she laughed. "I forced him into going. That's what I mean about him being strange. It's not often I have to coax a man for a date now, is it?"
"You'd better believe it," he said. "What time are you leaving?"
"Late. About ten, I think." She paused and her expression grew serious. "Youll be all right here, won't you, Dad?"
"Of course. I'll have my milk and crackers, take my medicine, and go to bed like a good old man."
"Promise."
"I promise, child."
She moved around the desk, kissed him lightly, then left him.
Quickly, she climbed the stairs to her room. She immediately went to the cove-like bath room and turned the handles above the tub. She felt its temperature as the water surged. Satisfied, she turned from the tub, and re-entered her bedroom. She glanced out the window as the shadows of dusk descended over the camp, and she thought how peaceful it was, how still and quiet, as if before a storm.
The thought caused apprehension. She thought of her father, his struggles and his hope, his honesty, and the drive of his small body and large spirit which had risen him from slums to prominence. She smiled thinking of him, but then the smile disappeared as she considered again the men the toughs who had called upon him with an offer. And Liza knew that it was more than an offer. From the syndicate, an offer was the prelude to threats, and that in turn preceded only by a little bit the actuality of violence, either real or in subtle ways, but nevertheless destructive.
Liza saw two figures move across the open area that fronted the cottages. Both the men were tall, but one was slim and the other heavy. Liza knew from their build and gait that it was Turk Otter and Vern Masters. She shivered slightly, remembering the love-scene she had watched them play. She wondered if her father knew about them, and again she questioned the right to tell him what she had learned. He wouldn't be surprised about Otter. Nothing about that man surprised anyone. But Vern was something else. Here there was a hidden side of the college educated, former chorus boy. His homosexuality had been a well kept secret. And Liza thought that it was this that seemed evil, not the act itself, but the completely false impression Vern Masters had always given of himself. Liza considered it for a moment. She remembered how she had heard Vern, on many occasions, make fun of men who were obviously homos. This didn't seem right. It was more dishonest than the act was a refutation of normal sexual relations.
Liza stepped away from the window. She went to the bathroom, closed the water taps, then undressed, unhooking her bra, sliding her shorts downward over her hips, and merely flipping the thongs from her bare feet. She stretched, feeling the bloat of her breasts as she breathed deeply, then cupping them for a moment, enjoying the feeling and becoming acutely aware of her need for sex sex that would be a distant call to that kind which had, for awhile, been committed to the hard-woman body of Nadine Bersc-like. Then she wondered why sex was a need at all, wondered why, for her at least, it could not be sublimated.
She stepped into the tub, waited a moment, then reclined, feeling the hot water pat at her body, sweep her from ankles to buttocks to stomach to breasts and shoulders as she settled into it. She shivered delightedly.
Then she thought of sex again, and her need for it. Thought, too, of the direction it had taken, the way desire steamed and pointed toward Hunt Stratford. And she didn't even feel shy thinking about it, she decided. But why should she?
Liza had been raised a liberal, a true liberal, not one who claimed it on the outside while the inner being held reservations. Motherless at ten, it had been her father who had moulded her thinking, created a straight-forwardness about all things that some people thought precocious. About those who thought this, Liza couldn't care less.
She took a sponge, heavy with water and thick with soap, then began a rhythmic massage of her body. She felt breasts awaken, then send their signals of passion to her thighs, even to the hard, quivering muscles of her stomach. And she thought again of the honesty of feelings, even sexual feelings. She remembered her father's attitudes; those things which had made her what she was, all that 24 years had built.
"About sex, child," her father often said, "There is no right or wrong. The only thing that's dirty or bad about it is whether or not it's given honestly. If it's honest, it can never be wrong."
And, frequently, her father had discoursed on matters of people and their attitudes: "It doesn't matter what a person is, how he looks, if he's a cripple or healthy, red, white, blue, or green, if he's a person he's made of guts spirit, some people call it and this is all that matters, not his race or the church he goes to or doesn't go to."
And always, at the end of his philosophizing, Barry Quinn would caution his child with, "And never forget it, child."
Liza had not forgotten. She never could. She never would.
She finished with her soaping, then submerged all of her body in a final rinsing. Then she stepped out of the tub and wrapped a heavy towel about her body. Then she walked into her bedroom.
Again, Liza went to the window. The compound was nearly dark now, and she could see lights flick on in different cabins. She looked toward the cabin that Hunt shared with Vern Masters. She saw a dark form stride across the living room, then pause at the window. She wondered if it was Hunt. Then, once again, she felt a shiver of fear and knew that it came from the mystery Hunt's roommate, Vern Masters, had caused. She shivered again, then turned from the window and dressed.
Liza glanced at her reflection in the mirror once more, then left the room and started down the stairs. It was when she reached the foyer that she heard her father's voice. It was muffled and indistinct, but she could tell that it voiced anger. She waited. In a moment, Barry Quinn appeared, ready to ascend the stairs for his own room.
"Oh, you still here, eh, daughter?" he said, his eyebrows rising in surprise.
"Just leaving. Daddy, who was on the phone?"
"Just a business matter. Nothing important, child."
She knew he hedged. And she knew that she could not pursue it.
"Good night, sweetheart," Barry Quinn said. He kissed Liza on the forehead, then hastened up the stairs.
Liza looked after him, knowing that he was deeply concerned, greatly troubled, and knowing, too, that he wanted to keep it from her. And Liza understood that the trouble, whatever it was, had to be very bad indeed.
She watched her father disappear at the top of the stairs, then she turned and left the house.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The beach location for the party was a twenty minute drive from the Quinn Enterprises Camp. During it, Hunt was silent and reserved, and Liza, because of the new anxiety for her father and the mysterious trouble which had come to him, was quiet, too, not offering the banter for which she was so well known and well-liked about the wrestling camp.
Her mood struck Hunt as odd, and out of character. He glanced at her as she moved the cream colored convertible along at a rapid pace. And, if Hunt felt a disinclination toward her toward all women the disinclination did not prevent hm from looking at Liza and appreciating her striking beauty.
She was dressed in a light, summer frock, low and swooping at the neckline, buttoning at a point below her breasts, keeping them from view but hinting daringly at their size, their contours, their firmness and their nipple-pointed sharpness. As she breathed, there was movement beneath the dress, and Hunt knew that she was without undergarments, knew also that had she worn them they would have been out of kilter with the freeness that was her major characteristic. He found himself admiring her spirit of freedom, nearly always demonstrated by light, scanty attire; shorts, a bra, and thongs. And, Hunt decided, she conveyed this feeling still, even in a dress, for beneath it her body was free and alive.
He glanced at her bare knees, sticking unselfconsciously out from her skirt. Her legs were bare. They looked very strong. They seemed almost to quiver with life and vitality. They seemed delicately smooth.
Hunt looked away and into the darkness of the night, sliced in spots by bright moonlight. He remained silent, then, more unexpectedly than he thought possible, he found himself embarrassed because of the silence between them, as if he had caused Liza this despondent mood. And he felt a desire to end it.
He looked at Liza again, then said, "Will your father be at the party?"
"Oh, no," she answered. "Not Daddy. When he goes to a party he has to recognize that a lot of his training rules are being broken even for a night. He'd rather not be confronted with that."
"I suppose not," he offered.
Liza grew silent again. She glanced at Hunt, and smiled several times, but offered no conversation.
Finally, he said, "I thought you'd be bubbling like a school girl."
"No. Sorry. I'm a bit low tonight, I'm afraid, Hunt."
"Any particular reason?"
"I'm worried about Dad."
Hunt felt genuine concern pinch at his chest. "He's not ill is he?"
"He hasn't been well for a long time. But it's not that. He has some business problems. I worry about them too."
Hunt knew that this was true. And again, even though he resisted it, he could not help but feel admiration for Liza Quinn, not for her looks alone, but for her spirit and for her loyalty to her father, a quality well known to everyone. But he preferred not to think of the pretty girl's admirable qualities. Instead, he looked away.
But soon, feeling the silence between them grow in heaviness, Hunt said, "It's not true that your father's selling out, is it?"
She looked at him quickly, then back to the road. Astonishment captured and held her face.
"Of course not," she exclaimed. "What ever made you think of that?"
"It was a rumor I heard. I knew it wasn't true."
She looked at him again, then, turning her eyes back to the winding, dirt trail, she said, "When did you hear that, Hunt? And from whom?"
"Several days ago," he replied. "It was the same day you asked me to this party, I think."
"That was almost a week ago," she said.
"About that long ago. But I knew it wasn't true. Your father's not the type who quits something he's built."
Liza seemed not to hear him. He looked at her. She showed all the signs of deep, disturbing thoughts. "Is anything the matter, Liza?"
"I don't know," she answered. "Who told you that, Hunt?"
"Vern mentioned it. But he had heard it from others. At least, I assumed he had. He said it was a rumor that was going around."
"And that was a week ago," she said, as if to herself.
"Does that mean something?"
"It might." She paused, as if debating a decision to go on, then she said, "Something happened tonight some visitors Daddy had they talked about him selling out. I just don't see how the rumor started before Daddy received the offer himself."
"That does seem odd," Hunt agreed. He sensed her tenseness, and did not pursue the subject. It was enough that he knew that he was right, that Barry Quinn was not about to disband a kingdom he had created.
The road twisted and turned for several miles. Liza maneuvered the car around it expertly, almost feeling the turns before they appeared in the headlights. Then the road straightened, nosing directly to the beach.
Liza halted the car beneath the cover of high trees. She cut the lights, and Hunt could hear her breath deeply, as she, like himself, looked to the beach and saw the brightness of one large bonfire, then spread out from it, the smaller ones, like children away from, but still near their mother's security.
He pushed the handle of the door down and was about to step out when Liza stopped him.
"Hunt, let's wait just a minute, please. I want to tell you something."
He reclosed the door and waited. He could see the dark form of Liza's head turn to him, then he heard her voice.
"Hunt I wonder if I hope, let's say, that you have some idea what your contract means to Daddy.
"It means a lot to me, too," he said. "I've got money in the bank for the first time in my life."
"No, I don't mean that. Everything has to have some meaning that's more than money. At least with Daddy and me, it's that way."
"It use to be that way for me, too," Hunt said soberly. "But now it's just money that counts."
"Just money," she repeated.
"Yes."
She did not speak for a long time. When she did, her voice had changed, had grown cautious and uncertain.
"What I had hoped you knew, Hunt," she said, "is that Daddy is depending on a lot from you. Depending on you to do some things more than just make money for the organization or for himself or even for you."
"I rather sensed that," Hunt replied. "And I am fond of your father, perhaps even more than you can guess. He's done a lot for me. But, it's money that I want, Liza, it's money I'm wrestling for, it's money I hope to make out of this game."
"And you'll do it, too," she agreed. "But you have a chance to do a lot more. You could do something for wrestling itself. You could end some of the confusion of it. That's what Daddy wants. And I think he wants it as a kind of monument to himself something he can leave behind, after he's gone. And speaking of money, have you any idea how much he's spent building your publicity, preparing you for the circuit?"
"No, but I assume that it's a lot."
"Thousands of dollars, Hunt, that's what he's spent already."
Hunt hesitated, then said, "He's made a good investment."
"I think so. I hope so," Liza said. Then she added, "Come on, let's join the others."
Hunt crawled out of the car, walked around it, then opened the other door for Liza. It was very dark. He could see only her outline as she stepped out, but then he felt the impact of her body as she bumped against him. Her sharp breasts stabbed at his forearm. Her knee bumped against his thigh.
"Ooooops, sorry," she said.
Hunt said nothing. But he did not withdraw his hand when Liza took it and fell into step next to him as they headed toward the beach.
They walked around and between trees, then down a steep slope of sand, then around many high dunes as they made their way to the bonfire. Sometimes, their bodies bumped. Once or twice, Liza's fingers tightened their hold on Hunt's hand. He did not speak. But his thoughts burned.
Hunt tried to ascertain how long it had been since he had been with a girl on a date. He couldn't remember. Such a memory seemed as distant as a shore opposite an ocean. Then he concentrated hard upon his feelings, trying, without bitter memories of another girl, to determine exactly what he did feel by the grasp of Liza's hand, the bump of her sexual body. He hunted a spark of passion within him, that spark which would tell him that he was not predestined for homosexual love alone. And he found it. Almost gleefully, he thought of Liza, walking close beside him, thought of her as means of igniting the faint hint of his growing passion for a woman. But then, just as quickly, he denied it, sent it scampering to coldness as memories of deceit engulfed him.
"What a heavenly night for a party," Liza said, her voice gay again, as if for the period of the party she had put aside her doubts and worries.
"But why a fire on a night hot as this one?" Hunt said.
"For spirit, I guess," she said. "You know, the old college atmosphere."
"Yes, I know," he said, feeling suddenly very despondent.
As they approached the fire, Hunt saw a dark form turn and look at them, then hurry to meet them. Hunt recognized him as a reporter from one of the city newspapers.
"Well, here comes one of our hosts," Liza said. Then, when the short man stopped before them, she said, "Hi, Amos, thanks for inviting us."
"Thanks fpr coming, little beauty," he said. Then he turned to Hunt and said, "Hi, Buddy. Glad you could make it."
"I am, too."
"And Hunt," the reporter continued. "I don't want you to become immodest, there's enough of that in sports already, but I just want to tell you that you look great to us in every way."
"Thanks very much," Hunt said.
"I mean it, boy. And I'm glad you came along when you did. A guy like Barry Quinn deserves to have something like you happen to him before he puts away the gloves for good."
"That's what I was trying to tell him," Liza added.
"It's the truth," the reporter said. "You've had a terrific build up, the best I've ever seen, now the rest is up to you."
"I'm going to try hard to win all the time," Hunt said.
"That's not the important thing, boy," the reporter said. "Just keep clean, don't stray don't be tempted not by anything keep the image that's been built for you. It's a true image. Don't ruin it. That's more important than winning or losing or any of that jazz."
"I don't expect to change," Hunt replied.
"Good. Don't." The reported looked at Liza, then, gaily said, "And now, join the party. Have fun. Lose yourself in booze or among the sand dunes. Live it up, kids." He turned and walked back to the group by the fire.
In a moment, Hunt and Liza joined the others. They ate. They sang songs. They listened to jokes. They laughed. And they drank, Liza quite a bit, Hunt, knowing that this, too, was a test, very little, yet feeling the effects of even a small amount of alcohol.
The night remained hot, the fire adding to it, and the songs became nostalgic and of love, and, almost before he knew it had happened, Hunt found himself feeling very good, very gay, immensely happy with some inner feeling of comfort that he had not known for a very long time. And he found his arm wrapped around the waist of Liza Quinn as they swayed in time with the others as they sang.
When the song ended, there ended, too, the freshness and cleanness of the party.
"Now for some games," someone called. There were cheers.
"Do we stay or leave?" Liza asked, looking into Hunt's face.
"I'm game if you are," he said.
"That I am, Hunt, old boy," she said, the words seeming odd, coming from the slight drunkenness she felt, Hunt assumed.
"Over here, everybody," a man's voice called.
There was a padding of feet in the sand as the crowd hurried to a spot down the beach which had been designated as the area for games.
Hunt and Liza waited, then headed toward the others. It was when they were mid-away there that Nadine Bersc-like approached them, slid her arm about Liza's waist, then fell into step with the couple.
"Hi, sweetie," she said, ignoring Hunt. "Are you going to be my little old partner in a game?"
"I'm not sure I'm playing," Liza said coldly.
"Ah, come on, don't let this big square stop you from doing what comes naturally."
Hunt looked at the woman, sensing some innuendo to her words but unable to determine her true meaning.
"Yes, I said, 'square', " she said to Hunt. "That's what you are, you know, a great, big, wrestling square ask anyone."
"He's hardly interested," Liza said. "I'm not,' he assured Nadine.
She hugged Liza to her, then said, "Baby, just think, maybe you can escape that square date of yours for a bit and spoon behind a dune with me." Nadine broke into a loud, long, scream of laughter.
"You're drunk," Liza said. "That's all that's the matter with you."
"Drunk I am, baby, but that's not what's bothering me, you know damn well."
"Let's just skip it," Liza said, glancing quickly at Hunt.
"Okay," Nadine agreed. "But Baby, should you become my partner, watch out." She broke her hold on Liza's waist, then hurried ahead of them, stumbling a bit in the sand.
Hunt glanced around the area. He saw many from the camp he knew. But he did not see Vern Masters. It seemed odd. Very odd, for Vern had said he was attending. Then Hunt realized that he had not yet seen Turk Otter, either. He guessed that the two of them were together, then he wondered if they were lovers. It seemed true to Hunt. But he would not make such an acknowledgement. He wondered why. Then he decided it was because the two men were much too different: Vern was fine and sensitive, a young man whom Hunt liked perhaps one for whom he found more than fondness; And Turk was a tiger, mean, unpredictable, savage and vengeful, filled with hostility and without discretion or care for the feelings of others. Vern and Turk seemed as emotionally incompatible to each other as did Nadine Bersc-like and Liza Quinn, Hunt decided. Then he thought about the girls for a moment. Then he forgot them.
They arrived and crowded together with the others in a circle of sand, well-lighted now by full exposure to the moon.
"All right, chums," some self-appointed master-of-ceremonies called out. "We're going to start with a little old game called 'Mystery Roulette'. "
Half of the group laughed, signifying their familiarity with the game. The other half were quiet, but expectant.
Liza glanced up at Hunt and smiled. Then a man, hurrying among the group, handed both Liza and Hunt a tall, paper cup.
Hunt tried his drink, then said, "Man that's straight. But, Cheers anyway." He tipped the cup toward Liza, then drank from it. She did the. same.
" 'Mystery Roulette', Yes, sir, that's the name of this game, folks, and it ain't one you'll see on television," the master-of-ceremonies said. Then, in exaggerated energy, he shouted, "Now everybody off with their clothes."
There were squeals. There was laughter. There were yips and cat calls and ribald remarks.
Liza smiled at Hunt and asked, "Still game for the game, friend?"
"A lousy fun-pun, friend," he answered. Liza laughed wildly, and in a minute, Hunt joined her, laughed hard and unrestrainedly.
Liza sipped more from her cup, then placed it on a beach blanket spread near by. Hunt watched her, hesitated a moment, then drained the contents of his cup and flipped it away. Then, in a giant motion, he pulled his sports shirt over his head, baring his huge chest.
"So that's your answer, eh?" she said playfully. She, too, hesitated, but only for a moment, then she raised her hands to the top button of her dress. She undid it. The material parted slightly, then, with butterfly fingers she undid the remaining buttons and stepped free of the garment.
Hunt had been wrong. She was not without underclothes. She wore tiny, small V shaped, bikini panties. And these she dislodged most expeditiously.
Hunt watched her quick movement of undressing, then he glued his eyes to her body as she straightened and stretched, looking, he thought, like some native girl about to begin a savage dance. Her body was exquisite: it curved and flared and puffed and indented. And it moved. Constantly it moved as she stretched and breathed. And her nipples extended and waved. And her navel pinched like a god's eye winking from a Roman statue.
She looked at Hunt, then shyly looked away, conveying a modest proudness for her body, conveying, too, the hope that Hunt would find it to his liking.
Liza stopped and picked up her cup. Then she drank most of the liquor. Then she said to Hunt, "Come on, you're not going to be a sissy, are you?"
Without speaking, without removing his eyes from their appreciation for her body, he quickly undressed, then stood nude before her.
For a long time, neither of them moved. It was as if each was fearful of the others nudity, as if it might cause a reaction that was not yet ready for revelation. Liza and Hunt moved together and faced the center of the circle.
Hunt was frantically aware of her closeness. He was glad that he was. But even as he was happy for it even as he felt the light bump of her bare skin, bare breast skin, against his arm he wondered at the inaction, the unresponsiveness of his sex.
And apparently Liza wondered about it, too. Hunt was aware of her frequent glance at his body, at the way her eyes lowered quickly, then raised and turned away, as if what she saw or didn't see disappointed her.
Hunt's eyes wandered and investigated the other naked members of the party. There were numerous almost unanimous signs of response from the other men. And with none of them, it seemed, was it cause for embarrassment. Many of them laughed, several pointed, and a few of the women struck at their escorts in bad-boy fashion, as if their response had been willed and not involuntary.
Hunt looked at Liza. She stared straight ahead. He turned and joined her line of view.
"All right, let's get organized," the M.C. called out. "All those familiar with the game form a circle. And you, the bongo drum player, get over there with your back turned to the group."
Hunt watched a group rush forward. He saw two circles formed, women in one, the men in another which ringed the smaller female circle.
"We need a few more players," the Master-of-ceremonies said.
Liza glanced at Hunt. He shook his head, then said, "No this one I've got a feeling this game's not for me."
"Me either," Liza answered.
They both continued to watch the activity before them. Hunt felt a feeling of rustling revulsion take him as the objective of the game became apparent. The women, giggling, stood ready in their circle. The men formed an outer circle.
"Now when the drum starts it beat," the M.C. said, "everyone move in opposite directions. When the beat stops, you must immediately take the person opposite you as your partner and as your partner you must immediately well, I'm sure you all know what I mean. Okay ready go start the music."
Hunt thought even the beat of the drum was sensual. But it was not of a sensuality that he enjoyed it seemed of the most perverse type.
The men and women revolved around each other. Then the beat of the drum ceased. There were hollers and yelps as men and women came together, stranger confronted by nude stranger. But their hesitation was only for a moment. Then they rolled together on the sand.
Hunt felt uneasiness sweep him as he saw the erotic play, saw the various positions that were attained as they all sprawled to the ground and engaged in love-making.
Then the music started again.
"Up-up start revolving again," the M.C. said excitedly.
The couples parted amid many ribald shouts. "Oh, no I was just getting ready," cried a girl. "You were getting I was already there," hollered a man.
"Man what a time to stop," shouted another girl.
"That goddamn drum," screamed another girl. "What a rotten time to hear its beat I only needed another couple of another kind of beats, I'll tell you!"
The participants, in spite of their disinclination to leave the partners with whom they were engaged nevertheless began revolving again. And soon the rhythm of the drum again quieted and new men met new girls who met new onslaughts of love-making, igniting, re-igniting, and for a few, finishing, that which had been begun by a processor. And the music started again. And the players moved again, until at last there was no energy left for continuation of the beach game.
Hunt and Liza had remained quiet throughout the game. Occasionally, they glanced at each other, but that was all. And they made no move to join the new group which was formed to replace those who had become depleted of both enthusiasm and ability for a new game.
"This time we're going to do it a little different," the M.C. said. "We break the groups up in men and women get it, men and women, one after the other in both circles, and whoever becomes your partner, well, you just go ahead as before. Ready start."
The drum pounded. The men and women, intermingled in the circles, moved. When the rhythm stopped, there was a mixture of sex, both old and new awaiting them: woman faced man, man faced man, and woman faced woman. And, without hesitation, sometimes with great inventiveness, they found the means to sexual togetherness and united in a wild, and thrusting community of giving.
The bongo player delayed starting, allowing the time necessary for the uninitiated of same-sex love to become familiar with procedures. They all leaned quickly. And then the music started again and man brought himself from woman, girl left girl, and man left man, to resume their motion in the circle of perversity.
The game soon exhausted the participants, and itself.
After the shouts had quieted, the M.C. announced the desire for silence and a new game.
"This one's called Touch and Tell', " he said. Then he said, "I want a volunteer."
There was a scampering of several who desired to be "it", those who were willing to give their all for the evening's entertainment.
A girl was chosen. She was from the camp, one of the girl wrestlers. She was large, and beautifully built. The M.C. settled her cross-legged on a beach blanket. Then he blindfolded her. Then he turned to the group.
"The rules of this game are simple," he explained. "The guesser the one who is 'it', remains blindfolded. They must not peek. Then, as I point to each of the rest of you, you're to go and stand in front of the guesser. And she only by touching, friends, is to guess who has presented themselves for her inspection. Now, we might have a little problem because everyone doesn't know each other, but I'll try and select the contestants from among those the guesser does know. All right, ready now."
The blindfolded girl stuck both hands outward and cried, Man am I ever ready."
Laughter erupted again. Then the M.C, motioning for silence, pointed his finger at a tall wrestler whom Hunt recognized as one of the veterans of the Quinn organization.
The man stepped clear of the others and came to attention directly in front of the blindfolded girl. She raised her hands and touched at the man's thigh's. Then in a quick motion she brought one hand down and grasped him hard.
"Oh, of course," she cried. "It's Charlie I'd know him anywhere."
There were howls. Then the M.C. said, "All right, all right, now kiddies. You were correct. Now I wonder how in the world you were able to guess that it was Charlie so quickly.'
More howls. More laughter. More shouts. More squeals and tittering and low-down remarks.
"Score keeper, don't forget to make your tallies," the M.C. said. "The winner has a case of champagne waiting."
The M.C. made a new selection. This time it was a small, pretty girl. She was recognized immediately by the 'guesser', almost as quickly as Charlie had been discovered, but this time it was done by a quick sweep of both hands over the girl's breasts.
There were more contestants, men and women, and there were more nude bodies presented for manual inspection. Some were guessed. Some were not. Liza and Hunt watched all of it good-naturedly, laughing with the others, sometimes passing a remark between them, but largely, being a part of the group, losing their individuality within it.
Soon, however, Liza was 'it'. She sat naked and blindfolded, awaiting her turn at guessing. The M.C. selected Hunt as the first contestant. He presented himself before Liza, stood straight and waited.
Liza added something new to the proceedings. She disdained to touch at his body, feel as the others had felt. She aspired to a higher calling, a problem that could test her talent. She raised from her sitting position. She brought her hands to Hunt's face. She touched at his eyelids, now closed, at his ears, then finally at his mouth, running her fingers over it in tiny, touching caresses.
Then, quite naturally, she said, "It's Hunt Stratford."
There was clapping. And there were shouts. And above it all there was the heady cry of Nadine Bersc-like, screaming out, "And she did it by touching his mouth! Man do we ever know what that means!"
The laughter became frantic, crescendoed because of Nadine's remark.
Hunt lost himself among the others as Liza reseated herself and waited for the next player to step before her.
A man was chosen. He stepped forward. Liza did not rise. Hunt waited, expecting her to do so, feeling a crush of his emotions that demanded that she rise, touch at the man's face as she had his, not, as it now looked she would, make a genital gesture as means of identification.
The man stood straight and waited. Liza waited. And Hunt watched them both, waiting for it to happen, waiting for her action, which to him would be one of self-debasement, some fraud of herself perpetrated for the amusement of others.
Liza raised her hands slightly. Hunt felt a pinch of pressure at his chest, and he knew it was the stress of anger, but knew not why it had come to him.
Liza's head raised slightly as if she could see through the blindfold, as if her eyes, covered, but on a line with the man's stretching self, looked at. considered, and wanted that toward which she was directed.
Suddenly, Hunt could stand it no more. He pushed through the crowd, stepped into the circle, then, half-running, went to Liza. He snatched the blindfold from her eyes. Then he grabbed her hand and jerked her to her feet.
"The game's over," he said roughly. He pulled her with him back through the others, down the beach and away from the crowd, which, by his action, had been brought to a high, jeering, cat-calling pitch.
Liza did not speak. But her expression was one of pleasure. And it did not change, not even when they were safely behind a high sand dune and out of sight of the others.
It was when they slowed, and finally stopped, that Hunt's face registered shock. And it was for himself, for his uncontrolled, spontaneous action which had caused him to snatch her from the game, to, in effect, and before a large group of colleagues, designate her his own.
He looked at his prize. There was only a slight cut of moonlight, slipping around the sand dune, to strike at Liza's body, making her look glowing, mixing with the auburn of her hair to create the impression of a mysterious girl of fire. She looked hot. She smiled, and the bright white of her teeth added some, strange rapture to her total bare and sensual appearance. Hunt felt a pulsation of desire pump low within his stomach. Then he felt it again and knew the heaviness of total response for the desirable Liza Quinn.
Liza immediately recognized his rise of passion. She stepped close, then said, "I'm glad you took me away, Hunt, really I am."
"I don't know why I did," he answered huskily.
"Don't you?" she said. She raised one hand and placed it lightly, palm down, at the roll of muscle beneath his navel. "Don't you really know why you brought me here?"
He felt her hand. It was hot. And it mixed with the greater heat of his own body. Then he felt the throb of his desire, knew that it was becoming gigantic, knew, too, that it was directed at the auburn-haired girl, the girl of fire and heat and immense craving, the girl who, at that very moment, lowered her hand and grasped him lovingly, then squeezed as she shuddered in mighty anticipation.
Hunt jerked her to him. like tongs, his hands gripped the firm flesh of her buttocks as he ground her against the hardness of himself, stabbing at her with a fury as if she were a foe. He felt the pinch of her breasts against his chest. He felt the thrash of her knees and thighs colliding with his, smacking and kissing, then holding tight to his leg as she wrapped around it. And he felt the freshness of her tongue fluttering at his lips, piercing between them, wiggling in excitement against his, then rolling with it in a gait of urgency and in appeal to have that urgency met by his full taking of her body.
Hunt felt her hand working, felt it wander over all of him then strike at the hard level of baseness and squeeze again. He pushed her from him.
She leaned back against the wall of sand, half-crumbling, but remaining upright and arched toward him. He went to her. He kissed her again, then, as he did so, he fought his knee between her thighs.
She offered no combat, no resistance. Her legs parted. He crashed his manhood to her and she received it half-standing, gasping for the thrill of entrance, then immediately jerking to him as he began the powerful strokes of his desire.
He gave himself hard, shooting to her, moving her up and down as her back slid grindingly to the sand wall. And Hunt felt the genes of passion gather, reinforce themselves, call forth new mates, then gather again in full regiment strength, ready for attack, for the breaking of the dam that would free their flood.
Hunt thrashed harder. Liza slid lower on the wall, yet not lessening the speed of her hips, the twirling of them and her short gasped cries of delight.
"Ah, Hunt good, good, good. Ahhhhh, yes, so, good, good."
Her voice had an aphrodisiac effect on Hunt. Again and again he smashed himself to her and suddenly she was prone and beneath him and his pace had still not lessened.
But as he writhed and tore and gave of himself, he felt the tightening of his chest, the closing of certain pores that should now have been open and waiting. And he knew its cause, knew that it was not love he was conveying in this act, that instead it was an animal act, one without love, one with only self-desired lust, without giving, only receiving. He knew that having Liza or any woman before him,, united to him, was not from love but came from his own great hostility, his new craving to vilify and defile women all of them by the best means possible, by the ironic, almost incredible way of making love to them. By making them want him, desire him, then go into a delirium for the feeling he could give, Hunt knew that he cursed them, hated them, that he always would.
'Oh, Hunt Ahhhhhhhhhh," Liza whined.
He did not slacken his pace. He did not become novel or unique. He merely whipped himself to his own finish, a finish that found Liza screaming in explosion even as hs own release was congested, small, a sad and pathetic answer to the mighty call he had known, a miserable end, a small peak attained, and all of it because of hate and not caused by love at all.
When it was over, they breathed hard together. But Hunt, anxious to be free, pushed back and jumped to his feet.
"Don't go not yet, darling, "Liza said.. "
"Stay close to me for a little while."
"No."
"Hunt, what's wrong?"
"Nothing. I just want to leave. Are you ready, or do you want to stay?"
like a woman who was knowledgeable about men, especially about their feelings following an act of love, Liza smiled and pushed upward. Then she raised to her feet.
"Well? Hunt asked.
"I'll go, of course, as long as you want to."
He looked at her and thought, How stupid, she doesn't even know there was little in it for me. She doesn't know that I hate her, that I hate all of them because they're all the same.
They went to the spot where they had left their clothes. They dressed. They walked to the car. Then they departed the beach, the moonlight, the party, and even the memory of love-making, which, for Liza was meaningful and strong, but for Hunt was only a frail call which could not undo the past, could not provide a woman-future of happiness.
He left her at the door of her house.
"When will we be together again, darling?" she asked.
"We won't be," he said bluntly. "Not ever."
"Hunt!"
He turned and walked away. He did not look back. He wanted only freedom from her, from all women.
CHAPTER NINE
Hunt was quick to accept Vern Masters's invitation for a swim. The invitation had sexual overtones. Hunt didn't care. He was pent-up and nervous, tied in knots; that way because of Liza, his sexual relations with her which told him he was through with women, and because his professional wrestling debut was only a few days away.
Vern grinned as he drove toward the lake, then he glanced at Hunt and said, "I'm kind of surprised you took me up on the swim."
"Why?"
"Oh, I don't know. Just didn't think you'd go, I guess."
"Well, I'm here.'
"Yes, you are, old buddy," Vern said. Then he added, "How do you feel about your first match."
"Anxious. A little nervous."
"That's natural enough," Vern replied. "I'd be the same way if the old man had spent the same kind of money on me."
"I didn't ask him to," Hunt said, a little defensively.
"I know." He was silent for a few minutes, then said, "By the way, you've been with him a lot. Has he mentioned selling out?"
"Not a word. His daughter said there was no truth in it though."
"Liza?"
"Yeah."
"When were you with her?"
"At the party," he said. Then, taking the offensive, "And where were you? I didn't see you at the party."
Vern's face clouded a bit. "Oh, I had some business in town. Turk and I had to go to the city on a little business. I hated missing it, too."
"You didn't miss much," Hunt told him. "I'm glad to hear that."
Vern continued driving toward the lake. Hunt glanced at him and noticed an especial thoughtful expression. It was the most concentrated expression Hunt had yet seen him effect. And once again, he thought of change, the way Vern Masters was different than from the beginning of their friendship. He seemed almost constantly in thought now, and he laughed less, much as if he were burdened with some inner problems which were multiplying. Then Hunt decided that undoubtedly he, too, had changed from the person he was when arriving at the camp. Everyone changed, every day.
Vern pulled the car close to the beach. Then he cut the motor.
"I've never see this spot before," Hunt said.
"No. It's my private beach. At least that's what I call it. I doubt anyone else knows just how get here. That's the way I like it."
"It certainly is desolate enough."
"Yeah. That's great, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Well, up and at it, old buddy." Vern pushed open the car door and stepped outside. He walked to the front of the car, then waited for Hunt to join him. Then they walked to the edge of the water.
Hunt shook his swimming trunks loosed from a big turkish towel where they were wrapped. Then he loosened the belt of his trousers.
"What have you got there?" Vern asked, smiling broadly.
"Just what they look like. Trunks."
"Buddy, you really do try to louse up nature, don't you. At a spot like this, trunks seem a little silly."
Hunt dropped them on the beach. "Maybe you're right."
"No 'maybes' about it. I am right."
Hunt dropped his trousers, tossed off his sports shirt and loafers, then raised and look out into the lake. He tried to see the opposite shore, but the lake was too wide at that position. As he cupped his eyes and searched the horizon, he could hear Vern disrobing just behind him. Hunt was reminded of their near affair, and felt a tremor of stimulation. But then Vern spoke of matters foreign to sex and Hunt forgot it.
"Have you ever thought about joining another syndicate, Hunt?" Vern asked.
"No, never," he said, surprised at the question.
"Might be a good idea someday."
"Why?"
"Well, if the old man's selling out, you should start to make arrangements."
"Quinn's not selling."
"I wouldn't be too sure," Vern said. "Don't count on it, not even what Liza might say."
"Well, I'm not worried about it," Hunt said. "Besides, I've got a contract."
"That won't mean much if he sells."
"I wasn't thinking of that end of it. I meant I have a contract to fulfill."
"You might learn that ethics don't mean much in this business," Vern said.
"Mine as they effect Barry Quinn do," he answered.
As if he didn't hear him, Vern said, "Boy, you could make a honey of a contract. After the build-up you've been given hell, the promoters would fight to get you."
"No doubt. Especially if they got me after Quinn used his money to make me."
Vern did not answer. He finished with his undressing, then, completely nude, walked next to Hunt.
Hunt turned to him. "You're not making arrangements to leave the camp are you?"
"Me, oh, hell, no," he said, a little too quickly. "Besides I'm just small potatoes around here nothing like you're going to be."
"And that remains to be seen," Hunt said.
"There's a sand bar about a half mile out. Want to swim for it?"
"Sure, let's go."
They raced into the water, then dived at a point where it was waist high. The feel of the water was good to Hunt. Swimming, was a taboo sport for wrestlers. It softened muscles that had been made hard by training. But an occasional swim did not hurt. And in this instance, it served to relax Hunt's taut nerves.
Together, almost in identical crawl strokes, the men swam to the sand bar. Then they dragged themselves atop it and rested. It was a high bar, making the water very shallow, allowing them to sit and rest submerged only to their waists.
"Man, that felt great," Vern said.
"It's been years since I've been swimming," Hunt said, trying to remember exactly how long it had been.
"I was in an Aquacade for a little while," Vern said. "Right after the off-Broadway show I was in folded the second night. At that time I figured it was my voice that was wrong. Swimming, I didn't have to use it."
Hunt laughed, then said, "Why didn't you make it, Vern?"
"Lots of reasons. But mainly, I just didn't have the stamina for it. Show business is work, brother. The hardest work I've ever done. So I didn't have it. I'm basically pretty damn lazy."
"Most of us are, I guess," Hunt offered.
"Yeah. Especially me. That's why I hope to make a killing in this game. Make it, and get out, then do nothing but play."
"Sounds great," Hunt said, although he didn't really believe it.
"I wouldn't mind trying it for awhile," Vern said. Then, playfully, he slapped water at Hunt.
He returned the splash, but Vern caught his wrist and pulled him forward, making him fall beneath the water and across his lap.
Hunt came up sputtering as Vern laughed heartily, then said, "Want to wrestle in water?"
"No thanks. I might drown."
"I wouldn't let that happen," Vern said seriously.
"Good."
Vern leaned far back in the water, flexing his muscles, posing, it seemed, in a way that showed his body to Hunt, a wav that demonstrated it much the same way a well-built model demonstrates strength in advertising pages.
Hunt looked at the lean body and felt a certain envy for it. He had always been hard, but heavily built, not lithesome and agile. That part of his physical abilities he had learned. It was not a natural part of him as it was with Vern Masters. And as Hunt looked at him he remembered the many times they had been close together; in the wrestling ring, and in their room; once when it had created passion, a near giving of himself to the handsome, young wrestler. And Hunt wondered if that was over for him, too, if all passion, his capacity for it, had ended, or if it was merely the woman-drawing subjects he now loathed. And why was it so? he questioned. Why had he chosen a time with Liza Quinn to come to this realization? Why hadn't it been with a whore? Then he realized that it was because Liza had been the first woman in all the years with whom he had an emotional attachment, one created by his fondness for the father. The others he had not known. Liza he did. And his weak and unsatisfying finish with her was the proof he needed that he was incapable of love for any woman. His self-argument was weak, he knew. But it was enough. He accepted it.
"Ready to swim back?" Vern asked.
"Ready," Hunt replied. He watched Vern rise, noticed again the slim, whipping body, and because of it felt a new tremble of excitement within his own body, at his groin, deep and at the base of masculinity.
Hunt pushed to his feet, suddenly unashamed of the bloat erotic emotions had caused.
But Vern recognized it, nodded, laughed and said, "Well, the swim back will kill that, I'm afraid."
Hunt laughed too. Then together they splashed away from the sand bar and swam the long way back to shore.
They left the water as they had entered it together. Then quite naturally, as children sometimes do, they joined hands and continued toward the blanket Vern had spread in the center of a circle of high dunes and beach bushes.
They sat down. Then, naturally, too, they turned to each other and fell into an immediate embrace. The wetness of their chests mixed and as Hunt felt the hard muscles of Vern straining to him, he could not help but remember the feel of Liza's body, the contrasting softness of it. Then as Vern reached for him, Hunt banished the memory, content only for the moment and what it could bring.
And what it brought was a lengthening of their bodies as they reclined a smothering of mouth upon mouth a twisting of their legs until they entwined a reaching of hands until they found each other and simultaneously began the light pull and squeeze of mutual giving.
Hunt's mind became a vacuum, a limbo of nothing but actual feeling: Vern's mouth on his, the tongue playing, caressing, the sharp, white teeth drawing and biting gently, the hand moving evenly, the flatness of their stomachs blending, and the circling of their legs. And he felt his need for more, for greater closeness, for a complete release of all that was within and churning to be free.
He fought Vern to his back, then encased him with his heavy frame. Without withdrawing his mouth, Hunt fought closer and attained the historic position of man's sexual dominance over woman, but with the difference that it was man upon man, that instead of an entrance meeting him there was the clash of their sameness, blurring and twisting and fighting together like knights of antiquity in battle.
And their combat of man-love grew more furious. Vern arched and twisted in rhythm to the heavy pounding Hunt committed upon his body, upon his own body, too, and if it was reminiscent of another kind of love-making, the kind of a woman's soft body beneath him, Hunt declined the memory, knowing that it would only be an excuse for the thrill he was experiencing, for the greater thrill that would soon be his.
Regretfully, but in a regret, that held the promise of greater giving and receiving, Vern twisted his mouth from Hunt's and fought himself to a lower position beneath his heavy lover. And Hunt, as if instinct alone guided him, raised and moved upward, even as he continued the titanic pounding of his hips. Vern slid lower. Hunt, now a wiggling anxious thing, pushed higher upon Vern, concealing him from sight but feeling the sharp caress of his tongue upon chest and stomach, then lower still as Hunt moved again, then lower and lower until at last there was indeed an orifice of welcome, the entry Hunt sought.
He plunged hard. And deep. Then raised and plunged again, unmindful of any difference of that to which he gave himself in such deep fathoms of desire, unmindful of the body that was like his own and beneath him, intolerant of all the world except that world of feeling which held him, consumed him, released him then took him again.
Hunt sensed Vern attempting and wanting to cry out, although it was impossible. Then he felt the higher arch of Vern's lower body as he encased Hunt's leg with both of his thighs, pinching the parenthesis of them closed in a hot, tight togetherness that was meant to squeeze and drain himself even as the same thing happened for Hunt.
And when it happened Hunt heard himself yelp and knew the sound as that of some distant relative like himself, but different.
There was a final cry, and a whimpering from Vern, then it was over, finished, complete except for the strained breathing of each of them which fought for a return of evenness, normality, and the peace of after-love.
Hunt rolled away from Vern, fell to his side and breathed deeply. He felt the immediate impact of Vern against his back, kissing new kisses to it. It was then that Hunt felt a dismal unrest again. And he felt fear, too, much as if some demon vulture had taken him, held him tight, and would never let him go.
CHAPTER TEN
Liza, clad in her eternal shorts and bra, and barefooted, was curled in the corner of a couch at the end of the living room as her father entered. She was reading a newspaper intensely. Dozens of similar sheets were spread out around her and on the floor.
"I don't have to ask what you're doing," Quinn said brightly.
"Hi, Dad," she said, looking up. Then, "These reporters are going mad over Hunt."
"I know," Quinn answered, smiling broadly. "I've had some phone calls." He nodded toward the papers. T haven't read anything yet, however."
"Good. Listen to a few of these accounts." She gathered some sports pages together as her father walked across the room, then settled in a big chair opposite her.
"Here's just a sampling," she said. "From Chicago: 'A new image was brought to wrestling last night in the person of Hun Stratford. He's clean, honest, strong, and skillful, and to this reporter he brings a memory of the days of Londos the days of champions who were that by the right of their ability alone'. "
Liza paused, smiled at her father, saw it returned, then continued, "And from Cleveland: "They haven't nicknamed him "The Professor" yet, and I hope Barry Quinn doesn't do it. I doubt he will, for Quinn, a small man of giant integrity, through his new star attraction, Hunt Stratford, has added a bright new light to the sport of grapplers. Stratford appears to be the young, and large sized package, of Quinn himself, for, like the promoter, the wrestler plays clean and straight, without gimmicks and not needing them. Stratford is enough all by himself. He wrestled in college. He hasn't changed. He fights to win, and even if he doesn't take them all, it's a pleasure to have this new giant of sports among us'. "
"How do you like them roses?" Liza joked.
"I like em fine. Tell me more, child, tell me more."
"All right, here's a goody from Charlie Wood's column in the Sports' Daily: 'While one has never doubted for years that wrestling is more exhibition than competition, a newcomer last night, Barry Quinn's, Hunt Stratford, has demonstrated that there is a place for both, showmanship and skillful combat, in the wrestling game. Young Stratford appears to be combining both qualities in his recent matches. He gives tremendous exhibitions of strength, and he does it in a modest, truthful manner, without fraud committed against the fans. This reporter believes that wrestling is a tremendous exhibition. It is a part of the game today, and it should be. But with the rise of Stratford, all of us who love the game realize that it has a second calling, a kind of extra plateau that it deserves the area of true and honest competition. Hunt Stratford has established a beach-head toward this desired goal. So, our hat is off to Barry Quinn, both for a sincere desire to return true competition to one area of wrestling, and for finding the lad who can do it Hunt Stratford."
"My, my," Quinn said, pretending surprise. "Charlie Wood hasn't been that generous in the past."
"Right. And neither has Bo Markmichael, but listen to what he says. She turned a page, then read from it:
'Something refreshing was brought to a sport last night that is long over-due, and much in need of freshness. Hunt Stratford, new to the Boston rings, toppled one of the so-called champions, Mike Train, two out of three exciting falls that had the fans screaming as they haven't screamed in a couple of decades. All of us have to thank Barry Quinn, Stratford's manager and promoter, for it. Old enough to remember the way things once were in wrestling, and young enough to have the guts to risk his reputation and money on his dreams and principles, Barry Quinn has done a Mandrake trick: he's returned honest competition to wrestling.
"These observers understand that Quinn is making no deals with other promoters; when they fight their boy against Stratford, they wrestle him straight. He's making no deals, there are no rehearsals and cue sheets. Quinn's competitors have to pick the boys of their organization who wrestle on merit, not theatrics. Oh, Quinn has performers. He always will have. And they do their job. But with Hunt Stratford, the other promoters have to come up with real competition. Quinn is challenging them. Some of them don't like it, and the rumor is out that they'd like the pressure off. It's too expensive. But Quinn has our respect, and our best wishes that he won't lose his courage before the pressure that's bound to be brought upon him not by many of his fellow promoters, but by a few a very evil few.'
Liza tossed the papers aside, then she said, "Well, Daddy, do you feel proud?"
"A little. But 'satisfied' is a better word for it. Satisfied that Hunt's all I thought he would be."
"You really think he is, don't you Dad?" she said seriously.
"Yes. And I'm not usually wrong, baby. Hunt has something that people don't see on the outside. I can't tell you what it is. But I know it has something to do with honesty and playing hard, or maybe it's just a lack of phoniness in him. I don't know. I really don't. But I 'sense', rather than know, that he's right for me, that he's square and always will be."
"I hope he doesn't change," she said.
"I'm sure he won't," Quinn replied.
Liza picked up the last article she had read, glanced at it, then tossed it on the couch again. Her expression changed, grew somber and worried, then she said, "Who are the 'evil few', Daddy."
"Well, I think there's a hell of a lot more than just a few," he said.
"Stop jokin'. That article means the men who called on you those who want to buy you out, doesn't it?"
"Probably," he answered.
"Have you heard anything else?" she asked. "Have they been here again?"
"No. I had a few phone calls from them, nothing more"
"Is it serious, Daddy? Can they force you out of business?"
"They can try, child, but that's all."
"Are you sure."
"I'm sure"
She started to say something, then paused. Again she thought of her discovery of Vern Masters's homosexuality. Then she wondered why that would have any bearing on the problems of business. It seemed silly when she thought of it. She decided not to mention it, knew that it would fall within the realm of gossip something her father loathed. But then she remembered another incident that seemed odd. This she mentioned.
"Daddy, Hunt mentioned something the night of the party that seems a little out of timing, or something."
"What's that, child?"
"He mentioned that he had heard a rumor about you selling out almost a week before those men called on you. Had you heard anything before they cam here?"
"No. That was the first hint I had."
"Isn't it odd?"
"A little." He paused and rubbed thoughtfully at chin. Then he asked, "How did Hunt come to mention it?"
"He asked if it was true. But he said he knew i couldn't be."
"He's right. I'm glad he recognized it." He paused again, then added, "I've a lot of money invested in that boy. If he ran out on his contract joined another promoter, hell, he'd ruin us. And the new outfit would reap the benefits."
"He'd never do that," she said decisively.
"No, he wouldn't," Quinn said, just as definitely. Then he stood up and said, "Well, I have to run, chick. There's plenty to do. And one of these nights I want to fly in and catch Hunt in action. I've avoided it afraid it'd make him nervous but I want to watch him soon."
"That would be nice," she said. "For both of you."
"See you later. I'll be in the study if you want me." Quinn smiled at her again, then turned and left her alone.
Liza looked at the door through which her father had disappeared. She remained looking at it for a long time, much as if the image of him were still there. Then she glanced at the papers a few more times, thinking of Hunt, the success he was having, then remembering again for perhaps the hundredth time the episode of their love-making and his strange reaction, both within the act, and when it was finished. She couldn't understand it. He made love as if he hated, rather than loved, as if he were fighting an opponent rather than nurturing passion from himself and the woman. He was hard and almost hurtful, vengeful and wild and mean. Yet, the excitement he had created within her had not suffered, was not lessened by the storm of his anger.
Liza smiled slightly, remembering her response, her climatic bursting of passion. Then, because she was a woman and vain, because she could not understand man's capability of love-making when he did not love, she discounted the attitude he had had. And she discounted his avoidance of her since the act. She knew it was from guilt that men always felt some guilt following an affair with a woman. Hunt was sensitive of feelings, his own, and those of others, and this was why he had ignored her. And she realized that undoubtedly he had once suffered some awful hurt from a woman, a hurt that was still within him, the kind which took a long time healing. Well, she would give him time, she thought. Hunt was worth the time it would take for his wounds to heal, for his anger to lessen and for his love to rehabilitate and learn how to grow strong again. She was content to wait.
Liza pushed up from the couch and walked across the room. She looked out the front door. Then she pushed it open and stepped outside, feeling with pleasure the early morning sun and its promise of heat. She breathed deeply, then drifted toward the rings, all empty at this early hour of a Sunday morning, looking silent and square, like the single spacings of a chessboard wiped clean of its pieces.
She waited a moment, then walked away from the rings in the direction of a path which cut through the woods.
The damp, moss covered ground felt good on her bare feet. She dug her toes into it as she moved down the path to its first bend which swung away from a small clearing next to a pond.
Liza had nearly executed the turn when she heard the voices. She halted and looked back. Then she moved toward the clearing. She stopped when she had achieved a distant, but clear view of the area.
First Liza saw Turk Otter and Vern Masters sitting close together. Then she saw Nadine Bersc-like leaning against a tree, facing the men and talking to them in a way that looked unaccountably intent for the girl wrestler.
Liza could hear only the mumble of their voices. She strained to catch their words, and almost immediately criticized herself for eavesdropping and wondering why she suddenly felt so inclined. But, self-accusation could not keep her from the inclination to hear all that was being said. She stepped closer, carefully parting branches and stepping light as an Indian.
The conversation of the trio seemed to have reached some pitch, as if a decision was about to be made. Nadine ceased talking. The three of them were quiet for a few seconds, then Vern Masters offered a comment. Silence again until Turk Otter presented an opinion. Then silence came to all three of them again.
The words were only a distant hum to Liza. She stepped closer once more, then paused. Then took another several steps nearer the clearing.
Nadine looked up, her expression registering surprise. Liza saw her body tense, then saw her motion to Vern and Turk for silence.
Liza knew she was about to be discovered. She didn't want that. So, quite casually, she parted more branches, noisily this time, and stepped through them toward the clearing, pretending that she was unaware of the presence of the others.
"Hey, who goes there?" Nadine called out.
"Oh," Liza exclaimed. "Is that you, Nadine."
"It is," the girl replied.
Liza stepped out of the brush and before the small group. She smiled at them, then said, "My, I didn't know there were other early-birds in the camp."
"Just sometimes," Nadine responded soberly.
"What are you doing here anyway?" Turk Otter asked.
"Just out for a walk," Liza said.
"Through the brush?" Vern Masters asked. "Why not on the path?"
"Sometimes I like to watch the woods animals," Liza said, knowing that the excuse was weak and subject to dispute.
"How sweet," Nadine said sarcastically.
"I think so," Liza replied snippily.
"How long you been there?" Otter asked.
"I just arrived. Does it matter, Turk?"
"Oh, no hell, no. Not at all." He tried a smile and it was so obviously contrived that Liza was tempted to laugh. But she did not. Instead she let her eyes roam over the three of them, slowly and individually, as if she were accusing each of some mischief.
"Come on, sit down and join us," Vern Masters said, bringing friendliness to his tone.
"No. I'm walking on for a bit," Liza said. "Not yet, I don't think," Otter said sternly. He walked over to Liza.
"Oh, don't you," Liza said nastily. "And how could you possibly change my mind?"
Otter grinned. Then he turned and looked at Nadine and Vern. They smiled back at him. Nadine winked. Turk nodded then moved even closer to Liza.
"I'm leaving," she said.
'When I'm ready for ya to leave," Turk said roughly. He grabbed her to him. "And not before."
"You tell her, Turk," Nadine said.
"Yeah," Vern agreed. "You're a pretty good convincer, Turk."
"You better believe it," Turk agreed.
"Let go of me, you hunk of filth," Liza hissed. She strained against the strength of his arm which circled her. Then, when she gained no advantage, she brought her hands to his chest and pushed hard.
Turk laughed. "Man, ain't she squirmy."
"Yeah, I know how she is," Nadine said.
As Liza kicked wildly and pounded against Turk's massive chest, he lifted her and held her above the ground.
Liza wondered how she had ever endured even the fantasy of love-making with Turk Otter she had once had. It seemed entirely too incredible now. There was no lure from him. There was only her hate.
"Why don't you entertain us, Turk," Nadine said. "That is, if you're up to it."
"I'm always up to it," he answered. "And either way, as you damn well know."
"I don't think you should, Turk," Vern said, cautiously.
"Don't you," Turk replied without looking at him.
Liza continued to kick frantically and pound at Turk. She considered crying out, but knew she could not. It was beyond her to give that satisfaction to the three whom she now considered her enemies.
Turk laughed and brought his face close to Liza's. He tried a kiss, but she denied it by turning her head, and again she wondered had she had once envisioned making love with Turk. The reality of his arms around her, she knew now, held little thrill for her body.
T think I might need a little assistance," Turk said. He wrestled Liza closer to Vern and Nadine, then thrust her to the ground and fought her flat.
"What a wild cat," he hissed. "But I got a thing for cats."
"She's a bitch not a cat," Nadine said. "Why don't you treat her like a bitch, Turk?"
"Good idea. I'll do just that," he answered.
Gripping Liza's arms in a hurtful double arm lock, he forced her to cease fighting. Then, acting careful and delicate for the amusement of his audience, Turk lifted Liza's bra above her breasts.
"This little bitch really is something," Turk mumbled.
Nadine scrambled close. "Here, let me give you a hand."
"Yeah, you like to do that, don't you," Turk kidded.
"You know it," she said. She fumbled at Liza's shorts for a moment, then found the zipper tab and lowered it. Then she pulled them over Liza's brown legs.
Liza felt the action on her body and considered it. She knew what it meant, that she was about to be sexually used by Turk in front of the others. She shivered a bit, realizing that sex was for love, not for spectatorship. For a moment she considered fuller resistance, but again she decided against it.
"Don't get jealous now, Nadine," Turk said.
"I will, but that's all right, go on."
"Turk-, " Vern started, then said, "Turk, this can cause an awful lot of trouble."
"You're too damn careful," Turk answered.
Liza was whipped flat on her stomach. Then her hips were forced to hunch upward, arched and posed for Turk's violation.
"Get the bitch she really is a bitch now," Nadine said.
Turk did not answer. He fumbled a moment. Then he lurched.
Liza felt him tear through her body, searing deep, then leaving, then ripping forward again. She heard the laughter of Nadine and Vern, heard Turk's heavy breathing and felt his mighty effort. And despite her revulsion for the man, his companions, and the horror-scene he had caused, she could not keep from feeling a response to the crudity of his love-making, the heavy, hard violence with which he took her.
But Turk's energy for her was short-lived. He groaned loud, jammed forward again and again, whipping to his end.
And it was only the beginning of an end for Liza. Her senses heightened, but did not erupt.
"Wow," howled Nadine. "You're a terror, Turk. Too bad I'm not made for you."
"I've never seen you so excited," Vern said, pouting a bit.
Turk pushed Liza forward, making her fall flat as he left her. Then he moved close to her and brought his face next to hers.
"Pig," Liza said. "You're a pig, and when--. "
"Just shut up and listen," he said. "You're not going to say a damn thing about this not a damn things. If you do well, baby, don't, because if you do, I'll get your old man and I'll get you. You'll be two of the deadest looking father-daughter teams there's ever been around. Get it?"
Liza spit hard into his face.
Turk merely laughed. Then he stood up. The others joined him and within a moment, they had turned and walked away.
Liza watched where they disappeared. Then she lowered her head to her arms and sobbed. She knew that she would never speak of this humiliation, knew that she could not, for Turk's threats were not idle, he would indeed not hesitate to harm her father and herself.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hunt Stratford was met at the airport by the boss himself Barry Quinn, wearing the same somber attire, but with a grin that split his face like the sliced smile of a jack-o-lantern.
During the ride back to camp, Hunt was lauded and cautioned; praised for his first professional bouts, all of which he won except a single draw, and reminded that over-confidence, was the doom of all sports contestants. Hunt listened to it all, added a few remarks, and felt extremely grateful to Barry Quinn for so quickly bringing him from an actual and emotional depression to a height of sports popularity.
But when they arrived back at camp, Hunt declined Quinn's invitation to visit for a bit at the big house. Hunt knew that Liza would be there. He didn't want to see her. So he declined, with excuses and an apology.
"Are you sure?" Quinn asked. "I just might let you break training long enough to split a bottle of champagne."
"Thanks. I'd like to. But I'm beat I'm really anxious to get settled back at the cabin."
"That's understandable," Quinn said. "There's plenty for you to think about. But I wish you would come in for a little while."
"Another time. Give me a rain check, okay?"
"Sure, kid."
Quinn dropped Hunt at his cabin. Then he shook Hunt's hand again, and twisted the big car toward the driveway of his home.
Hunt opened the cabin door, hoisted his bag inside, then entered himself. He stood in the middle of the room and looked around. It had the atmosphere of home, small though it was, even not truly belonging to himself it still rang with a familiarity that gave Hunt a sudden surge of well-being, a happiness for his life.
He unpacked his bag slowly. Each item, clothes and toiletries and books, reminded him of his trip and the engagements he had made in the big cities of the nation: at Detroit, Cleveland, Chicago, Boston, Providence, and many more. It seemed impossible to Hunt that he had traveled over so much land, had made such ground, actually and figuratively, and as he considered it he felt a certain pride begin its bloat within him. He investigated it and realized that the ambitions of his mentor, Quinn, had become his own, that he, too, wanted to make an impact upon the wrestling world upon the entire sports world, should he have the opportunity. And he knew that he had the opportunity, for he was young and strong and with many competitive years still in front of him.
He snapped the empty suitcase shut, and with it his thoughts. He stored it in the closet and turned back to the room just as Vern Masters burst through the door.
"Hunt, baby," he cried. "Is it ever good to have you back. Man I've missed you."
"I missed you, too, Vern," Hunt replied.
Vern bounded to him. Then he clapped him on the back, ending the motion with a full, strong hug. Hunt returned it, but felt embarrassed, and wondering why he should. They had made love together. Vern was, in effect, his lover. Why, then, should he feel embarrass-men for a casual act that was one of lovers?
Vern released Hunt from his grasp. Then he looked at him, head to toe, before saying, "You look great, buddy, you really do. I guess the trip did you good."
"I liked it."
"And man you sure as hell made it big, too. Wrestling hasn't had so much press coverage in years. The write-ups wow!"
"I've been pretty lucky," Hunt said.
"Lucky because Quinn's spent a roll on you, I'd say."
"That's what I meant," Hunt replied.
"Did you have any offers while you were on the road?" Vern asked quickly.
"What do you mean?"
"Offers from other promoters, you know, ditch your contract with Quinn and join them."
Hunt hesitated, then said, "Yeah, it was mentioned once. A man called on me at the hotel."
"No, kidding," Vern said. "Tell me all about it."
"There's nothing to tell. He saw me, made me an offer, then I told him to get the hell out."
"Oh, you shouldn't have done that, Hunt," Vern said soberly. "You might need the guy some day."
"Maybe. But I can't spend my life being careful because I might need people."
"Yeah, but from what I hear, you might need another promoter sooner than you think."
"How come."
"Well, the word's pretty strong that Quinn's quitting. Selling out, lock, stock and barrel, and that--. "
"Aw, cut it out, Vern," Hunt interrupted. "I've heard all that jazz I'm going to listen to. Quinn picked me up at the airport. He's filled with nothing but plans for the future. He's not quitting now, damn it, stop spreading that stuff."
Vern looked shocked, and a little hurt. "All right. Just thought you should know, that's all."
"Thanks, but I'm not interested in rumors."
Vern cocked his head to one side and grinned crookedly. Then he said, "You seem a little different, Hunt old-fellow. All this success isn't going to your head, is it?"
"You know it isn't," he said.
"Good. I wouldn't like it a bit if you had changed. I I kinda like you just the way you were before you went away, if you know what I mean."
Hunt remembered the way they had made love on the beach, recalling the great peak his passion had reached, and remembering the joy of his release as he had pounded to the orality Vern had given. The memory softened him.
"I know what you mean, Vern," he said. "And I haven't changed. I'm a little tired, that's all."
"Sure, I understand," Vern said. "I'm that way myself. I've got a lot on my mind. It makes me snappy." He paused and suddenly plunked into a nearby chair. Then he buried his head into his hands, holding it as if it ached.
"What's wrong?" Hunt asked, walking over to him.
"Nothing. Tired, maybe a little confused too, I don't know. Sometimes, I just feel like hell."
Gently, Hunt placed his hand on the young wrestler's shoulder. He shook him tenderly and said, "Come on, boy, what is it?"
Vern did not answer at once. When he did, his voice was strained, as if it told of great emotional congestion.
"I just feel wretched," he said softly. Then, more bitterly, "So goddamn wretched!"
Hunt pulled a chair over to him and sat down. He faced Vern, then said, "Maybe if you told me about it I could help. Or at least talking could help."
"I don't think so," Vern said, without looking up. "Sometimes I get myself in jams, then I worry sick. But there's no use burdening you with it."
"That's what what friends are for," Hunt said. "Come on, Vern, give."
He brought his hands away and looked up. His eyes looked pink-rimmed, as if they had held tears back. He looked into Hunt's eyes, then looked away, shaking his head.
"Tell me what's wrong," Hunt told him.
"I don't think I can," Vern replied softly. "I'm well, I'm a little ashamed."
"Come on, out with it," Hunt said, as if he were asking a child to confess some hidden fear.
Vern looked straight at him, then said, "I hate to admit it, but I'm in a money jam, Hunt. A bad one. The horses, gambling, and I have to pay off."
"There, you see," Hunt said. "It is something I can help with."
"I doubt it," Vern said, his voice rising a bit. "I owe a lot of money not just a little."
"How much."
"A thousand."
"I can handle that," Hunt said. "I'll give it to you. Pay me back when you can."
"No, kidding? You'd do that for me?"
"Of course. I don't spend much, and I've saved quite a little. I'll loan you the thousand then your worries will be over."
"They sure would be if you would. But I I need it rather urgently like right away."
"I'll go to the bank in the morning," Hunt answered.
"Oh. In the morning," Vern said disappointedly, his eyes going sad again.
"Bad as all that, eh?"
"Afraid so," Vern replied.
"Well, I could give you a check, if that would--. "
"I'd rather have a check." Vern stopped abruptly, then added, "What I mean is, a check would be fine."
"No sooner said than done." He stood up and walked to a small desk at the end of the room. He jerked the drawer open and withdrew a check book.
Vern, somewhat anxiously, rose and hurried over to the desk. "Tell you what, Hunt, why don't you make it out to the man himself." He paused and laughed. "Then I won't be tempted to play another nag."
"Sure. What's his name?"
"Mike Stotti," Vern said, leaning over Hunt's shoulder.
Hunt started to write, then hesitated. "Um, that name sounds familiar. Do I know this person?"
"Nah, you couldn't, Hunt," Vern said very fast. "Not unless you hang out with bookies."
"Not yet, I don't," he said. He filled out the check, signed it, then handed it to Vern. "There you go."
"Thanks, Hunt. You don't know what this means to me."
"I hope it solves your problems. If it does, well then, it's well invested."
"It'll solve them, old buddy."
"Now, what about dinner," Hunt said. "Feel like going to town for a steak with me. Might be good to pass up the camp menu for a night."
"Gee, I'd like to, Hunt, but I think I'd better take care of this little matter right away."
"Sure, go ahead."
Hunt walked with him to the door, then watched Vern hurry away.
Hunt remained alone reading. Soon, he noticed that the dinner hour had passed, and he was still not really hungry. He decided to forego dinner. He felt extremely disinclined to be with the wrestling group, and even more disinclined to run the possibility of meeting Liza Quinn.
Hunt retired early, anxious for sleep to claim him. As he crawled into his bed, the name, Mike Stotti, once again ran through his mind, just as it had during the entire evening. He tried to recall it and associate it with a figure, one whom he knew or had heard about. But he could not. In spite of its strong ring of familiarity, Hunt could not place the name with the person to whom he had penned a thousand dollar check.
* * *
There was a point of Hunt's sleep that merged with consciousness, then seemed like a dream once again.
And, even as he was aware of it, Hunt did not know if by choice he would prefer the dream or the reality. Both offered satisfaction, but the dream added excuse.
The dream image changed and split. Instead of one, there were two; male and female, Liza and Vern. And Hunt felt terror twist him when the splitting occurred. He rolled in his bed. Then the dream figure was single once again. It was a man. It was Vern.
The figure let himself in the cabin door, stumbled slightly against a table, then straightened. The figure smiled sheepishly and looked around. Then its eyes rested on the sleeping Hunt. Then it moved toward him.
Standing only a few feet away and facing Hunt, Vern undressed. He did it carelessly, dropping his clothes to the floor, allowing them to heap and bunch together.
When he was nude he stretched and sighed, then giggled softly, as if he enjoyed a joke that was all his own. Then he stopped and looked closer at the even breathing Hunt. Then he bent closer still and lightly kissed at Hunt's forehead.
Hunt smelled the whiff of liquor fumes, but still it seemed part of his dream, a dream-chapter that concerned a beach, a party, drinking, and a woman. He twisted, rolling fully to his back.
And then his lips were kissed and the liquor odor grew stronger. And stronger still as the kiss grew fervent.
Hunt's arms, heavy with sleep, feeling the pins and needles of a cramped position, raised and circled Vern's neck and drew him closer.
Vern's shooting tongue was his answer for the welcome. It was the predecessor of full-length closeness. Vern ended their kiss then crawled into the bed and beside Hunt's big frame. They embraced and kissed again. Hunt felt the pleasurable shock of Vern's hand as it grasped him. He returned the gesture then joined the even more pleasant action of gentle manipulation.
And their tongues played as their hands moved; each giving to the other that which he received, each, from time to time committing personal inventiveness to the other for his delighted pleasure.
With a sudden hiss and lurch of his body, Vern twisted away and in the opposite direction. Hunt felt the absence of his hand and his closeness, but it was soon returned to him, without their mouths joined and their tongues mixing, there was disruption and vacancy for Hunt. He felt it strongly, even after he had been retaken and felt again the more vigorous action of Vern's hand. And he felt it with desperation when Vern's action was changed, when the young wrestler shifted and boosted his body, then brought wetness where their had been dryness, orality where their had been the pre-love of manual stimulation. And when Vern groaned chokedly and heisted himself upward, begging, it seemed, for a like-love to be brought to himself, Hunt felt the wish to comply, but even as he lowered he knew that it could not be done, that he could not yet return that which he was receiving. Not yet. Not ever? No, at least not now, not now, not now; perhaps later, but maybe not then either, perhaps never could he be completely attuned to male upon male sex, perhaps he must always be the one who is loved without regard for returning the same, perhaps he must always receive and return love only in fragments of himself.
Hunt twisted his head away from the thrashing of Vern's body. He remained that way while he received all that Vern could give, received it, relinquished it, then sighed in after-glow as Vern sputtered and cried and held him close.
They did not fall immediately asleep like satisfied lovers. Instead, Vern rose from the bed then seated himself on its edge, looking at Hunt with an expression of askance.
"Can't you love me?" he asked.
"It's not that," Hunt said, looking away.
"Why? Why can't you be as good to me as I am to you?"
"I don't know." He paused, was silent a long time, then said, "I just want to sleep, Vern. For a long time. Maybe forever."
Vern did not answer. Hunt heard him flop into his own bed. Soon he heard his even breathing of sound sleep.
Hunt did not sleep again that night. He remained awake thinking.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Liza Quinn wandered into her father's office-study. It was missing the small, lively figure of the promoter, and Liza felt his absence. Whenever he was away, she felt it, and she knew that it was as much from concern for him for his health and welfare as it was for her own loneliness when he was out of town.
She walked across the carpeted room and stopped before his desk. How many times had she done this, she thought, then answered by knowing that the habit was as long-lived as her memory, as old as herself.
Liza waited a moment, then moved around the desk and occupied her father's chair behind it. She squeaked it backwards on its swivel and thought that the sound had not changed, that it was the same as when she was a little girl. Then she swung forward and plunked her elbows on the desk-top in a thoughtful pose, cupping her chin on her fists.
Her fists clinched together as she thought of Hunt Stratford and his consistent avoidance of her, both before his first tour and since it. Before they had made love and, incredibly, since that time.
At first Liza could understand, now she could not. Hunt's disinterest in her seemed almost psychotic, she had decided several days ago, when, following a plan, she had forced an encounter only to see his scornful eyes turn away from her before he left without saying a word.
She brought her hands away from her head and straightened. She remained very still for almost a full minute, as if quietness alone would coax some knowledge to her. But it did not. All it provided was her continued confusion, a confusion that in some strange way fit into a pattern of many new, unpleasant attitudes around the camp: Her father's recent restlessness and worry, strange phone calls and messages her father refused to explain, the rumor that Quinn Enterprises was being sold, the more than usual sight of Otter, Vern Masters and Nadine Bersc-like together in deep conversation, the solemn hood-type visitors who now called quite frequently at the camp. All of it, in some frightening way was somehow connected with Hunt Stratford's aloofness from her personally, Liza was very sure.
She pounded the desk with one, small fist. No, she would not sit idly by as fate moved her at its will. She was not the type, just as her father was not of the passive, frightened, and conforming figure. She would regulate and influence her own future, she told herself emphatically. And she would begin that very moment. i
Liza picked up the phone and dialed the extension in Hunt Stratford's cabin. She listened to the ring sound, then die. She listened anticipatingly as it rang again, then again, and still once more before a hook was lifted and Vern Masters answered.
"Hello," Liza said. "Let me speak to Hunt, please."
"Who is this?" he asked.
"Liza Quinn."
"Oh, I thought it was you, Liza."
"May I speak to Hunt, please," she pressed.
"How you been?" Vern asked, ignoring her request.
"Fine," she answered indifferently.
"Is your father still out of town?"
"Yes. You know he is."
"I just thought he might have returned early, that's all. What's the old boy up to, anyway? Arranging some new bouts for Hunt?"
"Yes," she answered before she realized that she had not wanted to. Then she added to it, by saying, "Some very important bouts. And and he has other business, too."
"I can imagine," Vern said, his tone thick with inference.
"May I please speak to Hunt?" Liza asked again. "Oh, Hunt he's not here," Vern said. "Didn't I tell you that?"
"No you didn't. Where is he?"
"At the tumbling pits. What do you want him for."
"It's hardly any of your business, Vern," she said nastily.
"Oh, I wouldn't be too sure of that," he said with a laugh. "Hunt and I are partners, you know."
"No, I didn't know. Thank you, Vern. And and good-bye." She hung up quickly, clicking the receiver down very hard.
For a minute Liza toyed with the circled numbers of the phone, simulating the extension number of the tumbling pits. Then she rejected the impulse to call Hunt there. She knew he would not respond to her call.
She waited another minute, then dialed the kitchen, the central switchboard for the P.A. system. The chief cook answered.
"Jake, this is Liza Quinn," she said briskly. "Will you please page Hunt Stratford and have him report to my father's office."
"Oh, sure, Miss Liza. Barry's back, eh?"
"Just page him, please right away."
"Sure thing, Miss Liza. Coming right up."
Liza replaced the receiver and waited. In a few moments she heard the distant cackle of the public address speaker, then the clearer call paging Hunt.
She waited. Then she gathered together the stray papers upon the desk and aligned them all in a neat pile in the corner. She glanced through them casually, seeing the formal print of contracts and a jumble of scribbled notes in the unmistakable hand-writing of her father. Her eyes shifted away from them, paused, then returned quickly as she noticed the doodle of a name, made again and again upon a single sheet by her father, much as if he had unconsciously scribbled the name while deep in thought. And on either side of the name, that of Mike Stotti, Barry Quinn had drawn the sign of the skull and cross bones of poison.
Liza snapped up the sheet and looked at it more closely. Her hand began to tremble. The name sliced her like a knife and suddenly provided many answers for the mysterious questions which had lately plagued her.
Mike Stotti was well-known to Liza, to Liza and almost everyone closely and on the inside connected with the sports world. He was evil and crooked, a gangster, often indicted but never caught. He was both a parasite and a vulture: he stole talent from camps, regardless of contracts, he lived off the promotion of others, and he was ruthless in his own aggressiveness to feed the fat bulge of his money belt to over-flowing capacity. He'd stop at nothing. Mike Stotti was dangerous. He was a threat to every honest operator in the wrestling business. He stopped at nothing to gain what he wanted. And Liza knew that what Mike Stotti wanted right now, was the whole of Quinn Enterprises. He was one of the 'Evil Ones' who wanted her father's promotions halted. And she knew that what Mike Stotti wanted, he usually got, by fair means or foul, and usually foul very foul, like blackmail, treason, torture, and even murder.
She shuddered and tossed the paper far to the end of the desk. It spun and rested on the far side. She looked at it. It was upside down, but still it conveyed fear which shot through her like a bullet.
Liza was still staring at the desk as Hunt Stratford entered the room.
He came to a complete halt when he saw Liza.
"Oh, your father wanted to see me," he said.
"Daddy's away. I wanted to see you."
Hunt started to turn, saying, "Sorry. I'm I'm pretty busy at the moment. I have to get back to some tumbling exercises."
"I want to see you, Hunt. But but, I'm representing Daddy, in a way." She paused, then said, "I have to talk to you, Hunt, really I do."
He turned and faced her fully. His chest was bare and perspiring where the robe he had on separated. His face was covered with beads of sweat and his short hair glistened wetly, conveying all the signs of great exertion abruptly abandoned.
"Please sit down, Hunt," Liza asked. "Please. I really have to talk to you."
Very slowly, Hunt moved toward the desk. Then he sat down in the chair that was placed there. He waited, by his silence forcing her to words.
She leaned forward, then, very pleadingly, asked, "Hunt, why have you been avoiding me?"
He waited, then said, "Is that why you asked me up here?"
"It's one of the reasons. Why, Hunt, tell me why you steer so goddamn clear of me."
"It's not you," he answered quickly. "I I just don't want any involvements for myself. None at all not a single one that touches me personally."
"I don't believe it," she said.
"Well, it's the truth."
"But after the party, after we--. "
"See, that's what I mean," he shouted, his entire body tensing. "There's nothing casual about women not about you, either. Just because there was a night and I had a a well, weakness, at the moment, well, because ofthis you think that I should be be--. "
"Be what?" she asked, when he didn't finish the sentence.
He shook his head. "It doesn't matter." He paused, then, almost fiercely, he said, "Look, please, for Christ's sake, try to understand something. I don't want to be involved with you not at all and it's not just you, I don't want to be involved with any woman. Will you please try to understand that?"
"No, because I don't believe it," she said evenly. T think you've become prejudiced, Hunt, because of something some woman did to you, but it doesn't mean all women are the same. You're not stupid, surely you understand that."
"I understand myself. And and I don't want to have a damn thing to do with you." His words were cruel and sharp.
Liza felt the rebuke. She flushed. She felt suddenly very foolish, like a schoolgirl confessing love to one who did not know she existed. Her body lost its rigidity. She grew smaller in the chair, as if she had suffered an actual deflation. She seemed very small and quite pathetic.
And because she did look so sad, so far away and hurt, Hunt felt a sudden desire to change her mood, make her gay and happy again. He felt, too, a very decided sexual urge, made, he knew, from a desire to see if perhaps things were different for him now, different because of Liza and her difference.
He walked to where she was behind the desk. He bent over her. Liza looked up at him. Then she felt his hands on her arms raising her. Then she felt his mouth on hers, searching frantically, as if it meant to find all the hidden things about himself, about her, about all the confusion of the world.
When Hunt's arms went around her waist, then found her buttocks and pressured her close, Liza thrust her body to him, feeling the sweat of him, knowing the man-smell of him and welcoming it, knowing, too, the immediate searching hardness of his manhood.
"Oh, Hunt," she whispered, turning her mouth from his.
He said nothing. As if he were afraid to move and find a better place of love, he pressured her close, then urged her toward the carpeted floor. Then there was quick movement as he yielded his trunks and Liza, following his example, hurried out of her attire.
Then they were together, flesh to flesh, stretching long on the floor. Liza felt Hunt's kiss again, felt his tongue piercing, and she felt the tufted material of the carpeting tickling and ribbing at her bare body. It seemed an aphrodisiac. And one was not needed.
She scrambled closer to Hunt's body. He received her. Then, with great urgency, he twisted and pinned her flat to the carpeting. Then he rose as she rose, hips moving upward together to find placement for their desire. And they found the mark they wanted, found it and united it.
Liza felt the thrill of his body taking her. He felt it swoop and caress her upon entrance, then felt the thrill of its leaving a thrill made mighty in anticipation of the next, full hard impact of him.
Her hips gyrated in a circle as she fought down and up, down and up, ever seeking greater closeness, more of him, more of the love she wanted him to give.
"Hunt-, " she blubbered as she neared her peak. Then cried, "AHHHHHH. UGH." And finally the eerie, "Yllllliiiiii," of her completion.
They lay together for a long time, their bodies mixing in sweat, soft and depleted from their effort and accomplishment.
Finally, when they were dressed again, Hunt looked at Liza. He did not smile.
Nor did she. "That didn't mean a thing to you, did it, Hunt?"
He did not answer.
T know it didn't," she said. "And I'm cheap enough
or care enough, to give myself to you even seek you even when I know you don't give a damn for me. Funny, isn't it?"
"No, it isn't," he said.
"But you're not about to care for any girl, are you, Hunt."
"No."
"Why?"
"I can't explain it. I don't truly have all the answers to that myself. Not yet, anyway."
"Will you ever?"
"I doubt it."
She smiled thinly and forcedly, then said, "I really look pretty ridiculous, don't I? All this caring for a man
caring for you wanting to get to know you better. All this is pretty, awful stupid, isn't it?"
"Not really," he said. "You didn't know. You can't know how I feel."
She stirred a bit. "Then it's a feeling one about women generally, not me personally, is that it, Hunt?"
"Yes. I told you that."
"I know. But I wanted to hear you say it." She paused and glanced to the top of the desk. Then, quite suddenly and uncontrollably, tears glistened, bubbled, and burst, streaking her cheeks in a ragged trail.
"Liza don't," Hunt said.
"I'm sorry. I I can't help it. Go on, leave, it's all right. Just leave me alone the way you want to be left alone. I'm I'm all right."
But she was not. She braced her arms on the desk then cradled her face into them, crying hard, crying because she realized that her fondness for Hunt had traversed the line of fondness and had already become love, and because she suffered the pains of loving one who did not, could not, nor ever would, love her. And she cried because of worry, because of the confusion that surrounded her father and the camp he loved, because of the mystery and intrigue which lately seemed to be everywhere. She cried hard. Very hard. Her shoulders shook. She sniffed. She choked. She cried like a child lost and long forgotten.
Hunt's expression turned to one of helplessness. He leaned forward, seeking, it appeared, some words that he could offer that might lessen her unhappiness. "Liza, don't don't--. "
But his words died. He seemed strained and incapable of giving solace to the crying girl who did not look a bit less beautiful because of the tears.
"Liza, will you please stop it," he said, sounding like a man who had been captured and made impotent by a woman's tears.
"Just go away," she blubbered, without raising her head, without ceasing the tears.
"I I well, damn it, I can't leave you crying like this," he blurted.
She raised her head. "Why not? You don't give a damn, so go on, leave, do whatever it is you want to do, but leave me alone, don't keep reminding me what a stupid fool I am."
"You're not," he said. He stood up and leaned across the desk, gesturing with his hands as if trying to explain. He leaned far forward. The front fold of his robe brushed against the desk, sending the sheet of note paper fluttering to the floor like a kite out of control.
He looked at Liza another second, the noticed the paper and, as if glad for the interruption, stooped and picked it up. He looked at it as he raised. Then he stared at Liza. His expression different, suddenly filled with surprise and uncertainty. His eyes had dilated a bit and seemed filled with some new and very sudden fear.
"What's this doing here?" he asked.
Liza glanced at the paper, then at him. She wondered at the change that had come to him, why the name, Mike Stotti, should have brought the change.
"Don't you know who Stotti is?" Liza asked, her crying stopping suddenly as she filled with new interest for Hunt and his relationship with the poisoned name upon her father's note paper.
"Stotti," Hunt repeated. Then faster, he said, "Yes, I know who he is. I remember him. But what's this doing here?"
"My father made a note of his name. Also a note of his regard for the rat, as you can plainly see from his doodling around the name."
Hunt tossed the paper back on the desk. He breathed deeply, but it did not lessen the severity of his expression. "I've got to go," he said hurriedly. "Excuse me, but I have to go right now."
He turned and fled the room.
Liza watched Hunt hurry away. Then she picked up the sheet of paper and slowly crumbled it into a light, mean ball before tossing it into the waste basket at the side of the desk.
Then she leaned forward and cried anew, the sound true and hard and desperate now that she was alone, now that Hunt was not across the desk and watching her.
Finally, after her tears had dried and she felt stuffy and without another sob in her, Liza gave up the desk and walked across the room to a large, leather couch. She sat down. She curled her bare legs beneath her and attempted to think clearly and without emotion. But she could not. She was too tired, too confused, and much too upset to know clarity. She drew her knees up high and rolled prone on the couch, enjoying the cool, man feel of leather, its coolness and resistive cushions. Soon, she slept.
Liza felt panic at the sound. It seemed very loud, very insistent. Then it was quiet for a moment and sleep again gathered her within its shroud, but no sooner had she returned to it then the sound came again, louder this time, and with a note of anger to it.
She bolted upright on the couch and looked around. Evening shades and shadows had invaded the room. Then she looked around again just as the sound resumed. It was the heavy thumping of the study's door knocker.
Liza jumped up from the couch and hurried to the door. She saw Nadine Bersc-like standing there and knew a moment's hesitation. But it passed quickly. Liza pulled the door open wide.
Nadine entered briskly and glanced immediately around all the room. For the first time that Liza could recall, the girl wrestler was fully dressed in sweater, skirt, and shoes.
"You were long enough answering the door," Nadine said. "What's the matter-somebody in here with you?"
"I was sleeping," Liza replied. Then added, "What can I do for you?"
"Business," Nadine said soberly. "I want to talk to you."
"If it's business, you have to wait until Daddy gets home."
"Not this time," Nadine answered. "I want to talk to you."
"Afraid I can't help. Better wait until tomorrow. Daddy will be home then."
Nadine looked into her eyes and waited a few seconds, then, smiling slightly, she said, "He may not be back tomorrow."
Liza felt her chest pinch tight with fear. "And what does that mean?"
"Let's sit down and talk," Nadine suggested.
"No. What the devil do you mean about Daddy not returning."
"I mean he might be detained. That's one of the reasons I want to talk to you."
Without speaking, Liza turned around and walked toward the couch. Nadine followed her. Liza seated herself in the same spot where she had rested her head in sleep. Nadine plunked herself down in the middle, then reached and dropped her handbag on the floor.
"All right, what does all this mean?" Liza asked.
Nadine smiled, and it seemed motivated by more than the answer she was about to give. It seemed born from memory, and from Liza's body so close to her own.
"Well?" Liza prompted.
"Well, you are still lovely for one thing," Nadine said. "God, what a shame to waste that body of yours." She glanced over all of Liza, then reached her hand out and pinched gently at her breast.
Liza jerked back, then said, "Stop this stalling. What about Daddy?"
Nadine waited a moment, then very carefully, she said, "Your father may be detained out of town. Not for long. Just long enough to give you a little idea of what can happen if he doesn't cooperate."
"Cooperate about what?" she cried.
"About selling this organization to Mike Stotti and selling it for the price he wants to pay."
Liza recoiled as if she had been stricken. "You scum, you're working with Stotti I That's it. That's what you've been doing."
"You can call it undercover work if you want," Nadine explained. "Anyway, a few of us have an interest with Stotti. We want your old man's outfit. All of it, especially the contracts. We mean to get it all, too, by one means or another. So you can scream and holler, even call the fuzz if you want which will do no good at all, I might add. But, it's to your interest and to your old man's to cooperate with us."
"We're not, I assure you," Nadine said. "We have things arranged. Now, your old man's a little stubborn, so we want you to persuade him to sell to Stotti. It'll make things so much easier."
"Get out," Liza said evenly. "Get out before I have you thrown out."
"Not so fast, sweetie. I said your old man might be detained. He might be. Stotti has a long reach and he just might have your old man held up a bit as a sample of things that can happen if you don't cooperate."
Liza knew the full, tight clutch of fear. But she knew it could never equal the fear she would have of herself if she deceived her father, even in his interests. That kind of fear she could never live with, not even if it had come from an act or even a word that was meant to save him.
"All you have to do," Nadine continued, "is to persuade your old man that he needs a rest that you want to get away from this camp and the life of fighters. That's all you have to do. We'll do the rest."
"Get out of here this second," Liza said, rising. She looked down at Nadine with loathing, then repeated, "Get out get out or I'll have you thrown out."
Nadine laughed and said, "And who might you get to do that little trick?"
Liza hesitated, then it came to her just as naturally as breathing. "Hunt Stratford," she said. "Get out or I'll call Hunt and have him throw you and all your lousy cronies out of this camp this very minute."
Nadine's laugh started as a low chuckle, then it grew high and mad and chilling.
"Stop laughing and get out," Liza cried.
"Hunt Stratford," Nadine gulped, still laughing. "You'll call Hunt to have me thrown out you'll get him to stop us. Oh, man, you're so far out, honey, you don't know the way back."
Liza's body stiffened but she did not speak.
"Hunt Stratford," Nadine said again, then burst into a new peal of laughter. "Oh, baby, you can't guess any of 'em, can you?"
Liza turned and headed for the desk.
"Hold it, baby," Nadine said sharply. "Let me show you something that will burst your little bubble."
Liza halted, then turned around as Nadine picked up her handbag and rooted through it. Finally, finding what she sought, Nadine took a long, white envelope from the bag and stood up. She walked toward Liza, then extended the envelope.
Liza stared at it, but made no move to take it.
"Go on, have a look," Nadine said. "It won't bite you not much."
Liza wished she could deny the desire she felt to see what was within the envelope. But she could not. It was too strong, composed of both hope and suspicion, both emotions now twisted because of Nadine's laughter and her reference to Hunt Stratford.
She looked at it for another moment, then took it. The flap was unsealed. Liza pushed it back, then extracted a check from inside. Then she saw that it wasn't a check, only a photostatic reproduction of one.
"Read it," Nadine said.
Liza did. She saw that it was made out to Mike Stotti, that it was for a thousand dollars, and that it was Hunt Stratford's check. She felt very ill, as if she would vomit and never be able to stop.
"Does that tell you enough, baby?" Nadine wanted to know.
"No," Liza bluffed. "It doesn't tell me a thing."
"It should. It's Hunt's investment in Stotti Enterprises the same outfit that's known as Quinn Enterprises now. Now, but not for long, baby."
The bile of nausea rose in Liza's throat and she could not speak.
"So, you see, sweetie," Nadine continued, "You had better talk to the old man. With Hunt walking out, he hasn't got a thing left. Not a thing. So he'd better sell while he'll still get something. A few of us are stock holders in Stotti's outfit. Hunt Stratford is too. You've got nothing left of Quinn Enterprises, baby nothing. So get to the old man get to him fast. Call him. Do it now. We'll hold up on any persuasion on that end until you talk to him. But talk to him do it now you only have a few days left. Then Hunt announces then we use everything we have to in order to get what we want. Get it, baby?"
"I get it," Liza said, low and spittingly.
Nadine smiled, then said, "Of course, I'm capable of making concessions, you know."
"Are you?" Liza asked.
"Yes.' She glanced over all of Liza's body again, then said, "You really would like Hunt's check, wouldn't you?'
"That's just a photostat," Liza replied. "I know. But I have the original. I just might give it to you."
"I don't believe it."
Nadine walked closer to her. She touched at Liza's breast, then let her eyes tour the body again, lingering at the thighs. "Yes, I'd give you the check if you saw fit to have a 'little' for old times' sake."
Liza felt a flutter of inspiration. She remembered how Nadine had always been with her. She weighed her proposition, then thought of the advantage of possessing Hunts check, how it could help save her father's camp.
She forced a smile, then said, "I doubt you'd keep your word, Nadine."
"I would, honey honest." She walked closer still, then cupped Liza's chin and kissed her hard. Then she moved her to the couch.
Liza sat down, thinking vile thoughts about herself, wondering how within such a short time she could be involved in two sexual encounters one with Hunt, the other with a lesbian.
"Come on, baby, give," Nadine said.
Liza did not resist as Nadine undressed her. And she waited patiently, but without passion, as Nadine discarded her own clothing. Then she felt the press of the woman's body against her, felt it as a stranger she had not truly missed.
But when Nadine forced her down, then imprisoned her body and kissed at her neck and ears as she began a grinding of her hips, Liza felt a slight desire stir within her. She raised to meet it.
Nadine became a tumult of motion. She fastened atop Liza, exerted womanhood's miniature of manhood to the girl then pumped furiously.
Liza felt the touch. She thought how different it was from that of man, yet she could not deny its sensitivity, could not deny either its bloating, rising, bubble of response, could not deny it, or inhibit it until the very end when she lurched, felt the last hard steam of Nadine's body against hers, then erupted with a cry, a pressure, a relaxation, a new pressure, then total exhaustion.
Nadine stayed relaxed atop her for a long time.
When they had dressed, Liza faced Nadine, and said, "Now the check. I'll take it, please."
Nadine smiled cruelly, "Honey, you should be paying me."
"Stop the stupid joking. Give me the check you promised."
"Never, baby never. Let's just say I got into you by fooling you. And I hope you think it was worth it."
"Bitch," Liza hissed. "You piggy, bitch."
Nadine's eyes turned hard. "Just remember what I told you. We want action, and we want it fast. Better get hold of your old man right away." She turned and walked out of the room.
Nadine watched her leave. The bile still stung her throat. She felt ill and tried and lost. But more than anything, she felt great disappointment; the disappointment of having been wrong in her thoughts about Hunt Stratford. She felt the terrible hurt and anger for her misplaced trust. Too many things fit together now. There was no doubt of Hunt's complicity with Otter, Nadine, and Vern. None at all. And she had been wrong.
And her father had been wrong. And she felt sick to her stomach.
Very slowly and tiredly she walked to the desk. She sat down. She picked up the telephone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When Hunt left Liza Quinn, he hurried first to his cabin, looking for Vern Masters. He was not there. Hurriedly, as if there was a crucial urgency connected with his search to find Vern and discover why Mike Stotti was the one to whom he was asked to endorse a check, why it was he a rival promoter, Hunt had remembered suddenly who was Vern's creditor, Hunt moved from his cabin to others, then to the rings and tumbling pits, and finally to all of the camp area looking for Vern. But he could not find him.
Then he hurried back to his own cabin.
He paused at the door and looked back, seeing the shadows of evening coming in fast over all the area, darkening it and making it seem listless and unhappy as unhappy as his own uncertain feelings.
He moved into his cabin. He slipped out of his robe and trunks, then dashed to the shower.
The needle spray did not revive him. The feeling of plot and intrigue hung about him like clinging smoke. And he felt incapable of escaping it.
When Hunt had seen the name, Stotti, on Barry Quinn's note paper, he had been badly shaken. He had so recently written it on the check he had given Vern, Hunt could not associate its appearance again on the desk of the little promoter. Then, quick as a match lighting, it came to him. It had been a representative of Stotti's who had called on him during the road trip. The name had been casually referred to as Hunt showed the visitor the door. And it had been Stotti whom he had heard mentioned in connection with the rumor that Quinn was selling out.
All of it seemed quite too much of a coincidence, Hunt had decided quickly. Then he forgot Liza's tears
the tears that had truly held him in compassion for the girl for a few minutes. He forgot them, and her, in his quick desire to find Vern and talk the matter out, determine if there was some connection between the check, his own signature, and Mike Stotti.
Hunt turned off the shower, stepped out of it, dried, then dressed in slacks, sports shirt and loafers. Then he looked around the room, as if debating his next move. And as he did so, he felt a little foolish, felt as if he were making mountains out of molehills, exaggerating something that Vern Masters would probably explain very lucidly and properly. Still, the ominous feeling remained with Hunt. He could not shake it. He knew that it would not leave until he had talked to Vern.
Hunt started for the door. Then he stopped. Vern wasn't at the camp, he thought. He was no place to be seen. But, wrestlers in training are on a schedule of sorts, he remembered, and all of them are required to sign out when leaving the camp.
Quickly, Hunt went to the phone on the wall, picked up the receiver and dialed the kitchen.
In a moment, he said, "Hello. This is Hunt Stratford. I wonder if you can help me? I'm looking for Vern Masters has he checked out of the camp?"
"Yeah, he checked out," a voice answered.
'Did he say where he could be reached?" Hunt asked.
"Yeah. Hold a minute and I'll check the sheet."
Hunt heard the phone placed roughly on some surface. He waited, feeling anxious. And again he experienced a wave of self-criticism, the feeling of foolishness.
The voice returned to the phone. "Vern Masters is going to be at Barney's Place in town. It's his poker night, I guess. Do you want the number?"
"No, I'll just run over there, I guess," Hunt said. "Can you tell me where it is?"
"Sure." There was a pause, then, "Hell, all this time in camp and you don't know about Barney's Place?"
"I haven't been around much," Hunt explained.
"You go into town, then head east. It's at the end of town. Right past the railroad tracks. You can't miss it."
"Thanks," Hunt said. He replaced the receiver on its hook.
Again, he headed for the door. And again he paused, feeling in his intensity to find Vern Master's a certain drama that was out of tune with his life. He wasn't given to over-exaggerations and dramatics. Nor was undue anxiety a part of him. Yet he felt all this, felt it because of a pretty girl weeping and the name of a man he had never met. Hunt left the cabin.
Outside, he paused again. He didn't have a car. Nor did buses run on a regular schedule from the camp. Hunt pondered it for a moment, then remembered a recent offer that had come from Barry Quinn.
"You ought to get out and relax more, kid," Quinn had said. "You're pretty cooped-up in this camp. So, anytime you want to take to the roads, there's a jeep I keep in the back of the house. The key's always in it. Use it whenever you want."
Hunt walked to the back of the big, stone house. The jeep was there. So was the key. He jumped in and revved the motor alive. Then he put it in gear, jerked it backwards, turned the wheel, ground gears again and shot forward, moving out the back way then circling in front of the house. As he passed the front entrance of Quinn's house, Hunt saw Nadine Bersc-like walking to the rear in the direction of the study door. He thought how odd it was to see her dressed, and thought that with a skirt, sweater, shoes and handbag, she looked quite like most young women. Then he wondered at the purpose of her call on Liza Quinn.
As Hunt traveled the road to town he remembered the first instance of his traveling upon it. His arrival at the camp. It seemed a long time ago, although in fact, it was not. And the second time he had traveled over its rough, dirt bumps, had been with Barry Quinn and on the occasion of his return from his first successful wrestling road trip. A lot of life had happened between the two events, he thought. Between them there had been Vern and Liza, Turk Otter and his other fighting colleagues. And there had been his homosexual affair with Vern especially there had been that. Casual at first, it had blossomed. They had become lovers, but without the jealousies and hurts of lovers. They made love, then forgot it until the next time. There was not the emotional attachment which was demanded by women by women like Liza Quinn. There was nothing. Just sex. That's all. Nothing more until the next episode.
Hunt though about it for a few minutes and worked hard at convincing himself that this was the way it should be. That this was best. But, through it all he could not help recognizing the small cry of some need within himself; a need that wanted attachment, involvement, all the things, good and bad, that accompany love when it is given and received and then returned. How odd it was, he thought. How odd that he should even consider it. It had been a very long time since he had thought of such things with all of the attendant bitterness. He wondered why he thought of it now, if perhaps in some remarkable way, Liza, her tears, the candidness of her desire for him, and the straight principals of her character, were in some way responsible for his present thoughts of the taboo subject love.
Hunt drove into the small town at its southerly point. He met, and stopped at, the first of its three stop lights. He shot through the second one as it turned yellow, but then had to stop at the third which had just turned red.
When the light turned green, Hunt made a right turn and traveled through what appeared to be the deprived portion of the Southwestern town. The houses were frame and dirty. Children, apparently unmindful and paternally undisciplined regarding the hour, played in front of the houses although it was dark and there was no sign of street lights. The children, like their residences, were dirty, too. And the adults sat upon their porches: talking, arguing, drinking beer, complaining, hating their lot and knowing that will alone was not enough to rise above it.
Hunt looked at them as he passed and remembered his long ago dreams for social reform, for the reform that he, by the strength of his mind, his desire, his will and his ability, had wanted to bring to all those people who needed help. And he had been so willing to give it, he thought. So willing. Yet, he did not. He had denied the poor underprivileged and deprived the help his education and drive could have given them, denied them all because of the sham of a woman. It didn't seem fair, he thought. Not fair at all.
Hunt slowed the jeep as he came to the railroad tracks. He bumped over them carefully. Ahead of him he saw the neon sign declaring the location of "Barney's Place." The sign was large and curved. The lights were bright, and their brightness seemed to add to the dismal appearance of the small, gray frame budding with its artificial stone entrance. Yet, it must have been the most affluent building in the small town, Hunt was sure.
The parking lot had only a few cars nosed in at un-uniform positions. Hunt parked at the far end, then stepped out and walked past the other cars. Vern's car was not parked in the lot. Nor were there any of the other wrestlers' cars that Hunt recognized. There were, however, a couple of expensive ones that seemed out of place in the area. Hunt looked at them admiringly as he walked past them and to the entrance.
A bouncer at the door, bigger than any wrestler Hunt had ever seen, stood smiling at the door. Hunt nodded to him.
"You alone, Sir?" the man asked. "Yes."
"Bar or table, which would you prefer?"
"The bar will be fine," Hunt said. He was amused by the formality of his greeting. It hinted of class and distinction that seemed completely foreign to the surroundings.
But as he entered the main room for the foyer, Hunt was stunned by a sudden blare of music from a combo. He stopped and looked around. The place was packed with customers. It seemed impossible. Only a few cars were in the lot, Hunt remembered. Where had the crowd come from? Then he remembered that it was a small town, a town of walking-distance from almost any corner of it. Obviously, the crowd consisted of townspeople, most of whom had walked or ridden with others to the only liquor establishment in the area.
Hunt walked down the aisle separating the long bar and a row of booths. As he moved he looked at as many of the customers as possible, seeking Vern. He did not see him. When he reached an empty bar stool, he climbed upon it.
The bartender was nearly as large as the bouncer. And his voice was hoarse.
"What'll it be?" he asked.
"Scotch on the rocks," Hunt replied, surprising himself with his request. He had not intended to drink. Yet, the atmosphere and the music had cued his order.
"Any particular brand of Scotch, Mister?" the bartender asked.
"No. Any kind will do," Hunt told him.
The bartender disappeared. Hunt watched him pour the drink, very generous, he thought, then he saw him dump the contents of the large shot glass onto ice in a larger glass. Then he served it.
Hunt reached for his wallet.
"That's okay," the big man said. "I'll run a tab for you."
"Thanks."
Hunt sipped his drink. It plunked warmly at the bottom of his stomach. It was the first liquor he had had since the beach party, he remembered, and remembering it he thought of Liza Quinn. Why had she cried so hard, he asked himself. Why? Then he discounted it as womanly dramatics, a fraud, a flow of tears which had been contrived for her own desires. Still, he remembered them with a kind of sentimental feeling, one that pleased some mysterious part of him.
He took more of his drink, then gave his attention to the combo playing on a platform over and back of the bar. They were very good, Hunt decided. Very good, indeed. And he wondered how Barney's Place could afford such obviously high-priced talent. Then he looked around again, slower this time, hunting the faces of all who were present. But Vern was not among them. Hunt wondered why, if perhaps he had just not arrived yet. Or, perhaps had been at the place then left.
He finished his drink, then ordered another. As it was served, he felt the light bump of a body moving onto the stool beside him. Hunt glanced in that direction. The newcomer was a slim and beautiful boy. His body was as fine lined as that of a bull-fighter. His velveteen jacket covered shoulders that were slight and delicate. The white ruffled shirt was very crisp, well-starched as if it were that of an entertainer. The boy's eyes were dark; burned chestnut, and nearly as large. His hair was dark, too. His face was without a line. His hands, Hunt noticed, moved nervously. The fingers were long and dainty, yet seemed to possess strength, just as an artist's fingers might be delicately made but strong of fiber. Three fingers of each hand carried rings: bright and glittering and expensive looking.
Hunt looked away, then took a swallow of his drink. "Can you light me?" the boy asked suddenly. Hunt looked at him, then patted at his shirt pocked and said, Sorry. I don't have matches or a lighter."
"Oh." The word was a pout.
"Sorry," Hunt said again. "The bartender probably has matches."
"No doubt," the boy said. In a second, he said, "Your from Quinn's camp, aren't you?"
"Yes," Hunt said, trying for indifference in his tone, trying to convey his mood, that he did not want company, that he was alone because he wanted to be that way, at least alone until he saw Vern.
"I admire wrestlers," the boy said. "I admire them ever so much. I've had a few wrestler friends, too."
"That's nice," Hunt said.
The bartender presented himself before the boy. "Hi, Pat," he said. "The usual?" He struck and held a match to the cigarette the boy puffed outward from his lips.
"Yes, please," the boy said sweetly; exhaling a stream of smoke.
In a minute the bartender returned with a tall, foamy drink. Orange slices, a cherry, and straws, dotted the top of it. The boy accepted it, then sipped carefully from the straws.
Hunt turned back to the musicians. And, as he listened to the music and watched the singing, playing, gyrations of the combo, he investigated his feelings. The young homosexual next to him had prompted it. Hunt realized that he had felt an immediate fondness for the boy. Even without knowing him he liked him. Why? he asked himself. Was it because of his own, strong homosexual leanings? Hunt, in spite of his affair with Vern, knew this was not true. He had homosexual affairs but he was not a homosexual. But how could this be true? Hunt did not know. But he knew that it was true. Then, as he thought about it, Hunt realized that his quick fondness for the stranger next to him was akin to his fondness for Vern Masters. It was made of the same emotion. It was born of a certain sadness, a compassion, and the desire to help them. Not change them necessarily, only help them if they wanted help. Hunt wondered if this motivation was enough to have caused his own involvement with homosexuality. Then he wondered if it was much different from any man's desire to help others, if feeling sorry for homos and wanting to aid them or at least wanting to do something that would make them feel not so odd was any different from his college days' hopes of helping all people.
Hunt felt as if he had discovered a clue to himself, one that was important and had meaning to many of the things of his confused life. He swallowed the remainder of his drink, anxious to return his thinking to the analysis of himself. But he was prevented from it by the boy at his elbow.
"The music's very good, don't you think?" he said.
"Yes. They're very good," Hunt agreed.
"Do you dance?" the boy asked.
"No."
"Oh, what a shame. They have a juke box in the other room."
"Oh," Hunt said.
"You've never been here before, have you?"
"Never," Hunt admitted.
"Do you like it?" the boy asked.
"It's nice."
"It's a 'pocket of poverty', you know."
"This place?"
"No, the town, silly. It really is. The Federal Government declared it one of the places most in need of grants to lessen the poverty. Lordy, our Mayor said we weren't a pocket of it we were a whole, bloody saddle-bag of poverty."
Hunt laughed.
But we are we really are terribly poor," the boy said.
"But now the government's going to help that, eh?" Hunt said.
"Mercy, yes. Some of the sociologists have arrived in town already. They're conducting interviews and making charts and just everything. We're very excited about it."
"Sounds interesting," Hunt said, thinking of his own sociological plans so many years ago. Then he smiled at the boy and said, "What do you do?"
"Oh, I conduct a dancing school. It's the only one in town."
"Great," Hunt said. "No competition."
"No pupils either," the boy said, dropping his eyes sadly.
"Well, maybe the sociologists can help that, too," Hunt said.
"I certainly hope so," the boy said. He sipped at his drink.
Hunt turned back to the combo. Then he turned away from it and searched the room again.
The boy, noticing it, smiled at Hunt and said, "Are you looking for someone?"
"Yes. A friend of mine. He's supposed to be here."
"Maybe I can help," the boy offered. "What's his name?"
Hunt hesitated, then said, "I doubt you'd know him."
"I know most everyone who comes here. Who is he?"
"Vern Masters. He's from the camp, too," Hunt said.
The boy's hands flew up in the air, fluttered, grasped together, then came down to the bar top in a tiny plunk. "Vern, but of course I know him. I know him well, I might say. I wouldn't have dreamed you were one of Vern's friends."
"Has he been here tonight?" Hunt asked.
"He's here now, precious," the boy said emphatically.
"I don't see him."
"Of course not. He's upstairs. Vern's always upstairs, it seems."
Hunt glanced around, looking for a door or some sign of an upstairs entrance.
"Through the other room and at the back," the boy said. "The door there leads upstairs. I well, I don't know what room he's in tonight. But you should be able to find him easily enough."
"Thanks very much," Hunt said. He signaled the bartender, then when the big man drew near he asked for his check. Then he nodded to the boy and told bartender to bring him a new drink. The boy fluttered his thanks.
"Do you want me to show you the way?" He asked Hunt.
"No. Thanks anyway. I'll find it all right." Hunt gave the bartender a bill in exchange for his check.
"You leaving now, eh?" the bartender asked.
"No, I'm going upstairs," Hunt replied.
The bartender scowled and started to say something, by the boy stopped him.
"It's all right, Charlie," the boy said quickly. "He's looking for Vern. He's a friend."
"Oh, oh, sure," the bartender said. Then to Hunt, "Sorry, I didn't know."
Hunt accepted his change, left a large tip, nodded his thanks to the boy, then left the bar.
The other room was cluttered with tables, all of them close together and most of them occupied. It was the hidden part of the place Hunt had not seen. He turned sideways, weaving himself through the checkered-cloth covered squares. Here, there was a younger crowd, Hunt observed. None of them old enough to drink, it seemed. Yet, they were being served and many of them danced on a small space in the center of the circle of tables. A juke box sounded it popular music notes from the rear. The couples clung together like tired, rag dolls. They were all young. The sex of some of those who danced was difficult to determine. There were boys who looked like girls, and girls who resembled boys. And there were some who looked as if they belonged to neither sex. They danced. They grasped each other tightly. They rubbed cheeks. A few kissed openly. Hunt pushed through them all and finally achieved the door. He opened it.
He stepped into a dark hallway. The only light was a glow of red above an exit sign above a door that he guessed led to the parking lot. He waited a moment as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. When they did, he saw the stairs. Carefully, he started up them.
At the first landing, Hunt paused and looked upward. There was no lighted sign of a door. But, grasping the iron railing, he moved up the stairs, guiding himself by feel and by the rail support alone.
When he reached the end of the stairs, Hunt took a step forward, holding his hands extended before him. He touched the cool, steel of a wall, felt around it and finally discovered the outline of a door. He brought one hand down low and found the door handle. He turned it.
The hallway into which Hunt entered was also dark. And it stretched far ahead of him giving Hunt the feeling of presence at some ancient gallow's chamber.
Hunt's eyes made a new adjustment and he was able to see quite clearly, mainly because of light that reflected outward from the end room. He moved slowly down the hall. There were mumbled voices from some of the rooms he passed. The voices seemed oddly segregated. At no single room could he hear the mixed voices of men and women; only same-sex voices from individual rooms. The words that were spoken were indistinct, but at one door there were the unmistakable sounds of men's voices raised and in argument over a matter of cards.
Hunt paused at the door. Remembering the cook's remark that it was Vern's "poker night," Hunt was tempted to knock at this door. But he did not. For some strange reason, he knew that Vern would not be there that poker was not his intent, nor the reason for his attendance at Barney's Place. And, atop of this, curiosity pressured Hunt to move closer to the lighted room. He felt an overwhelming desire to be a silent witness to the activities of that lighted room at the end of the hall. He did not know why, only that he was compelled to move toward it and look inside.
He moved quickly down the last twenty yards or so to the room. He paused and listened. There were no voices to be heard. But there was a grinding hum that told of some machine in action. The noise ceased and
Hunt was just about to look around the corner of the door when a voice spoke out clearly. Hunt remained very still.
"All right, we'll print that one," the voice said.
The movie language immediately identified the humming noise as that of a movie camera. As Hunt realized it, he felt tightness cramp his stomach, as if the physical reaction was to prepare him for shock and anger.
"Okay, are you chicks ready for your scene," the voice called.
There was a tittering, female reply.
Hunt breathed deeply and held his breath until he heard a signal called and the instant responding grind of the cameras. Then he looked around the corner of the door.
A miniature Hollywood set glared before Hunt's eyes. There were the tall, hulking lights on stands blaring forth their 500 watt light. There were cameras and cameramen dollying inward toward the set from opposite angles. There was the director, a short, stocky man, in Burmudas and beret, a riding whip in his hand, watching the action from the side, his eyes glued straight ahead. And in the middle, there were the actresses.
Three naked girls frolicked. They were as beautiful as any starlets in any movie colony. And, they were as odd as the oddest in any odd community.
One girl, a young blonde, was on her stomach. Before her was the open and pulsating womanhood of another actress, a red head, big-busted and thin stomached, and arching toward the blonde in a way that was meant for burying. And behind her, there was a girl with flowing black hair, extremely feminine in every respect except for the hard leather symbol of manhood strapped to her thighs.
"Roll em," the director called out.
Hunt watched as the girls whipped into action; the blonde arching, the red-head nuzzling forward, intent upon her oral discovery, and behind her, gripping at her buttocks, the girl of the flowing black hair shot and buried the instrument of substitute virility.
They wheezed and moved and pounded and slobbered together, under the bright lights and before the eyes of the grinding cameras.
Their end was multiple and achieved as a unit: fantastic arching and twisting from the blonde; a terrier-kind of head-shaking from the red-head, and a convulsive, hip-slamming piercing by the black-haired girl.
"Cut," the director hollered. The cameras clicked quiet. The girls relaxed, then quickly left the set.
Hunt could not move. His eyes remained fixed on the set. For a moment he thought he had ceased breathing.
"All right now," the director said, "You ready for your little scene, Vern?"
"Ready," Hunt heard Vern reply.
In a moment, Vern and three other men, one of whom Hunt knew as fellow-wrestlers. They were all nude. And they moved actively in a tableau of gross obscenity, one that shocked and vilified ever essence of sex as a kin of love.
Hunt stepped back and blinked, as if clearing the image of the nightmare scene he had witnessed. And as he paused he felt a stammer of revulsion click within him; strike him and hurt him with new knowledge of himself. But, as badly as it hurt, Hunt felt a certain delight for the pain it caused for he knew that it signaled cure, that it was, perhaps, the predecessor to a normality of thinking he had so long ago abandoned. He felt it jolt him again, then, as if to give it new strength, he looked again around the door of the lighted room.
The four men were in movement and were being moved. A very young boy not more than 17, Hunt guessed was on his back upon the floor. He was arched. His legs were spread. Vern, on his knees, hunched over him and bounded his head in a fashion that Hunt remembered very well. But Vern proved to be both innovator and the subject of improvisation. Two other youths stood at each side of him, arching deeply. Vern, his arms balanced outward like those of a tight rope walked, held and moved each of them rapidly. And, at Vern's jutting rear, there stood another young man. He held Vern tightly at the sides. He lashed forward and backward in the wild fury of a bronco rider.
Hunt remained paralyzed by the scene, so reminiscent of the love-making he had shared with Vern, yet so distant and foreign from personal love. And Hunt knew that there was a part of himself in that horror scene, the part of bitterness and cast off hopes. He knew, too, that men were as their sex life was, that the integrity of the one gave a ratio of integrity to the other, that when sex lacked its personalization of one subject for another, when it was exploited and shamed, then it was without character just as the subjects of such exploitation were without character and integrity, and, in a most extraordinary way, as Hunt Stratford stood at the door of the monstrous room, he thought of Liza Quinn, her honor, her beauty, the honesty of her emotions. Anger and bitterness and loathsome memories lessened, then relaxed within him, easing his tension and bringing a new feeling that seemed very close to peace.
The five evil actors of the bad camera's eye whipped to their finish and groaned their denouement. The camera clicked, then went silent.
"Very good," the director said admiringly. "Now, where's the babe for the bruises? Did she get here yet?"
A very young, very dainty looking girl burst into the room. She wore a robe. "Here I am, Boss."
"Good. We've got to hurry a bit so let's get started."
She walked up to the director. "There's a little item first a little item like $200. You got it."
"I got it." He handed her a roll of bills and she stuck it in the pocket of her robe. Then she whipped the robe off and folded it neatly and placed it on the floor.
"Okay, get the brutes out here," the director said.
Immediately, two giant, naked men stepped forward. Each held a long, black whip in his hand.
Hunt felt disposed to move forward, to effect a rescue of the girl who was to be beaten. But he restrained himself. He knew that a beating was what she wanted wanted and was paid to suffer.
"Action," called out the director.
The girl posed. She stretched on tip-toes and raised her arms above her head. Her breasts jiggled in anticipation and Hunt could see the ends bloat and grow.
One of the men stepped forward and cracked his whip around the girl's waist. In struck her hard and wrapped around her like the black tentacle of an octopus. Her face grimaced, then went sensual looking. The other man struck his whip, catching her at the end of one breast. Blood oozed and dribbled down her body until it ran like a tiny, ending stream into the forest of her womanhood. Then the other whip hit her where the blood disappeared. The girl's eyes went dreamy looking, and Hunt could see her belly quiver in reaction, in response to the strike upon her body and the sexuality it represented.
The men continued their beating. The girl withstood it all high on her toes. But soon she began to crumble as she received strikes against her thighs, her breasts, her back, her buttocks, and between her thighs.
Soon, she was flat on her back and a mass of blood. It was then that the director called an end to the action.
"That's it," he said. "We'll print them all. Strike the set."
There was a scurrying of motion. Equipment was moved. Boxes were opened and closed. And the actors laughed and scampered for robes and the toiletries of after-sex.
And Hunt stepped into the room.
They did not see him at once. When they did there was the sudden silence of death. The director and Vern looked at each other, and remained quiet until Vern, forcing a smile, stepped forward.
"Hunt, for Christ's sake, buddy, I didn't know you were here," he said.
T was watching the show," Hunt replied.
"Oh, no kidding were you?" he said. He was silent again, as if mustering his thoughts. Then he said, "Well, you know how it is a little extra money's pretty damn important. And besides, I have a little interest of my own in this movie company."
"I didn't ask for an explanation," Hunt said. "Oh, no, sure not, but well, I just mentioned it, that's all."
The director, his beret a bit further back on his bald head now, walked close to Vern, then said, "Ain't you going to introduce me?"
"Oh, yeah, sure thing." He paused. The pause extended. Finally, Vern nodded from Hunt to the director and said, "Hunt Stratford, shake hands with Mike Stotti."
Hunt was not surprised. Somehow, as if by some inner sense for things which were evil, Hunt knew that the man was Stotti.
Mike Stotti stepped forward, extended his hand and said, "Hi, ya, Stratford. Glad you stopped by. I was going to make it a point to see ya tonight anyway."
"And I wanted to see you," Hunt said, his voice a near growl.
"Oh, good," Stotti said. "That'll make things easy for both of us."
"Mike owns this place, all of it," Vern said impressively. "And he's the president of our little home-movie company, too."
"How nice?" Hunt said caustically. Then quickly added, "And is he a bookie, too, Vern?"
Vern did not answer. But Stotti did. "Oh, you mean your check for a grand, eh? Naw, that wasn't for no debt of Vern's. That was just a little gimmick we thought up."
"For what?" Hunt asked.
"To encourage you to join our little group and make yourself a hell of a big pot full of loot," Stotti said quickly, the words coming sharp and angry now.
"Yeah, Hunt," Vern said. "That's what I've been trying to get around to talking to you about. I've kind of taken my time you're so slow about learning this business and everything, but I wanted to give you a chance to come in with us that is, to join Stotti and Otter and me and a few others in our little venture. You see we've formed a syndicate that's going to take over Quinn Enterprises and we sure as hell would like you with us, as a matter-of-fact, you're the one we want the most, don't worry about your contract, we'll take care of that with the old man himself, but you'll be able to come with us maybe even be an officer in our outfit, and well, hell, Hunt, it's a great opportunity and I'm sure you'll--. "
"Stop talking so goddamn nice," Stotti interrupted. "Just tell him and save time." His voice had changed, had deepened and turned mean.
"Yes, Vern, go ahead and tell me," Hunt said.
Vern hesitated. He glanced away. He looked at Hunt, held his look to his eyes a moment, then turned away again.
"What the hell," Stotti exploded. "I'll tell him."
Hunt waited, looking past Stotti and seeing the other men of the movie company gathered together at the far wall of the room. They listened and watched, but remained quiet.
"It's this way," Stotti continued. "You're in with us whether you want to be or not."
"Oh, am I?" Hunt said.
"Yeah. And stop talking cute. You see, it's like this, I've got your check made out to me. That was your little investment in our organization. You'll get a few shares of stock for it. Now, maybe you didn't know that was what you were doing with your dough, but that doesn't matter. Not a damn bit. Everything works our way. The check acts as a little pressure on Quinn, you know, to convince him to do things the easy way, and, if we had to, and we'd rather not, but if we had to all we do is release the news and the check as proof to the papers that you're breaking your contract with Quinn. You'd be smeared a bit, but eventually things would work out for us. So, do you get the picture, Stratford?"
He did not look at Stotti. Instead, he stared at Vern and said, "I get the picture the whole, rotten picture."
"Then then you're in?" Vern asked meekly.
"I'm out," Hunt said. He took a menacing step toward Vern, backing him a pace.
"Now hold on," Stotti cut in. "Don't start getting cocky, punk, or I might change my plans a little. I might just decided to ruin Quinn and you right along with him. That check would look real pretty to the papers along with the story that you were a goddamn phony, now wouldn't it?"
Hunt turned away from Vern. He walked close to Stotti, who, after glancing over his shoulders to the group of men behind him, held his ground.
"Watch it, punk," Stotti hissed.
Hunt started to speak, then stopped as if any word was too good to be wasted on scum such as the stocky man before him. His physical response was more effective than any word that could have been spoken.
Hunt's hand snapped out and grasped Stotti by the shirt. He bunched it into a ball, then raised Stotti from the floor, holding him high and dangling before him like a fish sputtering at the end of a line.
"Boys boys, for Christ's sake get him!" Stotti hollered.
The men behind him grouped, hesitated, then moved toward their dangling boss. And in a group they were sprawled to the floor as Hunt waited until they were close, aiming and pushing like a shot putter he drew Stotti back to his shoulder then flung him forward and into the approaching assailants. They fell to the floor like bowling pins acknowledging a strike.
Through it all Vern Masters had remained close by, standing motionless and with a confused look upon his face. Now, Hunt turned toward him. He took a step forward, then another. Then he stopped and sadly shook his head.
"It's not worth it," he said in a low, sorrowful tone. "It's not worth it because I feel sorry for you. Just very, very sorry."
Hunt looked at him another moment, then turned and headed for the door. It was as he passed through it that he heard Stotti's mad cry declaring, "You sonofabitch you'll find out you can't do that to me!"
Hunt neither slackened his pace nor looked back.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Hunt was half way back to the Quinn Camp when he recalled what had been missing at Barney's Place.
Turk Otter and Nadine Bersc-like were not there. And this was the missing piece of the puzzle which had caused Hunt concern, made him feel confusion even as he had left the group in the upstairs room. And, without him then knowing the reason why, it had given impetus to his haste on the way back to camp and to Liza Quinn. He knew the absence of Otter and Bersc-like had been for a reason. And he knew the reason had to be bad. He sensed the climax to Stotti's plot drawing near, and Hunt felt sure it included some horror meant for Liza and Barry Quinn.
He tried to gain more speed from the jeep, but it was impossible. His foot already jammed the accelerator tight against the floor. He could only drive at the car's top a rate of speed and wait. And hope. And think of Liza within the new terms he had gained of himself.
Only two single lights burned in the whole of the big, stone house. One was in an upstairs bedroom, the other was in the office-study of Barry Quinn.
Hunt spun the jeep around the front of the house, jerked it to a halt, leaped from it, then dashed to the front entrance of the residence.
He ignored the door bell and the heavy, iron knocker. Heavily, he pounded his fist against the heavy oaken door. Then he paused and listened for a response. When none came, he pounded again, then paused once more. Stdl no answer to his heavy call. He pounded again and again, each time harder and louder, sending the frightening sound of evil's warning thumping through the night.
Hunt stopped pounding abruptly. He looked at the door and clinched his fists in frustration. He tried the handle and saw that it was locked. Then he drew back, turned one large shoulder sideways and was about to crash the door down when it was pulled open from within.
He looked at Liza for a moment before speaking. She was fully dressed, even to the unaccustomed high, spike-heeled shoes. She carried a purse as if ready for departure. Her hair was neatly brushed and she had applied new make-up. But it failed to cover the pink-rimmed signs of recent crying which arched beneath her eyes.
Hunt stepped forward and said, "Liza thank goodness you're here. Something terrible has come up."
"Really?" she said disinterestedly.
Hunt looked behind him, then said, "Yes. Come on inside, I have to talk to you at once."
"What could you possibly want to talk to me about, Hunt Stratford?"
He looked at her more closely, his eyes roaming all of her lovely body. "About a lot of things. But right now we have to do something I don't know what, yet. Maybe get in touch with your Dad. But I have to tell you what I discovered."
She made no move to allow him entrance.
"Liza, what the hell's the matter? Come on, get inside."
"There's nothing I have to say to you," she hissed nastily. "There'll be a time but it's not now. And I can wait."
Hunt felt new frustration heap upon all of his tension, tightening him and filling him with anger. And with it all he felt helpless at making himself understood. But he tried.
"Liza, look," he said, a note of pleading in the tone. "I know I've been wrong about a lot of things wrong about how I felt or didn't feel about you. I admit it. I've been wrong. But we'll have time for all that later. But right now I've got to tell you about Mike Stotti about him and Masters and Otter about the whole lousy group of them then we have to figure out how to stop them."
"My, haven't we become humanitarian all of a sudden."
"I don't know what that means, Liza, but goddamn it we don't have time to be playing games."
"And when haven't you played at games at everything?"
"I don't know what that means either," he said, his voice rising in anger. "But damn it, I'm not going to stand here talking when I should be moving. Now get inside before I knock you in there."
She did not speak. Her eyes narrowed and turned a darker green. She breathed deeply, and straightened, attempting, it seemed, to make herself very tall as if daring him to move her.
He did. He pushed at her shoulder with the palm of his hand. It was a short, quick jolt, and sent her flying a few paces backwards. It was enough. Hunt stepped lightly into the foyer and closed the door behind him.
"Get out," she cried, soon as she had regained her position.
"Just shut up and listen," he said roughly. He turned to the door window and looked out, then he looked again at Liza.
"I said to get out get out this minute," Liza shouted, the voice high and nearly screaming. "Get out! I've had enough of your deceit. Enough of being a damn fool in thinking you were special that at least if you didn't care for me you had the honesty to be loyal to my father."
"Loyal? Your father? What in the hell do you mean?"
"Stop pretending, Hunt-Hunt Stratford. Stop pretending at being naive. I know what your part's been. I know I know--. "
Lowering his voice, forcing it to become gentle, even loving, Hunt said, "Liza, just listen to me. For some reason we're not communicating and you have to be calm and let--. "
"Communicating?" she cried. "When did we ever do that? And that's what made you seem real to me. That you actually avoided me. I thought it was real, but I know that that was part of the plan, that it was even more effective than making love to me. Because all of you planned it well. Very well, but you didn't count on the kind of person I am. The kind of man my father is. That's one thing you were wrong about. And and why you should even be here now, I don't know. Or, I'm afraid I do know. Because you've had to change your plans. Because we made you change them Daddy and me. So, now they've sent you with a new scheme probably one to delay me. Well, it won't work, Hunt Stratford, it won't work."
Hunt knew it was useless to speak. He knew, too, that Liza, undoubtedly because of the plot against Quinn, had been convinced that he was somehow involved. He wished he could convince her otherwise, but he knew it was impossible. Her eyes burned hate. Her body trembled with anger. Her chin jutted in defiance to his every move. Her mouth was tight and hard, looking as if it held back a scream or cry. Hunt knew he could convince her of nothing, that it was he alone who must somehow disrupt the intrigue and break the conspirators. And as he recognized this, a plan began to take form, faint and thinly hopeful, but at least a plan. It was something, he thought. At least it was something he could do a physical means of unleashing his anger and hatred for Stotti, Masters, Otter, for anyone and everyone who struck at Liza or Barry Quinn.
"All right, Liza," he said very softly. "I'll go: I have to go. I can't take another second. But, first, please tell me where I can reach your Dad."
"Never! You must be insane."
"Please, Liza. It's very important."
"You're a madman! Really you are."
Hunt sighed, then said, "All right. But tell me this is he all right? Have you heard from him? Are you very sure nothing's happened to him?"
"You'll know soon enough that nothing's the-matter with him. You'll know! All of you will! And I shouldn't say this to you but I can't resist seeing that sick look on your face. I can't help telling you that Barry Quinn doesn't bluff. And neither does his daughter!"
"Good. I'm glad."
Hunt felt relief flow through his body. Now, all that he had to do would be easier done. His worry for Quinn, and for Liza, too, had lessened. He knew by her tone, by her words, that the fiery Barry Quinn was indeed all right that the traitors of his organization had not hurt him. Nor would they, Hunt thought. Not as long as he could prevent it.
"Stay here," he said sharply to Liza. "I've things to do."
"I'll not," she declared. "Not if you tell me to. The last thing I'd do is anything you wanted. That'd be murder!"
"It could be," he said seriously. "Stay here, Liza."
T was just leaving to go to the--. " She stopped and brought her fist to her mouth.
"Stay here. I'll be back." He turned toward the door and had partially opened it when he halted. He turned back to Liza. Then he took a long stride to her, gripped her by the shoulders and jammed her against him. He kissed her hard. But her lips held their firm line of resistance. They did not soften. They remained cold and hard. But she did not cry or strike at him when he released her. Nor did she speak as he turned and hurried out the door, slamming it shut behind him.
Hunt paused outside the door. He looked around all the area, squinting his eyes a bit as if to better see through the dark to determine who might be near. There was no one. He straightened, then walked purposely toward the cabin of Turk Otter. The big, mean wrestler was his objective, and, once attained, Hunt meant to use him, make him an instrument of Barry Quinn's counter-attack against all who would see him ruined.
Otter's cabin door was unlocked. Hunt opened it. There was no one inside. Without bothering to close the door, Hunt walked away and headed toward the camp recreation room.
Six wrestlers were in the recreation room. None of them was Otter. Hunt looked at them all and saw three of them huddled in a group talking seriously talking until he entered, then abruptly stopping. Then he saw the two who were fully dressed with suitcases resting on the floor next to them. They seemed to be saying a good-bye to another man.
None of them spoke as Hunt looked at them.
"Have any of you seen Otter?" he asked.
They all shook their heads, "Not all night."
"Thanks," Hunt said. He looked at them again, then to the two with suitcases, he said, "What does all that mean?"
"We were just leaving, Stratford," one of them said.
"We figured it'd be best to cut camp tonight start making our contacts right away."
"Why?" Hunt asked.
"Well, we don't figure to be kept by Stotti. The options are nearly up on our contracts, so there's no sense waiting. Kind of thought we better get moving."
"Better kind of think again," Hunt said crossly.
"Why?" one of those of the talkative group asked.
"Because Stotti's not moving in. You can take my word for it."
"Bull," said the other traveler. "You started the walkout. You were the first one to put in with Stotti, and without you there's no places for the-likes of us we're the spars, not the headliners."
"There's a place for you as long as Barry Quinn wants you," Hunt said.
"You kiddin'? " the man asked.
"No."
"Well, hell, we like Barry damn near love him for a matter-of-fact, but well if he was going to fold well--. "
"He's not folding," Hunt said. "Now get those damn bags unpacked and stop thinking of running like a bunch of rats or I'll personally break every one of you in half."
There were a few grins. Some smiles. Several heads nodded. There was a general lessening of tension throughout the men.
"Well, hell, if that's the way it is," one of the sitting-down-talkers said, "we'll stick around a while."
"You'd better," Hunt told him. "And in the meantime, if you see Otter tell him I'm looking for him. Tell him I want to see him real bad." Hunt turned and left as the wrestlers began talking again. Their tone was different; brighter and optimistic sounding.
Hunt walked from the recreation room to the kitchen and mess hall. Otter was not there, nor had those who were present seen him. He went from there to his own cabin on the odd chance that Otter might be there, waiting for Vern. He was not.
Hunt remained in his cabin long enough to take a long, cold drink of water, secured from a container kept in the refrigerator. Then he took another, and as he drank it reassembled his plan.
He had to find Otter. When he did, he'd force a full confession from him. Hunt's plan was as simple as that. A confession, he was sure, would give Barry Quinn the evidence that was needed for legal recourse against Stotti and the others. And, if not that, it would at least expose to publicity that small minority of operators who hurt wrestling and all sports because of their personal greed. And, hopefully, it would exonerate himself; especially where he wanted his innocence most recognized before the now distrustful eyes of Liza Quinn. Hunt thought how interesting it was that within a few short hours this the respect and the hope for something deeper in the future with Liza was the very most important thing in his life.
And if he did not succeed? Hunt queried. Well, he would just have to. There was no room for failure. He could not lose. Winning was essential. And he'd win or die trying. He hurried out of the cabin.
Upon an impulse that Turk Otter may have returned to his cabin while being sought, Hunt again checked there. The door was closed. Hunt felt excitement race through him. He had left the door open. Now it was closed. Otter had to be within like a shot of adrenalin, awareness stormed Hunt's senses. His fingers tingled with anticipation. His chest tightened and his stomach muscles hardened, signs of combat readiness. His biceps quivered, anxious for action. His step turned light and spongy soft.
Hunt approached the door. Gently, and noiselessly, he turned the door handle. Then he pushed the door open and bounded inside, springing around, his legs spread and his hands out and ready at his sides.
The cabin was empty.
Hunt felt the let-down and listlessness come to him, take him and hold him captive for a long time. Then he left Otter's cabin and continued his search.
He returned again to the recreation room, glanced inside, saw that it was now empty, then, feeling great disappointment, walked across the central area of the camp to the rear of Barry Quinn's home.
Lights burned over a swimming pool. Only water splashed lightly against the tiled sides. Hunt turned and saw the jeep where he had parked it. Then he walked clear around the back of the house until he reached the garage and driveway. He lifted the overhead door of the garage upward, and peered inside. Barry Quinn's car was missing. So was Liza's. He felt a new growl of apprehension for her, and it was born from the futility of his search for Otter. He slammed the garage door down hard, then walked away from it and down the drive. At the front he turned and glanced at all of the house. There was no sign of life within. The same lights burned. The rest of it, in blackness, seemed foreboding, an odd contrast to that which was usually associated with the place because of the merry and kindly Barry Quinn: because of his daughter, too, for as Hunt only now realized, she added her own vitality to every endeavor of her father's.
Leaving the house, Hunt walked to the tumbling pits, knowing that it would be without reward even as he moved in that direction. But it was a destination, one of the last few remaining. As he had expected, the pits, looking oblong and solemn, did not hold the much sought after Turk Otter. Nor did any of the area surrounding the place.
Sudden weariness swept Hunt as he stood with his hands on his hips looking around. He shook his head tiredly, then walked again toward the cabins. His body felt beaten and his feet dragged, much as if he carried a weight upon his shoulders that could not be lessened, could not be discarded, could not, by any means, be disregarded.
Slowly, he walked past the equipment building, a high, humped framework that resembled a riding academy barn. He continued past it, feeling for that location the same hopelessness he had felt for the tumbling pits. But, nudged by thoroughness, he halted, then turned and walked toward it. The door, barn-like, too, was open. Hunt prepared himself for the jumble of equipment; for the mass of ropes and canvas, for the bar bells and skipping ropes and for the big heavy rings, tipped on their ends and lining the sides of the high ceilinged room. He was prepared to face the disappointment of nothing but this, and the mats and punching bags and headgear and the running machines and the scales. He was prepared not to find Turk Otter within the paraphernalia of wrestling equipment. He was prepared for disappointment once again.
And so, as he walked through the big, open entrance of the equipment building, Hunt, tired and prepared to face only the shadowed outlines of inanimate objects, was entirely unprepared for the heavy blow that struck him at the back of the head.
He spun as he fell. The instant before unconsciousness claimed him, Hunt knew that his search had ended. He had found Turk Otter.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The small red devils with the awkward tads pounded relentlessly with their sharp pointed hammers against the inner-sides of Hunt's head. They seemed bent upon escape. Hunt was willing to let them go. But he could not. He could do nothing but endure their hammering until they stopped of their own accord. And when they did, when finally they ceased and disappeared, they left behind them the scald of their hurt and the slowly rising curtain of consciousness.
Hunt tried to look around. At first he could not see, then, when figures finally were discerned, bulky and black and distorted by a single light in a far corner, he could not move. He blinked and waited, then blinked again. He strained to raise his head but could not. He strained his muscles, but they were weak against some scraping binding. Then he closed his eyes and rested. And slept. And just as quickly awoke again, fresher this time and lucidly aware of all that had happened; too greatly aware of his carelessness that had let it happen.
He glanced to each side, then up and down, orienting himself, marking his location for the combat he had awakened to pursue. But there was no fight awaiting him. Only silence for a long time. Then, when that ended there was the voice of Turk Otter.
"Now, ain't he cute there," Otter whined. "What a nice, all spread out little old hunk of wrestler. Man I thought you were never going to wake up."
There was the sound of movement from the corner that held the light. Hunt strained and looked in that direction. Figures moved toward him.
"That's it, come on over boys and take a look at our little old punk hero," Otter called.
As they approached, Hunt turned back to Otter. Then he glanced downward at his own, prone body. He was flat on his back on the hard dirt floor of the room. His arms were attached to some unseen but sturdy pegs. His legs were spread outward. They were similarly bound. But the pressure Hunt felt across his body was not from binding. A long, two-hundred pound bar bell had been placed across his chest. The big, round ends of the piece rested on either side of him. The bar stretched across his middle, holding him a prisoner by its weight and by the floor beneath him.
Hunt raised his eyes and looked straight ahead. He recognized the figures easily. It was Stotti and Vern Masters who had joined Otter at his imprisoned feet.
"Yeah, I see what you mean, Turk," Stotti said. "He's a real cute little punk. But not so goddamned lively now."
"Yeah," Otter agreed. "This is the way I've been waiting to see him for a long time."
Hunt saw Stotti go to Otter and clap him on the back. "You did a real good job, Turk. But I knew you would. I knew all I had to do was call you and you'd take care of things until we got here."
"It was a pleasure," Turk muttered.
"Is he conscious?" Vern asked.
A flashlight caught Hunt's face in its beam of light. "He's conscious all right," Stotti said. "Just look at them big, round eyes staring at us. He's conscious all right. For a little while, anyway."
"Hadn't we better get moving?" Vern asked. "For crissakes, will you please stop being so jumpy," Otter said.
"Well, we shouldn't waste any more time," Vern explained. "We'd better get this business over with."
"We will, we will," Stotti said casually.
"Go fetch that lantern and bring it over here," Otter ordered.
Hunt saw Vern break away from the others, go to the corner of the room, then start back with the light. While it jiggled back and forth, sending its rays bouncing about the room like dancing ghosts, Hunt strained at his bindings. Only the rope of his right wrist gave a little, as if the pressure had caused a tent peg to pull a bit away from the earth that held it. Hunt relaxed his body as the lantern was placed at his feet, veiling him in its reddish-yellow glow.
Stotti hunched on his heels and smiled at Hunt. "Now, if you're a good lad and not a bad lad this will all be over soon and you'll be able to put on your trunks tomorrow and start wrestling for your Uncle Mike Stotti. I might even forget how nasty you were to me back on the movie set. And I might add that that's might generous of me, too. Now, young fellow, all you gotta do is sign a little old piece of paper. I've got it all made out. All you gotta do is sign it."
"What kind of paper?" Hunt asked, his voice hoarse and dry sounding.
"Hey, it really talks," Otter said, pretending great surprise.
"Yeah, sure it does," Vern said. He laughed. It sounded nervous.
"What's the paper say?" Hunt said, staring straight ahead into the eyes of Stotti.
"Now does it really matter? Does it really? Considering the position you're in hey, boys, get that 'the position you're in' get it ain't that a lulu?"
"That's real funny, Mike," Otter said, neither smiling or laughing.
"Yeah, real funny," Vern added.
"Tell me about the paper, you bastard," Hunt said.
"Hey, watch it, boy," Stotti exclaimed.
"You mentioned a paper, bastard," Hunt said again.
Stotti half rose, then, as if he were exerting the greatest patience in the world, he lowered again to his hunched position.
"The paper," Hunt prompted. He hesitated, then said, "Bastard."
"Want me to take him polite, boss?" Otter asked.
"Nah," Stotti said in an exaggerated way. "He's just a little upset, that's all. Good old Mike Stotti can understand that."
"The paper," Hunt choked.
"Hey, he sounds anxious," Vern said. "Better give it to him while he's in the mood."
"Relax, Vern," Otter said. "You're going to take all the fun out of it."
"Okay, now," Stotti said. "About the paper. It's something we need now, Stratford. Our plans got a little fouled up. You see that dame didn't play it the way we thought she would. And neither did the old man. But that's all right. We'll still make out just fine with a little cooperation from you."
Hunt smiled to himself. It hurt his head, but he felt it with pleasure. You're damn right they didn't play it the way you wanted, he thought. You're damn right. And all because you're too stupid to know the way Liza and her Dad think the way they are.
Stotti extracted a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. He waved it in front of Hunt's face, then said, "We'll release one hand. Then you just sign this."
"Not without knowing what it says," he answered.
"All right, goddamn it," Stotti wheezed. "It's a newspaper release. It says that it was your own idea to join me that I never approached you. It says that you wanted to join up with me because Quinn was just building you up honest-like so you could take a fall in an honest match for the championship one that Quinn arranged so he could bet against you so he could make a pile by you diving. It says that's why you're walking out on your contract and why you urge every other wrestler in the Quinn outfit to do the same thing. We've got it covered from every angle. You'll be a bigger hero than ever and you'll make more goddamn money than you ever thought there was. Now sign it and we'll let you up from there and we'll get cooking with our new outfit Stotti Enterprises. Oh, yeah, you're on the board of directors and you're a stock holder."
"And how have you got this covered if I refuse?" Hunt asked.
"We got it covered. That's all you need to know. Are you ready to sign?"
"Let me glance at the paper," Hunt said. "Hold it in front of my face."
"Sure,"-Stotti said, pleasure dripping from the word. He unfolded the paper, pinched it taut, then raised and leaned over Hunt.
Stotti was just raising the paper and bending over when Hunt gathered saliva in his mouth then spat it sharply into Stotti's face. He jumped back with a curse and wiped at his eyes. He sputtered a moment, cursed again, then turned away.
"Convince him," he said to Otter.
"You bet," he answered gleefully.
Hunt waited, knowing that the torture would soon begin. But he awaited it with a certain satisfaction that was enough in itself to prepare him for any pain. He thought of Liza. He thought of Barry Quinn. He knew that regardless of what happened to himself, not Stotti, nor anyone the-likes of him, could ever defeat the Quinns.
There was a shuffle of movement at his feet. Then he felt Turk Otter grasp the big toe of his right foot.
"Like the dentist says, baby, this is goin' hurt a little," Otter said.
Hunt strained again. The rope of the right hand loosened some more and the left one gave a little too. Then, in a moment, Hunt strained again as Otter held his tied foot with one big hand and bent the big toe backwards.
"Ready now, baby," Otter said. "Snap, crackle, and pop." He jammed the toe backwards and it crunched brokenly.
Hunt made no sound. But he strained every muscle of his body. It helped hold back the pain. And, it loosened his bindings a small bit more.
"Try again, boss," Otter called to Stotti who had walked to the rear of the room. "Sweetie boy here has just lost one of his little piggies."
Hunt looked to the side and saw Vern staring at him. The young wrestler hadn't said a word. And, to Hunt, he looked frightened, perhaps even a little sick.
Stotti smiled down at Hunt. "You ready now?" he asked.
"Drop dead," Hunt replied. "Drop dead, you bastard."
"How many toes has he got left?" Stotti asked Otter.
"Well, let me see now, ten take away one is nine. Yeah, that's it, he's still got nine of em boss."
"Do a little more subtraction. Try taking away three from each foot."
Otter did. Slowly and joyfully, one by one, he bent them backwards until they broke. Hunt strained and withstood the pain. He had been hurt many times before. The pain was nothing. But he was beside himself with frustration for his helplessness, for his inability to move or defend himself. He strained his muscles mightily and felt his bindings pull away even more. But it was not enough to provide freedom.
When Otter finished with the last toe he looked at Hunt's feet and shook his head in feigned sadness, and said, "And those little piggies ain't going nowhere not for a long, long time."
"You through being stubborn?" Stotti asked.
"No, bastard."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, bastard."
"Can that," Otter cut in.
"Yeah, be a little more respectful," Stotti advised.
"Die, bastard, die," Hunt replied.
To Otter, Stotti said, "Has the punk got anything more significant you can work on?"
"Oh, I think we might find a spot or two," Otter answered.
"Good. Do it."
"Now?" Otter wanted to know.
"Yeah, right now," Stotti said slowly.
Vern hesitated, then stepped closer. "Look, Mike Turk we better lay off this jazz. This is bad-real bad- we could go away for an awful long time. And besides, he's not going to sign that release.", "He'll sign," Stotti said.
"You better believe it," Otter agreed.
"All right, Turk, go back to work," said Stotti.
"Sure. And I won't even charge ya overtime, boss."
Otter rose, then walked to the end of the room to shuffle among tools on a bench. It was then that Hunt again strained madly, strained and exerted every muscle of his body in his search for freedom. And very slowly it came to him. He felt the peg at his right wrist come fully loose from the earth. But he kept his arm in the bent-backwards position. In a moment, he felt the left one loosen, too. Then Hunt strained at his ankle bindings, but without success. He paused and looked at Vern and Stotti. They were away from him, several yards down the room from his feet. They were talking softly. Hunt strained his legs, then arched his back. The ankle bindings loosened slightly, but only at the cost of great energy. However, Hunt noticed that he had been able to hoist the weight that straddled his chest, had been able to hoist it slightly as he had those many wrestlers who had attempted to pin him to the floor. He strained at his ankle bindings once more before he saw Turk Otter, carrying a heavy crow-bar, turn from the work bench and come toward him.
Vern and Stotti approached with Otter.
"Now, I got a real cute little piece of equipment here," Otter said to Hunt. It's used very well for cracking ribs and I don't mean the spare ones because, buddy, you ain't going to have any spares left."
"Hold it a minute, Turk," Stotti said. "Vern and I been talking. Let Vern try his hand at persuasion."
"Sure, boss, if you say so," Otter said.
He rose, then when Stotti motioned him to the rear, he followed the short, stocky gangster as Vern approached Hunt. Vern squatted near Hunt's head.
"I hate like hell seeing this happen to you, Hunt," he said. "Why not be reasonable and sign the damn paper?"
Hunt did not answer, merely glared.
"It's not as if you weren't going to get something out of it for yourself. Hell, you'll make a mint with Stotti."
"That's really the big thing to you, isn't it, Vern?" Hunt asked.
"Well, a guy has got to look out for himself. Besides, I've always been a little too light for wrestling anyway. I'm big, but not bulky enough." He paused, then said, "Funny thing though. Because I wasn't like the others I always thought that was what would make it for me anyway. Guess Quinn did, too. He kept me on in spite of being a little too light."
"He kept you on," Hunt said. "He kept you in a job, and still you'd do this to him?"
"Well, like I said a guy's got to take care of himself."
Hunt, as if the sight made him ill, looked away from Vern's face.
A look of sadness suddenly rimmed Vern's eyes. "You know," he said, "I keep remembering how things were for us for a while. Do you think about it, too?"
Hunt looked at him again and said. "Yeah, I think about it."
Vern, apparently misinterpreting the tone, reached his hand out and touched lightly at Hunt's chest where it had been bared by his ripped shirt. Then he touched lower to Hunt's groin, pressing his hand hard against Hunt, then beginning to slip his hand within the waistband of the trousers.
Hunt felt his touch and did not move. All the memories of he and Vern together flashed through his mind. He remembered the caresses of his own that he had given. And he remembered the fierceness of their love-making, the high, high peaks reached and the resounding crash of their emotions as they had descended from their homo-haven and fluttered back to the reality of a heterosexual world.
Hunt thought of it all and knew that that period of his life had ended. It was over. He felt nothing for Vern and his touch but intense loathing, and he knew that it was not because of Vern's sex because of his love for men alone but because of the kind of characterless, material-motivated person he was, and because of the extremes to which he'd stoop in order to satisfy that motivation.
Vern's hand moved again, lower and searchingly. Still, Hunt did not move. Not until Vern grasped lower, then bowed his head to kiss at the angry lips, did Hunt move. Then he was a flash of action.
He jerked his left wrist free and hooked his arm about Vern's neck in a V-shaped grip of iron-strength. Vern's body struggled as Hunt applied pressure. He gasped chokedly. And stdl Hunt held him tightly as the body flopped and writhed. He pressured even tighter, at the same time bringing his right hand into grips with the iron bar across his chest while he arched his body high and waited, and pressured tighter, and prepared himself for the return of Otter and Stotti.
Vern hissed a final wheeze of air as his body went limp. It was then that Stotti and Otter, only a dozen feet away, turned.
At first they only stared. Then they glanced at each other. Then they dashed madly toward the scene of Hunt's partial freedom.
Hunt waited until they were nearly at his feet, then, he relaxed his grip on Vern's neck and felt the body slacken and roll away. He waited another half instant, arched another inch, then bounded his buttocks to the hard ground and with the aid of his hands heaved the heavy weight outward and into the onrushing pair.
Otter ducked. Stotti did not. A corner of the heavy weight smashed into his face, reeling him in a backward tumble to the floor where he groaned into complete and utter unconsciousness.
Otter was thrown off balance by his ducking action. But he recovered quickly, stooped and picked up the heavy crowbar, then advanced carefully.
Hunt was leaning forward, tugging frantically at his ankle ties when Otter paused before him, then raised the crowbar high.
Hunt twisted and wondered why the bar did not descend to crush at his skull. Then he heard the shout from the doorway. It had detained for a moment the deadly swipe intended for his doom.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"Hold it, you sonovabitch!" Barry Quinn shouted from the open door.
Hunt's eyes shot toward the little man. He was alone. He was dressed as always, the black Homburg resting far back on the bald head. He looked very somber. Except for the eyes. They were narrow and mean and hot with anger. His hand pointed at Otter and for a moment Hunt knew hope. It disappeared rapidly. Quinn held no gun. It was only his finger that pointed at the hulking Turk Otter.
"Drop that and come over here," Quinn commanded.
For a second it looked as if Otter, like a naughty child, was about to obey the paternal sterness of Quinn. But he did not. He, too, saw that Quinn was without a weapon. He turned from Quinn, re-raised the crowbar and posed for a second.
It was that instant that Barry Quinn chose to rush forward, unarmed and unafraid. And again, the little man's courage was enough to confuse Hunt's assailant.
Otter again turned toward Quinn. He paused. He glanced quickly at Hunt's bound ankles, then twisted and threw the bar at the rushing Barry Quinn. It nicked him on the shoulder and spun him to the floor.
Hunt jerked with his ankles, but they would not come free. Then he yanked with both hands and ankles and the bindings pulled hard against the pegs, which held for a moment, held still longer, then suddenly loosened and flew free of the ground. But the freedom was late in coming and much too short-lived. Otter was upon him and applying a desperate strangle hold to Hunt's throat.
The night had taken its toll of Hunt's strength. The anxiety, the search for Otter, the stunning blow to the head, the bindings and the torture of his broken toes, all, had drained him of his natural power. But Hunt's will, had not been reduced. It was stronger than ever.
He tore at Otter's body which held him pinned, just as the bindings had held him captive. He jerked at Otter's wrists, attempting to pry them loose from their suffocating hold around his neck. But he could not. He arched and attempted to throw Otter from his body in the manner that he had sent the weight flying through the air, but he could not. Otter stretched sideways across Hunt's body, freeing him of the contact that could spell his destruction.
And Otter's fingers pressured tighter and tighter, making Hunt's tongue feel swollen and raw, making him gurgle and hiss from loss of breath.
Hunt lashed his body. Again and again, he leaped it up and down, whipped it sideways, flung it outward and kicked above him, at the same time straining at Otter's thick wrists.
Gradually, the pressure lessened. Feeling it, welcoming it, feeling hope and thirsting for victory, Hunt pressured harder, summoning all of his strength and even more, more than it was possible for the big body to still have. Otter's left wrist was the first that Hunt pulled free. It struck and buried to the ground at their side, still tightly held by Hunt's hand. And Otter hissed. Then hissed harder as Hunt exerted himself to the other wrist, wrenching at it until every bone and muscle of his great body ached It loosened slightly, then slackened completely. But luck was on the side of evil. Otter's other hand, held flat to the dirt by Hunt, pulled free, shot forward, grasped and raised a heavy rock and had it in motion and toward Hunt's head as the crowbar was whipped down and across Otter's shoulder close to his neck, judo chopping him to sudden paralysis as he fell clear of Hunt's body. The heavy rock tumbled past Hunt's ear. He heard it land, then he raised and looked to the side.
Barry Quinn looked not at all ruffled or upset. But his expression was one that denoted his extreme pleasure with himself. Hunt did think he looked a little out of character in the dark suit, minus his Homburg, and holding the iron crowbar in his hand. The sight made him want to laugh. Then he did laugh. And so did Barry Quinn. But only for a second.
"Come on, kid," he said. "This is no time for us to be giggling like a couple of girls."
"No. No, you're damn right it isn't," Hunt said, rising to his feet and limping closer to Quinn.
"Jeeez, what a mess," Quinn said, glancing about at the figures of Stotti, Vern Masters, and Turk Otter.
Hunt followed his gaze. Stotti's face was smashed and almost unidentifiable. But he breathed and groaned slightly. Death had decided not to take him as its own. Vern was in a sitting position and clutching at his throat as he tried to breath deeply in an effort to force air into his lungs. He looked very hurt, very sad, without spirit or hope or even thankfulness for the life he still had. And Otter was face down and looked very cold and big and flat. But, he, too, breathed.
"Come on, kid, let's get you fixed up. These pigs ain't going any place," Barry Quinn said. "Besides, the fuzz should be on their way."
Hunt started to limp toward the door. Then he stopped. He looked at Barry and said, "Liza? Is she--. "
"She's fine," Quinn interrupted. "She's at the house."
"She's all right?"
"Yeah, she's all right. Sore as hell though."
"Sore."
"Yeah."
"At me?"
"Probably," Quinn said, his eyes twinkling. "You know how women are screwy."
"How did you get back?" Hunt asked suddenly. "How did you know about all this?"
"Liza called me long distance after Nadine Bersc-like showed her that check of yours."
"Bersc-like showed her that?" Hunt said, feeling surprise, but pleasure, too, for it was becoming very clear why Liza had turned so rejective.
"She sure as hell did," Quinn said. "They were trying to use it as pressure to get me to sell. And the damn fools put the pressure on Liza by threatening my life. They sure as the devil don't know that girl, though. She sat right down, called me and told me the whole story."
"That sounds like her," Hunt said, striking a tone of familiarity that by longevity alone was not his right.
"She was wrong about one thing," Barry said.
"What's that?"
"You. She was sure you were mixed up in it because of the check and the way you acted when you saw Stotti's name. I knew you weren't though, kid."
"Thanks. I'm glad you believed in me. I wish well, I wish Liza had."
"Women are different, kid. Besides, she's young doesn't have my experience with people. Come on, let's go to the house and get that broken body of yours repaired."
Hunt looked back once more at the trio on the floor. Then he turned and feel into step with Barry Quinn.
Before they had traveled a dozen paces, the police came running from the direction of the house. They paused and waited for them. When they arrived, Barry Quinn explained as much of the story as was necessary for the moment, then they left for the Equipment Building to round up their crippled hostages.
Quinn and Hunt continued toward the house.
When-they reached it, the flood lights glowed, framing them in its circle. Then the door opened and Liza was standing there, dressed as she had been when Hunt last saw her. But her expression was different. There was no anger now. Nor sorrow. Nor the worried look that had darkened her eyes. She looked very beautiful, very radiant. She looked very good indeed to Hunt.
She raced down the stairs to meet them. She glanced at Hunt, then, as if suddenly embarrassed, she looked away. She turned to her father.
"Are you all right, Daddy?"
"Never better in my life. Matter of fact, I feel ten years younger."
She smiled, then she looked up at Hunt again. "And you are you all right, too, Hunt?"
"I'm fine," he said.
"I I'm glad."
"He's not fine at all," Quinn bellowed. "He's got a broken body the poor kid's nothing but a pulpy piece of nothing. Can't you tell? Look at him."
"I am looking at him," she said sweetly. "He doesn't look very broken to me."
"I'm not," Hunt said. "Your Dad's joking."
"You're awful glad about an awful lot all of a sudden," her father said.
"Yes, I am."
"Well, if you two will excuse me, I've got things to do." Quinn smiled at both of them, then hurried up the stairs of the house.
Liza took a step closer to Hunt. Then she said, "I wouldn't let you say well, the things you said or were trying to say earlier tonight. I'd I'd like to hear them now, if you still want to talk to me."
T do, more than anything," he said. "But I warn you, there's a lot to tell a real long story, and some of it's not very nice. But when I finish, if you still want me to go on, well then maybe we can put the past behind and start thinking of the future."
"Yes, let's do that," she said excitedly.
Their arms entwined around each other as they slowly started to walk up the stairs, taking them one at a time, sure of each one, and confident of the next, and Hunt could not help but foresee it as the way they would spend their life together.
