Chapter 5
There was no nude Linda waiting in bed in the hot room as Russ Bates half-expected there might be.
"Well," he said to himself, "the chick took me at my word. This'll give me a chance to recharge my batteries anyway. I can sure use a good night's sleep. No use worrying about Linda, I'm going to have to undress and screw all of this town's young broads anyway to find strawberry birthmark."
Refreshed Russ had himself a good breakfast the next morning at a Main Street diner and gassed up his Chevy Then he strolled leisurely along Lynbrook's Main Street Russ found himself pleasurably checking the naked hips on an unusual amount of attractive young girls who passed him by in shorts. While Lynbrook wasn't completely a resort town, it was close enough to the South Shore's magnificent beaches to attract plenty of vacationers. There were people who preferred the advantages of a built-up community like Lynbrook, with the beaches just minutes away by car.
It was cheaper than a beach summer rental too. Russ was startled for a moment when he saw a luscious pair of thighs sidling by with what looked like a pink mark just beneath the short line. He couldn't be that lucky this fast. He gave the whole situation a double-take and saw that it couldn't be. The babe with the mark was just an over-developed kid of about sixteen, and the mark was just pink adhesive tape shaped like her initial where she wanted to suntan around it. Russ felt the change of the first fifty he had cracked earlier for breakfast beginning to burn a hole in his wallet. He crossed the sun-baked sidewalk, carefully avoiding a buxom false-blonde in an overstuffed set of pink pedal pushers, and made for a pleasantly dark and cool-looking cave. The cave went by the inglorious name of The Host.
Walking in, he discovered that it was not a dump. But it wasn't plush either. It was neat and small. There were several people at the bar, among them one who was young and female. But she was well escorted by a sharp-eyed little man old enough to be her father. Well, Russ wasn't prospecting right then, anyway. He sat down beside an old codger in a flowered shirt and straw hat. "Draft beer," he said to the bartender, who topped six feet and weighed close to three hundred pounds. The man nodded and drew a glass. "You the boss?" Russ asked when the beer was placed in front of him. "That's right," the guy said, wiping off the bar. Russ decided to ask a question. After all, the man who'd hired him in New York hadn't said anything about keeping his girl-searching confidential. "Tell me something," Russ began. "If I can," the barman responded, putting his rag away and blinking a pair of eyes that were almost lost in folds of flesh.
"Do you happen to know a girl living in or around who has a strawberry birthmark on her right leg?"
The flesh of the bartender's eyes closed and opened a couple of times. "That all you can tell me about her?" "Afraid so."
The barman shook his head. "You're outta luck, bud. That description don't ring any bells." He picked up a glass and began polishing. "But, then I haven't inspected too many dames' legs lately-real close up, I mean." He guffawed.
"Thanks just the same," Russ said.
"Don't you know this babe's name or anything else about her?"
"Nope." Russ sipped his beer. It tasted good.
"What are you-a private eye or something?"
"In a way, yeah."
The bartender put down his glass. "Well, happy hunting." He stuck out a thick hand, palm upward.
Russ took a fifty dollar bill from his wallet and handed it over.
"Aw, come on!" the bartender protested.
"Sorry. That's the smallest I've got."
"For one lousy beer?" The flesh folds blinked several times again.
"Who can tell?" Russ said. "I might order another one."
The bartender made a face and carried the bill to the cash register.
Well, Russ told himself, this had been his first time at bat and he's struck out. But he'd needed the beer and he wanted to change all the fifties into smaller bills. Those were, after all, the reasons he'd walked into the joint.
The barman brought his change. "If I was you, bud, I'd stroll around town for a while and keep my eyes open. The babes around here show a lotta leg and ass. You might get lucky and see the one you want."
"I think I'll do that," Russ said.
He sipped his beer slowly, enjoying the way it cleared and cooled his throat and enjoying also the air-conditioner in the small bar. He thought to himself that these joint must have been real miserable before that gadget was invented.
When he reached the bottom of his glass, he signaled for a refill. The barman took care of it without a word and picked up his payment from the change Russ had left lying the wood.
The second glass of brew made Russ feel human again. He got up and walked to the hot outdoors.
He ought to set himself up in a motel first, he guessed. And he'd pick himself a good one. Why not? It was someone else's money he was spending, wasn't it? Anyway, there was a chance he might spot the girl with the birthmark at a motel that had a pool.
He walked to his car but hesitated before climbing behind the wheel, his attention captured by a brown-haired beauty who was parading along the sidewalk in a pair of olive green Bermuda shorts with a knit shirt hanging outside them. Russ gave her a good look. No birthmark. At least there was none in evidence. Of course, her shorts were kind of long.
This was going to be a hell of a job, he decided. He backed his Chevy into the street, drove to the next intersection, and U-turned. He headed for one of the plush motels he'd noticed on his way into town. The place, called The Lido, was marked by a tremendous sign which depicted a bikini clad girl lying on the sand. The motel itself was built in a huge two-storied U, its massive shape sheltering a pool and flowered patio. Russ guided his Chevy under the brilliant Entrance sign and parked beside the glass-enclosed office. Five minutes later he was in his room-a single on the upper deck toward the rear. There, in the course of another five minutes or so, he showered off the sweat and dust of the road and slipped into swimming trunks. With a towel bunched in one hand and cigarettes in the other, he went down to join the rest of the guests at the sparkling blue-green pool.
He smoked a cigarette and looked around.
Though almost five o'clock, the sun was still up and the thermometer was well in the eighties. Several guests frolicked in the glistening water while others lolled pool-side in bathing suits and other types of sun-wear.
Russ took a dip first, diving in from the deck and swimming vigorously the length of the pool a couple of times. Then he pulled himself out where he had dropped his towel and smoked. He dried his curly brown hair and his bronzed muscular body.
Refreshed, he decided it was time to get to work - or at least to go through the motions. He doubted that he could accomplish much. But then, you never knew.
He strolled along the edge of the pool, being as casual as possible about his examination of the broads assembled there. Some - the old and the homely - he dismissed with a quick glance at their faces. That left two or three possibles not counting those who were in the water at the moment He approached the first prospect and looked her over. Blonde, she wore a suit that was the color of buttercups - a good deal lighter and brighter than the shade of her hair. As to cups, Russ guessed that her built-in bra was at least a C. In other words, she was titanically curved - or curvaceously breasted, which - ever you prefer.
Russ might ordinarily have been tempted to flop down beside her and try to strike up acquaintance, since she seemed to be unescorted. But now he was working, and so he merely inspected her legs. They bore no birthmark.
She cast him a sharp glance and he moved on.
Toward the far end of the pool a redhead sat cross-legged in a deck chair with a thin and hungry-looking man beside her. Though probably not much older than she was, the man's bald head and glasses gave him a middle-age appearance. As Russ approached the man took his glasses off, put them down, and made for the pool.
Russ studied the redhead, who wore a snug two-piece suit made of multicolored Spandex.
About 27, she too was quite slim. But she had an agreeable pair of tits. They were like hard apples, placed high on her chest. Tanned a deep coppery shade, her legs were lithe and strong-looking.
After he'd finished checking her legs and had found no birthmark, the girl caught his eye. She smiled invitingly. "See anything you like?" she asked. He stopped in momentary surprise, then recovered and grinned back at her. "Sure. But I'll bet your friend likes it just as much."
"Don't worry about him," she said, taking off her dark glasses. Her eyes were impish.
"Don't tell me he's your brother." "He might as well be." She indicated the chair beside her. "Sit down, why don't you?" Russ shrugged, then sat.
"Russ." He was trying to figure her out. This was as bold a come-on as he'd ever received.
"You staying here for long, Russ?" she asked. "A day or so." "It's nice, isn't it?" "Not bad."
"You're pretty nice, too, if you don't mind my saying so." Her eyes were appraising him frankly.
"Are you on the welcoming committee at this place?" he asked cuttingly. Russ always sort of backed off when a woman threw herself at him.
She laughed. "You have spirit, too. I like that." This cunt was shameless, he thought. She seemed to have the predatory instinct of a man. He decided to play along with her to find out just how far she would go. "You're all right yourself," he said. "Fact is, as I was walking over here I thought, now there's a girl who has possibilities."
"You did, hmmm?" Her eyes sparkled with a naked hump-invitation.
"Yeah, But when I saw the guy with you ..." Russ toe sentence drop off. "Will you forget about him? He's just a business acquaintance."
"And not your type, hm?"
"You must not have looked him over very well or you wouldn't even ask." She paused, then added, "I like them with muscles." She looked at Russ again.
"I'll bet you do."
"You want me to tell you what I really like - more than anything else?" She leaned closer.
Russ nodded and looked at her in fascination.
She said softly, the smile still on her face, "I like to fuck!"
Well, that did it! She had to be a whore, Russ thought, or she wouldn't be flinging herself at him that way.
He didn't like paying for a cunt. He'd done that a few times he'd been out of luck, but he wasn't in that condition now. There was lots of free pussy to be had around a place like Lynbrook.
"You've got the wrong guy," he said curtly and started to get up.
He looked at her. The smile was still in place on her red lips.
He settled back again. "So tell me what I'm thinking, hum?"
"You're thinking that I'm - how shall I say it? - commercially-minded girl. Right?" "That's about it."
"You're wrong man." Her brown eyes held his levelly.
He didn't say anything but waited for her to go on.
She did: "It just happens that I like your looks. And right now I need a little frigging. I know that's not lady-like thing to say, but then I'm not much of a lady. I'm not a tramp either. What I am is female. You want to give me a chance to prove that?"
"And the guy in the pool?" Russ asked. She had gotten him interested now. "He won't bother us," Diane said, wriggling in her chair as if getting ready to stand.
"Okay," Russ said. "Let's go."
They got up and she led the way to her room.
It was quitting time, but Penny Williams remained at her desk. Her boss, Alfred Higdon, was with a client.
She could have just sat back and done nothing while she waited for old Mrs. Jamison to leave. But she decided she might as well keep typing. She still had a lot of work to get out, and what she didn't do today would have to be done tomorrow.
Her decision to talk with her boss about the murder which had been committed at the edge of town the night before had come as the result of an entire day spent in thinking about the matter. She had finally decided that she couldn't remain silent about what she'd seen. She had a duty as a law-biding citizen to speak up. More important than that, however, was her human wish to see the killer brought to justice and made to pay for his crime.
Her purpose in deciding to take the matter up with Mr. Higdon, rather than to go directly to Jim Navell, the Sheriff, in charge of the Lynbrook area, was in the interest of self-protection. As an attorney, Higdon could be her intermediary. He could approach, Navell, who happened to be a poker-playing buddy of his, and explain Penny's reluctance to come forward earlier. Then a confidential meeting could be arranged at which Penny would give her statement. Her identity could be kept a secret until the killer was apprehended. That way, as far as the public was concerned, the witness to the killing might be just any client of Higdon's.
At least, this was the way Penny hoped it could be worked out. She believed that her safety would therefore be protected and she still would be doing her duty and he helping to bring the murderer to account.
So she was waiting until her boss was free, having chosen the end of the business day as the best time to discuss the matter with him. Then they could be reasonably assured of no interruptions.
She typed for another five minutes ... ten ... and finally Higdon's door opened and the fat form of Mrs. Jamison waddled into view. The old woman gave Penny a pleasant but impersonal smile and Penny bid her good night.
When the outer door had closed behind her, Penny stood up and started for her boss' private room. At the connecting door she met him coming out, brief case in hand.
"Penny!" He stared at her over his brown-rimmed glasses. "Still here?"
Higdon was in his fifties, slight in stature, and had a tanned, young-looking face. His hair what was left of it-was iron-gray. At the moment it was mostly covered by the straw hat which was cocked on his head. The man had a rather preoccupied way about him, but he was usually considerate.
"I'd like to talk to you for a minute," Penny said hesitatingly. 'That is, if you have the time."
Higdon looked at her, then stepped back into his office. "I guess that beer I was thinking about will wait," he said good-naturedly and motioned Penny to a chair. "Something personal?"
As he rounded his un-neat desk and placed his straw hat on top of the clutter, Penny said, "In a way, yes. But it's also about the murder."
Higdon sat down and took off his reading glasses to permit him to get a better look at her. "You mean the woman who was found on the old back road last night?"
"Yes," Penny said, twisting her hands in her lap. "I ... well, that is, I'd been over at the Brooks' and I was driving home when it happened." She went on to relate exactly what she had seen.
Higdon leaned back in his chair and regarded her in amazement. "I'll be damned," he remarked softly.
"I was afraid to go to Jim Navell myself," Penny went on. "I thought the murderer might come after me when he found out who I was and that I could testify against him. Maybe it was foolish of me, but..."
"Nonsense," Alfred Higdon said, staring at her as if he had scarcely known her before. "You have a right to be concerned. You want me to handle this for you?"
"Would you, Mr; Higdon?" she asked eagerly. "Could it be done so that my name won't come out? I mean, not until they catch the man? Mr. Navell will want to talk to me, I suppose, but maybe I could meet him privately some place."
The lawyer got up and moved around his desk. He placed a comforting hand on Penny's shoulders. "Don't worry. You leave it all to me."
"Thank you, Mr. Higdon." Penny looked up at him gratefully. "I appreciate this very much."
He reached for his hat. "Don't give it a thought. I'll see Jim Navell right now. Why don't you hang around here for a few minutes, in case Jim wants to come directly over and have a talk with you. He probably will."
"All right," Penny said.
"The fact he comes here won't mean anything to anyone in town. It could be one of my clients he's coming to see."
Penny wondered if she had done the right thing in confiding in Mr. Higdon. She really had no one else to turn to, no mature person in whose advice she had confidence except him. At lunch, other girls her own age were always talking about their middle-aged bosses. How they were always being invited out for drinks and a motel screw on the sly, or how they had to fight off hump-advances in private offices. But Mr. Higdon had never been like that, had never made the slightest pass at her. Instead, he had shown a warm paternal interest in her, and not having her own father, Penny felt grateful to Mr. Higdon.
She sat down at her machine and started to work on her correspondence backlog. She wanted to keep busy, to keep herself from re-Irving the nightmarish scene of last night.