She had all the earmarks of an easy mark, and Wiry couldn't afford to fool around with any more people who would resist and get him into trouble ... Howard Jones, in his study, Crime in a Changing Society, points out: "The amount of anxiety evoked by crime, and especially violent crime, is such that one is tempted to feel that its roots lie deep. We are, of course, bound to be impressed by striking examples of criminal behavior in our society, but why are such very strong feelings aroused in us? Why, for example, in the face of criminal violence, do we ourselves become so violent in return? ... Most psychologists who study crime nowadays look for its causes in mental factors which lie outside the individual's control, and no one did more to encourage this than Sigmund Freud ... Everything we do, he contended, has a discoverable cause in the shape of a personal conflict or anxiety. Crime too has its origin in our personal emotional lives. And it is by our early family experience that our personal lives have been shaped."
CHAPTER ONE
It caused a sensation, made glaring headlines in all the newspapers. The place where it happened was gloomy, the situation deadly grim. The electric chair stood waiting on its dreadful dais in the death chamber. Straps, connections, fittings, every step of the power supply ... all had been checked out.
"Hit it!" they yelled in a kind of savage hysteria along death row when the dry-runs had dimmed all the lights in the prison. "Hit it, man!"
The death cell door was opening.
Outside the cell where Billy Wade had been unable to eat his last meal-prison-kitchen prepared sirloin steak, tossed salad with bleu cheese, stuffed baked potato and chocolate ice cream soda-two guards, the warden and the prison chaplain waited as the iron-barred door slid back, moved by electronic impulse.
Wade walked slowly from his cell. He was nineteen, tall, fair-haired, with sharp features and pale blue eyes.
He looked around, blinking slightly. He was haggard, gaunt after almost a year of enduring capture, trial, incarceration, lost appeals and final denials from the appeals board and the governor. His cheeks were sunken and the bones stood out, high, prominent.
He had been prepared for the chair. Despite this, he was a handsome boy, slender in the hips, with wide shoulders and long legs. His picture had been in all the papers in the past year, and people had said-women especially-"he couldn't have done a thing like that."
The warden said, "Too late now, Billy, for anything from the governor. I'm sorry."
Billy seemed hardly to hear him. He seemed indrawn with agony, frightened, like a small boy.
And then it happened-the sensational ending to top even the circus-wildness of the Billy Wade case.
He stepped out into the corridor. His gaze touched briefly on the warden, and he showed neither interest nor humility. His glance brushed across the guards, who weren't even human beings as far as he was concerned.
Then he looked at the priest. It was a glancing touch of his eyes, but then he looked again, stunned.
Billy's eyes widened. His mouth sagged open. His jaw drooped and his face grayed out.
Those nearest Billy and the priest heard Billy whisper, "You!"
And then he muttered something else, and then he laughed. It was the kind of laughter that it makes you sick to hear.
The laughter broke, disbelieving and shocked at first. It had nothing to do with the priest's calling, nor with religion in general. It was something else entirely but what it was, was what nobody knew, in that first stunning moment as Billy's laughter spewed out, growing louder and wilder.
The guards grabbed Billy's arms. He hardly knew they were touching him. He went on laughing.
His laughter was so fierce it was hurting him, shaking him. It raged, reverberating through death row. There was nothing to share in it; it was chilled, maniacal, mindless. It was as if his mind had snapped-as if he had stood unbending, resisting, and had been broken.
Only that wasn't true either.
His laughter had cold sanity in it, and final resignation, and understanding.
He laughed all the way to the crib where the death chair waited.
He laughed as the shaken guards strapped him into the chair, set the metal cap snugly on his shaven head.
He was still laughing as the executioner threw the switch. He literally laughed himself to death, as the newspapers said-laughing at himself, at the law, at all the people who were unable to see the final truth that Billy Wade had learned while staring at that man in the black robes.
The sound of his laughter chilled the marrow of reporters, witnesses, officials. Strong men were ill, and it even took the pleasure of a clean execution out of it for those who had looked forward to it.
And they couldn't understand it.
Billy Wade had spent a year crying out his innocence, screaming that the "old man" man would come forward in time to save him from the chair. He hadn't laughed or smiled even once in that year. Suddenly he was bent double with laughter, and he went out laughing.
Newspapers, radio, television spread word of it, discussed it, puzzled over it, but never answered it.
The answer was as incredible as Billy's laughter, and it was bound up in time by a few weeks, as we figure days in eternity, which is without measure. And it all began like this:
The first people to see the "old man" were Naomi and Walter Tom.
Naomi Pryor was sixteen, and looked like a sex bomb-and she'd always hated it because she did. From the time she was twelve, she'd been so well developed in the hips and bust that she looked eighteen. The trouble was that at sixteen, she looked as if she had to know everything about sex, when actually she knew almost nothing, and this little came from hearsay, whispers among the girls at school, and the books she'd been able to sneak up to her room and read.
If her parents had known about those books, they would have killed her. Though Naomi was sixteen, her parents still claimed they'd "found you in a cabbage patch," and bitterly Naomi began to feel they really believed it.
They belonged to that frighteningly large group of people who view sex as something vile, something decent people never speak of aloud, never read about, never permit into their thoughts. They were as cold as the rockbound New England coast along which they'd been born.
For a long time, Naomi had wondered how and under what conditions her parents had gotten together to conceive her, because she hadn't believed the fantasy about the cabbage patch since she was eight years old. The truth had almost set her free; at least she felt superior to her parents, who seemed retarded, hypocritical and inhibited where the facts of life were concerned.
But she supposed all old people were like that.
As to how her parents had mated, planting the seeds that sprouted her, Naomi learned quite coinci-dentally when she was thirteen and 'came sick' for the first time.
Since her mother had told her nothing about the wondrous functions of her body, and the girls at school had taken it for granted that every girl of her age already knew, she was paralyzed with fear, almost hysterical when it happened.
She was afraid she was hemorrhaging and would bleed to death. She cried, face pressed into her pillow until her mother came in.
"What's the matter, Naomi?"
"I'm bleeding to death," Naomi wept. "Down there."
Her mother turned pale, flushed, and drew her hand across her face. Naomi thought it was because she was hopelessly ill and her mother was stunned. But it was because her mother knew that somehow she had to face a dreadful and forbidden topic.
"It's all right, Naomi," she said. She sat down on the side of the bed, feeling vague and ill.
"All right? I'm bleeding to death!"
"No, darling. It's the time of the month."
"The time of the month for what?"
"Every month, dear, women have this happen to them. It's part of the cycle, part of growing up. We must face it-as we women have to face all the unpleasant aspects of our lives. I'll get you a ... a pad." She was unable to use any of the common brand names, even before Naomi; she suffered fierce agonies buying the boxes inside plain wrappers in drug stores. We must face it, and hide what is happening, and not let anyone know it's going on."
"Why is it shameful, Mother, if it's part of life?"
"It just is! Don't question me, Naomi."
"Why does it happen to all women if it's so shameful that we can't let anyone know it's happening?"
"Naomi, don't talk like this. I can tell you, decent people don't discuss such things."
"Why does it happen?" Naomi persisted.
Her mother drew a deep breath, stared at the backs of her hands and spoke quickly. "It is the preparation for the life cycle in your body, Naomi. When you are married, the relations you'll have to endure with your husband will cause you to become pregnant, and-"
"I thought you found me on a cabbage leaf," Naomi laughed, taunting.
"Stop that! I won't be able to talk to you at all. Heaven knows it's distasteful enough."
"Did you ... hate doing what you did with father?" Naomi asked.
Her mother almost lunged up from the bed and fled. But her feelings of self-pity overwhelmed her repugnance, and she said, "I never enjoyed it, Naomi-what your father and I did. Never once. Never for a moment. I can stand before my Savior and swear to this."
"But they told me at school that Christ never preached against sex."
"Naomi! Do they actually talk about such things-in classes? In mixed classes? I shall certainly have to tell your father about this."
"Father didn't enjoy it either?"
Her mother straightened, drawing a deep breath. "Of course not. Your father is a good, decent man, just as I am a good woman. Thank the Lord, we've put all of that unpleasantness out of our lives now."
"What did you do ... when you and father made me?"
Her mother's face colored. "I don't want to discuss it with you, Naomi. You'll find out when you go to the man you marry."
"Wouldn't it be better if I knew what to expect?"
"No! Decent people do not discuss such things. You'd better understand that. And they had better understand it at your school."
"And you won't tell me anything at all about what you-and father-did?"
"Of course not. Such curiosity is unhealthy. I will say that I endured it because it was a part of marriage that my own dear mother had warned me all women must endure, and I made up my mind to accept it without complaint, and I did not complain, nor cry out."
"Does it hurt?"
Her mother didn't answer for a long time. Then, "I'll get your pad now," she said.
Naomi lay still under the covers until her mother returned. Her mother explained briefly and clinically how to adjust the pad and the small belt. "You can wait until I leave the room, dear."
Naomi said, "Didn't you and father undress in the same room?"
Her mother paused at the door. "That kind of curiosity is the devil at work in your mind, dear. Of course we didn't. I went into the bathroom and undressed. Your father undressed in his closet-which he does to this day. He turned out the lights and then I came into the room."
"Haven't you ever seen each other-naked?"
"Naomi! I shall have to tell your father, and he'll punish you. Of course we haven't. We're good, decent people. With morals. I don't mean to talk about it any more, and I don't want you thinking about it. There'll be time enough for that unpleasantness when you're married."
Naomi didn't think it would be unpleasant. Hadn't then, and didn't now, at sixteen. She'd never been permitted into her father's bedroom unless he was fully dressed, or covered by bed clothing right up to his shoulders, but she'd seen pictures in a book some of the girls had at school.
Strange, the things that happened inside her when she just stared at those forbidden pictures-in color.
They were really only clinical drawings of the male and female figures, but they were wonderful, to Naomi's starved gaze. Especially the male-the wide chest, the strong, thick legs, the....
Looking at them made her heart pound and her legs go weak.
The breasts on the woman in the picture weren't nearly as lovely as Naomi's own were. She thought about the way the boys stared at her full, high-thrusting breasts. She'd always hated it, but lately she had stopped hating it.
Blood throbbed in her temples now.
It was exciting to think about exchanging views with a boy. Only not with any boy; a boy like Walter Tom Perkins.
It was to bad about Walter Tom.
Naomi's parents allowed him into their front parlor just once, and then when he was gone, they'd lectured her for fifteen minutes about Walter Tom's inappropriateness, whatever that was.
Naomi couldn't understand how anyone could look at Walter Tom and not instantly like him, be charmed by his crooked smile and easy charm.
But her parents withstood him easily. "Don't bring that boy to this house again," her father had said.
"Why not?" Naomi cried in despair.
"Because I said not to," her father answered. "This is my house, and when I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed."
"You won't even tell me why you don't like him?" Naomi was on the verge of tears.
Her father was a "good" man, but not so righteous that he lacked understanding. He loved his daughter-in his way-as much as his puritanical background permitted. He truly wanted her to be happy-according to his standards. That was the way he felt about the rest of the world, too: They should live happily, doing the things he approved, seeing the shows he approved, reading books which didn't shock him. After all, he was a good man, and he lived happily and successfully, and people could live as he did-whether they liked it or not.
But Naomi's tears had melted some of the ice inside him. He chewed on his lips. "Can't you see why we don't like him, Naomi? He's got pimples, he combs his hair down to his eyebrows, he looks as if he never bathes, arid he can't speak a complete sentence. What is there to like about such an animal?"
"Walter Tom's a good-looking boy!" Naomi cried. "All the girls at school are crazy about him."
"Then the world has indeed gone to the devil," her father said. "Just don't bring that young lout around this house, that's all, and that's final."
She'd met Walter Tom after school the next day. "We can't go over to my house," she said. She tried to smile. "My father dislikes you almost as much as you dislike him."
Walter Tom smiled. "Want odds on that?"
"You'd lose hands down," Naomi said. "He called you a lout."
"Would you like to hear what I think of him?" Walter Tom asked, grinning.
"I'm not supposed to hear such words," Naomi said, laughing.
She took his arm. "I don't have to get home for hours, so we can go anywhere you like. Maybe we could go over to your place?"
Walter Tom flushed, and for a moment he forgot and pushed his hair back out of his eyes. Immediately he borrowed her comb and carefully re-combed it down across his forehead. Finally he said, his voice shaking. "My place? Sure. If you want to."
"What's the matter, Walter Tom? Why don't you want to take me to your place?"
"It's a dump, that's why."
"I don't care!" she said, pressing his arm against the resilient fullness of her breasts.
"Well, I do. I didn't even like that crib before I saw the big house where you live."
"That's my father's house, not mine."
"I know. And he's told you to keep me away from it. I don't really blame him."
They were walking slowly, entering a shabbier section of the town, passing pushcarts and stores opened to the street, and people yelling from upstairs windows.
"Don't talk like that, Walter Tom. You're as good as he is. As good as anybody."
"Who are you kidding? You know why I've been staying in school? Because of you."
She went weak with the wonder of those words. "Oh, I'm so glad, Walter Tom!"
"But I'm not going to stay there. What's the sense in it? Your folks won't let me near you ... and I don't blame them. I'm a D-minus student. I just don't dig it. I hate it. I hate all of it except being near you."
"Please stay, Walter Tom. I don't know what I'd do without you! I'll help you with your school-work; I'll do anything, if you just won't drop out."
"It's no good, doll. Some guys just don't dig the book jazz. Like me. I fail a couple more times, I'll be voting while I'm still in high school. Only, I ain't going to do it. Your old man made up my mind for me. I can't have you, I won't hang onto the school bit. It don't make sense."
"Oh, please," she cried. "What will I do without you?"
"What would you do with me? Look, doll, get some sense. Listen to your old man. You don't want me. A dropout. I been a dropout for a long time. Everybody knew it-principal, teachers, me. We've just been waiting. Well, now I can drop out and get a job."
"If you get a job, we could get married."
"Married? You want to come down here and live in this part of town with me? On what I could make in the jobs I could handle?"
"Yes."
"Oh, come on now!"
"I do. I want to be with you. I don't care about anything else."
"Your parents would put you away before they'd let you marry a nothing like me, Naomi. You make up your mind. You get on back home. You be smart. You stay away from down here. You stay away from me."
"Don't send me now. Not yet."
He looked at her a moment. Agony dried out his eyes. "Sure. Come on in."
Walter Tom led her up the steps into a roach-infested firetrap, a building as old as all the other buildings littering this street.
He paused outside the door of the apartment where he lived with his parents.
Naomi's face burned. She could hear a man and woman yelling at each other beyond the door.
"Your parents?" she whispered.
"My ma. And my Uncle Earl. Ma don't hardly speak to Pa any more."
He took her arm and led her in silence to the roof, where he had a cage of pigeons. They watched the birds awhile, and then they sat on the edge of the roof together, their hands clinging together tightly.
That was when they first saw the old man. He seemed to have been on the roof the whole time, because he didn't come from the stairwell or the skylight. He sat humming to himself, down the edge of the roof. He was looking at them, but pretending he wasn't.
"We can't even be alone up here," Walter Tom whispered. "It's no good, doll. We can't fight people. And your parents. It's just no good." He looked at her, the hunger in his face making him seem pale and ill. "You go on home now."
"Are you coming to school tomorrow?"
Walter Tom shook his head. He sat for some moments watching the old man. The clothes he wore fit this part of town, but Walter Tom had never seen him around the building before. Still, he looked at home here. Maybe he'd recently moved in.
There was nothing about him to make you cheer. His coat was baggy, his trousers stained and un-pressed. His shirt looked unclean, too, and gray whiskers grew sparsely on his lean jaw. His cottony white hair stood about his head, and his eyes were faded with age and loss and resignation.
Walter Tom jerked his head away. He could hear the old man's humming. He said, "No. I'm not going to school any more."
"Oh, Walter Tom, I'll miss you so!"
"You got to get used to that."
"I can't. I never will. Listen, Walter Tom, I've got an idea. What if I don't go to school tomorrow? We could spend the whole day together."
"Where? Up here, with dirty old men like him watching everything we do?"
"I don't know where we could go, but it doesn't matter. I'll bring a lunch. We'll go to the park. There are places where nobody ever comes, and we'll find one. We'll be truly alone, and ... and maybe you won't want me to stay away from you. Maybe you'll try."
Walter Tom swung his arm impatiently. He was about to rage at her. Couldn't she understand that he simply couldn't make it at school? Maybe it wasn't his fault; maybe he'd missed the basics. But it was too late now, anyway.
But instead he looked at her full breasts, her lovely mouth, her shapely hips and long, curving legs. He did want to see her, if only for one last time. And they could go deep into the park, to a little pond he knew, where there were rocks and steep inclines so you were shielded from eyes. He had lain awake at night thinking about having Naomi like that. Maybe he would have waited, but her parents were throwing him out, and even though he didn't blame them, he grew empty-bellied at the thought of having Naomi's loveliness in a place like that, where nobody could stop him.
He ran his tongue across his upper lip. "All right," he said. "I'll meet you at the entrance to the park at eight-thirty in the morning."
She pressed herself close in his arms. He kissed her, but they both heard the old man's bumming grow suddenly louder, and when they looked, the evil old monkey face was grinning at them, and they broke apart.
"Tomorrow, darling," she whispered.
He wanted to walk her home, but she said no, and he didn't insist. He'd only get her in trouble with her old man.
Trouble. He was sick of trouble, and it looked as if that was all that was ahead for him, all his life. Dropout, taking the low-paying jobs, the labor, the jazzing from the people who hired you, and could hire a hundred more just like you-all for peanuts.
When Naomi was gone, Walter Tom remained standing hard against the edge of the building. He stared down at the street. He'd never felt so low as he did at that moment.
There was nothing to look forward to. Even tomorrow with Naomi. She'd skip school, get in trouble with her parents, and if he and she did what he was sure they would do-what they both longed to do-she might be in deep trouble. He didn't want to get her in trouble. But he wanted her. He wanted to have her body, and look at her, get her naked and touch her, and make love to her. He wanted to look at those boobies when there was no dress and no bra restraining them.
He felt empty-bellied, thinking ahead to what he and Naomi would do. Only he had no right. Naomi's father had him pegged right; he was a drop-out, a nothing. What had her father said? A lout.
He was a lout, all right.
He thought about his mother and his supposed uncle yelling at each other in that crowded apartment down there. He hated the thought of going back down to his room. He hated the thought of going anywhere, going on at all. It wasn't worth it. He'd had nothing but Naomi before, and now they'd taken her away from him.
He stared down at the street ten floors below. It crawled with creatures that weren't ants, or dogs, or even human beings-not from up here. They were louts. They were scum. They were as low as he was. And they were all he could hope to live among the rest of his life, because he didn't have it; he couldn't make it; he was a born loser.
How easy just to step out over this low ledge, step out and fall. Ten floors. That ought to do it, all right.
His heart thudded. He knew he was crazy to think about it, yet the pull of temptation was suddenly almost irresistible.
So easy. So quick. So final. He wouldn't hurt Naomi. He wouldn't have to face what he hated facing-all the empty days without her.
He looked around wildly, sweated.
His gaze struck the old man. He sat cross-legged down there, watching intently.
There was a faint, sick smile on the old man's evil face. He didn't move or change his expression, yet his head seemed to nod almost imperceptibly, as if urging Walter Tom to go ahead, step out into nothing.
Walter Tom caught his breath. He stepped back, his heart slugging. That old man wanted him to jump!
He didn't even know him, and he wanted him to kill himself. That evil old man wanted to see someone die, for the excitement it would cause for a little while, because he would see death, but hadn't the guts enough to take his own life.
Oh, no! He wasn't going to jump. He wasn't going to put on a cheap sideshow to please that old man.
He stepped back, retreating from the pull of the ledge. He glared at the old man in triumph.
The smile on the old mans face didn't alter.
CHAPTER TWO
Naomi hurried toward the entrance to the park.
Walter Tom straightened from the stone gatepost, feeling excitement rise in him at the sight of her. His girl. For today, anyhow, his girl.
She wore a bulky sweater that failed to conceal or camouflage the pert uptilt of her young breasts. The wind whipped her dark skirt about her legs. Her arms were full, so she couldn't do battle with the breezes. Walter Tom grinned watching her.
He felt good seeing her come toward him. It could be like this forever, if only things were different. But he knew better. For today, his girl. He brushed this from his mind. He wanted to smile for her. He wanted her to see how glad he was to have her here.
She carried a lunch basket in her arms, along with the schoolbooks, and her camera strapped over her shoulder.
"Hello, darling," she said. She gave him a quick kiss.
He tried to take it as lightly as she gave it, but he couldn't. There was a painful sweetness about the kiss-the taste, the warmth, the freshness. He didn't see how he could get her out of his mind, no matter how many lonely years he lived apart from her.
She'd forget him. He could get no odds on that. It was just the law of averages. He was a dropout, and she'd finish high school and go to college, and no matter what she said, she'd forget him with half a hundred better guys.
"I'll never forget you," she said spontaneously, as if reading his thoughts.
"Why not?"
"Because I can't. I can't forget the way you kiss."
"You've never even been kissed by me. Not really," he said.
He took the basket from her, and they walked together into the entrance of the park. They passed the walks leading to the concessions, the bandstands, the zoo. Only a few people straggled through the ground's at this hour-cleaning men with forked sticks, an old man feeding pigeons, concessionaires. It was early.
It was a wonderful time to be in the park.
They crossed an arched bridge, then climbed through flower gardens, banked evergreens the well-tended hedges. They hardly saw them. They saw only each other.
Naomi said. "When am I going to be kissed by you-really kissed?"
"You just wait," he said. "That's it: I can't wait."
They stopped in the middle of the walk and kissed. She came close to him, the books and the camera chewing at him. He held her with one arm, holding the lunch basket at his side, and they pressed their mouths together.
It wasn't satisfactory. She wanted to be closer. He wanted to hold her head in his hand, to press her harder on his lips.
They broke away after a moment, panting.
Her eyes were glittering with tears. She smiled up at him. "I begin to see what you mean," she said.
He took her arm, and they walked upward into the jungle above the gardens. "You're going to get in trouble, skipping school."
"It's worth it. It's already worth it-even if I don't have any more than that kiss."
"Gee, you're in a good mood today."
"Why wouldn't I be? For the first time in my life I'm truly doing just what I want to. I'm truly with the one person I want to be with more than anything else on earth."
"You better not say things like that, Naomi," he warned.
"Why not?"
"You'll spoil me."
"I want to spoil you, darling."
He tried again to smile, and failed.
She was in such a happy mood, he hated to be a drag. So he wasn't going to see her any more after today. They were young; wasn't that what everybody would tell them? They came from different worlds. And this was the unholy truth. And she'd be better off without him. You couldn't fight facts like that.
But a stronger fact made Walter Tom's own eyes burn with unshed tears. It was hard to believe that God didn't mean for him and Naomi to be together, no matter what people said, no matter what her parents decreed. Sometimes God made two people that were intended to be together through all eternity, and maybe they were such a pair.
They surely went perfectly together. When she was pressed against him she seemed to fit snugly, tightly, in every way. Somebody had said once that the ancient Greeks believed man and woman were once an entity, torn apart by the jealous gods, and since then men and women had sought each other, sought the matching self, so that they could be whole.
"Maybe He does," Walter Tom said aloud.
"What?"
"God. Maybe He does want us to be together."
"Of course He does. Did you ever doubt that?"
"I don't mean just for today. I mean for all the time. Forever."
"And ever. I never doubted that. I was crazy about you the first time I ever saw you, in math class."
"I thought you had the prettiest-" She kissed him, covering his mouth with her lips, and they kissed like this, still going upward along the walk, into the denser growth deep inside the park.
The sounds from the streets and the town barely reached them here. "We can pretend there are no people," Walter Tom said. "Nobody left on earth but us."
They left the walk, moving closer together up a steep incline over a shelled path. The trees grew taller, the underbrush thick. They came out beside the little lake, and walked around it to the rocky hill which rose at a sharp angle from the water.
They put her books, the camera and lunch on one of the flat rock outcroppings. They couldn't be seen here, even from across the pond, unless someone was searching for them.
It was the first time they'd ever been really alone together, isolated from all prying eyes.
Walter Tom sank down against a sheer slate wall, and Naomi knelt beside him. He reached out, pulling her down upon him, his hands covered the jutting fullness of her sweatered breasts.
"Oh, darling," she whispered.
"Don't you like it?"
"Like it?" she shivered. "Hold me tighter, darling. Hurt me!"
"I don't want to hurt you!"
"I want you to," she said breathlessly. "I've dreamed about you holding my ... my breasts like this-hurting me, so I know you're holding me-so I can still feel it when you're not with me."
"You're a nut, that's what you are."
"If I am, you made me a nut. I couldn't even sleep last night."
"Me either."
"All I could think about was today, with you. I was afraid my mother would notice how flushed my face was and think I had fever, wouldn't let me out today.
He massaged her breasts through the sweater, feeling the rigidity of her nipples. "I didn't expect you to come," he said.
"What?" i
"Oh, I knew you wanted to, but I was afraid they'd stop you somehow. I was afraid they'd find out and keep you away."
"Nobody could keep me away from you-not if you really wanted me."
"Damn!" he protested in agony. "Don't talk like that! Please don't talk like that."
"Then hurt me," she ordered in her breathless way. "Hold my breasts until they hurt."
She didn't tell him she'd dreamed about this last night, dreamed it in a waking trance. She had been unable to sleep, but she had dreamed, all right-a wild, savage fantasy.
She saw Walter Tom naked, only he looked like the man in the drawing in that book-even to the lines and the names of the parts written out beside him. She'd giggled, knowing it wouldn't be like that, and that Walter Tom would be better-looking, more exciting. Real was the word. He'd be real. She could hardly wait.
She couldn't wait.
She'd felt herself shaken by a violent tremor. The night had pressed in on her and she'd kicked away the covers, perspiring. Heated flashes went through her, and then seemed to converge in one place. She was swollen, and she ached.
She touched herself, pressing her fingers down timidly.
She felt a little better, holding herself like that. But she wondered if she were going insane, or if she were only depraved, as her mother insisted people were who thought about sex at all, except in marriage and procreation.
She didn't want marriage or procreation just then; she wanted fiery excitement that was worse than a million hot ants crawling in her thighs.
She moved her hand, and felt her body respond beautifully to her touch. She moved it faster, feeling her agitation and pleasure grow.
She was afraid her mother might hear her bed, or her breathing, and come in and catch her like this. But she couldn't stop. She kept seeing Walter Tom naked like the drawing of the male in the book, and seeing him like that and touching herself was wildly pleasurable. She moved her hand faster and faster, whispering his name over and over.
She didn't even try to picture in fantasy what Walter Tom might do-only that he'd bring his nakedness close to hers and it would be crazy-heaven, hell and damnation all mixed together and ready to explode.
Her legs stretched out, the muscles straining. She pushed up with her hips, her buttocks taut. She went faster, sobbing for breath, knowing she was going to be overheard, but no longer caring. It didn't matter. Nothing had mattered except the sweet-hot pleasure that boiled through her, and she'd whispered, "Oh, darling, I can't wait for you! Don't make me wait any more!"
Now, in his arms, she said it aloud. "Don't make me wait any more darling."
"We got to be careful," he said. "No!"
He kissed her, grinding his mouth on hers, and instinctively she parted her lips for him. His tongue probed between her teeth-thrusting, seeking. She opened her mouth wider. His tongue lunged deeper, and she gasped, tightening her arms about him.
His hand went up under her sweater, covered one breast, outside the bra. Then she felt him removing her sweater, and she twisted, helping him. He tossed it aside, onto the lunch basket. He un-snapped her bra, and her ripe, aching breasts spilled free.
For some moments he held her back, looking at them.
She smiled up at him. "You like them?"
He couldn't answer. He only nodded.
"I've seen you looking at them ... for so long."
"So does everybody," he teased. "You don't see boobies like these everyday."
"I don't care about everybody. I just want you to look at me."
"I'm looking, I'm looking."
"I know! It makes me all hot to watch you looking at me like this. I've gone wild. I can't think about anything."
He bent over her and took a rigid nipple to his lips. When he drew on it, she caught his head roughly in her hands, thrusting him down on her bosom with all her strength. He drew harder, and she made whimpering noises, urging him to go faster.
She let her head fall back and stared up at the sky, as if in a silent prayer of thanks to whoever was responsible for such loveliness.
Lying like this, she felt Walter Tom's hand lift her skirt and slide under it. The excitement when she'd touched herself was nothing to what happened when he touched her. She bit her mouth, feeling herself growing hot and liquid at his touch.
"Oh, hurry, darling!" she whispered.
He unzipped her skirt, slid it down her hips. She wore only panties, and had chosen the sheerest pair she owned. He could see the shadowy triangle at her thighs.
But this wasn't enough for either of them. He caught his thumbs under the waist elastic and rolled the panties down.
She lay in his arms, totally naked.
She sighed, as if only now did she find living on this earth worthwhile.
"Show me ... you," she whispered.
He unzipped his trousers and she looked at him, taut and trembling with excitement. It made the book seem foolish and unreal. This was real.
She reached for him. She touched him. She moved her hand, exploring. She bent closer, lying with her face before him.
"You're so beautiful!" she gasped.
"How many men have you seen?" he teased.
"I never saw anybody but you. I don't want to."
"Oh, don't do that! Take it easy!"
"Just let me love you. I want to."
"You're going to kill me."
She released him, moving back. "Oh, no, I don't want to hurt you!"
He laughed at her, shakily. "No, darling. I only meant that if you kept doing that, I couldn't wait."
"Oh."
He saw she didn't understand. "Darling ... once it happens to me-when I can't stand it any more, you know-it'll be a little while, maybe fifteen minutes, before I'm able again--like this. No matter how much I want you."
"Oh," she said. "I'll be careful, because I want you like this."
He laughed. "Sure you do."
She lay back, and her eyes clouded over. It was almost as if she were sleepy. "Do it now," she said. "Show me what to do."
"Do I have to show you? Don't you know?"
"I know I want you," Naomi said, "but I don't know just what to do."
She lay down. He parted her legs, pulled them up so her knees pointed toward the sky. He moved over her.
Naomi bit her lip, watching him with savage intentness. He pressed, thrust, and she cried out with pain. But when he tried to draw back, she grabbed his hips with both hands and brought him down to her with all her strength.
She cried out, gasped, and then lay still a moment before she instinctively wrapped her legs about his waist and locked her ankles.
She breathed loudly, through her mouth.
As for Walter Tom, he was mindless. He thrust, drew back and thrust again, going faster and faster. He was out of his mind. He felt her carried upward to a crest of passion, heard her wail. He was thankful, because he could wait no longer. He tried to pace himself, tried to hold off at the last moment, but he could do neither. He could only work faster, driving upon her until he felt the surge of hot ecstasy.
Then he gathered her closer in his arms and they didn't move for a long time, staying that way, locked in each other's embrace.
After a long time Naomi, stirred in his arms. She sighed deeply and whispered, "OhI"
"What's the matter?"
"I loved it! Didn't you?"
"It's better than driving a truck."
"My parents. How can they be so wrong?"
"People like that, they don't know anything. They're afraid to know anything."
"I pity them, don't you?"
"No. I don't waste pity. Life and ... and loving is so simple-it's just like God made it. And people that foul it all up, make something nasty and evil and hidden, and ... even complicated of it ... No, I can't pity them."
She came back to his arms, lying there with her head on his shoulder. "I pity anyone on earth who's never loved like we have."
His hands explored for a time, more tenderly now, at first, gently. His hands cupped the fullness of her breasts, lifting each so the smooth under-curving was heavy in his palm. He kissed her breasts, the hollow of her throat, the nape of her neck.
"Oh, you're driving me wild! I'm all ready for you again, Walter Tom," she cried.
"Love me," he commanded. "Make me ready."
She found him with her hand, surprised. "What happened?"
"You," he said.
"Oh, I do love you," she whispered. She knelt to him. "Like this?"
He put his head back, chewing on his lips in sweet-anguish. "Yes," he whispered. "Oh, yes! That's it!"
She felt him running his hands with a kind of frantic anxiety over her bared flesh-her breasts, her legs, her buttocks and melting thighs. She felt her nipples harden under his fingers.
He was ready for her now-even more than before. He lifted her gently and placed her across his lap. She gasped as she sank down on him. He kept her there a long time, until the sharp pain became heated excitement. Then he turned, and she locked her ankles again, drawing him to her.
She was wild with passion, her body heaving under his, her whispers begging him to tell her what to do to please and thrill him most. But he was out of his mind, and couldn't speak, as they moved faster and faster, reaching a fierce, blinding climax at the same moment and sagging together to the earth.
They didn't move then for a long time. The sun rose above their hill, glittered in the small lake, brightened the tops of the trees.
"Are you hungry?" Naomi asked.
"If I get hungry I can always chew on you," he answered drowsily.
"And I you," she said. "But if we're going to live like this, we'd better keep our strength up."
"Isn't this wonderful," he said as she got sandwiches, paper cups and a Thermos from the basket. "All morning like this, and nobody came near us. Nobody bothered us."
"We're the only two people on earth, remember?"
He took a sandwich, ate wolfishly. "I know now how Adam and Eve felt."
She lay against him, nibbling at her own sandwich. "I wonder who taught Adam how to love."
"Eve, probably."
"I couldn't have taught you. I didn't know anything. You taught me. I wouldn't have anybody but you to teach me."
"You'd better not."
"Are you jealous?"
He didn't answer. He finished off a second sandwich, took up her camera. "Lie back," he said. "I want to take your picture."
"I'll take yours too," she said, lying back so the sun lighted her breasts.
He took pictures of her in every pose he could think of. "I'll take the roll," he said. "That way I can always look at you, and remember what it was like today."
"Who'll develop pictures like this-of me naked, and you ... like that?"
"I know a guy."
"I want some of them too."
"How would you get them past your parents? If they found them, they'd kill you."
"It's their fault. They make me hide things-books I want to read, pictures I want to keep. They make me hide like this with you. They make me lie. It's their fault. I want those pictures of us."
He kissed her, at first gently. Then he groaned as she reached for him. "You trying to kill me?"
"You name me a better way to die."
"Who's complaining?" He drew her close, setting the camera aside. She lay back in his arms and let him play with her for a long time, let him study the high rise of her breasts, the contours of her thighs. The afternoon was going; the day was slipping away from them, and they felt panic.
"I can't let you go," Naomi whispered.
At that instant a small rock bounced along the slate, and Walter Tom clapped his hand over her mouth, motioning her to be quiet.
He fixed his clothing, found a rock as large as his fist and took it up. Naomi caught his arm, her eyes stark, warning him silently not to do anything foolish.
He leaped upward, with the rock ready. His eyes widened. "It's that old man," he whispered.
The old fellow cringed in the shadows of huge rocks a few yards above them.
Holding her arms across her breasts, Naomi leaned forward, staring up at him. She shook her head, revulsed.
The old man stared at the rock in Walter Tom's fist. He shook his head, whining. "I haven't done anything."
"What are you doing out here?"
"I'm not hurting anything."
"How long you been there?"
The old man winced, cringing, as if fearful of the truth. Finally he said. "All day."
"All day?" Naomi cried. "You've been spying on us all day?"
"I was in the park, feeding pigeons, when you came in," the old man said, his voice quavering.
"I ought to kill you," Walter Tom said savagely.
"Go ahead," the old man said in a flat tone. "It would be the smartest thing you ever did."
Walter Tom hefted the rock in his fist. He might have struck the wizened old man with it, even though Naomi cried out, begging him not to. But the old man had said the key words: the smartest thing you ever did.
This stopped him. It wouldn't be smart. He'd be avenged on the filthy old fellow, but he'd embroil Naomi in a terrible scandal. She deserved better. He wasn't smart; he was a dropout. But he was smart enough to know how stupid and senseless a murder would be, even killing a ragged old wretch like this.
Slowly, he lowered the rock. "Why'd you follow us?"
"I heard you. Yesterday. On the roof-saying you were coming up here. I knew I had no right ... but I'm an old man. I wanted to ... watch."
Walter Tom looked ill. "And you watched us all day. I really ought to kill you."
"I didn't mean anything. What can I hurt? An old man like me?"
"It's a dirty thing to do," Walter Tom said.
"For you ... for a young boy it might seem dirty; but an old man. It's all I have left."
"You ought to take up checkers," Walter Tom growled.
"No. I don't like checkers. I like ... looking at pretty young girls."
Walter Tom advanced toward him. "Well, you won't like it."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to slap you silly. Next time, you'll know better than to go around spying on people."
"Walter Tom! Wait!"
He turned, at Naomi's outcry. "What's the matter? We got to run him away from here."
She shook her head. "If you touch him-if you hit him at all-you might kill him. Accidentally. He's so old. It doesn't matter that-"
"That he stared at you, that dirty old-"
"No! I don't care! He saw us together, Walter Tom. He knows how much I love you, how much you love me. Somebody knows, Walter Tom, besides us. We couldn't tell anybody, but now somebody does know."
"A rotten old man."
"I don't care." She looked up at the old man, still crouched above them in the rocks. "Did you like looking at me, old man? Was I pretty?"
He nodded rapidly, his aged eyes glittering. "I seen few prettier than yours," he said, nodding toward her breasts.
"Did it drive you wild?" she persisted. "Would you like to touch them?"
"Sure," Walter Tom said. "Go ahead. Touch them. And then I will kill you."
She touched his arm, restraining him. "You remember us, old man," she said. "Maybe other people don't love the way Walter Tom and I do. But we're not wrong, or bad. Not evil. Everything I am everything I do, is for him. All you saw ... was for him. That makes it more right then anything else I've ever done. You remember that, old man."
"I'll remember you," he said, nodding. "Both of you."
"All right," Walter Tom said, raging. "Then get out of here."
The old man nodded, jumping up. He clambered up the incline to the crest of the small hill like a billy-goat, and then he was gone.
"Oh, he ruined everything," Walter Tom said. "He made it as dirty as he is. He made me know we could never make it-not us."
"No! It's all right. It was beautiful. All day! We've got to go anyway; he didn't hurt us."
"He made me sick at my stomach."
"Forget him. Help me get dressed. I've got to get home."
He helped her dress, kissing her breasts as if bidding them farewell before she encased them in the deep-cup bra. She slipped her sweater over her head, zipped up her skirt. She sat combing her hair, repairing her make-up.
"I hate this," he said. "You look like I've never touched you at all."
"Well, you have," she said, smiling. She kissed him lightly. "It's inside that I'm different, where it matters. It's best that nobody knows the rest, except us."
"And that dirty old man."
She took his hand, leading him down the incline. "Forget him, darling. Maybe he can't help being what he is, any more than you and I can help being what we are."
"What are we?" he asked hopelessly.
"In love," she said brightly. "In love, in love, in love."
They walked through the park. It was more crowded now, in the late afternoon. Children played, young people sat on the grass, and older ones lined the benches along the walks. They barely saw any of them. The sounds came back to envelope themthe noises from the cages in the zoo, the caterwauling of the merry-go-round, the traffic wail from the street.
The old man was crouched on a bench at the bus stop. Walter Tom wanted to walk a block to another stop, but Naomi said, "It doesn't matter."
The old man got up from the bench, smiling like a chastened child. "I'm sorry," he said. "I know I was wrong to follow you like that."
When they didn't answer, he said timidly, "You took pictures of one another today. You have no picture together. Maybe ... you'll forgive what I did if ... if I take your picture together?"
They looked at each other. Naomi smiled and nodded. She handed the camera to the old man. "I want a picture of us, smiling and together," she told Walter Tom. "They'll never be able to take that away from me, either. I'll belong to you always, and this picture will prove it."
The old man came around the bench, motioning them beyond it to where the sun struck their faces. "The light is better," he said.
They stepped close together, the merry-go-round wailing, the afternoon traffic swelling, and they concentrating on each other. The old man motioned them back. Then he waved his hand for them to step back still more.
Naomi twisted her heel on the curb, and Walter Tom, with his arm about her, lost his balance too. They sprawled out, amid the horrified screams of bystanders, the squeal of brakes and the screech of tires.
It was too late. The bus couldn't stop in time.
The bus driver doubled up, ill when he saw their bodies sprawled in death on the street.
"They just stepped in front of me," he kept saying. "It was like they wanted to commit suicide."
The people around him agreed: There was no one near them, no reason for what they did.
Naomi's books were strewn across the street, the lunch basket was smashed, and the small camera lay beside them, crushed, the film unrolled and exposed.
The old man was nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER THREE
When the alarm went off, Milo awoke reluctantly, thinking, five o'clock again. He twisted in the bed, squinting in the late afternoon sunlight that filtered into his room.
It was five p.m. But this was the story of his life, upside down to the rest of the world.
He lay for a long time, refusing to consider any of the thoughts that battered at the door of his consciousness. There was heat in the afternoon air; he could tell it had been a hot, dry day.
He heard Myra get up from the other bed, and he closed his eyes so she wouldn't speak to him. Myra was thoughtful. She let him sleep as much as he could.
And that wasn't much. His dark-skinned face pulled into a sour smile. He ran a hand through the thick black hair that he kept cropped close to his skull. When he opened his deep-set black eyes, they glittered with a strange, savage light.
He sat up at last, not a big man, but well-built, with wide shoulders, a flat belly, taut hips.
He reached for a cigarette, changed his mind and made a face, tasting his mouth. It was too hot for a smoke. It was too hot for anything. Besides, nothing tasted good to him any more.
He watched Myra come out of the bathroom. She was in her late twenties, with honey-brown hair already laquered away from her angular, wide-eyed face. Her cheekbones were prominent and her nose thin.
The loveliest thing about Myra was her mouth. He couldn't describe its perfection; it was large, yet elegantly formed, with full underlip and curved upper lips. Most women had to paint on a pretty mouth. Not Myra.
She was naked, and there was an unselfconsciousness about her nudity that went deeper than her ease with him.
He sighed. She would have been as at ease in her nakedness with any man. She had a lovely body, with the kind of curves Rubens loved to paint, and none of the poundage. Her breasts were small, set wide apart and high, with small pink nipples against the milk-white flesh. Her shoulders, hips and legs were dusted with freckles. It all added up to a delicate, exciting kind of beauty.
Everybody told Milo he was lucky.
Still naked, she went into the kitchenette and put on coffee.
He wore white underpants, and he sat on the edge of the bed, yawning, staring through the window at the town outside. He heard children yelling in the street, cars moving, a distant lawn-mower. Life goes on.
Life goes on. The only lesson he had truly learned.
He listened to Myra moving around in the kitchenette, and when the coffee was made she brought him a steaming cup, along with one for herself-walking carefully, still as unselfconscious about her nudity as a three-year-old.
He took the coffee, and Myra stood before him, drinking from her cup.
"You feel all right?" she said.
"Yeah. I'm okay."
"You racing tonight?"
"It's what I do for a living."
She winced slightly. "You don't have to chew me out about it."
"Looks like a good-looking chew to me," he said. He tried to smile.
"Look out, you'll get me all excited."
He shook his head. "It doesn't take much, does it?"
"No. You just have to get with me and say when.
I don't know why I'm like that; do you?"
"Maybe you were born crazy for it."
She was serious. "Maybe."
She finished off the coffee, set the cup down and stood before him, watching him with her strange, unblinking green eyes. Cat eyes. Pussycat eyes, he thought.
"Milo?"
"Yeah?"
"You want me to come to bed with you?"
He looked up at her through the steam from his cup. She looked good; she was one of the few things that had, in a long time. Her breasts weren't large, but she loved having them handled, and she gave a man anything she thought he wanted. Anything.
She smiled down at him invitingly, then sat on the bed beside him.
"It's crazy, the way we live," she said "Both of us night people. Were you really asleep when I came in last night?"
"You mean this morning?"
She watched his face. "You think I was out with somebody else after the show?"
"You do what you like. That's none of my business. That was our understanding."
"But that was a long time ago-the kind of thing people say to each other when they want everything to start off right. I didn't really mean it when I said it. And I didn't think you did."
"I meant it," he said.
He took the savagery out of it by kissing her.
She put her hands on both sides of his head and held him tighly while they kissed.
He drew away, cupping a taut breast in his hand for a moment. He set his coffee cup on the table.
"I better get dressed."
Myra caught his arm. "Milo, don't. You are mad."
"Why would I be mad?"
"Milo, there's nobody but you."
"That's not the way I want it, Myra. We just live together. No strings; no deep attachment. I told you I don't mean to get involved again, ever. Not ever, Myra."
"Oh, Milo, nobody means to! And I don't mean to tie you down. I know we're not married. I know you're not going to marry me. But in some ways we're a lot closer than any married people I know. We've been together a year, and I love you more now than ever-more than I ever thought I could love anybody."
"That's not the way I wanted it, either."
"It's not always what we want, Milo, it's the way things happen. The way they are. You do love me, don't you, Milo?"
"Yes. As much as I love anybody." He tried to smile. "Except myself."
"You don't love yourself at all!" she said vehemently. "You hate yourself."
Milo stirred uncomfortably, wanting to get away from her. "Where'd you ever get a crazy idea like that?"
"From watching you. And I went to a lecture last week. A psychiatrist. You know I can't resist any of that stuff-numerology, astrology, psychology. Anything, from reading palms to the bumps on your head. He talked about you."
"Me?"
"Well, he didn't know you, but I did. And it was you he was talking about. You. Death wish."
"Death wish! What kind of crap is that?"
"You do have a death wish, Milo. That's why you try to kill yourself all the time."
He stood up. "Don't talk nonsense. I happen to be a race driver. Stocks, modified, fireballs, the works. That's all."
"Yeah. Sure. And you happen to win. And when you're going to race, more people turn out than to any of the other meets. Milo Sanchez. You think it's because you're the champ. It's because you take more crazy chances than anybody else. It's because you're trying to kill yourself."
He stared down at her, feeling the slugging of his heart, the savage emptiness in the pit of his belly. "Now, why would I try to do that?"
"Because you don't want to live. Because you think you have nothing left to live for."
He spoke coldly. "You'd better stick to the stripping, Myra, and leave the psycho mumbo-jumbo to the head-shrinkers. I've got you, haven't I? And this apartment? And we live pretty good. What trophies do I pick up for killing myself?"
"Maybe the only trophy you really want."
"Go to sleep."
"Do I have to?" she asked insinuatingly. She lay back on the bed and gazed up at him, her eyes fixed and unblinking, vulnerable.
He looked down at her, seeing how badly she wanted him to make love to her. All he could think was that he didn't want to. He'd dreamed about Joann again, and the dream was with him like a haze across his mind even now. He kept seeing the way she died in that blazing car. But he was hung up on making love to Myra. What was there not to like? She had the energy and desires of three women, and a fierce need to please. When he got Joann and the memory of her out of his head, it was different.
Myra was still watching him, her hands clenched at her sides, her gaze fixed on him, wanting him to come down to her on the bed. And he knew he would. It might even help to drive away that dream of Joann. Sometimes he didn't think about her at all when he and Myra were making love.
"What am I offered?" he said, teasing her.
"What do you want?"
"I don't want you to just lie there. I want you to make me want it as bad as you do."
She sat up, licking her lips. "You know I'll do that."
"That's better."
"You're being as mean as hell today, but I don't care." She extended her arms to him. "Maybe you can't help being mean."
"No. I can't help it."
"Come here, Milo."
He went back to where she sat on the bed, and he sat down beside her.
"You've still got clothes on," she said. "Underpants? They don't count."
"They do to me."
She slid off his white underpants, pushing him back on the bed. She leaned over him, barely caressing him with the tips of her nipples. Her mouth covered his, and her tongue pushed in between his lips. She stroked his jaw, his ears, his neck with her slender, delicate fingers. He could feel passion rising in him whether he wanted it or not. She was passionate, made no effort to hide her longings, did everything she could to excite him. Sometimes he put her off for what seemed an eternity to her, just to make her show how wild and excited she could get.
She raised herself now, and sat across him as he lay on the bed. She wouldn't let him move. Her hair glowed in the afternoon light. Her eyes were intent with concentration, and her teeth sank into her lower lip. She had lovely, white, even teeth.
She fitted him to her and then began working herself on him, tightening and loosening her muscles until Milo had to bite his own lips to keep from crying out.
"Do you like it?" she whispered. "I like it," he said.
"Truly?" She worked harder, and he could tell without her saying anything how excited what she was doing made her. He felt her trembling.
He reached up and covered her breasts with his hands. Her heart thudded under his palms.
Milo stroked her breasts, gently at first, then closing his fingers roughly. She was crying out, reaching the peak.
She sagged forward on him without moving her hips away. She kissed him, lying still, her body hot on his for some time, her heart thudding wildly all the time.
He stroked her taut bottom, caressed her legs as far as he could reach. Her skin quivered where he touched, and he laughed. "You really like it, don't you?"
Myra didn't move. "I really do," she said. She came slowly back to life. Her small breasts rubbed his chest. She kissed his face and throat.
It was growing darker outside. The sound lessened, and the loudest sounds seemed to be her breathing and the pound of her heart.
Milo moved his hands over her, seeing her with his fingers. She was really built. Her hips had shapeliness, and her long, slender legs were golden. Asleep, or caught unawares, she looked troubled, as if somehow damaged inside. She had been hurt, all right. He closed his arms, holding her as if shielding her against what could happen to her outside this room. And he knew abruptly that he loved Myra.
It was nothing like he'd felt with Joann. He'd married Joann, and maybe nothing would ever be like that again, but Joann was dead, and life goes on. He had something good with Myra. She was an exciting woman, and she wanted love whenever he did, and often when he didn't. She kept you on your toes with her loving. You told yourself she wanted it, and it was more than that, she had to have it, and if she didn't get it with you, she'd get it somewhere, because she had to.
He rolled them over on the bed, and she sighed with rising pleasure. He felt her lock her trim ankles at his waist. Her breath came fast across her parted lips. Her hands caught his hips, pulling him down to her.
She opened her mouth for his kiss, the thrust of his tongue. Their mouths pressed hard together. Her arms closed about him under his arms, and her hands dug into him.
"Love me, love me," she whispered. "Please love me!"
He thrust to her, and she lifted her hips to meet him. She moved agitatedly under him. He moved faster, and she drove to him, moaning.
He could tell without asking that she was totally ready. He increased his driving thrusts.
"Oh, darling, take it easy," she cried. "I want to wait for you this time. Oh, let me wait for you, darling."
"You know better than that, damn you. I don't let you do anything. You either wait, or you can't wait."
His voice, with the harshness and the loving in it, was the key to her reserve of desire. It drove her wild. Tremors racked her, and she moved faster, her head rolling back and forth on the white sheet.
She tried to wait for him, but it was impossible. She cried out, trembling, and her helplessness made him feel strong as a god, stronger. She submitted to him completely and absolutely. No matter what he was outside this room, here he was monarch. A tiger.
"Now, darling!" she wailed.
And she was right. She had somehow managed to bite back the tensions, and they found unbridled release together.
Exhausted, they clung to each other on the bed.
She spoke at last, softly. "You thought I couldn't wait, didn't you?"
"I hurried," he said, teasing.
She sounded smug and contented. "You do love me that much, anyhow."
"How much is that?"
"You love me like this. "When we're like this. Then you truly love me."
"Yes."
She shivered with pleasure. "What else is there, Milo? For us? For anybody?"
"Nothing, I guess. Why?"
"You know why. You leave here, and I never know if you're coming back. You might be killed at the track, and nobody would even come to tell me. Who am I? I'd have to read it in the newspapers. If anything happened to you, it would kill me."
"Nothing's going to happen. I found that out a long time ago. You never die when you want to. That isn't the way things are run Up There."
She shuddered, disliking the way he talked, as if the universe were in some conspiracy against him and all human beings. You live long enough, and your heart breaks; that was the way he saw it.
She said, "It's not only that. That something might happen to you. I never know if you're coming back anyhow. Why should you? Some night you'll decide not to come back, and that'll be it. Your clothes are here, but they don't matter that much to you, do they?"
He took a deep breath and drew her to him. "You mean that much to me, Myra. I come back here because I truly want to; isn't that the best reason?"
"It's not much for me to count on. One night you'll decide you don't want to."
"You're talking about security. We agreed a long time ago-"
"I know what we agreed to a long time ago. I'd go on stripping at the Alley Cat, you'd go on driving, and we'd let it go at that. But I'm not talking about security now, Milo. I'm talking about you."
"Me? I'm here. I'm coming back tonight. I'll get here a hell of a time before you do, in fact. If somebody wanted to lie awake wondering where the hell somebody was, it would be me."
"You know there's nobody but you, Milo. It's like I never had it with any other man, like none of them mattered. Nothing mattered until you came along. But now I've got you, you keep trying to kill yourself. And it's not fair any more, because if you killed yourself, it would kill me."
"No. You'd go on. Life goes on. I know that much."
"A person can be dead," she said. "Living and breathing and walking around, he can be dead. That's what I'd be without you."
He stroked her face. "What do you want me to do?"
"You know what. Quit racing."
"And get run over on some crosswalk, like those kids that got hit by that bus?"
"I'd take that chance. If you'd just stop racing, I'd take that chance."
"What would I do?"
"What you talk about doing sometimes. What you used to want to do-before your wife got killed. Run a garage for all kinds of cars that people want souped up, or just in top condition. They need a garage like that, and you could do it, if you just cared enough."
"Yes. If I just cared enough."
Her eyes filled with tears. "Couldn't I make you care enough, Milo? I know I'm not what Joann was to you, and I couldn't ever be, but I wouldn't try to be. I'd just be me, and love you."
"And you think that would make you happy? Me quitting racing."
She trembled, hugging him to her. "I don't ask you to marry me; just let me quit my strip job and live with you. That's all I want. Just to know you're safe ... and coming home to me every night ... at least until you get tired of me."
He held her for a long time without speaking. Then: "Racing's my job. And we need the money."
She exhaled, and said no more. She never nagged. He had learned this much about her in the past year. It was hard to get her into an argument, and she never harped on anything. She just gave up, retreated, and you knew she was hurt, but she kept that to herself too. She wasn't a martyr about it; it was just that life seemed to have taught her she wasn't going to get very many of the things she wanted, and she was resigned to it by now. She lived with it.
"It's not easy to quit," he said. "And getting a garage takes money, too."
She laughed. "At least you're talking about it."
"I've talked about going to the moon, too, but I don't believe those rockets will really fly."
"They're flying all the time, silly."
"Sure they are, but it's just that I don't believe. Everybody but me has quit laughing at Orville and Wilbur Wright."
She tried to laugh with him, because he was teasing, trying to get away from a difficult subject. "I know. If God had intended man to fly, he'd have given him wings."
"No." He kissed her. "He'd have given them a girl like you. I fly all the time, when I'm making out with you."
"Only it's not enough to live for."
"Oh, come on now. Don't start that death-wish jazz again."
"That's what it is."
He got up and dressed. She curled up on the bed, watching him. He put on gray slacks, a white shirt. He finger-combed his hair, and she knew he'd shave after he returned from the races tonight. If he returned. She sighed, because this is the way she thought it every day. Day after day.
He looked down at her. "I better cut out. I've got to check that engine. I trust my pit boys, but not with my life."
"Don't you want something to eat?"
"I'll get a steak at the track restaurant."
"I wish you'd think about it."
"The steak?"
"Doing what I want. The only thing I've ever asked of you. In a whole year."
He laughed. "Sure. Give up racing. My income."
"You only took up racing after Joann was killed."
"Good-bye, Myra."
She nodded and threw him a kiss. She stretched on the bed so he could take with him a memory of her nakedness if he wanted to.
The doorbell rang as he crossed the front room, a jacket caught on his thumb over his shoulder.
He opened the door, and frowned at the old man who stood there. He was less than medium height, and all the flesh seemed to have been picked off his bones. He had an age-monkied face, and flat, grinning blue eyes as faded as a denim shirt. He wore boots of the kind the hangers-on wore around the tracks, and somebody's discarded racing windbreaker that was too large for him.
"Yeah?" Milo said.
"Godsey sent me looking for you," the old man said with that unblinking grin. "Why?"
"You know Lefty Godsey," the old man said. "All he thinks about is his race program and his grosses. He's sore because the fire laws won't let him seat people in the aisles."
"Who is it, Milo?" Myra called from the bedroom.
"Just some old salt from the tracks," Milo said. "Sent out to be sure I hadn't chickened."
"You're the track's biggest draw," the old man said proudly, pleased to foe so closely associated with the racing star. "But Godsey says you've been acting strange lately."
"He's crazy."
"He's afraid you'll yellow out."
"He's crazy. I haven't changed. I haven't said anything."
"The way it is with fear," the old man said. "You don't have to say anything when you're scared. Most men don't. They try to hide it. You know the one place you can't hide fear?"
"In your sweat glands," Milo said, joking.
"In your eyes. A man that knows fear can see it in your eyes."
Milo Sanchez laughed broadly. He laughed so loud that Myra called out, wanting to know what was funny. "Nothing. Go back to sleep," he called. "See you in the morning."
He walked through the door, forcing the old man to retreat a couple steps into the corridor. He closed the door behind him.
The old man said, "You going out to the track now?"
"Where else?"
"You mind if I ride along with you?"
"You don't have a car?"
"I caught a bus in. Lefty said you'd let me ride back."
"Sure." Milo shrugged. "What is it they say?
You can't get a woman or a fat young boy, get a clean old man. You know, whoever made that up just about summed up what people are truly like."
"You don't think much of people, do you, Mr. Sanchez?" the old man said. "Of people, or living, or anything. Do you?"
"Look, old fellow, you talk too much. Don't talk so much, or I won't let you ride to the track with me. I got a lot on my mind before a race; I need to concentrate."
"You scared?"
Milo glanced at the old man, scowling. His dark face twisted into a bitter smile.
But the old man padded along beside him in the salty boots, his grin never wavering. Milo shrugged and said nothing.
They were in the car and well out in the rush hour traffic when the old man spoke again. "Lefty says you're yellowing out. He says he can see it in your eyes."
Milo drove easily, but defensively. He handled cars with style and grace. He wasn't ever indecisive about his own driving, but he was more in terror of other drivers on the street than of the worst pile-up on any track. He even wondered how few of the cars crowding around him were driven by people with the remotest idea of what to do in the least serious crisis.
He said, "I don't want to talk, old fellow. And certainly not about Godsey. I don't care what he thinks about me. But I can tell you this. He can't read anything in my eyes, or yours, or anybody else's.
He's too stupid. A man might be sick at his belly, and that would show in his eyes. Or he might be in love, and that might show in his eyes. And Godsey wouldn't be able to tell the difference, because Godsey doesn't know the difference between being in love and having a pain in your belly." The old man laughed.
Naked, Myra got up and went to the window. She watched Milo walk out to his car. She watched until she could see neither him nor his sleek new Buick any more.
No matter what else had happened to her in her stupid life, she thought, she had hit it rich to have Milo Sanchez.
She knew how many women wanted him-almost everyone who looked at his dark face, those deep, hurt eyes, and those wide shoulders and long legs. He walked like a lean animal prowling for winter forage. She'd read that somewhere, and it sure fit Milo. He was a hungry man-hungry for things he could never have, that he once had, and which were lost to him.
She needed him. He was good for her, because he made no demands and she knew he wasn't jealous. She couldn't even make him jealous. It was as if that part of him were dead, had died in the accident that claimed the life of his wife a long time ago. He still hadn't gotten over it.
Myra went back to the bed and lay across it. She let her hands stroke across her naked breasts, flat belly and rounded thighs. He liked her looks, that was for sure. And he liked the way she made love, the way she'd do anything for him.
She would do anything for him, she thought, anything to keep him, and yet she knew she couldn't do that-keep him. She'd lost him before she met him, and she'd have to live after she had utterly lost him But she needed love and loving, and nobody could satisfy her the way Milo did.
It was all too bad; that was what it was. It was all too bad.
CHAPTER FOUR
The old man sat far across the seat from Milo on the long ride across town and out the freeway to the track.
Milo was glad. He wanted to think-as much as city traffic permitted-and besides, there was an odor about the old man. He supposed they all got that way if they lived long enough.
"Sure thank you for taking me along like this," the old man said with that empty grin.
Milo shrugged. It was as if he'd forgotten the old fellow was with him. "Haven't seen you around the tracks before."
"Oh, I been there. You been too busy to notice. I noticed you, all right. I guess everybody does. Like Lefty Godsey says, you're the biggest draw he's got."
"Lefty thinks of everybody in terms of money."
"That's as good a way as any, I reckon."
Milo laughed. "You a philosopher, old fellow?"
"No." The old man shook his head. "But when you live as long as I have, you see some things are true things, and others are just lies. Like I know why the straight and narrow is so narrow: because so few people ever walk on it. I seen that. A lot of hypocrites set themselves up as better than others, but they ain't. They're worse, because not only do they lie to others, which isn't too bad, but they lie to themselves, which don't make good sense. Right? We're all tarred with the same stick. And there's not much to life but getting as much out of it as you can right now. That's what everybody admires about you. You get so much out of it right now. You're not afraid to live."
Milo grinned. "You mean not afraid to die, don't you?"
"No. It's harder to live than to die. It's harder to stay alive. Like the chances you take. It would be easy to die, taking chances like you do, and everybody knows that. But you do it, and live. That ain't easy."
"You got a fouled-up way of looking at everything."
"No, you do. People like you. I know the answers, but it's too late for me."
"You're some old man."
"I sure would like to ride in your car with you tonight."
"You got to be kidding! It's against the rules, in the first place."
"Since when did rules matter to you?"
"That rule matters, because I happen to agree with it."
"Please?"
"You anxious to get killed, old man?"
"I ought to be safe with you. Even Godsey says you know how to cheat death."
"What does Godsey know?" Milo pulled the car into the rear entrance at the track, roared across to the field where the pit people and the racers parked. "Worries me to think old Godsey believes that."
The old man got out of the car reluctantly. "Please let me ride with you, Mr. Sanchez. Biggest thrill I'll ever have, an old man like me. I could hide in your car; nobody'd see me. What could I hurt?"
Milo laughed and flipped him a fifty-cent piece. "Forget it, old fellow. Go buy yourself a piece of tail."
The old man looked crestfallen. "What would I do with it?"
Milo laughed at him. "The same thing I'd do with you in my car. Forget it."
Milo strode away without looking back.
He had his pit man start his car three times, rev up the engine to full torque. He listened, deeply lost in concentration, oblivious of the other pitmen and drivers shouting and working around him, the stands filling with early arrivals, the tests going on out on the track.
At last he shrugged and signaled the mechanic to shut down. The engine died. Somebody spoke to Milo, but he shook his head, bent over the engine, made an adjustment in the carburetor. He looked up then, with a faint smile. "I want it all," he said. "Sometimes I need it all."
"You're going to blow it one of these nights," his number-two man said. "One of these nights it'll take a week to pick up all the parts."
Milo straightened and leaned against the black door of Number 4. "Not of me. I'm thinking of cutting out, Ruben. You been eying the heap; you want to buy me out?"
Ruben Naro stared at him. He was the same height as Milo, but heavier, with thick, curly black hair and black eyes. A St. Christopher medal gleamed among the black hairs at the base of his throat.
"You feeling bad, Numero Uno?"
Milo shook his head. "No, but I'm going to sell out. My bird wants me to quit, and that's it."
Ruben laughed dutifully. "Oh, a joke."
"No joke. You want to buy the heap, or not?"
"You know I do. But where would I get that kind of loot?"
Milo shrugged. "You know where."
"Lefty? He'd scream if he thought you were quitting."
"Let him scream. When he quits screaming, tell him you plan to buy me out. He'll let you have it, as long as he can take his payments off the top of your purses on this track."
Ruben thought it over for a long time. "With his kind of interest, I'd be in debt a long time."
"What the hell, you might get killed the second or third time out. Think of the joke, beating him out of all that money."
Ruben didn't laugh. "Give me a little time to think it over."
"Sure. Take all the time you want. Just make up your mind before the feature."
"Why so fast?"
"I want cash. If you don't buy, I can sell the whole outfit to Lefty. Then you'd be working for him, and that's worse than getting killed."
"I'll think, I'll think."
Milo grinned, clapped Ruben on the shoulder. "Any other time, I wouldn't push you, comrade, but I'm anxious to get out before I think it over."
The pitmen around them were listening now. They heard what Milo said about getting out. They glanced at each other, stared at Sanchez. Racing got in your blood; you didn't quit.
The talk buzzed. Milo Sanchez quitting! It wasn't long before half a dozen drivers were in his pit area, and they all had one question. "You quitting? You? Why?"
Milo shrugged, watching them. "Might open a garage, settle down."
That was good for a laugh. Most of them thought this was all it amounted to, a laugh, and they straggled away. Sanchez had a wild sense of humor. He didn't look at things the way other people did.
Milo left the pit, walked across the track. The few early arrivals recognized him, and a loud cheer went up from them. "Sanchez!"
He waved his jacket, kept walking. He went through a gate at the end of the grandstand, going toward the concessions near the entrance. Cars were filling the black-topped parking area, and a steady stream of people filed through the gate. He could feel the charged atmosphere of tension and excitement these races always generated. It was as if it were something in the sweat glands of racers and spectators alike.
"Sanchez."
He slowed when a man from the darkness behind him spoke his name. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that two men had come out of the stands, were hurrying after him.
He paused, recognizing Gil Santos and Harry Delgado. They were both taller than he; Santos was heavy in the belly, Delgado lean and dark, with a livid scar in his right cheek.
"Hi, Sancho," Delgado said.
Milo nodded. He didn't bother to smile.
Santos crowded Milo, cutting in front of him. Milo retreated a step under the overhang of the grand stand. Gil smiled into his face. "You got like a minute, Pancho-Sancho?"
Milo shrugged, watching them. There were only two of them, yet he had the sense of being surrounded. Sanitos smelled of after-shave lotion.
"We got a little proposition to talk over with you," Delgado said. "Might make all of us a little soup and bread."
Milo tried to step past Gil, failed; Santos held his ground like a post. "You guys know better than that. I could get called before the board if I'm just seen talking to you characters. Unsavory, that's the word. Everybody says you guys are unsavory."
"Flattery," Harry said. "We cry a lot when we stash the stuff away in our safety deposit boxes."
"Yeah. And we got it stashed away. In safety deposit boxes. Nobody gets at it but us. But the thing is, we got it. How you fixed for lettuce, Pancho-Sancho? I mean the big green kind that folds and makes a bundle-against old age, and when younger guys come along and bump you at the tracks."
"I'm fixed," Sanchez said grinning. "I got three bucks. I'm on my way now to spend it for a steak."
"That's it. You take all the risks. You put your neck on the line. For what? For a three-buck steak in a cheap track hash house. You call that living?"
"I told you guys, I don't go for deals. I never have. What makes you think I'll suddenly change?"
Harry gave him a flat, chilled smile. "Lot of things. For one, Uncle Pedro wants you should throw the feature tonight. To Manuel Lopez."
"That Sunday driver?" Milo shook his head.
"Sure," Harry agreed. "A fink. But at thirty to one. That's the odds on him in the feature tonight. That's a big return, thirty to one."
"You put your money on Lopez, you'd do better sending it to United Fund. That's deductible."
Gil stepped closer. Now he smelled of onions and cigars, as well as after-shave lotion. "You don't seem to grip the notion, son. We're here from Uncle Pedro. The word. You want to go on racing, you know you got to do what Uncle Pedro says."
"I never have yet."
"You been lucky. He likes you."
"I like him, and I never even saw him. You guys got back and tell him-"
"Listen, Milo. It ain't like that. We're here. We're telling you. We got the word for you. You drop it to Lopez tonight, at thirty to one. That means you got nothing to do but carry him. Uncle Pedro says to tell you he likes you. A big wad goes on the line for you. At thirty to one."
"Thanks. But no thanks."
"Why not?" Harry looked stunned. "You got morals or something?"
Milo shook his head. "I wouldn't get mixed up with Uncle Pedro. Once I did. Just once, I'd be in as deep as you two jokers. I'd be as good as dead, like you are."
"Watch how you talk."
"Yeah, watch yourself. We're up walking around. We got loot stashed in the bank."
"Yeah. In safety deposit boxes. You're fixed. So why worry about me?" Milo said.
"You're the dead man, if you don't go along," Gil said.
"Sorry." This time Milo put his shoulder into Gil's, and the thick-set man retreated slightly.
They let Milo take two steps toward the lighted concession area. Then Harry Delgado clapped a hand around Milo's throat and yanked him back, hard. Harry threw him against the support boards in the darkness. He panted slightly. "Now you listen."
Milo glanced at the people near them. He could yell, but if he did, Harry might well shove a shiv in his gut and run. Nobody would recognize anybody in the darkness under the stands.
Milo sighed heavily, resigned. He leaned against the dark wall, staring at Gil and Harry. The light glittered faintly across their faces.
"The word," Harry said, still panting. "From Uncle Pedro."
"You got sense, Sanchez?" Gil demanded. "You don't know what that means?"
"It means you guys think I've got no choice. You think I won't blow the whistle on Uncle Pedro. Well, you're nuts."
They stared at him, puzzled, contemptuous. "You'd blow the whistle? Where?" Gil said. "To Godsey, maybe? The commission? How you think those guys operate? Come on. You been around a long time, kid; It's time you got smart. There's nowhere to blow no whistle. You do what Uncle Pedro says, you race. You don't ... you don't. It ain't real hard to understand."
Milo shook his head. "Like, no."
Harry suddenly sank a fist wrist-deep under Milo's belt. He had moved fast, signaling nothing. Milo doubled over, retching.
They let him hang there on the brink of the universe, lights spinning around in his head.
Gil's voice was soft, almost gentle. "You listen to reason, baby, you don't have to be hurt. You're a big-time; nobody wants to hurt you."
"You just got to learn, honey," Harry said. "You got to follow orders."
Milo went on crouching there as the lights skidded back into place, as the sounds straightened out inside his head. He drew the back of his hand across his mouth.
Gil and Harry stood set, watching him.
Milo came up suddenly, moving with an animal fury that Harry and Gil could neither comprehend nor hope to match. He swung his leather jacket, catching Harry across the side of the face. As it struck, he released it and straightened up into Gil as if propelled by a rocket.
The crown of Milo's head caught Gil in the throat and at the point of his chin. Still moving upward, Milo put his knee into Gil's crotch. Gil went sprawling out on his back, unable even to scream out the pain in his groin.
Harry had slapped away the jacket. But he made the mistake of going for his switchblade, and when he shoved his hand into his jacket pocket, Milo caught it, thrusting it down, holding it trapped there. He leaped around, carrying Harry. He levered him face first into the solid wall under the grandstand.
Milo released Harry's arm then, and struck him in the kidneys with his fists-four, five times, until Harry sank along the wall like a glob of phlegm.
Milo picked up his jacket and backed away, going toward the concession area.
Gil writhed on his fat back like a beetle. He gasped, staring after Milo. "My God, I pity you," he rasped. "You're in trouble. My God, I wouldn't be you-not for nothing. You hear me?"
She was a redhead. Her skin was a fair pink, her hair light red, with a lot of gold in it.
"Sancho. Mr. Sanchez," she said.
She came to his table in the crowded restaurant. Mila sat alone, near the picture window that looked out on the parking lot.
He'd seen her when she entered the place, pausing at the door, looking around, searching for someone. He was faintly surprised that he was the abject of her scavenger hunt.
He stood up, reluctantly. The napkin dropped from his lap, and before he could retrieve it, the redhead knelt and picked it up. She smiled as she handed it to him, her small nose twitching like a rabbit's when she did.
Her eyes were an odd amber-green shade. She wasn't more than five-feet-two, but she was round in the hips, bulbous in the breasts, and her upper legs strained against the fabric of her short skirt. She looked to be in her early twenties.
"You don't look happy to see me," she said uncertainly.
"Should I be?"
"I came looking for you."
"Thrills. Any particular reason?"
She hesitated a moment, her face flushing slightly, then smiled and met his gaze. "The best. May I sit down and tell you about it?"
He exhaled heavily. He didn't invite her to sit down. "You're new around the tracks," he said.
"You sound like you're accusing me of something."
"Reason I'm sitting alone in this place, crowded as it is, people know I like to be alone before a race. Mostly they let me alone."
"Would you rather I let you alone?" Her lips protruded slightly, as did her full breasts-something like a pouter-pigeon.
"Doesn't look like it matters much, does it?" he said. "Sit down." He drew out a chair for her beside his.
She sat down, and shifted her chair so it was nearer his. He saw people watching them. She was something to look at, even around a track, which always attracted beautiful dolls who wanted to trade excitement for excitement.
"I wouldn't have busted in on you like this, Mr. Sanchez, but I've been wanting to meet you. When I saw you alone like this...."
"Oh? You weren't looking for me when you came through the door."
She smiled. She was quite sure of her charm. "You saw me?"
"Everybody saw you."
"I don't care about everybody."
"You haven't answered my question. Were you looking for anyone in particular, or are you just on the prowl?"
"That's not very nice. I told you, I've been wanting to meet you. The way you drive a car, the way you race...." her eyes glowed, and she became slightly breathless. "You don't have any idea what that does to a woman. Even from a distance ... You're a man who's not afraid of anything."
"So you came looking for me." His tone didn't believe it.
"So I came looking for you. I thought maybe you'd be with a crowd in here-at the bar, on the porch, or in a booth with a mob...."
"No. Not before a race."
"That would have made it easy. A girl like me can always join a crowd, and pretty soon I'm part of it. I thought maybe I could make you notice me ... and then next time we met, you'd know me. That's the slow way, but it was all I hoped for."
He laughed at her.
"What's to laugh?" she said. "It's hard as hell to dig up a real man, nowadays. They even wear their hair long. I've seen girls fighting over a man, but it's been a long time since I saw a man fight another one over a girl. It might spoil his hair-do or ruin his nails."
He laughed again. "What's your name, besides Red?"
"Nobody calls me Red," she said. "I wouldn't like that. My name is Nookey. Nookey Benton."
He shook his head, smiling. "No wonder nobody calls you Red."
"I like this," she said, looking around.
"You like what?"
"You. Alone. Before a race. Like a lone wolf.
That's good. That really tears it. That puts a crack in it all the way to the ceiling."
"I like to think," he said. "I have to think. There are seven other cars in the race. Most of the guys, I know; it's like I've got a book on them. I know what their weaknesses are, what they're scared of-"
"Are you scared?"
"I'm scared of you, Nookey."
"Stop teasing me. You're trying to treat me like a kid. You think I'll go away. Well, I'm not a kid. I'm a grown woman. I'll tell you that-"
"You mean if I'm so blind that I can't see it?"
"Right. I'm grown. It's just that I know what I want."
"A real man, not scared to muss his hair-do."
"Right. And I am grown. I'll prove it to you, if you want me to." He felt her leg massaging his under the table.
"Well, not right here. I don't look it, I know, but I'm the shy type."
"I don't mean right here. Out in my car. I'm parked out in the lot; we could go there."
"I just ordered a steak."
"Ho, boy! You'd rather have a steak!"
He shrugged, not answering. She rubbed his leg again. "I just don't believe that, big baby."
"That's the way it is, though."
The waitress came, bringing Nookey a glass of water. Milo said, "Would you like something to eat, Nookey?"
"I couldn't keep anything on my stomach right now," Nookey said loudly and spitefully. "I'm not like you."
"That's what makes it a game," Milo said. The waitress smiled.
"Bring me a beer," the girl said. "Maybe I'll throw it in his face."
"Aggressive," Milo said. "That's the word. You're an aggressive female, Nookey."
"The new woman," she agreed. "Is that bad? I let a man know what I want. I let you know."
"Sure. But what if I like the shy, retiring .type? The kind that holds back."
"Like Myra, the Moongirl at the Alley Cat?" she asked.
He sighed. "Been researching, eh?"
"Sure. I've got a book on you, Sancho. I know all about you. I know what you like, and I can top the best you ever had. A sample, Sancho? I'm willing to give out a sample. I think you'll come back, too. I think you'll buy."
"And kiss Myra good-bye, eh?" he said.
"Myra who?" she said. "That stuff's not for you, Sancho. She's too old for you. She's been had."
"You're not exactly offering factory-fresh merchandise, honey," Milo said coldly.
"Ho! Made you mad, talking about your bird, huh?" She laughed. "Nobody wants factory-fresh in a woman, Sancho, except a fool. A girl's got to know something, or she'll lie there like a log and think she's doing you a favor just being there. A girl that cares, Sancho, has got real hot blood in her, and she's bound to experiment a little. That's what makes her worthwhile to a man like you."
"You've got quite a sales pitch."
She exhaled. "I've been a long time in need of you, Sancho. Longer than you'd believe. I didn't just come in here off the street and talk to you like this. I made book on you. You're worth humbling myself for. If you're smart, you'll forget that steak and come out to the parking lot."
"Not before a race."
"Oh, come on now! You always sat alone before a race, too ... until I came along. You'd better live for today, Sancho; that's all there is, sometimes. And I've even got a better clincher: The only things we ever really regret are the ones that get away. You're not going to let me get away, are you?"
He looked at her. Her red-gold hair caught all the lights in the place. Her face was flushed, as if she'd been drinking, or was on a trip. But she was sober; she wasn't drugged. She was excited-flushed with excitement, built to a high pitch-and sure he wouldn't turn her down.
The smile faded on her face. "There's a long time before the feature, man. We got a lot of time."
"Sorry, baby."
She winced. "I'm making one last toss, Sancho. Don't push me. I'll wait for you ... after the race. We'll go somewhere."
He shrugged. "Okay. You want to wait, baby, that's up to you."
She stared straight at him, as if looking into him. "I'll wait"
Milo snapped on his crash helmet and ducked into the modified Number Four. The door was set in place. He touched the steering wheel, staring toward the packed, lighted stands, a brilliant island in the darkness. The redhead was up there-waiting, excited, wanting something. Nookey. And Gil and Harry were waiting too, and wanting. And out past the stands, the mysterious Uncle Pedro, wanting something too. And Myra, stripping away the bra and skirt, everything down to the g-string for the suckers paying a dollar and a half for draft beer at the Alley Cat. Wanting something. Everybody wanted something.
He felt tired. Sometimes it just didn't add up. It wasn't worth the effort.
They started the engine. He revved it up, then waved his arm that it was okay. They rolled him out to the track.
He stepped down hard, gunning Number Four past the grandstand. He heard the growling roar from the stands as he passed, even above the engine. He heard the popping and fretting of the other cars. His baby responded, the whole car quivering.
He lapped the track and came back to where the modifieds were taking position. The pace car roared ahead of them, for one more lap. The flags showed, the gun sounded, the lead car roared away and glided smoothly off the track into the pit area, and they were on their own.
Something stirred on the flooring.
Milo caught his breath, jerking his foot off the gas. The other cars whipped past him. He stepped on the accelerator again, but he wasn't looking at the track, the dust, the acceleration fumes.
The old man straightened from the roll of rags in the darkness. He crouched low in the seat. He wore no helmet, no protective gear.
Milo cursed him. "You trying to get us killed?"
"I just wanted to ride with you, Champ," the old man whined.
"And I told you forget it! How in hell you get in here?"
"Easy. Nobody looking. I crouched in there under the dash."
"How come I didn't see you?"
"The mind, Champ. The mind sees what it expects to see, and that's all. You didn't expect me. You didn't look for me. You had your mind full."
"You're going to get us killed, grandpa. And even if you don't, I'll be disqualified."
"Don't worry about that."
"The hell with you!" Milo raged savagely. "I needed the winner's purse tonight, Grandpa. Damn you, I ought to take it out of your hide!"
The old man gripped the dash with bony fingers. "You can take these bums, Champ, You can take 'em."
"They've lapped us already, Grandpa. You can't yak in a race like this. I ought to break your head."
"Go after 'em, boy! Go after 'em!" the old man cried. "This is when you show you're a champ."
"You stupid old jerk! There's just so many horses. You just shut up! Shut up, you hear me? I might kill you yet!"
He gripped the wheel, staring ahead into the dust, trailing the field.
He pressed the gas pedal hard, getting the most from the modified. He whipped betwen two tail runners, and heard the old man scream with glee. "That's the way to go, Champ!"
Milo gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He concentrated on the cars ahead. The old boy was so stupid that he couldn't understand they'd been lapped; this was all kissed good-bye.
It even raced through his mind that Gil and Harry would think Uncle Pedro's threats had scared him. Maybe they had. Anyhow, he didn't care what Gil and Harry thought.
He moved in on a bunched clutch of middle runners. They pratically kissed metal, each trying to keep his place and lose no ground. There were two front runners, but Milo gave no thought to them. This knot was like a solid wall; he had to outmaneuver somebody without giving up the whole race-time to it.
"Through there, Champ, through there!" the old man screeched.
"Shut up!" Milo raged.
He floored the gas, whipped into an opening. He could almost hear the drivers to either side yelling as they gave him inches when he needed feet. He stepped harder, urging a little more.
The old man panicked, screamed out his terror when the opening closed as they came into the curve.
The old man grabbed the wheel, screeching gibberish.
Milo fought him, but it was too late. The modified angled across the track and was struck broadside. It wheeled and skidded, was tagged in the tail by another car. It tipped, burning along on two wheels before it went over.
It was a matter of seconds before the explosion. Flames whipped across the car and it was hit again, and still again before the track could be cleared.
Firefighters raced in with foam to smother the flames. There was nothing they could do about getting Milo's body out.
It didn't matter. He was beyond them anyhow.
The stands stood stunned, like a single person, staring at what was left of the champ, the big Numero Uno, Pancho-Sancho. Most of them couldn't even believe he was dead when they saw he had to be.
High up, the redhead huddled with her face in her hands. She didn't watch as the flames were conquered and the fire died out down there on the track, sputtering like dead fireworks after a bright display.
Gil nudged Harry along the exit aisle. "He went out the smart way," he said. "For him, Harry, it was the easy way, believe me."
"Sure," Harry said. "The easy way."
CHAPTER FIVE
Myra walked out of the cemetery about six o'clock. It was growing dark, dusk flooding down across the gravestones and mausoleums.
She shivered slightly, for to her a cemetery was a lonely place at best, and worse just before dark. But she'd started coming out to Milo's grave around five each day. She couldn't explain it, except that five o'clock somehow seemed hers and Milo's time of the day. It belonged to them.
She'd fixed some flowers on the small headstone, and then stood emptily. She was alone in the cemetery except for an old man seated on the grass in the distance, eating sandwiches and drinking from a can. A picnic in a cemetery. It seemed crazy to her, but she shrugged it off. It took all kinds.
She walked slowly now, wondering why she wasn't hungry. She hadn't eaten all day. She'd been living on little but coffee since Milo died. She wasn't interested in food or anything else. She had to force herself even to show up at work.
She had to tell herself over and over, "Milo's dead. He's not coming back." And then she'd make herself remember what Milo always said: "Life goes on."
For the first time, she truly knew how he'd felt when his wife was killed-the way a part of him had died inside; the way he kept going over and over it, even when he admitted it was senseless. Myra was senseless too. She had been ever since Milo died.
She didn't even know why she kept going to the Alley Cat night after night. It was strange to look through the wall of light and glimpse sweated faces turned up, eyes bleeding over her nudity. Why should they be interested in a dead body? That's all she was any more.
Still, going there was something to do. It gave her a goal every morning-not a very important one, but something to focus on. When the day had finally dragged away, she'd show up and sit in the room with the other girls, who were part of the living world. She listened to their laughter and their chatter, but it didn't reach her. It. didn't touch her at all.
She walked to the corner and caught a bus. The old man got on behind her, smelling of beer and onion sandwiches, but she didn't look at him.
She sat at the window, looking out at the town drifting past. There was no reality for her. She tried to tell herself it didn't make sense. Milo hadn't married her. Milo had slept with her, that was all. He wouldn't even give up racing for her. He'd wanted her for one thing, and plenty of men had wanted her for that. What made Milo different from all those others?
She got off the bus near the apartment house where she'd lived with Milo. She went along the walk, entered, and went up to the empty rooms. There was nothing left of him here. It had been too weird, like he was coming back or something, and she'd called Salvation Army and they'd carted all his belongings away. She kept nothing of him.
She looked around, making sure there was nothing left of herself here, cither. She'd moved out today; she didn't need a place this big. A hotel room near the Alley Cat made more sense. Nothing fancy. Maybe later, when she found some interest in life and cared what her surroundings looked like, she'd find a better room.
She walked into each room. She had cleared it out pretty well. It was just an empty apartment now.
She went out then, and locked the door for the last time. She left the key in the lock. She hurried away, and didn't look back.
She rode a bus downtown, got off near the Regal Hotel on Mapes Street. But she shuddered at the thought of entering the place alone or sober; not this early in the day. And not on an empty stomach.
It was too early, but she walked down to the Alley Cat. Maybe she'd eat something before show time. She might talk to some of the girls. They'd been nice about Milo. They'd all known how much he meant to her. They ought to; she'd bent their ears plenty.
She remembered that Milo hadn't liked coming here to watch her in the show. It didn't thrill him to see the sweaty brutes and the lace-cuff set staring at her nakedness. He liked to see her naked, though. She was glad she'd given him what he wanted, even if it hadn't lasted long enough. How crazy she'd been. She'd been sure it was going to last forever. She was going to make it last, somehow.
She thought about how restless and disturbed Milo had been in the days before he died. But when people said maybe he committed suicide, she knew they were crazy. Not Milo.
Milo had wanted her, and they'd been happy together-more toward the last than before, because they knew each other better. That was what was really important: You had to get to know the person you loved. You had to know the little things that pleased him, and you had to forget yourself and think about him. Then if he thought about you-the way Milo always did-you really had it with whipped cream.
That was the way they'd had it, all right. They were good when they made love together. The best.
Milo was lean and rugged, all man.
She remembered the way she'd met him. They were at the bar, and he hadn't known she worked there. Not then. Later, he knew. He sat and watched her undress, and she got excited, knowing he was in the audience. That night she undressed just for him, showed him her breasts and hips and her long legs so he'd know how pretty she was. And later she had shown him how good she was with that body, because she wanted to please him.
She hadn't thought it would last. Nothing ever lasted in her life. She'd been married to a guy that slapped her around, and stayed drunk, and lost jobs. That was how she got started stripping. Face it, she couldn't dance well enough for regular shows, and her singing wasn't much. But what she had, men sweated to see in places like the Alley Cat. So she'd walked out on her husband, but hadn't had any better luck with men.
But with Milo, it had lasted. He was kindly and gentle, and generous. He didn't have to beat up a woman--or anybody-to prove he was a man. He could prove that by grinning at you. You could feel what a man Milo was when he grinned.
And now he was dead.
She had to quit thinking about him.
She hurried into the bar and ordered a double martini. The bartender served it in a brimming glass, with the cold-sweated second-drink pitcher at its side.
"Going to put one on for them tonight, kid?" he asked.
She stared at him across the glass. He was a young man, balding, but not bad-looking. A blur, as far as she was concerned. All men were. But he was friendly, always had been, and he didn't push. "Just like always. Why?"
"Double martini? That ought to put zip in the old hip."
"Yeah, I guess so."
She said that so he'd go away and leave her alone. She didn't want to be alone, but she didn't want to talk, either.
She decided to skip eating, and went directly to the long, narrow dressing room in the rear of the club. Other girls were already in-some undressed, a few wearing bra, panties and stockings, their nudity as natural as breathing, and almost as necessary for living. The room was cheaply furnished, with powder-smeared mirrors set in a row, each fluorescent-lighted. Calendars and street clothing hung along the bare brick walls. Costumes were kept in plastic jackets behind a fabric curtain.
She went to the mirror where her powders and make-up were. She removed her dress and sat in panties and bra, putting on the false eyelashes, the eye liner, the mascara.
She was working at her face, concentrating, trying not to think, when the door opened from the hall. She glanced up from habit rather than interest.
She frowned. An old man had entered the room. He looked like the sort of derelict she saw any time of the day on Mapes Street, near the seedy Regal Hotel.
The other girls gave him the merest glance and made no effort to cover themselves. They didn't care about an old man. It was as if he didn't exist.
She saw him looking at them, his eyes shining and his mouth watering. The breasts and thighs and white flesh under the fluorescent lights looked good to him, maybe stirred up old memories.
He came through the crowded room to where Myra sat before her mirror. She could barely see him in the powder-dusted glass; he looked hazy, unreal. Better that way.
"What do you want, old fellow?"
"Nothing. Fellow asked me to come in and see you, that's all."
"A fellow? What fellow?"
"Well, I don't know his name. A dark guy, sittin' by himself near the wall. Hair plastered down, and he's wearing a light suit, and a flower in his lapel."
"Must be real. You couldn't make up anything that hokey."
"I didn't make him up. He gave me a dollar to come back here and ask you to take a look at him when you go out to do your number."
"What will that prove?"
"Nothing, except that if he looks all right, you're to nod, and that'll mean you'll come out afterward and have dinner with him."
"Just dinner?"
"Well, dinner's what he told me, Miss Myra. And I figure you ought to eat, if you're going to keep looking good, so men will want to look at you."
"You're staring."
"You look extra good to me. But I know you ain't been eating too regular the last couple weeks."
"What's it to you, old man?"
"Nothing, Miss Myra." She saw him staring at her breasts. "But everybody knows the way you been lately. Life goes on. You got to go on, no matter how bad things look. And a free meal. You could have anything you wanted, and he'd pay for it. One thing sure, he's loaded."
"How do you know that?"
"I picked his pocket."
"What?"
"That's right. I guess my old fingers ain't what they were. He caught me. Almost broke my arm. But I saw his money, and the credit cards, and he's loaded. You can take my word for it. He gave me a dollar just to come back here and ask you to have dinner with him."
"All right, beat it. You've stared at my boobies long enough. And you've earned your dollar."
"Will you do it?"
"What do you care? You've earned the buck. The night wasn't a total loss, and you didn't get your arm broken. Now get out of here before I throw something at you."
She waited, hearing the music through the walls, the patter of the m.c.-the raw jokes, and the things he said to the girls as they appeared to do their turns. The same old thing. God, she was tired of it!
But she was caught. Like the guy caught the old pickpocket.
If she tried to break loose now, all she'd get would be a broken arm. Like everybody else, she needed the money.
She put on the costume, so she could go out there and strip it off. She felt a little weak, a little woozy, kind of vague. She admitted a truth; she couldn't live on double martinis and black coffee.
She looked down at her ruffled, spangled costume, wondering what the guy was like out front. The old man hadn't made him sound like much. Still, it was joining the mainstream of life again to take some action-any kind; even looking at the guy. But she hated it, because it meant she was going on with life, and she didn't want to do that, either.
The m.c. announced her, calling her the most popular attraction in the history of the Alley Cat. Myra the Moon Girl. The band struck up her number, the spotlight struck the place where she'd step into it on stage. There was a brief hush, and then the whispers went up again, because-face it-the audience was a bunch of lushes. They came to drink up the booze and leer at the flesh.
She stepped out, and they applauded. She did the same dance routine that ail the femmes had done ahead of her, and they applauded. Off came the elbow-length gloves, and the tempo increased. The top was next-unhooked, tossed away, glittering with phony moonbeams.
She teased them a little while and then whirled around, sans bra. They whistled and applauded the sleek, high-jutting lovelies she exposed. She let them look, let them eat their hearts out.
Then it was time for the brief skirt to go, for the hips to be revealed with nothing but the briefest string between the globes of her buttocks. She turned then, as naked as the statutes would allow. She kept the smile on for them, and she knew they were all doing it to her, the only differences being in the quality of their imaginations, their experiences, their longings, their perversities. She didn't hold that against them. Everybody was perverse, only in different ways.
She ran her hands along her powdered body, down her belly to the g-string at her thighs. She left it there, for them to do with it what they could in their heated imaginations. She fondled her breasts, stroked herself, moving in rhythm with the music. And then she stared out, seeing a dark-haired man with a thin face, light colored suit, alone at a table near the wall. She gave him the briefest nod, saw his teeth glitter in a smile.
Then the stage went black and the audience groaned. They'd been carried as far as they could be in the name of good, clean entertainment featuring the loveliness of the female body.
Myra went back to the dressing room, changed into her street dress. She stared at herself in the hazy mirror, wondering why she'd nodded to the man out there. A free meal? Enough of being alone? Was she so empty that two weeks was the limit she could mourn even a man like Milo?
She didn't try to answer the question. That led nowhere. She took her handbag, went through the side door.
Another stripper in action, so nobody noticed her going to the table where the dark-haired man sat. He stood up. His hair was truly slicked down; like George Raft in the late movies.
"Hello," she said.
"Thanks."
"For eating dinner with you?"
"Yes. I really appreciate it."
"Don't be too grateful, or you'll scare me away."
"No. Sit down. I don't want to scare you at all. I think you're lovely. Do you want to eat here, or would you like to go somewhere else?"
"This is fine."
"Do you have another show?"
"A late one. We've plenty of time for dinner."
"Good. Let's relax Tell me about yourself."
She grinned at him, teasing him. "At an early age I was left on the doorstep of these wealthy people by a band of gypsies who'd kidnaped me from the castle where I was born. I went to Vassar, the youngest girl in my graduating class. Naturally, I majored in classic ballet, and that's why I'm here, where you find me tonight."
He laughed, pleased. "You're quite a girl."
"Yes, I'm quite a girl. Now do you want to tell me some lies about yourself? Why not start with a good made-up name?"
"No. My name's Ralph Dumas. I didn't make it up. And do you want to know something else I didn't make up?"
She shrugged, watching the stripper without interest.
"I'm here tonight because my wife is out with another man. I know it, and she knows I know it. There's nothing I can do about it. She calls it modern marriage. She says I can't excite her any more, and she needs someone who can."
Myra stared at Dumas, seeing him for the first time. What he'd said shocked her, for the moment, out of the cocoon of her grief.
There was an intensity about him that upset her. His eyes stared too firmly, and too much white showed. His nose was thin, flared at the nostrils. His lips were tightly compressed, as if he were able to keep himself from flying into fragments only by the strongest grip of will. His hands were never still-moving on the table, touching things, restless.
"That's enough to knock a guy off his tree, all right," Myra said in a flat voice.
He didn't read her disinterest. He said, wound up in his grief, "Her name is Ruth."
Myra looked at him. This guy wasn't ugly, but he was tied in knots over a dame. So what did he want with Myra? They were a great pair; that was a fact.
Dumas shook himself, like a wet dog, trying to throw off the fit of depression. He said, "What would you like to eat, hon?"
"A double martini."
"You won't grow pretty boobs drinking martinis."
"I don't need pretty boobs." He smiled, and signaled the waiter. When he'd brought drinks and gone away, Ralph leaned across the table. "You do a lovely dance, Myra. I've seen girls doing that before, but not standing up."
She gave him a faint, knowing smile. "Your conversation's leading in a pretty definite direction, isn't it?"
"I hope so."
She felt a distinct chill. She should tell him she was dead inside, as out of her gourd with grief as he was. What she did on the stage, she did from memory. She hated the thought of some man putting his hands on her. They were the wrong hands-not Milo's. She hated the idea almost as much as she hated being alone.
She forced a smile. "Don't you want to ask me what a nice girl like me is doing in a place like this?"
"I know what you're doing. You're knocking them dead. You come on wild, baby. You can hear 'em breathing clear across the room. Even the dames get glazed looks in their eyes."
"Sounds like you spent as much time watching them as you did me."
"Tonight I didn't. But I've been here before. I watch people. I know what they're like. They're wild about you. I figured if you drove all these guys wild, maybe you could bring me back to life. I won't beat around it-I want you to go to bed with me. I'm willing to pay. You name the price."
She winced. Also I look like a whore to you."
He straightened slightly. "Look, baby, no offense. Maybe I'm less than subtle, but I'm all snarled up. I've got to the point where I can't believe any woman would want me. That's what Ruth has done to me. Rejection. I can't stand much more of that. I tell you true: I need you. I'm willing to pay you anything."
"You could buy it in this place for five or ten dollars."
"You don't understand. I could get it for nothing, if that was what I wanted. But I want what everybody wants. I want her to act like she wants me-even if she's doing it for pay. I know. You're what I want, all right. The only one."
Myra took a long drink of her martini. He was wrapped up in woe, and she was dead inside. She didn't care what happened to her. Maybe it was better than being alone.
She met his gaze. "Where do you want to go?"
Something happened in his face. A strange, flickering light touched his eyes. If Myra had cared at all, it might have upset her. It was a look almost of intense hatred-the kind of look he might have given his wife when she admitted another affair with some stranger. Or maybe it was just lust. Sometimes love and hate look alike in a man's face.
"You got a room?" he said.
"Yes."
"We can take a taxi."
"We don't have to; it's right down the street," He drew a deep breath. "You haven't said how much?"
She shrugged again. "Twenty-five dollars."
"I'd have paid you a hundred."
"All right, a hundred."
He nodded. "You just don't know how important it is that I have you ... have a girl tonight. You want to have dinner first?"
"No. We can go any time you want."
He watched as she downed her whiskey. He said, "How about your next show?"
She gave him a faint smile. "We've got plenty of time. Let's go."
"You don't think much of me, do you?"
She sighed. She didn't think anything at all of him. She barely knew he was alive. But she didn't say this. He was a little better than loneliness; this was all she knew.
They went out to the faintly lit street.
"There it is," she said. "The Regal Hotel. It's no place like home."
She led him across the dingy lobby of the Regal and they rode up in the ancient elevator.
She unlocked the door to her room, stood aside and let Dumas enter ahead of her. She felt as if she'd never been here before. She was glad there were no pictures of Milo, none of his trophies, nothing of him left. She didn't feel like answering questions.
Her room was still cluttered from her moving . in, but she knew this didn't matter to Ralph. She shoved clothing off the bed and he grinned, watching her.
She waited, but Ralph didn't offer to take her in his arms. He stood near the window, nervous, waiting. She said, "You want me to undress now?"
He nodded, without speaking.
Myra undressed, not hurrying it. She felt his strange eyes following her every move. She sensed him growing more tense as each piece of clothing fell onto a chair. She heard his breathing across the room.
"Take off your clothes, Ralph," she invited.
He nodded, and started removing his own shirt. Soon he stood before her in white underpants. His skin was very dark, and he was muscular.
He watched as Myra took her last garments off, and the excitement got to him. He paced, watching her, not taking his eyes off of her. She removed the bra slowly, letting her breasts spill white and taut from it. Then she slid her hands down her hips and thighs, rolling her panties down.
"Really giving me my money's worth, aren't you?"
She looked up. "Isn't that what you want?"
"Sure. That's what I want."
When she had peeled away the panties and stockings, she walked toward him. She took his hands, pressed them on her breasts. He stood stiffly, trembling slightly, and Myra felt a tremor of panic for the first time, deep in the pit of her stomach. Weirdos. You met them. You could never be sure, just looking at them. But she'd been too self-involved to care. She saw now that this wasn't an ordinary trick he expected her to turn for him; he wanted something else.
She stared at him, at the wildness glittering in his eyes. "What's the matter?" she whispered, trying to calm him down.
"Nothing, Ru ... I mean, Myra. Nothing's the matter. What should be the matter?"
"She really hurt you, didn't she? Ruth, I mean."
"What did you say at the club? She knocked me out of my tree."
"You're going to be fine," she said. But somehow she didn't believe it.
She ran her hand down to his underpants, reaching for him. He wasn't ready at all. He didn't want her.
"I'm not there yet," he said in a strange choked voice. "Nerves, I guess."
"Don't worry about it. There's plenty of time." She drew him after her to the bed. She was thinking about him now, and his immediate problem, and it took her mind off Milo for the first time in days. "You don't have to be nervous. You don't have to hurry."
"It's her fault," he said. He sank to the bed beside her. "Ruth's fault. It's like she's ... castrated me. I don't feel like I'm a man, the way she treats me.
"But I'm not going to treat you like that, Ralph. I'm going to be good to you."
He trembled slightly, but limp there while she loved him with her hands. She worked at him a long time, and nothing helped. And the more he failed, the more nervous and upset he became. His face broke out in sweat. "Help me!" he pleaded.
"I will. Just don't worry. It's worry that's beating you, Ralph; that's all. It's all so simple. Touch me. Love me. See how nice it is."
He kissed her breasts, burying his face between them. Then she heard his sudden sob: "I can't!"
He raised his head, and stared at her with those agonized eyes. It was as if she saw right into his shattered insides. He was a cracked plate, all right.
The panic spread to Myra. She was suddenly afraid that she couldn't do him any good. All she was interested in, suddenly, was getting dressed and getting out of here-out where there were people, ordinary people, in large numbers.
She slipped away forcing a wide smile. "Why don't we try later, Ralph?"
He lunged upward. "What's the matter with you? I'm paying a hundred dollars."
She picked up her stockings, held them in her fist. The fabric felt insubstantial. She found herself wishing helplessly for Milo. If Milo were here, things like this couldn't happen.
"You don't want me now," she said. "Maybe later, Ralph."
"It's your fault!" Ralph yelled at her.
"Don't yell like that," she said. "You'll get us thrown out."
"Don't you tell me what to do! It's your fault, Ruth! You hear me? It's your fault I'm no good any more!" I
"All right! Let's don't fight about it. We'll go get a drink and-"
"We won't go nowhere!" He grabbed her arm, threw her back on the bed. "You're going to do it for me, Ruth! You got me like this, and now you can make me over again. You hear me, Ruth?"
"I'm not Ruth!"
"You're no good, slut. You chase after them all, don't you? You want not just one man, but all men, don't you? All men except me. Well, it's me you're going to have, Ruth! You hear me? Me or nobody! Nobody! Nobody!"
He flung himself on her, his hands pressing her shoulders into the mattress. She fought at him, hitting him with the fist clutching the stockings.
"Don't, Ralph!" she shrilled. "Please don't! You're hurting me! "
"Hurting you?" He sobbed in anguish. "You think I can ever hurt you like you've hurt me? Do you?"
His fingers closed on her throat, and she felt the air cut off.
She gasped, scratching at his face. Her lungs burned. Her throat ached. She felt as if her eyes were going to pop from their sockets.
The stockings fell from her grasp, fluttering onto her breasts.
Ralph raged, still calling her Ruth, accusing her of vilest treachery. There was no sense in trying to talk to him any more, even if she could speak. And she couldn't.
Ralph caught her stockings and looped them about her throat. She scratched at his face, and it bled, her nails digging deep. But he seemed unaware of the pain, unaware of anything except his hands, tightening on those stockings.
CHAPTER SIX
Gary sat across the car seat from Margie in Homer's new car.
"Well, talk to me, Puzzycat," he said, "or I'll begin to think you don't love me any more."
"I hate you." She could barely breathe it.
Gary gazed at the haughty rise of her full breasts under the nightgown and negligee. She'd come running for it-from Homer's bed. He couldn't believe she hated him; and even if she did, he had what she wanted. She simply couldn't stay away from him.
It gave Gary a sense of power, the kind he'd needed all his life. He had someone where he wanted her-a woman willing to sneak out, with her husband asleep beside her in bed, and come to him. It made him feel worth-while. It made him feel strong, unbeatable. He could have her whenever he wanted her; her coming to him like this tonight sure proved that.
He reached over and placed his hand high on Margie's heated leg, near the shadowy meeting of her thighs.
She grabbed his hand, bending the fingers back, sinking her long nails into his palm. "Don't!"
He jerked his hand away, swearing. "You be careful, doll, or I'll take you back home all frustrated, and you won't be able to sleep again tonight."
"That's fine with me," Margie said. She sat straighter, trying to look prim. But it was difficult under the circumstances. She was more than half naked; neither the filmy gown nor transparent negligee really covered her body. And she was parked five miles out of town in a lonely clearing overlooking the Herbert River.
"Oh, come on now," Gary's voice taunted her. "You didn't come out here to tell me a lie like that."
"That's just what I came out here to tell you."
"Sure. Homer went to bed and went to sleep, and left you lying there panting for it. So you did just what you've been doing for six months. You sneaked out to the kitchen, called good ole Gary, and came running-in your bare feet. All to tell me you hate me? Sure! I ought to cut you off without a drop, baby. That's what I ought to do."
Her voice quavered with passion. She was a solidly stacked, honey-blonde girl in her twenties. She had large brown eyes, a bold, full mouth, and a small, upturned nose that spoiled her perfection but gave her a pixie loveliness that took a man's breath away. Gary knew. In the past months, he'd even heard from her own mouth of some of the men who had been left breathless by her.
In the glow from the dash radio he saw her breasts gleaming, the nipples rigid, quivering, swollen full. He reached for them, needing them because he hadn't seen her for a week. He'd sworn he would never come back, but here he was-and he had the hots for sure. He couldn't deny that to himself. He knew what Margie was when you got her stirred up. She was a full cargo of passion.
"I wish you would cut me off," Margie said in contempt. "I wish you'd stop calling me ... stop trying to see me ... let me aloneI"
He shrugged, watching her breasts by the dim radio light. "You called me, remember?"
"All right! I called you. I told you I had to see you, and you gave me ten minutes to get to you. Not even time enough to dress. I came because we've got to have it settled for once and all, Gary. You've got to let me alone!"
"Sure. And will you let me alone?"
Her mouth quivered. "I've got to. You think Homer's so dumb and trusting? He's suspicious. He suspects you. I've told him I can't stand you, but he doesn't believe me any more."
Gary's mouth pulled into a smug smile. "You've been pretty wild for me, all right. No wonder people can see it."
"Oh, you're so damned conceited! You're not even a man yet. Nineteen!"
"Man enough for you, doll."
"Sure you are. Man enough to call me at all hours. While we're at dinner, while Homer's watching television, when we're in bed ... You're man enough to do all that, but not man enough to do anything to have me. If you were a man, and really wanted me, you'd do what you know has got to be done."
Gary swore. "Are you back to that? Kill Homer?" He shook his head. A slender youth of medium height, he wore his hair shaggy at the neck, long on his forehead and ragged over his ears. His face was thin, hollowed at the cheeks. There was a look of defiance about his eyes now, and in the determined set of his mouth. "You can just forget that."
"Then you can just forget me."
He grabbed her arms and shook her. "Listen to me, Margie! Get some sense! You can't just kill a guy because he's in your way, because you don't love him any more."
"Then just let me alone," she said savagely. "We don't have to go through all that again. There's no other way. Homer won't give me a divorce. He hounds me all the time about what I do. I think he even has me watched."
Gary laughed. "I doubt that. Old Homer hasn't got that much sense."
"That's what you think. Homer's got a lot more sense than you give him credit for. He's got sense enough to make a success of his hardware store. He's got money put away, and insurance, and this new car. We could have it, Gary. You and me. We could have it all."
"Margie, they execute you in this state for murder!"
"We could get away with it; you know we could. The way Homer loves guns? It could look like an accident. We could figure that out, and we'd have it all, Gary. I'd share it with you. We'd live happily ever after."
He shook his head, but he wasn't really thinking about this old, crazy dialogue between them. It had kept them apart for a week. It had made him swear to stay away from her. But he kept hoping she'd put the stupid plan out of her mind and settle down to what she did best, taking care of the lust that drove men to her, made them wild for her.
He was wild for her right now. A week was a long time when you knew what Margie had, what she was, what she knew, and what she could do for you. It wasn't easy to forget that. You lay awake nights, and you sweated. And you called her, whether you wanted to or not.
He had to have her.
"If you really wanted me...." Margie said emptily.
"I really want you." His voice was hoarse. "You know that, Margie. Here. Feel!"
She jerked her hand away. "You want me as long as it doesn't cost you anything. Well, it costs to have me. And you're afraid to pay the price."
"Margie, you're driving me crazy."
Suddenly she burst out sobbing. She fell forward, pressing her face on him, crying. "Oh, Gary, what do you think it's doing to me? I'm twenty-six years old; I've been married to Homer for nine years! Nine eternal years! And I don't care if he isn't even thirty yet; he's an old man. An old man. And he's suspicious, and jealous, and cruel ... And dead. And he wants me to live like that, and I can't. I don't care about marriage vows or anything else. You can't be alive and have to live with a dead man! And then I'm with you ... and you're so young and perfect, and exciting ... I'd do anything for you. Only you don't want me."
"I want you!"
"You don't really want me. You're not willing to do anything. Not willing to give up anything. You're not willing to gamble to have me!"
"I told you: We'll run away. We'll go. Right now. Tonight."
"Sure." Margie's voice was savage. "How much sense does that make? Me go like this? In Homer's car? How far do you think we'd get?"
"We can't go on like this."
"Oh, darling!" She pressed closer to him, still crying. He didn't touch her for a moment, afraid he'd frighten her away. But he felt the fullness of her breasts, the heat of her thighs, the hot tears, the quivering body. "I know we can't go on like this. That's why tonight has got to be it. You've got to know. You can have me ... by taking me away from Homer. Or you've got to stay away. You've got to let me alone."
He didn't answer her, because for the present, he saw, he didn't have to speak at all. Margie had missed him all week too, and though she fought it, she was waging a losing battle.
He grinned secretly above her bowed head. He was even going to win the war tonight. After tonight, he'd see. There were other dames, even if they wouldn't be like Margie. Part of the reason Margie was so exciting was because she'd been around; she'd been used. Warm and sated, she'd lain in his arms and told him about some of the other men who'd been with her. They'd taught her the exciting things she knew about pleasing a man. Just the same, Gary didn't like to think that the girl who'd had at least a dozen men around town would expect him to kill her husband for her. She'd flipped, that was what!
He shivered slightly. Kill? He was no angel, and he had the prison and reformatory record to prove it, and the tattoos and scars. But he'd never killed anybody. He doubted if he could take a man's life. He hated Homer, because Homer was stupid and rich, and getting richer, and successful ... And Homer had Margie. At least, Homer was married to her. He shared her around, but Homer didn't know this for certain, even though-dumb as he was-he suspected.
Gary was no good, but he couldn't think about killing.
Margie was no good either, but he'd missed her, and he wanted her. Now.
He smelled the warm fragrance of her hair. That always sent him right out of his gourd. It had from the first. There was a sexiness about the smell of her hair, thought he couldn't explain it.
He said, "You've got to give me a little time, Margie. A thing like that...."
He wasn't promising anything, but she thought he was.
"Oh, Gary! I've missed you so! I know this is a terrible thing to think about." She reached up and took his face in both her hands. "We won't think about it now, darling."
She kissed him, parting her heated lips for him and grinding her mouth on his.
His hands covered her swollen breasts, and the nipples tautened obediently.
"You do want me, don't you, angel?" she cried.
"You know I do."
"Yes. I know. You do want me ... enough for anything?"
He pressed his face on her breasts, letting her think he was answering yes. It was too late for talk. He had to have her, no matter what lies he told to accomplish it. And that wasn't all evil; she wanted him as badly.
She twisted on the seat, allowing him to remove her negligee and pull the gown above her breasts. He pushed it up under her armpits and for some moments admired her loveliness.
Margie wriggled under the intensity of his scrutiny. Her breasts seemed to swell, the skin tightening on them, the nipples aching. She made small crying sounds in her throat and she held him tightly, moving her hand on him.
He moved, pushing her down on the cushy seat of Homer's big car. Her head was under the steering wheel, but with the seat pushed back, there was plenty of room.
Gary rolled up the windows, slapped down the locks on the doors. He didn't want to be interrupted. It was almost midnight, and the woods were quiet, but you never knew.
Her head went back, and her dark blonde hair lay loosely across the seat. Her lips were parted, waiting.
Gary lifted her hips, parting her legs. He slid between them. Her feet touched the windshield and the car roof. She pushed her hips up for him.
He ran his hands over her bared flesh, touching her armpits, her breasts, her hips. He slipped his hands under her buttocks and she guided him to her, crying out loudly, "Now! Now!"
She gasped as if she'd 'been living in unbearable tension since the last time she'd been with him.
He thrust down to her, and she worked upward. His mouth closed on hers. Her arms went around him and she clung desperately. Nothing mattered now except that she have him; they had been starved for each other. Her lust could no longer be checked or denied.
She moved to thrill him, to accommodate him, to ignite and agonize him. She moved faster and faster. She cried out, reaching a sudden climax so frantically that she was chewing at Gary's chin, his throat, the soft part of his shoulder. She was sobbing words without meaning, letting everything in her gush out to please him.
Tremors racked her and she sobbed, quivering. She sagged a moment, but the savagery of his need for her aroused all the lust anew, and she was unable to do anything but submit to him; she was helpless now until he finished.
Homer's wife went wild. Homer's car shook, rattling with the movement inside it.
Gary gripped her with all his strength, and then they were reaching a peak together, and she sobbed, sagging to the seat under him. He enslaved her; she couldn't deny this. He used her as he wished. She had no will of her own.
They lay for a long time, then, without moving. Her mind circled lazily, like a tired bird, around the idea of their being together like this. People called her cheap, a slut, a cheating wife. But she knew what went on inside her, and she knew what went on in that house with Homer. He wanted her maybe once a month. Could she help it that she was a girl that needed loving at least once a day? Why did people like her and Homer get together?
"I've catted around," she whispered, as if talking to herself, "but only because I was miserable. Driven. Starving. And looking for something. Oh, I'd never be unfaithful to you, Gary, darling. You're what I want, what I've always wanted. You're what I've been looking for."
"You're what I want too," he said dutifully, so tired he could barely see.
She smiled, releasing him, and he sat up.
And then he caught his breath in a sharp gasp. At first he thought he saw his own reflection in the car window. But it was an old man.
Gary trembled all over. The old man looked to be between seventy and a hundred years old; he had the shriveled, smiling face of a monkey.
Gary wasn't afraid of him, but he was shocked at seeing that wizened, staring face. He had no idea how long the old jerk had been standing there.
Margie looked up at him, puzzled. Then her gaze moved past him to the old man, and she screamed, covering her nakedness instinctively, even as she realized how late it was for that.
Gary recovered quickly. As the old man backed away, he slapped the door open and leaped out.
The little old guy heeled around to run, but he took no more than two steps before Gary caught him by the arm. He half-lifted him, tossing him back toward the car, the courtesy light glowing, the door standing open.
The old man staggered, fell to his knees and struck hard against the seat of the car. He stayed there a moment, clawing at it.
Gary stood over him. He even looked around for a rock. In that instant of rage, he wanted to clobber the old peeper.
"What are you doing around here?"
The old man twisted around, gazing up piteously. He looked hopefully at Margie, but her brown eyes were set hard against him.
"Then he spoke, his voice quavering. "I just ... saw you folks drive up." He stared up at Gary. "You see how it is, don't you? I'm sleeping in the woods over there by the river, I hear this car ... I can't sleep anyway."
"So you decide to get a charge, watching us."
The old man trembled. "I didn't mean nothing."
"I ought to beat you."
"I didn't mean nothing. I stood there, and I heard you folks...."
"You heard us?" Gary leaned toward him. "Before you put your window up."
"You heard what we said?" The old man nodded.
Gary's voice shook. "Don't you know that's a good way to die?"
Margie said, "We can't let him go, Gary. Suppose he tells somebody?"
Gary said, "As long as nothing happens to Homer, it don't matter what he says."
"But suppose something does happen" she cried. "They'll listen to him then. The police. They'd check. They'd find out how we've been meeting all these-"
"Shut up," Gary said savagely. "Let me handle this."
Margie subsided, but her eyes were stark.
"Listen...." the old man began.
"No, you listen." Gary caught him by the shirt front and pulled him to his feet. "You're in bad trouble, old man, you hear me?"
"I got a bad memory, mister. An old man. Nobody, no home ... I'd never say nothinng, and no-body'd-"
"We can't take that chance, Gary!" Margie cried.
"Will you shut up, and let me handle this, Margie?" Gary raged.
He looked down at the old man again. The old fellow whimpered, "I hardly remember right now what I heard."
"You live around here?"
"Oh, no. It's like I told you: I got no home, no relatives. I just bum around. I got a ride this afternoon with some farm people. They let me out of their car-and lucky, too-just before they had a bad accident. I didn't want to get mixed up with the police, so I came over here, and decided to spend the night in the woods."
"Get in the back seat," Gary said suddenly.
"What?"
"What you want him in the car for?" Margie said.
Gary just jerked his head, and the old man got into the back. He sat huddled there, looking somehow like a monkey pretending to be a man in tattered discards.
"What are you going to do?" Margie nagged Gary.
Gary got into the front beside her and slammed the door. He started the engine. "We're getting out of here."
"What are you going to do with him?"
Gary didn't answer for the moment. He swung the sleek new car around in the clearing and headed up the narrow lane toward the highway.
He spoke over his shoulder. "There's a midnight train, old buddy, that stops for water just outside the town limits. I'm taking you there. It's a freight, and I want you on it. You hear me? If I ever see you around this part of the country again, I'll kill you. Do you believe me?"
"You won't need to kill me."
"I'll need to kill you if I ever see you again. I could have killed you tonight; I could have said you tried to rob us. Only that would have made trouble, and trouble's what I don't want. And if you heard all we said, you know what kind of trouble that would make."
"Yeah." The old man giggled. "She ain't your wife."
"You got nothing to giggle about."
"Maybe you ain't either, son," the old man said.
Gary slowed the car. "You threatening me, old man? If you are, we can stop right here and I'll settle your hash."
"No!" the old man cried. "I didn't mean to smart-off; nothing like that. I won't make you no trouble."
Gary spoke coldly. "I don't think you get the picture yet, old timer. You sure won't make me any trouble, but if you don't do just what I tell you, you're going to be in up to your left ear. Get that straight. I'm not talking just to hear myself. Okay, you heard me and my girl talking about killing some guy."
"Named Homer," the old man said.
"Go ahead," Gary said savagely. "Prove to me how good your memory is, tell me everything you overheard, just-to prove how smart you are, and you've had it."
"No?"
"Then get smart, old boy. You had a big charge tonight You saw Margie naked, and you saw what I did to her. If that gives you the idea that you have any power over us, you'd better wise up. Like I say, I told Margie I wouldn't try to kill Homer. You heard that."
"I heard that."
"Okay. That's because Homer's a big shot in this town. He's got his own business, money in the bank-"
"And a faithless wife," the old man said. He giggled, to show he was making no judgment.
Margie glared at him. "What do you know?"
"You both better shut up and let me talk," Gary said loudly. He slowed the car. "Your life might depend on it, old goat."
"I'm listening," the old man said.
"All right. If I killed Homer, people would care. They'd poke around, and they'd ask questions. They'd find out that Marge and I have been lovers, and they'd suspect me."
"That's about right," the old man said.
"But I'm talking about you," Gary said. "You're an old tramp. Nobody knows you or cares. I could stomp you to death and nobody would care. I wouldn't even care. You're old, and evil, and miserable. I'd be doing you a favor."
The old man shrank back into the seat. "Don't do me any favors."
"Lord, all you've got to live for is sleeping in the woods and spying on people when they make love. Well, if that's what you want to do, you'd better get smart and do just what I tell you."
"I'll do it, mister. I swear I will. Catch the midnight freight at the water tower, and get out of here. That's just what I'm going to do."
"You get going, and you keep going. That's the last favor I'm doing you." Gary glanced over his shoulder at the old man. "Understand that. Don't miss that train."
The old man was silent a moment. They were on the highway now, slithering through the darkness in the sleek new car. Margie tugged her gown down over her thighs, slipped her arms into the negligee. In the window glass she saw the old man's hungry monkey eyes reflected. They were fixed on her.
The old man said, "What if they catch me? If I can't get on that train?"
"Don't let that happen," Gary advised.
"I'll do my best to get on, and hide, and get out, mister, just like you tell me. And if they chase me off, that don't mean I'm not going. No, sir! I'm clearing out. I'm going, soon as I can."
"That's not good enough," Gary said. "You get on this train, not the next one or the one after. You want to stay alive and keep sneaking peeks at naked girls, you better be smart enough to get on that train."
Gary pulled Homer's ear off the highway, going along a narrowing lane toward lighted rail yards in the distance. They saw a train standing idle on the tracks in the night.
As Gary slowed the car, the old man said, "Maybe I could help you and the young lady-really be worth something to you ... if you'd let me."
"You catch that train," Gary said.
"I knew about killing people," the old man whispered.
"Shut up and get on that train!" Gary shouted. He braked down the car, switched off the lights.
But Margie spoke, breathlessly: "Wait a minute, Gary. Let's listen to what he has to say."
"For hell's sake, Margie, you flipped? We got to get him on that freight, get him out of here!"
Margie closed her fingers on his arm. "The train isn't ready to go. He's got a few minutes--"
Gary cut her short. "Let him get in a boxcar and find a good place to hide."
"You could just hear what he has to say!" she protested.
"I don't want to hear what he has to say! I want him out of here!"
"I once killed a fellow," the old man said gently from the back seat. "I done it pretty clever, too. And I'd be willing to tell you two about it if you want to hear it."
"Get out!" Gary growled.
"Listen to him!" Margie wailed. "You don't know the hell I'm in. I've got to get out of it, Gary. Listen to him."
"He's an evil old man, Margie. He can't tell you anything that will help you. If he hangs around We, it's going to be trouble for both of us." He swung around in the seat. "Now do you get out, or do I drag you out?"
"The way I done it," the little man whined, "was with a gun-with his own gun. And it was smart, and it looked like an accident, and nobody ever caught me."
"And look at you!" Gary raged. He trembled. "Get out. While you can."
The old man caught at Margie's arm with his bony fingers. "You want to hear about it, don't you, missy? Don't you?"
She nodded, the breath hot across her lips. She didn't look at Gary; she stared at the old man. "I want to hear it," she said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Gary slumped under the wheel of Homer's cab and stared at Margie and the old man in disbelief.
He felt sick. But he didn't move.
Margie's face glowed as she leaned across the seat back, peering at the old man's wizened face.
How did you do it?" she pleaded.
The old man leaned toward her. Gary held his breath, because the guy smelted old-like an abandoned house.
"You set up a gun-gimmick," the old guy told Marge.
"A gun-gimmick?" she said.
"Sure. A booby trap. You make it look like an accident. It's easy. It's done a lot more than you know. The way I done it was with a fellow's shotgun. Everybody knew he was crazy about his guns-"
"Like Homer," Margie breathed.
"Like Homer," the old man agreed. "So when he was killed, people just said it was too bad, but they kind of expected it, the way he fooled with guns all the time. Even the best of gunmen get careless, they said. They said that was what happened with this man I hated."
Margie's eyes glowed. Watching them, Gary shivered. Suddenly she seemed older in her evil than the old man.
"How did you rig it?" she said.
The old man looked at Gary, then toward the train on the dark tracks. "Looks like if I told you, I wouldn't have to travel the rails. I wouldn't dare say nothing to nobody. Not if I told you how to work it."
"You're going," Gary spoke between gritted teeth.
"Tell me," Margie said, waving a hand toward Gary to silence him. "How did you rig it?"
"Well, I balanced it on a chair just inside a door that opened outward-into the next room. I set the gun up on things that could be moved easy: a couple of heavy books, a chair. Then I ran a string from the triggers back to a hook set in the stock-"
"In the stock?" Gary protested. "Now I know you're nuts."
"No. That's where you're wrong," the old man said. "There are screws in the base of the stock. You remove a screw, set in a hook that fits the screwhole. You run the string from there to the doorknob. When that door's opened ... wham!"
The old man spoke that word so sharply that Margie started involuntarily.
"You set the gun close to the door," he went on. "Close as you must to get powder burns all over the victim. That's why you've got to have a door that opens out. The minute that door opens, wham! and he's dead, with the powder burns that mean suicide. Then you remove the string, hook, books and chair, and look sorrowful and yell for help. Don't call the police or a doctor, just start screaming for help. This means you're hysterical-too grieved to know what to do. Let the neighbors call the police."
"Sure. And you're there, and it's your word that he didn't get murdered," Gary said in disgust.
"You're wrong again. The little lady here ought to be at home with her husband." The old man giggled slightly. "That's where she belongs, a nice faithful wife that's going into hysterics when her husband is accidentally killed. She says she was with him. Later she can even remember that she begged him to be careful with that gun."
Margie was shaking all over. "Oh, Gary, it might work!"
"It'll work, all right," the old man said. "It's worked before, and it'll work again. Many times."
Gary opened his door, got out. He opened the rear door, said, "Okay, you've spoken your piece. Now get out of here."
"You folks ought to treat me better than this," the old man whined. "Me telling you all I have."
"Get out," Gary said.
Margie fought open her handbag and threw a bill at the old man. "That's for you," she said, and the ancient caught up the money, clutching it in his fist.
"Now, out," Gary said. When the old fellow didn't move fast enough to suit him, he reached in and caught him by the collar and yanked fiercely. The old man came lunging from the car.
Gary held him dangling for a moment. Then he shook him and half-threw him toward the train. "You get on that train. You get out of here."
The old man landed hard, skidding along in the cinders.
Gary drove silently back to the highway. Margie sat with her hands knotted in her lap. They were on the wide, dark express road before she moved close to him.
"Oh, Gary, it would work!"
"Forget it, Margie."
"Gary, I can't stand this! I can't go on!"
"We'll figure something," he promised.
"No, we won't. Because you won't. We'll drift, that's all we'll do; the way we've been drifting."
Gary's voice sharpened. "I told you I'd figure something!"
"That's what you've said before. But we'll go on-loving each other because we can't help it, fighting because we can't help that either, the way we have to live. We'll just go on until Homer catches us and ... and something terrible happens, and we have nothing!"
"Then that's the way it'll have to be. We can't get away with killing Homer-even if I could do it."
"You could do it, Gary! For me! You don't know what hell I'm in, living with a man that's dead and not even thirty. He's not even alive. He thinks about the damn store, and going to church, and that's all he knows. We could get away with it-just the way the old man suggests."
"No. He's a loon, that old man."
"He's killed a man-the way he said. I could tell, Gary! Couldn't you?"
"I could tell he's off his grapes. That's all I could tell."
"No. It would work. It's so simple, so complete. All you'd have to do is set it up for me, Gary. I couldn't do that part; I wouldn't trust it. Then you'd clear out. You wouldn't even be near when it happened. Who could suspect you?"
"What if they suspect you? What if you can't get away with it? Have you thought about that?"
Margie spoke wildly, pressing her breasts against his arm. "Yes, I have. For months I've thought about it. I'd as soon be dead as gong on the way I am, Gary-with Homer. For me, it's no choice at all. I'll be there when he gets shot, I'll put everything away, I'll do just as the old man said to; And I can get away with it, Gary! I know I can! I can make them believe I'm hysterical with grief. I've easily made Homer believe I've been faithful to him."
Gary laughed savagely. "You ought to be able to make anybody believe anything-if they were all as dumb as Homer."
He pulled the car into a dark side street "This is where I get out, baby."
She clung to him a moment, pushing her body against him, kissing him, wriggling. "I'll call you," she whispered. "I'll let you know when."
"No," Gary said. "I mean it. This is where I get out, Margie. All the way out."
Margie was still sobbing when she turned Homer's car into the driveway and parked it behind her smaller hardtop. She sat for some moments until she got herself under control. Then she stepped quickly from the car, closed the door softly behind her.
She went as quietly as she could into the kitchen, but once in there, she snapped on the lights, put coffee on to percolate. She glanced with contempt toward the bedroom. If fat Homer woke up now, she'd tell him the truth-or part of it. She'd been unable to sleep. She'd gotten up, made coffee.
She drank a cup of black coffee, feeling tears stinging her eyes when she thought of Gary's walking out on her. He was such a fool. The old man had given them the perfect gun-gimmick. And Homer was a gun fanatic; people were always noticing how much time Homer spent with guns, and saying he'd better be careful. People would believe Homer had killed himself. She'd make them believe it.
She pressed a knotted fist to her mouth, thinking, Oh, Gary, Gary, why must you be such a fool?
Finishing off the coffee, she still felt unable to sleep, and she padded through the house checking the doors. Most of them pushed inward, or slid into the wall. She felt empty. But then she discovered that her bedroom door opened out into the hall.
Her heart pounded. The bedroom seemed less than an ideal place for Homer to have been cleaning a gun, but it could happen. If she couldn't find a better place, she could make it stick.
Her search through the house convinced her that it had to be the bedroom. The only other door that opened outward was that of Homer's gun room. He'd added this room himself. Several things seemed wrong with it. In his gun room, it seemed to Margie, Homer would be careful with guns. But if he carried one into the bedroom, he might get careless with it.
Her heart quickened. He might be careless especially if she'd said she heard prowlers and Homer had grabbed up a gun from the gun room....
That had to be the gimmick. It made sense. It was all so simple. And besides, the gun room had a wide window that looked out on the street. If there were a light on in there, anyone could see in from the walk. You could never tell who might happen to be out there. If the light were off, she could never swear it was on when the shot went off-again the might be that unknown, unexpected witness.
No, the bedroom was perfect. Simple and perfect.
Her heart slugging, she looked ahead to telling Gary. When he heard how smoothly it could be brought off-with her taking all the risks-how could he refuse?
That was it; he wouldn't refuse. She knew how to make men say yes to anything. Even murder.
Homer was silent, sitting across the breakfast table from Margie.
She watched him, trying to conceal the chilled hatred she felt. Homer was six feet tall, weighed two hundred thirty, and he'd do nothing about dieting, losing weight. His chubby face had an almost cherubic appearance, with fat lips, pug nose and flabby jowls. Lord, how she hated him!
"You went out last night," Homer said suddenly.
"Are you crazy?"
"Almost. Almost, Margie. You almost drive me crazy, the way you act. We're married, we're supposed to be respectable people, and you sneak out on the streets like a slut."
"Don't call me a slut!"
"You act like one, Margie."
"That's a lie. I got up last night because I couldn't sleep. You know why I couldn't sleep? Because you laid there and snored like a fat hog. I got up and read. I made some coffee."
"You made coffee when you got home."
"You've been dreaming!" she raged, knowing from long experience that offense is the best defense.
"Your mind's so clogged up with your rotten suspicions that now you're even dreaming your rotten thoughts about me."
"I didn't dream this, Margie."
"Well, I didn't go anywhere."
"I'm tired of your lying to me, Margie."
Margie's voice rose. "All right, you're tired of me! Why don't you get a divorce? Then I wouldn't have to lie to you!"
"No, Margie, I'm not tired of you, I'm just tired of the lies. You're my wife. You know I don't believe in divorce. You know I love you, too. It's just that you are my wife, and I expect you to behave. Is that asking too much?"
"Yes! Yes!" she shouted at him. "It's asking way too much. Especially when you sit there accusing me of something you dreamed, you fat jerk!"
He looked hurt. "I didn't dream it, Margie. I heard my car start up. I jumped up, and you were gone. I got up and looked for you, and you were gone."
"So I went for a ride."
"Why?"
"Why? What do you care? You were sleeping it all away. You don't care what I do. I could lie there and die beside you and you wouldn't care."
"Don't talk crazy."
"It's not crazy. I laid there till I couldn't stand it, then I went out for some fresh air. Is that a crime?"
"Yes, Margie," he said softly. "Adultery is a crime."
"Oh! It's adultery now!"
"You know it is. You didn't go for a ride, or for fresh air. You went out to meet Gary Collins. You've been meeting him a lot."
"Oh, go to the devil! I suppose you're going to say you followed me last night."
"No, I didn't follow you. I was sick at my stomach. I could have followed. You are my wife; I've a right to follow you."
"A right? What right? Since when? Do you take care of me at home? Do you know how I suffer? What right have you got to follow me?"
"You're my wife, Margie."
"I'm me! I'm a person! I'm not a dog to put on a leash! You can't just say I'm your wife and then expect me to live the way you do-eating and working and going to church and sleeping! I'm me. I need more than that."
"Yes. You need a delinquent kid. A nothing. A young punk."
Instead of denying, now, Margie shouted at him. "What do you know about it? You don't want me, yet you don't want anybody else to have me."
He stared at her, shaking his head. "I want us to lead decent, self-respecting lives, Margie. Like I thought we would when I married you. I thought we could live together like decent people."
"You mean like dead people? Well, I'm not dead. I'm alive."
"Margie, you're going on like this until you'll spoil everything-for all of us."
"No. You've spoiled it. All you've got to do is let me go. Give me a divorce."
"I won't do that, Margie. If you try to get a divorce, I'll use all I know, all I can find out about you. You won't have anything. You behave yourself, and we could have a fine life. You have everything you want-"
"I have nothing I want!"
"You've got to behave, anyhow. I warn you. If you keep sneaking around to meet young Collins, I'll fix him, but good. I won't put up with it, Marge. I won't."
Margie waited only until Homer was backing out of the drive. She ran in to the phone, dialed Gary's number.
He answered at once.
"I've got to see you," she said. "It's about Homer. He knows about us-about last night, Gary. He's threatened you. We've got to do something!"
Gary's voice sounded dead. "Lie to him."
"He won't believe lies. Not any more. He's wild, hating you, Gary! Please come see me!"
He agreed, reluctantly, and Margie prowled the house till she heard him at the front door.
She let him in quickly. His face was gray. "You think the whole neighborhood didn't see me come in?"
"So what?" she lashed out. "You came in the front, didn't you? I've a right to see anyone I like. We're not hiding."
He laughed slightly. "Not this time."
"Oh, Gary," she whispered. She slipped away her negligee, standing naked for him. "Look at me.
All of me. Whatever I am, it's all for you."
He tried to resist, because as he'd said before, the price was too high. But her beautiful breasts, the sable darkness at her thighs, the long, shapely legs ... it all got inside him, and he quivered with longing.
She sank to her knees before him, clasping her arms around his legs. She kissed him wildly.
He stood looking around, the sunlight striking into the room, playing on her bared flesh. He didn't want to get involved any deeper, but he knew he had to have her. She drove everything else from his mind.
"Gary, Gary," she whispered. "So wonderful."
He lifted her to her feet. She took his hand and led him along the hall to the bedroom she shared with Homer. And she couldn't resist saying, "Look, Gary-the door opens out."
Gary gasped, backing away from her. "Good lord!" He shook his head, his eyes distended. "Is that what you're thinking about? Even now?"
She threw herself against him. "You know better. Oh, Gary, please! Please!"
He tried to force himself to get out of there, to run before it was too late. But somehow, with her hands on him, and her breath hot, he knew it was already too late. Nothing mattered except the delicious torment of his need.
They plunged down on the bed, and for a long time he lay still, letting her please him with all the tricks that all the men she'd known in the past had taught her.
"Oh, I need you so," she whispered against him. She fell back, finally, offering herself to him, lying vulnerable and helpless before him on the bed. Gary tossed his clothes away, and fell on her.
He felt his whole body responding to her, burning with the unbridled longings she loosed in him. Her mouth was wide, waiting. Her eyes were on him, and they were brimmed with tears of ecstasy. His heart pounded and he told himself he needed her, couldn't do without her. He admitted this, even while he understood that he was saying to himself all the very things she meant him to say.
He no longer cared.
He lunged to her, as if becoming a part of her forever, evil and all.
Margie almost dropped several dishes trying to prepare dinner for Homer that night; her nerves were that taut.
He was quiet; he didn't mention his suspicions again. She prepared his favorite meal-sSi the starches and sweets that he adored.
"Got inventory tonight," Homer said with his mouth full.
Margie nodded. She'd been on the verge of asking him to take her to a drive-in. The important thing was to get him out of the house. "Why don't I go along and help?" she said.
He looked up, puzzled. "Why would you want to do that?"
"You worry when I'm not with you. You get suspicious. You wouldn't have to worry or be suspicious if I were right there, would you?"
He gave her a faint smile. "But inventory? It gets mighty boring, and it'll be late."
She was thinking swiftly. She smiled, caressed his hand. "Why don't I follow you over in my car? Then if get too tired, I could come on home. Okay?"
"If that's what you want to do."
Margie tipped her tongue across her dry lips. It was working out perfectly, just the way the old man had said it would.
She'd leave the rear door unlocked so Gary could get in. Finally, he'd agreed to set up the shotgun in the bedroom as the old man had outlined it. He'd put in a hook, leave the screw where she could replace it with gloved fingers. It wouldn't matter that it was loose.
He'd objected to the bedroom. "What would be be doing in the bedroom with a shotgun?"
"I'll say we heard prowlers. It'll work, darling. I know it will. You just set it up, and run."
He had laughed coldly. "So old Homer's going to fix me if I don't stay away from you, huh?"
"He swore he would," she said.
"We'll see about that."
Sitting across the table from Homer now, Margie saw that it would work out even better than they could have hoped. Homer would come in tired from the inventory. People would know about the inventory, how tiring it was. She'd say later that she'd heard a prowler, Homer had grabbed up his gun and been heading for the bedroom window when he'd stumbled.
She was breathless, imagining how it would happen.
She amended that, thinking only of how she would say it happened.
Crossing the rear of Homer's yard at eight that night, Gary held his breath. He heard people talking in adjoining homes, heard television and blaring radios. Cars passed on the street.
He swore softly, letting himself into the kitchen. As they'd agreed, Margie had left a light burning in the hallway. This was the only light he'd need. She'd have taken the shotgun off its rack in the gun room. But it was all crazy, senseless.
He sweated.
He'd let her talk him into something that wasn't going to work out. She had him thinking with his hips. Who was going to believe that Homer carried a gun into the bedroom and shot himself? In the gun room it might make sense because, he could take it down to clean it, find it loaded. What difference did it make if the lights were on or off? She could snap them on in there as soon as it happened. It made more sense than the bedroom, anyway.
He sat for a long time in the darkened living room, going over it in his mind. Finally he made his decision. He got a chair, the shotgun, the heavy books for the balance. He took a hook and a length of string from his pocket.
It was simple to set up, almost too simple. But maybe the simplicity was what would make it work, if anything could. He remembered the old man's face staring through the car window at him the other night, and he shivered.
He ran the string back from the trigger of the loaded gun, through the hook he'd set up into the stock. He left the screw where Marge could find it, and brought the string forward, opened the door wide enough to leave clearance for a perfect shot, secured the string to the knob. They got one chance. It had to work, or they were in over their heads.
He wouldn't let himself think about that. It would work, all right. When Homer opened the door to the gun room....
When it was done, he sat in the darkened front room again. Margie had called him at six-thirty. "I'm going down to the shop with Homer to do inventory. I'll drive my own car, and I'll say I'm tired, so I'll get home in time to warn you to clear out. Good luck, and I love you, and soon I'll be able to show you how much."
He saw the car's lights swing across the picture window as Margie's little car swung into the drive. She drove as if the furies were on her heels.
He got up, ran to the window and peered out. She was alone.
He watched her run across the darkened yard, a thin mist of moonlight laying her shadow blackly on the lawn. Her feet clattered on the steps, and he heard her fighting a key into the lock. He stayed where he was, unmoving.
She stepped into the foyer. "Gary?"
"I'm here." He walked toward her. He felt dead. He felt as though he'd been broken at the small of his back.
Her voice lashed at him in the half-darkness.
Her shadow fell across him from the lighted corridor. "Why didn't you let me in?"
"I'm not supposed to be here, remember?"
She ran to him, pressed herself on him. He felt her heart slugging. And she was shaking all over. "Oh, darling I'm sorry! Let's don't fight. Let's don't ever fight. We're all we've got now-from now on."
"Yes." He was shocked that his own voice quavered.
She gripped his arms. "You've got to hurry and get out of here, darling. Homer's on the way."
"I thought he was doing inventory."
"He got excited. It was insane. All the times he never wants me, tonight he got so wild he couldn't stand it. He sent me ahead, but he'll be here as soon as he closes up."
"Bully for you."
"Oh, darling, don't be a fool. I hate him. I'll let him go charging into the bedroom ... and then we'll be rid of him. Forever!"
"Not in the bedroom."
"What's the matter?" Her voice ripped at him. "Didn't you set it up?"
"No. I-"
"Oh, damn you! What's the matter with you? Don't you know it's got to be tonight? Hell kill you if we try to go on like this! It's got to be!"
"I decided the bedroom wouldn't-"
"You decided! You stupid thing! We had it all planned! Well, we'll have to try to do it. You'll have to set it up as fast as you can and then get out of here. Hell be here any minute. Go on, Gary!"
"But I-"
"We've got to! You've got to do what I say! Now! There's uo time. You set up the chair and stuff, and I'll get the shotgun."
"Margie! No!"
He screamed it, not caring that neighbors might overhear him. But she had heeled away and was running toward the gun room beyond the foyer.
He yelled again. "Margie! It's in there! I set it-"
The explosion cut off his sentence. It was like the blast of doom.
Gary staggered against the wall, sick. He stared at Margie. The blast had thrown her back three feet, and he saw that her face was shot away.
He hunched there, gripping his stomach, biting back the bile that gorged up.
At that moment the headlights of Homer's big car illumined the front room. He heard people shouting in the street, saw lights coming on in surrounding houses.
The world spun dizzily about him. He had one clear thought remaining: He had to get out.
He staggered down the hall, into the kitchen. He heard Homer in the garage, and then he heard neighbors shouting to him. He let himself out the rear door and ran.
He ran more than a mile without stopping. He didn't go toward his home; he had no direction in mind. He was running from sickness, self-hatred, horror. He was trying to run away from himself.
He breathed through his mouth, the breath burning his throat. He slowed, staggering along in the darkness. When he saw a dark form ahead, he looked around wildly for an escape. But the form came nearer, and in sick horror, Gary recognized the old man.
The old man recognized him, too, and cowered, frightened. "Don't hit me, mister. I don't mean nothing wrong. I'm not tellin' anybody anything. I just happened back this way ... and I wondered how it all come out."
"Went wrong," Gary panted. "Everything went wrong."
The old man gave him a strange, empty monkey grin. "Don't fret, son," he said. "You did the best you could. It just wasn't Homer's time to go, that's all. It was hers."
Gary gaped, too exhausted and bewildered even to speak.
And then the old man said, "And now it's your time."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Billy Wade was whistling when his mother came along the short hallway and tried his bedroom door. She found it locked, and she frowned, a look of worry flitting across her eyes.
But she forced herself to keep her voice light. "Billy?"
She was a slender woman in her late thirties. She didn't care much about how she looked; she was mother and housewife in the old-fashioned sense of the word. But she felt she'd failed at both: her husband had walked out on her when Billy was twelve, and now Billy locked his door against her.
She shivered slightly, thinking: His door, and his mind. She called again, keeping her tone carefully cheerful. "Billy? Will you let me in please?"
"Sure, Mom."
He opened the door, and she looked at him keenly, trying to see into his eyes, to pierce the flat smile he always put on for her.
He was such a handsome young boy-tall and slender, yet well-built. It was hard to believe....
She broke away from those thoughts. She said, as casually as she could, "Why do you lock your door, Billy?"
"Why not? It's my room."
"But Billy, darling, I'm not going to invade your privacy, try to spy on you."
"You try, Mom. You try," he said with that bland smile.
She swallowed hard at the lump in her throat. "You look so nice tonight, Billy. Are you going out?"
"Yes. Out."
"You mind ... saying where, darling?"
"You never pry, do you, Mom?"
"Oh, darling! Can't you understand that I'm interested? I'm not prying. I'm interested."
"It comes out like the same, Mom."
"No. Of course not. But you're only a boy. Nineteen. It isn't so unusual that your mother's interested in what you're doing."
"Mom, plenty of boys my age are being shot at in Viet Nam, and there isn't a damn thing their moms can do about it. If they'd take me, I'd be there too. So why don't you figure if I'm big enough to be shot at, I'm big enough to go out to a dance."
"Oh, a dance?" she said. She touched his arm, but he shrugged her hand down. "How nice. A party at someone's home?"
"Who'd ask me?"
"Oh, Billy, you mustn't be bitter! Your friends have been very understanding."
"Sure. From a block away. So I'm going over to the Hot Spot. It's across town. A few guys that know me will be there, but plenty of people there won't know me ... or you ... or a damn thing about me."
She caught his arm now. "Billy, darling, are you sure it's wise? You going to a big party like that-so soon? After all, it's only been a couple of months...."
"Look Mom, I'm out. I'm released. Dr. Wel-burn says I'm okay. I say, I'm okay."
"Of course you are, darling! It's just that it's so soon. Didn't the doctor want you to be quiet for a while? Avoid places like-"
"Mom, I'm nineteen! I can't live in this house all the time, with you watching me and looking like you're about to burst into tears. No wonder the old man walked out on you!"
"Billy, don't talk like that! So cruel."
"Mom, remember what Dr. Welburn said to you? You've got to let up on the pressure-on me.
You'd better let up, or I'm liable to explode."
"Darling, I'm not trying to pressure you! I'm only trying to be nice."
"Fine. Then you be nice and let me alone. Just let me alone!"
The Hot Spot was already crowded, smelling of perfume and jumping with excitement when Billy arrived about nine-thirty. He saw several guys he knew, but he also saw the embarrassed looks on their faces, the way they didn't quite meet his gaze, and the way they moved away from him.
You'd have thought he had leprosy or something.
He watched them dancing out on the floor. They were doing the frug. They weren't touching, but they were doing things a lot more suggestive. The way the girls moved reminded him of that waitress on the seat of his car, and his face flushed, the skin tingling at the memory.
There were sure a lot of pretty girls. But when you'd been out of things the way he had, they all looked good. It was pure hell to be nineteen and not have a bird to nest with. A guy was a man at nineteen, with a man's needs, no matter what people said.
Girls glanced at him, some giggled and looked away. This added to his self-consciousness, even when he knew that he'd impressed them.
He watched bolder boys introduce themselves to strange girls and go out on the floor to dance with them. He wished he could do that, but he didn't have the gift of gab, that ease with the chicks. He never had. He'd always been too conscious of what he wanted from them, and sometimes it got so bad he couldn't think of anything else. He'd lost some great chances just because he didn't know the right words during the build-up.
He sweated. He wanted a girl to dance with. He had money in his pocket, too. He could buy her drinks at the refreshment bar outside the dance area, and he could take her somewhere later for a hamburger. He could show her a good time, if only some girl would be nice to him. He needed a little help, that was all. It would be fine if somebody just looked his way and maybe spoke to him, just spoke; surely he could take it from there.
He retreated a step, knowing he had to work up courage to speak first to one of these chicks. None of them knew him, or anything about him. It was like Dr. Welburn said: he was starting a whole new life. Sure, he had to be resigned to a few rebuffs: some of them would reject him just because they didn't know him. But if he asked say three girls, one of the three would say yes, and he'd be back in business.
He found himself leaning against the wall under a huge air-conditioner duct. He swore inwardly. Back to the wall. It was where he always ended up.
Someone touched Billy's arm then, and he wheeled around, excited, thinking some girl had taken the initiative.
His face sagged. It was an old man. Billy scowled and moved away. He hated anyone over twenty-five with a fierce passion that outdid even old grammar-school hatreds. A man as old as this, Billy despised on sight.
The old bugger wore a wrinkled suit, and an old-fashioned bow tie at the collar of his wrinkled shirt. His white hair was spruced up, and he must have thought he came on big. An old guy like this at a teen-age dance! There ought to be a law.
The old man smiled at him. Billy said, "Get lost, gramps. I'm for girls, strictly. Anyhow, you don't even look like a clean old man."
The old fellow went on smiling, not insulted at all. He caught Billy's arm. "Looking the babes over, huh?"
Billy felt his face flush hotly. "What if I am?"
"Nothing. Nothing. That's the way it ought to be, young fellow like you. Don't be so touchy. Nothing to be ashamed of that you get the hots for pretty girls. That's part of the hell of being your age."
Billy said defensively. "I don't get the hots. No more than any other guy."
The old man watched the dancers. He whistled between his teeth. "Look at that! Way they flail them hips and shake them bazooms, it's enough to set a fellow crazy-even a man my age, eh?"
Billy laughed shakily. "You're a dirty old man, you know that?"
"No. No, I'm your friend. Yes, sir. I didn't just come over here right from left field, sonny; I was sent. I got the word on you. From my niece. She wants to meet you. She's been looking you over, and she's as excited about you as you are about these pretties."
"What? What kind of gag is this?"
"No gag. Fact. Swear. My niece. She's right over there. See her over there, with them three other girls?" He waved. "That's her. The one that waved back."
Billy stared at the girl the old man said was his niece. He felt his heartbeat quicken. This was more than he had hoped to meet-better. In every way, better. Her complexion was clear and smooth and soft, a creamy pink; her hair was dark blonde, worn about her head in waves, and not lacquered. She looked sweet, unspoiled, and young. Her breasts were good, but not big. She looked to be about sixteen. Billy felt a rising excitement just looking at her.
"Why does she want to meet me?" Billy asked suspiciously. "She doesn't know me."
The old man nodded. "She doesn't know anybody in this town. Them three girls she's with, a few neighborhood boys ... and none of them here tonight. I drove the girls over. We haven't lived here long. But she told me a secret: She said you looked good to her."
"What?"
"That's right. She told me something else, too. She said you were the kind of guy she liked to do it with."
"What?"
The old man jabbed him with his elbow. "And I don't mean dance, either. I mean something else. Something better. Something you got on your mind. That's what she likes, too. You see, when you get older like me, you know what goes on in them young girl's minds. You see how easy they are to get to. And besides, she's told me. I'm her favorite uncle-her great uncle, really-and she tells me things she wouldn't tell her own mirror."
Billy stared at him. He shook his head, unable to credit what he'd heard.
"Go on," the old man said. "You go over and meet her. Introduce yourself. She'll know I sent you over. Dance with her a couple times, take her out to your car, and you'll see I'm right, what I'm saying."
Billy wiped sweat from his face with his handkerchief. "What kind of guy are you?"
"Why?"
"Telling me things about your niece like this?"
"I'm just an old fellow that's seen an awful lot of this world, just trying to do his niece and a nice young fellow with the hots a favor. People say sex is sinful. But sex is what God gave us, right?"
Billy licked his lips.
"Marriage, divorce, insanity," the old man went on, "that's stuff man thought up for himself. But sex is God-given. God gave young people the sex urge along with hunger and thirst. Now ain't that a fact?"
Billy shook his head, staring at the old man. "Why would you tell me this about your own niece?"
"Because she's lonely too. She's new here in town. Knows three or four girls, a few boys. She's lonely, and she can't talk plain to her folks. Her mother's a prudish woman, and her dad won't listen to her."
"Yeah," Billy said. "That sounds like par."
The old fellow jabbed Billy with his elbow. "Like all kids. If they don't find affection and understanding at home, they find it somewhere else, just as sure as water seeks its level. It's natural as breathing. You've got to have love and understanding."
Billy laughed nervously. "If it's love and understanding she wants, she and I sure ought to be able to work out something."
The old man laughed. "Now you're talking, boy. She's sure taken a fancy to you. She told me. She's always told me the intimate things of her life. I try to help her, when I can." He looked both ways, and lowered his voice suggestively. "In fact, I hold her on my lap a lot when we're alone in the house. She likes that, too."
Billy flushed, shaking his head. "She doesn't look like that."
"You can't look at 'em and tell, son; make up your mind to that. She likes it, all right. She goes wild, squirming."
Billy was breathless. "And she really talked to you about me?"
"That's right, boy. She needs to meet some boys in this town. And she's particular. She told me that before she and her folks moved here, she went out in the pig-tracks and gave it to a boy, and you remind her of him. Only she says you're even nicer looking." He lowered his voice again. "She don't want it spread around, but she doesn't dig that kid petting stuff--not now that she's had it all. She wants a boy that'll take her all the way."
Billy's breathing quickened. "Mister, you got to be kidding."
"I'm not. The girl's pretty, and lonely, and new in town. And she's excited. I want to help her.
Thought you'd like to know."
Billy shook his head. "I just never heard anything like this."
"What you mean is, you're worried and scared, and you're afraid to believe it."
Billy laughed emptily. "That's right. I'm scared to believe it."
The old fellow nudged him again. "Tell you what you need, Billy-"
"How'd you know my name?"
"From Bonnie. My niece. She heard some girls mention it. Oh, it's you she's picked out to give her sweet little favors to, only you got to be man enough to help her. She's not going to come right out and ask you. You never saw a nice girl do that."
"No, sir." Billy was sweating. He couldn't keep his gaze off Bonnie, standing with her three friends at the edge of the dance floor.
"Girls like Bonnie may want it, but they let you know in sneaky ways. Might even fight you a little at first, so you won't think they're too cheap and too easy, huh?"
Billy drew a deep breath. "I don't know."
"Like I said, you're scared. You need courage. Come on outside. I got some courage in a bottle. That's what you need, Billy."
Billy hesitated. He glanced again at the lovely girl, felt the heated twisting in his loins. He needed courage to speak to her, all right He'd be fine once he got past that first moment. He ran his tongue across his lips, and nodded.
Outside, the old man opened the door of a sleek new Cadillac, took a fifth of bourbon from the glove compartment. He proffered it. "Can you drink it straight, Billy?"
"I don't know. I guess so."
"You ought to be able to take two or three slugs straight if you're gonna be man enough to keep up with Bonnie once you get her skirt up and her all excited. You got to be a man then."
Billy's breath was wild. He took the bottle in trembling fingers, drank deeply, gagged.
The old man watched him, smiling. "Better have a couple more. You need courage, I can see that."
The old man stopped just inside the door and gave Billy a shove toward where Bonnie stood with her friends. "You go ahead, boy," he said. "You can't lose now."
Billy felt the old man's eyes on him. He walked through the chattering crowds and paused before Bonnie. He looked down at her, smiling. A smile came easier with the hooch in him.
Bonnie looked up at him, her face coloring slightly. She looked shy. It was hard to believe what her uncle had said about her. Yet what was there to doubt? It was like having a dream come true.
She answered his smile.
He grew bolder. He said, "Hello. My name's Billy. Billy Wade. You like to dance?"
"I can't do these dances very well," she said.
"It's all right," he said. "Neither can I. But if we get out in the mob, who can tell?"
"That's right." Her eyes lighted with pleasure. Billy felt a shock, because when Bonnie smiled, she was truly beautiful-as if lighted up from within by a million candle-power.
He took her hand, feeling her fingers chilled. They pushed through the outer fringe of dancers.
Billy tried to concentrate on the music, tried to get the beat. He could still feel the old man watching them, and he was awkward. He knew he looked foolish. But Bonnie was dancing smoothly. She didn't seem to notice. She smiled, grateful that he'd rescued her from the wallflower patch.
"I told you I was no good," he panted.
"You're doing fine."
"You told a big one. You said you weren't very good, and you're wonderful, Bonnie."
She looked at him oddly. "How'd you know my name?"
He frowned slightly. "Oh, come on now! Your uncle told me. The old man."
She stared at him a moment, still dancing. Then she shook her head, deciding it was some kind of line. "You're funny. But it's nice that you cared enough about me to find out my name. I'm a stranger, so I know it wasn't easy for you."
Billy felt oddly empty. He said, seriously. "I told you, Bonnie: your uncle told me your name."
"You're cute," she said. "But I don't have any uncles. And if I did, they certainly wouldn't be here."
He looked up over the heads of the crowd ringing the floor, and saw the old man near the door, nodding encouragement. It was on the tip of his tongue to point him out to Bonnie. But then it occurred to him that if she'd told her uncle all the things he'd reported, she might well want to pretend she had no uncle. She wouldn't know what the old boy had said to him.
He grinned, trying to get in step with the music. "Anything you say, Bonnie."
CHAPTER NINE
The music stopped, and she stood smiling up at him.
Billy said, "Hot in here. Like to go outside for a drink or something?"
She glanced toward her friends, who were regarding them with keen interest. Then she nodded, and answered just as the old man had promised she would. "Sure. Thanks."
He took her elbow and guided her through the crowd, meaning to walk her past her uncle at the door. But when they reached the exit, the old man was lost somewhere in the crush of thirsty teen-agers.
She sipped her orange drink through a straw, smiling up at him. The whiskey he'd consumed, his frantic thoughts, and all the old man had suggested had Billy tied in knots. But he said, "You're truly beautiful when you smile."
She looked uncomfortable. "You shouldn't talk like that. You hardly know me."
"I know more about you than you think I do," Billy said.
She blushed, said, "Do you?" Then she laughed. "I suppose my uncle told you."
"That's right."
"Oh, you're funny. You really are. I'll bet you know Paul or Raymond, and they told you my name and that I was going to be here tonight."
He decided not to argue about it. Somehow she seemed poised for flight, as if she'd leave him if he said too much, or the wrong thing. His mind wheeled, troubled. He said, "You just recently moved into town."
"That's right."
"And you used to have a boy friend back home ... and you liked him a lot. He ... was something special to you."
She bit her lip, staring at him. "Somebody told you all this. That was Fred. I hated to move away because of him; he was real nice."
"I remind you a little of him."
Her eyes widened. "I know what you've done! You were standing behind my friends and me near the dance floor. You could hear everything we said." She pressed her fingers against her cheeks. "You've got me all embarrassed."
"Why?"
"We did talk about you ... before you came over," she said.
She finished her drink, tossed the paper cup into a trash container. She looked about, ready to return to the dance floor, where the music had resumed.
"My car's right over there," Billy blurted.
"Oh? We'd better go inside."
"Don't you want to see it? I just bought it. Money I saved ... while I was in the hospital. I'm real proud of it."
"Were you in the hospital? Why?"
"Oh, it was nothing. I'm well now. I'm all right now. And I bought this car."
"I'd like to see it," she said.
He took her arm, and they walked away from the lighted refreshment area, stopped before his car. It was five years old, but it gleamed, because he'd polished it until it reflected even the dimmst lights. He pointed out the flashy Ben-Hur hub ornaments, the racing stripe he'd painted on.
"I worked on the engine, too," he said. "I can do things like that. I mean I can take a thing apart, and I can put it back and make it work better than ever."
"You have to be smart to do that."
"No, I'm pretty dumb. But I like engines." He opened the door, slid under the wheel, started the motor. It hummed.
He saw that its smoothness meant nothing to her. She only smiled, glancing toward the dance hall. "It's real nice, Billy."
"Why don't we take a little ride, Bonnie?"
"Oh, I couldn't do that."
"Why not?"
"I'm here with friends. And besides, I don't know you."
"I remind you of Fred," he said trying to laugh. "We won't be gone long, Bonnie; they won't even miss you. They know you're with me, anyway."
She chewed on her lip. "I oughtn't to. My folks don't even know I'm at this dance. They think the four of us went to a concert."
"Come on, Bonnie."
She looked around, then looked at him as if weighing him in her mind. She nodded. "All right. For a few minutes."
He opened the door for her, and she got in beside him.
It was screwy. She didn't look wild at all, yet it was working out just as the old man had promised. Funny, though, that she still wouldn't admit the old buzzard was her uncle.
He drove out to the highway, then stepped hard on the gas. The old car responded. "I really worked it up good," he said.
"Yes. It runs fine." Bonnie put her head back, and the wind riffled her curls across her smooth features. Billy saw the way her small, taut breasts stood against the fabric of her dress, and his breathing quickened.
He said, "Let me show you how it takes bumps."
He wheeled the car off the highway, onto a potted road that led toward the mangrove shallows of the bay in the distance.
"We'd better head back soon, Billy."
"All right. But you wouldn't be so scared to go riding with Fred, would you?"
She laughed. "That's different. I've known Fred for years."
The old car bounded across the broken ruts. "But I remind you of Fred," he said again. "A little."
"Except I'm better-looking."
She gasped. "You really did listen!" But she had calmed down a lot; he saw that she was less nervous. He liked this. When people were nervous around him, it made him nervous.
He went to the end of the road and put on brakes. "End of the line," he said. He sat a moment, letting the headlights play out over the dark bay.
"It's pretty here," she said.
He snapped off the lights. "Can't we just sit here a few minutes? I hate to take you back. When I do, you'll have to go with your friends. I might not see you any more."
"You could see me if you wanted to."
Emboldened, Billy cut the engine. The darkness and silence seemed to envelope them, to press them closer together in the warm night.
He turned toward her. "Could I see you, Bonnie?"
Spot next week ... if you do."
"Of course. I'll give you my phone number; you can call me. And maybe I'll come to the Hot
"That sounds fine," he said. "I really liked your looks, the minute I saw you."
"I like you too," she said uncertainly. "But I didn't have any idea I'd meet you and be out here like this."
"Didn't you?"
"Of course not."
He shrugged, letting it go. What had the old man said? She might pretend, might even fight a little, to prove she wasn't cheap and easy.
He couldn't keep his eyes off her breasts, off her legs, outlined beneath her skirt on the seat.
"I could really go for you," he whispered. He dropped his hand to her thigh.
She pulled away, quickly, as if he'd burned her. "We better go."
"Not yet. Let me just love you-just a little."
"We can't! We just met! We can't do this!"
He touched her again, holding tighter this time. He spoke hoarsely, holding her when she tried to pull away. "Why, Bonnie? Don't you want ... love?"
She tried to smile. "I guess everybody wants to be loved, Billy. But not like this. This is so ... cheap. A girl has to be careful. And she wants a boy she likes to respect her."
"Do you like me?"
"Maybe I could, Billy. But you wouldn't respect me if I let you touch me and ... and hold me tonight"
"I respect you." He was hoarse. "It's just that I'm so crazy about you."
"But you wouldn't respect me. Not if I acted terrible-let you kiss me on our first date."
Billy said, "You drive me crazy, Bonnie. Don't you feel excited at all?"
"You scare me."
"No. Don't say that. I don't scare you. Not really. No more than Fred. You went all the way with Fred, didn't you?"
"Don't talk like that!"
"Didn't you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about!"
He had pushed his hand far up the inner side of her thigh. It was warm there, and he closed his fingers, caressing. "Oh, come on, Bonnie, don't be coy with me."
"Don't!" She stared down at her skirt, far above her knees, the whiteness of her thighs exposed, his hand there. "It's my fault, for coming out here with you. But you've got to take me back now."
"No."
"You'd better take me back, Billy, unless you want me to hate you."
"You won't hate me. I know better. I'D take you back."
"Yes, please."
"But not yet." His hand moved higher, and Bonnie gasped, trying to break away. His fingers slid under the edge of her panties.
"You drive me crazy. And you want to love. You know you do!"
With his free hand he unzipped his trousers. Bonnie caught her breath, staring in apparent horror, speechless now.
"Look at me! Hold me!"
"No!" She squirmed away, but she was still staring at him, awed, fascinated, seemingly paralyzed by fear.
"You act like you never saw a boy before," Billy said.
"I never have!" Bonnie shook her head, her gaze still fixed on him. "Never like this."
"Don't lie!" he said savagely.
"Oh, Billy, don't! I ... don't know. Something's wrong. You think you know me, or something about me, but you're all wrong. I'm not the one you think I am."
"You're the one." His voice shook. He moved his hand to the heated apex of her thighs again. She wriggled trying to fight him, but she was unable to pull away. She turned her face away.
"Oh, Billy, please! Please don't!"
He caught her arm, pulled her hand over and forced her to touch him. "Go on, Bonnie. Do it. I'm wild. You've got to."
"No! I can't!"
But she closed her fingers tightly for a moment before she pulled her hand free. He caught the hand again, forcing it back. "You do it!" he rasped.
"If I ... Will you let me go? Will you take me back then?"
His hand moved on her, and she gasped, sagging slightly, submitting though she still fought against submission.
Billy held her hand savagely in place, and she clasped her fingers on him, fascinated and frightened at the same time. She held him some moments, moving her hand as he forced her to, but then she jerked free. "Let me go!"
She lunged away from him. He'd been caught up in the heated ecstasy of moving his hand at her thighs, feeling her hand on him. And then abruptly it all had ceased, and she was fighting at the door.
He growled, half-pleading, half-threatening.
She had the door open, but he caught her dress. It ripped away in his fingers. She screamed, leaped out to the ground, stumbled in a deep rut and fell.
Billy lunged out of the car and caught her up in his arms. His hands moved savagely on her breasts now. He broke the straps of her bra and pulled it down, exposing her breasts.
She slapped at him, clawing at his eyes, screaming, and he toppled back, his face bleeding. She heeled around, running blindly.
He caught her and yanked her back into his arms. "You stop that screaming!" he raged. "Stop it!"
It was no longer Bonnie in his mind, now. It was that waitress, months ago. The way she had led him on, and then when he wouldn't stop she'd screamed, and kept screaming until he had to silence her screams, had to....
He wailed now. "I don't want to hurt you! I don't want to hurt you, you hear me? Don't make me hurt you!" But she beat at him, still screaming. She wouldn't stop screaming.
Wildly, Billy struck her in the mouth. She screamed again, and he backhanded her across the face with his clenched fist.
She sagged under the impact of the blow, toppled slowly away from him, toward the car.
As if in a trance. Billy watched her fall. It wasn't real. It was as if they were somewhere high in clouds and she was falling into eternity.
He saw her fall, saw the way her head struck the jutting ornament on the front wheel hub.
"Bonnie!" he yelled.
The sound of her head striking the ornament made him sick at his stomach.
His legs wide apart, he stared down at her. He yelled her name again, savagely. "Bonnie!"
She didn't speak. Half dazed, he saw cars moving past on the distant highway; he heard the night sounds from the bay and the swamp. He stood swaying like a reed in a high wind. He stared at her bare breasts, the torn dress, the odd way her head was bent on her shoulder.
He said, "Bonnie? Come on, Bonnie. I'm sorry. It's all that old man's fault."
She didn't answer, and she didn't move. Panic swirled inside Billy, and he beat his face with his fists, crying.
"Bonnie! You listen to me, Bonnie! I didn't mean it! I never meant to hurt you! I just ... wanted to love you. Like the old man said you wanted. It was what you told the old man to tell me, Bonnie. You hear me? Bonnie, say something! You hear?"
He staggered forward and sank to his knees beside her. He whispered her name. "Bonnie? Please."
She remained unmoving, her dress ripped away at the top, her breasts small, and creamy, and fresh.
"I'll get you to a doctor, Bonnie. You don't have to worry about anything."
He bent down and put his arms under her gently. A horn sounded nearby, and he shivered all over.
He lifted her slowly, and her head fell back, the way a bird's wing falls when broken.
Her neck was broken.
He stared at her, shaking her head. He couldn't believe it for a long time. And then he wouldn't believe it. He hadn't wanted to hurt her; he'd wanted to love her. He had needed loving so bad, and she had too, hadn't she? Wasn't that what she'd sent the old man to say?
He never wanted to hurt her.
He put her down gently on the damp ground, and remained crouched over her for a long time. He pressed his hands against his face, crying. "You got to believe me, Bonnie, I didn't want to hurt you. I didn't. Why'd you want to scream?"
Her soft face remained impassive, her head twisted oddly. He tried to straighten it.
He stayed there, crouched over her, sobbing, shaken by anguish.
After a long time he heard a car bumping toward him down the road from the highway.
"They'll see us, Bonnie. They'll see us," he whispered fiercely.
He growled in his throat, thinking of the hospital where they'd kept him, of Dr. Welburn, of his mother's face, and of that waitress who had led him on because he was a "cute kid," and then hadn't wanted to let him have what he had to have. And he saw the old man, nudging him and grinning, speaking his vile lies about his own niece.
He lifted his head, saw the car lights far down the road. He had to do something, because the car would be near enough to see them soon. He took Bonnie's body in his arms and ran into the mangroves with it.
He half threw her into the underbrush, and raced back toward his car. He was panting and sick, and the sickness gushed down the front of his shirt.
The car had turned, seeing his ahead, and was headed back toward the highway.
Crying like a child, Billy sank to the road on his knees beside his car. He wept into his hands, his whole body shaking.
He kept telling himself he had to get out of there. But it didn't really matter. He didn't know where he could go. Her friends had seen Bonnie dancing with him; maybe they'd seen her leave with him. And the old man had seen them, too.
He hadn't wanted to hurt her, but he'd killed her, and now he simply didn't know what to do.
CHAPTER TEN
Billy crouched forward in the blond-wood prison chair. He pressed his hands to his face as his lawyer prowled the small room.
"I advise you to forget the wild story about the old uncle, Billy," the lawyer said. He was a medium-tall man, in his early forties. His hair was graying at the temples, and he wore black-rimmed glasses. His suit was tailored. His custom-made shirt was sweaty. "I don't know what I'm going to be able to do for you, but we've got to get together on what happened, at least, and you've got to forget that old man."
Billy looked up. His eyes were swollen, red. "You have to believe me, Mr. Dunlap-"
"No, I don't. And nobody else has to believe you, either, Billy. I've talked to everybody I could find that was at the Hot Spot that Saturday night. There was no old man there; nobody saw you talking to any man, old or young."
Billy sobbed from deep in his throat. "But why would I lie about a thing like that?"
"You've lied about quite a few other things, Billy."
"I haven't lied."
"You lied to your mother," the lawyer persisted. "When you came home the night Bonnie was killed, you told her your face was cut because you'd been in a fight-with three boys."
"I just wanted to get the old woman off my back!" Billy said. "Can't you even understand that? She's always picking at me, watching me, crying and making me sick to my stomach."
"All right. But you lied to her, and you lied to the police the first time they questioned you. You said you had a drink with Bonnie, that she walked over to your car with you, and then you left the dance alone; that the last time you saw her, she was walking back toward the dance hall with three fellows you didn't know."
"I was scared!"
"You have every reason to be scared. But then you made it worse by changing your lie. You said somebody stole your car, to explain how the bloodstains got on your hub ornament. You've done nothing but lie, Billy, but when you lie to me, you're just cutting your own throat. And the worst lie of all is about this old man."
"There was an old man, Mr. Dunlap!" Billy cried out. "I know I'm up against it now, but I came to you, I told you I wanted to go in and give myself up, didn't I? I didn't lie about that."
"You thought it would help you, Billy," Dunlap said without sympathy. "You thought it would lighten what's going to happen to you."
"No! I was sick living with it. I kept seeing it all, over and over. But it was the way I said. There was an old man, and she did send him word to me."
"Billy, look: You got out of the mess with that Fraley woman, that waitress, because Dr. Welburn testified that you were mentally incompetent, that you were temporarily insane when you assaulted her. You got sent to the state hospital for a while. But Mrs. Fraley recovered from the beating you gave her. In this-"
"And I told the truth about her," Billy blurted. "She did pick me up. She did keep saying and doing things until I went wild. Then she decided I was too rough for her, and she tried to stop me. It was her fault. Her fault!"
"We're not trying that one now, Billy. And it won't help you to blame this girl. She was sixteen, with a good record-a smart, sweet girl. It won't help to say she sent a dirty old uncle to whisper to you about what she really wanted."
"But that's the way it was! That's how it happened!"
"Billy, you're not going to get off this time on a plea of insanity. You've been certified competent by a court-appointed panel of experts. The state hospital psychiatrists declared you cured. Your own Dr. Wel-burn says you're legally and medically sane."
"I am! I never said I wasn't!"
"You're trying to force us into a plea of insanity by talking about a man that doesn't exist. An old man. Bonnie's uncle. Bonnie doesn't have an uncle."
"No! He said he was her great uncle."
"Oh, come on, Billy! For God's sake, don't do this. It's too wild even to help in an insanity plea. Let's forget this wild story and concentrate on the truth. You're in a tough spot, kid, and nothing but the truth is going to help you."
"But that's the truth! The truth!" Billy wailed.
The prosecutor called a police lieutenant to the stand when the trial, State vs. Billy Wade, finally opened after weeks of emotion-charged publicity.
The prosecutor said, "Please tell us how the body of Miss Bonnie Tillson was found."
"Two young boys, out fishing in the bay flats, found her. This was on Sunday morning...." The lieutenant paused, then read off the date. He was a slender man with black hair, about six feet tall. "They got to the nearest phone and called the police," he concluded.
"Did you answer that call?"
"Yes. I was on duty that morning. I went out there with two other squad cars."
"Will you describe what you found?"
"The Tillson girl was dead. Her skull was punctured near the base of the cranium, and her neck was broken."
"And her clothing?"
"The clothing was ripped away from the upper half of her body."
"She was naked to the waist?"
"Yes, sir. And her skirt was up around her waist."
"Did she have on her underthings?"
"Her underpants she had on. Her bra had been ripped away."
"Did this seem to mean to you that she had been assaulted, with attempt to rape, and was killed when she resisted?"
Defense attorney Dunlap objected, saying that this called for a conclusion on the part of the witness. The objection was sustained.
When the prosecution called Bart Tillson to the stand, Billy slumped on his spine in his chair, staring at his hands before him on the table. Billy was neatly dressed, wearing a brown sports jacket, brown tie. His hair was combed carefully.
Dunlap whispered to him. "You sit up. You look at that man."
Billy winced. He forced himself to straighten in the chair, but he couldn't look in the direction of Bonnie's father.
Tillson sat with his head down until the prosecutor spoke to him. He was asked his name, and he gave it in a low voice. The judge had to prompt him to speak louder, so the jury could hear.
"Barton Edward Tillson." His voice rasped across the room.
"Did you go to the Radwell Funeral Parlor on Sundav and identify a body?"
"Yes. I did."
"And whose body was it, Mr. Tillson?"
"It was my daughter. Bonnie Tillson."
"Would you tell us how long you have lived in this city? How long, rather, had you lived here prior to Bonnie's death?"
"We came here about three weeks before Bonnie was killed."
"Was your daughter well known in this town?"
"No."
"Had she made a wide circle of friends?"
"Bonnie was a quiet girl. She'd made only a couple of friends. Girls in the neighborhood where we lived. It was these girls that she went to this teen-age dance with that Saturday night she ... was killed."
"Do you or Mrs. Tillson have any other relatives living in this citv?"
"None."
"Does your daughter have a great uncle, about seventy years old, graying hair-"
"No. I have no uncles on either side of my family. Not living. Bonnie had no uncles or great uncles on her mother's side. And we had no relatives living with us at the time of Bonnie's death."
"But that's not true!" Billy burst out in a helpless whimper at the defense table.
Dunlap snagged Billy's arm, shaking his head warningly. The judge rapped his gavel. "I must warn the defendant about making any further outbursts."
The prosecutor glanced at Billy, waiting until he was certain the boy had subsided. Then he said to Tillson, "Did your daughter know any elderly man in this town? A friend of the family? An acquaintance she might have made through her new friends? An elderly man in whom she might have confided her most intimate secrets, Mr. Tillson?"
Tillson's jaw hardened. His face burned red to the roots of his hair, and he stared straight across the room at Billy. At last he shook his head.
"Of course she didn't," he said.
Pamela Elder was nervous. She looked as if she might be sick to her stomach at any moment. She was seventeen, but looked younger without make-up, and wore a dress chosen to accentuate her youthful innocence.
She said, "Yes, we knew we were wrong. We'd lied to Bonnie's parents about the concert. We knew we weren't going there. But Bonnie didn't know it until after we left her house. We knew her parents were strict, and the only way they'd let Bonnie out with us was to say we were going to the concert. We didn't even let Bonnie in on the secret, for fear she'd give it away. Her family was very strict."
"You planned to go to a teen-age dance. A chaperoned affair."
"Oh, yes. It's very nice. Just for teen-agers. And they're strict. No drinking allowed anywhere around the place. No older people. It's very nice. It's just that the Tillsons didn't want Bonnie going to dances at all."
"When you got to the dance, what happened?"
"Oh, Rosalie and I danced a few times with boys we knew, but nobody asked Bonnie to dance, so we mostly stood with her, until this boy came over and asked her to dance."
The prosecutor held up his hand, stopping her. "Now, Pam. You say a boy asked Bonnie to dance."
"Yes, sir."
"Can you identify that boy in this courtroom?"
"Yes, sir. That's him. Billy Wade." She pointed to Billy at the defense table.
"Billy Wade. Did you know him that Saturday night?"
"No, sir. I've learned his name since then."
"Bonnie knew Billy-that night?"
"No. I'm sure she didn't."
"Had Bonnie ever mentioned Billy Wade to you before that night?"
"No. Never."
"When he asked her to dance, did she act as if she knew him?"
"No. She was just pleased that he'd asked her. We had ... noticed him. He seemed lonely. But he was ... cute. He was better-looking than a lot of other boys, and Bonnie had just said he reminded her of a boy she used to know where she lived before. Then he came over and asked her to dance. Lot of kids do that."
"Even when they don't know each other?"
"Yes."
"Did either you or Rosalie know Billy Wade?"
"No, sir. None of us knew him. One of us might have said he was cute, something like that, but we said that about a lot of boys. Just to have something to say-just looking at them and thinking which ones were cute and which ones were drips."
"And you three thought Billy Wade was cute."
"I guess so."
"Did Bonnie ever say to you that she wanted to make out with Billy Wade?"
"No! We never any of us talked about him-or any of the others-like that at all. Bonnie knew she was lucky just to be at the dance. Her folks would kill her if they found out she went out with one of the boys."
"But she did go out of the dancehall with him."
"Yes. We saw them go out together. Everybody was going out to get refreshments, and we didn't think anything about it, except we were glad Bonnie was having a good time-with a cute boy."
"And did you see them return to the dance floor?"
"No. They never did come back."
"What did you do?"
"By the time the dance ended, we were worried. We looked for her, but we decided maybe she'd let Billy Wade drive her home. We went on home, but we were scared to call Bonnie's house ... in case she wasn't there. We didn't know what to do."
"And that evening was the last time you ever saw Bonnie alive?"
"Yes, sir."
"And about what time was that?"
"It was at the ten o'clock intermission."
"Thank you, Pam. Oh, there's one more thing. In your girl-to-girl talks with Bonnie, did she ever mention an elderly uncle?"
"No."
"Did you girls ride to the dance with an elderly man who said he was Bonnie's uncle?"
"No. Rosalie's folks let her drive their car. That's how we got to the dance."
"Was that car a Cadillac, Pam?"
"Good lord, no! It's a Chevy."
"And at no time did Bonnie ever mention an uncle, or any elderly man with whom she was acquainted?"
"No. She lived with her parents. She never once said anything about having an uncle or knowing an older man."
Dr. Welburn sat forward in the witness chair. He wore thin glasses on his hooked nose. His eyes were weak and pale; he squinted, even through the glasses.
The prosecutor said, "Is Billy Wade a patient of yours, Dr. Welburn?"
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"During the past five years. Since he was about fourteen."
"Why?"
"Why? Well, I suppose you mean why did he need analysis."
"Yes. Why did a fourteen-year-old boy require a psychiatrist?"
"He was emotionally disturbed. He comes from a broken home. His parents parted when he was twelve, and it was a parting filled with violent accusations, recriminations. Vengeful scenes occurred. Most of these, Billy was a witness to. His schoolwork suffered, his face broke out badly, his hands developed blisters. He had been an ordinary student in most classes, but now he was slow, erratic, given to temperamental outbursts. He would attack those who tried to cross him for any reason. He was a very disturbed child."
"I see. And were you able to effect any improvement of this disturbed child in the next five years?"
"Yes. I believe we made progress. We had some unfortunate obstacles."
"Did you? Name one."
"Well, his mother. She seems to want Billy to take his father's place-in perfection. She asked too much of him. He couldn't meet her demands on him, so he rebelled. He was in a permanent state of rebellion. He was hostile, withdrawn. Yet at the same time, he had a terrible capacity for love-for devotion, as well as sexual love."
"Did he have psychotic tendencies?"
"Yes, he showed such tendencies. He was confused, disturbed, needing and yet rebelling at the same time."
"Was Billy Wade ever committed to an institution for the insane?"
"Yes. He was in the State Hospital-under my supervision-for almost a year. He was discharged only a few months ago."
"Why was he discharged?"
"He effected a fine recovery in the controlled atmosphere of the institution. All the psychiatrists agreed on this. He also clearly understood that he must be prepared for rebuffs, hurts, repressions and casual hostilities in the inclement atmosphere outside the hospital. We all believed he was ready to take his place in society."
"But obviously you were mistaken."
The psychiatrist didn't answer.
The prosecutor said, "Would you tell us why Billy Wade was committed to an insane asylum in the first place?"
Defense attorney Dunlap objected, but the prosecutor insisted that Billy's mental record was wholly germane to the present case, and the judge agreed.
The prosecutor repeated his question.
The psychiatrist sighed. "Billy was arrested for assault and attempted rape on a thirty-year-old woman, a waitress named Mrs. Fraley."
"Didn't Mrs. Fraley nearly die from Billy's assault on her?"
"Yes."
"And wasn't it mainly your testimony that saved him from a long prison term at that time?"
"A court-appointed panel agreed with my findings."
"And what were those findings, Doctor?"
"That Billy was ill, not criminal. That he would suffer in prison, but might be rehabilitated in the hospital."
"Do you think now that he has been rehabilitated?"
The psychiatrist didn't answer.
"Billy Wade was almost guilty of murder a year ago, was he not? The woman recovered, but was on the critical list for some time. Now he has been released, and he has made the same kind of attack again, has he not?"
"I don't know."
"What do you mean, you don't know? You're his doctor, aren't you? Haven't you had him as your patient for five years? Don't you know that Billy Wade's mind is twisted where women are concerned?"
"No. He's a boy who needs love. Sexual love, if you insist. But he's been ill; he isn't experienced. He has no knowledge of how to get what he wants. In the case of Mrs. Fraley, the court was shown that she had a record as a prostitute. She picked men up and went to bed with them for money. She led Billy on, thinking he could pay her, and when she found that he couldn't, she laughed at him, struck him, tried to fight him off. He went wild, and in a moment of blinding rage, he beat her."
"Just one moment, doctor. You're telling us that we should excuse Billy's behavior because he was driven to passion by a woman, and when he couldn't control that passion, he almost killed her. Is this normal behavior?"
"No, sir. We showed at the time that Billy was not normal, but that he wouldn't have attacked the woman at all if she hadn't first driven him past any hope of control. He no longer knew what he was doing."
"And this is the youth you turned loose on the streets? To prey like a wild animal on unsuspecting women?"
"Billy's afraid of women, sir. He would never attack one or even touch one-he was afraid to ask a woman to dance with him-he wouldn't go near her unless she made the first advance."
"Are you accusing Bonnie Tillson of making improper advances toward Billy Wade, despite all the testimony we have heard?"
"No, sir. I'm not accusing anyone of anything. We have heard Billy say that Bonnie sent word to him that she wanted him-not on the dance floor, but in his car, in a lonely spot. This is what he believed."
".Doctor! We have shown this claim to be a figment of this warped boy's distorted mind! There is no such old man as he talks about! Even his own attorney has disavowed any claim to the existence of such a person. There is no such old man except in this boy's sick mind. Bonnie never made advances. He told himself she did-as he would do a hundred other times if he were set free."
"I can only say that Billy believed that Bonnie made the first move. It couldn't have happened any other way."
The prosecutor threw up his hands, as if completely baffled by the strange reasoning of a profession that owed much to witchcraft and only paid lip-service to science.
"Tell me this, doctor. Would you say that Billy Wade is highly sexed, or undersexed."
"Emotionally, he is disturbed."
"Is he oversexed, as to the norm, or undersexed?"
"I can't say what is normal." The prosecutor stared at him. "If you can't say, who can?"
"Nobody can say. What is normal for one person, in one environment, under certain emotional conditions, might be completely at odds in another set of circumstances. In our society there are normal people to whom a play such as Virginia Wolfe is degenerate trash, and they don't even think about seeing it or inquiring in to it. Other, equally normal people see the play and accept it as part of modern living. What is normal, then, for one set of these people is almost foreign to the other group. Normal is a word without meaning."
"Tell us about Billy Wade-his chance of being considered normal in our present society?"
"He needs affection, love, warmth, and more. He needs the sexual outlets that every youth between fifteen and twenty badly needs, but which are denied by the mores of society. This need is ... normal in a youth his age."
"But the control of that need-isn't this the crux of the problem, doctor?"
"Many a person stays out of prison because of the lack of opportunity, the lucky chance that kept him from being rejected, resisted, frightened at some potentially violent moment."
"Didn't Billy Wade make his own violent moments?"
"I don't know."
"You say he was sexually normal?"
The doctor spread his hands. "I believe his needs, under ordinary conditions, would be accepted as coming within the accepted norm."
"In other words, in the controlled environment of a mental institution, you could count on Billy Wade's behaving himself."
The prosecutor turned away. The doctor didn't say anything. After a moment, he was excused from the stand.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The prosecutor strode back and forth before the jury box. He spent a long time in re-establishing Bonnie's virtue, her innocence, her purity, the fact that her friends didn't even trust her to be able successfully to lie to her strict parents.
"This was the girl foully and brutally murdered by Billy Wade!"
He turned and gazed coldly at the defendant.
"The only defense that Billy Wade has offered for himself-and this over the disavowal of his own attorney-is the existence of an old man who delivered to him some vile information about Bonnie and her invitation to take her out in his car.
"There is no such old man, ladies and gentlemen, as I am sure all of you are by now convinced, except in the twisted mind of this boy! He told himself that lie-'perhaps so often that he believes it himself. But because he deceived himself, it does not follow that reasonable people should be misled. There ... was ... no ... old man!
"The things Billy Wade said about Bonnie in this courtroom have been shown to be vicious lies, about a girl he first murdered, then slandered after she was dead, in an effort to go free.
"He must not go free! Free? To prey again on the sweet and pure like Bonnie Tillson? To lurk in the shadows and lust after the innocent? To come into this place and try to make a mockery of justice with ludicrous talk about an old man who delivers a message of filth from youth's sweet mouth?
"Don't be deceived by the gentle appearance of this boy. You have been told how he assaulted and cruelly beat a woman of thirty because she resisted his ugly advances! He has been tailored to look like a clean-cut young gentleman, in an effort to win your sympathy.
"Have no sympathy for this killer. Have pity, rather, on the young, innocent Bonnie Tillsons who must be protected from such monsters.
"Behind that smooth face is the twisted mind of a monster. Do you see regret, guilt, horror at what he has done? Is there compassion for the family he destroyed in one murderous moment of lust?
"No. There he is, cold and calm on the exterior, but a seething cesspool of viciousness, ready to kill again if you set him free."
The "judge instructed the jury, saying they could find Billy Wade guilty of murder in the first decree without any recommendation for mercy, which would mean death in the electric chair, or guilty of first degree murder with recommendation of mercy, which would mean automatic life imprisonment. The other degrees of murder were listed, as well as acquittal, if for some reason they believed the state had failed to prove Billy Wade's guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.
The bailiff then led the jury to the jury room, where they began twelve hours of deliberation.
Billy's mother was unable to sit still. She was with the defense lawyer in the small office, off the courtroom while they nervously sweated out the jury verdict.
Dunlap was annoyed that she was there. He had a great many things to do during this period, trial, but he could accomplish nothing because Mrs. Wade seemed to believe that as long as she clung to him some sort of miracle would undoubtedly to save her son.
"I've made up my mind," she said. "I'm going to sell my house."
"Yes, that might be a good idea. You might be happier if you moved to another place."
"No," she said. "You don't understand. I can get at least ten thousand for the house. I'm going to offer it as a reward."
"A reward?"
"Yes. I've got to do it. We've got to offer a reward if we hope to locate that old man."
"What old man, Mrs. Wade?"
"The old man that brought Billy that message. It doesn't excuse what Billy did; he killed the girl, but he truly believed she wanted to go out there, wanted all the things he tried to do. It was just like the case with that evil waitress."
"It wasn't even similar, Mrs. Wade. You won't get Billy off as you did when that whore led him off his rocker, then tried to stop him when she found out he had no money. This was a pure, innocent young girl, out like thousands of others for an ordinary evening of pleasure."
"Billy swears there was an old man."
"Billy's ill, Mrs. Wade. Mentally ill. It's just that the crime is so heinous, his record so bad, and his insistence on that old man so arrogant that insanity doesn't become a plea here. Nothing can save him."
"If the old man came forward, it would change everything. Billy wouldn't have to die."
"Mrs. Wade, we've gone all through this. Take my word for it, there is no old man. If there had been, perhaps we could have hoped for a lighter sentence. But don't deceive yourself: there is no old man."
"Billy swears-"
"Mrs. Wade, I made every effort to locate that old man. We dug everywhere. Bonnie never knew such a man. Nobody did. He doesn't exist-except in your son's mind. Somehow Billy's latched onto the idea that if he can blame somebody else, he won't be punished . That's from a page right out of his childhood."
"I'm his mother," she cried. "You heard them in that court. Part of what Billy did is my fault. I depended on him too much. I failed him. I expected too much. I watched him too closely. I drove him away."
"Oh, you can feel plenty of guilt if you want to, but that's not going to help either."
"But don't you see? That's why I've got to offer a reward. If we offer enough money, somebody will come forward and tell us the truth about that old man."
"Forget the old man!" His voice rasped. He tried to remain objective, but it wasn't that easy. "There's no sense in your getting yourself laughed at, Mrs. Wade."
"Do you think I care about that?"
"I wouldn't care either, Mrs. Wade, if I thought it would help."
She didn't even appear to hear him. She was wrapped in her own ball of woe. She said, "Money will do it. Money will bring the old man forward. Money will save Billy."
Someone rapped on the door, called that the jury had reached a verdict and was returning to the courtroom.
Dunlap almost ran from the room, relieved to escape Mrs. Wade.
She smiled following slowly, the smile warping her mouth, lighting eyes that looked through the reality around her.
The courtroom refilled almost magically.
The judge entered from his chambers, still brushing down his black robes.
He spoke to the jury foreman. "Have you reached a verdict?"
"We have."
The foreman passed the verdict slip to a baliff, and the officer handed it to the judge. The judge read it silently, his face expressionless. Then he handed it to the court clerk, who read through it, then stood up and spoke rather loudly to the courtroom.
"We find Billy Wade guilty of murder in the first degree. So say we all."
There was no recommendation from the jury, for mercy.
Mrs. Wade cried out, protesting. Baliffs tried to stop her, but she ran through the gate and threw herself toward Billy at the defense table.
Dunlap caught her arm, trying to lift her away, but she clutched at Billy, wailing loudly, "Billy, oh, Billy!"
Billy stared at her. There was compassion in his eyes for her for the first time. He spoke to her softly.
"Don't worry, Mom. It's not over yet. The old man will show up. He'll hear about this somewhere, or he'll read about it. He'll show up in time to save me. Don't you worry."
CHAPTER TWELVE
The guard looked through the bars at Billy.
"I'll say one thing for you, kid," he said, shaking his head. "Your story's different. Screwy, but different."
Billy didn't smile. He said in that flat voice, "It's true."
"Most of them come in here and spend the whole time telling everybody how innocent they are. But not you."
"No." Billy shook his head. He stared at his hands. "I'm not innocent. I did it, all right. I deserve to be punished. It's just that if the old man came forward and told the truth, it would be easier on my mother."
"Maybe he'll come yet," the guard said, half teasing, because everyone who'd talked with Billy since he'd been brought to the penitentiary had ended up laughing about the story of the old man who would come forward in time to tell everybody that Billy had told the truth.
"It's not for me," Billy said in that deadly serious tone. "It's for my mother. Even for the parents of Bonnie. They'd know I didn't mean to hurt her; I was just doing what the old man said. He said she'd fight me at first, but that she really wanted it. If he came forward, you'd see."
"You think that would save you from the chair?"
"No. Like I say, that part' doesn't matter much any more-if they kill me, or if I spend the rest of my life in prison. I guess I was never made to spend my life among people outside. No, that don't matter. But I didn't mean to kill her. She teased me-sent word to me what she wanted by that old man; she told him to tell me she had the hots for me. I didn't believe it at first, but he made it sound true. She wanted to go the whole way with me. Then, when I went wild for her-and I was drunk, on whiskey her uncle had given me-I was out of crackers, the way I needed her by then. She slapped me, scratched me, fought me. I hit her. She fell, hit her head. Her uncle will come. He's got to come. He'll tell you.
She teased me until I couldn't stand it. He's going to come. He's got to."
The guard had walked away.
Billy's lawyer came soon after Christmas. He said, "Bad news, Billy. The appeal for a new trial was denied."
Billy had begun to lose weight. His eyes looked hollow. He only nodded, not at all surprised.
"But I'll keep working for you, Billy," Dunlap said.
"Why? What good now? Unless that old man-"
"The appeals board, Billy," Dunlap said, interrupting a story he didn't want to hear again. "You keep your chin up; I'll let you hear."
The appeals board met that spring. They denied a motion to change Billy's sentence to life imprisonment.
Billy heard the news with no change of expression. "He's such an old man. Maybe he's died. Maybe something happened to him. There's been so much in the newspapers. Looks like he would have read something about it."
"I'll appeal directly to the governor, Billy," Dunlap said. "We've still got some months. We'll try to get you commuted to life imprisonment."
"Sure we could," Billy said. "If only the old man-"
"You hang on, Billy," the lawyer said, getting up to leave.
They moved Billy into death row in September.
The somber avenue of cells had a persistent silence that was like a foreshadowing of the tomb.
The next message said, "The governor has refused your appeal for a life sentence, Billy. But don't give up. Your lawyer is working now, trying to get execution delayed. As long as you're alive, there's hope."
"Sure," Billy said. "That old man will show up yet. He's got to."
He sat alone in the somber silence of death row and thought about his life. He was sorry for what had happened to Bonnie. He saw that he was guilty of killing her. She had resisted him, and he'd lost control of himself. The story of his life.
He no longer blamed her for anything. Maybe there was no old man. And even if there were, Billy saw now that Bonnie hadn't said any of those things to him. The old guy had made them up-a queer character trying to get his kicks by stirring guys up.
Billy sweated. He sat through long days trying to think how he might make amends. He wanted Bonnie's family to know how sorry he was for them. And his mother. But he knew there was no way to make up for the heinous thing he'd done.
Nobody broke the laws and got away with it. Maybe for a while-maybe some longer than others. But the tritest old sayings were true-like the one about the mills of the gods grinding slow, but grinding exceeding small. You had to obey the laws that were set up over thousands of years of people learning the only way they could live together-governed by certain rules that couldn't be disregarded except at a cost to the violator.
He saw that it was more difficult for those made inside as he was, with overpowering drives and compulsions, less able to control those drives. But that was the way it was. The world was never made for people like him.
At last he was resigned to dying. He had committed a crime against society, and he had to pay for it. He told himself he was ready.
But inside, deep down, the hope persisted to the last day that the old man would show up in time to save him from the chair. Hope dies last.
The warden came to the cell. He spoke to Billy. "Do you want a priest now, boy?"
"No." Billy shook his head. "I've said it all. I've got nothing to confess."
"All right." The warden nodded. "Just thought it might make it easier on you."
Time ran out, and the warden came at last and said, "It's too late now, Billy. The governor isn't going to interfere."
They came for him-the warden, two guards and a priest.
Billy stepped from his cell. He said, "I told you: I want no priest."
Then he glanced at the man in priest's garb. He stared, incredulous.
He shook his head. His cheeks grayed out. His sunken eyes widened as he bit back the sickness that welled up from the pit of his stomach.
"You," Billy whispered.
He peered at the wizened, monkey-evil face, the empty eyes, the amoral smile of the old man, and he understood at last why the old man hadn't come forward to save him, but had come now.
It was such an insane joke that it made the whole world an object of laughter. "So that's who you are. Death."
Billy began to laugh, sick with laughter. "So that's it. Death is a dirty old man!"
He laughed until he couldn't stand. He laughed with his head thrown back, and he laughed doubled over, with the laugh-cramps twisting his belly.
