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Subject: {Kellis} "Hidden Journal: In the Movies" (MF cons) [1/2]
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Hidden Journal:  In the Movies [1 of 2]





NOTICE:  The following file is one of an ongoing series, transcriptions
of files decrypted from the hidden journal of Harrison Everett Stone.
For a summary of their provenance see the initial file, D910412.ZEN,
included in the release, "Hidden Journal:  First Files."

--Kellis.  Copyright 1999





File D9105011.ZEN


<Thursday, November 7, 1974>

    Tommy left the lab promptly at five today, the last except Laura.  She
came immediately to the debug table and leaned down on her elbows across
from me.  She was wearing a white low-cut, gathered blouse, which dipped
wide open.  I could see to her navel and I realized what had been
bothering me every time I glanced at her today.  She was brassiere-less.
Must've noticed the points of her nipples.
    Even small breasts look their best when dangling from a horizontal
chest -- and the women know it.  I looked up into her grin at last.  "I
could swear that your nipples are erect."
    "They are," she agreed.
    "You like to show them, do you?"
    "To a man who appreciates them."
    "What's your game now?  I never knew a man who didn't."
    "Harry, you are so suspicious!"
    After a glance at the door, though it was after five, I ran my hand
into her blouse and fondled them.  "Is this what you wanted?" I wondered.
    "I knew you would," she replied smugly, looking down at my hand.
    "If someone came through that door just now," I pointed out, "the word
would be all over the lab first thing tomorrow.  Hendrix would hear of it
before nine o'clock, probably through his secretary."  As I spoke I
twisted one nipple, then the other.  Her aureoles were lumpy with arousal.
But I suspect it's not as great for women as men would like.  I've seen a
baby's breath do the same.  That was a woman in 'Nam, but doubt Caucasians
are very different.
    "Everyone's gone," she claimed.
    "Except Jack?"
    "Did you forget he's off today?"
    "More philanthropy?"
    "What philanthropy?"
    I winked at her.  "That's what he claims he's up to."
    "I see."  Her lip curled.  "<He> would look at it that way."
    "How do you look at it?"
    "As opportunity."
    "Financial?"
    "And fun, of course.  That's why I waited for you.  Can you be
standing in front of the Fisher building tomorrow evening at seven P.M.?"
    "The Fisher building."  I released her tits and sat back.  "Tomorrow's
Friday."
    "Yes.  Can you?"
    "Will you be there?"
    "No.  A girl with a rose in her hair will pick you up in a car."
    "Will she!  Friend of yours?"
    "She'll bring you to Jack and me."
    I shook my head.  "Why don't you just tell me where to go?"
    "Because your car is bugged and you're likely being followed."
    "And you're not?"
    "I know how to dodge them."
    "They'll just follow your girl with the rose.  Red, I presume?"
    "Red.  She also knows how to dodge them.  Do you have a fedora?"
    "A hat?  Yes."
    "What color is it?"
    "Gray."
    "All right.  Wear it, will you?"
    I stared at her.  "Will Jack finally tell me what he wants me to do?"
    "That's the idea."
    "What am I getting into, Laura?"
    "Me, for one."
    I snorted.  "Meaning, 'wait and see.'  That reminds me:  I asked Jack
if you were a drug user.  He said to ask you."
    Her lip curled and she shook her head.  "My fatherly sergeant took me
to the morgue once to show me what drugs can lead to.  I've never touched
them, but I've talked to the girls that do."  She frowned thoughtfully.
"You know, they're all missing something."
    "What is it?"
    "Cock."  At my grunt she added hastily, "Oh, any girl can get cock!
What I mean is, they've never learned what a cock can do for them -- or
two or three."
    I grinned.  "Screwing beats sniffing coke?"
    "Well, I never sniffed coke.  But those girls were never properly
boffed."
    "How do you know?"
    Voice and eyebrows rose incredulously.  "Because they claim to hate
it!"  She chuckled a little.  "What fools they!  Will you be in front of
the Fisher building?"
    Slowly I nodded.  "The more fool I."
    When I got home I called Doris, wanting to hear her voice.  Though we
have an agreement that one will not disturb the other during the week
except for emergencies, she seemed well pleased with my call, offering no
hint of reproach.  Is she lonely, too?  From certain subtle sounds I
believe she masturbated as we recited what we'd like to do to each other.
Perhaps the listening federal agent did too.  I wanted to charge him with
it and would have if Doris knew about him, which she doesn't.
    At the end I said, "Marry me, Doris, and we can do it while we talk
about it."
    She answered lightly, "You forget that a girl can't talk with her
mouth full."
    "Marry me anyway."
    "Despite that, you mean?"
    "And because of it."
    "Harry, that would spoil it."
    "Not for me."
    "Ask me again when you mean it."
    "I mean it now."
    "No, you don't."
    Guess I'll have to ask her kneeling.  What is it with me?  Why do they
all think I'm a good lay but a lousy husband?
    My thoughts turn to Estri.  God!  What if her cover doesn't hold up?
Clearly the best I can do for her at this point is to stay the hell away.


<Saturday, November 9, 1974>

    I checked my car into an all-night garage about two blocks away,
thinking it might retain its wheels there, and arrived in front of the
Fisher building a couple minutes early.  It's well I did.  I was hardly on
the bus stop curb before a green Buick glided up beside me, electric
window already descending.  The woman driver leaned toward me, looked up
at my hat, and called, "Get in, Sport!"
    She was wearing a red flower in her hair:  a carnation, I believe.
And she was no slip of a girl.  An engagement ring plus wedding band
glittered on the hand at the window button.
    "Who sent you?" I demanded, leaning down to the window.
    "Laura.  Hurry up!"
    With a shrug I snatched the door open and slid in beside her.  She
spotted a break and accelerated immediately, helping to slam the door.  In
a jiffy we were immersed in the heavy traffic of Friday evening.
    I said conversationally, "Sorry for being cautious, but you aren't
quite as described."
    "I know, Sport:  the flower."  Her eyes flicked back and forth between
the road and the rear-view mirror.  "Damned florist claimed he'd sold out
of roses, that Armistice Day is a big call for them.  I told him I never
heard of such a thing.  Who gives roses for Armistice Day?"
    "Not I."  <Armistice> Day?  I happened to know that a few years ago
Congress changed the name to Veterans Day and the date to the last Monday
in October, but I wasn't about to challenge her.
    She favored me with one glance.  "You <are> Harry Stone, right?"
    "Right.  Who're you?"
    "Hilda, the school teacher.  Ah, ha!  <There> he is!"
    Her eyes were glued to the mirror.  I glanced back but saw only a sea
of cars and trucks.  "There who is?"
    "The fed in the gray agency car.  They always use the same gray
Chevies.  Let's see if he's following."
    Watching her chance, she slipped into the right hand lane without
signaling.  The next light was green.  She turned right, tires hissing,
flipping her signal just before the wheel.  She gunned it, watching the
mirror.  "Yep!" she announced.  "Whoo-ee!  Didn't he cut that car blind!
All right, you little son of a bitch."
    Half a block down was an alley between the towering buildings.  She
slammed into it, nearly bouncing me out of my seat at the curb, and flew
up the alley, missing garbage cans by inches.  I braced myself on the dash
and the passenger straps they always put in Buicks.  In the side mirror I
saw one or two empty cans roll in behind us, pulled down by the wind of
our passage.  A gray car turned in, but the fallen cans were bound to
impede it.
    At the end of the alley she blew the horn, slowing only a little and
dashed right out across the sidewalk into the street.  Fortunately there
were few pedestrians.  She'd've killed one if he'd come along at the wrong
moment.  Not so few the cars.  She stole the slot from a white limousine,
which darted into the next lane reflexively, horn blaring late.  She
squalled the rear tires in response.
    That trick in the alley with the garbage cans was impressive.  Did she
know to do it or was it just fortuitous?  Watching her drive for the next
minute convinced me that she knew.
    "You got away," I observed, "but won't they trace your tags?"
    "Not far.  They're fake."
    "Fake!  What do you mean?"
    She grinned.  "Guys who learn to make 'em don't forget, you know."
    "Hilda, how did a sweet little school teacher get involved with fake
tags?"
    "Sweet!" she hooted, grinning at me.  "Well, my kids do think so, most
of them, I believe."  She leered.  "If I had the chance, bet I could
convince you, too, Sport."
    "What grade?"
    "Sixth.  Just when they're getting difficult.  And interesting."
    She was weaving smoothly across traffic lanes, accompanied by the
blare of horns on either side.
    "You really know these streets!"
    "I should.  I've walked them enough."
    "Your school is near here?"
    "No.  But I work around here.  At night."
    "Well, that bit with the garbage cans was something else!  Where'd you
learn it?"
    "Sport, I'm a schoolteacher on weekdays the same as Laura is a
programmer."
    "Is that right!  Do you know Laura well?"
    She glanced at me, eyes twinkling.  "Better than you do in some ways."
    "Implying that your evening occupation is similar to Laura's."
    "Does that offend you?"
    "Not a bit.  But if what you're implying --"
    "Prostitution," she announced serenely.
    "-- is true, what about the wedding ring?"
    "Camouflage," she declared dismissively, "though I've been married
twice."  She grinned at me.  "Can't a wife be a whore?"
    "I heard they retire to get married."
    "Yes, and I bet you heard they make good wives, too.  The fact is,
husbands make the best pimps."
    I shrugged.  "If you say so.  But I don't think either of Laura's
occupations qualifies her to drive like this."
    "I don't know about programming, Sport, but it's for sure you don't
study evasive driving with your heels in the air!  How I learned is a long
story, but it's really a matter of preference.  In a car I'm good as a
man -- in fact better than most.  I like it that way."
    "Whereas out of the car ..."
    She shrugged.  "He's the boss."
    She had slowed considerably after the last turn.  Suddenly she turned
without signaling into a large, brightly lit garage building.  No, I saw,
not a garage:  an automobile and truck repair facility, full of bays
containing vehicles in various stages of dismantlement.  She pulled up
with tire squawk beside a black Ford that sat facing the way we had come.
A man in a gray fedora stood behind it.  Not a man:  tits under the shirt.
    "Quick!" Hilda ordered.  "Get in the back floorboards of that Ford."
    "Wh-what?"
    "She'll take you the rest of the way.  That one in the hat will take
your place and fool the feds in case we didn't lose them."
    "Well, good-by then," I called, obeying.  A cheery, "Good luck,
Sport," wafted back.
    As I entered the Ford, the woman with the hat like mine slid into my
seat in the Buick.  I had only a glimpse of a short person in a low-billed
cap behind the wheel of the Ford.  Doors closed with a pair of thunks.
    "Keep down," said my driver as she accelerated.  Her voice was a husky
contralto.  I looked up and saw dark sky and lighted windows.  We had come
out on the same street Hilda had just left.
    "What's Hilda doing?" I asked from the floor.
    "Going out the back door.  Keep down while I look around.  You can
probably get up in a couple of blocks."
    She drove sedately down the street.  I thought it over and commented
after awhile, "I didn't know Jack had such an organization as this!"
    "Organization?  I don't know about that.  All I know is I owe him a
few."
    "Are you another schoolteacher?"
    "Huh!"  She chuckled.  "Actually, I'm a great-grandma."
    "Are you!  And a taxi driver?"
    She laughed.  "Laura called, said Jack wanted a favor.  When I drop
you off, I get to go home and wash the supper dishes.  You can get up
now."
    I raised up and looked around, mainly at my driver.  She was black, at
least seventy, heavily wrinkled, white hair pulled up under her cap,
wearing a man's work shirt.
    "I'll ask you approximately what I asked Hilda.  How does a
great-grandmother get involved in outwitting the feds?"
    She glanced at me with a twinkle.  "You'll never guess."
    But I did.  "Aren't you too ..."
    She finished it for me.  "-- Old to be a whore?"  She chuckled.  "When
I think about it, I have the same trouble.  But a surprising lot of men
enjoy old girls.  Being black may help.  Sometimes I ask them why, just to
hear what they say."
    When she paused, I prompted her.  "I'm curious about that myself."
    "All kinds of reasons, from mother lust to wondering what their
wives'll be like in thirty years."
    "Do you still ... ah --"
    "Enjoy it?  Well, not so much as before the change, I guess.  But you
know, her coochy is the last part of a woman to quit."
    <Coochy>?  I nodded.  "Benjamin Franklin said something like that."
    "Benjamin who?"
    "Father of our country."
    "Oh.  Oh, yeah."
    But I don't think she'd heard of him.  I watched the turns carefully,
meaning to learn them for future use, but of all places she turned into
the lot of the Barclay Motel, which I remember well enough.  I entertained
a lady there -- well, no, not a lady -- to celebrate when NSI hired me.  A
seedy joint.  We went right past the office with its red neon "No Vacancy"
sign.  The <a> and one <c> were dark.  "No V ancy," it said now.
    Despite the sign, the lot was only a third full.  The Ford coasted to
a stop at a doorless opening between two of the buildings.
    "Here you are," she said, looking back at me expectantly.
    "What room?"
    "Right through there."  She pointed into the opening.
    "All right.  What's the fare?"
    "Fare?"  She chuckled.  "You do think this is a taxi service!"
    "Sorry.  Old habit.  Thanks, then."
    In the process of slamming the door behind me, I heard her laughing.
"The fare!"  She didn't stick around.  Regretted I didn't get her name.
    The opening was one end of a roofed corridor.  At the other a 25 watt
bulb barely lit a sign, "Conference Room."  An empty cigarette pack had
been ground into the bricks half way along the passageway.
    Reaching the door, I heard voices beyond it.  So I raised my hand and
knocked.  The girl who opened it was slim, brown haired and very young.
Her face was blank though somehow familiar.  She wore blue jeans and a
fluffy brown sweater.  Behind her were bright lights and the impression of
several people, though she had opened the door only enough for her face.
    "What do you want?" she demanded uncordially.
    "To see Jack."
    "He's busy."
    "Then tell him Harry Stone is here."
    "Harry."  She frowned.  "Oh."  The frown became a sheepish grin.  "I
remember your dick."
    And I remember your mouth, I thought.  This was "Bimmy," the sixteen
year old cocksucker.  The acne spot beside her mouth had moved to her
forehead.
    "I might have known," I said, realizing that I <had> known.
    She nodded, misunderstanding me.  "Each one is different.  Come on
in."  She threw the door wide.  "He's expecting you."
    "Where's your sister?" I asked.
    "Cassie?"
    "The black haired girl."
    "Went back to her room.  She's got a test tomorrow.  She's not really
my sister."
    "What kind of a test?"
    She shrugged.  "Plane geometry, I think."
    She led me into the room.  It was surprisingly large, maybe a hundred
feet square, with a high ceiling and the thin brown carpet typical of a
motel conference room.  Many folding chairs were stacked against one wall.
The opposite one was hung with tan drapes.  A dozen people or more stood
around a couch before the drapes.  Bright lights on stands provided
illumination with electrical cables snaking over the floor.  There was a
lot of pink flesh.
    "Come on," she suggested.  "You'll have to wait till they finish this
scene, but it won't be long."
    The standing circle parted enough to let us join it.  I saw two movie
cameras on tripods, men bent behind them.  A naked woman sat on the couch,
leaning forward.  Two naked men -- wearing Halloween masks? -- stood on
either side of her.  I moved around where I could look over a cameraman's
shoulder.  Yes, she was mouthing both dicks.  It was Laura.  Despite the
mask I recognized Jack as the man on the right.
    "Fourteen seconds on this supply," warned the cameraman next to me.
    "Move the other one in," Jack ordered from under his mask.  "Are you
close, Pistol?"
    The other man mumbled, "I'm ... trying ..."
    "Jerk him, Laura," said Jack.  Laura's hands had been cupping both
sets of balls.  She released the mumbler's and began to milk his dick.
    I saw that the tripods were on rollers.  The second camera slid in to
replace the first, peering between the men's hips.  The first cameraman
quickly opened his machine and made snapping noises with film cassettes,
an operation that would have interested me greatly under other
circumstances.
    "Damn it, Pistol!"  Jack warned.
    Pistol spread his hands.  "It just won't work."
    "All right.  Cut!"
    Laura released the swollen organs, looked straight up at me and
grinned crookedly.  Jack said disgustedly, "We'll have to fake it.
Pistol, go off in the corner and jerk it until you think you can live up
to your nickname.  Martha, is that gun ready?"
    "Yes, sir."  A surprisingly old woman, white-headed and bent, more
decrepit than my last driver, wearing an ankle length dress over tennis
shoes, shuffled forward.  She sneered contemptuously at the departing
Pistol.  "Knew he was dry!"
    "How'd you know?" asked Jack indulgently.
    "He was humping Cassie when you was busy with the foursome."
    Jack turned to regard the retreating back, eyes glinting with a
promise of future trouble.
    I grunted when I recognized Martha's "gun:"  a full-size model of a
man's groin area, including pubic mound and inside thighs, sporting a
large, realistic circumcised penis above hairy dangling testicles.  The
contraption was supported by a handle on the back plus a squeeze bulb.
    "Did you put sugar in it this time?" Laura asked.
    "No," said Martha.  "Thought you wanted it without."
    "I do."
    Martha muttered unintelligibly.
    "Speak up!" Laura commanded.  "You're whispering again."
    "Said I can't understand why you hate sweet cream."
    "You're right," Laura snapped, "you can't."
    The old gal looked around, at me as it happened, grumbling, "'Snot as
if it's the real thing!"
    Jack was also looking at me.  "With you in a moment, Harry."  He
pumped his dick, presumably to maintain the erection.  "All right.
Places!  Pull the camera in tighter."
    Laura leaned forward and gaped.  The old woman thrust the fake dick
head into one corner of the wide mouth while Jack put a real one into the
opposite.  "Jerk them both, Laura."
    Her hands encircled the two dicks and began to pump.
    "Roll 'em!" cried Jack.  The camera began to whir.
    "Remember, Martha," he warned, "not until the second squirt."
    "Yes, sir."
    The second camera, reloaded, slipped around behind the couch and
peered over Laura's shoulder, careful not to get into the first camera's
scene.
    "All right," Jack said tightly, "here it comes."
    A preliminary dribble ran over Laura's bottom teeth.  She lapped it
with her tongue.  A white spurt followed, splashing off the fake dick
head.  "Hope that counts!" muttered the old woman, squeezing her bulb.
The false organ erupted in a white fountain.  Martha waited until Jack
produced another, then began to squeeze regularly.  A white liquid, clear
in spots possibly because it had mixed with reality, soon overflowed
Laura's chin.  I saw that her tongue was pushing it out of her mouth.
    Her lips closed over both organs, then reopened to show both
glistening but clean.  She grinned at the camera as both withdrew.
    "Cut!" Jack ordered.  Both cameras fell silent.  He asked the man
behind the couch, "Was your framing good enough to use?"
    "Yeah, but no action.  Well, one glob runs back and drips off the gun.
It shows up on the dark background."
    Jack nodded.  "Good enough!  That'll make a cut."
    "I need a towel," Laura proclaimed, getting to her feet.
    Martha produced one and helped her wipe her face and breasts.  She
turned to me.  "Wha'do ya think, Harry?"
    "Up to your old tricks, are you?"
    She grinned.  "Would you believe I've got a fan club?"
    "Oh?  As Laura Emmersol?"
    "Of course not.  I'll have you know you are speaking with the famous
Tilly Pucker."
    "Pleased to meet you, Miss Pucker.  Do you autograph dicks?"
    She chuckled.  "No, and don't be jealous.  Not everyone can do what
Jack does."
    "And what's that?"
    "I mean for the movies.  Who else can direct a movie and enjoy a
frenching at the same time?"
    "Not a common talent, eh?"
    "I'll say not!"
    "Who knows?  Maybe you've asked the wrong people.  After all, he <is>
a manager!"
    She cocked her head at me.  "I always supposed ...  You don't mean
that a man can fake it?"
    "Fake what?  The ejaculation?  No more than a woman."
    "But a woman can fill ...  You mean, put something up the cock first?
I never thought of that!"
    I shuddered.  "No, I <don't> mean that!"
    "Why wouldn't it work?  Did you ever try it?"
    "No!"
    She grinned.  "I'll bet it would work."  Her eyes became calculating.
"Insert an ounce or two up into the prostate ...  With a small enough
catheter it probably wouldn't even hurt."  Her grin returned.  "I'll see
you get credit for the idea, Harry."
    "Not me!" I declared, shuddering.  "Every man in this business would
be gunning for me."
    Jack shouldered next to me, grinning for a different reason.  "How'd
you like your rides?"
    "Melodramatic," I responded.  "Hilda's driving would impress a
teenager."
    He chuckled.  "She impresses them, all right, and not just driving."
    "I imagine so.  And where'd you get the grandmas?"
    "Can I help it if the women like me, Harry?"
    "Guess not.  Maybe you've found your calling."
    "You mean the movies?  It <is> fun!  Let me start the next scene and
we'll talk.  I know this place isn't bugged."  He raised his voice,
looking around.  "Grace, you're next!  Where's George?"
    Grace came forward and stood in front of Jack, one naked foot arched
over the other:  not up to Laura's shoulders, no hair but on her head,
where it hung blonde and straight half-way down her back.
    "Good god!" I muttered to Laura.  "What is she, about nine?"
    "With those boobs?"
    Indeed she had respectable tits, large as Laura's, though the nipples
were pale as the surrounding skin and nearly invisible.  "What is this,
hormones?"
    She nodded.  "In a way.  She's eighteen.  She's been off big H for
three months."
    "Four months," the girl corrected in a surprisingly deep voice,
looking at me over her shoulder.
    "I didn't think you could quit that stuff," I observed.
    "I didn't either," she admitted.  She smiled confidently, very much
not as a child.  "But I found out you can do <anything> if you really want
to.  And I do have hair in all the right places.  It's just so thin and
light I don't have to shave."
    A closer inspection verified that.
    Martha shuffled up behind her and slipped a skin-colored band around
her chest, pinning it in the back.  The girl fingered the flesh above and
below it.  "Tighter," she ordered.
    "You'll lose your breath," the old woman warned.
    "Tighter," responded the girl inexorably.  It certainly flattened her.
    A little girl's flannel robe, decorated with loops of ribbon, went
over her shoulders, buttoned down far enough only to cover the chest band.
    Jack yelled, "Roll 'em!" causing me to look back.  A bearded, heavy
man, wearing only a carelessly belted silk robe, now sat on the couch,
ostentatiously reading a newspaper.  His legs were splayed out.  Flaccid
penis and testicles dangled visibly beneath the parted robe.  The camera
dwelt on that exhibition as the man reached under the paper and scratched
himself.
    "Cut!" Jack called.  "Okay, Grace.  Are you ready?"
    The child-like woman came under the lights.  "Right over here," Jack
said, pointing.  She moved to that position at the edge of the lighted
area.  He nodded, then looked at the man on the couch.  "George, you going
to have trouble with this?"
    "I don't know, Boss.  She can get awful excited."
    "Well, before I waste the film, let's find out.  Grace, see what you
can do."
    "Want me to act out the scene?"
    "I want to find out if you scare him as much as he claims."
    She thought about it.  At last she asked, "How?"
    "How do you think?  Suck him!"
    She knelt immediately before him and bent her head.  In five seconds
she popped back up, sneering, "He ain't scared!"
    The penis was visibly enlarged, though not yet risen.
    Jack called, "Okay.  Places!"
    The girl returned to the edge of the scene.  The old woman handed her
a couple of props and stepped back.  At the command to roll the girl
sauntered idly toward the seated man, sucking a lollipop, a large teddy
bear tucked under her arm.  The camera, which had pulled back to include
the whole scene, dollied closer.
    Jack said to an older guy standing near the camera, pipe clenched in
his teeth, "You got it, Will?"
    "Yeah," was the answer, "if George can get it up."
    "Grace'll fix him," Jack retorted confidently.  He swung around and
took my arm.  "Come over here and I'll tell you what I want."
    Grace, as the little girl, had dropped her teddy bear in front of the
man, still ostentatiously reading his newspaper.  The second camera sailed
in close from the side.  As the girl stooped for the toy, her head came
up.  Clearly she was seeing what dangled between the legs spraddled under
paper and robe.
    The old man, acting I guess as Jack's assistant director, ordered,
"That's it.  You've never seen anything like that...  Let the lollipop
fall out."
    I resisted Jack's pull.  "Just a moment."
    The cameras were in my way.  I shook off Jack's hand and walked around
to the left.
    Grace spoke in her mature contralto.  "What you got there uncle."  She
said it the way kids talk in a grade school play.
    Jack had followed me, grinning.  I told him, "She's no actress."
    "Of course not.  She's a porn star."
    George had said something I missed.  Grace spoke in a memorized
monotone, "What a roly-poly sausage."
    I guessed, "Of course, you're not recording the sound."
    "We are, though it won't be used.  Speeches get dubbed later."  He
chuckled.  "But they don't sound a hell of a lot better.  You think the
jerk-offs that watch this stuff care about what's said?"
    "Then why bother?"
    "For Grace to talk?  Got to have lips to sync to.  If you mean, why
bother with <any> speech, got to be legal, Harry.  'Redeeming social
value,' you know."
    Between the cameras I could see Grace's arm and hand, seeming indeed
about nine years old, fumbling within the man's legs.  She declared, "Can
I taste your sausage uncle."  She didn't bother to include the
interrogative lilt.
    "If you don't tell your mama," George returned in a similar monotone,
adding with real feeling, "And don't bite this time, dammit!"
    "No ad-libbing!" the acting director ordered around his pipe stem.
    George's difficulty had gained another explanation.
    Grace disappeared among legs and cameras.  I commented, "Well, that
ends the conversation."
    "It becomes a monologue.  Uncle tells her how to do it.  Of course the
cameras don't care about <uncle's> lips.  In this scene his speech can be
dubbed freely, so George has nothing to say.  Good thing, too, he worries
so.  Come over here away from the crowd."
    I followed him.  Bimmy looked up from a book as we passed, stuck out
her tongue and wiggled it at me.
    I tilted the book in her hands:  <History of Science and Invention>.
I wondered cruelly, "Teach you to suck better?"
    It didn't put her off.  "Better cocks," she retorted.
    Jack chuckled.  "She remembers you."
    "Yeah.  My dick."
    "She didn't get to know you.  You wouldn't stick around."
    "Not when I found out I'd just squirted a fourteen year old.  Jack,
I'm sure the feds have every groan on tape, and probably a lot more
besides.  Why aren't you worried?"
    "I told you."
    "You've got good local connections?"
    "Excellent connections.  Our chief of police owns this motel.  The
mayor's a partner in our little production company."
    "But these are <feds>!"
    "I tell you again, we're not breaking federal law."
    "Then who supplies Bimmy's H?"
    "Ah, that.  Harry, we know them, of course, and they know us.  But
they're in a different business.  By the way, for your information Bimmy
has just about shaken her habit."
    "Has she!"
    "Believe it or not, she hasn't popped in more than a week."
    "How do you know?"
    "She's been staying with me."
    "I see.  What was it you said about sucking better when they're high?"
    "I was smart-assing back at your sarcasm.  Didn't she let you in here?
You can tell she's come down."
    "Yeah.  Funny how much brighter she is down than up!"
    "Isn't it! ... Glad you mentioned her.  I've got a bunch like Bimmy,
Jack."
    "A bunch?"
    "You know the Crazy Hat and the Swan Dive?"
    He had named two roadhouses that I've visited once or twice.  The
Hat's on the river, the other one across town.  I always thought it was
particularly well named.
    When I answered in the affirmative, he added, "They both belong to
me."
    I shook my head.  "We can't put off the big question much longer."
    "The big question?"
    "What are you doing managing programmers for NSI?"
    He chuckled.  "Nothing, as you well know.  You think that's a big
question?"
    "It is to me.  And Laura."
    "Laura's a programmer for the respectability.  You must've noticed.
She spun you her orphanage yarn, didn't she?"
    I nodded.  "Are you casting doubt on it?"
    "Laura plays with people.  Watch out for her.  Whenever you think
you've got her pegged, you find a deeper current.  As for me, I'm in NSI's
idea of purgatory."
    "You mean --"
    "I was hired fifteen years ago as a manager in Personnel.  I was
headed for a vice presidency when I fucked up.  Nothing illegal, just
sloppy.  I'm putting in my time as a figurehead.  Hendrix knows who's
really running the department."
    "So it wasn't <you> who turned down the Fairchild job!"
    "When it's a computer, I don't know a fair child from an ugly one.
That was Hendrix, playing it cautious."
    Suddenly I had the key to several puzzles at NSI.  "Thanks for telling
me."
    He grinned wryly.  "This situation is ironic.  I was planning to give
them notice, the bastards, nailing me for the most common sin on executive
row!  But now with the feds on my tail I need the respectability, too."
    He shrugged.  "But that's neither here nor there.  What I want to know
is whether you'll write me a program that NSI doesn't own."
    "Legally I can't, you know."
    "Because of your patent agreement?  That's not clear.  But let me put
it this way:  a program that NSI never heard of."
    "A program that does what?"
    "Accounts for a lot of details:  medical histories, financial
expenditures, services rendered, compensation owed, people contacted,
promises made, bills current and past due, defaults -- just to get
started."
    "For your roadhouses?  Sounds like a typical accounting job.  Lots of
bookkeeping packages are out there."
    "I don't care if you write it or buy it.  What I need is for you to
set it up, tell me what I need to run it, find somebody to manage it."
    "Hell, Jack, any CPA can do that for you."
    He chuckled, studying me.  "No, Jack.  No <certified> accountant can
do it for me.  A lot of it violates the laws of this state, in spirit if
not letter.  And aside from that, I want to know who and what I owe, as
well as who owes what to me, without the damned governments knowing it,
too."
    "I see.  Where does this 'bunch of bimbos' come in?"
    "Basically through the roadhouses.  It's a little-known fact, Harry,
that this town is famous all over teenage America.  Maybe 'infamous' is
the better word.  A hell of a lot of runaways comes here first, looking to
become rock stars.  A lot of them, especially the girls, ends up in the
roadhouses."
    "As whores?"
    He ducked his head.  "There's a lot of that, I'll admit.  You can't
find a more fundamental use for unskilled labor than taking in pricks.  Or
a better paying one.  And -- get this -- they think that's what rock stars
do anyway.  Why do they really run away, here in modern America, from
homes full of labor-saving appliances?  It makes no sense.  They admit
that only one in a million makes it into the big money.  But they'd still
rather fuck strangers than go home.  If you send them home anyway, back
they come.  Every one of them is going to be that one in a million.
Shit!"
    His voice had risen.  Apparently this was a sensitive subject.
    "So what's the net, Jack?  How many girls in <your> two roadhouses?"
    "I'm not sure, and that's a fact.  It's one of the things your program
might tell me."
    "<About> how many?"
    "It varies.  I'm acquainted with a couple dozen or so just now."
    "Acquainted?"
    He shrugged.  "We all have appetites.  Mine is pretty healthy.
Something to remember about girls, Harry:  using them doesn't use them
<up>!"
    I nodded.  "Yeah.  The madam's hooray."
    "The what?"
    "You never heard it?  The madam says, 'What a wonderful thing, this
pussy!  You sell it and, hooray, you've still got it!'"
    He grunted.  "Right."  He cocked his head, regarding me thoughtfully.
"You'd have to work with them closely, you know.  I need more than just
financials.  You can believe it or not, Harry, but I really want to look
after their best interests."
    "You said they 'end up' in the roadhouses.  Where do they really end
up?"
    "That's another thing your program will tell me.  I gather a lot of
them, maybe the most, end up married.  After that, well, you know how it
goes with marriages."
    "Don't a lot of them end up dead from drugs or violence?"
    He nodded.  "There's some of that, of course.  You may get to tell me
how much.  It's curious how many teenagers seem to have a death wish.  And
they'll chase it no matter where they are."
    "You don't have to help them."
    "That's a debatable point, Harry.  I try to give them something to
think about, something to live for, if you will."
    "Dick?"
    "Sure.  They say that's a real high.  Ask Laura!  And if she's looked
after properly, a girl's no worse off afterward than she was before, which
you can't say for the other things they take."
    "Maybe not," I agreed reluctantly, "but what do you --"
    I was interrupted by a commotion behind us.  "Cut!" yelled the acting
director.  "God damn it, George --"
    "Has she bit him again?" Jack asked aggrievedly, hurrying toward the
scene.
    "She actually bites?" I wondered, keeping pace.
    "Grits her teeth when she gets excited."
    But the problem was more complicated than that.  Listening to Jack
examine the crew, I gathered that Will had let the scene proceed too long,
that Grace had made up for yesterday's bite with more loving tongue lashes
and that these circumstances had combined to extract a flood of seminal
fluid from George, who'd been inadvertently abstinent for three days.  The
script had called for Darling Jill, AKA Grace, to satisfy her lingual
curiosity about Uncle's sausage, which was intended subsequently to
penetrate her bottom both fore and aft.  Only after all that was it
supposed to bathe her face.
    "Damn it," muttered Jack.  "And you <swallowed> most of it?"
    Indeed only a single streak remained on the girlish chin.  Grace
sighed acknowledgment under his glare.
    "You <know> not to swallow the money shot!"
    "Wasn't supposed to <be> the money shot!"
    "But you swallowed it!"
    "I'm a neat person, Jack."
    He clenched his fists, relaxed them and turned to the near cameraman,
whose machine had the best angle.  "Wha'd'you think, Flickem?  Could you
tell he was popping?"
    <Flickem>?  I raised my eyebrows at Laura, listening nearby, who
grinned in return.  Now she was draped in a man's overcoat, hanging open.
Had she gotten cool?  She must shave as regularly as I do;  her pubic
mound was still slick as a baby's.
    Flickem had considered his reply.  "Have to see the film to be sure,
Jack.  When he pulled out, she closed up right behind it."
    "Shit.  Only a frame or two, you guess?"
    "If that."
    Jack turned to the hapless George, who was lying back on the couch,
papers thrown aside, everything still hanging out.  "Can you get it up
again?"
    <It> was anything but "up" now.  Its owner shook his head.  "Not soon.
Sorry, Jack.  It ain't what it used to be."
    "How soon?"
    "An hour, maybe.  Need a night's sleep if you want it to pop again."
    "Shit!"  Jack heaved a sigh.  "Okay, then.  We'll reschedule you
tomorrow morning.  Jenny, what's open first thing tomorrow?"
    A woman in thick, black-rimmed glasses rose from a folding chair and
consulted a clipboard projecting from her chest, held in place by a hand
over the clip.  I wondered how I'd missed her to that point.  Though of
moderate build, she easily had the biggest tits in the room.  She had
dark, mousy hair, cut short, and wore a tan checkered shirt stuffed into
blue jeans, themselves stuffed into cowboy boots that approximated the tan
in the shirt.  The shirt would barely meet over her massive mams.  I
decided that if she leaned back a bit, she wouldn't need to hold the
clipboard.
    "Good god!" I exclaimed involuntarily.
    Laura snickered.  "Just noticed?"
    "I can't believe it, either!"
    "Silicon," she said dismissively.  "And they screwed 'em up.  She has
no feeling in the nipples."
    "No feeling?" I repeated weakly.
    "Dead as rubber balloons.  They're so large they're grotesque."
    Maybe, but I'd rather judge that for myself.
    The woman found what she wanted and looked up.  "Nothing.  It's
Saturday, you know."
    "When do we start?"
    "Seven-thirty."
    Jack heaved another sigh and glared at George.  "All right.  We'll
reshoot the pedo bit at six-forty-five.  I want everybody here at
six-thirty."
    "Six-thirty!" wailed Grace, eyes enlarged.
    "Six-thirty!" he repeated firmly.  But his face softened on her.  "You
can leave earlier."
    "Oh.  Oh, good.  Vicki will like that."




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