Chapter 6

I SHOVED MY ARM THROUGH JOE'S AND WE walked down Grand to Elm and angled kitty-corner across Elm to the rear of Bailey's Tin Shop. Joe led me over to a long low sleek red sport job with no top. We stood there looking down at it. "What is it?" I asked.

"It's a Ferrari three-thirty," Joe said. "It's."

"You a sports car buff?" I asked. He nodded.

"Say no more," I told him. "I've heard your kind spouting jargon by the yard and the hour. So let's not get started."

Joe grinned. "Fair enough. But I thought you might like to know."

"like hell I would."

"Okay, climb in and I'll show you instead of telling you."

He opened the door, helped me in and I sat down and felt as if my butt was dragging on the ground. He came around and climbed in on the other side.

He started the motor. It had a deep-throated roar.

We shot backward like a retro-rocket. Joe stood it on its nose. He rammed the gear stick lever straight back and, with a roar, we shot out to the street.

"You'd better fasten your seat belt," Joe said. "I don't need it. I've got the wheel to hang on to."

"Good idea," I said. "And I'd feel better if I were sitting on a parachute."

He laughed. "You talk like a square. Come on, let's go.

We zoomed in a tight curve to the right and roared down the street. Fortunately, everyone had to stop before crossing Elm.

We were soon out of town. Once more Joe hit the brake.

"Watch this," Joe said. "Hang on."

It was like riding a rocket. My guts fell down below the level of my seat belt. I couldn't breathe. I hung on with knuckles white. And then it finally leveled off.

Joe grinned over at me. "How do you like that?"

"That's for idiots and God damn fools," I yelled.

"Don't be a square. I've clocked that. We went from 0 to 99 in 39 seconds."

"I wouldn't brag about it," I told him. "When are you going to grow up?"

"Aw, you've got to have some kind of a hobby."

"Then why don't you take up sky diving?" I asked him. "At least you don't have all the roar and racket."

"You're so right. And I like it, too. I've belonged to the Cloud Jumpers for the last three years. That's one of the reasons that Lila left me, I guess. I took her up once and it scared the hell out of her. Her chute almost didn't open. I never got her off the ground after that."

"I wouldn't wonder."

We blasted out Rutledge Road about five miles, with fields of new corn on either side and green pastures dotted with horses and fat cows with full udders and with calves and colts everywhere. It was a beautiful sight, with the graceful Wg trees and the meandering creeks and the rolling hills.

We topped a long hill and there, just ahead on the right, beyond fields of corn hemmed in by barbed wire fences, was a corral fence such as you'd see in the West.

Joe hit the brake and the tires screamed in a long curve to the right and we bounced to a parking lot and strummed across it to head in a slot, and to stop alongside an old long low barn of a building with a weather-beaten roof.

"Looks like it had been there a hundred years, doesn't it? They use some kind of a paint, I heard."

He got out and went around and helped me out. We went up to what looked like a split bam door, painted a faded chalked-out red. The top half was swung back. Joe lifted a latch and shoved the lower part inward and guided me through.

We were in a bam. It even smelled like one. Straw was hanging down from the haymow above. Exposed heavy timbers were on either side, grimy and with cobwebs between them. The floor was battered old rough planks. Horsecollars, ropes, bridles, reins and saddle blankets hung from the walls on either side. It was a typical aisle across the middle of a bam. There was even a rick on one side, filled with straw.

Instead of booths on either side there were stalls. In each stall was a rough wood table and a rough wood bench on either side. But the seats and the table tops had been smoothed off, thank God.

The place was jammed. The bar ran along the far end of the room and there wasn't a vacant stool.

I looked at Joe and he looked at me.

"like it?" he asked.

"It's as crazy as your car," I told him.

"I swear, you are a square," Joe told me.

"Agreed."

"Want to go somewhere else?"

"No. We're here now. Let's make the most of it."

A tall rangy guy with curly brown hair and the looks of an Adonis came striding up with an armload of cardboard.

"Hi, Joe," he greeted. "I'll have a stall ready for you in a minute."

"We're not a pair of horses," I told him. He laughed. "This a city gal?"

"Yes and no. She was raised in Clodville. But she's been in Chi for the last five years. I want you to meet Molly Gilligan."

Pretty Boy's eyebrows shot up. "You the cop daughter of Mike?" he asked me.

"The same."

"Say, you had quite a shoot-out up there last night."

He led us across the rough board floor to the right side of the barn and down that side nearly to the rear.

The barmaids wore light red mini-skirts that flared and barely covered their butts. Fortunately, they wore black leotards. They pegged around on spikes in black pumps. Their blouses varied according to their hair. The blondes had blue and the redhead had Kelly green and the blackheads had light yellow.

There was even piped in but muted country music. It was really quite a place.

I slid on a bench across from Joe. He ordered two martinis and offered me a cigarette. I leaned toward his lighter and he lit one for himself.

"Bet you don't have anything like this in Chi," he said.

"I hope not. Not even down by the stockyards is it this bad."

He chuckled. "You wouldn't admit that you liked it even if you did. Well, from the way they're packing them in, I guess everyone around here does."

'They've always liked corn," I said.

"Tom told me this morning that he was trying to talk you into staying for good."

"I told him I'd consider it after I had nailed the bar down so the mob couldn't grab it."

Joe glanced down at the menu lying on the table. "What do you want, steak?"

"Are they good here?"

"The best. You can't even get them that good down at the stockyard in Chi."

"Okay, steak it is. Bood rare, baked potato with sour cream and chive, a small salad with Roquefort and coffee. Nothing more."

"You know what you like, don't you?" Joe asked with a grin.

I nodded and dragged on my cigarette.

A redhead flounced over and Joe gave her the order. And away she went, butt bouncing.

Joe watched her go. "Ain't that cute?" he said with a grin.

"Yeah, if you're a butt fancier."

"I'd like to see you in one of those outfits."

"It would take a better man than you to put me in one," I told him.

That's the way the banter went all through the meal. And we were laughing and joking as we headed toward the open barn door at the front, after we had eaten.

I happened to glance over to a stall on my right.

About a year ago, I got a letter from an oil company scowl on his dark puss and with his hair slicked down. I lost my grin in a hurry. I gasped, and my body must have stiffened as our stares met for a moment.

"What's the matter?" Joe asked as I moved on again.

"Over there on the right. Ricardo the Roach, he's known as. I know him well."

"Chi?"

"Yeah. He's a punk hood."

"Who's that with him."

"I dunno. Probably another roach."

"Well, what are they doing out here."

"I'll give you two guesses. They probably tailed us out."

"They couldn't have kept up with us," Joe said.

"So what? If we headed out Rutledge Road, where would we be headed?"

"Yeah. And did you notice all they had was coffee?"

"Of course. But I'll bet you they don't let us get out of sight this time."

"They'd better have a jet job, then."

"Now don't wreck us," I said, as we went out the door and headed toward the car.

"Never fear. I race occasionally. I know how to handle it."

Joe started toward his sports job. I hung back. "Wait a minute. Come on. Let's have some fun," I said.

I wheeled around and half-ran to a big black sedan parked next to the entrance. We squatted down.

We peered around the front tire. Out the door bounded Ricardo and his pal. They looked around and then ran across the parking lot.

I stood up and slogged to the rear of the car, with Joe right behind me.

Ricky and pal were climbing in a long black European job. I looked at Joe.

"It must be custom made," Joe said. "It doesn't look like any stock job to me."

"But I'll bet it'll travel," I said.

"You can make book on it," Joe said. "Watch them go."

They roared backward and then shot forward and burned rubber in a tight curve to the right as they headed toward town.

"Bye-bye, boys," I said with a grin. "I'm glad we're behind you, not ahead of you."

"Why should they be tailing you?" Joe asked.

"They have a message for me."

"Message?"

"Yeah. But they write the message with a gun instead of with a pen." Joe nodded. "I getcha."

"Yeah, that proves it. There's a contract out on me. Because Ricky Boy there is a top torpedo. When he's run in on a job, you can figure it's a big kill."

"Well, at least you're important," Joe said with a grin.

"You can say that in blood," I told him. "So let's get back to town and get to my apartment."

"You armed?" Joe asked.

I pulled back my denim jacket and slapped my .38. Joe nodded. "I've got a .45 in back."

"Then get it. And get it fast."

Joe went behind and threw up the trunk lid. He came back with a holster dangling on a leather belt and a .45 stuck in it. He put on the belt and adjusted the holster so it would ride on his hip. Then he let his jacket drop.

He opened the door and slid in. "If they don't find us, they'll be buzzing back here."

"Let 'em," I said. "Then you can kick it in the butt and we'll be in town before they get turned around."

Joe nodded and was grim as he started the motor. He backed it out and around and headed for the road.

He rocketed away toward town and I damn near lost my steak.

The car was so long and low that it hugged the curves and shot around them as if they weren't there.

As we swung to the right around a blind curve, we were hugging the middle of the road. So was the long black custom job, headed the opposite way.

"Hang on!" Joe yelled. "We'll see whose chicken."

Joe held it on a collision course. It seemed as if a slow motion movie. There we were with the wheels hugging the middle of the road and with the low-slung monster fighting to go over the center line. We hung there as if in suspended animation, with the big black behemoth's headlights leering at us just ahead.

When we were eyeball to eyeball, the black job suddenly swung to the right and fought to head back toward the center line. But it didn't make it.

It shot across a wide grader ditch and plowed through a hog wire and barbed wire fence, taking wire and posts and everything as it charged across a field of knee-high corn which had just been plowed. Try doing 90 miles an hour on hard ground and then mire down in that plowed ground and see what happens.

The big black brute suddenly began flopping end over end across the corn field. On about the third flop or so, it broke into roaring flames. And at that instant we were around the curve and I could see no more.

"Get it stopped," I yelled.

Joe hit the brake and released it and hit it again. He swung in a farmyard and hit the brake. He zoomed backward and around. Then forward. We rocketed back toward the curve and around it. In the middle of the com field was a blazing funeral pyre.

"I wonder if they got thrown out of it," I muttered.

"Fat chance," Joe said. "They were probably strapped in. At least the guy in the co-pilot's seat was.

ll make a book on that. The driver wouldn't have a hance of getting out. He probably bad the steering lumn rammed through him."

"We'd better be getting out of here," I finally said to Joe. "If Johnny Law should come along, they might start asking questions when they found out who I am."

Joe nodded and started the motor and we shot back down Rutledge Road toward The Rodeo.

Joe then finally got it slowed down and turned around and once more we headed toward town.

As we rolled into town a highway patrol car was ripping south, siren wailing and red light flashing. "He's on Code 3, I'll bet you on that," I said. Joe glanced at his speedometer. "Seems like we're crawling, doesn't it?"

I nodded as he swung left and worked his way toward Maple. In a few minutes we were heading toward my apartment house.

"Park at least a block away," I told him. "No need of tying you and this car to me."

Joe suddenly swung in and the tires swished the curb and he hit the brake. He yanked out the keys and crawled out. He came around and helped me out. We went up the walk a block and headed into 319. The lobby was deserted, fortunately. We took the stairs, in case anyone was coming down in the cage. We had nothing to hide, but I didn't want witnesses cropping up later that Joe had come in with me.

I speared the lock at my apartment and shoved back the door. I threw out my arm and frowned at Joe. Then I reached in and snapped on the light. I cautiously looked into the living room. Nothing. But I was taking no chances. I closed the door and locked it and chained it. I went through the whole damned apartment, flattening beside a doorway and then peering around the casing with gun drawn.

Joe watched me with an amused look on his face. When I came back he said, "Didn't you bag anything?"

I scowled at him. "I'll bag you in a minute. How do you know we weren't walking into a trap? I've lived like this for five years, and made my living doing it. So it comes natural for me. Even though it may sound crazy to you."

Joe nodded and headed toward the kitchen. "Is the booze still out here?"

We whipped up two old fashioneds and went back into the living room. We sat on the couch, and one thing led to another. To my surprise, Joe had turned into the bashful type. Hell, a woman doesn't want to throw it in a man's face. That takes all the thrill out of it for her.

I knew the only thing to do was to get him in a frenzy and let him take it from there.

I got up and went over and put a stack of records on the player and waited for a moment. There was a jump beat on the hi-fi. I kicked off my loafers and ambled over toward him like a tawny cat.

My fingers began freeing the buttons down the front of my shirt. I backed slowly away from him and shrugged out of my shirt as my hips, hugged by skintight jeans, wiggled provocatively and taunted him.

My hand went to my gun belt and freed it. I tossed it onto the couch beside him. Then my fingers grabbed my belt buckle and freed it.

I let my jeans slide slowly downward and kicked them away. I now wore only panties and bra. My hips undulated forward and backward to the tempo of the jungle beat. My thrusting breasts, although restrained by my bra, managed somehow to bounce and jiggle.

My hands now crept behind me and worked slowly upward. My bra fell free. My tits now bounded forth like two thoroughbreds just released from their stalls. I began dancing. I whirled, dipped and rose, and did the bumps and grinds, while my breasts tantalized him. He lunged off the couch. I ducked and ran with mincing steps and trying to get a half-sneering smile on my face.

My panties were the next to go. I kicked them away. Then I stood on my toes, like a ballet dancer, stretching upward, with my arms in the air and with my hands flopping forward. My breasts were proud and free. My belly was flat, thanks to the hours I had always spent in the police gym.

He grabbed me. I let on like I wanted to get away, but he didn't know that.

He cradled me in his arms, hugging me to him, and kissing me from my forehead to my lips and to my hard, bursting nipples. Then I threw my arms around his neck and made mewing sounds as he carried me to the bedroom and dumped me on the bed.

He shucked and dove headlong beside me. We rolled together. He had me in his arms, with his left arm under my neck, and with his right hand stroking my back.

My hands explored. One caressed the tangled jungle on his chest and belly. The other crept downward to grab, to tug, and to rub his massive pulsing cock.

His lips mashed against mine. Our tongues met, sparred, and then went on beyond the other's lips to whip up even more ecstasy.

He rolled me on my back. His hips slowly lowered. I sighed, clutched him to me in a bear hug, and then began moaning softly as his huge cock stretched my cunt-lips and slowly pushed in me.

We were like two ocean waves rising and falling together, locked together, and with our tongues now violently driving us onward and upward to the heights we were seeking.

I pulled my face away and screamed. I rocked and rolled higher and harder. He was not far behind.

We thrashed and tossed and had simultaneous convulsions. We gasped and fought for breath. And then, as the storm gradually subsided, we began breathing heavily and moving more slowly.

He hovered above me on his elbows, but still connected, and stared down into my eyes. His head ducked down to brush my lips.

He wasn't through yet and neither was I, but I knew I had to fire him up again.

I shoved my feet skyward, wide apart, and then they dived toward each other, locking his torso between my thighs. One of my hands grabbed the hair on his head and yanked while my other hand clawed his back.

My hips undulated and I clamped down on him and I felt his body stiffen.

I was hot. I was ready, even if he wasn't. I rocked and thrashed and squeezed his torso while moaning and letting out small screams, as I exploded.

He was getting fired up. I knew that the tumultuous surging pressure within each of us was building up to the bursting point.

He began screwing again with long slow strokes. We rose and fell in unison. Both our bodies became stiff and tense.

I rammed my hips upward now to meet his onslaught, and they reared up each time he rammed me. And the harder and more violent his thrust, the greater my response. We were racing down the home stretch. The fiery, surging, pulsating pressures still threatened to tear us apart. Something had to give.

All hell broke loose. We desperately clung together, tossed about on the wild surging waves of erupting orgasm.

He rolled off me and lay beside me, puffing and panting as though he had been digging a ditch.

I was finally able to sit up. When the room settled down, I got to my feet and staggered to the living room. I got my cigarettes and lighter, went to the kitchen, built two drinks and returned to the bedroom.

He struggled up on one elbow and reached for a drink. I stuck a cigarette between his lips and lit it. Then I placed an ash tray on the bed between us. I got one going for myself.

Joe took a long drag on his cigarette and blew smoke. Then he sipped his drink. He finally looked at me. "So what are you going to do to protect your building from being bombed?"

"That's one I'm trying to figure out now," I said.

"I have a suggestion..."

"Shoot," I told him.

"Did you ever hear your dad talk about Barney Vestal?" I shook my head.

"He retired on an Army pension about a year ago and came back here to live. He tried to start up a merchants' police patrol, but the merchants wouldn't support it and he had to give it up. So your dad got him in out at the Ramrod Corporation, over near Center City, as a guard. But that didn't work out. Too much regimentation, Parney said. Mike had to laugh at that one, after all those years in the Army. Barney's still around town and trying to live on his pension and do odd jobs."

"What are you getting at?"

"Just this. Barney needs work and money and he'd be glad to go to work for you."

"Doing what?"

"Look, Barney retired as a master sergeant. You're wanting publicity, right?" I nodded.

"Okay, here's what I suggest. There are outfits that you can buy uniforms from. Snappy uniforms. Or they'll design one for you. So you get Barney all togged out and let him form Barney's Raiders."

A glimmer of light began to filter through the sawdust in my head. I nodded.

"Get it?" Joe went on. "I know of a dozen Vietnam vets who haven't gotten settled down yet. That should be enough for Barney. They're already trained to handle weapons. So let them guard the building from sundown until the next morning. There are deputy sheriffs who are for hire when off duty. They have to moonlight to make a living. You can have them around in the daytime. Sure, it'll cost you some money."

"I don't give a damn what it costs," I said. "Even if I have to spend everything in my trust fund."

"Providing you can or are allowed to. So you'd better get hold of Al Marshall in St. Louis."

I nodded. "I'll do that tonight or the first thing in the morning."

I stared out the window. Barney's Raiders. Dad would have liked that name. And Dad would have liked the idea.

I looked back at Joe. "There's only one thing I would change about your idea."

"What?"

"I'm going to call it the Mike Gilligan Patrol."