Tiger Winslow sprawled on the park bench, oblivious to his surroundings. A shadow cut across him. He looked up; his mouth went slack. "What hole did you pop out of?" he demanded.
Sherry held both arms behind her in a shy little-girl pose. "Aren't you glad to see me, Tiger?"
"You're as welcome as a dose of poison. I should rip you limb from limb and stuff the pieces in a sewer."
She giggled. "Would you really do that, Tiger?" She sat on the bench beside him. "I'm sorry, Tiger. I'll do anything you say to make it up to you."
Desire, lust, speculation filled his eyes. Sure she'd bad him brought up on rape charges last time. She might even do it again. They'd put him in jail and throw away the key-
There were pix, plenty of them. An old calendar portrait of Gladys Fane, posed in the nude, that had raised a scandal the year she'd taken Broadway by storm. A glossy print that harked back to her burley-cue days. Gladys Fane in a top hat, a spangled bra, black satin panties, her famous legs encased in hip-length, wide-mesh hose. There was still another shot of her leaving "the death scene," her figure shapeless beneath a flapping black coat, her face shielded by a gloved hand.
Tiger Winslow came in for his share of pictures, too. He crouched in the classic pose of the boxer, sleek muscles bulging, eyes raised to the camera. The headlines read:
CENTRAL FIGURE IN BROADWAY'S WEIRD LOVE TRIANGLE.
Beneath were quotes from the sports columnists, taken from the days when he'd been "The Big White Hope,"
"The Hottest thing in Boxing Since Dempsey,"
"The Boy With Dynamite in Both Fists." That was before he'd been mauled and battered by Randy Quinn in the championship bout and left a bleeding, hulking mass in the middle of the ring.
For Sherry Miller the tabloids ran a full-page spread, but her name was in small type. The bold black letters simply called her GLADY'S FANE'S DAUGHTER. Her face was in profile, her hair covered with a paisley scarf. Even so there was a wistful, appealing quality about her, like a frightened kitten.
The sob sisters went to work on Sherry's story, vying with one another in their tear-jerking efforts. To one she was "a sweet, innocent child defending her honor against the brutish attack of the sex-crazed boxer." To another she was "the victim of her mother's wild, promiscuous pattern of living." None of them came near the truth. Probably if they'd known the facts, they wouldn't have dared to print them. The truth made the stories that appeared in even the most sensational of the expose magazines seem pale and drab.
A lot of people saw the headlines.
Charles Russel read the story and his fist clenched, ripping and crushing the paper, as he thought of the destruction of his legal career and his shattered home.
"Trouble can come in a neat package," he told himself bitterly.
Yeah, Sherry'd been cute and cuddly as a kitten. Honey-colored hair, soft and fluffy around a heart-shaped face. Lips soft and petulant forrning a cupid's bow. No one looking at her would think she was a load of dynamite with the fuse set. At least Charles hadn't. Not until it was too late. Not until everything he'd cherished in life had been blown sky-high.
Pauline Braisted read the paper in the dingy rented room that was all she could afford because of Sherry. She spilled tea over her lap and set the cup down, gripping the arms of her chair to stop the shaking of her hands. She spoke aloud although there was no one to hear her.
"I've said it before and I'll say it again. She's no good. It would have been better if they'd tied a stone around her neck and taken her out and drowned her. The world would be a better place without her."
Nick Bobrowsky, a taxi driver, read the story at a lunch counter. He turned to the hackie beside him and pointed at Sherry's picture with a grimy finger. "Believe it or not, I've had that little tart in my cab naked as a jaybird. You can't tell me nothing. The Tiger was banging the Fane dame and this kid, too. Nice work if you can get it, huh?"
Daddy Paget read the story in his swank penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park. Looking at Sherry he could feel the sick craving coursing through his aged body. In spite of all she'd done to him, he thought, he'd sell his soul to take her in his arms once more and feel the sweet softness of her.
Lucy Watkins read the story in the pink, satin-papered room of her bordello that was done up to look like the boudoir of a French courtesan. She turned to one of her girls and said, "You've heard all the fuss about this kid Lolita in the movies. Well, let me tell you something. Compared to Sherry Miller, Lolita looks like a sweet little angel with two pairs of wings."
Sherry herself read the story in the Bronx Youth House for Girls. She pouted at the matron in charge of her and said, "It isn't fair. I killed The Tiger but Gladys gets all the publicity. That's the way it always is. She has everything and I get nothing. Do you think that's right?"
* * *
Eddie Dolph's Story
CHAPTER ONE
Sweet as a stick of candy. Cute as a bug's ear. That's the way a lot of men described Sherry Miller. But if they'd known what went on behind that pouting, baby face of hers, they would have sprinted a mile in the opposite direction. And they'd have been a lot better off. Because Sherry was double trouble, a bitch on wheels, a teen-age nymph whose idea of fun was to crawl into bed with an older man and then ring the gong on him.
Let's get something straight right away. Sherry killed Tiger Winslow in cold blood. And, even though for my money the Tiger wasn't worth the powder to blow him to hell, she was still a teen-age tramp with murder on her mind.
Who am I to talk? The name's Eddie Dolph. I'm a stud who likes the long green and fast dames. A lot of people have called me a gigolo and a pimp. But I call myself a public relations man, even if I do specialize in Hollywood cuties. I'm also the guy who brought Sherry Miller and Tiger Winslow together. If I hadn't, the Tiger'd be alive today and the chances are better than even he'd be the heavyweight champion of the world. Sure, the Tiger was a bum, nasty and mean, but he was a hell of a scrappy fighter. He'd go haywire in the ring and, when he was in shape, he'd cut his opponent to ribbons.
Sherry. I'll never forget the first time I laid eyes on her. It was at a cocktail party in Gladys Fane's apartment to celebrate the reopening of Hi, Mr. Jinx. Everybody was a little looped. I'd been pouring enough martinis down my gullet to float a kid's sailboat.
The bell rings and I totter to it. Here's this sweet little honey-pot with big shining eyes and a mouth like a rosebud.
"I want to see Gladys Fane," she says.
I think she's a teen-age fan who's trying to crash the party. Before I can decide what to do, she slides past me and runs across the room to throw herself at Gladys' feet.
I hear Gladys say, "Who are you? What do you want?"
"I'm Sherry. Don't you know me, Mother? I'm Sherry."
Gladys goes all stiff and cold. And that's not like Gladys at all. Then she gets up and leads Sherry into her bedroom, leaving the guests wondering what was going on, because none of us had ever heard about her having a kid.
But I'm getting ahead of my story. I want to tell you about Sherry Miller, the kind of a kid she was. Maybe it won't do any good but I think the world should know. There's more than one man in prison today because of Sherry. Perhaps there's a chance that one of them will go free if Sherry's story is known.
Like I said, Sherry killed the Tiger in cold blood. For a few days the papers were filled with the shooting. There was talk about Sherry being indicted for murder. But by and large, the papers went easy on her. They turned their venom on Gladys Fane. They made her look like a two-bit whore, a hustler, a dame who'd deliberately corrupted her own daughter. They ruined her career. Since the shooting she's never got another part in a show.
And what about Sherry? They don't strap sweet little numbers like Sherry in the chair and throw the switch. They don't even send them to jail, not when there's a couple million bucks in the background. No D.A. wanted to prosecute Sherry. Just let her pose in front of the camera with that shy, sweet smile of hers and the whole country would be up in arms.
I'm no legal beagle and I don't know all the shenanigans the Miller lawyers played to get the indictment quashed. But I know the murder charge was set aside, although Sherry was declared a juvenile delinquent and remanded in the custody of the court until a proper guardian could be appointed.
The only person willing to stick her neck out for Sherry was Mildred Gage. Mildred is a staff writer for a string of women's magazines and she's Gladys Fane's sister. But here's the joker. In private life, Mildred is Mrs. Eddie Dolph. So that meant I had that titillating bit of jailbait on my hands again, just when I thought I was rid of her for good.
Now don't get me wrong. I never laid Sherry, though sometimes I thought I was crazy not to grab myself a piece of what every other adult male she came in contact with was getting. The funny part of it is I didn't restrain myself out of fear or any moral values or even out of loyalty to Mildred.
My reasons were more complicated than that. They had something to do with the yen I've had for Gladys ever since I've known her. By taking Sherry, I'd have had a feeling of letting Gladys down.
Maybe I'm not the person to write about Sherry. God knows I never wrote anything before except press releases. But by chance I probably know more about her than anyone else in the world unless it's Dr. Carlotta Stein. And Carlotta is bound to silence by her professional ethics.
You see when Sherry was released from custody it was on the condition that she undergo prolonged psychiatric treatment. Dr. Conrad Heidenseck, a prominent psychiatrist, was chosen for the job. However, he felt a young woman would be more sympathetic to Sherry and he handed on the task of delving into her background to one of his assistants. This was Carlotta.
By chance the tape recordings of Carlotta's interviews with Sherry, Gladys Fane, myself and various other people connected with the case have fallen into my hands. I didn't steal these recordings. Sherry did. When they were typed out, there were over three thousand pages of notes, including recordings that Carlotta had made of her personal reactions to Sherry.
After reading them all, I don't claim to know what made Sherry tick. I only know the incredible story of her fantastic sex urges and the way in which she used her body as an instrument of evil.
The rest of this manuscript is largely a condensation of these recordings. I've just hit the high spots. Christ, when a kid admits sexual intimacy with more than fifty men before she's fifteen, who can tell her entire story?
Sherry cried "rape" too loud and too often. She got away with murder. And I mean that literally.
She's not the only teen-age girl to use her body to entrap older men.
It's a vicious racket and it's time that it was exposed.
CHAPTER TWO
Carlotta Stein was twenty-six, dark and pretty with a gamin face. Despite her training, in many ways she was less sophisticated than Sherry. I think Sherry confided her secrets to Carlotta partly to shock her, partly because she hated her right from the beginning and planned to destroy her.
In her first few sessions with Sherry, Carlotta got nothing but lies and fantasies. Most of the time, Sherry acted shy and embarrassed, looking down at her hands and dangling her legs. Sherry was never one for hip talk or coarse language. That's why, when she suddenly did break loose with a shocker, it rocked you back on your heels.
Carlotta wasn't fooled by Sherry. She had a dossier on the kid that the police had prepared. She also had the medical reports filed at the time of Winslow's death. After a while she decided to use some shock tactics of her own.
"All right, Sherry," she said bluntly, "I want to know the real reason why you killed Tiger Winslow."
"But I've told you. I was trying to defend my honor."
"The lawyer instructed you to say that in court. But I know it's not true. You'd let Winslow make love to you earlier that night."
"I didn't. I hated him. He was Gladys' lover."
Carlotta shook her head. "A physician examined you shortly after you were taken to police headquarters. His report indicates that you had had sexual relations that same night. Do you want me to read it?"
Sherry was crying. "I couldn't help it. He raped me."
"You mean you resisted?"
"I fought and fought and screamed and screamed. But nobody came to help me."
"There were no bruises or contusions on your body. No sign of a struggle."
"He held a knife on me. He said he'd cut my throat unless I let him do what he wanted."
"And this was the first time you'd submitted to him?"
"Yes. I swear it."
"But there had been other men?"
"No. I was a virgin."
"Let's go back to the medical report. Some of the terms may be hard to understand, so I'll explain them simply. It states that initial sexual intercourse first took place at least two years prior to the alleged assault. Also that you had experienced extensive sexual activity shortly before the examination. Do you understand, Sherry?"
"I guess so."
"Then there were other men?"
Sherry squirmed and giggled. Then her voice became suddenly brassy. "Sure there were. But I don't know how many. I can't count that high. I'm no Einstein."
Carlotta dismissed her after that. I think she must have been pretty shaken. Matters didn't get any better when she discovered that some time during the afternoon the kid had sneaked into her bedroom and smashed an atomizer. To Carlotta the atomizer was a phallic symbol and its destruction indicated a castration complex. To me, it's just one more proof that Sherry was a pure unadulterated bitch.
Carlotta thought she was through with Sherry for the next twenty-four hours at least. But she was mistaken. She had a dinner date with Mitch Polstedt that evening.
Mitch and I have been friends for two or three years. He's a big, breezy, salesman type. A nice guy in a down-to-earth sort of way. I could never figure out what he and Carlotta saw in each other. But I knew Mitch had been holding the torch for her for a long time. As for Carlotta, it was marriage or nothing. That was the way she was made.
After a few drinks, Mitch would call Carlotta an "iceberg" and swear he wouldn't marry her until he'd had a trial run in bed. But I don't think he meant it. In his heart he was proud that Carlotta was holding out on him.
Mitch came around to Carlotta's door about seven.
She was all dolled up in a dark rose gown with a low neckline and her cheeks were flushed.
He took her in his arms and tried to kiss her mouth but she twisted away so that his lips barely brushed her cheek.
He said, "Hi, beautiful. Where'll we go tonight?"
"Somewhere gay and noisy, packed with people. Somewhere we can dance."
His eyebrows shot up. "Jazz yet! That is a switch."
They both laughed because Carlotta was the one who always wanted quiet places. They had a cocktail before they set out and Mitch, sensing there was something wrong, persuaded Carlotta to talk. She was usually close-mouthed about her work and this was his first knowledge of her connection with Sherry.
"Gladys Fane's kid," he said and snapped his knuckles. "That explains something. When I came in I saw a girl on the stairs. Actually she brushed against me and then backed away looking scared, almost as though she were going to scream. She seemed familiar but I couldn't place her. Now I know she was Sherry. I've seen her pictures in the papers often enough. I should have spotted her."
"It couldn't have been Sherry. She left over an hour before you came."
"She was Sherry all right. There's something about her you can't forget."
"But why should she come back?"
Mitch shrugged. "She could have forgotten her gloves, a scarf, something like that."
"There's nothing of hers here."
"Could be she's got a crush on you, Carla. Kids that age do get 'em, you know."
Carlotta shivered. "No. Not a crush."
"Anyway she was still on the landing when I rang the bell. As soon as you started to open the door she scooted down the stairs like a frightened kitten."
They let the matter drop. But Mitch could sense her uneasiness. When they went out to get into his car he saw her studying the empty sidewalk and the doorways across the street and he knew she was looking for Sherry.
There was no sign of her until they were driving past the drugstore on the next block. Then he caught a glimpse of a lonely figure at the end of the counter. A girl with honey-colored hair, her head bent low over a cup and saucer, a powder-blue coat around her shoulders.
Carlotta gasped Sherry's name but he pretended not to hear and kept on moving fast. But somehow a damper had been put on Carlotta's gay mood. After that she was silent and withdrawn.
They didn't speak about Sherry again until he brought her home around midnight. There was a tiny thread of red paint on her door that hadn't been there when they went out.
"Sherry," Carlotta said. "She must have come back. But this is so senseless."
For some reason her reaction irritated him. "Don't flip, Carla. Probably some kids have been playing around with paint. You know how kids are."
"No. It was Sherry."
"The way you talk about that babe, you'd think she was a witch."
"Not a witch. She'd be more likely to be one of the false accusers, giggling over the innocent people burning at the stake."
Mitch was nonplused, but he tried to pass it off lightly. "You'll be seeing her tomorrow. So why not get an explanation out of her?"
Carlotta answered seriously. "I don't think I want to see Sherry. Not right away anyhow. First I want to talk with Gladys Fane. Dr. Heidenseck says it takes three generations of disturbed living to make a true criminal psychopath, and I suspect that's what Sherry is. Maybe through Gladys I can get to the roots of her disturbance."
Mitch said, "You're all upset, Carla. Let me come in for a while."
"No, Mitch. I'm not in any mood for fielding passes."
He kissed her but her lips were cool and her body unyielding. She slipped out of his arms and through the doorway.
He stood looking at the closed door, his anger and frustration mounting. She'd have to give in to him soon or she'd drive him straight into the arms of another woman. Right now he was in the mood to grapple with anything in skirts.
He plodded down the stairs, his sense of frustration growing. Outside he drew up with a whistle. Waiting for him on the sidewalk was a honey-haired little sex-pot. He recognized the blue coat, the pouting mouth and the shiny eyes that were gazing so intently at him. This was Gladys Fane's kid.
* * *
Gladys Fane's Story
CHAPTER ONE
Gladys smoothed the soft velvet of her black skirt over her ample thighs. She was quite a woman and she knew it, even if she was pushing forty and putting on weight. At least the padding was in the right places. Say what you would about style, men didn't go for scrawny females.
She'd always had all the men she wanted and a lot she didn't to boot. And that was as true today as it had been when she was Sherry's age. All she had to do was walk along any block in the city and men's heads would swivel about so they could stare at her.
That's the way it had been ever since she could remember. Always some guy on the prowl, seeing what he could buy for himself.
In a way the burley-cue days were the best. Prancing out there on the runways with the spotlights nearly blinding you and the mob yelling, "Take it off! Take it off!"
And why not? She'd never been ashamed of being a stripper. At least the suckers had paid the toll and they were entitled to their hots. So she'd strip off her bra and step out of her panties, taking her time over it, doing a real tease job. Then she'd be standing there stark naked except for her G-string, her high-heeled slippers and the painted patches over her nipples.
The roar of the crowd would change to groans and catcalls as Jocko dowsed the lights and she skipped back into the wings. She'd stand there for a minute listening to the whooping and hollering. It always gave her a charge because no one else in the show got such a big hand.
Gladys pulled herself back to the present and the girl seated across the table from her. Hell, she didn't look like a head-shrinker. More like a college girl. Not bad on the eyes. Not bad at all. A little makeup and a few pounds of flesh would do wonders for her.
Gladys took out a long black holder and fitted a cigarette in it. She crossed her legs and eased herself back in the chair.
She asked, "What is it you want to know, dearie?"
Carlotta Stein smiled. Gladys watched her through slit eyes, ready to flip at the least sign of being upstaged. But as far as she could see, the smile was genuine, easygoing. She relaxed and laughed.
"I guess I know the score," Gladys said. "If you can dig me, maybe you can dig Sherry, too."
"Something like that."
"Sherry's a sex powerhouse. Maybe she gets that from me. But not the bitchiness. That comes straight from Cora Miller. The blood in Cora's veins may have been blue as squirto but she was an old harridan just the same."
Carlotta didn't speak and Gladys said, "If you want my fife story, okay. Just tell me where to begin."
"First of all, your name."
"Gladys Fane! It's a phony. It happened to be the handle I was using when I struck it rich, so I was stuck with it. Before that I had a lot of names. Like in burley-cue days when they billed me as Dolly Darling. Can you imagine? I was born Gadzina Pozdziak. How I hated it! Not that I minded being a Polack, you understand. I never tried to hide that. But Gadzina Pozdziak, you got to have a mouthful of twisters to pronounce it. So almost as soon as I could talk I became Gladys. That's the way I thought of myself. Just as Gladys."
Her voice grew harsher. "My old man was a farmer. He raised pigs. That's the first thing I can remember, the stink of the damned pigs. He raised a brood of kids, too. There were nine of us in all. Though I can't remember Jake. He got sent to the reformatory while I was still in the cradle. Joe followed him a few years later. We Pozdziaks were a bad lot and nobody ever let us forget it."
She snubbed out the half-smoked cigarette, stabbing it viciously into the mosaic tray. "I'll say this for the old man, he treated the pigs pretty good. Of course they were worth money to him, while his family was just so many mouths to feed."
Her blue eyes blazed momentarily as she looked at the girl opposite. What the hell was the good of raking up the past? It wasn't as though it would help Sherry any. Sherry had always had it soft. She didn't know what it meant to be hungry, dressed in rags, despised. If Sherry was a little slut, it was because she chose to be.
Gladys wasn't winking about Carlotta Stein any longer. In her mind she was back on the crummy, stinking farm in the flatlands of New Jersey. A picture of her father was taking shape before her eyes.
Cass Pazdziak was a big man, but not a giant the way he'd seemed to her as a kid. She'd been scared of him all the time. Some nights, even now, she'd dream of him coming toward her, something threatening in his stance, his eyes so pale they looked sightless, the length of razor strap dangling in his hand.
In her dreams he'd always be wearing the canvas cap, with its bent visor that hid his matted, straw-colored hair. Messed-up overalls. A faded blue-denim shirt. And like as not he'd be barefoot.
But it was the strap she remembered best. When he'd come staggering into the farmhouse with the smell of homemade gin on his breath, she'd watch the swaying strap as though hypnotized. Maybe he'd just lash out at anyone who got in his way, or maybe he'd pick out one of the kids for a thrashing. But most likely he'd go for Ma.
Gladys always had a soft spot for Ma, even if she was a slattern. Maybe she hadn't always been that way. She must have been pretty once, before she got fat and sloppy.
With food as scarce as it was, you wouldn't think anyone could get as fat as Ma. Until Gladys had started putting on weight herself and done some calorie counting, she hadn't been able to understand. Potatoes cooked in pig fat from the discarded pieces of pork that Cass couldn't sell in the market. Potatoes and more potatoes. That was the daily dish.
The kids turned up their noses at the food. They'd rather go hungry or steal candy bars in town. But Ma'd always finish up the pot and swill it down with gin from the hidden still in the woods.
Maybe Ma really liked the men Cass brought around. Even the creeps couldn't be worse than bedding down with Cass.
Poor as they were, Cass had a stripped-down Model T Ford that was the apple of his eye.
Every Saturday he would dress up in his best clothes. A threadbare blue serge suit, a white shirt, a tie, black shoes with a shine to them. He'd drive off around dusk and wouldn't return until late at night. Sometimes another man would be in the Ford beside him, but more often a second car would trail him up the rutted, overgrown path that led to the farmhouse.
Actually the house wasn't much more than a shanty made of crude, unpainted boards covered over with tar paper. There was a shed out in back where the kids slept, the whole kit and caboodle of them piled willy-nilly on a lumpy featherbed mattress salvaged from a dump.
Maybe she'd been five, certainly not any older, the night her brother Stan woke her up and whispered, "You want to see something, Gladys? The old man's come home. Ma's going to get a working over."
Before she could answer, Stan clapped his hand over her mouth.
"Keep your trap shut and come along."
She didn't want to go out into the night. The darkness always frightened her. But she was happiest when she was with Stan. Of all the kids he was her favorite. He was unlike the others. Dark. Quick of foot. Moving like a shadow.
Stan took her by the hand and let her around the edge of the shed. Half a mile away two pairs of headlights speared along the rutted road. There was a picket gate there and she could hear the creak of the rusty hinges as it was pushed back.
Cass' harsh, flat voice drifted through the night. "It's just up the road a piece. You can see the light from here."
Stan shifted his position, dragging her with him. He pinched her arm and whispered, "Hey, look at Ma."
She looked through the grime-streaked window and could scarcely believe what she saw. Ma was seated by the round table in the front room. She didn't look fat and slatternly tonight but like a grande dame. A checkered cloth covered the table. In its center was a kerosene lamp, the wick turned low to give a feeble glow.
Ma's blond hair was swept back, with a comb from the old country in it. The light made her hair look silvery.
The glow did things for her face, too, gave a high flush to the cheeks and made the eyes seem bluer than ever. She'd used lipstick to strengthen the line of her mouth and her head was tilted back so that the arch of her throat was white and smooth.
She was wearing her one good dress of plum-colored silk and, from this distance, you couldn't see that it was streaked with stains or that the lace at her throat and sleeves had turned yellow.
Ma heard the sound of the approaching cars and turned her head in an attitude of listening. She reached for the quart jar on the table and spilled some of the colorless liquid into a glass. She gulped the gin and patted her lips with her fingertips. Without hurrying she slid the jar and glass out of sight under the table, then straightened up, folding her hands in her lap, pulling the purple fabric over them to hide the coarseness of her work-reddened fingers.
Cass had reached the doorway. On the porch behind him was the shadowy figure of a man. Cass was urging him inside the room. The man sidled in, looking scared and awkward. He was young and well dressed, unsteady from drink. His face had the soft unformed lines of youth.
Cass jeered. "You ain't backin' down now, are you, buster? I told you she warn't no spring chicken. But she's got plenty of juice in her."
The young man stuttered, "It's not that. She doesn't look like-well, a woman you could pay."
Cass laughed and for once he seemed genuinely amused. "You paid already, buster. If you don't like her, you can beat it. But you ain't gettin' your money back."
The youth wasn't listening. He was walking hesitantly toward Ma.
When he was close enough, Ma reached out and took both his hands, looking up at him with a soft, gentle smile.
Cass guffawed. "All right. I'm goin' outside and leave you two love birds. But hustle it up. You didn't pay for no all-night stand."
He went out, slamming the door. But he didn't go far. He hunched his shoulder against a balustrade on the porch and lit a cigarette.
Inside the room Ma rose and led the young man toward the corner where the broad bed, with its brass head and footboards, stood. She was crooning to him gently in Polish.
She helped him undress. When he was naked she lay on the bed, dragging him down beside her and pulled her skirts high to show heavy rounded thighs that gleamed white in the pale light.
He was clumsy and scared but her hands guided him. She lay still beneath him, her big body relaxed, almost motionless. Then gradually her muscles grew taut, her legs arching, gripping the youth's slender body. A spasm seized her and her hands clawed at his back. A single mewling cry, strangely penetrating, forced its way past her lips before she went limp again.
Gladys was watching in a trance-like state.
Stan pulled at her, his whisper urgent. "We gotta get out of here. Don't make a sound."
Only then did she realize that Cass had left his post on the porch and was approaching the lilac bush behind which they were crouching.
She and Stan backed away, their bare feet silent on the matted grass.
Cass stopped where they had been, his body a shapeless hulk in the darkness.
Stan dragged her into the deep shadows at the back of the house and they worked their way around to the other side.
Gladys began to whimper. Stan pinched her hard. "Shut up," he warned. "You know what the old man will do if he catches us here."
She nodded, fighting the urge to cry. They moved farther away, under the branches of a scraggly pine. Stan hunkered down beside her.
"We're safe here."
Cass' footsteps crunched on the cindered pathway. Moments later his knuckles beat a tattoo on the door.
"All right, break it up in there," he yelled. "You've had your money's worth. So shake the lead out."
The young man showed in the doorway. He said, "Take it easy, will you?"
Cass' voice changed to a snarl. "Don't tell me what to do, punk, or I'll rip your guts out. I ought to anyway, messin' around with my old woman."
"For Crizzake, what's eating you? I paid you."
"Yeah, but not enough. Maybe I oughtta call the cops and tell 'em how you raped my wife. She'll back me up, too. Don't think she won't."
"What is this? A shakedown?"
"I don't care what you call it. I want fifty bucks on the nose. Either that or it's the cops, see?"
The young man's voice quavered. "I don't have that much. You know I don't."
"That's the price. Ten bucks down. Fifty when you're finished."
"You didn't say that."
"You callin' me a liar?" Cass grabbed the man's shirt front, crumpled it in his big fist and backhanded him across the face.
The youth screamed and struggled to free himself.
Cass struck again, shoving him hard against the side of the house. "Are you comin' across, punk?"
"I tell you I haven't got it. All I've got is a ten spot. A couple of singles."
"Let's see."
The young man dug frantically for his wallet. Cass took it from him, pulled out the bills and thrust them into his pocket.
"Okay, punk. I'm letting you off easy. Now scram before I get sore."
The young man ran to his car. The motor sputtered two or three times before it caught. The car rocked down the road, its headlights cutting a jumping swathe of light ahead of it.
Cass strode into the house.
His voice was a muffled roar. "You goddamn, two-timing, no-good slut! You liked it, didn't you? I'll give you something you won't like so much, you rotten whore."
They could hear the blows of the strap and Cass' mouthed obscenities. Stan moved back to the lilac bush. Through the window they could see Ma lying half across the bed, her plum-colored skirt raised high. Cass towered above her, the strap whirling, sizzling down on the bare flesh with a crack like a pistol. But there was no sound from Ma, only the jerking of the heavy body, the reddened hands clawing and scrabbling at the blanket on the bed.
The strap rose again but Gladys didn't see it fall. She was running blindly across the field, running until she stumbled and fell. She wanted to cry but the tears wouldn't come and she was sick instead.
Later she crawled to the stand of pine trees at the farm's edge. She lay on the cushion of dried pine needles, looking up at the stars.
It was there that Stan found her. He crouched beside her.
"Let's play the game that Ma plays, huh? What do you say, Gladys?"
She wanted to please Stan, so she didn't protest. She imitated Ma faithfully. The languid movements. The silence. The caress of her hands on Stan's back. The slow tensing of her body. The single, long-drawn-out moan. It was the beginning of a pattern. From then on it was always the way she made love.
"I didn't know it was wrong," she said aloud. Then suddenly she was aware of her surroundings, of Carlotta Stein's sympathetic gaze upon her. "I didn't know it was wrong," she repeated. "How could I? Or Stan either? You can't blame him. We were just kids playing a game we'd watched through a window."
CHAPTER TWO
Gladys was thirteen the summer that trouble broke out on the farm.
Cass had picked up a couple of mill hands one Saturday. They'd got the treatment and after that Cass had held them up for the contents of their pockets. They'd put up a fight and Cass had knocked one of them senseless and bloodied the face of the other. They'd turned over their money but with threats that they'd be back.
They came the next afternoon. And with them a second car loaded with friends.
Gladys had been in the shed when she heard them. She came out and stood in the shadow of the lilac bush, watching.
There were eight youths in all. They fanned out, covering both doors.
One of them shouted, "Come on out, Pozdziak, and take your medicine. You can't get away."
A long silence was broken by Cass calling back, "Get off my land. I got a gun and, by God, I'll shoot."
"We got guns, too, and we're not leaving without you."
The crack of a bullet was startlingly clear in the bright, crisp afternoon. Cass had fired. A moment later there was a fusillade of shots. Glass tinkled as a window shattered. A man cried out hoarsely, stumbled to his knees and started to crawl toward the car.
Cass' voice rang out, "Git movin', or I'll pick you off one by one. There ain't none of you going to be left alive."
The young man who had been hit lay face down on the grass. A second bullet crashed into him.
"Hold your fire," someone yelled. "Danny's hurt bad. We got to get him to the hospital."
"I'll give you three minutes to clear out," Cass shouted. "If you ain't gone by then, I'll cut loose again."
There was a sudden burst of activity as the men dragged their wounded friend into a car. Then both cars shot off.
Silence returned to the farm. Gladys crept to the house. Cass stood in the center of the front room looking down at Ma. She was lying on the floor. Blood trickled from a wound in her temple. A second bullet had penetrated her left breast.
Gladys fell on her knees beside her. She heard Cass' voice, flat without accent. "You can't help her none. She's dead."
He went to the door and stared out. He said, "There's going to be trouble. Cop trouble. That's the worse kind there is. What you going to tell the cops, Gladys?"
"Nothin'."
"That's smart, Gladys. Stick to that and you'll keep your nose clean."
The cops didn't come until after nightfall. When Gladys saw the first state patrol car turn up the rutted road, she slid out of the house and hid in the woods.
She didn't return until nearly midnight. The doors of the house stood open. She waited for a long time, watching for some sign of a stake-out. There was none. At last she entered the house. Cass and the kids were gone. So was Ma's body.
She moved to Ma's chest and opened it. The plum-colored dress was still there.
She stripped and put on the dress, then covered herself with a black raincoat some John had left one Saturday night in his haste to escape Cass.
She carried her shoes in her hand. It would be too dangerous to pass through the gate. A patrol car might be lying in wait there. Better to cross the fields barefooted.
She glanced about her. There was nothing else worth taking. She didn't have any money but that didn't worry her. She knew how to get some and, when she did, she wouldn't have to hand it over to Cass.
CHAPTER THREE
That first night she'd left home she'd been on the road less than ten minutes when some stud stopped his car for her. She'd looked him over and couldn't see anything wrong, so she'd hopped in beside him.
They'd spent what was left of the night in a Jersey City fleabag. When they'd split, he'd given her enough to take her to New York.
Once she'd hit the big town she never had to worry about boyfriends. Already she was five feet ten, with exaggerated breasts, long tapering legs and hips that swiveled when she walked.
Her face wasn't bad, though it was too round, with wide Slavic cheekbones and heavy, sensuous lips. What did it matter? No one looked at her face anyhow. She had too many other attractions.
She wasn't built for romance. No man went soft and gaga over her. She was no cuddly little number like Sherry. She was sin, hell on wheels. A guy spotted her and bingo! He wanted a quick lay and the first door out.
She learned to be flip, slangy and loud-mouthed, how to exaggerate the wiggle of her rear and the sway of her breasts. She wore gowns that fitted too tight and dipped low in the neckline, heels that were too high and stockings made of mesh.
Before she learned the ropes she was run in a couple of times by the vice squad and beaten up by the Syndicate's goons. She had to pay all up and down the line and that meant she couldn't always pick and choose her Johns. She liked guys who were quiet, dreamy, moody and shy but they were easily scared off. So more often than not she had to settle for the minor hoods, the fast-buck boys with their glib talk and plenty of brass.
Then she met Larry Sherman. Larry with the big mouth and the fast line. He was going to make a movie star out of her. He'd make her rich and famous, put her name in bright lights. Yeah, some movies he'd made! The kind they show at stag parties in Brooklyn and the Bronx. Maybe she'd been crackers to play along with him but she'd needed the two hundred bucks he'd promised her.
Those were the pictures that were to pop up and smack her down later. But the craziest part of the deal was that Larry really did set her up in show biz. He'd come around a few weeks later and told her that Syd Kayler wanted to talk with her.
She didn't know who Syd Kayler was and he had to tell her. With burlesque officially closed in New York, Syd was running a girlie show on the Jersey side. He needed a stripper and he'd seen Larry's films. If she fitted the bill, he'd cough up a hundred and fifty a week.
She met Syd the next day. He was short and scrawny, with thick-lensed glasses and a bald spot on the back of his head. The job was on the level. You did your turns, picked up your money and you were free as a bird. If you wanted a John afterward it was no skin off Syd's nose. But no pick-ups on the premises. There were too many cops around.
Right off the bat she'd liked burley-cue. The scent of makeup and powder. The undercurrent of excitement. The warm glow of the spotlight on her bare skin. The applause. The pictures of herself in the glass showcases in the foyer.
But she'd reckoned without Sam Churdock.
Churdock was a huge man, gross, with olive skin, drooping lids and thick black hair. He was the Syndicate's top man in the city.
He'd decided to move in on her but she'd detested him from the first.
One night when he'd forced his way into her dressing room, she'd snatched up a broken bottle and lashed out at him. The shards had ripped open his face. He'd held his hands to his torn cheek and stumbled away, but she'd seen the hate in his eyes and knew he'd come back.
A few minutes later Syd Kayler had rushed into the room.
He'd yelled, "Doll, for God's sake pull out of here. All hell's going to break loose. You can't move fast enough."
"Where'll I go?"
"Listen, Doll. Listen good. A dame named Lucy Wat-kins on Eighty-sixth Street. She'll help you go to cover. Now shake the lead out. Move. You ain't got no time at all."
She'd known that he was right and she hadn't wasted a second. Within minutes she was out on the street running. At the corner, she'd turned and seen a black sedan that belonged to Churdock's goon squad easing in at the curb.
She hadn't looked back again. Just kept on running.
That was the way her burley-cue days had ended.
CHAPTER FOUR
Gladys thought Syd must have got his wires crossed when she first saw Miss Watkins' School of Music and Elocution. The house on Eighty-sixth Street was a long, three-storied building with whitewashed porticoes and the slightly-gone-to-seed look of ultra-respectability.
When Miss Lucy came to the door, Gladys almost took to her heels and ran. Perhaps it would have been better if she had. In that case Sherry never would have been born.
Miss Lucy was a big-bosomed woman with stark white hair, pince-nez glasses and a prim voice. She wore a black shirtwaist fastened at the neck with a cameo pin, a black skirt and flat-heeled shoes.
She said, "Who are you, my dear?"
"Syd Kayler sent me."
Miss Lucy's tight lips relaxed. She said, "Go upstairs and wait for me."
It was two hours later before Gladys was summoned to Miss Lucy's boudoir on the top floor.
She took a step inside and her eyes nearly popped out of her head. The walls were lined with stuffed pink satin, the floors covered with Turkish rugs. A half-dozen pictures showed scenes of abandoned revelry. On the mantel of the elaborate white-and-gold fireplace were statuettes of nude figures in tight embrace. The bed was a huge four-poster with canopies and a raised dais, its end boards inlaid with designs of mother-of-pearl.
But it was the woman reclining in an easy chair, legs propped up on an embroidered footstool, who surprised her most. She hardly recognized the woman she'd met downstairs. Miss Lucy had donned a henna wig. Circles of rouge widened her cheekbones and a smear of lipstick gave her a clownish, ribald look. A loose-fitting, laminated gold dressing gown encased her stout body and she held a nearly full glass in her jeweled hand.
Miss Lucy laughed. "I know what's bugging you, dearie. You thought that stiff-necked, prune-faced old bitch downstairs was me. In a way you're right. That's the Miss Lucy who teaches music and elocution. God, how I detest her! And she loathes me, too. You've heard of dual personalities. Well, that's what I've got."
Gladys was still staring in open-mouthed incredulity.
Miss Lucy said, "Take a load off your feet, dearie. Syd Kayler gave me a tinkle about you. Said you done a slice job on Sam Churdock. If I had any sense, I'd kick that big, round fanny of yours all way down the stairs into the street. Sam's on the warpath. If he ever finds you here, I'll be turning in my mink stole for a wooden overcoat."
"Syd said you'd give me a break."
"For Syd's sake, I will. You may not think it, but that little bastard's one prince of a guy. But one thing we get straight right off the bat. If I put you up, you obey orders. Any trouble from you and I'll break your ass. And don't think I can't do it."
Gladys nodded.
She stayed with Miss Lucy for close to two years. The school on the ground floor was a perfect cover for the bawdyhouse above. But it was legitimate, too. Miss Lucy had launched more than one starlet into the bright lights of Broadway, the fame of Hollywood or the big money of TV. However, far more of those who started under her tutelage ended up as high-priced call girls.
Most of Miss Lucy's business was done by telephone and her "little black book" contained the names of some of the wealthiest men in the country as well as a host of beautiful girls.
One night Miss Lucy knocked on Gladys' door. She said, "I've got a real plushy job for you. This John's young, good-looking and really loaded. But there's something queer about him. He came here a while back, picked himself a girl, got her to undress, then kicked her out. I know the type. Homos who are trying to make the grade as real men. Do you think you can handle him, dearie?"
"I guess so. What's his name?"
"Didn't I tell you? It's Miller. Paul Miller. And don't forget it. Because out where he comes from they spell Miller with dollar signs. A couple million of them."
That's how she met the man who was to become Sherry's father. A little later he'd come stumbling into the room, so drunk he could hardly make it. She looked him over. Not very tall, sandy hair, fine-boned but rather weak features. His eyes were red-rimmed as though with crying but maybe that was just the way the booze affected him.
After he'd undressed, he collapsed on the bed and she'd had to coax and cajole him into making love. But finally he'd fallen on her in a desperate frenzy, babbling meaninglessly as he reached the climax of his uncertain passion.
Afterward he lay beside her, trembling and sobbing. He turned off the light. In the darkness he groped for her.
He said, "I was going to kill myself. That's why I was drinking. I was trying to build up the courage to throw myself out the window. But now I don't need to. I'm a man."
She said, "Of course you are. Don't worry about it."
"Promise you won't leave me. Not ever."
Laughingly she gave her promise. In the morning he made fumbling love to her again and, when it was over, he asked her to marry him.
"You don't really mean that, Paul."
"But I do. I can't go on without you."
It was crazy but she didn't dare offend him. In the end she talked things over with Lucy Watkins.
"Hold on to him," Lucy boomed. "You're bedding down with a million dollars."
From then on Miss Lucy had taken over, chivvying them both about, making plans for a marriage that was slated to go wrong from the start.
It was Miss Lucy who sat at the wheel of the car when they headed out of New York for Maryland. Paul was drunk, propped up in the back seat with Gladys beside him.
They were married in Elkton with Miss Lucy and the wife of the justice of the peace as witnesses. Paul was barely able to mumble the simple words of the ceremony. The justice of the peace might have balked if Miss Lucy hadn't handed him a fifty-dollar bill.
Miss Lucy arranged their honeymoon, too, booking them on the bridal suite of a luxury liner sailing for Cuba the next day.
It was some honeymoon! Gladys thought bitterly, Yeah, it was a lulu!
Her hands twisted in her lap and once more she became aware of Carlotta Stein watching her.
She was silent for a while, letting the tape recorder whir on and on.
Then she burst out, "Well, I've told you how Sherry happened to be born. She was conceived one of those nights in Miss Lucy's place. She had to be. Because, so help me God, after we were married, Paul never touched me again. Not even once."
* * *
Sherry's Story
CHAPTER ONE
Carlotta Stein suddenly realized that she held Sherry's interest, sensed the need of the girl to tell the truth.
She repeated the question. "What's the very first thing you can remember, Sherry?"
"I was running naked down a long corridor. And the devil was inside me."
"Where was this corridor?"
"In Gran's house in Millersville."
Carlotta fell silent, knowing it was no longer necessary to prod the girl to talk. Sherry's eyes were half-closed and her voice toneless, as though she were in a state of self-imposed hypnosis.
She was a little girl again. Four or five at the most. Living in the bleak old Miller house. With just Gran, Paul and the servants. Gran was thin and erect. Her face was pleasant enough when she wanted it to be. But when she looked at Sherry, it often grew grim and hard. As for Paul, he didn't seem like a father at all. There was something vague and weak in his handsome, dissolute features. He was kind enough to Sherry but most of the time he was scarcely aware of her existence.
The afternoon was hot and sultry. Sherry was bored playing with her dolls. She wandered to the window and watched the revolving water sprayer on the lawn. A pleasant shiver passed through her as she thought how nice it would be to feel the cold spray on her skin.
She slipped off her dress and panties, kicked off her shoes and stood in the window naked. A breath of air stirred the curtains and caressed her body.
She laughed and started to run along the corridor. She raced down the stairs, then came to a sudden stop. There were voices coming from the front room. She recognized Paul's and Charles Russel's. She liked Mr. Russel. He represented the law firm handling Gran's estate. Lots of times he stopped to ruffle up her hair or to give her candy or a toy.
She raced into the room and plummeted into his lap, giggling and squealing. She didn't realize that he was drinking tea until it was too late. The china cup fell to the floor with a crash, followed by the tinkle of shards.
Someone seized her arm, the fingers pinching deep into her flesh. She looked up into Gran's angry face. Gran's mouth was a thin line and her eyes were hard behind her gold-rimmed glasses.
Sherry whimpered and tried to pull free, clinging to Mr. Russel, but Gran's hands were like talons prying her away.
Mr. Russel protested, "Take it easy, Cora. I know the cup was valuable but the child didn't mean any harm."
"The cup! What does that matter? It's this running around naked. It's indecent. I won't stand for such a thing in my house."
"Cora. Take hold of yourself. She's just a baby."
"You know what her mother was, parading around naked. Why did Paul have to marry a tramp?"
Paul's shocked voice broke in. "Mother, you mustn't talk that way. Not in front of Sherry."
Mr. Russel added, "Paul's right, Cora."
Gran managed a laugh and her face relaxed. "Of course, Charles. One can't blame Sheridan, but all the same she shouldn't be encouraged to make an exhibition of herself."
Gran's voice was honey smooth now and she was smiling. She fooled the others but not Sherry.
Gran said, "Come, darling. I'll take you to your room."
"No. I don't want to go. Don't let her take me, Mr. Russel."
But he didn't help her and neither did Paul. Gran scooped her up in her arms, carried her upstairs and dumped her unceremoniously on the bed.
The steel was back in Gran's voice. "You thought you were getting away with something, didn't you, young lady? You just wait until the others are gone."
Sherry lay in her bed, whimpering, covering her face with her arms. A long time seemed to pass before she heard Paul and Mr. Russel on the lawn. She ran to the window and saw Paul get into Mr. Russel's car. She screamed but the roar of the motor drowned out the sound.
They were gone and she was alone in the big house with Gran. She flung herself on the bed, waiting with her heart in her throat as she heard the hard click of Gran's shoes mounting the stairs.
Gran unlocked the door and came into the room. Sherry saw the hairbrush in her hand and cringed away.
"No, Gran. Please. I'll be good."
But Gran didn't care about promises. Gran hated her, wanted to hurt her. Gran dropped the hairbrush on the bed and grabbed Sherry with both hands, forcing her across her lap. Then the hairbrush raised and came flashing down. The searing pain made Sherry scream. Gran showed no mercy. The blows came raining down, one after another. Sherry was screaming hysterically, fighting for breath. It seemed as though the whipping would never end.
Finally, Gran pushed her away roughly and stood up. She said, "Stop that crying or you'll get more."
Sherry bit the back of her hand trying to still the sobs.
"Now, you listen to me, Sheridan. There's a devil inside of you, just like there was in your mother. But I'm going to beat that devil out of you. If I don't, he'll destroy you."
The sanctimonious voice went on and on. But Sherry wasn't listening. She caught only an occasional phrase. "Naked and shameless. Like your mother. Displaying yourself before men. I won't have it."
At length Gran was gone, locking her in her room without supper. The darkness slowly folded around her. She lay still, hating Gran, hating Paul and Mr. Russel for abandoning her. Wondering about her mother whom she'd never seen and who was never mentioned except when she was punished.
She was alone. All alone.
Then she remembered something Gran had said. There was a devil inside of her and Gran had beaten him out. So he must be somewhere here in the room, hiding. The curtain billowed inward and a shadow darted across the room. It was the devil. Who else could it be? She called aloud to him but he didn't answer. All the same she knew he was there.
That night she made a pact with the devil. He'd help her get even with Gran. He'd use the hairbrush on Gran, while she writhed naked and helpless on the bed.
In the morning Cookie brought her breakfast tray and hovered over her, helping her to dress, clucking over the red welts on her buttocks.
Cookie was Irish, tall, broad-shouldered and stout, with straw-colored hair and a pink, round, merry face, almost expressionless beneath its layers of fat.
Sherry cried against Cookie's breasts but some part of her was in revolt against Cookie, too. For all her protestations of love, the big woman was scared of Gran. In Gran's presence she'd fall silent, ignoring Sherry, going stoically about her work.
Sherry pulled away from Cookie and pinched her breast hard.
Cookie gave a tiny gasp of pain and stared at her. "Why'd you do that?"
"I hate you. I hate you."
Cookie lumbered to her feet, tears clouding the sparkle of her dark eyes. She reached out to Sherry. "You mustn't say that, baby."
Sherry struck at the hand.
"Leave me alone. You're nothing but a servant." Cookie sighed and turned away.
Sherry watched her go with a mingling of regret and a sense of victory. She didn't need Cookie any more. She had a better playmate. One no one could take from her.
CHAPTER TWO
Sherry was eleven the spring that Julio came to the house to take the place of the old colored chauffeur who had died. His swaggering walk and cocksure manner caught her interest right from the start. His face was long and dark, with burning eyes and flashing white teeth.
He looked like pictures of the devil which Sherry had found in Gran's room. Maybe Julio was the devil. If she spied on him enough, she might find out.
Julio's quarters were over the garage, visible from the window of Sherry's room. Night after night she stood watching his shadowy figure against the light. So it wasn't long before she learned about him and Cookie.
One night Julio came down the wooden steps that led to his rooms. He was walking so silently that he fused into the shadows of the tall maple tree beside the drive. Then he came out into an open patch of moonlight, moving stealthily, still without a sound.
There was a faint crackle of cinders as he crossed the drive. Sherry leaned far out of her window to watch. He was at the kitchen door now. He tapped ever so lightly. The door opened just wide enough to let him through.
There was no reason why he shouldn't go to the kitchen, but his furtive manner alerted Sherry. He was acting as she did when she was doing something of which she was sure Gran would disapprove.
She tiptoed to her door. The house was quiet, sleeping. Enough moonlight poured in through the windows so that the stairs were covered with a silver sheen. She slipped down them like a wraith, through the dining room and into the passageway that led to the kitchen. The door was closed but the knob turned under her hand. She opened the door slowly.
Cookie's domain was a large one. Besides the old-fashioned kitchen there was a huge pantry which Cookie had converted into a bedroom. Sherry -edged into the room and squeezed behind a battered sofa that had been pushed into a corner.
Cookie was opening the refrigerator door. She was dressed in a rusty black kimono beneath which the skirt of her long white nightgown showed. There were carpet slippers on her feet. At first Sherry saw no sign of Julio. Then he came up behind Cookie and gave her a resounding whack on her heavy buttocks. To Sherry's surprise, Cookie gave a giggling laugh.
Julio said, "Come on, Bridie. Shake a leg. I ain't got all night. I need some shut-eye. The old gorgon wants me to be ready first thing in the morning."
"Then go to bed. Nobody's stopping you."
"Aw, Bridie, don't be that way. I can't sleep without a little work-out first."
"I'm not in the mood, Julio."
"Knock it off, sweetheart. You're always in the mood. You near broke my back last night."
They both laughed and Julio went into the alcove formed by the pantry. He started to strip, tossing his clothes on a chair.
When he was naked, he called, "Get a wiggle on, Bridie, or I'll give you another clout on the ass."
Cookie came close to him. "Don't you talk dirty around me, Julio. I'm a respectable woman."
Julio grabbed her about the waist, wrestling her onto the bed. They tumbled together across the sheets, her skirts flying high. Then he was upon her, his hands gripping her shoulders, pressing her flat. He lay spread-eagled upon her, rising up, falling upon her as though he were beating her with the whole of his lean brown body. She was making strange sounds; choking little cries, as though she were trying not to scream.
Sherry stared, fascinated. Cookie was being thrashed, she thought. And if it could happen to Cookie, it could happen to Gran, too. Her fantasy of revenge could come true.
Sherry craned forward to see better and the sofa slid away from her, striking against the wall with jolting force.
The room was suddenly quiet. She saw Julio, back arched, head twisted, freeze in mid-motion. He slid from the bed, paddling toward her.
She scrawled farther behind the sofa but he yanked it away and loomed above her.
He said, "For Crizzakes, how did you get here?"
Sherry cringed from him. He jerked her to her feet. "I ought to bat you one, you snooping brat."
Cookie's voice sounded in back of him. "Leave her alone, Julio. Get your clothes on and get out. Let me handle this."
"What if she squawks? We'll both be out on our ears."
"Shut up and get dressed."
Julio shrugged. "Okay, but it's your funeral as well as mine."
Cookie held her until Julio had thrown on his clothes and stalked out. Then the big woman drew her to the kitchen table and bustled about, slicing gingerbread and making cocoa.
She pulled up a chair opposite Sherry and inquired anxiously, "You ain't going to tell Gran, are you, darlin'?"
The idea hadn't occurred to Sherry. She never told Gran anything. But she sensed the fear and pleading in Cookie's voice. A feeling of elation passed through her. She had a weapon she could use over an adult.
She said hesitantly, "I guess not. Not unless-"
She let the words dangle, watching the panic spread across Cookie's round face.
"Unless what, dear?"
"I won't as long as you're nice to me. You and Julio both."
In the days that followed, a new dimension was added to her life. She held a secret that gave her power. She bullied Cookie relentlessly. But it was Julio and the memory of his amber-tinted body that excited her. He was the whip, the scourge, the instrument of punishment which she could turn against Gran.
She haunted spots where she could watch Julio, edging close but never speaking. All the same she knew that he was aware of her. She could tell by his unnatural stillness, by the way his eyes passed over her without expression.
The afternoon he spoke to her she was surprised. He had a rear wheel of the car jacked up and was hunkered beside it, changing the tire.
His mouth didn't move at all when he spoke and he didn't as much as glance in her direction.
"You got real big eyes, ain't you, kid? Come to think of it, you're getting to be a pretty big girl. Cute, too. But those eyes of yours could get you into trouble."
She knew he was mocking her. But it was a game two could play.
"You don't see Cookie any more. Why not?"
"That fat old sow! Beggars can't be choosers. But enough is enough. Now if I had something juicy and tender I wouldn't give Bridie a second thought. Do you catch my meaning, kid?"
Mr. Russel showed up on the porch just then. He came toward them, stopping to tousle Sherry's hair. But she twisted away from him and ran into the house.
That night was sticky hot. Sherry stood in her dark window watching the lights of the house flick off until only those in Julio's quarters were left. He came to the landing outside his door and stopped to light a cigarette. The flame of the lighter hollowed out his cheeks, stressed the widow's peak of his black hair, made his face seem darker, more satanic.
There was a trembling stillness about him as his eyes lifted to Sherry's window. Instinctively she withdrew deeper into her room. When she looked again, he was standing on the lawn, all but invisible in the shadows. She wouldn't have seen him if it hadn't been for the red circle of his burning cigarette. He tossed the cigarette away and walked across the lawn, moving silently as he always did, like a stalking cat.
As soon as he was out of sight, she climbed out of her window and onto the porch railing. From here she could drop to the soft earth of the flower bed. She fell but she wasn't hurt and she jumped up again, running toward the garage and up the ladder-like stairs to Julio's open door.
She'd never been here before and she was surprised by the bareness of the room. Just a few odds and ends. An easy chair with a slung spring. A scarred table with a heaped ash tray and a nearly empty bottle of whiskey.
She tiptoed to the room beyond. The bed was narrow, the sheets rumpled. In the hot still night the air was thick with the smell of hair tonic, sweat and whiskey. She was suddenly scared and wished she hadn't come. But it was too late to retreat. Already she could hear his light tread on the stairs.
She darted behind the door. His footsteps stopped in the middle of the other room. His voice was a singsong whisper. "Sherry-Sherry." He came closer.
"Come on out, Sherry. I know you're there."
The door swung away from her and he stood blocking her passage, his body slightly crouched.
He said softly, "Hello, baby. I knew you'd come."
The light from the outer room struck across his face. His forehead was beaded with sweat. He ran his tongue over his lips.
He's scared, she thought. More scared than I am. And with that knowledge, fear left her.
He said, "You couldn't stay away, could you, baby? You had to learn what it was all about. So you came to see Uncle Julio, huh?"
He dropped to his knees, caressing her, sliding her nightdress down over her feet. "You're a doll, kid. A living doll. Jesus! Jesus! You're driving me crazy."
He was shaking all over and then he started gibbering in Spanish, the unfamiliar words falling all over each other. He picked her up, carried her to the bed and pressed her down upon it.
She lay still while he ripped frenziedly at his clothing.
Then the weight of his body was on her, smothering her. There was pain like a burning fire thrust inside her. She would have cried out but her throat was constricted. The pain numbed her and something black and heavy seemed to fall over her.
When the blackness passed, he lay beside her, an inert mass, gasping for breath.
It was all over and it was nothing like she'd imagined it would be.
He said hoarsely, "Listen to me, kid. If you squawk, I'll kill you. I ain't fooling one bit."
She had felt cheated but now she realized that she held a whip over him. Unexpectedly she giggled.
"Cut that out," he said. He went to the corner, snatched up her nightdress and held it out to her with a shaking hand. "Put it on and scram the hell out of here. I must have been out of my mind to let you stay."
"I don't want to go. I like it here."
"This ain't no times for games, kid. What if somebody misses you and comes snooping around? They find you here and my goose is cooked."
She took the nightdress and threw it on the floor.
"You stupid little twist. Do you want to get me fried or something? I ought to slap your teeth in."
He reached out to touch her but she rolled away from him and screamed. He leaped upon her, his hand clamping over her mouth, cutting off her next scream.
She writhed but he pinned her down, forcing her face into the pillow. He was swearing a soft steady stream.
"Goddamnit! Somebody heard you. The lights are coming on over in the house."
He leaned closer. "Listen, kid. Listen to me good.
You're in trouble the same as me. Maybe they'll send you away somewhere. Anyway your Gran will beat the britches off you. But play it my way and we can both beat the rap. Hop into the bathroom and hide there till I come for you. They heard a scream but they won't know where it came from."
His grip relaxed a little. "Will you do it, kid?"
"Yes."
"I got to trust you, kid. Don't let me down."
He hustled her to the bathroom and thrust her inside.
Almost instantly Paul Miller's voice sliced through the night. "Julio! Are you up there? Did you hear a scream?"
Julio slipped on a robe and went to the front room. "I didn't hear a thing, Mr. Miller. I was really pounding the hay."
Gran's sharp voice sounded from the lawn below. "It came from up there, Paul. Don't let him lie to you. He's hiding some girl up there."
"I swear, Mr. Miller, I just woke up."
Sherry had the bathroom door open a crack, just wide enough to glimpse her father on the landing, a revolver in his hand. He hadn't been drinking tonight and his gaunt, fine-boned face had a look of competence, as though the gun in his hand gave him an unexpected self-assurance.
He smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, Julio. Mother's got the wind up. She's already called the police. Probably the scream came from up the road somewhere. It seemed pretty far away to me."
"That's probably it, Mr. Miller. Maybe some neckers down near the turnpike. I'll come along with you and take a look-see."
They started away but that didn't suit Sherry at all. She flung the door of the bathroom open and raced toward Paul, screaming, "Daddy! Daddy!"
She clung to him, burying her face against his thigh, sobbing hysterically.
Julio said desperately, "Listen, Mr. Miller. This ain't the way it looks."
Paul's voice had a hard edge to it that Sherry had never heard before. He said, "You bastard! I ought to kill you right here and now. Make one move to get away and I will."
Then he called down to Gran. "Come up here and get Sherry, Mother. Put her to bed and phone Dr. Gatchell."
The next thing Sherry knew Gran was pulling at her, but she still clung to Paul. Gran pried her loose and carried her down the stairs. She was still sobbing wildly.
When they were at the foot of the stairs, Sherry saw Cookie's massive figure silhouetted in the kitchen door. She broke away from Gran's restraining arms and ran to Cookie. The big woman held her tight.
Somewhere along the road a siren raised and fell, shattering the quiet of the night. Sherry looked back to the garage. Paul and Julio were still standing close together but Paul's head turned toward the sound of the siren. Julio chose the moment to lunge forward. He gripped Paul's wrist with his left hand, and his other fist slammed against Paul's jaw. Paul reeled back and the gun spilled from his fingers.
Julio leaped down the steps two and three at a time. When he reached the bottom, he sprinted along the curved drive. Paul's revolver barked twice but Julio did not break his stride.
The wail of the siren was almost upon them and twin headlights speared across the lawn, impaling Julio in their glow.
Julio kept on running. He plunged through a hedge and was lost among the shadows of the trees of the lawn next door. Another police car came screaming along the road. Its lights picked up Julio as he dashed through the gate into the roadway. He threw up his arms to ward off the glare. Then, bending low, he ran back through the gate and was once more lost in the shadows.
One of the uniformed policemen was talking to Paul at the foot of the garage steps. "What's it all about, Mr. Miller? Who is this guy? A prowler?"
Paul bit off his words. "My chauffeur. It's rape. He got to my kid. If I get my hands on him, I'll kill him."
"Leave him to us, Mr. Miller. We got him boxed in. He can't go far."
Lights were flicking on in the house next door, streaking the lawn with ribbons of amber glow. The second cruiser had stopped in the roadway, its brilliant spotlight leaping from one dark patch to another. Voices broke the night, some questioning, others deep with authority.
The officer who had been talking with Paul ran to the broken place in the hedge. His partner was thudding down the road, his revolver out. Only Paul remained near the garage.
Sherry was the first to see Julio. He had circled back to the rear of the garage. He was at the corner, hugging the wall, his dark figure verging with the shadows.
Then he streaked forward, toward Gran's big gray Cadillac that was parked on the cement apron. Paul's back was toward him and the police were all floundering around in the yard beyond.
Sherry screamed, "Daddy! Daddy! He's behind you."
Paul whirled as Julio darted past the rear of the car. Paul fired but the bullet ricocheted harmlessly off the fender.
Julio jerked the front door of the car open and was sliding beneath the wheel. The door slammed hollowly. There was a grating sound, then the roar of the motor. Before the car could get in motion, Paul's hand was on the handle of the door, wrenching it open. His shots came so close together that there seemed to be only one.
For a fraction of a moment, all movement seemed to stop, then the night was alive with the pounding of feet, shouts and screams.
Cookie was trembling, her eyes fixed on the open door of the Cadillac where Julio sprawled half in and half out of the car. He hung head downward, his feet caught in the wheel shaft, one arm dangling, the fingers barely touching the gritty concrete.
"God have mercy," Cookie whispered, and crossed herself.
Sherry darted away from her, running toward Paul, who was backing off, his face white and strained. But she didn't care about Paul. It was Julio she wanted to see.
As she watched, Julio tumbled sideways out of the car and she could see his face. One bullet had penetrated the skull just above the temple. The other had caught him in the cheek, ripping and furrowing the flesh, covering the face with blood.
Sherry stood stock still, reaching for Paul's hand, but her eyes were on Julio.
She wasn't scared any longer and she'd forgotten about her nakedness, the blood on her thighs and the streaks of dirt on her legs.
Something was happening to her that she couldn't understand. Earlier, with Julio, she'd felt only pain and numbness. But now excitement was pulsing through her like a warm wave, washing her loins, touching the small swelling breasts, sending curls of flame into the innermost parts of her body.
Someone snatched her up. Gran. She began to scream and kick. But Gran held her firmly, lifting her from her feet. Then Cookie was helping. They were taking her away and she didn't want to go. She wanted to stay with Julio.
She heard a voice: "Poor kid! She's got hysterics and no wonder. I'm glad the brute is dead."
And Gran saying, "Dr. Gatchell is on his way. Bridie, help me to get her to bed."
Resistance died within her. She turned her face to Gran's breast, whimpering. It was what they'd expect her to do.
CHAPTER THREE
The octagonal room on the ground floor of the house was Paul's den, his holy-of-holies. It was the one place in the house that even Gran was forbidden to enter. And because it was taboo it fascinated Sherry.
There was a way of getting into the room without Paul's knowledge. She could climb out of her bedroom onto the railing of the porch and crawl along it until she reached one of the jutting bay windows.
Sometimes she spied on Paul but there really wasn't much to see. Some of the walls were lined with aquariums which housed tropical fish, others with glass cases crammed with books. He had a collection of stamps and another of coins. But most of the time Paul was slumped in a leather armchair, drinking or dozing.
Paul had always seemed a nonentity in the house. But that was before the shooting of Julio. Paul had shown a new aspect of his personality that night. By the use of the revolver he had asserted his masculinity.
He was home more often and, for the first time, he was taking an active interest in Sherry. The den was no longer locked against her. She was free to lie on the floor, poring over her comic books, while Paul slouched in his chair reading or puttered about tending the fish.
The fact that the den was no longer taboo stripped it of its mystery, but this was more than compensated for by her sense of victory over Gran, who was still denied free admission there.
On the bottom shelf of the largest bookcase was a set of lawbooks. One afternoon when Sherry was bored she pulled out a volume at random and flicked through the yellowed pages. Soon she lost interest but, as she started to replace the book, a half-dozen pictures fell from its back and cascaded to the floor.
Each was a glossy print photograph of the same scantily clad woman in a provocative pose.
Paul gave a sharp cry and slid down on the floor beside her, gathering up the pictures, fanning them out in his hand.
"Who is she, Dad?"
Paul hesitated. "You've got to know sometime. She was my wife-your mother."
She stared at him open-mouthed. Whenever she'd asked Gran about her mother, Gran had snapped, "As far as the Millers are concerned, she's dead. Forget about her. That's the best way." Paul would mumble incoherently and walk away. But Sherry had sensed that her mother was alive, that sometime the veil would be stripped from the mystery that surrounded her.
She gasped, "She's lovely."
Paul nodded owlishly and Sherry realized that he'd been drinking more than usual. "She was the most beautiful woman in the world."
"Why doesn't she live with us?"
"Your Gran wouldn't stand for it. She always hated Gladys."
Then in a lachrymose way he told an idyllic version of his brief marriage and how Gran had broken it up. "Can't we find her, Dad?"
"It wouldn't do any good. She's married to someone else now."
"Wouldn't she see me?"
Paul shook his head. "Gran made her promise to go out of our lives forever."
He slipped the prints back into the book and returned the volume to its place. He rose quickly and poured himself a drink. Sherry remained where she was. The room was growing dark and she couldn't see his face too well but she thought he was crying.
Until then, Sherry had never thought much about her mother. But now her daydreams were touched with an inner excitement as she imagined herself becoming one with the big, voluptuous, nearly nude woman of the photographs.
Instinct warned her that it was unwise to discuss the pictures further with Paul. But often, when he was away, she made her way surreptitiously to the den. She would spread the glossy prints in front of her, studying them, trying to envision herself as the glamorous woman in the skimpy clothes, the sequined bra, the tight-fitting black pants. Sometimes the image was so vivid that it seemed to her that her breasts were bursting and a hot glow would suffuse her whole body.
A careful search of Paul's den disclosed other mementos of his brief marriage. Tucked away between the brittle pages of another lawbook was a certificate of marriage between Paul Sheridan Miller and Gadzina Pozdziak, issued in Elkton, Maryland. Sherry didn't know what to think of the strange name but she dared not ask questions.
Her most exciting find, however, was an old calendar, the pages ripped off but the illustration intact. The woman photographed here was stark-naked. She was posed against the backdrop of a pine-fringed lake, bent forward to show the lush fullness of her heavy breasts and buttocks. Her face was shadowed but there was no mistaking the long-legged, wide-hipped woman of the other pictures.
Sherry squatted on the floor to compare the photographs. She was so absorbed that she failed to hear the opening of the door behind her or the light footsteps on the worn rug. The first warning she had of another presence came with the snatching of the calendar from her hand. Then she saw Gran's practical black shoes, the skinny legs, the hem of her black skirt.
Sherry rolled over on one elbow. Gran was leaning forward, her face livid, her mouth a straight, ugly line, her eyes mean and hard.
"So this is why Paul lets you in here and tries to keep me out. Disgraceful! But don't think you're getting away with it. I'll put an end to such goings on right now. I won't have a picture of that naked hussy in my house."
Before Sherry realized her intent, Gran had scooped up the glossy prints and was ripping them to pieces.
"No! No!" Sherry screamed. But already the glossies were torn in half.
She sprang to her feet, rushing at Gran, trying to grasp the pictures. But Gran held them high and again there was a ripping sound.
Sherry pummeled Gran about the waist with her fists and kicked at her ankles. Gran backed away with a cry of pain and pieces of the photographs fluttered to the floor between them.
Sherry started to kneel to pick them up but, before she could touch them, Gran's bony hands were biting into her shoulders, shaking her until her teeth raided and her neck snapped.
Then Gran thrust her away so that she hit the wall hard. Sherry's eyes were swimming with tears and she could hardly see Gran but she could hear the ugly outraged voice.
"Aren't you ashamed of yourself, striking your grandmother?"
"No, I'm not. I hate you. I'd like to kill you."
Gran's face seemed a giant's mask as she gripped her shoulders once more.
"It's like I've always said. The devil's in you. But I'll beat him out. I'll not let you grow up into a cheap tart like your mother."
Gran was pushing her toward Paul's desk, forcing her to lie across it face down, pulling up her skirt. Sherry twisted about and saw Gran seize the heavy ruler from the desk. It swung upward in her hand, then came sizzling down. For a second the blow numbed her flesh. Then as the pain seared across her buttocks, she screamed. The scream was cut off by the second blow.
Sherry clutched at the top of the desk, throwing her weight across it. Her legs doubled up and she kicked backward with all her strength. She could feel the impact of her heels on the corseted flesh of Gran's stomach and hear the whooshing sound as Gran's breath was knocked out of her.
The ruler fell from Gran's hand, clattered against the edge of the desk and dropped to the floor with a dull thud.
Sherry scrambled to her feet, whirling on Gran, pushing her away, shrieking hysterically. Gran's face was gray. She stumbled and reached for the back of Paul's swivel chair for support. The chair twisted beneath her hand, throwing her off balance.
She fell, slowly at first, arms flailing in an attempt to save herself. Then her foot tangled with the chair and she pitched forward. Her forehead struck the sharp edge of a table with a hollow sound. She rolled on her side and lay still.
Sherry stared down at Gran. There was blood on her face and no sign of breathing. Maybe she was dead. Sherry didn't care. She almost hoped it was so.
She sidled away, the back of her hand pressed against her mouth. A voice from the open door startled her.
"Lord have mercy! What's happened?"
It was Cookie, drawn from the kitchen by the sounds of the struggle.
Sherry ducked past her, ran into the hallway and up the stairs to her room. She forced a chair against the knob of the door and flung herself on the bed.
She hated Gran. If Gran died, it would serve her right for destroying the pictures. Then a fit of trembling shook her. What would they do to her if she'd killed Gran? Even worse, what would Gran do if she recovered. Panic sliced through her. And then, from the foot of the stairs, she heard Gran's sharp voice.
"I tell you I'm all right, Bridie. No, I don't want the doctor. Nothing's wrong except a sprained ankle, a few bruises and a cut. Now stop clucking around and get back to the kitchen where you belong."
Gran's steps dragged on the stairs and she halted several times to rest. Sherry wondered if she'd come to the room to try to beat her again. She huddled by the door.
If Gran tried the knob, she'd slip out through the window to the porch railing and jump to the lawn. She'd run away and she'd never come back.
But Gran went on past to her own room and a soft, humming silence pervaded the house.
Sherry didn't stir from her room until hours later when she heard Paul come in. There was a blur of voices downstairs. Cookie was probably telling him what had happened. After a while he climbed the stairs and went to Gran.
She had to hear what they were saying. She crept down the hall and listened.
Gran's voice was high-pitched. "The girl's got to be disciplined, Paul."
"But, my God, Mother, you don't have to beat her. No wonder she turned on you."
"It's your fault, Paul. You couldn't marry a decent girl. No, you had to pick one out of a bordello, a stripper, prancing around naked to raise the devil in men. What kind of a wife was that for you? And Sherry will end up just like her unless I put a stop to it."
"For Pete's sake, Mother. Sherry's had a rough time. All that business with Julio."
"Maybe she wasn't as innocent as you think. Julio didn't carry her up to his place. She went of her own accord."
Paul's voice rose in anger. "The next thing you'll try to tell me she raped him. Damn it all, you've got a mind like a sewer."
"Don't you dare speak to me like that, Paul. All I'm thinking of is what's good for Sherry, how to save her from becoming a tramp like her mother."
"Lay off Gladys. That's ancient history. As for Sherry, just give her a break."
There was a period of silence, then Gran spoke more quietly.
"You're too softhearted, Paul. This house is no place for Sherry. She should be sent away to a boarding school. A good, strict place where they won't stand for any nonsense."
"A school can be pretty grim. I ought to know."
"All the same, it's the correct solution. Sherry's running wild here."
Sherry backed away. A cold dread was mounting within her. The school which she attended was bad enough. She hated every hour of it. The rows of identical seats, the smell of chalk, the throng of pushing, shoving little girls, the teachers who spoke to her as though butter wouldn't melt in their mouths.
School was a prison that you sat through each day. But there was a means of escape. You pretended what you weren't there, that you didn't have any existence at all. You emptied your mind of all thought or daydreamed about things that none of the other kids knew anything about.
You answered questions politely if you heard them and, if you didn't, you acted shy and embarrassed. And if the teachers scolded you for inattention, you let big tears come to your eyes and promised to be good. That was the way to get along with adults.
Yes, school was bad. But boarding school would be a hundred times worse.
Somehow Gran had to be stopped from sending her away. Maybe if Gran were dead, Paul and Gladys would get together again and the three of them could live here. She wished Gran would die. Why not? Gran was mean and spiteful. She'd got rid of Gladys. And now she was planning to get rid of Sherry, so she could have Paul all to herself. But Sherry was smarter than Gran. She'd outwit her.
She went back to her room and lay down naked on the bed. She caressed her breasts, excited by their swelling. She began to giggle, wishing there were someone here to see her and tell her she was pretty. Paul perhaps.
Or even better, Charles Russel.
CHAPTER FOUR
Outwardly Sherry made her peace with Gran. It would never do for Gran to recognize the festering hate within her, the murderous intent.
Gran had been hurt worse in the fracas than she had realized. The next morning her ankle was swollen, an ugly mottling of gray and purple. Dr. Gatchell had been summoned to bind it up and Gran had concocted a story of a dizzy spell which had caused her to slip on the stairs.
A small bone in the ankle had snapped and Gran was forced to use a cane to get about the house. Sherry had found her in the ornate living room downstairs, her taped leg propped up on a footstool. Sherry ran to her and threw herself at her feet.
"I'm sorry, Gran," she sobbed. "I'll be a good girl from now on. You just wait and see."
Gran had been surprisingly tender and forgiving. After that it was easy for Sherry to follow Gran around, watching her every move with feigned solicitousness, persuading Cookie to let her carry Gran's tray to the bedroom, fluffing up the pillows on Gran's bed.
She studied the bottles ranged on Gran's bedside table. Dozens of them. Some of the pills were the same shape and color as others. If she shifted the pills around, Gran might take the wrong ones and die. But how could she be sure? She'd only have one chance. If Gran caught an inkling of what she was up to, she'd send her away fast. Besides she didn't want Gran to die peacefully in bed. There must be a more spectacular way, one that would satisfy her burgeoning need for violence.
The plan came to her full-fledged, suggested by a movie she had seen. She wondered why she had been blind to the possibility so long. Everything was prearranged for a fatal accident. Gran tottering around on her cane. Her lie about her dizzy spell. The wide, sweeping staircase, each step steep and sharp-edged. If Sherry played her part well, Gran wouldn't be suspicious even if she survived the fall.
The chance she was looking for came the very next day. Sherry was waiting just inside her room, the door open a crack. She could hear Gran tapping down the hall. Tap-tap-tap. Like a funeral march. Like a blind man groping toward death.
Excitement welled within Sherry. The tapping seemed to grow louder and louder until it drowned out every other sound and almost deafened her with its din.
Waiting was hard and Gran moved so slowly. Would she ever reach the head of the stairs? Sherry peeked out. Gran's erect back was toward her and her fingers were stretched out to grasp the polished railing.
"Gran!" Gran!"
The old woman turned slowly at the brink of the top step.
"Oh, Gran, there's something I want to show you." She was rushing toward Gran, laughing, her hair flying behind her, her face flushed. "Oh, Gran, darling!"
Both hands shot out as though in an embrace, but the open palms struck hard against Gran's breasts. At the same time, Sherry's foot tripped the cane out of Gran's grip and sent it spinning away from her.
For a fraction of a second, Sherry saw fear in Gran's face. Then the slender body was catapulting backward, with the cane hurtling in front of her. Gran's neck struck the balustrade with a force that spun her halfway around. Then she was sliding, rolling down the stairs like a broken doll.
Sherry stared in fascination. Gran hadn't even let out a cry and her fall had been strangely silent except for the clatter of the cane.
Gran lay at the foot of the stairs. Not spread-eagled, as Sherry had imagined, but on her side, her body curled up almost as though in sleep.
Outside a car door slammed and footsteps crackled on the gravel.
She had to reach Gran before anyone else, make sure that she was dead. She raced recklessly down the stairs and threw herself down beside Gran, calling to her again and again.
Close at hand Gran didn't look so peaceful. Her lips were curled back over her shattered bridgework, blood streaked her face and her neck protruded at an impossible angle.
Sherry could feel the same heat in her loins, the same hot curl of excitement that made her breasts swell, that she had experienced when Paul had shot Julie. Only this was stronger, sucking her breath away, throbbing through her body.
Footsteps were at her back. She covered her face with her hands and swayed back and forth, wailing.
Arms folded around her protectively and an awed voice said, "Sherry, for God's sake, don't look."
She twisted around, pressing her face against Charles Russel's chest. He held her tight and stroked her hair. That was what she wanted. If he had looked into her face he might have seen the glint of victory in her eyes.
Charles was snapping orders at Cookie, who had lumbered in from the kitchen. "Get the doctor on the phone, Bridie. Do it quick."
"How did it happen?" he asked.
"I don't know. I was in my room when I heard her fall. Maybe she had another dizzy spell or slipped on the waxed floor."
Charles didn't question her any more but helped her to her feet, still holding her close. It had been so easy. She'd never have to fear Gran's whippings any more or take orders from her.
Charles was saying, "You'd better let me take you upstairs. As soon as Dr. Gatchell arrives I'll have him give you a sedative."
"No. I don't want to go upstairs."
She had Charles escort her to the sitting room. She sank down in the red-plush chair that had been Gran's favorite. The tea table was close at hand with all Gran's little treasures on it-the painted ivory fan, the mosaic pillbox, the jade paperweight. She rang the silver bell and Cookie's broad figure loomed in the doorway.
In Gran's voice, she said, "While we're waiting for Dr. Gatchell we'll have tea, Bridie."
Charles was sitting facing her in the straight-back chair, his face serious, his eyes concerned as she had seen him so often when he was listening to Gran.
He said, "You're a real trouper, Sherry."
She giggled and tried to stop, but she couldn't. Charles rose, took her hand in his and patted it.
"It's all right, Sherry. You've had a nasty shock. It's hysteria."
Only it wasn't hysteria at all. She was thinking how quickly she'd taken Gran's place and how easy it was to make a fool out of Charles Russel. He'd always kowtowed to Gran, eaten out of her hand, while ignoring Sherry. But now Gran wasn't here any longer and she, Sherry, would punish him for his past neglect.
She saw a lot of Charles in the months that followed. The law firm of Moore, Goadsby and Palen was the administrator of Gran's estate. To Sherry's surprise, Paul had been by-passed. The bulk of the estate had been left to her, in trust, until she should be twenty-five. Charles had been appointed to represent her interests.
On her thirteenth birthday, Charles came to the house to bring her a gift of perfume. As he stood to leave, he smiled down at her.
"Your grandmother really loved you, you know," Charles told her seriously. "She believed that in many ways you were like her."
"It's not true. I'm like my mother. Gran was forever telling me so."
Charles' expression was bland, as it always had been when he listened to Gran.
Sherry said petulantly, "Nobody ever loved me."
"Nonsense. Everyone did."
"Including you, Charles?"
"Of course."
"I don't believe you. Remember the time I came downstairs without anything on? You let Gran spank me."
"I couldn't help that."
"You didn't try." She giggled suddenly. "I guess Gran thought I was trying to seduce you."
Charles' face flushed. "You mustn't say such things. You were only a baby. You're still a child."
"I'm old enough to know what I want."
She leaned forward, taking one of his hands in both of hers, rotating his palm against her breast. His fingers curled a little, then he snatched his hand away.
"You said you loved me, Charles. It was a lie, wasn't it?"
His forehead was ridged with fine sweat. He blustered, "Damn it all. I'm your lawyer and old enough to be your father. Besides-" He hesitated, biting off the words.
"Besides, you don't love me. Isn't that it?"
"I don't seduce children. My God, I could be dis barred, sent to prison for rape. How could a child like you ever dream of such a thing?"
"Have you forgotten Julio?"
"No, I haven't. You got a rough deal there."
"Maybe I didn't think it was so rough. I liked Julio. But I like you a lot better."
"This is crazy talk. I won't listen to it. I'm going to tell Paul he should consult a psychiatrist about you."
He was standing, his fists clenched. She rose and pressed against him, her thighs touching his, wriggling to feel the swift heat rising in him.
"Stop it, Sherry. You can't go on like this. Besides, I have a wife, you know."
She clung to him more tightly.
He reached for her wrists and held her away.
"Somebody's got to talk sense to you, Sherry. Next thing you'll be in a peck of trouble."
"You could keep me out of it. There'd just be you."
"Damn it all. You mustn't think such things. Now I'm going."
Sherry watched him stride away. Her fids drooped and her mouth was petulant. She hated him, she told herself. And hate was a lot more satisfying than love. Love was just a spasm of pain, a momentary sense of power. But hate could set your whole body on fire.
Charles didn't come to the house so much after that and, when he did, he brought his wife, Bea, along. Sometimes when Paul was home, they'd stay for dinner.
Sherry resented Bea but she was careful not to show it, because Bea fascinated her, too. Once in art class the teacher had shown some reproductions of famous paintings. One of them was of a somnolent woman, with jet black hair and skin like tinted ivory. Something about the woman had caught Sherry's imagination and she'd studied the portrait a long time. She even remembered the artist's name. It was Ingres.
When she saw Bea Russel, it was as though the Ingres' portrait had assumed life. Bea's voice was low-pitched, her manner reserved and her laughter subdued. But she moved with a ballet dancer's languorous grace. Sherry would envision Charles and Bea in bed together, Charles responding to the slow rhythm of the pale white body, and she would be eaten with jealousy, filled with an impotent rage.
Charles gave her no opportunity to see him alone. In the presence of Bea or Paul, his manner was gentle but aloof, and he avoided touching her. She couldn't go to him openly as she had to Julio. She'd have to resort to more elaborate trickery.
The chance she was looking for came one hot night toward the end of May. She was standing in her darkened window when she saw the headlights of a car winding slowly up the drive. Even before it stopped on the apron outside the garage she recognized Charles' Buick.
Paul floundered out of the right-hand door and stooped to peer through the lowered window at the driver.
"Come on in and have a drink for the road, Charles. How about it?"
"Not me. I've got to stay sober enough to drive."
"Are you going out to the airport to meet Bea?"
"Uh-uh. Bea phoned me from Chicago to tell me she couldn't get a reservation. She'll have to wait until tomorrow unless there's a cancellation."
"Then you better celebrate tonight. When the cat's away, you know."
Charles laughed. "If Bea hears you calling her a cat, she'll scratch your eyes out."
"Figure of speech. Come on, Charlie, just one little drinkie."
"Okay, but it will have to be short."
Charles climbed from behind the wheel and rounded the car to take Paul's arm.
They climbed to the porch together, Paul lurching, Charles steadying him.
Keys rattled and moments later lights snapped on in Paul's den.
Sherry moved quickly. She ran to the closet and slipped a black raincoat over her frilly pink nightdress. Then she lowered herself out the window until her feet touched the porch railing. She lowered herself again and dropped to the ground.
She avoided the rectangles of light shed by the bay windows and circled the garage to come up on the far side of the Buick. She opened the back door and slid into the space between the two seats. She curled into a tight ball, burying her face in the dark fabric of the raincoat. She tried not to giggle as she lay there, waiting for Charles.
It was lucky that she'd hurried. She had hardly settled herself when Charles was back. The Buick's engine stuttered to life. Charles drove slowly, sedately, with the elaborate care of a man who knows he is slightly drunk.
The Russels lived in a ranch-style house in Red Crest, a suburb of Millersville. Sherry had made herself familiar with the layout when she had visited there with Paul. It was hot and stuffy lying on the floorboards and the ride seemed to last forever. But she didn't dare stir until Charles had swung into the driveway and the car had dipped into the garage. Even then she had to wait until Charles had locked the garage doors and mounted the three steps that took him to the kitchen.
She crawled out of the car then, her bare feet soundless on the cement floor. Charles hadn't bothered to close the door to the kitchen. A light gleamed on the white formica top of a table but she could see no sign of Charles.
She inched toward the light and then ducked back again. Charles had come through an archway. He had taken off his jacket and his tie was askew. He yawned and stretched, then opened the refrigerator, took out ham and cheese and made a sandwich. He poured himself a drink and sat down at the table.
A tingling excitement filled Sherry. She'd like to go to Charles now. But she mustn't risk it. He might pile her back into the car and take her home. Or he might phone Paul. Either way the fun would be spoiled.
He was rising, stacking the few dishes he'd used in the sink, then flicking the fight off. The sudden darkness was frightening but, as soon as her eyes adjusted, Sherry could see a dim glow coming through the archway.
She picked her way carefully up the steps and across the kitchen to a spot where she could see through the arch into the bedroom with its wide double bed. When Charles was stripped down to his shorts he padded to the bathroom. A rush of water drowned out any other sound.
Sherry ran past the arch to the front room and crouched behind a desk. From here she watched Charles emerge from the bathroom, toweling his naked body vigorously.
He stretched out on the bed, still naked, and reached for a novel with a gaudy jacket. But he only read for a few minutes. Then his hand raised to the chain of the lamp and the room was plunged in darkness.
Sherry remained silent, listening to his vague stirrings as he shifted position. Then his breathing grew longer with a slight rasp to it. He was asleep, but Sherry still waited. She mustn't make her next move too soon.
The telephone was on the table close at hand and enough light shone through the picture window to read the numbers. When she thought it was safe, she dialed slowly, carefully, her attention distracted by the need to listen for any change in Charles' breathing.
The whir of the dial seemed thunderous in the quiet room. Then from the other end of the line came the faraway burr of the bell. It kept on ringing and ringing and there was no answer. Panic seized her. What if Paul were in a drunken stupor so deep that he failed to hear the shrill summons of the phone?
A faint click and the dial tone was replaced by the hollow sound of an open line.
Paul's voice, befuddled with sleep and drink, repeated stupidly, "Hello! Hello!"
This was the tricky part. She mustn't wake Charles.
She whispered, "Daddy. This is Sherry."
"Who? Is this a joke?"
"Daddy. It's Sherry. You've got to help me."
"Where are you?"
"With Charles. He made me come with him and he did terrible things-like Julio. Daddy, please come. I'm so scared."
She hung up quickly, hugging herself in the darkness. Charles had stirred, mumbling in his sleep, but now his rasping breath was steady again.
From where she crouched, she could look through the picture window, across the lawn to the deserted suburban street.
She wondered how long it would take Paul to arrive. She had to time things just right. A car left the highway, its lights spraying across the maple by the roadside. Sherry pressed her face against the window to watch. But it wasn't Paul's Cadillac. It was a Red Checker taxi. It pulled to the curb in front of the house and a tall, slender woman got out. Bea. Things weren't going as Sherry had planned, but they might work out even better. All the same, she wished Paul would hurry.
The lights of a second car lanced the darkness and fell across Bea. Paul's Cadillac this time. He slowed to a stop and jumped from the car. His heels pounded on the pavement. Sherry sensed that he called to Bea though she could not hear his voice.
The two of them spoke for only seconds, then they walked briskly toward the house.
Not much time to act now. She stripped off the raincoat and tore at the flimsy nightdress with both hands. The cloth was harder to tear than she had imagined and she was afraid that the ripping sound would waken Charles.
She tiptoed to the bed, trailing the nightdress after her, letting the torn pieces fall beside Charles.
She crossed to the far side of the bed and crept beneath the sheet. She moved closer to Charles, cuddling against him, running her hand across his naked thigh.
His breathing changed, became muted, and his fingers groped for her. She rolled toward him, cleaving to him with the full length of her body. She could feel the hard heat of his desire. His arm circled her and he spoke, his voice blurred with sleep.
"Bea! Bea, darling!"
The arch of his body blotted out the night as he raised above her, his weight plunging down upon her. The sudden pain made her gasp. She felt him go rigid.
"Bea," he said confusedly. "What the hell!"
He shifted his weight and reached for the bedside lamp. The room seemed to explode into light. At the same time there came a banging at the front door and Paul's excited voice calling, "Charles, open up. Let me in."
Charles stared about him dazedly. "Sherry! How'd you get here? My God, what's happening?"
He jumped up, his bewilderment changing to blind panic. "Hide somewhere. God, what a mess! Where's your dress?"
She giggled and he reached for her. That was the moment she chose to scream. Not once, but again and again, until she thought her lungs would burst.
The front door flew open and Paul was plunging toward them. He stopped short a few feet from the bed. His gaze moved across Sherry's fragile figure, only partly covered by the sheet, then to Charles standing naked beside her.
He said softly, "I'm going to kill you, Charles."
"Listen to me, Paul. I didn't know she was here. I swear before God I don't know how she got here or why she came."
"Damn you! What are you trying to pull? You were in bed with her."
Paul lurched forward and his fist shot out. The blow caught Charles on the chest, but there was not much power behind it.
Charles staggered back a step and when Paul charged he flung his arms about him, holding him.
Paul struggled wildly. His shoe crashed down on Charles' bare toes. Charles gasped and released his grip. Paul broke loose and struck him on the face.
"Cut it out, Paul. Give me a chance to explain."
But Paul came weaving in, striking again, jolting Charles with a short jab to the ribs.
Charles lashed out in sudden fury and his fist caught Paul flush on the chin. Paul crashed back against the bed. His knees gave way and he slid to the floor in a sitting position, his head dangling.
He forced himself up.
Charles was talking rapidly. "You've got to believe me, Paul. Nothing's happened here tonight. I tell you I don't know how Sherry got here. Ask her."
Sherry still held the sheet about her and tears were streaming down her cheeks, but she sobbed out the story she'd prepared.
"I heard you and Charles drive up to the house and I slipped outside. When Charles came out he asked me if I'd like to go for a ride and I said yes. But once I was in the car, he acted so funny I got scared and wanted to go home. But he wouldn't let me. He brought me here and ripped my nightdress and did awful things to me."
She broke off, covering her face with her hands, but peering through her fingers at Paul. She saw his hand dip into his pocket. When it came out, a gleam of light was reflected on the barrel of a revolver.
Charles said desperately, "Don't believe her, Paul. She's lying."
"Shut up, you filthy bastard." The gun raised and Paul's finger tightened on the trigger.
Bea had hung back in the darkened room and Sherry thought that Charles had been unaware of her presence. Suddenly she screamed, "No! No!" She flung herself between the two men, facing Paul.
She said, "Don't do it, Paul. He's not worth it. Think of all it will mean. Murder, a trial, publicity for Sherry."
"Get out of my way."
"No." She moved closer to him, ignoring the threat of the revolver until she could reach out and touch it. Then she said, "Give me the gun, Paul."
Reluctantly he relinquished the weapon. She opened her purse and slipped the gun inside. Then she sat down beside Sherry, drawing her close.
"Where's your clothing, darling?"
Sherry pointed to the torn nightdress which had been kicked halfway under the bed. Bea picked up the stained cloth and her lips grew thinner than ever. She looked at Paul and spoke brusquely. "We've got to think of Sherry first."
She rose hastily, went to the closet, pulled down a robe and wrapped it around Sherry.
Charles stepped toward Bea. He said desperately, "Listen to me, Bea. I'm telling the truth. Paul doesn't want to believe me. But you've go to."
Bea pulled away from him and unclasped her bag. The gun lay there bright and shiny.
She said coldly, "Keep your hands off me, Charles. Don't ever come near me again or I swear I'll kill you."
"Bea, give me a chance."
"There's nothing you can say that I want to hear. Nothing that will change things between us."
She swung to Paul, "Will you take me into the city with you?" She forced a brittle levity into her tones. "My suitcases are just outside. I won't even have to pack."
Sherry had done what she had set out to do. She had separated Bea and Charles Russel. Not only that, the scandal had forced Charles to resign from his law firm almost on the eve of his becoming a partner.
But there was an aftermath to the affair that she had not foreseen. Geoffrey Palen took Charles' place as executor of Gran's estate. Mr. Palen was a tall man, thin, stooped and nearly bald. His pale face and steel-gray eyes gave him a bloodless look. Sherry's wiles were useless against him.
Without Charles the house was like a morgue. Paul was drinking more heavily than ever and was seldom home. Then as a final touch to the dreariness, Cookie quit. She was replaced by a wraith-like housekeeper, with fluttery hands and a timid, frightened manner. From Sherry's point of view, Mrs. Simpson might as well not have existed.
Paul wanted to send Sherry away to school.
"I won't go," she screamed. "If you make me, I'll run away."
"But this is no place for you, baby," he explained patiently. "You should be with girls your own age."
"Why? Other girls live with their families. Now Gran's gone, why can't my mother come here?"
"I told you. She's married again."
"You could write to her. You haven't even tried."
Paul shook his head. "It wouldn't do any good, Sherry. Believe me, it wouldn't."
"Then tell me who she is, so I can write."
But, on this one point, Charles was adamant in his refusal.
Sherry spent more and more time on the streets, in the park, at movies. She grew bolder, venturing into hotel lobbies and hanging about bus stations. There were always men eager to pick her up. Always the exciting game of pretending she was Gladys, parading before them in her nakedness.
She'd tried it once too often and had been caught. The man had gone to prison for statutory rape. Sherry didn't care. She couldn't even remember his name. But the affair had brought about an edict from Geoffrey Palen. Whether she liked it or not, she was being packed off to Miss Maybrink's School for Girls.
She hated the school right from the start. Everything about it, the sniveling girls, the mealy-mouthed teachers, the silly games she was forced to play, the eyes that were always watching her. But she obeyed the rules. It was easier that way. They left her alone more. Gave her more time to indulge her morbid fantasies. Besides, she had something she'd never had before-a captive audience.
This was Dorothy Snapes, her roommate. Dorothy was thirteen like herself, a sickly girl, tall, spindly and plain. As far as sex was concerned, Dorothy didn't know which end was up. Not until Sherry provided her with her own version of the facts of life. Sherry told her other things, too, swearing her to secrecy first, threatening to cut off her nipples if she blabbed. After the lights were out Sherry would explain about the devil that lurked in the shadows ready to fling himself across her body. She would tell about Julio, Charles Russel, even about how she'd killed Gran.
Sometimes in the night she would creep across the room to prod the sleeping girl or push a pillow over her face to induce the nightmares which would start her hysterical screaming. Then she'd skip back to her own bed fast before Miss Braisted could arrive at the door.
Pauline Braisted was the French mistress and she was in charge of the floor. She always made Sherry think of a big black bird as she stood limned against the pale glow of the hall light. She was a little like Gran, too, with her overly erect carriage, her stern face and prissy manners.
Sherry would watch while Miss Braisted fussed over Dorothy, holding her, talking to her softly, tucking the twisted covers back into place. Sherry told herself that she hated them both, but she was jealous, too. Especially when Miss Braisted would stand over her own bed, her lips compressed, her eyes hostile and suspicious.
She had plans for Miss Braisted but they could wait. Her most urgent problem was to escape from the school.
Running away had been simpler than she'd expected.
No one noticed when she slipped through the school gates. No one stopped her when she caught the noon bus for Millersville.
She arrived home after nightfall and walked up the winding drive, rehearsing the story she'd tell Paul. She'd half-expected the house to be ablaze with lights but it was dark except for a dim glow in the kitchen. She stole across the lawn, standing in the shadow of a maple, studying the bleak windows, anger stirring in her against Paul because he was not here waiting for her.
The front door was locked but she had a key. She wandered about the dark familiar rooms, careful to make no sound that would draw the attention of the housekeeper. She wanted to take Paul by surprise.
She tiptoed up the stairs to her room and lay down on the bed. She'd meant to stay awake but she must have fallen asleep because, when she opened her eyes, light stippled the ceiling, flowing in from the bay windows of Paul's den. She ran to her window and saw Paul's Cadillac in the drive.
She lowered herself from the window as she had so often in the past. In stockinged feet she crawled along the railing until she was just outside the octagonal room. Despite the coolness of the night, the window was open a crack. She tried to look in but heavy curtains blocked her view.
She giggled, thinking of how she'd surprise Paul. Her fingers worked at the window, raising it slowly.
Then she was tumbling into the room, laughing, shouting, "Daddy! Daddy! I'm home."
Her rush carried her halfway across the room. Then she stopped abruptly, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide with disbelief.
Paul wasn't alone. He was on his knees beside the leather sofa. Sherry caught a glimpse of the figure lying there. The naked shoulders, the close-cropped blond hair, the bare white legs.
Then Paul was on his feet, trying to shield the figure from her view. His face was dead-white, his eyes wild and, when he spoke, his voice came out in a painful stammer.
"Sherry! My God, Sherry! What are you doing here? She couldn't answer, only stare at Paul's twitching cheek and slumped shoulders. Behind him came scurrying sounds as the naked figure jumped up and scuttled behind the sofa, poised there ludicrously, trying to hide.
Not a girl, but a young man, with a soft, weak face.
Paul spoke over his shoulder. "Pick up your clothes, Raoul, and get out."
"Where'll I go?"
"What the hell do I care where you go? Just get out of here."
Sherry was backing toward the window. Paul came toward her, his arms outstretched, his eyes pleading.
"Damn it, Sherry. I wouldn't have had this happen for all the world."
In spite of her efforts, she couldn't stop her burble of hysterical laughter.
Paul said, "You're too young to understand. Some men-" His hands spread in a gesture of dismay and he moved toward her again.
She screamed, "Don't touch me."
He was close enough so that she could smell the sour odor of whiskey on his breath. She darted behind the desk to escape and tripped over a bag laden with golf clubs. She pulled out one of the irons and raised threateningly.
"Sherry! I'm your father."
"You're not. You're a rotten fag."
"You mustn't say such things."
"Why not? It's the truth. Do you think I don't know what a fag is? Do you think the girls at the school are little plaster saints?"
Paul dropped his arms by his sides and crumpled into an armchair, hiding his face in his hands.
She hardly noticed him. She had the golf club raised high and she knew she had to smash something. The aquariums reflected the overhead lights. Almost without thought, she struck at the burnished surface.
The glass crashed and splintered. Water gushed out, bringing with it tropical fish and green plants. She struck again and again, smashing one aquarium after another until the floor was awash with water and broken glass. She couldn't stop, not even after all the aquariums were broken. She turned toward the broad bay windows, slashing at the panes, ripping down the curtains, hacking at the wooden frames.
The club jarred out of her hands. She pushed at the desk and tipped it over, slipping and falling as she did so.
She struggled to her feet, some of the madness draining from her. Paul was no longer in the room, though she had no idea when he had gone. Instead, a pale figure hovered in the doorway. Mrs. Simpson in a long white nightdress covered by a yellow robe.
"Sherry! What on earth?"
"Go away. Leave me alone."
"But your father told me to come."
"To hell with my father. I haven't got any father. Now get out."
Mrs. Simpson took a tentative step into the wrecked room, her hands fluttering. Sherry stooped, snatched up the golf club and rushed at her.
Mrs. Simpson shrieked, raised an arm to protect her face, turned and ran. Sherry followed her as far as the doorway, then stood listening to her footsteps scrabbling along the hall. She wanted to rush after her to strike her down, to bludgeon her to death. But suddenly she was too weak to move. She leaned against the door frame, her breath catching, nausea gripping her stomach.
Mrs. Simpson's door slammed and there was the rasp of a bolt. The house was silent.
Sherry wondered where Paul was. Now that she'd vented her anger, she felt the need to go to him, to feel the comfort of his arms.
From outside there was the muffled roar of an engine. She rushed to the window just in time to see Paul's car wheeling down the drive. As the Cadillac rounded the curve, she saw a second figure in the front seat beside Paul. The pale face and blond hair of Raoul were unmistakable.
She screamed, "I hate you. I hate you both."
Paul didn't come home that night and there was no sign of life about the house until mid-afternoon of the next day, when Sherry heard the crunch of wheels on the drive. She looked out, expecting Paul. But it was Geoffrey Palen. He walked stiffly to the kitchen door and rapped. Mrs. Simpson answered. They talked for a moment, their voices subdued. Then Mrs. Simpson opened the door wider for Mr. Palen to enter.
Sherry had no idea what Geoffrey Palen wanted and no intention of finding out. As soon as he disappeared, she was at the window, climbing out. She hit the ground and darted through the hedge to the lawn next door.
She ran all the way to the bus stop two blocks away. She was lucky. A bus was just pulling out and she boarded it.
She snuggled down in the seat, giggling. She was free now to do whatever she wanted. Maybe she'd take a bus to New York. True, she didn't know anyone there and had very little money.
But what did that matter? She wouldn't be lonely. There were always men eager to pick her up.
Men like Daddy Paget.
* * *
Daddy Paget's Story
CHAPTER ONE
Daddy Paget hadn't wanted to talk with Carlotta Stein. But he had accepted the interview as part of the punishment that was his due.
He sat very straight on the edge of his chair, a prim figure in his hand-tailored, clerical-gray suit, his immaculate white shirt, his conservative tie. Despite his slightness of stature there was dignity in the lined face, the snow-white hair, the small delicate hands ridged with blue veins.
He said, "I'll tell you whatever I can about Sherry."
Carlotta smiled. "Perhaps we should start farther back than Sherry. I'd like to make this clear, Mr. Paget. I'm not here to sit in judgment, only to understand."
To understand! Could anyone understand? His whole life had been a punishment for the crime he had committed when he was a boy.
How old had he been that summer? Eleven, possibly twelve. And Constance had been a year younger. But all the same she'd been aeons older than he, with an instinctive knowledge that he'd never possess.
The island had thrown them together. The tiny island off the cost of Maine, with its four gabled houses, its strip of sandy beach and the secret cove that he'd always thought of as his very own.
Every summer since he could remember he'd lived on the island. There had been no other children but he had not missed their companionship. The island held a thousand magic secrets for a boy.
That summer a miracle had happened. He was no longer alone in a community of adults. The miracle was Constance. There was a perfection to her doll-like body, her honey-colored skin, her long yellow curls, that had bewitched him from his first sight of her.
She had been visiting her grandparents, the Talbots. Every afternoon Mrs. Talbot took them to the beach, watching over them while they splashed in the lacy combings of the incoming tide, built sand castles or searched for shells. But there were times when the old woman dozed and then they were free to explore the mysteries of the miniature evergreen forest, the abandoned wharf and, best of all, the hidden cove.
Hiding from Mrs. Talbot became a game filled with imaginary terrors. She was an ogre who would eat them up or take them out to sea to drown them. They would he together in the long grass, bodies touching, whispering, snuggling closer and closer "at the sound of approaching footsteps.
The first time he kissed her, he had been timid, fearful.
She laughed at him, blue eyes dancing.
"What a baby you are! You don't even know how to kiss. Here, I'll show you."
Her lips covered his and she guided his hands across her rosebud breasts, the soft mounds of her hips. He gasped for breath, inflamed with a desire he was too innocent to understand.
She sprang up, giggling, and darted away. He would have followed her but, just in time, he saw the gaunt figure of Mrs. Talbot, plodding across the field. Constance ran to the old woman and flung herself into her arms.
He believed the stirrings within him to be unique and his sweet longing was only mildly tainted with guilt. The desire to see Constance in her nakedness became an obsession and yet, on that fatal day, he had hesitated.
They were in the cove together. Already the waves were roiling past the rocks that blocked the entrance. Within an hour the crescent of sand would disappear beneath the water and they would have to scramble up the jagged rock cliff to escape.
The hot sun beat down upon them as they stood hand in hand, watching the incoming tide.
She giggled, "Let's go swimming."
"We haven't got our suits."
"Don't be a sissy. It's more fun in the buff."
Then, before his eyes, she dropped her clothing, showing the perfection of the tiny, immature body. She darted away from him into the water.
He hung back until she turned, half-submerged, to taunt him. Then he stripped off his own clothing and raced after her. She splashed him, then ran circling the cove.
He pursued her until she tumbled into the sand, laughing up at him, her eyes mocking. From somewhere within him was dredged up the male knowledge which he had not known he possessed. He fell upon her, forcing the fragile legs apart, pressing the kitten-soft body against the moist earth.
The sudden shrieks which filled the cove seemed to come from everywhere at once, to echo from the rocks, the sky, and the surging sea. For a moment he thought that it was the voice of God, denouncing him. Then he saw Mrs. Talbot, a scarecrow figure high on the rock ledge, her full skirts flapping, her finger pointing, her neck corded with her screaming.
Still naked, he clambered up the sharp face of the cliff and hid among the bushes that bordered the high stand of spruces. It was here, hours later, that his father found him.
He had been caned before but never with such savagery. He felt that his bones must shatter under the blows. But even the beating was not punishment enough. That summer his parents became strangers to him. His father acted as though he could hardly endure his presence. His mother often looked at him askance, her face white and rigid.
He was damned, he thought, damned for all time, bound by a sweet longing that marked him as a monster.
He was never to see Constance again. She was packed off to California the next day and, years later, he learned of her death.
But those few minutes in the cove changed him from a normal boy to an outcast. From then on he walked alone, hiding his guilty secret from the world. All emotional growth stopped. He remained a boy of eleven, searching for the fairy child who alone could give him pleasure.
He knew his desire was forbidden, taboo, that it must be concealed at all costs. He fought to suppress the evil within him but it would not go. He was destined to see the laughing child wherever he went, taunting him, mocking him, forcing him into a desolate loneliness.
Even his marriage was a penance of sorts. There had been nothing child-like about Helen. She had been a heavy-set woman, boldly aggressive and domineering. Because he had been unable to consummate their marriage, he had permitted her to turn him into a money-making robot. She had driven him relentlessly, exploiting his talents, adding her own shrewdness, so that soon they had every accouterment of success.
When Helen had died four years ago, his first reaction had been disbelief. It had never occurred to him that the battering force of her personality could succumb to death. His second emotion was one of intense relief. He was free to lead his own life again.
He liquidated his business to live among the things he loved-the Oriental artwork, the Ming vases, the ancient, brittle porcelain, the hand-carved jade, the collection of ivory fans.
He was a child again. These were his playthings. They diverted him from his real quest, the search for a child bride, the renewal of the forbidden game he had once played with Constance.
Everywhere about him was the tantalizing promise of the fulfillment of his tortured dream. The shy, innocent, yet mocking faces of schoolgirls. He followed them at a discreet distance, cursing his own weakness, his fast-beating heart, the unendurable longing that gave him no peace.
He had believed himself to be circumspect-never loitering, never looking directly at a child, never edging too close. But he haunted the streets near the schools, the parks and playgrounds.
Then there was the day the policeman had stopped him.
"What are you always hanging around here for, Dad?"
He masked his swift terror with a show of indignation.
The policeman listened, his face blank.
"Okay, Dad. I didn't say you'd done nothing. Just make yourself scarce. You're too old to be poking around playgrounds."
His humiliation had driven him to tears. Was he marked with the stigma of his early crime? Was his abnormal desire etched on his face?
He'd never accosted a child, never tried to entice one to his apartment, never so much as spoken to one.
Not until he met Sherry.
He saw her first in a Fifth Avenue bookshop. He'd been handling a book on Chinese jade. She came close, sliding her hand beneath his to pick up an identical copy. She flicked through the illustrations, gasping with apparent pleasure at their beauty.
He bought the book, studiously keeping his eyes averted while the salesman wrapped it and brought him his change. When he turned, she was gone. He saw her yellow coat disappearing through the doorway. He had to fight for self-control, not to pound after her, to shout for her to wait. Then common sense took over and, with it, a rush of relief. His thoughts had been madness. They could bring him nothing but grief.
But when he emerged on the street, she was lingering by the window. She moved on, stopping before a display of jewelry, to admire posters in the office of a travel agency. He stayed well behind, careful not to frighten her. Yet he was sure that she sensed his presence.
In Rockefeller Center he thought that he had lost her. His footsteps hurried and his heart beat painfully against the cage of his ribs. And there she was, leaning against the railing, looking down at the pirouetting skaters.
He stopped a dozen feet away. She -edged closer to him, the childish mouth formed in a pout, the eyes wide and innocent.
"You've been following me."
"Nonsense!" he blustered.
"Oh, yes, you have. But I don't mind. Lots of men follow me." She giggled and touched his hand. "You're nice. You're like my Daddy."
She threw him a cock-and-bull story about her parents abandoning her. He suspected rightly that she was a runaway from home and school and had no place to stay in New York. But he pretended to believe her because it gave him a chance to linger with her.
She said, "I'm hungry, Daddy. Will you take me to dinner?"
He selected Schrafft's because it was respectable, the correct place for an elderly man to take a beloved grandchild. She encouraged him to talk about his art treasures.
"Will you show them to me, Daddy?"
"Of course. Sometime."
"You're just putting me off. Not sometime, tonight. Right now."
"Now wait. Not so fast."
"I think you're scared of me, Daddy."
He flushed and she giggled.
"I like you a lot, Daddy. You won't leave me all alone, will you?
"What would you do if I did?"
"I guess I'd have to let some man pick me up. Not someone nice like you."
He wasn't a fool. He knew he was asking for trouble. But he promised himself he wouldn't touch her. Just to be with her was enough. To gaze at her fragile perfection would bring his haunting dream to life.
Going up to the penthouse in the elevator was a trial. Mike, the operator, gave them a slow, knowledgeable look. Then he turned his back, keeping his eyes straight ahead.
Sherry danced out. As they entered the penthouse door he saw that Mike was still watching him, a slight little grin twisting his lips.
Sherry examined his treasures with appropriate interest at first but soon she could no longer conceal her boredom. She pulled him down on a sofa, nestling up against him, her eyes shiny in the dim light, her mouth petulant.
"I'm sleepy, Daddy. Aren't you?"
He could feel his skin prickling, the hot desire that had lain dormant for so long rising up stronger than ever. This was madness. But what could he do with Sherry? He couldn't turn her out on the street, or rent a room for her. He played for time.
"What about some hot cocoa? Some sandwiches perhaps?"
"That would be nice, Daddy."
He was grateful for the respite. He busied himself in the tiny kitchen, hardening his resolve. He wouldn't touch the girl. Whatever else he was, he was not a rapist.
With the tray in his hands, he returned to the front of the penthouse. The room was empty. She had tricked him into leaving her so that she could slip away. He set the tray down and walked to the window, looking out with unseeing eyes, shaken by an unendurable grief. She was gone and he would never see her again.
There was a rustling sound and then the plaintive voice came from the bedroom behind him. "Daddy, I'm lonely. Where are you?"
He walked to the doorway as though hypnotized. She was there, curled up in the wide bed, her pale naked body scarcely visible against the whiteness of the sheet.
Time collapsed, reality, too. Right and wrong ceased to exist. He was a boy again, filled with an unquenchable longing in the presence of his child bride.
He moved to her as though in a dream, falling on his knees beside the bed. He drew her to him, kissing her lips, the small soft mounds of her breasts, her thighs.
She giggled. "You're funny, Daddy. Don't you know how to make love?"
A pulse beat everywhere within him, filling his body with an intolerable singing ache. He undressed swiftly in the near darkness and drew her to him again. Her body arched to receive him. She was still giggling as she writhed under his weight, but he no longer heard.
He was deafened by the hammering beat of his pulse, made mute by the silent scream that filled his throat. Only with the burning release of his passion did sanity return. And with it guilt and fear. He had committed the unforgivable sin. Neither man nor God could pardon what he had done.
He rolled away, moaning, too weak to open his eyes. The dream became a nightmare in which his father stood over him, his cane raised, ready to beat him to death.
He awoke to sunlight streaming in through the windows. Sherry was no longer with him but he heard soft noises in the room beyond.
He threw on his robe and went to the doorway. Sherry had opened the glass case that held the most precious of his treasures. She had taken out the Ming vase and held it in her hands. As he watched, she let the vase slide to the floor, the delicate porcelain shattering into a hundred shards.
She turned, saw him and came running to him, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Oh, Daddy! I'm so sorry. It was an accident."
He knew that she was lying but he didn't care. This was only a small part of the punishment he must suffer. He held the naked wriggling body close to him, feeling desire spring up anew. He no longer fought to control himself. After all, when one is doomed to spend eternity in hell, what does one more crime matter?
She stayed with him for four days. Then, as abruptly as she had entered his life, she disappeared.
The only reminders of her were the half-eaten box of chocolates and the pile of movie magazines that had been among his gifts to her.
One of the magazines lay open, its pages pressed back. Idly he read the bold caption: GLADYS FANE TO STAGE COMEBACK. Beneath were pictures of the big, blowzy, sexy actress, some of them recent, others harking back to her days in burley-cue.
He wondered why Sherry should be interested in Gladys Fane. It never occurred to him that at last she discovered the identity of her mother and that she had gone out to find her.
All he could think of was that Sherry was gone and that she would never come back. But even in that he was mistaken. She would return briefly from time to time, long enough to keep alive the flames of his guilt-ridden passion.
* * *
Gladys Fane's Story
CHAPTER ONE
Gladys Fane looked hard at Carlotta Stein.
She said, "Believe me, I was flabbergasted when Sherry showed up on my doorstep. And I wasn't pleased either. Maybe that makes me sound like an unnatural mother. But Sherry has been bought and paid for by Cora Miller before she was born. I signed a paper agreeing never to see her again. That was all right by me. The Millers were too rich for my blood. I was fed up with them, right to the eyeballs."
Gladys stubbed out her cigarette in the laden ashtray. She had expected to see condemnation in Carlotta's eyes but there was nothing except a weariness that matched her own. She said defensively, "I guess I better tell you about that goddamn honeymoon with Paul after all."
On shipboard Paul hadn't made love to her but she'd put it down to seasickness and his heavy drinking. She hadn't cared much. The ship was a floating palace with luxuries she'd never dreamed of. She was having a good time and she reckoned it wouldn't be hard to entice Paul back into her bed once they hit dry land.
Havana had thrilled her from the start. She'd been crazy about its gaiety, its laughter, its ceaselessly moving throngs, its tiled streets shaded by balconies, its pastel colors. Everything about the city had been exotic, gay and excidng.
They'd checked in at a swank hotel and the first few nights they'd made a round of the night spots. Paul was drinking like a fish, sleeping most of the day, walking around like a zombie. She'd tried all her wiles on him, coaxing and cajoling. But it was no go. He'd lie in a torpor while her hands ran over him, or turn away, ignoring her.
Pretty soon when they went out at night, he'd slip away from her. She never quite knew how he did it. One minute they'd be standing at a bar, sitting in a sidewalk cafe, or jostling their way along the Prado. She'd start to speak to him and he wouldn't be there. Somehow he would have melted into the throng, leaving her high and dry, often as not with only a dollar or so in her purse.
She'd return to the hotel and wait for him. But the chances were he wouldn't show up until morning. When he did he'd collapse on the bed, out like a light.
Then one night he didn't come back at all. In the morning a bellboy brought her an envelope. It contained two hundred dollars and air passage back to the States.
That was the last she'd ever seen of Paul.
Back in New York Lucy Watkins was waiting for her. The brothel keeper gave her a big bear hug.
"You're sitting pretty, dearie. In no time flat, you'll be wading knee high in nice crisp green bills."
"Don't be silly," Gladys protested. "Paul's left me flat with only a couple hundred dollars."
"For a dame who's been around, you sure can be naive. Do you think the Millers want a scandal in the papers? They'll want an out-of-court settlement. A nice quiet divorce with no mud-slinging. Incompatibility, mental cruelty. Take your pick just as long as it doesn't kick up a stink. We're riding in the saddle, dearie. You just leave everything to me."
Lucy had been right, of course. Within a week Cora Miller and her lawyers were in New York. Gladys had met Cora just once. For her money that was once too often.
She'd listened with mounting anger while Cora, pointedly ignoring her, had bickered with Lucy over the price of Paul's release. She'd had to fight the impulse to claw at Cora's face and scream at her that she was a person, too.
In all her life there'd been only one person she'd really hated. That was Cora Miller with her mean, sly face who treated her as though she were dirt. She listened in silence while Lucy outmaneuvered the enemy.
The price had been set and Gladys was ready to leave for Reno when she learned that she was with child. She'd been in despair but Lucy was exultant and had started fresh negotiations with the Millers. The price was doubled under the agreement that Gladys should surrender the child as soon as feasible after birth and that she should never establish contact with it again.
Gladys had honored the pact. She'd washed Sherry out of her mind, as though she didn't exist. When she came back to New York, it was with a sense of hollowness in the pit of her stomach. With luck she'd never have to worry about money again. But she wasn't meant for idleness. She missed the grease paint, the applause, the tension and excitement of her burley-cue days-even the turbulence of Miss Lucy's brothel.
She got into the habit of dropping back to Miss Lucy's now and again to take on a paying customer. But without the need of playing the suckers, the thrill was gone.
It was there that she renewed her friendship with Syd Kayler. The little burley-cue manager was going up in the world. He'd left Jersey for Broadway.
One night Lucy took Gladys to her pink and gold boudoir, where Syd was waidng.
She said, "Syd's got a proposition for you, dearie. How'd you like to crack show business? How'd you like to see your name in bright lights?"
Syd grinned at her from the red-plush rocker. He said, "Baby, you're getting bigger and sexier every day. There never was a stripper with a pair of knockers like yours. When you wiggled your can, we had to hand out asbestos pants."
She laughed. "Syd, you say the sweetest things."
"Burlesque ain't dead, Doll. It just needs a bit of face-lifting. Shoot the angles and we can bring it back to Broadway."
What Syd had in mind was simple. A musical comedy based on burlesque. A book with enough story line to make it legitimate. Enough clothes on the girls so they wouldn't be raided. But with enough bare flesh and bawdy jokes to bring the suckers slobbering to the box office.
There'd be a spot for Gladys in the show, a nice fat one. But there was a catch. Syd needed fifty grand on the line.
Syd didn't need to make a hard sell. She jumped on the train before it stopped. Broadway had been her secret dream. She'd risk every penny for a crack at it.
Hi, Mr. Jinx had been a success from the first night. They'd used the framework of a best-selling novel, a star cast, some catchy musical numbers. But it was Gladys who brought down the house. Gladys in a series of costumes that just passed muster with the censors. Gladys larruping out the lyrics in a hoarse, brassy voice. Gladys clowning it up, fusing the cast together.
The audiences rocked with laughter and shouted for more. To one critic she was "the biggest, sexiest blonde to ever set Broadway afire." To another she was an "overgrown Aphrodite with breasts like basketballs."
Some of the critics jeered but the crowds loved her. She became "America's latest sex symbol,"
"a mammary miracle." Hi, Mr. Jinx played for two full seasons without an empty seat in the house.
After that she starred in Hillbilly, attired in abbreviated patched shorts, a straw bra and smoking a corn-cob pipe. Next stop was movieland, where she breezed through Hollywood like a ball of fire.
The movie mags concocted a half-dozen conflicting stories of her early life. Old pictures were dug up, even those in which she'd posed in the nude. But one facet of her past never came to light. Her brief marriage with Paul Miller remained a secret.
The bubble of fame burst as quickly as it had sprung into being. She'd been back in New York rehearsing a new revue when she'd fallen backstage, tumbling down a metal stairway. An ankle had been broken, her hip fractured and ligaments in the leg badly torn. The doctors had warned her that she might never walk again.
Without her the revue was a flop and it drained off most of her money. The throng of good-weather friends gradually disappeared. She overate and drank too much. Soon she was fat and puffy, confined to a wheelchair. Only two people stood by her. Lucy Watkins and Syd Kayler.
She was touched and surprised when Syd asked her to marry him. In the years that they'd worked together he'd never made a pass at her and in the back of her mind had lain the suspicion that he was a fag.
She'd accepted him with a mixture of gratitude and desperation because she feared being alone. But after they were married something crazy happened. She fell head over heels in love with the dope. He wasn't just a funny little guy with a bald head and thick-lensed glasses. He was a devoted lover who never came to her without telling her how beautiful she was, who was tender and awe-struck in her presence.
Believe it or not, she hadn't betrayed him once during their marriage. Not even when she'd recovered and dieted and gone on the wagon to get her figure back. Not when she and Syd charted the comeback trail together and started moving in theater circles again. There was plenty of handsome young actors around. They seemed to pop out of the woodwork, each as frolicsome as a puppy, hoping to parlay a free lay into a role in the extravaganza in which Syd was planning to star her. But she'd given them all the cold shoulder.
She'd been faithful to Syd and it never occurred to her that he'd been other than faithful to her.
That's the way things stood and the way they would have remained if Sherry hadn't come along.
Goddamn Sherry and the lousy spread she'd seen in the movie magazine. Sherry hadn't known her name and wouldn't have spotted her if it hadn't been for the old pix from her burley-cue days that they'd run in the publicity releases.
Okay, Sherry was her daughter. And you weren't supposed to hate your own kid. But what if she was a four-eyed little monster who couldn't keep her hands off older men? What if she was a free-wheeling tramp who got her bangs out of making trouble? Because that's what Sherry was and you couldn't spell it out any other way. No matter how hard you tried.
CHAPTER TWO
Gladys wasn't likely to forget the afternoon when Sherry burst in on her cocktail party. It was a swank affair that Eddie Dolph had fixed up.
Eddie was her publicity man and her brother-in-law, too. Back in the days when she'd first got her hands on the Miller money, she'd returned to the Jersey pig farm. But the Pozdziaks had scattered. Some were dead, some were in prison, others had just disappeared without a trace. All except Mildred, her youngest sister. Mildred had been adopted by a nearby farm couple named Gage. Gladys had left money for her sister's education and later, after her marriage to Syd, she'd asked Mildred to live with them. That's how Mildred and Eddie had met. They'd been married for about a year.
Eddie had done a good job on the party. He'd collected up a few gossip columnists, a critic or two and enough notables from the theater to give the affair class.
Gladys had been chatting with Laurie Bates, the columnist, when she heard the tinkle of the doorbell. A short ring, as though someone had touched the button fearfully.
Eddie opened the door and she heard a thin, treble voice asking for Gladys Fane.
Eddie's body blocked the view of her caller and, when he spoke, she caught the perplexity in his voice.
"Who are you, kid? Aren't you sort of young for a cocktail party?"
"I've got to see her."
Gladys called, "Who is it, Eddie?"
"Some kid trying to crash the party. One of your fans, I guess."
Before he finished, Sherry sidled past him. She was a pixie-like figure in her yellow coat trimmed with fur and her honey-colored hair hanging loose beneath her red tarn.
Eddie said, "Hey," and reached for her. She slid away from him, her eyes big and round. Then she was catapulting across the room, throwing herself at Gladys' feet and burying her face in the wide skirt.
Gladys was used to dealing with teen-age fans who enjoyed scenes. She seized the girl by her shoulder, forcing her head up.
What kind of a game are you playing? Who are you anyway?"
"I'm Sherry."
The name didn't mean a thing to Gladys. She said, "What are you trying to sell?"
"I'm Sherry-Sherry. Don't you understand?"
"Sherry who? For God's sake, make sense."
"I'm your daughter. Don't you recognize me?"
Gladys still thought it was a gag. Some child actress pulling a publicity stunt. She tilted the tear-stained face higher, studying the guileless eyes and pouting mouth.
Then suddenly it seemed to her that was staring into Cora Miller's face, cold and spiteful. She knew right there that Sherry hadn't come to her out of love but to exact vengeance for her neglect.
She wished that Syd was around to help her but he was at the theater. The only person she could rely on was Eddie Dolph.
Eddie was making pushing motions with his hands, but she was in too much of a daze to grasp the signals. Here was Sherry bawling at her feet and a whole roomful of people watching for her next move.
This was a scene that ought to be played in private. No matter what she did, it would be wrong. She rose clumsily and drew Sherry up. Taking her by the hand, she led her to the bedroom and closed the door.
She turned on the girl. "All right. Why'd you come here?"
"You're my mother. I thought you'd be glad to see me."
"Listen to me. Cora Miller thought I wasn't good enough to raise you. So I gave you over to her and promised never to see you again. That still goes."
"Gran's dead. She's been dead a long time."
"What about Paul?"
Sherry's eyes swiveled up to meet hers. "He doesn't pay any attention to me. All he does is drink."
In spite of herself, Gladys was relenting. But if she went soft now, it would only make things harder all round.
She was glad for the light rap of knuckles on the door and the sight of Eddie slipping into the room.
Eddie spoke quickly. "Whether you like it or not, you'll be red-hot news tomorrow. So give me the story fast. Is this really your kid?"
"I guess so."
"For Crizzake, don't you know?" Sherry was screaming, "I am your daughter. I'm Sherry Miller and Paul Miller's my father."
Eddie lifted an inquiring eyebrow. "I've got to get out there and talk to those news-hens. They can make you look bad. Or they can turn on the tears and soft music. I need the facts straight and there's no time to waste."
There was nothing to do but trust Eddie. As soon as he had the story he returned to the front room. He was back in no time at all with the news that there were press photographers outside.
She asked irritably, "Can't you stall them?"
Eddie gave a crooked grin. "No can do. The show must go on."
She swore but she was smiling when she entered the front room. A flash-bulb blinded her and, before she could recover, arms were flung about her waist. Sherry had rushed out of the bedroom to embrace her.
More flashes exploded and cameras clicked.
With a combination of anger and wry amusement she realized that Sherry was stealing the scene like a veteran, upstaging her, facing the camera, eyes filled with tears, a rapturous expression on her face.
She thought, She'll make me look old as Noah and big as his ark. She caught Eddie's eye and the frantic movement of his hands. He was signaling for her to ham it up. After all, why not? She dropped to her knees and gathered Sherry to her, pressing her face against her breasts.
The buzz of excitement grew louder. Sherry was struggling to twist toward the camera. She smiled adoringly at Gladys but there was mockery in her eyes.
After a while the photographers and reporters were gone. Eddie rubbed his hands together in self-approbation.
"You'll get a million bucks' worth of free press tomorrow."
"Sure. They'll elect me mother-of-the-year. Some-body'll send me a box of chocolates. This I can do without."
Sherry was looking at Eddie, her eyes round and worshipping. He tousled her hair. "You're a regular trooper, kid."
Gladys slammed into the bedroom. She called Paul in Millersville. The phone rang on and on with no answer. She gave up when she heard Syd talking to Eddie.
The kid couldn't stay here, that was for sure. But she had a hunch it wasn't going to be easy to get rid of her.
Sherry had had a taste of honey and she wasn't going to be satisfied until she'd lapped up the whole pot.
In the next room she found Sherry clinging to Syd's hand, saying, "Can I call you Uncle Syd?"
"Sure. Why not?"
Yes, she'd have to keep her promise to the Millers and send Sherry packing. But Syd wasn't going to be any help. None at all.
CHAPTER THREE
In the morning Geoffrey Palen phoned from Millersville. His voice was icy cold, bristling with hostility.
He said, "Under your contractural agreement, Miss Fane, you promised never to establish contact with the child."
"So what do I do? Toss her out the window before she becomes contaminated by my presence?"
"Sheridan must return to school at the earliest possible moment. I've already phoned Miss Maybrink. She's dispatching a Miss Braisted to New York to act as Sheridan's escort. I hope you'll offer total cooperation."
"You can say that again. Can't this Miss Braisted take a helicopter? I'd like the brat out of my house sooner than possible."
For a moment the lawyer's voice was almost human. "That I can understand, Miss Fane."
She hung up and went to the kitchen. Sherry was at the breakfast table opposite Syd, engrossed in a tabloid. The headlines read: GLADYS FANE REUNITED WITH LONG-LOST DAUGHTER. The picture beneath made Gladys look old and shopworn in contrast to Sherry's fresh, childish face.
Sherry's minx-like eyes told of her awareness of the situation. Gladys could hear the acid quality in her own voice as she said, "Don't worry, darling. You'll be back at Miss Maybrink's this afternoon. One of the teachers is coming for you."
Sherry's eyes brimmed with sudden tears. "I hate it there. You don't know how awful it is. I won't go."
"Yes, you will, darling. Make no mistake about that."
Sherry ran to Syd, throwing her arms about him. "Do I have to go, Uncle Syd? Please say I can stay."
Syd turned mildly to Gladys. "Can't she visit with us for a while? After all, you are her mother."
Gladys' lips tightened. "She's not mine. She belongs to the Millers. They bought her, lock, stock and barrel."
Syd started to speak, then bit back the words. With his arm still about Sherry, he spoke to the girl. "Maybe we can fix things up this summer. I'll talk to Palen myself."
"Will you, Uncle Syd? Promise?"
"No," Gladys said sharply.
Syd looked at her, his expression puzzled. "I don't understand you, Gladys. I'd think after all this time you'd want Sherry with you."
"Just say you don't understand and let it ride."
Syd subsided but she could read the criticism and disapproval in his clamped lips. It was funny, she thought. In all their years of marriage they'd never had a misunderstanding before.
Now, with Sherry on the scene for only a few hours, a rift had grown between them. Her nerves were on edge and she was relieved to hear the stutter of the doorbell.
There was nothing comforting about the woman who introduced herself as Pauline Braisted. A straight up-and-down figure, a black felt hat without decoration, a pinstriped brown suit, severely tailored. Gladys sensed that her air of meekness was false. The beady eyes were sizing her up. And Gladys didn't need two guesses to know how she rated on Miss Braisted's scoreboard.
She left the woman sitting erect on a straight-back chair, fingers interlocked over her black-leather handbag, her feet close together.
In the kitchen Sherry was crying and clinging to Syd. "Nobody told me I'd have to go back with old Polly. Please don't make me. I'll go alone but not with her."
"Hey, take it easy," Syd said. "What gives with this dame?"
"She's always coming into my room nights and trying to touch me. Then there's Dorothy, the girl I room with. She's petting her all the time."
Syd was suddenly grave. "What are you trying to tell me, kid?"
Gladys interrupted. "Act your age, Syd. She's pitching you a tall tale." Then turning to Sherry, "Get your coat, darling. You mustn't keep Miss Braisted waiting."
Sherry pouted but did as she was told. Syd went to the doorway and glanced through the glass panel at the seated woman. He gave a low whistle. "Maybe the kid's right. If I ever seen a dame who looks like a dyke, it's that one."
"Nonsense! A school like Miss Maybrink's wouldn't employ a lesbian."
Syd shrugged but she sensed his hostility.
When she returned to the front room, Miss Braisted was sitting as before but there was splotches of red in her pale cheeks.
Sherry was curled in an easy chair. Her voice was that of a tiny child's but it was filled with venom.
"You'll be sorry, Miss Braisted."
The teacher's answer was barely audible. But the muted words contained bitterness and the hint of panic. "You can't blackmail me, Sherry. They should have put a stone around your neck long ago and drowned you."
"So you could be with Dorothy. So nobody would know."
Miss Braisted broke off her retort as she saw Gladys and forced a tremulous smile to flutter across her lips. She said, "We'll have to hurry or we'll miss the train."
Gladys had expected further resistance from Sherry but now she seemed almost eager to go. Gladys accompanied them as far as the elevator. When she came back, Syd was standing moodily in the center of the room.
He said, "I don't like it, Doll. I mean the Braisted dame and Sherry. The girl seemed really scared."
"Forget it, Syd. Sherry can take care of herself." But she could guess what he was thinking. That she had been unduly harsh with Sherry. That she'd been jealous of the child's youth and softness, the luxury in which she'd been raised.
He was wrong. But how could she explain the creeping sense of evil that the girl brought with her? As soon as she tried to put it into words, it sounded ridiculous even to herself.
Maybe she was mistaken. If there was a next time, she'd try to understand the child better.
She'd heard from Sherry again sooner than she'd expected. Not directly, but through Geoffrey Palen. The lawyer was no longer stiff and unbending. He was apologetic, almost wheedling.
"Miss Fane, I've been thinking the situation over. With Cora Miller's death, I doubt that there's any legal, obstacle to prevent you from seeing Sheridan."
"What about Paul?"
"Paul feels that he's failed his daughter and believes that many of her difficulties spring from her separation from you. He's convinced that she needs you."
She was being honey-talked, led into a trap. "Sherry's at school. It's the right place for her."
Palen spoke carefully. "I've just received word from Miss Maybrink, refusing to accept further responsibility for the child."
"What's the kid done?"
Palen hesitated. "She's made accusations against one of the teachers, charging improper interest in the girls."
"Miss Braisted?"
"Yes."
"She could be right. Have you ever seen Miss Braisted?"
"No."
"A real butch type. Mannish dress, close-cropped hair, low heels."
"I'm not defending Miss Braisted and I might add that she's already been discharged from the school. But Sherry's been indiscreet. She wrote letters to the trustees and to some of the girls' parents."
Gladys felt an unreasoning anger. "So they're victimizing her for pointing out what's going on. Is that it?"
"I thought you might feel that way. You do want to help Sherry, don't you?"
Gladys said hollowly, "Of course."
Palen explained tactfully that Paul was drinking heavily and the Miller house was closed. Sherry had no place to go where she'd be safe and loved. Couldn't Gladys take her in until arrangements could be made for her to enter another school?
Gladys was thinking of Syd, of his coolness and withdrawal ever since Sherry's visit. He'd never forgive her if she turned her back on Sherry a second time.
Reluctantly she found herself agreeing to drive up the Hudson to Miss Maybrink's school and bring Sherry home.
On the way up she'd had some idea of persuading Miss Maybrink to keep Sherry until the end of the term. But once she was in the antiseptic sweetness of the school, she knew why Sherry hated it. She would have hated it herself.
Miss Maybrink reminded her of Cora Miller. She had the same pompous air of authority as though she had a right to set herself up as a social and moral arbiter. Beneath her bland face and friendly manner, Gladys sensed disapproval of her own blowsy figure, her copious makeup, her sexy perfume and flippant speech. The headmistress flinched visibly at a mistake in grammar or a coarse word.
Instinctively Gladys found herself defending Sherry, her voice rising and coarsening.
"Don't try to kid me. You got a dyke on your staff. Sherry pointed the finger at her so you make a scapegoat out of the kid. I've seen this Pauline Braisted. She's got lesbian written all over that ugly puss of hers."
Miss Maybrink blanched. "Such a statement constitutes slander. I assure you that Miss Braisted was guilty of no more serious offense than oversolicitousness for one of her charges."
"Then why'd you tie a can on her? That's what I want to know."
"I'm under no obligation to account for my actions to you, Miss Fane. There's nothing more to discuss. We'd like Sherry off the premises as quickly as possible."
When Sherry was led in, Gladys smothered her in her arms, glaring in defiance at Miss Maybrink.
All the way back to New York, Sherry was on her good behavior, acting like a normal teen-ager, making up to Gladys, chattering like a magpie.
Maybe she'd got her wires crossed, Gladys thought. She'd shirked her responsibility long enough. It was time to give the kid a break. Perhaps she could get close to her after all. She hoped so. Not only for Sherry's sake, but for her own and Syd's, too.
CHAPTER FOUR
During the first few weeks everything seemed to be working out fine. The brashness that Sherry had shown on her first visit evaporated. At times she was shy, elusive and moody. But she came to life with Syd, laughing and cuddling up to him.
And Syd adored her. He took her everywhere-the theater for rehearsals, to dinner at swank restaurants, to Radio City Music Hall, the zoo, on shopping expeditions.
"You're spoiling her," Gladys protested.
"Knock it off, Doll. The kid needs love."
Gladys was uneasy but relieved, too. The revival of Hi, Mr. Jinx was in rehearsal, with new lyrics and an improved book. Gladys had grown soft with the years. Belting out the tunes, the routine rough and tumble of her act, often left her exhausted. She was glad to have Sherry off her hands.
Lucy Watkins came to the apartment a good deal. Gladys had never forgotten the staunchness of her friendship when things had gone sour. Lucy hadn't changed much. She still ran her school on Eighty-sixth Street while maintaining her status as New York's leading madam.
Syd liked to kid her about it. "How do you do it, Lucy? Every hot-pillow joint in town gets raided twice a year. But you're still at the same old stand."
Lucy answered seriously. "Discretion. The external appearance of respectability. Political connections. A payoff big enough to buy up the governor's mansion. Plus a free buggy ride for the right people. That's the secret of success."
To Glady's surprise, Lucy and Sherry had hit it off right from the beginning.
"Miss Sly-boots," Lucy called her. But she said it with affection. Sherry squatted at her knee, smiling from her to Syd. Gladys felt strangely left out.
Sherry begged Miss Lucy to give her voice lessons.
Unexpectedly, Syd hit the ceiling. "I won't have her in your house," he exploded.
"Why not?" Miss Lucy retorted sweetly.
"You know damn well why not."
Gladys had refused to enter the tug-of-war between them. Sherry had coaxed and wheedled. Finally, Syd had given in.
But after Sherry had gone to bed, he turned savagely on Lucy. "You get Sherry into trouble and I'll shut up that house of yours and have you slung in jail. What's more, I'll break every bone in your body."
"Shut up, Syd. You know the ground floor of my place is on the up-and-up. That's as far as Sherry will ever go."
The three of them stood in a hostile triangle. Behind them they heard the patter of bare feet. Sherry, in a frilly nightdress, was standing in the open doorway. She scampered away and none of them could be certain how much she had heard.
In a way Gladys was relieved about the lessons. At least they would occupy some of Sherry's idle hours so that she would spend less time with Syd. Gladys was worried about his obsession with the child and, at the same time, ashamed of her half-formed suspicions.
Syd never wanted to go anywhere without Sherry. And there were times when Gladys would come home and find them romping together. Sure, it was all innocent. But she'd note the slight reddening of Syd's face, while Sherry would look at her with a simpering smile and wide eyes that would make Gladys want to slap her face.
The brat got on her nerves. There were no two ways about it. Yet it was hard to pin anything down. Of course there were little things missing from her purse. A lipstick. An eye-shade pencil. Manicure scissors. Losing them was a nuisance. She suspected Sherry but she couldn't be sure. Why should the child steal such trinkets? She had an ample allowance. She could buy anything she wanted within reason.
More troublesome was Sherry's habit of being somewhere where she was least expected. She moved about the house as silent as a kitten. One minute she'd be there and the next she seemed to have disappeared into thin air. The way Paul had in Havana.
But worst of all was Gladys' sense of never being alone with Syd. Even in the most intimate moments of their love-making, she was aware of Sherry's presence in the house. Syd, though he wouldn't admit it, shared the awareness. They'd always enjoyed their sex life with a noisy, lusty, boisterous abandon but now it had become a hush-hush affair as though it were something to be ashamed of. And right at the point of climax, there'd be the tiniest of noises just outside the door. Gladys was convinced that it was Sherry, spying on them, but she'd never been able to catch her at it. Then all hell broke loose.
The first hint she'd had of trouble was when she came home late one night after the theater, topped off by a round of nightclubs. Syd was pacing up and down the room, pouring whiskey into himself.
"Where the hell you been, Doll?" he growled.
It wasn't like Syd to question her.
She put her arms about him, "What's the matter Syd?"
"It's Sherry. Around midnight she came tearing in here like a bat out of hell, her clothes torn, her face swollen, dirt all over her. I tried to talk to her but she wouldn't listen. She ran into her room and bolted the door. I been trying to get an answer ever since but she won't say a word."
Gladys' eyes narrowed. For some time she'd suspected Sherry of slipping out of her room at night. Now she had proof.
She went to Sherry's door and called but there was no response.
Gladys' knock became more peremptory. "Open the door, Sherry, or we'll force it."
Sherry's voice sounded tiny and muted through the heavy panels. The door opened and she stood there, looking fragile and innocent in her white nightie and fleece-lined slippers.
Gladys said, "You've scared the life out of Syd. Now tell us what happened."
Sherry pouted. "Nothing much. I got lonely and there's a candy shop that has some Latin-American platters I like so I decided to go there. A bunch of kids from a teen-age gang .came in and one of them got fresh with me, so I slapped him. He started jostling and pushing me, trying to get me into a back booth. He ripped my dress and I fell down and hurt my knee before I could get away from him."
"What else?"
"Nothing. The proprietor broke things up and I got out fast."
"Then why didn't you tell Syd?"
"I didn't want to talk about it. That's all."
Gladys saw the relief in Syd's face. He believed Sherry's story even if she didn't. She said, "Go to bed, Syd. I want to talk to Sherry alone."
Inside the room she made Sherry take off her nightdress. There were no bruises on her body except for the scraped knee. The underclothing Sherry exhibited was intact. Throughout, Sherry was surprisingly meek and cooperative. In the end Gladys had to accept her account, though she did so with mental reservations.
It was noon two days later when Lucy Watkins appeared at the apartment. Her clothes were crumpled and stained, her hair awry, her makeup streaked, her face flushed.
She screamed, "Where's that bitch of Satan? Just let me get my hands on her."
"Who?"
"You know who I mean. Sherry. That little floozie's damned well ruined me. To say nothing of getting me thrown in the clink for the first time in forty years."
"She's out with Syd. Calm down and tell me about it."
Lucy sputtered and fumed but finally she gasped out her story.
Three days previously Sherry had been to the school for a lesson. When it was over, instead of leaving, she'd sneaked upstairs and hid.
Later, Lucy had a telephone call from an out-of-state businessman, Tom Gordon, who wanted a call girl sent to his hotel room. "A cute little blonde" was what he'd ordered and Lucy had agreed to send him one, called Gwen, at nine o'clock.
As she was hanging up, she was alerted to danger by a click on the wire. She realized that someone must have been listening on the extension and hurried to the hall, just in time to see Sherry gliding down the stairs. Lucy called to her but Sherry was out the front door before she could be stopped.
Lucy had been burned up by Sherry's eavesdropping but it had never occurred to her that it would go further than that.
Tom Gordon must have spent the early part of the evening lapping up half the liquor in Manhattan. By 8:30, when there was a tap on his door, he was gloriously soused. Even so, he'd had sense enough to know that the girl who sidled in was jailbait.
"Who the hell are you?" he'd asked.
"I'm Gwen," Sherry told him. "Lucy Watkins sent me."
"I don't believe it. How old are you anyway? You don't look more than fourteeen or fifteen."
"I'm older than I look. Old enough to give you a good time."
"Lucy must have flipped her skull, sending me an infant. Look, kid, you better scram."
Sherry was fawning against him, her face uptilted. She said, "Lucy'll be mad if I don't treat you right. I'm eighteen. Honest, I am."
"If you are, I'm a camel with six humps."
Sherry began to cry softly. "You don't like me. What's wrong with me?"
"You're gorgeous, baby. But I don't want the cops on my neck."
"No one saw me come."
His hand had fallen on her hair and she was nestling against him. She was cuddly all right. And she must be telling the truth about her age. Lucy was a square-shooter. She wouldn't set him up for a rape rap.
Sherry darted away from him and started to strip off her clothes. She looked back over her shoulder, her cat eyes gleaming, her rosebud mouth shaped in a pout. And suddenly she didn't look like a child to Tom Gordon any longer. She was the temptress, the lure, and he had enough liquor in him so he didn't give a damn.
He stumbled toward her, fumbling at his clothing. She curled up naked in the bed, awaiting him.
Then, when he was on her and their bodies were interlocked, there was a second light tapping at the door.
Tom leaped to his feet, padded to the door and crouched naked beside it.
"Who's there?"
The answer came in a sexy voice. "It's Gwen. Lucy Watkins sent me."
That was the moment Sherry chose to scream. To Gordon it sounded like a fire siren going off beneath him.
He rushed back to the bed, yelling, "For God's sake, kid, shut up."
Sherry kept right on screaming and, when he touched her, she rolled away, grabbed up a chair and hurled it through the window, shattering the glass.
Tom Gordon's luck was out. A prowl car happened to be cruising in the block. Within minutes two uniformed policemen battered in his door. They found him struggling with a screaming, seemingly frantic teen-ager, whose clothes were scattered over the room.
They didn't stop to ask questions. They clubbed Gordon down.
Sherry raced into the arms of the white-haired cop, sobbing hysterically. He said, "What gives, girlie? Who is this guy?"
"I don't know. I've never seen him before."
"How'd you get here?"
"A woman sent me. A woman I take lessons from. I didn't want to come but she said she'd give me ten dollars if I met her here."
"Who is this dame? Has she got a name?"
"Lucy Watkins. She runs a school."
The cop gave a long whistle and glanced at his partner. "It looks like Miss Lucy's slipped up at last."
Miss Lucy had no warning of what had happened until a car from the vice squad screamed to a stop in front of her house. They'd hauled her off, taking her to the hotel first. The corridor outside Gordon's room was crawling with cops and Tom himself looked as though he'd been put through a mangle, both eyes blackened and his mouth bleeding.
But there was no sign of Sherry. Somehow in the confusion she'd managed to slip away. The cops hadn't even got her name.
All the same they'd carted both Lucy and Tom to the precinct house and booked them on open charges.
They'd held her for forty-eight hours before her lawyer could secure her release. Without Sherry, they didn't have a charge that would stand up in court. But they warned her they'd be keeping tabs on her house from now on. One slip and they'd throw the book at her. Lucy Watkins wasn't dumb. She could read the handwriting on the wall. She'd have to lay low for a long time to come.
Gladys had smoked cigarette after cigarette while she listened to Lucy. She snubbed out the last of the butts and asked, "What are you going to do about Sherry?"
"What do you think? I'm going to tan Miss Sly-boots' bottom so she can't sit down for a week."
"Don't, Lucy. Leave her to me."
"You think she hasn't got it coming to her?"
"Maybe it would do her good. But Syd will never stand for it. He dotes on the kid."
"To hell with Syd. It's time he faced up to what Sherry's really like."
Almost as though on cue, the door was flung open and Sherry came rushing in. She was halfway across the room before she saw Lucy. Her eyes swiveled to Gladys.
"What's she doing here? I don't want her here."
Miss Lucy said, "I'll bet you don't." She reached for Sherry's wrist and held it.
"Make her leave me alone," Sherry wailed.
Gladys shrugged. "Where's Syd?"
"He's circling the block, trying to find a parking place. He'll make her go away."
Miss Lucy changed her grip to the scruff of Sherry's neck. "You got something coming to you, Miss Sly-boots. And you're getting it. Syd or no Syd."
Sherry's whine changed into a scream as Lucy propelled her toward the bedroom. On the way the big woman snatched up a heavy wooden hanger. With a grunt she sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling Sherry to her, trying to heave her across her lap. Sherry partly freed herself, striking out frenziedly. But Lucy was tough and hard. Her fingers tangled in the girl's hair. Sherry sprawled on the bed, screaming, trying to squirm away. Lucy rolled onto her, planting a knee in the small of her back.
The hanger swung high and came down with a sharp thwack across Sherry's shoulders.
Sherry howled with pain, kicking and arching her back in a futile attempt to throw the woman from her. But Lucy was unrelenting. The blows came raining down.
Gladys watched uncertainly. She thought, I ought to stop it. But what then? A thrashing might be the girl's salvation. At least for once her screams are genuine. She's crying because she's hurt, not to put on an act.
She didn't hear Syd, didn't realize that he was in the apartment until he hurled himself on Miss Lucy. He wrenched the hanger from her hand and threw it across the room.
He pulled Sherry free and yanked the woman to her feet. His face was mottled with red and the nerves along his jaw throbbed visibly.
"I told you I'd kill you if you harmed Sherry."
"You listen to me, Syd Kayler. This pint-sized tramp is breaking up your home."
He struck Lucy across the face. The slap of his open palm sounded like a whip lash. Then he was pushing her toward the door, pummeling her with his fists. She clawed at him. His glasses spilled to the floor and he stepped on them without seeming to notice.
"Get out," he was screaming. "Goddamn it, get out before I kill you."
Gladys called, "Syd! Syd! Stop it." She plucked at his sleeve but he was beside himself with rage. His fist thudded into Miss Lucy's breast. She turned, ranning for the door. As she jerked it open, he struck her a blow on the back that sent her sprawling full length on the hall carpet.
Syd stood in the doorway until Gladys forced her way past him. Then he slammed the door.
Gladys crouched beside Lucy. "Are you hurt bad? Can you get up?"
Lucy was gasping for breath but she levered herself to one knee and, with Gladys' help, struggled to her feet.
Her cheeks were crisscrossed with red welts and she was swaying, holding to the wall for support.
Gladys helped her into the elevator, then through the lobby and into the street. She piled her into a taxi and got in beside her.
By the time they reached Eighty-sixth Street, Lucy was only semiconscious. Her head lolled to one side. When Gladys managed to get her out of the cab, her knees buckled and she nearly fell again.
Gladys guided her upstairs to the pink-papered boudoir that had remained unchanged throughout the years. She prepared compresses for the blotched, swollen face and mixed a sedative.
Miss Lucy sat up in the ornate bed, forcing her eyes to remain open.
She patted Gladys' hand. "You better steer for home, dearie, if you want to keep Syd."
"Home!" Gladys repeated bitterly. Hell, she didn't have any home since Sherry had arrived. She was sick to death of the kid and the way Syd moped over her.
She said, "I'd rather stay with you for a while."
Lucy didn't answer. Her head was already tilted to one side and she was snoring.
Gladys stayed away from the apartment for three days. Perhaps she never would have returned if it hadn't been for Lucy's urging.
"You get back to Syd, dearie, before Miss Sly-boots twists him around her finger. She's a witch. But Syd is okay. He's just feeling his oats."
She would have been better off if she hadn't listened to Lucy. It was mid-afternoon when she got out of the cab and took the elevator to the apartment. She stood in the corridor, feeling uncertain, almost like an intruder, as though she should ring the bell instead of fitting her key in the lock.
At length she opened the door and stepped quietly into the foyer. She listened but an oppressive quiet lay over the apartment.
Syd must have gone out and taken Sherry with him. Maybe that was good. She could freshen up and be waiting for his return as though there had been no separation.
She was suddenly overwhelmed by her need for Syd and the demands of his body. Her mood changed and she felt almost gay as she crossed to the bedroom and flung open the door.
Even while her hand was on the knob, she heard the burble of Sherry's laughter.
They were in bed together. Sherry's nightdress, was pulled up over her plump pink thighs. Syd crouched over her, naked except for his pajama top.
Sherry spotted her first. Her eyes widened and her lips formed a moist pink circle. There was neither fear nor shame in her expression, only the mocking glint of victory.
Gladys couldn't move. Time did a crazy flip-flop. She was a child again, standing in the dark watching her mother make love to a stranger. But now it was her daughter, and the man was her husband.
Syd turned toward her slowly. His eyes without his glasses seemed watery and out of focus. He stared at her, his expression blank, his mouth slack.
She ought to move, to say something. This was like a nightmare, where you were speechless, rooted to the spot.
He sat up. "Gladys. Christ, I'm sorry."
His voice seemed to come from far away and, when she spoke, so did hers.
"It doesn't matter. Nothing matters any more."
"What next? I guess you want me to clear the hell out of here."
"I guess so, Syd. Why did it have to be Sherry?" He reached for his clothes and started putting them on haphazardly.
Gladys looked at Sherry. The girl had pulled a sheet over herself but had left her firm, round breasts exposed. Sherry didn't avoid her gaze but stared back defiantly.
"You shouldn't have left us," she said. "Syd was awfully upset."
Nausea struck suddenly at Gladys. She barely made it to the bathroom before she was sick.
When she emerged Syd was gone and so was Sherry. She looked at the mussed-up bed and thought she could never he down on it again as long as she lived. Instead, she slumped into a chair.
She was still there at a little after midnight when heavy knuckles beat on the door. There were two policemen. At first she had some crazy idea that they'd come for Sherry. Then gradually what they had to tell her sank in.
Syd had jumped or fallen in front of a train in the Fourteenth Street subway station.
Fallen! That was a laugh. Syd went everywhere by car or taxi. He used to say he wouldn't be caught dead in the subway. And that was another laugh. Because it was exactly what had happened.
She sat still for a long time, too dazed by grief to move, still incapable of realizing that Syd was dead. After a while she shuddered and for the first time thought of Sherry, dreading the idea of having to see her again.
She rose, stumbling about the room, pulling on the lights, wishing the numbness would leave her and that she could cry.
The shrill of the telephone jolted her back to life. It was her sister, Mildred.
"Gladys, Sherry's over here with Eddie and me. She's bawling her eyes out but she won't say what's wrong."
Quickly Gladys filled in the picture. When she had finished Mildred asked, "What will we do with Sherry? Shall we keep her with us for a few days?"
"I don't care. Feed her rat poison and take her down in the cellar and bury her for all of me."
Sure, it was a hell of a thing to say about your own kid. But right then it was the way she felt about Sherry. So why not speak the truth?
* * *
Sherry's Story
CHAPTER ONE
Sherry was bored. She sat on the bench in Central Park where she could see the apartment house in which Daddy Paget lived. She dangled her legs and puckered her lips, ignoring the stares of a pair of black-jacketed teen-agers who were trying to pick her up. She wasn't interested in them. Daddy Paget could be a lot more fun.
She giggled, thinking of Daddy. Since their first meeting, she'd been back to see him seven times. Or was it eight? The pattern was always the same. Daddy telling her that what they'd done was wrong, that it mustn't happen again.
Sometimes he'd hold out for an hour or even two, while she teased him, writhing up against him, undressing, squirming in the bed. But in the end, he'd always make love to her.
And afterward he'd cry. Maybe that was why she kept coming back to Daddy. He was the only man she'd known who cried, though some of the rest had come close to it.
Like the taxi driver, Nick Bobrowsky. She'd got into his cab one night and directed him to take her through Central Park. She'd slipped off all her clothes and then called to him. When he'd turned around, he'd been so scared he'd almost crashed up.
He kept telling her to dress and threatening to take her to the police station.
She said, "If you do, I'll say you raped me."
"What are you pickin' on me for? I ain't never done nothin' to you."
"But you're going to, Nick."
"Look, you little tramp. I'll throw you out of my hack, right on your bare ass."
"Oh, no, you won't. Your name's right here on the license. I can send you to jail for a long time."
"I don't want no trouble. I'm a family man."
"Then be nice to me, Nick."
In the end he'd taken her off in the bushes. Later, he'd driven her home. She'd paid for the fare and added a two-dollar tip. His face had gone all ugly and mean. But he hadn't dared to say a word. All she had to do was yell "rape" and he'd be behind bars for years and years.
There'd been other men. Lots of them. Especially since she'd been living with Mildred and Eddie. Right after Syd's death, Gladys had pulled out of the apartment and gone to California, abandoning her. She hated Gladys for that. She'd thought after Syd was gone, the two of them would really be close together. But it hadn't worked out that way at all.
Still, living with Mildred and Eddie wasn't too bad. A couple of days after she'd moved in Mildred had told her, "Listen, Sherry. This is strictly a business deal. Palen's agreed to pay us $150 a week to keep you. It's money we can use, believe me. But we can get along without it. So any time you want to call it quits, just say the word."
Mildred didn't keep tabs on her. She could come and go as she pleased. Mildred wasn't jealous of Eddie either.
One time Sherry had been spying on them in bed together and Mildred had opened the door right in her face.
Eddie had burst out laughing. "Hi, kid. Come on in and see what makes the world go round."
Mildred had laughed, too, and had gone out to the kitchen to make coffee and sandwiches.
While they were eating, she'd said to Sherry, "I married Eddie because I happen to like the guy. I know he's no paragon of virtue and I'm not trying to reform him. So maybe once in a while he crawls in between the sheets with some other gal. It's nothing to get hysterical about Maybe you've got something like that on your mind, Sherry. I won't say I like the idea but, if it happened, I wouldn't go off the deep end."
Eddie had laughed. "I'm glad to know that. How about it, Sherry?"
Sherry had looked down at her cup. Either Mildred was a mind reader or Eddie had told her about the passes she'd made. The funny thing was that after that she felt comfortable with Mildred and Eddie. She looked for her bangs in other places. Like today, with Daddy Paget.
Only Daddy wasn't at home. She'd been up to his penthouse once but there'd been no answer to her ring.
Restlessly he picked up a newspaper that someone had left on the bench.
A headline caught her eye.
GLADYS FANE SIGNS WITH MGM WILL PLAY ROLE OF DIANA FAN
The notice wasn't long and she read it twice before crumpling the tabloid into a ball and thrusting it into a wastepaper basket.
She felt all torn and ripped to pieces the way she always did when she thought of her mother. She didn't know whether she hated her or loved her. But she had to be with Gladys. That was the important thing.
Suddenly she lost interest in Daddy Paget.
She wanted to talk to Mildred instead. But when she got back to the apartment no one was there.
She flounced onto a sofa and sprawled there sulking, daydreaming about running away to Hollywood and forcing Gladys to take her in.
She was still on the sofa when Eddie came breezing in.
"Hi, kid. Where's Mildred?"
"I don't know. Out somewhere."
"She better come back soon or I'll bust wide-open with the good news. I just landed the job of handling the publicity for Tiger Winslow."
"Who's Tiger Winslow?"
"Kiddie, you better start reading the sport sheets. The Tiger's the hottest thing on wheels. The new Jack Dempsey. The next heavyweight champion of the world. The guy who's going to grind Randy Quinn into mincemeat."
Sherry couldn't care less about Tiger Winslow. All the same it was a good idea to butter up Eddie. You never could tell when he'd come in useful. So she started in asking him questions about the Tiger.
Pretty soon Eddie was giving her the works. Telling her how he and the Tiger had been in college together. Digging out newspaper clippings. Reaching into his brief case for glossy prints of the Tiger and fanning them out in front of her.
The moment she saw the pictures of the Tiger in his white boxing trunks her boredom disappeared. A tingle of excitement coursed through her. She studied the sleek body with the muscles rippling beneath the smooth skin. The almost triangular face, with its high cheekbones and slanted eyes. The blond, curly, close-cropped hair. The small ears lying flat against the skull. There was something faun-like about the face, weak and vain, that reminded her of pictures of a satyr she'd once seen.
But there was more than that. She sensed a raw, un-trammeled violence in the man that matched her own.
She giggled a little so that Eddie wouldn't guess what she was thinking. Because in the back of her mind a plan was beginning to form. The details were still vague. She'd have to think them out carefully. But some instinct told her that Tiger Winslow was the man she needed, that she could forge him into a weapon to make Gladys Fane do what she wanted.
* * *
Eddie Dolph's Story
CHAPTER ONE
Looking back, it seems like I must have had rocks in my head to bring Sherry and Tiger Winslow together. But Sherry had been on her good behavior for a long stretch. As for the Tiger, I knew he was a chaser, a stud who went berserk over a bit of fluff. But who'd expect a guy in training to take off after a piece of tail just two nights before a championship bout?
I'd known the Tiger from way back, when we both attended Lampton College. We were drawn together because we were both misfits in a cow college in the middle of the Bible Belt.
He was a football star, all muscle and fluid movement, a shifty field runner whom no one could hold. He had perfect coordination and an animal cunning. When you'd said that, you'd summed up all the good there was in the man.
The Tiger never cracked a book and broke every training rule. All the same Lampton played in the Orange Bowl for the first time in its history.
I can't say I ever liked the Tiger but I was vain enough to enjoy being the sidekick of the school's football hero. Besides, we had a couple of hobbies in common. We both went in for heavy drinking and hunting quail.
All the same, I'd wince when the Tiger would pound me on the back and announce to all and sundry, "Eddie here's my best friend. He may look like a pansy but don't let him fool you. The way he peels the pants off dames, you'd think they were a bunch of bananas. Ain't that right, Eddie?"
There were times even then when the Tiger scared me. He took it for granted that anything in skirts was rightfully his and it never occurred to him that a woman could say "no" and mean it.
Toward the end of his sophomore year at Lampton the Tiger suddenly pulled stakes. Everything was very hush-hush but there were rumors that he'd got his wires crossed with a fifteen-year-old girl in the town.
He dropped out of sight for a year or two, then his name started creeping into the sports news again. He'd turned boxer and won a half-dozen bouts on the West Coast. Then he'd got knocked flat on his can by Joey Goldfarb in Kansas City.
The Tiger took some more pratfalls. According to the grapevine he was a scrappy fighter but he had built-in hinges in his knees. If the price was right, he could take one of the most beautiful dives in the business.
Then the Syndicate decided they needed a "white hope." The Tiger got tagged for the job. He started climbing again, getting bigger and bigger.
I'd dropped out of the Tiger's orbit and I was content to let it rest that way. The screwball part of the deal was that Sherry was indirectly responsible for bringing us together again. A good public relations man keeps in the background and throws all the publicity to his clients. But when Sherry had barged in on her mother, Gladys had been too shocked to carry the ball. I'd had to step into the breach with a line of patter to give Gladys a chance to recover.
The result was that I'd hit the papers. The Tiger had seen pix of me standing between Gladys Fane and Sherry. So out of the blue he'd phoned me, asking me to fly to Chicago to discuss terms for handling his press.
The reunion took place in a hotel suite. Besides the Tiger, Luke Broderick, his manager, and Dice O'Malley, his trainer, were present. The Tiger looked the same as ever-the long limbs, the barrel chest, the head that seemed a little too small for the massive body. The only mark on him was a patch of scar tissue under his right eye.
He hadn't lost any of his cockiness either. "What's the chap got that I haven't?" he boasted. "I could knock him loose from his crown in three rounds if I had the chance.
But talent ain't what counts in the ring any longer. The boys on top are stumble-bumbs. Take Rorick. He writes poetry and shoots off his mouth but he couldn't fight his way out of a paper bag. But he's 'good copy. The same goes for Grillon. A real Alger character. From prison to champ. It's a riot."
I gave a dutiful laugh. "Where do I fit in? I don't know the first thing about boxing."
"You don't have to, boy. What I need is a little glamour. Something to make people sit up and take notice when they hear of Tiger Winslow. Now I can't write poetry and ain't done time in stir. But I was always quite a lad with the ladies. Ain't that right, Eddie?"
"So what do we do? Set up shop in a whorehouse?"
The Tiger's eyes narrowed to slits but he managed a laugh. "Didn't I tell you boys that Eddie here was a real joker? A wisenheimer from way back. Luke, you tell Eddie the score."
Luke Broderick did a lot of talking. It boiled down to this: The Syndicate was making a heavy investment in the Tiger. Boxing was in the doldrums. It needed a shot in the arm. With all the top contenders in the heavyweight class being colored, the carriage trade was drifting away. The Syndicate wanted to build up the Tiger as "The White Hope," a fighter who would capture the public as Dempsey had done, as a boy with plenty of color and dash. What they needed was publicity that would extend beyond the sports pages, that would hit the gossip columns, the theater mags, the general news.
They reckoned the best way to make the Tiger a household name was for him to be seen with celebrities from Hollywood, starlets, pretty girls. They wanted him surrounded by enough cheesecake to hit Life and Look.
I thought it over and I didn't like it much. I couldn't see myself becoming a glorified pimp for the Tiger. Yet even while I was rejecting the idea, I was shooting the angles in my mind. Cooperative females wouldn't be hard to find. The publicity would cut two ways. There were plenty of moving picture queens on the skids and Hollywood hopefuls who would give their eye-teeth to be photographed with the Tiger.
I said slowly, "This is a stunt that could backfire."
Broderick winked. "I know what you got on your mind.
The Tiger likes his raw meat. But this is strictly on the up-and-up. We can't afford any scandal. Winslow's cast for the role of White Knight, the clean-cut, ail-American hero, the type the dames can slobber over in their daydreams."
I looked over at the Tiger. His narrow face was a trifle too serious. He said, reprovingly, "Eddie boy, just because you knew me when, don't get me wrong. If it was quiff I was looking for, I wouldn't need no help. I'm hitting for the jackpot, the two-million-buck gate, with plenty of dames in the ringside seats. No quail for the Tiger. Not while I'm in training anyway. After the fight maybe I'll take a flier, but even so, caution's my middle name."
I still didn't like it, but when they started talking money I knew I was hooked. With that kind of dough, my dream of opening my own public relations office on Madison Avenue could turn into reality.
I flew back to New York that night. For once I held out on Mildred. I had a hunch if she understood the deal, she'd try to talk me out of it. But if the contract was signed and sealed, I knew she'd play ball.
CHAPTER TWO
Two weeks later I went to work ferrying beautiful bims to the Tiger's training camp outside Chi, preparing releases about the movie stars who had crushes on him.
Once the ball got rolling the press photographers and the movie mags couldn't get enough shots. Everybody wanted to get in on the deal.
The two dames who really went for the Tiger in a big way were Ava D'Avril and Mitzi Hale. D'Avril was a petite redhead, who'd been riding the crest as America's favorite pin-up girl for a long time. She was still top news but she was slipping at the box office. She needed the Tiger even more than he needed her. Besides, even if he was a bum, he was a handsome chunk of meat.
As for Mitzi, she was a dark, tempestuous actress who'd never quite made the grade. But with all the publicity she was getting from the Tiger she looked like a sure bet to climb to the top.
Keeping the girls apart was one of my hardest jobs. At sight of each other, they'd both want to tangle in a hair-pulling, eye-gouging free-for-all. Maybe they were all hot and sweet for the Tiger but mostly it was those lovely newspaper spreads I was setting up.
The ballyhoo pyramided. A week before the fight every seat in the arena was sold out and the scalpers were doing a brisk trade.
I had hoped that Mildred would come to Chi for the event but she had a deadline to meet. Besides, she wouldn't leave Sherry. I savored my sour grapes and decided it would be more fun to take Mitzi Hale.
The ringside seats were filled with celebrities. A few of them were paper, actresses I'd inveigled into flying in from Hollywood or New York. But there were plenty more who were paying their own freight. In the high-priced seats it looked as though the women outnumbered the men.
Luke Broderick, sitting beside me, was exuberant. "Boxing's coming back to its own. They're all here to see the White Knight win. Did you see the mob outside?"
I nodded and put my hand on Mitzi Hale's knee. She didn't even notice. She jumped up, squealing and pointing.
I caught a glimpse of Tiger Winslow coming down the long aisle to the bright ring. Then the surging, leaping, screaming crowd hid him from sight until he climbed through the ropes to his corner.
The Tiger was the fair-haired boy tonight. No doubt about that. The clamor of the crowd grew louder and louder until it became a giant roar.
Winslow was playing the White Knight to the hilt. His blond hair gleamed gold under the arc lights. His spotless cream-colored robe was embroidered with a golden tiger.
There was a lull in the hysterical shouting. My gaze shifted to the opposite comer. Kid Bostling had entered the ring. The big gangling body, the sloping shoulders, the bullet head, the dingy red robe against the chocolate-brown body all served to give the man an appearance of brutal primitive power. From the fringe of the crowd came a few scattered cheers.
A woman's voice shrilled out, "Kill 'im, Tiger.
With a sickening wave of nausea, I realized the plot into which my greed had let me. I was a tool in the pitting of race against race. The Golden Boy against the gorilla. Even though I had a grand riding on the Tiger, I uttered a quick fervent prayer for Kid Bostling to win.
I sat dazed through the preliminaries. Then the bell rang for the first round and an expectant hush swept over the crowd.
Winslow moved slowly into the center of the ring, muscles rippling smoothly beneath his unnaturally clear skin. He stood erect, off-guard, a contemptuous smile on his faun-like face as he watched Bostling, body crouched, movements wary, crabbing toward him.
Bostling threw the first punch, a wild right. The Tiger ducked beneath it and danced away. Bostling kept circling in, lashing out with roundhouse rights, jabbing with his left. The Tiger weaved in and out, slowing his adversary with light body punches. At the end of the round, Winslow bulled the Kid to the ropes and got in three trip-hammer blows to the gut before the referee separated them.
As they returned to their corners, the Kid was breathing hard, with runnels of sweat along the side of his face. Winslow looked fresh as a daisy.
The second round started as a repetition of the first. The Kid, sidling in, landing a few blows, mostly on the arm and shoulders. The Tiger backpedaling, ducking, jabbing first for the body, then for the face, opening up a gash above Bostling's eye. Once more the Tiger jostled the Kid against the ropes. As he leaped away, the Kid came out of a crouch with a hard right to the side of the head. Winslow was moving back fast and the blow lost most of its force. But it was enough to trip him off balance so that he fell to one knee.
The crowd thought it was a knockdown and a harsh animal growl filled the arena. The Tiger was up at the count of two. With a savage rush, he came weaving in, arms like pistons, smashing into the Kid's stomach first with a short left, then with a looping right.
Bostling went glassy-eyed and the powerful arms with which he'd been protecting his face dropped to his sides. Winslow crossed a right to his chin that sent him staggering back against the ropes. But he bounced off fast and was in a clinch when the bell ended the round.
Bostling was still groggy at the beginning of the third and the crowd was screaming hysterically for a kill. For the first time the Tiger came out fast with a flurry of punches that had the Kid reeling back on rubber legs. The Kid covered and Winslow was all over him, the leather thudding into his shoulders and the side of his head. The Tiger was leaving himself wide-open. Bostling did a little backward jig and dug his feet into the canvas, head cocked, waiting for the Tiger.
As Winslow stepped in, the Kid uncorked a terrific left hook. The Tiger tilted his head fractionally and the glove slid harmlessly along his shoulder. He countered with a smashing blow to the heart that sounded like the dull boom of a cannon. The Kid straightened up and his mouth fought for air. He started to slip to the canvas and, as he fell, the Tiger clipped him a savage one-two to the chin that sent him down with a crash that seemed to shake the ring.
The arena was a madhouse as the referee began the count. At seven the Kid struggled to one knee, tried to stand and toppled forward on his face.
I got one good look at the Tiger towering over the twitching brown body, his glove raised in victory, and then the nausea hit me again and I had all I could do not to throw up on the spot.
The next thing I remember clearly I was out in the parking lot, the cool night air changing the sweat on my body to prickling icy fingers.
Mitzi was plucking at my sleeve. "Eddie, we've got to go to the dressing room. That's where the photographers are."
"They don't need me. Ava D'Avril's there. Broderick knows what to do."
"Why D'Avril?" Mitzi pouted. "Why couldn't it be me? The Tiger likes me better, he told me so."
I didn't answer. What was the use?
I inched along the swollen traffic until I turned off on a nearly empty road.
"Where are we going, Eddie?"
"For a drive. To get the cobwebs out of my brain."
"We ought to be heading for the hotel. Luke promised a big blowout. The Tiger won't be in training tonight."
"I'll bet. But there's no hurry. It'll take a couple of hours to untangle Winslow from the mob back there."
I drove at random, hitdng a blacktop that circled an arm of the lake. Mitzi sulked beside me.
Once she said, "You don't like the Tiger much, do you?"
"He's a four-bit phony. An imitation superman."
"Then why do you work for him?"
"I like a wad of folding stuff in my pocket. Does that answer your question?"
When we finally reached the hotel, I let Mitzi out. She was in too much of a hurry to notice that I didn't follow her.
I sat in the car, thinking I'd had a bellyful of the Tiger. I was through. Quits.
Tomorrow I'd be home alone with Mildred. No, not alone, I amended. These days there was always Sherry. Watching. Spying.
Damn it all, I'd lay down the law to Mildred.
Sherry would have to go.
CHAPTER THREE
Good resolutions are easy to make. But I guess it takes the kind of integrity I haven't got to leap off the gravy train. A two-grand bonus came in from the Syndicate and I was back in the rat race. Beating the drum for the White Knight. Drawing in the green stuff by the yard.
Then there was Sherry. I was beginning to think I'd made a mistake about the kid. She was acting like a reformed character.
The championship match between Tiger Winslow and Randy Quinn wasn't slated until the end of the summer. There was a hiatus of two months before the publicity would move into high gear.
I was free as a bird while Mildred was bogged down in a novel she was writing for a paperback house. As a result I was spending a lot of time with Sherry.
Nymph she might be but she could be sweet, too. I'd bought a new station wagon and I was teaching her to drive. She had a real knack for it, quick reflexes, a cool head.
Once when we were parked in a quiet country lane, she brought up the subject of her mother.
"Do you imagine Gladys will ever let me live with her again?"
"I don't know. Keep your fingers crossed and hope for the best."
Soon she was laughing again, begging me to take her up to the Tiger's training camp.
The site chosen for the camp was in a hick town called Merringham, high up in the Catskills. It was a modern farmhouse with six cabins behind it.
As soon as the Tiger showed up, the place was jumping, jammed with sight-seers. Admission was a buck to see the Tiger work out on the bags, smash a left hook to a sparring partner or go for a swim in the lake that adjoined the property.
Actually the mob got more than their money's worth because the camp and the town were alive with celebrities. Both Ava D'Avril and Mitzi Hale were staying at the Merringham Inn, vying with each other and a score of other actresses and models for each crumb of publicity.
Winslow was getting more news coverage than Louis and Dempsey combined had ever had. As for Randy Quinn, he was practically the forgotten man.
Two weeks before the fight Mildred landed a contract to do a series of syndicated articles on the Tiger from a woman's point of view. It was a flossy assignment, the biggest yet for Mildred, and I didn't have the heart to discourage her.
She wanted to go up to Merringham and spend as much time inside the camp as possible. The problem was what to do with Sherry. The kid begged, teased and cajoled us to take her along.
"I don't like the idea," I said. "Put a teen-age nymph and a satyr together and you're asking for trouble."
"Winslow's in training," Mildred argued. "You don't think he's going to jump over the ropes and rape Sherry, do you?"
"I wouldn't put it past him." But I was grinning as I said it. With a million-dollar purse riding in the balance, it didn't occur to me that the Tiger would tip over the applecart.
The three of us arrived at the camp in mid-afternoon.
The Tiger was working out in the ring with a sparring partner. His light skin showed honey-brown against his cream-colored trunks with their gold stripes and gold-embroidered tiger.
As we approached, he let loose a light flurry of blows and backpedaled. For a moment his eyes flicked over Mildred and me and rested on Sherry.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his glove and crossed the ring to where we were standing.
The Tiger spoke to me but his eyes were on Sherry. "Hi, Eddie boy. You brought a real nice stick of candy this time."
"Knock it off. The kid's just fifteen. And she's my ward."
The Tiger gave his boyish grin. "Don't get in an uproar. How was I to know?"
I introduced Mildred and, while we were talking, Broderick and Dice O'Malley joined us.
I was keeping tabs on Sherry. She had assumed her awkward little-girl stance, her eyes downcast, not giving the Tiger a second glance.
Broderick assigned us to the end cabin. It was crude but large and airy, with three bedrooms. While a boy hustied up our luggage, I turned to look back at the Tiger. He'd climbed through the ropes and was standing with a knot of people, one arm around Mitzi Hale.
Inside the camp the Tiger had about as much privacy as a goldfish. Sometimes he'd grumble, "For Crizzake, I can't even go to the can without somebody taking a count-down. Man I'll be glad to cut loose again."
As for Sherry, once the novelty wore off she seemed bored and listless. While Mildred prowled the camp asking endless questions, Sherry spent most of the time in the cabin watching television or going swimming in the shallow lake.
One morning when I got up early for a dip, I saw Sherry's slim tanned figure, lying on the life raft a hundred yards out. The Tiger was beside her. There was nothing wrong with the picture yet I felt an icy finger trace its course along my spine.
They swam to the shore side by side. When they were waist high they waded the rest of the way. I could hear them talking and laughing but I couldn't distinguish any words.
That was the only time I saw them together until the night of the big blow-up. That was two nights before the fight.
Everybody knew the Tiger was getting edgy as the fight drew near. He was squawking that the camp was like a jail and that he couldn't sleep. He was taking out his temper on his sparring partners and even made the mistake of barking at reporters. More than once I had to step in to smooth down ruffled feathers.
Every so often he'd bust out of the camp in his big white Jaguar with the golden tiger on the door, and race hell for leather along the mountain roads. Broderick was afraid of a smash-up. But there was no way of stopping the Tiger. Besides, the drives eased his jitters. He'd come back and hit the sack, sleeping like a baby for ten hours.
The fight was on Friday. Late Wednesday afternoon the Jaguar roared through the barriers of the camp with the Tiger at the wheel.
I saw Dice O'Malley rush out of his cabin, shaking his fist at the disappearing car.
He said, "That son-of-a-bitch will kill himself before the fight."
"What's eating on him anyway?"
"If you ask me, that gold band on his trunks should be a yellow streak. He's afraid he can't take Randy."
"How about you, Dice. Do you think he'll win?"
The little trainer shrugged. "It's a toss-up. The Tiger's got the power and he's mean as hell in the ring. But he's used to having things his own way. He's fought too many rigged fights."
"Any chance of Quinn doing an el foldo?"
"With all this race stuff you been throwing around there ain't enough money in the world to buy Randy."
I went into the canteen and threw the bull with a brace of reporters. Dusk was closing in when I returned to my own cabin. Mildred was beating out a staccato rhythm on the typewriter. Sherry was nowhere in sight.
I peered into her room but she wasn't there. I turned to Mildred. "Where's Sherry?"
"I don't know. She was here a while ago."
"I wish you'd keep more of an eye on her."
Danger signals flashed across Mildred's face. "Eddie, I'm not a watchdog. I'm here if she wants me, but I'm damned if I'll trail her around like a wet nurse."
There was no sense getting into a hassle. I took Mildred to the main house for dinner. We ate with Broderick and O'Malley. Everyone knew that the Tiger had skipped camp and there was a general state of jitters. But if anyone noticed Sherry was absent, no mention was made of it.
At about nine the phone rang. Dice scooped it up, then twisted toward me. "Some dame for you, Eddie."
Nothing to worry about, I told myself. Probably some newshen wanting a last-minute handout. All the same my mouth was dry as I picked up the phone.
"Eddie! Eddie! Thank God I found you." The voice was a whisper. Unmistakably Sherry's.
Her words came tumbling out. "The Tiger kidnaped me. He's got me at a place called Brown's ViSage. I'm scared. Eddie, you've got to save me."
I started to yell into the phone, asking directions. I was wasting my breath. The line was dead.
Broderick was shaking my arm. "What's up, Eddie? For God's sake, calm down and tell me."
"It's Sherry. She claims the Tiger kidnaped her."
"That's crazy. Do you believe it?"
"I believe she's with the Tiger at a place called Brown's Village. Do you know where it is?"
"Yeah. Along the old river road. About fifteen miles from here."
"Let's get cracking."
We raced to the station wagon. Broderick took the wheel. As the motor roared to life, I saw the headlights of O'Malley's Ford flick on. Mildred leaped into the seat beside Dice.
Broderick talked in jerky sentences as he drove, filling me in on Brown's Village, a run-down motel on the edge of nowhere, on a spur road by-passed by the highway twenty years ago. A dozen cabins. Painted brown once. Nearly falling to pieces. No legitimate trade. The high school kids used it for a quick roll. In again, out again, and no questions asked. Nobody in attendance except a sloppy old witch called Maw Brown, who was tanked up on gin most of the time. The state cops kept threatening to close her down. But her brother-in-law was the local sheriff. Somehow Maw Brown managed to get along.
The station wagon swung off the highway and jounced and josded along a pitted blacktop, lined by the shadows of pine trees. There was a clearing with a glimpse of the river. Then I saw a cluster of lights back from the road.
We passed under a broken sign that read "Brown's Village." Our tires crunched on cinders as we wheeled along a drive bordered by waist-high weeds.
As the station wagon braked to a ragged stop, the headlights swept across a tableau of rigid figures. Tiger Winslow, clad only in shorts, crouched as though he were in the ring. Facing him was a loose-bodied, pot-bellied man, gun at the ready, pointing straight at the Tiger. Ranking them were two state troopers in uniform.
Lying between the two taut men was a lumpy figure in brown. The figure stirred, groaned and rolled partway over, revealing a round, lardy face as expressionless as a suet pudding, a bun of black hair streaked with dirty gray.
The fat man's eyes flicked to the woman, then back to the Tiger.
"You raping bastard! I ought to put a bullet into you for slugging Maw."
"I didn't hit her." The Tiger's voice was almost as shrill as a woman's. "I was just trying to hold her to make her listen and she fell."
"Sure. And you wasn't rapin' the kid in there. You was just playin' tiddly-winks."
"She knew what she was doing. It wasn't rape."
Broderick's voice rasped through the night. "Shut up, Tiger. Zip that lip and keep it zipped."
The fat man turned on Broderick. "Who are you, buttin' in here, tellin' my prisoner what to do?"
"Do you know who he is?"
"Name o' Smith on the card." He sniggered. "Seems like all Maw's customers is named Smith."
One of the troopers spoke for the first time. "You grabbed yourself the Tiger, Clint."
The sheriffs jaw dropped. "What d'ye mean the Tiger?" Then comprehension came to his eyes and with it greed and quick calculation. "He slugged Maw. He hurt her bad."
I pushed by them into the cabin. I thought I heard a scurry of bare feet. But the first I saw of Sherry, she was lying face down on the rumpled bed. Her panties lay on the floor and her skirt was torn. She was whimpering softly.
I started toward her. Before I could make it, Mildred darted past me and clutched Sherry in her arms.
Sherry's tear-stained face showed over Mildred's shoulder. "He raped me," she wailed. "The Tiger raped me."
The Tiger roared from the door, "That's a goddamn lie. This two-bit floozie's been out for a piece of tail ever since she laid eyes on me."
I'll never know why I did what I did next. It was the craziest stunt I ever pulled, especially knowing what I did about Sherry.
But right then there was only one thing that mattered. That was to get at the Tiger. I lunged across the room, yelling at the top of my lungs, my fists lashing out wildly. My hand crashed across the Tiger's teeth with a force that shot pain clear up to my armpit.
Just one blow. That's all I landed. Then the Tiger looped a right into my jaw. It took me clear off my feet and slammed me into the side of the cabin. A wall of blackness rushed toward me. I fought it for a moment, then let it roll over me, surprised by its clinging warmth.
* * *
Sherry's story
CHAPTER ONE
Sherry snuggled down in the overstuffed sofa and giggled. In a few minutes she'd be seeing the White Knight in action. Not really, of course, only on the television screen. She was mad at Mildred and Eddie because they wouldn't take her to the Garden. But at least no one could stop her from watching the fight on TV.
From the kitchen came the sounds of Marianne, the maid, clattering around with the dishes. Marianne was colored and she'd be bucking for Randy Quinn tonight. Sherry didn't care who won any more than she cared about the sportscaster's seemingly endless chatter about the contestants. The exciting part was to watch the flesh-bruising combat. The fight was like stylized rape, each blow penetrating deep into the body. She'd be a part of it, too. Didn't everyone say that because of her the Tiger wouldn't be in top form tonight?
She had to giggle again, thinking of how she'd smuggled herself into the Tiger's Jaguar and how surprised he'd been when she had sat up in the back seat.
His eyes had almost popped out of his head. He'd slewed over to the side of the road and braked.
"Where the hell did you come from, baby?"
"Aren't you glad to see me? I thought you'd be lonely."
"You bet. I always said you were a sweet stick o' candy. Come on up front."
She climbed over the seat, skirt fucking up over pink thighs, and tumbled down beside him. His fingers slid along her body, cupping one of her breasts.
"Baby doll, you make me hungry. If I wasn't in training, I'd eat you up."
She laughed, pretending not to understand. "Would you really eat me, Tiger? Would you bite my head off?"
They drove on, but not so fast now. The Tiger dawdled along back roads until he parked on a high ridge.
He looked at her thoughtfully. "I don't dig you, baby. Sometimes I think you know the score. Then again I ain't so sure."
She slid away from him, folding her hands in her lap.
"Do you really think I'm pretty?"
"Sure. Pretty as a doll."
"Prettier than Mitzi or Ava D'Avril?"
"You got something they ain't got. You make them look like old hags."
He'd been inching closer. Now he pulled her roughly against him. She felt the pressure of his chest against her breasts. His fingers loosened the buttons of her fuzzy pink sweater, sliding it back over her shoulder.
Just then a beat-up jalopy rattled down the road and skidded to a stop.
"It's the Tiger," someone yelled.
Four teen-age boys piled out of the jalopy and raced back along the blacktop. The biggest of the kids thrust his head in the window.
"Gee whiz, Tiger. What about an autograph?"
The Tiger gave him a push that sent him sprawling. He double-kicked into gear and angled past the jalopy.
"Goddamn punks," he growled. "I ought to knock their teeth down their throats. Who do they think they are?"
"It's like the camp. Nobody will ever let me be alone with you."
"Is that what you'd like, baby? Maybe I can fix up a place."
"I'm crazy about you, Tiger. I'd do anything you want."
"You know something? I'm taut as a G-string. That Dice O'Malley is nuts. He says no broads, no liquor. Just punch the bag and skip the rope and eat your beefsteak like a good boy."
He hesitated, then went on arguing as though with himself. "Dice wants me on edge but that ain't right. You can blow your top thinking too much. The thing to do is ease up a little before the big show."
He stopped the car in the clearing that overlooked Brown's Village.
"What do you say? Are you game for a quick shack-up?"
"They'll know you down there. They'll recognize the car."
"Don't worry about that. The old rum-dum who rents them flea traps is so juiced up she wouldn't know her twin brother. For the price of a bottle, she'd tuck the sheets around us herself."
She didn't argue any more. She watched from the front seat of the Jaguar while the Tiger dickered with a fat woman with a white crinkled face, and shoe-button eyes. When he came back to the car he had a pint of gin as well as a key.
The Tiger poured himself a drink before he undressed her. He wasn't gentle but he was holding himself in for fear of frightening her. She had to giggle at the way his hands trembled. It gave her a sense of power to see him all worked up.
Once she was undressed, he went wild. He hurt her but she closed her eyes and pretended that she was Gladys. That made it all right. Then he was spent and she'd got nothing out of it. Nothing at all. She hated him. But it wasn't time to show it yet. She'd have her fun later.
She waited until she was sure he was asleep, then putting on her skirt and sweater, she tiptoed outside. The darkness concealed all the cabins except the one up front where Maw Brown lived.
Maw was sitting at a table in the back room with a big man opposite her. The front office was unattended, a telephone booth against one wall.
She slipped into the booth and called the camp, asking for Eddie. She had a hard time fighting down the burbles of laughter at the sound of his panic-stricken voice. She hung up quick and dialed the operator. She kept her voice low and scared, saying the police were needed at Brown's Village.
She scurried back to the cabin where the Tiger was sleeping. She threw her panties on the floor and stamped on them. Then she ripped the seam of her skirt and slid into bed beside him.
Headlights sprayed across the cabin window. She imagined it was the cops, though she was surprised that they'd arrived so soon.
She ran to the open window and screamed. She'd made a mistake but she realized it too late. The car wasn't a police cruiser but the jalopy with the teen-agers they'd seen earlier. It wheeled in a circle and high-tailed out of the drive.
The Tiger was on her, pulling her back from the window, trying to stifle her screams. "Cut that noise. For God's sake, what are you up to?"
She arched against him, the excitement in her churning a fever in her loins. He choked off her cry. But already lumbering footsteps were crunching along the cindered drive. The door burst open and Maw Brown's massive, shapeless figure crowded the doorway.
Sherry cowered against the Tiger, sobbing, fighting to free herself.
Maw bustled in, arms akimbo. "What's going on here? I don't permit no rough stuff in my place." Then as the Tiger ignored her, she gripped his arm. "Lay off, I tell ya. Lay off and get out of here."
The Tiger shook her off and stood glaring at her. "Shut your trap, you goddamn fat bag, or I'll slap you silly."
"You got no call to talk to me like that. I'm callin' the cops, I am."
She waddled to the door and out onto the path. The Tiger released Sherry, grabbed up his shorts and ran after her.
He swung her around. "No cops. You hear? I don't want no cops."
"I'll bet you don't but you ain't turnin' my place into no cathouse."
She wrenched out of his grasp and lurched sideways. She fell heavily, striking her forehead against a loose rock. She gave a gurgling moan and flopped over, blood trickling along her cheek.
The Tiger rushed back to the cabin. "Come on, Sherry. Sling on some clothes. We got to beat feet."
Sherry cringed away. "No. I'm scared."
"Okay. Then I'm getting out alone."
He raced toward the white Jaguar. His hand was on the door handle when a harsh voice made him spin around.
"Stay away from that car or I'll plug you. I seen what you done to Maw and you're going to pay for it."
"Go to hell," the Tiger said and reached for the door again.
There was a flash, the thunder of a gun, the metallic scream of a bullet ricocheting off the Jaguar.
The Tiger backed away, facing the big man. "Are you nuts? Who do you think you are?"
"The name's Clint Jackson. I'm the law around these parts."
"Sheriff?"
"Yeah. You hit it right on the nose. Now get back in that cabin 'cause the next false move you make, I'm puttin' a bullet smack into you."
The Tiger retreated slowly. As he reached the cabin, lights illuminated the drive and a police cruiser wheeled in. Two troopers leaped out and converged on the cabin.
"What's this all about, Clint?"
"Case of rape. Assault on Maw when she tried to break it up. I got this boy dead to rights."
Before he finished speaking, other headlights speared the night and still others appeared at the clearing by the river bend.
Eddie and Broderick joined the group. Sherry, watching from the window, saw Mildred and Dice O'Malley get out of the last car.
Eddie was heading for the cabin. She ran for the bed, threw herself on it and began to sob.
Mildred reached her first. Over Mildred's shoulder she saw Eddie lunge at the Tiger, and the Tiger knock him down.
After that everything was mixed up. Everyone was yelling. The state troopers latched onto the Tiger and hustled him outside. Then there was a doctor leaning over her, examining her. The prick of a needle in her arm. In spite of her efforts, her head began to sag and she couldn't keep the sleep away. She was barely conscious when Mildred led her outside and thrust her into the station wagon.
Later she opened her eyes. She and Mildred were driving through the night.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
Mildred's voice was unexpectedly sharp. "We're heading for New York. That's where Eddie told me to take you and I'm doing it."
So she'd missed most of the excitement after all. She never did know how the Tiger talked himself out of the mess. Bribing Maw Brown and the sheriff would be a cinch. But with the state police that wouldn't work. Maybe they couldn't charge him without a complaint and Mildred was keeping her under wraps. But they couldn't stop her from making a rape charge. Not if she wanted to. And the Tiger would know that. He'd remember it even while he was in the ring. He wouldn't be able to shake off the thin cold veil of fear she'd cast over him.
Sherry's mind turned back to the television screen. A roar of voices filled the room, the hysterical screams of women mounting above the rest. The camera focused on the Tiger. He was raising both hands, trying to grin confidently. But the muscles of his face were fixed, his stance unnaturally rigid.
The camera switched to Randy Quinn. He was smiling, his brown body relaxed and easy. But as he glanced at the Tiger his eyes turned hard and bright.
There was the sound of a gong and the fight was on.
Only it wasn't a fight. It was a slaughter.
Quinn came streaking across the ring, straight for the Tiger's corner. Winslow sidled away, almost like a frightened schoolboy. The crowd booed. Quinn romped in, flicking a stinging jab to the Tiger's face. Winslow countered with a wild right and Quinn ducked under it, dancing away, lashing out with another jab that sliced across the Tiger's ribs.
The Tiger was back-pedaling but Quinn crowded him, tagging him with light jabs that made him drop his guard, straightening him up with a left to the jaw and then crossing another right to the ribs that sent the Tiger reeling into the ropes. Quinn was on him, delivering three hard wallops before the referee stepped in to break them up. Quinn bounced on the soles of his feet, waiting. The Tiger lurched toward him, grappling with him, holding his arms, bulling him to the ropes. Quinn broke free and landed a solid punch to the side of the head, just as the bell ended the round.
Quinn took it easier in the second round, avoiding the clinches, determined to mark up his man. He darted in, feinting for the body, then slashing upward to the face. The Tiger was moving slowly, his timing fractionally off. With a harsh cry, he rushed in. Quinn's glove landed squarely in his face and as the Tiger backed away, blood gushed from his nose. Quinn followed up, raining rights and lefts to the head. The Tiger sagged against the ropes, clinging to it and was saved by the bell.
The Tiger staggered into the ring for the third round, crouching, covering, instinctively warding off the blows, circling, back-pedaling, constantly on the defensive. The crowd was yelling for a knockout but Quinn was wary, concentrating on his enemy's face, opening his lip, slashing at his eye, until the side of the Tiger's face was a gory mess and blood dripped onto the canvas.
Between rounds the Tiger's seconds worked furiously, stanching the flow of blood, slapping collodion on the wounds to make them congeal.
The Tiger rose for the fourth round, his eyes glassy. Then with a roar of rage he charged Quinn, fists flailing. Quinn side-stepped and the Tiger skidded past him, off balance, nearly falling from his own momentum. He slewed around and Quinn stood flat-footed, daring him to attack. For an endless moment neither man moved. Then the Tiger weaved in, his left held low. He lashed out with all his strength, telegraphing the blow.
Quinn leaped toward him, his gloved fist crashed into the Tiger's body just below the ribs, sinking deep in the flesh. The sound of the contact was drowned out by the Tiger's scream of anguish. The blow took him off his feet, arched him back, bent him over, so that he pitched face downward to the floor.
The referee began the count, arm raising and falling, a trifle too slowly, stretching the seconds. It didn't matter. He could have counted to a hundred and the Tiger wouldn't have stirred.
The golden head pressed against the canvas. The massive body lay motionless.
He had to be carried from the ring on a stretcher.
CHAPTER TWO
THE TIGER WILL NEVER FIGHT AGAIN. The morning papers blazoned the news across their front pages above pictures of Winslow being loaded into an ambulance.
Sherry skimmed the first paragraph:
Dr. Mathew B. Healey announced today that, due to spinal injuries incurred in the savage mauling he received at the hands of heavyweight champion Randy Quinn, Tiger Winslow will never be able to resume his career in the ring.
Sherry hugged the paper to herself, feeling the curl of warmth in her loins, the burble of laughter in her throat.
She looked up and saw that Eddie had come to the doorway. His face was swollen and lopsided where the Tiger had hit him.
She ran to him, her fingers raised to caress the discolored flesh.
"I'm sorry the Tiger hit you. I guess it was my fault."
"You really are a crazy, mixed-up kid, Sherry." He round eyes were guileless. "You don't believe the Tiger kidnaped me, do you?"
"Nope. I sure don't."
"He did just the same."
"Knock it off, Sherry. You were at Brown's Village for three hours before you phoned me. Maw Brown says you came riding in on the front seat with the Tiger."
"She's lying."
"Sure. Everybody's lying but you. I ought to be sore as hell at you. But you know I'm glad I got up the courage to take a sock at the Tiger. I've hated that cotton-picking bastard ever since college days."
"What'll happen to the Tiger now?"
"He'll land on his feet. He's out of the fight game but he's still got that lovely carcass that the dames drool over."
She wanted to ask more questions but Eddie might grow suspicious. Better to get her information by eavesdropping. She still had use for the Tiger but she'd have to be careful not to tip her hand.
In the days to come she learned plenty, not only about the Tiger, but about Gladys, too. Despite the size of his purse, the Tiger was broke and was shacking up with Mitzi Hale in Greenwich Village.
According to Eddie, Mitzi hadn't landed the juicy Hollywood contract she'd been expecting. So she was still clinging to the Tiger in the forlorn hope that he'd hit the comeback trail.
Sherry listened, but the news that really excited her was that Gladys would be returning from Hollywood. She was planning to reopen the apartment in which she'd lived with Syd.
Sherry had to find a way of making Gladys take her back. And she had a glimmering of how it could be done. She must make Gladys a partner in her childhood fantasies. She must bring the bright stranger to Gladys and present him as a gift. Then they would be joined together for all time.
The first step was to find the Tiger. That wasn't hard. Mitzi Hale's address was in the telephone book. But she couldn't just go barging in. She had to see him alone.
She watched on the sidewalk opposite Mitzi's apartment for a week. But every time the Tiger showed up, something went wrong. Either Mitzi would be with him, or someone would spot him for the Tiger, or he'd duck into the bar next door before she could reach him.
Twice she'd crept up the dim stairs to listen at Mitzi's door. Each time a fight was going on. Mitzi would rant on and on in her shrill, mean voice until the Tiger would roar at her, "Shut your goddamn face or you ain't going to have no teeth left. No ears neither."
She'd been up on the landing again today. The fight was more violent than usual.
There were scuffling sounds and voices mingling in incoherent rage. The door had flown open and Mitzi had stumbled out into the hall. She'd tottered down the stairs, clinging to the rail. The Tiger had come to the door and slammed it shut, locking himself inside.
Instinct had warned Sherry it was too soon to approach the Tiger. She'd have to give him time to cool off. She'd gone back down the stairs and here she was, waiting patiently on the sidewalk, pretending interest in a display of hammered-bronze jewelry.
She caught her first glimpse of the Tiger in the mirrors at the back of the showcase. He stood blinking in the bright sunlight. He didn't look like the White Knight any more. A scar crisscrossed the whole of his cheek, only partly concealed by his stubble of blond beard. He wore a battered hat of coconut fiber pulled low over his triangular face, a brightly flowered Hawaiian sport shirt hanging over crumpled seersucker slacks.
He lounged in the doorway, his expression truculent, his hands stuffed in his pants pockets. He must have been belting the bottle upstairs because, when he finally moved away, there was a suggestion of a lurch to his walk.
She trailed him at a discreet distance, hoping for a private spot where she could brace him alone. He headed for Fifth Avenue and down toward Washington Square. He passed under the arch and turned toward the gaunt, ugly buildings of the university. He found an empty bench and flopped on it, legs spread, arms twisted over the back slats.
He didn't glance up until her shadow cut across him. Then his mouth went slack with disbelief.
"For Crizzake, what hole did you pop out of?"
"Aren't you glad to see me, Tiger?"
"You're as welcome as a dose of poison. I been promising myself to look you up and rip you limb from limb and stuff the pieces in a sewer."
She giggled. "Would you really do that, Tiger?"
He sat staring at her and she could see things come into his eyes that hadn't been there a minute ago. Desire. Lust. Speculation.
She sat on the bench beside him, her head touching his arm.
"Why do you hate me? What did I do?"
"Like you don't know. Calling the cops in. Eddie and Broderick, too. Pretending it was rape, when all the time you were with it."
"I didn't call the cops. Maw Brown did. If she says different, she's fibbing."
"I imagine she did the yelling, too."
"I didn't know what I was doing. I woke up and it was dark. I didn't know where I was and I was scared. Hysterical, I guess."
"Sure. Do you know what you did to me? The cops kept me up all night. Just two days before the fight. Firing questions at me. Threatening to hang a rape rap on me. Saying they'd toss me in the can and throw the keys away."
She let tears roll down her cheeks. "I was trying to help you. You said it would be good for you. I wanted you to win the fight."
"Some little helper! By the time I got in the ring with Quinn, I didn't know which end was up. I could have made mincemeat out of him. Instead-oh, hell, you know what happened."
"You'll beat him next time."
"For me there ain't no next time. The doc says I'll never fight again. I'm through. Kaput. Finished. Does that hand you a bang, bright eyes? Because I'd be on top of the heap if it wasn't for you."
"I'm sorry, Tiger. I'll do anything to make it up to you."
"Like what?"
"Do I have to tell you?"
"You mean the lovely white body bit. Then what? You start screaming bloody murder again?"
"I won't. Honest. Please believe me."
Sweat was breaking out on his forehead. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I ought to tell you to broom off. But Christ, you got something. I never had it so good."
They ended up back in Mitzi's apartment after she'd given him the money for a fifth of whiskey. He took a half-dozen swigs straight from the bottle. When he came to her, his face was hard.
"Get off them duds, kid. I ain't messin' around this time. You try any tricks and I swear to God I'll kill you."
She could feel the swelling warmth, the need for his violence. She took off her dress and stood in her underclothing, her head hanging. Her eyes lifted slowly to him.
He was on her, ripping off her bra, her panties, tumbling her into the bed that was still rumpled from his love-making with Mitzi.
Then he was forcing her legs apart, his rampant body like that of a wild animal. She could feel the force in him, the strength, the brutal desire to hurt her. Her breasts seemed to swell and her body to become big like Gladys'. She let out a whimpering cry and clung to him. For once she was sorry when he fell back, slack and spent, drained of all tension.
She'd like to pretend that she was Gladys all over again.
CHAPTER THREE
Sherry glided up the service stairs, hugging the wall, stopping every now and then to listen. Not that anyone would dare stop her. But she liked secrecy, the sense of moving invisibly toward a forbidden goal.
Gladys had changed the lock on the front door just after Syd's death. But she hadn't thought about the kitchen. Sherry had a key for that.
She let herself in, feeling a pleasurable thrill at penetrating the empty apartment. She moved from room to room but she lingered longest in the bedroom which Gladys had shared with Syd. Everything had been put in order, even the bed turned down for Gladys. She skipped about, touching the toilet articles, running her fingers over the dresses in the closet, pretending she was Gladys Fane just home from Hollywood.
But she mustn't play the game too long. She had a lot to do to set the scene for Gladys' arrival.
She sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up the phone. The number she dialed was a bar in the Village where the Tiger had told her she could reach him this time of day.
His voice came on the line, guarded and cautious, over the subdued din of the jukebox in the background.
She gave the address.
"Look, baby. You wouldn't be trying any tricks, would you?"
"What makes you think that?"
"You ain't answering my question."
"I wouldn't trick you. This place will be ours. No danger of Mitzi finding us here."
She cradled the phone and giggled, rolling on the bed. She'd cut the time thin. Gladys' plane would just be coming into the airport. But she didn't dare hold the Tiger here too long. He had only one thing on his mind. Each time that she'd been with him since that afternoon at Mitzi's, he'd jump her in the first five minutes.
She was in the foyer when the Tiger rang. She admitted him quickly, leading him into the front room.
He entered wanly, sniffing the air like an animal scenting danger.
"Hey, Sherry. What gives here? What are you doin' in a pad like this?"
"I five here."
"Don't feed me that crap. You're staying with Eddie and Mildred."
"Not any longer."
"Baby, ff you're settin' me up, I'll bust you in two."
"No tricks, Tiger. What about a beer? There's some in the frig. I'll bring you a can and tell you about it."
"Okay. But it better be good."
She took her time getting the beer, dawdling in the kitchen as long as she dared.
When she came back, he was staring at the studio portrait of Gladys on the piano.
"Some dame! What you doin' with her picture?"
"She's my mother."
"For Crizzake, now I've heard everything. Do you think I'm an idiot? This frail is Gladys Fane."
"Didn't Eddie tell you she's my mother?"
He looked up sharply. "Eddie didn't tell me nothin' about you, except to keep hands off. Like you were his private property."
His eyes strayed back to the picture. Gladys was wearing a strapless gown that pushed her heavy breasts upward and emphasized their cleavage.
He said, "Baby, sometimes I wonder if you're on horse, the kind of daydreams you have."
"Gladys is my mother. If you don't believe me, you can ask her."
"What do I do? Call Hollywood and ask for her private number?"
"She's not in Hollywood. She's here in New York. She'll be at the apartment any minute now."
He gripped her arm hard. "I got a feeling you're trying a squeeze play on me. Like you pulled with Maw Brown."
Before she could answer there was the metallic clang of the elevator door and footsteps in the hall.
A key scraped in the lock. Sherry sidled away, half-concealing herself in the shadowed alcove that led to the bedroom. She saw the Tiger holding himself stiffly erect.
The shuffle of feet in the foyer came to an abrupt stop. There was a moment of silence. Then a voice she didn't expect to hear. Eddie Dolph, saying, "Tiger Winslow! How in hell did you get in here?"
The Tiger relaxed, grinning. "Don't flip, Eddie. I came with Sherry. And don't get no fancy ideas neither. She just wanted me to meet her mom."
Gladys came into Sherry's line of vision. She and Eddie must have stopped for a couple of quick ones, because she was weaving a trifle. Her lipstick was smeared and one strap of her gown had slid to one side, revealing the plump white mound of her breast.
Something crazy was happening to the Tiger. Suddenly he didn't look like a stumble-bum. He was the White Knight again, debonair, white teeth flashing, sure of himself.
Sherry ran from the shadows, flinging herself at Gladys.
Gladys collapsed in a chair. Sherry could feel her go rigid, feel the bite of her nails on her shoulder. But when she spoke, her voice was almost a purr.
"Darling, you shouldn't be here."
"I wanted to be with you. Please let me stay."
Gladys spoke to her, but Sherry knew the words were directed at the Tiger. "This isn't a happy place to come back to. I had to steel myself with a drink or two."
Sherry clutched Gladys more tightly. "Please. Please say I can stay."
Gladys' gaze flicked to the Tiger. She wouldn't want to look bad in his eyes. "All right, Sherry. But not now. You go home with Eddie. Tomorrow we'll talk things over."
Eddie said, "I don't like this. I'm not leaving you alone with Winslow."
Gladys smiled indolently. "I'm a big girl, Eddie. I can take care of myself."
The Tiger interrupted. "I'll run along with you, Eddie. We'll all go. I reckon Miss Fane will be wanting some rest."
Outside, the Tiger gave Eddie a knowing leer. "Sorry to break things up between you and blondie back there. I guess you was all set for some parlor games."
"Damn you, Tiger! Haven't you made enough trouble?"
"Me?" The Tiger raised his brows in mock innocence. "I was just waiting for a streetcar. You know the old gag. You pay the fare and you ride all night."
"Lay off Gladys Fane. Lay off Sherry, too."
"They ain't your personal property, Eddie. And even if they was, there's never been a dame I couldn't cut out from under you. So stop flexing them muscles. Next time I have to sock you, I'm likely to tear your head off."
"I can still hang a rape rap on you. Maybe I will."
"No you won't, palsie. One thing I'll say for you, you know when to keep your trap shut."
Eddie climbed into the station wagon, slamming the door after him. Sherry was already in the front seat, excited by the quarrel, wondering if it would erupt into violence.
The Tiger peered through the window, giving her a big wink. Eddie revved the engine and jerked into gear. Sherry looked back. The Tiger was slouched at the curb. As they rounded the corner, he flicked his coconut fiber hat at a jaunty angle and sauntered back toward the entrance of the apartment house.
Eddie must have seen the same thing through the rear-view mirror. He drove on in silence, his face set in grim, angry lines.
Sherry couldn't sleep that night. Her excitement was too great. In her mind's eye she was back in Gladys' apartment. She'd set the stage, turned Gladys and the Tiger into puppets whom she could control with a flick of her fingers. But what if she had miscalculated? She had to see for herself.
She got up and dressed quickly. She slipped out of the front door and once she was outside, caught a cab to the apartment house where Gladys lived.
She snaked through the lobby to the service stairs, darting up them quickly, without a sound. Then she was at the kitchen door. She eased it back and was in the dark, silent apartment.
At first she thought she was mistaken, that there could be no other living presence in the place. Then she caught the tiniest of sounds, the faint glimmer of light under a door.
She angled along the corridor until her fingers touched the knob. It twisted under her hand. With infinite care she inched the door open until she could see the wide bed with the pale glow of the lamp falling across the pillows.
Gladys lay on the bed, a kimono loose over her shoulders. She let the kimono slide away to show the soft, rich contours of her body, the full breasts and ample thighs. She stirred and her arms stretched out in invitation.
Sherry saw the Tiger then, reflected in the tall mirror. He was naked and the dim light cast shadows along the silken smoothness of his burnished skin.
There was something strange about the way he moved, like a cautious fighter, wary of his opponent. No. More like a dmid schoolboy, uncertain of the welcome of his lover's arms.
Gladys reached for him, drew him down tenderly, until his body was a dark cross on hers. And still there was scarcely a sound. Only the Tiger's choking breath.
Gladys lay motionless, relaxed beneath him. Then her body grew slowly taut, coiled like a giant spring until it arched upward, thighs clinging, breasts straining, the head tilted back to show the pulsing throat.
A single cry, sharp and high-pitched, wrenched itself from her lips.
Sherry could hear the sob in her own throat, the coil of unendurable heat, and she could not hold back her muted cry of release.
Gladys' body slumped. She had heard nothing. But the Tiger stiffened, rigid in her arms, his head twisting toward the door.
"What was that?" he asked.
Gladys didn't answer. She was stroking his scarred cheek, murmuring soft, unintelligible words.
The Tiger crouched beside her. But Sherry could sense the unease in him, the sudden restiveness. She backed away towards the kitchen. Her elbow knocked against something on a table. There was an unexpected crash, as a glass tipped over, the noise shattering the silence of the apartment.
She darted for the door, snatching up the slippers she had left outside, racing on stocking feet down the service stairs. She was two landings down before she looked up. The Tiger was staring at her over the railing, a curious blankness on his triangular face.
She ran on but now she was giggling. The Tiger would know that she'd watched the scene in the bedroom. But he wouldn't dare to tell Gladys. He wouldn't want her to learn about what had happened in Brown's Village.
Gladys had the Tiger hooked but Sherry held the whip over both of them. Gladys didn't know it yet. But she'd find out soon enough.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sherry bided her time like a cat playing with a mouse.
Never a day passed but what she returned to the apartment. Sometimes, as on that first night, she entered the kitchen by stealth, listening to the sounds of intimacy between Gladys and the Tiger. She surmised that the Tiger was aware of her presence and that, in some perverse way, he was titillated by it. Gladys, she was sure, was too absorbed in her love-making to heed the trifling sound of a creaking board or a slithering footstep.
Afternoons she went to see Gladys openly. And Gladys no longer denied her entrance.
Sherry played her cards skillfully, squatting at Gladys' feet, ignoring the Tiger. She made no further attempt to persuade Gladys to let her move into the apartment. The time wasn't ripe. She'd wait until Gladys and the Tiger were bound by marriage. Then she'd show her aces.
They were drifting toward marriage fast. The Tiger wanted it because he was head over heels in debt and Gladys could bail him out. He was clever with women when he wanted to be and he knew how to exploit Gladys' weak points. She was always a sucker for the beaten and the defeated. The Tiger played the bumbling boy who worshiped at her feet.
And Gladys, still lonely for Syd, swallowed the Tiger hook, line and sinker. Most of the men in her life had wanted a roll in the sheets and a quick getaway. The Tiger convinced her that he genuinely needed her.
Sherry heard Eddie and Mildred discussing the marriage.
Mildred's voice was troubled. "I don't like it, Eddie. I should have told Gladys about Sherry and the Tiger."
"Maybe. Maybe not. I tried to warn her that the Tiger is a bum and she chewed my ear off."
The conversation made Sherry realize she couldn't wait too long and her decision was confirmed by eavesdropping on Gladys and the Tiger. It was one of those nights when she'd sneaked in and they'd had no idea that she was there. They were discussing going to Hollywood. . Gladys was saying, "You'll make it, Tiger. I know you will. If MGM doesn't snap you up, Abe Myer at Decan will."
"Suits me fine. But what do we do about the kid? She'll be a millstone around our necks."
Gladys' voice showed surprise. "Sherry? I thought you liked her."
"Sure, I do. But she's a bundle of dynamite all the same. She's jealous as hell of you. When she finds out we're getting hitched, she'll put up a squawk. She'll do everything she can to separate us."
"What can she do?"
"How do I know what goes on in that tricky little mind of hers? She might even claim I raped her."
"Tiger, you didn't!"
"See what I mean? Already you got suspicions."
"Sherry took Syd from me. She won't take you. I won't let her."
"I'm glad to hear you say that. All the same, I think we ought to skip out to the West Coast to get married. "And send for Sherry later?"
"We don't send for the kid at all. Mildred and Eddie can take care of her. They understand her better than we do."
The Tiger didn't know it but he'd sealed his fate then and there. Sherry could feel the hate twisting through her like red-hot flame. It was all she could do to stifle the impulse to rush into the room, to scream and pummel them with her fists. Only it wouldn't work and she had weapons that would. Guile. Deceit. The use of her teenage body.
She backed away, more careful than ever not to be heard. And once the kitchen door was closed behind her, she sat down on the service stairs to work out the details of her plan.
She'd stolen the revolver months before from where it had nestled in one of the glass display cases in which Daddy Paget stored his treasures. She'd broken the glass panel and taken out the gun right under Daddy's eyes, but he hadn't interfered.
All he'd said was, "It's loaded, Sherry."
She'd giggled and slid off the safety catch, holding the revolver loose in her hand.
She'd seen a flicker of hope in the gaunt face and beaten eyes. Daddy had thought she was going to turn the weapon on him and he'd been glad. But she wasn't going to let him off the hook that easily. Besides she had other uses for the gun.
It had been lying concealed among her underthings all these months. A little beauty. A Colt-type automatic made in Japan, its handle inlaid with an intricate pattern of mother-of-pearl.
Two nights later when she went to Gladys' apartment, she carried the gun in her bag. She knew the Tiger would be there alone. She'd overheard Gladys invite him to an opening night party she had to attend and his gruff refusal.
She entered by way of the kitchen as usual, not wanting to warn the Tiger of her presence too soon. Actually she needn't have worried about the noise. He was in the shower, splashing around, singing at the top of his lungs. A herd of elephants could have tramped in without his knowing it.
She slid through the darkness to the room which had been hers when she had lived with Gladys and Syd. Nothing had changed. There was the same narrow bed, the maple dresser with its three paneled mirrors. Some of her clothing was still in the closet. The pile of moving picture magazines on the bedside table. The trinkets in the lacquered Japanese jewel box.
She undressed in the dark, piling the clothes neatly on a chair, and went to the bureau. She found a frilly white nightdress in the bottom drawer. She ripped it down the front, carried it to the bed and crushed it between the sheets. Then she waited, naked in the darkness, listening.
The Tiger was taking his time over his shower. But at last the spray turned off. She heard him pad into the bedroom. A glass tinkled and water gurgled. He'd be pouring himself a drink. That was good. He'd probably been drinking steadily since Gladys' departure.
Better not to call him. Just make a noise that would arouse his curiosity and bring him to investigate. She picked up a hand mirror and slammed it down hard on the dresser top. The shatter of glass was louder than she'd expected.
He grunted and swore under his breath. Then he was approaching, a wariness in his padding footsteps. He stopped just outside the open door, his silhouette towering, monolithic against the dim background.
She crouched on the bed. He turned his head, his eyes probing the darkness.
"Hey! Who's there? What's going on?" A hint of fear was in his voice.
She didn't answer.
His hand raised to the wall switch. A sharp click. That was all. The overhead bulb must have burned out.
She pulled the sheet over her face and lay motionless.
The sheet was snatched away with a quick yank and he was bending over her.
"Sherry! For Crizzake, what do you think you're doing? Gladys will raise hell if she finds you here."
She remained still and he gripped her shoulder. "Have you flipped? Or are you trying to queer my pitch with your mom?"
Her laughter burbled over.
"What makes you so scared, Tiger?"
"Me, scared? You're crackers, kid."
"No, I'm not. You let Gladys lead you around like a trained poodle, like you were a gigolo."
"I ought to wallop you one for that. I ought to beat that cute little fanny of yours cherry red."
"You wouldn' dare. Gladys might not like it."
"To hell with that. I'm tellin' you, get your duds on and scoot."
"Why are you so worried? Gladys won't come home. Not for a long time."
She reached for the bedside light and snapped it on. His breath sucked in sharply at the sight of her nude body. With his palm he gave her a resounding slap on the buttocks.
She squealed and rolled against his thighs. He was still holding the glass in one hand. It slopped over, spilling whiskey across her legs and onto the sheet.
She snuggled against him. "Come on, Tiger. Be nice to me. You know I want you."
Desire was rising in him and she knew he couldn't resist her long. He was the Tiger, the man who boasted he could take on a dozen women in a single night.
She rolled onto her back, rosebud-tipped breasts pointing upward, eyes dancing with mockery.
He towered over her, his fingers, tangling in her hair, forcing her head back.
"You little hell cat! You think you can bust things up between me and Gladys. That's it, ain't it?"
"Just one more time, Tiger, and I won't bother you any more."
"Nothing bothers me. I'm the Tiger. I take what I want and nobody stops me."
He twisted onto her then, pinioning her beneath him. He was harsh, brutal, his body a whip, lashing at her. She strained beneath him, trying to move, but she was helpless against his strength.
When he was through, he gazed down at her, his lips curled back in a sneer. He said, "Okay, kid. You got what you came for. Now beat it."
She lay still. He shook her until she was crying with soft mewling sounds.
"Bawling ain't going to do you no good. You come here begging for a jolt. You got it. So why ain't you satisfied?"
"What if I tell Gladys you raped me?"
"Just try it on for size, angel-puss. Gladys is hip to you. She ain't going to believe you. And maybe I'll work you over nice."
He turned away. "Look, kid. I'm takin' another shower. If you ain't gone when I come back, I'm giving you the heave-ho, clothes or no clothes."
He started down the hall. He was swinging into the bedroom when the front door of the apartment opened. Gladys' cheery voice called out, "Tiger, where are you?"
Sherry knew it was time to scream. Just one more thing she had to do. She grabbed up her handbag and unclasped it, screaming while she did so.
The pearl-handled revolver was gripped in her hand when the Tiger came charging into the room. It bucked hard when she pulled the trigger and the noise of it was like thunder in the confined space.
The bullet caught the Tiger in the chest, straightening him up. His hands clasped the wound and blood spurted from between his fingers. He staggered forward and Sherry fired again. The second bullet penetrated just above the heart. The third nicked him on the shoulder as he lunged toward her and fell.
Sherry stepped away from the falling body, her eyes round and shiny, her head tilted to one side.
That was the way Gladys found her.
Gladys looked at the Tiger lying motionless on the floor, then at Sherry.
"Why?" she asked. "For God's sake, why?"
"He was mine first. You took him away from me. You were running off, leaving me behind. I know what you were going to do. I know."
Gladys slid down beside the Tiger, turning him gently. Without glancing at Sherry again, she rose, went to the front room, picked up the phone and dialed.
She called her doctor first then, after a moment's hesitation, her lawyer. Her voice was surprisingly calm.
Sherry followed her and stood listening.
Gladys sat down, her hands gripping the arms of the chair, to keep her upright. She said, "Sherry, as soon as the doctor comes, he'll have to notify the police. I hope my lawyer will get here before the police do but, if he doesn't, try not to say a word. Do you understand?"
"The Tiger's dead, isn't he?"
"I think so. I can't be sure."
"What'll they do to me? Strap me in the chair and burn me?" She was giggling now. "I bet I'll look cute in the chair. You'd like to see me burn, wouldn't you, Gladys?"
"No. And it's not going to happen. My bet is you'll go scot-free. I'll stand by you because I've got to. Otherwise, I'll look like a beast. The lawyers will make it out that the Tiger was raping you. But it's not true. I know better."
"Are you going to tell the police that?"
"Maybe I should but I'm not going to. I'll play along. But there's one thing I want you to do for me in return, Sherry. Never touch me again. Please don't ever touch me."
That's how the Tiger died. And maybe it should be the end of the story. But there was an aftermath to it.
Like I've said, most of this book was culled from Carlotta Stein's interviews with Sherry, Gladys and the rest. But from here on in, I'll have to play it by ear.
Carlotta's interviews extended over a period of three months and, at the end of that time, she had to make recommendations to Dr. Heidenseck.
I've never seen those recommendations but I do know that Carlotta had diagnosed Sherry as a schizophrenic, paranoid type, with homicidal tendencies. She considered the only safe place for her was an institution where she would be under constant supervision.
Carlotta wrote her report on a Friday afternoon before leaving the city for a weekend.
It should have been a happy weekend. She and Mitch Polstedt had finally decided to get married. They were going to visit with Mitch's parents in upstate New York and break the news.
I don't know how Sherry caught wind of their plans but with her habit of snooping and eavesdropping, it wouldn't be hard for her to do.
Friday night Sherry went to Carlotta's empty apartment. She had keys to both the front door and the files which she'd stolen during one of her sessions with Carlotta.
From her diary, I know that Sherry was fearful and resentful of Carlotta. She'd told her more than she'd intended and was afraid of the use that Carlotta might make of the information. She was also curious to know what Gladys Fane had said about her.
Sherry took an overnight bag with her. She opened the files and took out all the records and spools of recording tape and stored them in the bag. Before leaving she must have snooped through Carlotta's desk and found her recommendations. She ripped the report into shreds and burned them in an ash tray.
After that she returned home and had coffee and sandwiches with Mildred and me. She was bright-eyed, giggly and full of silly chatter. And all the time, she must have had murder on her mind.
I didn't know anything was wrong until Saturday afternoon when I went to the parking lot for the station wagon. The car was missing and the attendant told me Sherry had driven away in it. He'd tried to stop her but she had the keys and was too quick for him.
Sure, I should have notified the cops then and there but I decided to wait a while. Sherry was in enough trouble. Besides, how was I to know that she was planning another homicide.
The next part of this story was told me by Mitch Polstedt. Carlotta didn't want to talk about it.
Saturday night Mitch and Carlotte went for a ride. Mitch was driving the secondhand Jaguar he'd recently bought. He picked the country roads that cling to the sides of the mountains. They're dangerous with hairpin curves and steep declivities at one side but Mitch had known them since he was a boy.
Carlotta's head was nestling against his shoulder and Mitch was feeling happy, way up on cloud nine.
The second car seemed to come out of nowhere. It was a black shape, swooping up in back of him without lights, riding his tail. Then suddenly it was abreast of him, hurtling along beside him. It drew a little ahead, cutting in sharp. Mich stamped on the brake. The Jag swung toward the verge and its tires spewed gravel as it jolted to a stop with fenders scraping the guard rail.
Mitch was cursing a steady streak. His eyes traveled down the ragged rock embankment to the black ribbon of the river far below. A few inches and a slender railing was all that stood between them and certain death.
Carlotta was sitting bolt upright, clutching his arm.
"What happened, Mitch?"
"Some crazy woman driver. Hugging my tail. Driving without lights. She must be drunk as a tick."
"A woman, Mitch. Are you sure?"
"Yeah. I caught a glimpse of her floppy hat. If she doesn't crack up, it will be a miracle."
Mitch was sweating and his hands were shaking but he got the car into motion again. He tried to make light of the whole thing for Carlotta's sake.
They'd gone two miles, maybe three, when lights showed up in the rear-view mirror, coming up on them fast.
His hands grew rigid on the wheel and he stepped down hard on the accelerator.
Carlotta asked nervously, "What's wrong, Mitch."
"It's the same car."
"It can't be."
"She was parked in the cutting back there, her lights dowsed. I thought I was imagining things but, as soon as we passed, she came out after me."
"Stop. Let her go by."
"I can't. If she sideswipes us on a road like this, we'll go over the edge even if we're stationary. I've got to outrun her. At least till I hit an even stretch."
"Why's she doing it?"
"Search me. Some hopped-up kid playing tag, I guess."
He could feel his knuckles white on the wheel. He kept the accelerator pressed to the floorboards and his eyes darted back and forth from the road to the rear-view mirror.
The other car was only a few feet behind them, angled far across the white line, its headlights a blinding glare. Mitch was edging out into the middle of the road, too, trying to put distance between himself and the looming ghost-like line of the guard rails.
"Stop," Carlotta shouted.
Mitch didn't answer. If he slowed down even fractionally, the pursuing car would plow into him and both of them would go spinning into the dark chasm. Speed was his only chance. That and the hope that an approaching car would force the driver back into her own lane.
The other car was beside them now, trying to force them over. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that it was a station wagon and glimpsed the strained white face of the girl at the wheel.
"Sherry!" Carlotta screamed. "It's Sherry!"
Mitch spoke hoarsely. "Keep your face covered. I'm going to crash. It's the only way. If I don't, she'll tilt us over the edge."
He raised up on the seat, both hands clamped to the right side of the wheel. Then with all his strength he gave one sharp tug, bringing the wheel hard over left, slamming the whole length of the Jaguar against the station wagon.
Metal screamed against metal in a long grinding slap that made the Jaguar shudder like a harpooned whale.
For seconds the two cars clung together. Then the station wagon broke loose, swung crazily toward the far rocky bank, and slashed across an outcropping of stone. It caromed off, spinning across the road, and with a rending crash struck the guard rail. It tilted to one side, swayed and disappeared over the edge.
Mitch had jerked his wheel hard to the right to counteract the momentum of the blow and jammed on the brake. The Jaguar slewed out of the path of the other car, nosed into a jutting bank of earth and came to a jolting stop.
Mitch wrenched the door open and raced to the broken guard rail, peering into the darkness of the valley below. Already flames were licking about the battered car. As he watched, there was a sharp explosion and the tongues of flame became a leaping bonfire.
He turned to find that Carlotta had come up beside him, her white face a frozen mask of terror.
An unreasoning anger shook him and he gripped Carlotta's shoulders. "Why did it happen?" he shouted. "You must know. Why?"
"She was that way. She had to destroy everything she touched."
"You don't understand. I killed her, Carlotta. Goddamn it, I'm a murderer."
"No, Mitch. She killed herself. Maybe it was what she wanted all the time. The death wish was strong within her."
"Don't pull that psychiatric stuff on me. The kid wanted to live. She was afraid of you. She told me so." He broke off, licking his lips.
Carlotta said, "What did she tell you, Mitch? When?"
He didn't answer. But the swift flash of panic in his face revealed his secret.
"She came to you, didn't she. Mitch? You slept with her."
His words came blurting out before he could stop them. "All right. I won't deny it. She was cute and cuddly and you were so damn cold."
The two of them stood there on the lonely road, facing each other, suddenly strangers.
Far along the valley, there was the flicker of headlights.
Carlotta stumbled away from the guard rail and the sight of the burning car.
Mitch followed her, his hand outstretched to touch her. "I was half-crazy, Carlotta. I didn't know what I was saying. This won't make any difference between us."
"I don't know, Mitch. Right now we've got to think of Sherry. How to get her body out of here."
She stood facing the oncoming headlights. She'd lied to Mitch and both of them knew it. Things would never be right between them again. Even in death, Sherry had shattered their lives.
Carlotta didn't look at Mitch again. She kept her back turned and said softly, "I ought to be sorry for her but I can't. And that's the worst of all. I can feel guilt but not grief. Who will mourn her? Not Gladys Fane. Not Paul Miller. Not the men whom she tricked, betrayed and accused of rape. Not the woman whose marriages foundered because of her. No, not one of them will shed a tear for her."
Carlotta Stein is a smart girl and usually she is right but this time she'd slipped up. She'd forgotten Daddy Paget, the one man who had truly loved Sherry.
By chance it fell to me to return to him the pearl-handled Japanese revolver with which Sherry had killed Tiger Winslow.
I left him hunched in a leather chair, staring sightlessly through the picture window, tears streaming down his seamed cheeks.
He'd forgotten I was there. He was talking to himself, repeating the words again and again.
"I've sold my soul to the devil already. But if it were returned, I'd sell it all over again just to feel the soft sweet warmth of her once more."
