Chapter 11
Daisy focused her eyes on the entrance to the Coronado Apartments. It wasn't easy to do because she was drunk. And angry. And frustrated. A half-dozen manhattans had not been able to cover the turbulence of her flesh, the starved flesh that palpitated for the touch of the man she had betrayed to the police.
Men at the bars where she had done her drinking had tried to pick her up but she had wanted none of them. They had either looked too much like Joe or not enough like him. So she had ordered drink after drink, seeking oblivion and forgetfulness. She had found neither.
Her need for the touch of another body upon hers was greater than ever. But there was still another need she had to fulfill ... she had to sink the knife of betrayal deeper into Joe, sink it so deep that there would be no relief for him, no way of getting it out.
And now, drunk and weaving, she somehow came to the conclusion that she had to see Rene Clark, talk to her, make her see how Joe had treated her, make him evil in the eyes of the light-hearted model, so that she too would hate him as Daisy hated him.
Besides, that dumb broad always took life so easily. It was time she was shook up a bit, and Daisy was the babe that could do it.
Clutching a bottle of scotch to her breast, she weaved up the steps and rang Rene's bell. The girl appeared at the door, surprised to see Daisy. She wore a skintight pair of capris and a sweater that clung to her bosom like a second skin.
"Daisy?" she exclaimed. "Why, what are you doing here?"
Daisy's eyes roamed quickly and appreciatively over Rene's swollen boobs, the curve of her stomach, the line of her thighs. She felt her own body tingle at the sight of a figure that was, she told herself, as lovely as her own ... and as desirable.
"I'm visiting," she said, trying to control her twisting tongue. "You're lonely and I'm lonely, so I thought I'd come and keep you company for a little bit."
Rene stepped aside to let her visitor in. "Why, that's very nice of you, Daisy, thinking of me that way. It's real neighborly, just like back home. Please come in."
Daisy threw herself on the sofa, her legs sprawled straight out, the skirt hiked carelessly above her knees, revealirg the smooth flow of flesh.
"Break out the crockery, baby. I hear you're missing a roommate. Let's drink and talk this over."
"Oh, I don't drink, really. Just one or two to be sociable. . Drinking makes me giddy."
Daisy's eyes narrowed. Rene was standing just before her, her waist at eye level to Daisy.
"Is that so?" she said. "Giddy, eh? And frisky, too?"
Rene giggled. "That's right. I have to be very careful when I date a man. If I drink too much, well, I get careless. I tend to let myself go and get myself plugged."
Gad, thought Daisy. This is an innocent dame!
"Well, you've got nothing to worry about, baby. There are no men around. So let's have at it, shall we?"
As Rene got the glasses, Daisy watched the trim, undulating figure through bleary eyes. And her mouth watered. Daisy had spent ten years in Las Vegas, and she had undergone every experience possible in those years.
And the only purpose in her young life was to satisfy the hunger of her body-in any way she could. She had been through a great many experiences, tasted every possible thrill, known every variation, always searching for the one that would satisfy her.
To Daisy, a body was a body, man or woman. She was no dike, she told herself, but what was more beautiful than the thought of two broads head to toe in the embrace of senseless, wild passion, two pairs of knockers crushed together, two heaving bodies, two red, feminine mouths searching each other out with flicking tongues....
She took a deep breath, trying to control the trembling that was overwhelming her, the desire that was creeping savagely into her crotch. The tips of her breasts hurt deliciously and there was a quivering along her thighs that she wanted to touch and bring to flame.
Rene's hips twitched as she set the glasses on the coffee table between Daisy and herself. Daisy opened the scotch bottle with trembling fingers and poured two strong shots. She patted the place next to herself on the couch.
"Sit here, baby, and let's drink and talk about loneliness and love and the pursuit of male dingles."
Rene laughed lightly. "You talk awful cute, Daisy. Are we going to drink this straight?"
"Might as well," Daisy lifted her glass. "It's the only thing we'll do straight tonight-I hope."
It was over and past Rene's head. She tilted her head and drank. It was strong stuff but it warmed her and she took another gulp. There was still some left in the glass when she lowered it and looked at Daisy:
Daisy's glass was empty. "Come on, baby," she said. "Drink up. You've got to keep pace with your company. It's not polite not to, you know."
Rene drank dutifully and Daisy instantly refilled both glasses. "Might as well be drunk as the way we are." She rested her hand on Rene's thigh. "And like I said," she went on, "there are no men around, so what have you got to worry about?"
The fingers pressed on the softness of the thigh. Rene looked down at Daisy's hand and giggled. "It does feel good," she said.
"What feels good, baby?" Daisy's hand moved slowly up on the thigh. "This? Or the drink?"
"The drink, silly! Why should your hand feel good?"
"Drink up and I'll answer that."
The second drinks vanished faster than the first. As Daisy poured more scotch, she said, "Didn't it feel good when Dale did it to you?"
Rene was still shuddering from the effects of drinking too fast. Things were getting blurred to her and Daisy's hand felt hot and restless on her thigh.
"Dale?" she said lazily. "Dale never did that."
"She didn't. Why, you two are shacking up together. Didn't you beautiful girls sleep together?"
"Why no. We each have our own bedroom."
Daisy looked at Rene, not believing that a girl in Las Vegas could be that naive. And it thrilled her strangely to realize that Rene was still a virgin as far as women were concerned. Her own senses were tingling more than ever from the need that Joe had been unable to satisfy, and now the very idea of her being alone with this lovely, dumb creature excited her more than ever.
If she could only get some relief, she would be able to sleep tonight and forget about Joe for a little while. But first she had to get to Rene and make her want it too.
She poured another drink for both glasses. " There was a strange little guy looking for you to pose for him," she said. "You had a date with him, remember?"
"Oh! Yes! And I didn't keep it. I'm sorry Daisy."
"Dale must have kept it in your place. That's why she isn't back. She hasn't been home for a few days has she?"
Rene stared at Daisy, her eyes blinking. "I don't understand."
"Drink up and I'll explain it."
The drinks were gone the next instant. Rene slumping now, not caring what Daisy's hands were doing to her.
"I've seen that type of man before, baby," Daisy went on. "Mean, vicious. They like to torture girls. Who knows? Maybe he's killed Dale already...."
"Oh, no!" Rene sat up, her senses reeling.
"And he'll be back after you, too."
Daisy saw the effect this was having on the girl. What she was saying was only wild imaginings, of course, but it was working. Rene shuddered and drew close to her, the full boobs shoved hard against Daisy's arm.
"I'm scared!" Rene sobbed. "You mean he'll try to kill me?"
Daisy took her in her arms. The lush body, heavy with the perfume of excitement, melted weakly against her. "Don't worry about it, baby," Daisy murmured. "I'm here. Nobody's going to hurt you while I'm here. You need another shot."
Two drinks later, Rene was weak and groggy, her head weaving, her eyes half-closed as Daisy mauled her boobs and wet her throat with open-mouthed kisses.
"What ... what are you doing?" Rene whispered.
But Daisy was past playing a game now. She was hot with desire and was tearing at Rene's sweater. Rene was too weak and senseless to care as the sweater slipped off and the bra was torn from her heavy breasts.
She fell back on the couch and Daisy fell atop her, her lips fastened to the soft rise of flesh, her body grinding savagely and relentlessly. But Daisy had to pause for a moment. Their clothing was in the way.
As she raised herself, she saw that Rene was out cold. Her head was thrown back, her knockers forced upward, her hips and thighs softly relaxed on the couch.
"Oh, well," Daisy whispered to herself, "it might as well be this way. It'll be something new for me and she'll never know what happened."
And as she lowered her naked body upon that of the supine girl, she said, "But I'll know, all right! I'll know!"
And the next few moments she discovered a new thrill a new sensation as she made wild love to a body that was sheer beauty but without response.
And then, when she felt all sensation gather into a knot within her and explode with a force that was like that of no other she had ever known, she cried out, "Glory! Glory! It's better than doing it to myself."
All that Rene remembered when she woke up the next morning was that she had gotten drunk with Daisy and that she had a terrible, sick hangover.
She was nude on the couch, her clothing strewn on the floor, and she was alone with an empty scotch bottle and a sour taste in her mouth.
"Oh!" she moaned as she sat up, every bone and muscle aching. "I'll never drink again. I must have made a fool of myself. What could Daisy have thought of me?"
Shaking her head in shame, she went into the shower and sprayed herself with the hottest water she could take. The soap lathered thickly and she covered herself with it from neck to toe. Her fingers worked it into her flesh, the softness pliable under her fingers, and when she rinsed her body clean, she felt awake and alive once again, and happy.
A hearty breakfast and she would be as good as ever, she told herself, charged with the strength and recovery of her youth.
The phone rang just as she finished dressing.
"This is Lt. Jones," spoke the voice. "Do you know a photographer, rather small and dark and with a space between his front teeth?"
"No," she replied wonderingly.
"Well, we're looking for him. We have an idea that he may know something about what happened to Miss Anders."
Rene almost dropped the phone. "Oh!" she gasped.
"What's the matter? Do you know the man?"
It came back to her now with a rush that made her dizzy. Daisy had said something about a man who liked to torture girls and kill them ... and that he would be back for her....
"Miss Clark!" Jones' voice was urgent. "What is it?"
"He took her away ... and now he's coming back to kill me!"
"What? What are you talking about?"
But Rene was paying no attention to him any longer. His voice was only a thin blur on the phone as she dropped it to the carpet and stood there, dazed, staring wildly about in fear.
"I've got to get out of here before he comes back!" she cried.
She took only her purse and charged out of the apartment, afraid to look over her shoulder, afraid to look at anything as she moved out into the street and hailed a passing cab.
So she missed seeing the old car parked at the curb. She didn't see the little man start up his car and move expertly after the taxi.
She didn't see the mouth part in a vague smile, showing the teeth, the front teeth with the large space between them.
The cab took her to the Bank in town where she drew out all of her money-two thousand dollars. Then she found a small hotel in a side street and registered as Freda Adams, locked herself in her room and sat shivering with dread.
"If Dale's dead," she told herself, "it was supposed to be me that's dead. I'm on borrowed time!"
It was too quiet, too lonely in the small room. There was too much time to think and to be frightened. She switched on the radio and a loud rock and roll record screamed out, the sound crashing against the walls and ringing raucously in her ears. She dialed another station and now there was soft music, sweet and soothing as a lullaby.
She threw herself on the bed and tried to relax, letting the music drift into her ears, trying to forget, trying to think that it was all her imagination. Dale was still alive; there was nothing wrong with her, she was off someplace just having a good time. And no one was looking for her, Rene, to kill her.
Her natural good spirits were beginning to take over when the news was broadcast. And she heard Dale's name, voiced in the formal tones of the newscaster.
She sat up, the words dinning in her head as if in an echo chamber, curdled with horror....
"Police report the finding of the body of a local model missing for a week. Identified as Dale Anders, it was found by two ore hunters when they were digging for ore samples and uncovered a recent grave....
Rene's lips went dry, her tongue caught in her throat. And still the voice, crisp and detached, went on: "the beautiful model was discovered bound hand and foot and it is believed that she died of exposure. Police are seeking an unidentified photographer believed to have kidnapped the girl and subjected her to this strange method of torture and death...."
Her entire body trembling, Rene jumped up and switched off the set, as if by doing so she could make the horrible news go away.
"It was supposed to be me!" she wailed. "Oh, poor Dale! She went in my place and she was murdered. I've got to hide! I mustn't let him find me!"
She thought of Oscar. "He'd know what to do if he were here. He'd take care of me. He'd stop that terrible man."
But he wouldn't know where to find her if he came back and she was still hiding like this. There was only one thing to do. She had to get home to her folks in Easton. Oscar would look for her there and she would be safe from the man with the separated teeth.
She was about to reach for the phone to call the airport when it suddenly came to life, ringing shrilly and startling her. The ring continued as she stared at the black instrument, wondering who could be calling her.
No one knew she was here, and she was registered under another name. She tried to compose herself. "It's only the desk to tell me something or other about hotel service," she told herself. "I mustn't let everything get to me.
She lifted the phone, drawing a deep breath. "Miss Clark," said the man's voice, soft, low.
"Yes?" she answered automatically. Then she realized that whoever it was knew her name and she started trembling all over again. "Who ... who is this?" she quaked.
"An admirer," said the voice. "Along-time admirer."
"This isn't Miss Clark," she said faulteringly. "You have the wrong party."
"I don't think so. I saw you come into this hotel, Miss Clark ... Rene. I'm down in the lobby now. I'd like to talk to you."
"This isn't Rene, I tell you! Please go away and leave me alone!"
"All I want to do is talk to you about a job. I'm a photographer and I've got all my equipment out in the car, waiting for you. We could go right out in the desert and...."
"No!" Rene cried and slammed down the phone.
She stared at it for a long moment as if it were a thing of horror, ready to reach up and strike her down. But it was now a silent, dead object.
She went to the window, tripping on the carpet in her haste, and peered through the blinds down into the street.
There was an old car parked at the curb. She saw a small man walk to it, stop and look up at her window, his lips parted in a grimace against the blaze of the sun.
Even at that distance she could see the separation between his front teeth.
She drew back quickly from the window. "Oh, my!" she gasped. "Oh, my!"
She thought of calling the police-what was his name?-Lt. Jones! But that would mean more trouble. The man would find out that she had reported him and then he would be really angry at her.
"I've just got to wait," she whispered to herself. "He can't stay outside forever. He's got to go away, to eat and to sleep. And as soon as he does, I'll get out of here and catch a plane home...."
She sat on the bed, her hands clenched between her knees to try to keep them from trembling. She sat for a long time until the darkness began to shroud the room. She did not turn on the lights, either, but waited until it was pitch black.
Then, moving slowly, she padded to the window.
The man was still there, leaning against his car, looking up at her window while he chewed a sandwich.