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Hidden Journal:  In the Movies [2 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 D9105012.ZEN


<Saturday, November 9, 1974 (Continued)>

    Jack turned back to Big Tits.  "Anything we can do in the next half
hour, Jenny?"
    "Well ..."  She looked around.  "We can move up one of the street
interludes."
    "Good work!"  He looked around.  "Pistol, come here!"
    The woman warned, "You shouldn't use Pistol."
    "Huh?"
    "Remember?  These guys are supposed to be strangers that she flashes
on the street."
    "So we move the sandwich shots <after> the interludes."
    "Won't that screw up the logic?"
    Jack grinned sourly.  "Damn the logic!  This half hour might be the
straw that breaks the budget.  Come on, people!  Hawley, set up that
reflector and make it snappy."
    <Street> interludes?  Every profession has its own terminology.
What's a <street> in the movies?  I imagined some metaphorical meaning,
such as a straight action sequence without any "side streets."  The truth
was even more wonderful.
    The couch was gone.  Two beefy guys stood a pair of tall heavy-duty
tripods where it had sat, further apart than its length.  Grunting, they
fetched a massive cylinder that resembled rolled-up carpet.  Standing on
rungs integral with the tripod bases, they strained to raise it over their
heads and affix either end to a tripod.  Finally they unrolled it down to
the floor.  It formed the largest portable projection screen I ever saw,
probably ten feet high by twelve or more wide.  Then they arrived with
another carpet-like roll:  this time actually carpet, though a peculiar
one.  They spread it out on the floor, extending toward us from the
backdrop, and smoothed out the wrinkles.  Its peculiarity was an
appearance similar to the screen.  Its surface seemed to be glittery white
scales.
    Flickem was attaching another machine to the front of his camera.  It
contained 35mm film reels just like a movie projector:  a large supply
reel and an empty takeup reel.  Most curiously it seemed to point across
the camera's bow, so to speak, as if it would project to the right while
the camera shot straight ahead.  Aha, I understood!  A partly silvered
mirror would be found in their common optical path, letting the camera see
what the projector projected.  But so what?
    "Ready, Flickem?" Jack called.
    "Testing the sync," was the answer.  Projector and camera clicked
together briefly.
    "What light does it call for?" Jack inquired.
    "Blue shade."  The man cocked his head to read something pasted on the
supply reel.  "I've seen this one.  They took it in the shade of a tall
building."
    "Blue bounce ready," called Will, the briefly acting director, without
being asked.  Apparently he had reverted to lighting manager and discarded
his pipe.  He flipped a switch and the ceiling, consisting of white
acoustical tile, suddenly turned bright blue.  The set lights for the
previous scene had already been extinguished.
    Laura murmured to me, "If you want to see what's going on, stand right
behind that camera."
    "First street interlude," Jack announced.  "Places, everybody!"
    Pistol, now wearing boots, jeans and a shirt with the tails out, came
to stand near the camera.  Laura walked carefully onto the glittery
carpet, wearing her overcoat, turned and faced the camera just before
reaching the backdrop.
    "Motion test!" called Jack.  "Ready, Flickem?"
    "Go!"
    "Okay, Laura.  Let's see you strut."
    Laura stood there, solemnly picking up her feet and setting them down,
pretending to walk but making no progress.  She was wearing black patent
high heels without stockings.  Her hands had disappeared into the coat
pockets, holding it closed across her front.
    "Knees spread too much," Flickem reported, peering into his
viewfinder.
    Jack grinned.  "Don't be so eager, Laura."
    She shot him a smirk while narrowing her pretend stride.  I saw little
improvement, but I was standing off to the side.  Nearly everyone
interested in the shot had beat me out on positions behind the camera.
    "That's good," Flickem declared.
    "Okay," Jack responded, then checked a card in his hand before raising
his voice.  "Roll 'em!  Laura, keep walking.  Pistol, your cue is the man
in the green jacket."
    Camera and projector were grinding away.  Laura was stolidly picking
them up and laying them down.  I could see variations in light intensity
on screen and carpet but no image was visible.  What stupid kind of
projector was this?
    "Glide to your left about two feet," Flickem called.
    Laura moved to her left as ordered.  What difference did that make?
    "Excuse me," I muttered, slipping between two breathless watchers
behind the camera.  Suddenly everything was clear.  I remembered hearing
of such screens used in highway signs.  They reflect light
anisotropically:  that is, back towards the light source only, thereby
concentrating it.  The glittery carpet works the same way.  From behind
the camera Laura was obviously walking towards me on a wide city sidewalk,
cars whizzing by her on the left, throngs of people on the right.
Storefronts of mannequin-stuffed windows gradually receded on the right.
Someone had once rolled a camera slowly backwards on a sidewalk probably
in Manhattan;  what it saw then seemed to surround Laura now.  The
projection was too dim to overlay Laura's figure, but the anisotropic
screen made it bright all around her.
    I saw the difference her movement to the left made.  If she hadn't got
out of the way a fat lady loaded with packages would seemingly have
stumbled right into her.  Flickem had indeed seen this film before!
    "Come forward a step or two, Laura," he advised from behind the
viewfinder.
    As she complied a man in green sport coat and brown fedora popped into
view, heading towards her on the left in the same path as the fat lady.
    "Okay, Pistol," called Jack, standing at my elbow, "soon as he tips
his hat, walk in.  Keep your steps short and fast and lift your knees.
You're a New Yorker now.  And remember to pass her on your left."
    The man's figure dwindled quickly.  Nearly Laura's size, he inclined
his head toward her, one hand on the hat brim, obviously staged;  no one
was near him in the film.  Pistol stepped out.
    "Faster and lift those knees," Jack insisted.
    As Pistol neared the woman, Jack cried, "Now, Laura!"
    She jerked the overcoat open upon complete frontal nudity, having come
to a standstill.  She leered at Pistol, eyes wide, mouth open in a grin,
tongue tip in a corner.  He stopped, did a hammy double take, then
proceeded past her -- not far;  she'd left him very little room before the
backdrop.  He turned around.
    "Amazement!" Jack called.  "And hope.  You can't believe your luck."
    I guess the expressions on Pistol face could be so labeled.  In my
opinion he looked more like someone about to sneeze.
    "Enough!  Come on around."
    He circled around her on her right.  She stood still, the coat still
wide open, watching him with a big grin.
    "Go for it!"
    Pistol sank to his knees in the middle of the apparent street, grabbed
her around the hips under the coat and bent forward.  We couldn't see the
details but I doubt he was withholding his tongue.  Above him Laura's eyes
drifted closed.  Excuse me.  <Tilly's> eyes.  People continued to weave
around them unconsciously.  Of course.
    "Jack," I said disgustedly, "not even in New York --"
    "That's just it," he answered softly to me:  "a touch of satire."
    "Crap!"  But I had to chuckle at the audacity of anything even that
subtle in a porn flick.
    "You zooming?" Jack asked the cameraman.
    "Three point seven and rising."
    "Cut at six."
    "We'll get grain at five."
    "Okay.  Five, then.  Film all right?"
    "Oh, yeah.  Sixty-two seconds."
    On the set Tilly's butt was in motion, discernible by the flapping
coat tails.  Her face displayed the worried smile -- wrinkled forehead and
curled lips -- that is sometimes associated with sexual arousal, at least
in the fuck comics.  In fact I've never discovered <any> real reason for
that forced expression.
    "Cut!" cried Flickem, rising up from his viewfinder as New York
vanished.  People around me took a collective breath.  Pistol got to his
feet.  Laura grinned at him.  She murmured something to him that sounded
like, "Nice touch!"
    I asked Jack, "How the hell do you fit something like that into a
plot?"
    He grinned.  "That's why it's called an interlude.  But you wait;
that shot'll get the best review of the whole flick.  It's <arty>, don't
you know!"
    He turned away.  "Jenny, we got time for one more?"
    While Big Tits consulted her clipboard someone joggled my elbow.  I
turned to find Bimmy with a hopeful look, holding out her history book.
"I don't get this one," she complained.  "Will you help me?"
    I regret to admit that I responded, "What makes you think I'm anything
but a stiff dick?"
    Her face fell.  She explained before turning away, "Laura said you
know more than all the rest put together."
    "Let me see it," I growled, feeling I'd crapped in the punch bowl.
    She returned the book, finger underlining a passage.  It was one of
those quizzes at the end of a chapter.  It wanted my bezitted cocksucker
to explain why the steam turbine of Heron, the Greek, couldn't have been
put to productive use.
    "Because his society wasn't ready."
    She shook her head.  "That's what the book says.  What does it
<mean>?"
    "Well, for one thing, a steam turbine turns very fast, but most things
it might drive turn very slow.  At that time they couldn't make the gears
to change the speed."
    Her lips were parted.  She stared at me blankly.
    "Why can't you shift gears?" I asked impatiently.
    "Because I don't have any," she retorted tartly.
    "Exactly," I said, having anticipated her.  "Put that down."
    "They couldn't make gears," she mused.  "Why couldn't they?"
    "They didn't have the tools and the tools to make the tools.  It took
a long time to get all that, nearly two thousand years.  In other words,
the society wasn't ready."
    "Oh."  Her eyes widened.  "Oh!"
    By god, she made me believe a light had dawned.
    "It makes sense," she breathed.
    I breathed a sigh myself.  A teachable woman is hard to ignore,
whatever her age.
    I took Bimmy's elbow and turned her away from the commotion.  Behind
us they were aligning a backless, glitter-covered chair with a projected
image.  The two slabs of beef were moving it slightly as directed by
Flickem, peering through his viewfinder.  It was interesting but Bimmy was
more so.
    "What's your real name?" I asked.
    She hesitated, staring at me.  At last she admitted, "Jane."
    "Jane what?"
    "Grier.  But keep on calling me Bimmy, will you?  Nobody knows my real
name."
    "Bimmy is short for 'bimbo,'" I declared.  "No bimbo knows about
Heron's steam engine."
    "Oh."  She smiled slightly.
    I indicated her book.  "Why are you studying that?  Where'd you get
it?"
    "It's a textbook."
    "So I gathered.  Pretty deep for a teenager in high school."
    She grinned smugly.  "Wrong on both counts."
    "Huh?  What do you mean."
    "I'm twenty.  And I'm full time at Poly Tech."
    "What?  But -- but --"
    She giggled, a peal of silver.  I don't think I ever heard her do
that.  I'm a sucker for high female giggles.
    "Those ... pimples ..."
    The giggle choked off.  "Are money in the bank," she snapped.
    "But to have them still at <twenty>?"
    "Some people would say my skin is unlucky."  She sniffed.  "Not me."
    "Wait a minute!  Do you have a twin sister who's sixteen?"
    "No."
    "Then were you pretending to be on dope the first time you ... met
me?"
    "No."  She took a breath.  "I do have a problem with that.  But I'll
be ten days free of it tomorrow."
    "Think you'll stay off?"
    "I don't know.  I love the way it makes me feel.  If somebody gave it
to me again I'd probably shoot it."
    I murmured, "'Sixteen,' he said.  He <was> trying to trap me!"
    She nodded.  "He wants you.  I've heard him.  He wants you to come in
with him."
    "What?  Whatever for?"
    "He said Di ... Diogenes would like you.  What did that mean?"
    "Jack said <that>?"  I turned to look at him.  He stood behind the
camera, his hand on Flickem's shoulder.  We happened to be in line behind
them.  On the set was projected a scene from a huge bus or train station ...
That mural!  By god, it was Grand Central.  The camera was looking down a
long bench.  Pistol lounged on the near end, his britches around his
ankles.  Tilly crouched naked between his legs, blonde head bobbing on red
dick, her overcoat crumpled on the floor beside her.  Baggage stood behind
them.  People were thronging to and fro, unconscious of the oral
spectacle, of course.
    I muttered sarcastically, "Jack must be trying for an oscar."
    Bimmy sniffed.  "They don't give them for porn.  But they ought to."
    "Why is that?"
    "I bet no big time actress ever swallowed a sixteen incher."
    "Huh!  Only because none that big was put to her.  Why sixteen
inches?"
    "<I> did that!  Every inch of it."
    "Good god!"  I stared at her, then held my hands about that far apart.
"Jane, the head would be in your stomach."
    "Almost."  Her voice dropped to fierce whisper.  "I'm sorry I told you
my name.  Dammit, don't call me <Jane>!"
    "Okay, okay.  Tell me:  how did you breathe?"
    "I didn't.  I'm a swimmer and I don't smoke.  I can hold my breath for
two minutes.  But I still had to learn how to swallow it."
    "Lots of practice, was it?"
    "Lots."  She sighed.  "Gagging was the big problem."
    "I'll bet.  Somebody made a movie of this?"
    "Jack."
    "Jack!  <His> is nowhere near --"
    "Not <his>!  It belonged to Big John."
    "Not <the> Big John!"
    "It was, too.  Big John Horde."
    "Yeah?  Where'd you see <him>?"
    "Right here.  Well, at the Top Crown, actually.  I'll bet you don't
know what stops gagging."
    She had named another roadhouse, about half way between Jack's two.
Suddenly I had a suspicion about the gagging.  "Heroin?"
    "Yep."  She smiled serenely.  "It stops shitting, too."
    "Are you saying they shot you up with big H so you could swallow all
of Big John's dick?"
    "That's right."
    "Son of a bitch!"  I glared around at Jack.
    She grabbed my arm.  "Not Jack!  Bailey Frome stuck me."
    "Who's Bailey Frome?"
    "He used to make movies, too.  He left town."
    I took a deep breath, turning back to Bimmy.  "But Jack gave you a fix
last month?"
    "Not Jack.  I don't think he had anything to do with it."
    "Then how'd you end up at his place?"
    "I went over there with Cassie."
    "Do you claim it was just a coincidence that I came by?"
    "Coincidence?"  She shrugged.  "Cassie wanted to go over.  She had the
stuff, said it was a party.  But you pooped it.  When you left Jack made
us crash on his spare pad.  I've been living there since."
    I studied her.  "Bimmy, you're a porn actress, right?"
    "So what?  I like men."
    "Did Jack write your script for you?"
    She studied me.  "Laura's the writer."
    An interesting response.  Jack had just said of that one, "She plays
with people."  I had recognized the invitation to pawnhood but may have
mistaken the propelling hand.  Who questions a push where he wants to go?
    "But now you're a student."
    "Yes.  On the weekends I still act.  I'm in the orgy scene tomorrow.
You'd love it.  Why don't you show up?  They always need extra men."
    "I never learned to pop on command."
    She nodded sagely.  "Lot's of guys have trouble with that.  I can help
you;  I know a trick for it."
    "Thanks.  That's the best offer I've had this week.  How many girls
live with Jack?"
    "Well ...  Oh, you mean the roadhouses.  A lot.  He feeds them."
    "And screws them?"
    "Everybody's got to pay somehow."
    "I see."
    "Do you?"  Her licked her lips.  "You know, Jack has saved a lot of
us."
    "From what?"
    "Starving ... or worse."
    "How long has he owned those roadhouses?"
    "I don't know.  He ran them when I got here four years ago."
    "Four years!"
    "Just three more," she declared.
    "What happens then?"
    "Then I graduate with a degree in applied mathematics."
    Which of course includes scientific appraisal.  I grinned.  "So you're
a girl who likes precise measurements, are you?"
    She grinned back.  "As a matter of fact, I am.  Big John exaggerates."
    "How much?"
    "It's only fifteen and five-eighths from the pubic bone."
    I mugged, "Only about three times mine!"
    "Twice," she corrected with a sly grin.
    "Okay.  If you're so smart, what's the arctangent of one?"
    "Pi over four."
    I shook my head.  "Bimmy, Bimmy!"
    "What's the matter?  Should I have said forty-five degrees?"
    "That's what's the matter.  This whole thing is a setup, isn't it?"
    She paused.  "The whole thing?"
    "You knew very well why Heron's steamer was unusable."
    She turned her face so quickly I couldn't read her reaction -- unless
that was it.  She spun around and went to Jack, now engaged in
conversation with Laura and Pistol.  Apparently the station scene was
concluded.  Laura was wiping her chest with a towel.  Pistol must have
finally lived up to his billing.
    Bimmy touched Jack's elbow.  He leaned down while she murmured
something in his ear.  He looked at me in calculation, said something to
her.  She nodded, turned and strolled back to me.  Significantly she no
longer held a finger in the book to mark her place.
    "What did you tell him?" I asked.
    "That you were on to us."
    "And what did he say?"
    "To go on with the script anyway."
    I grunted.  "You admit it, then."
    "He said to answer all your questions."
    "What if I don't have any?"
    "Then maybe we can do something without talking.  Come on."  She took
my hand, pulling toward the entrance door.  I looked around.  Both Jack
and Laura were watching us.  I remarked, "They're who I need to talk
with."
    She followed my gaze.  "Jack'll talk to you later, but first you need
to meet some of my friends.  You need to find out what's really going on."
    "Your friends, eh?  Males with brass knuckles or underage females?"
    "Neither one.  Well, Cassie, but if you want her gone she'll be gone."
    "What's <your> opinion of making pubescent girls fuck?"
    "Who's <making> them?"
    I snorted.  "They do it for love?"
    She was unperturbed.  "Or money, dope, whatever.  Some girls like to
screw, too, you know."
    "Strangers?"
    Her chin rose.  "Fucking doesn't hurt them."
    "You've been listening to Jack.  Most people disagree with that."
    She grunted.  "At least, not so much as starving!"
    I took a breath and shook my head.  "That's not the choice.  You've
been sold a bill of goods, Bimmy."
    Her face had blanked.  "Maybe.  Why don't you come along and tell me
about it?"
    I stared at her.  Her eyes shifted away.  I shook my head.  "Is a
telephone in here?"
    "Who'll you call?"
    "A taxi."
    She sighed.  "Won't you come with me?  I'll do anything you say."
    "For Jack's benefit.  Or Laura's.  When do you start working for
Jane's benefit?"
    When she only stood silently, I repeated, "A telephone?"
    "I have to do what they say, Harry."
    "No, you don't.  They're not your custodians."
    "All right.  The truth is, I <want> to do what they say!"
    "Why?"
    "Because it <is> to Jane's benefit!"
    "Bimmy's, you mean."
    She shrugged.  "And you don't need a telephone.  Hilda's right over
there."
    "Oh?"  I hadn't seen her come in.  She was lounging with two other
women, her feet up, shoes off, skirt riding up her thighs.  She saw my
gaze, smiled and flipped me a wave.  I waved back.  So she was watching
me, too.
    I turned back to the girl.  "In this state twenty is adult.  You make
your own choices.  If you go for all this, that's fine, but if you have
doubts, which you ought to, give me a call.  Alternatives always exist."
    "What's your number?"
    "Harrison E. Stone.  I'm in the book."
    I shook my head as I walked away from her, hating to've sounded like a
goddamn preacher.  I knew I was shunning a frolic that might surpass even
the Meshir, but the more I saw of Jack's operation the less attractive it
became.  Not what he does.  That looks like fun!  But how he does it.
    The fact of his "excellent" protection only confirms it:  this is a
criminal enterprise.  The trouble with such outfits is not that they flout
the law;  every speeder does that.  It's ...  Hell, the right word is
<slavery>.  Only a slave can't quit.  Every member, whether high or low,
is in it for life, owned and controlled by the gang.  If you disagree with
the boss, your alternative is to shut up and jump as ordered -- or to kill
him and his close lieutenants.  I don't like either side of that, which
was the first reason I told my captain "no" when he asked me to re-enlist
after my Asian tour.  And that one time I didn't say "sir."
    As I neared her, Hilda called, "Hiya, Sport!  Harry, these here are
Nan and Sue."
    The two on her flanks regarded me with interest.  I mumbled a howdy
but my attention was for Hilda.  "I hear you're still playing taxi."
    "For you, Sport.  Anything for you."  She craned her neck toward
Bimmy, watching from across the room.  "You're not ready to go, are you?"
    "I'm tired of the movies."
    She ducked her head, shuffling feet into shoes.  "You're the boss."
Getting to her feet she added, "See you, Poppy."
    As we approached the entrance, I noted, "Thought you said they were
Nan and Sue."
    "They are."
    "Then who's Poppy?"
    "Sport's a man, Poppy's a girl."
    I nodded.  "Of course."
    I grabbed my hat but didn't look back to see if anyone noted our
departure.  Hilda led me to a dark Pontiac sedan.  Taking my seat as she
started the engine, I commented, "Staying with General Motors, are you?"
    I saw her grin in the dash lights.  "Had to leave the Buick.  A tag
problem."
    She made a couple of turns and lined us up on Chester Avenue, which
thirty blocks ahead passes near the garage where I left my own wheels.
    She'd been glancing often at me.  I asked, "What is it?  Egg on my
face?"
    "Sorry, Sport.  It's a habit of mine.  I watch my man's face for a
clue to what he'll want next."
    "Just transportation, Hilda."
    "No questions?"
    Making conversation would be better than sitting like a lump.  "What
do you mean, 'a tag problem?'  Did it fall off?"
    "Might've been better if it had.  No, the feds turned it in.  One of
the locals pulled me on the way home.  Good thing he recognized me.  So
the Buick's in the garage waiting for a new tag."
    "I see.  Hilda, what's your guess this is all about?"
    "I'm not paid to guess."
    I pretended to grin.  "Most people don't charge for it."
    "They've got their reasons, Sport.  I think you know what they are."
    "Well, I have an idea.  Jack's interested in computerizing his
operation.  What I don't understand is why me."
    She flicked me a glance.  "I know you work with them at NSI.  How'd
you tumble to their sideline?"
    "Sideline!  <NSI> is their sideline!"  I shrugged.  "Why shouldn't I
tell you, Hilda?  I caught Laura blowing him in the hall."
    "You mean frenching?"
    "I don't mean dynamiting."
    "Didn't think you did.  And then she frenched you, right?"
    "Right."
    "And you let her."
    "Right."  I had to grin.  "Don't think I ever turned down a blow job."
    "Even from a man?"
    "Well ..."
    She chuckled.  "You wouldn't admit that, would you!"
    "Laura is hardly a man."
    "Not in shape," Hilda agreed, "but she thinks like one.  I got a
better question for you:  what'll it take to make you throw in?"
    I shook my head.  "They don't have it."
    "Well, if it's money or girls, they're loaded."
    "Yeah, <girls>!  Little lost self-made orphans, heading for the junk
heap.  Jack says you can't use them up, but I think you can."
    "Some of them do get used up.  Hell, they insist on it!  But by no
means all.  Thirty years ago I was one of your 'lost orphans.'  By and
large I'm satisfied where I am now."
    "Where is that?"
    "Nights of fun and excitement, days spent helping kids.  Nothing is
cuter than children.  I also happen to like men.  They can't help being
bastards;  it's the way they're made.  And I've got an investment
portfolio you wouldn't believe."
    Again she spared me a glance.  "You've yet to see all the operation."
I heard a smile in her voice.  "You're young, Harry.  Give yourself
another fifteen years and those teenagers will look a lot better to you."
    "That's how it works, eh?"
    "Most of the time.  You like mature women, do you?  I know a dozen
who'd enjoy entertaining you.  Tonight or any other.  Just say the word."
    "Sounds like it's already been said:  whatever he wants."
    "So what <do> you want?"
    "You talk big, Hilda.  What if I said stop the car and suck me off
right now?"
    "Say it and find out."
    Again she glanced at me, grinning, and stuck out a wet tongue, red in
the light of an oncoming car.  My dick stirred.  I groused, "Remind me not
to bluff with you."
    She frowned.  "Why bluff at all?  I'm clean, Sport."
    "I'm sure you are."
    "Well, then?"
    "Hilda, you're the first to know.  I definitely won't throw in with
Jack and Laura."
    Her eyes narrowed.  After thinking it over she asked, "Going to rat?"
    "No.  I won't throw in with the feds, either.  They're on his tail for
drugs.  Jack swears he doesn't deal."
    "You believe him?"
    I shrugged.  "It doesn't matter.  I think those laws are as
wrong-headed as Prohibition."
    "What do you know of Prohibition?"
    "My grandpa told me before 1930 almost all drivers obeyed the speed
limits.  He was of the opinion that Prohibition nearly destroyed respect
for law in this country.  The banning of recreational drugs may finish the
job."
    She nodded.  "It may be."
    "Got nothing to rat about.  I've yet to see Jack break a federal law."
    "Oh, the feds will stimulate your memory!"
    "Not mine."
    She was slowing a block from where she had picked me up.  She pulled
into a bus stop and glided to a halt.  "Jack won't give up so easily," she
warned.
    "Then he'll be wasting his time."
    She grunted.  "I'll let you out here, Sport.  They'll be watching up
there."
    I regarded her with my hand on the door handle.  "You know my
address?"
    "I can get it.  Thought you wanted to pick up your car."
    "I do."  I repeated my apartment address twice.  "So this evening's
not a complete bust for you and me, at least, how about dropping by in an
hour?  You don't have to tell Jack.  I'll pay your standard rate."
    Her eyes sparkled.  "Your place is bugged."
    "It <was>.  I'm technically trained, too.  I found both of them."
    "If you found two, there's a third."
    "Then I'll put on some loud music.  What do you say?"
    She chuckled.  "I'd love it!"
    "Good."  I swung the door open.
    She asked, "Your car's in the lot on Bakerview?"
    "No, a garage on Aspen."
    "Close enough.  Swing by here with your window down.  If you do I'll
be there an hour later."
    "Okay, Hilda.  Whatever you say."
    "Then it'll be whatever <you> say!"
    I glanced back after a dozen strides.  She was still smiling at me.


        *  *  *  *


    Though November, the evening was warm enough for the walk without an
overcoat to be a pleasant leg stretch.  This was a hotel garage, still
full of cars even at this hour.  When I slid the key into my car door,
other doors slammed down the aisle of cars.  I stood with my door held
open as two men in business suits closed in on me, one in front and one
behind.  The one in front held up a credentials wallet as he neared.  "F.
B. I., Mr. Stone.  We'd like to talk to you."
    The one coming up from behind was my old friend, Bill Garth.  "Well,
look who's here," I exclaimed.  "Changed jobs, have you?"
    Garth retorted mildly, "Agencies do cooperate, Mr. Stone."
    "My name is Gregory McVay," said the one in front.  "Would you mind
following us down to the office, Mr. Stone?"
    "Yes, I would."
    "Very good.  I'll ride with you, if you don't mind."
    "Yes, I would mind, Mr. McVay.  I won't go anywhere with you
voluntarily and you won't enter my car without a search warrant."
    The polite smile vanished.  "You'd be well advised not to resist
arrest."
    "I am under arrest, then?"
    The two agents exchanged glances.  "I told you," said Garth.
    McVay raised his chin.  "Mr. Stone, we are asking for your cooperation
in a major investigation.  I cannot believe that a man who risked his life
for his country, who was wounded while saving his platoon from capture,
who owns a chest full of medals, would fail to support his government in
such a clear-cut matter as this."
    "It's clear-cut betrayal," I muttered.
    "What do you mean?"
    I shook my head.  "I told Garth the next time I talked to you people I
wanted my lawyer present.  Now it goes double."
    McVay shook his head.  "Give yourself a moment.  Don't be hasty.
Don't you realize you're siding with criminals?"
    He waited for my answer, regarding me earnestly.  I shook my head.
"Hardly anyone notices the third side to an argument.  Shakespeare did.
He said, 'A plague on both your houses.'"
    "What does that mean?"
    "It means I'll tell you nothing.  I won't cooperate with the
government in this matter.  It also means I won't cooperate with Jack.
Now, gentlemen, if you'll excuse me, I'm going home."
    I put a foot in my car.  McVay snapped, "Did you ever hear of the Mann
Act?"
    "Yeah, I've heard of it."
    "We can arrest you as a material witness to violations of the Mann
Act."
    "Only if you believe I saw Jack force a girl over a state line, which
is ridiculous.  I repeat:  I want my lawyer."
    He shook his head.  "I see you want it done the hard way."  He backed
away while a hand disappeared into his coat and quick as a flash
reappeared, holding a blue service revolver.  He leveled it on me as Garth
came close behind. 
    "Get out of the car," Garth ordered.  "Face it with your hands on the
top."
    I recalled his search warrant, realizing I shouldn't have ignored it.
With my hands pressed on the cold metal I looked around for witnesses.
The hotel garage was full of cars but no other people.  Of course these
two would have checked that.  The attendant's booth was around the corner
and fifty yards away.
    Garth patted me down then went through all my pockets.  He flipped
through my pocket notebook, full of cryptic references.  "What kind of
code is this?"
    "Code is right.  That information is related to my job."
    He grunted, shoving the notebook into his own pocket.
    "Now, wait a minute," I protested.  "Fun and games are one thing, but
if you deprive me of that notebook you'll cost NSI time and money."
    "Too bad you lost it, then."
    "I can't afford to let that lie.  NSI's lawyers will be in touch."
    He snorted contemptuously.  My wallet interested him next.  "Quite a
wad of money here!  More than six hundred where most people carry about
fifty.  Jack paid you off, did he?"
    He went through the business cards one by one and showed the Polaroid
of Florrie and the small portrait of Estri to McVay.  This was a shot of
Florrie holding her housecoat open.  McVay nodded appreciatively.  "Like
them plump, do you, Stone?  Who are these females?"
    "Ask my lawyer."
    "Not your wife and daughter, I'd say.  The young one looks like an
Arab or an Indian.  Care to comment?"
    "No."
    Garth pushed money and cards back into the wallet and tossed it on the
car hood.  "Stay where you are," he ordered, taking my key ring to the
back of the car.  In a moment the trunk came up.  He called to McVay,
"Dust undisturbed on the spare."
    Around he came to the other side, opened the passenger door, rummaged
in the glove compartment, looked at and replaced the owner's manual and
registration.  He checked the ashtrays next, grimacing at the pile of
coins in the main one.  "No friends that smoke either, eh, Stone?"
    Finally he felt under the front seats.  Apparently it was only a
cursory search.  He missed the .45 automatic clipped among the springs.
Else he already knew it was there.
    He backed out of the car, closed the passenger door and straightened
up.  "Got to hand it to you, Stone.  You keep a clean car!"
    "Thank you.  It's one advantage of the new parking service at work."
    He came around the front of the car, stood beside McVay and crossed
his arms.  The FBI agent returned the pistol beneath his coat.
    Garth declared, "This search has been conducted in accordance with the
provisions of the warrant I showed you.  We're confiscating your notebook
for analysis.  Unless it proves to be evidentiary, you'll get it back in a
few days.  You can take your hands down."
    I faced them.  "Even a few days will be costly."
    McVay suggested, "Then suppose you explain it to us right now."
    "Does either of you know anything at all about programming computers?"
    They stared at me stiffly.  I smiled grimly.  "Trying to explain it to
you would be a waste of time."
    McVay shrugged.  "It's your call."
    I scooped up my wallet, turned away and slammed down the trunk lid.
Then I remembered something.
    "You're supposed to serve that search warrant before executing it," I
said, returning to them.
    "You've seen it," Garth asserted.
    "I want a copy."
    McVay looked at the other agent.  "He's right.  Better get it."
    I waited in the car, window down, engine idling, for Garth to return.
He passed the paper to me;  it was just as I remembered.  I laid it on the
seat.
    McVay sighed and shook his head.  "I can't get over losing a man of
your quality to the crooks.  Talk about a crying shame!"
    I grunted.  "<I> can't get over how much better the so-called crooks
have treated me than the agents of my government."
    "Of course.  They want something from you."
    "So do you.  I'm impressed by the huge difference between their carrot
and your stick."
    He said something else, something about right on his side, lost in the
muted roar of the engine as I pulled out into the aisle.
    Hilda's Pontiac was gone.  I'd let her sit too long in a bus stop.
Doubly damn the feds!
    A dark car followed me home.  Guess the feds don't always use gray
Chevies after all.  I ignored it, parked, took a coke from the fridge and
put my feet up.  What an evening!
    But it wasn't over.  About half an hour later I heard a tapping on my
door.
    More harassment?  But no, it was Hilda after all!  My eyes lit.  I
opened my mouth to welcome her but she immediately pressed a finger over
her lips before whispering, "Where's the music?"
    I took her arm and pulled her into the room before closing the door.
Went to the stereo, threw in an orchestral Tschaikovsky tape and turned up
the volume, hopefully not high enough to wake the neighbors.
    Hilda was standing beside me, purse slung over her shoulder.  I lifted
it off her, threw it on the couch and took her in my arms standing.  She
returned my kisses willingly, though I could tell she was laughing.
    "What's so funny?"
    "The fed in your parking lot."
    "Huh!  What's funny about feds?"
    "This one was putting something under your car when your dog got him."
    "Dog?"
    "Ripped a hole in his britches and probably in his ass.  Didn't know
you had a dog, Sport."
    "I don't!"
    "Well, one out there believes in guarding your car.  Quiet dog, too.
Didn't even growl."
    "Black one?"
    "Yeah."
    "Ms. Riker's lab.  What happened to the fed?"
    "Back in his car like a flash.  He's out of here."
    "Well, damn!  Have to give him a medal.  Her.  Believe it's a female."
    "She deserves one.  We girls have to stick together."
    "I think you do!  How'd you get here, Hilda?"
    "Sorry to see me?"
    "Very glad to see you!"
    "That's what I saw in your eyes."  She kissed the hand I had left on
her collar.  "Dodging the feds is thirsty work.  You got anything to drink
besides coke?"
    She accepted a beer.  My kitchen has no window.  She noted that, put
down her bottle and began taking off her clothes.
    "You were going to tell me how you got here," I reminded her,
unhooking on my own buttons.
    When I was late, she drove to the garage on Aspen in time to see me
roll out.  Hers was the dark car that followed me home -- with a gray
Chevy behind us both.  She passed on by;  the Chevy turned in behind me.
She returned in time to witness the incident with Ms. Riker's dog.
    "I liked your proposition, Sport," she declared, smoothing wrinkles
out of the skirt laid on the table, while leaning her mouth close to my
ear.  Her breasts swayed pendulously, showing veins and stretch marks.
More such decorations appeared on her sides, hips and thighs, though
curiously absent from the front of her belly.  I guess at some time she's
been a lot heavier than her present 120, or thereabouts.  I cupped one
tit, gently tweaking the long nipple.
    "Nice," I murmured.
    "Thank you."  She sighed.  "They're not what they used to be."
    "Nothing is.  But you're in good shape, Hilda."
    She nodded, smiling.  "For the shape I'm in.  But I prefer your
shape."  One hand enclosed my dick.  The other arm urged me to sit on the
table.  She immediately dropped to her knees and looked up at me with
twinkling eyes.  "Let's get the first one out of the way."
    "Laura said I was fast, did she?"
    "A 'quick draw,' we call it."
    She opened her mouth, my glans resting on her lower lip.  I remembered
the relieved expressions of other whores.  "Aren't quick draws the best
kind?"
    "Actually you're right.  They do lots better on the second pop."  She
closed on me.
    A woman kneeling in submission, dick in suckling mouth but careful not
to bite, is particularly stimulating, as I may have mentioned.  And this
was a school teacher!  By the sixth grade I already knew that people did
such things to each other and had some appreciation of why.  Once or twice
I may have entertained the fantasy of such service by my harried but plump
sixth grade teacher, whom Hilda much resembled in fact, but the idea
seemed altogether too far-fetched then.  Here a full time school teacher,
not poor part-time Eunice, not mine but a real one nevertheless, was
sucking me off in reality.
    Her hands kneaded my balls.  She didn't mind that her mouth made
slurping noises.  Neither did I.  I think she had my juice in about one
minute.  Every drop of it.
    Fellatio can arouse women, I'm told.  In this case it may have.  In
bed at last I found her well lubricated.  She fucked enthusiastically with
every sign of extended orgasm.  The grasp of her vaginal sphincter was
unusually strong.  From deliberate exercise?  I wonder if a woman can
train it to the point of capturing a hard penis inextricably behind its
glans.  Probably not.  It's an amusing potential, however.  She could
imprison it only so long as it remained erect.  Like dogs.
    Afterwards we lay cheek to cheek, our talk covered by music spilling
out of the den.  She told me a bit of her life.  Her first lover, the
neighborhood rake, infected her with a particularly virulent strain of
chlamydia at age 14.  People react differently to diseases.  Hers settled
in her Fallopian tubes and sterilized her before the free clinic cured it
with an experimental antibiotic.  She reacted in typical Hilda fashion.
With one large branch of the female experience closed to her, she embraced
the other, flinging herself into prostitution.  But after ten years and a
few more infections -- thank god for the miracle drugs! -- she found that
contact with children was essential to her happiness after all.  She
worked in a nursery, both for and under the owner, until a beating at the
hands of the owner's wife taught her not to mix business and pleasure.  So
she went to school, living on her savings, and graduated from a teacher's
college in less than three years, having also earned a high school diploma
along the way.  She'd been a careful, diligent and respected grammar-
school teacher ever since.
    In the daytime.  At night -- well, I'd seen how she was at night.  Did
I care to comment?
    "Wow!" was the only appropriate response.  But what about her future?
    What about it?  She intended to fuck so long as she could find a
partner, which from the testimony of the sisterhood, would be late indeed.
Didn't Portia, the great-grandmother, talk to me at all?  Portia was only
"semi-retired" and much enjoyed bragging of her occasional tricks.
    Hilda concluded with a smirk, "Hell, you know I love it!  If it comes
to that, I might even pay the johns.  Financially I'm getting close to
easy street, Harry."
    "Well, I'm glad to hear it.  But if you ever need a customer, just let
me know."
    "You're sweet.  What if I make you a regular?"
    "Long as you don't tell Jack."
    She smiled but wouldn't promise.  And she refused my money when she
left before first light.



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