Chapter 1
"Yeah, Lady, yeah ... oui, oui. We'll look into it ... Yeah, right now ... no, of course I'm glad you called, yeah ... "
Detective-Inspecteur Bemolle was holding the phone between raised shoulder and ear, gesticulating wildly with both hands while he talked...." we do appreciate it Lady, and I'm glad you watched those commercials on television ... right away ... oui, oui, but look, Lady, I can't do anything about it until I get off the phone ... okay, same to you ... yeah." He slammed the receiver down premptorily, shrugging his shoulders disgustedly.
"She wished me Happy New Year!-he said with distaste to the man who was sprawled across his desk.
"Complaint of a Good Citizen?" queried the man.
"Yeah ... probably another crank call, but we gotta look into it. Get Parsons and Lageule to take a look-here's the address." He slid a small piece of paper across to Det-Insp. Smith.
"What is it, loud party?" asked Smith, examining the scrap of paper.
"Yeah." Bemole sighed heavily, stood up, and stretched. Scratching his crotch, he crossed to the water-fountain.
"St. Lawrence East, eh ... " Smith was musing deeply. After a moment of intense thought, he said, "Lotta Hippies around there. Might need the Vice Squad."
Bemole was kicking the water-fountain impatiently. "Damn thing ... guy can't' even get a sip of water around here!" He looked at Smith shrugging his shoulders in Gallic fashion. "Look, willya just get on it? Sapristi! We'll get the Squad if we need 'em, but I'd feel like a damn fool, sending the whole gang out cause a couplea long-hairs is screwing ass-up ... "
Smith turned away, heading for the Dispatcher's desk on the other side of the glass partition.
"Damn nuisance ... you'd think they'd at least give us machines for coffee, and pound cake, like they do other places ... " Bemolle was still cursing to himself, as he tried to drink from the tiny trickle of water coming out of the faucet of the fountain.
Parsons and Lageule were cruising Montreal's shabby East end, speeding along the wide boulevards, slowing down to weave through the narrower, darker alleys. It had been a pretty quiet night so far: only one knifing and two minor bar brawls. There had been only one attempted robbery and this was a record low. Parsons and Lageuele had already congratulated themselves several times on this point.
They were cruising quietly, discussing psoriasis, when suddenly the radio interrupted its usual bleeps and blurps and produced a human voice.
"Car 22! Car 22! Come in, Car 22!" said the radio.
"Hey!" said Parsons, who was driving.
"Car vingt-deux, Car vingt-deux!" he responded. Lageule had some leanings to Separatism.
"Go to 1856 St. Laurent Est!" ordered the Dispatcher's soprano. "Neighbor complained of noise."
The Dispatcher, Milly Higgins, was somewhat hot for Lageule, and spoke French for his benefit whenever possible.
"Okay, oui, merci Millee!" rang off Lageule gallantly. But his flirtatious smile into the mouthpiece turned into a frown as he looked at his partner.
"We'd better get on it!" he said with determination.
Parsons nodded, driving hard at the wheel. They squealed up from the harbor along St. James East, cutting across a series of narrow alleys so that they met St. Lawrence Boulevard half-way up its length.
"Which way?" queried Parsons grimly, as he slowed down slightly at the intersection.
Lageule picked up the dispatching end of the radio. "Which way at St. Laurent and Mercy?" he questioned into the instrument.
"Up," came Milly's voice quickly.
"Merci," said Laguele, not having time to flirt.
They cruised up St. Lawrence, shining the searchlight on house fronts. There was one fat woman undressing, but the number as only 1572. The continued up the wide boulevard.
They were almost up at the base of the mountain when they arrived at their destination. Number 1856 was dimly-lit.
"Hmmmm ... Looks like Hippies, all right," said Parsons, as he pulled in to park. "They always have their lights dim."
"Yeah," agreed Laguele. "When they've taken all that acid and stuff, it hurts their eyes ... even daylight bothers them, after a while."
The two patrolmen got out of the car.
"That's why they sleep all day," added Lageule as they ascended the front steps.
Inside the hallway was dark. They climbed the first flight of stairs slowly, feeling their way with their arms.
"Get the flashlight," whispered Parsons, nudging Lageule in the ribs.
Parsons was the senior of the two, and consequently did not have to use his own flashlight.
With the aid of the beam of light, they proceeded to the second floor.
"Next one up-I took note of that while we were outside," whispered Lageule to his partner, "it's the third floor."
They were only halfway up the last flight of stairs when they heard it.
"Hey!" said Parsons, his whisper a hiss now, "Just listen to that, willya! Music!"
"It's far too loud," agreed Lageule in a whisper, "at two o'clock in the morning, too!"
Henri Lageuele secretly had some liking for rock music-he even owned several records of the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. But Henri Lageule was by no means a stupid guy: what his superior officer wanted to hear, Henri Lageule would let him hear.
"Dreadful!" Lageule said again as they got to the door.
Parsons, pulling rank, was the one to knock. He put out his large hand and rapped sharply twice.
There was no response. Parsons and Lageuel, listening intently, thought maybe they could hear sounds of furtiveness from inside.
"Too bad we don't have a search warrant!" said Parsons grimly to his partner.
"Yeah, too bad!" said Lageule, even more grimly.
Parsons knocked again, this time harder. "It'd serve those Hippies right!" he hissed.
The two cops waited with increasing grimness for the door to open. Listening intently, ear to the door, Parsons said, "I'm sure they're doing something in there!"
Then suddenly the door opened.
"Not bad, for a Hippie," Lageule thought to himself, as he felt his French-Canadian cock grow stiff and hard under its blue serge coating.
She was a blonde chick with long swaying hair and a very short dress. Leageule felt a twinge of disappointment at seeing the dress-he had hoped they'd be naked, like Hippies always were.
"We come in?" said Parsons, showing his badge.
The girl nodded, looking at them out of very blue eyes. She seemed neither hostile nor friendly.
'Probably knows which side her bread is buttered on," thought Parsons to himself grimly, as the two cops entered the smoke-filled room.
There were a lot of people sitting around. Parsons and Lageule sniffed the air elaborately.
"All right, where's the stuff," said Parsons, after a moment of nasal-twitching, "I can smell that stuff a mile away."
"Stuff?"
"Usstuff? What d'ya mean?"
"Stuuuuuffffff?"
The lot of people all turned faces of innocence toward the two in blue.
Parsons was getting riled. "Turn THAT MUSIC DOWN!" he bellowed stentorially.
There was a series of rapid taps on the ceiling.
"What's that, now-some kind of code with your buddies upstairs?" questioned Parsons grimly. "They keeping the stuff for ya, eh?" He took a step toward the blonde chick.
"No," she replied calmly, "they don't like noise-they tap on their floor when there's too much noise."
'Cook hitch,' thought Lageule to himself. 'Probably sly too.' His cock was definitely stiff. He wouldn't mind porking a Hilly some day.
He forced himself to think of other matters. Like how much these kids knew. If he and Parsons tried to search for dope, would these kids let them?
Lageule decided that he doubted it. Hippies were sly, they knew their rights.
"Mind if we have a look around?" Parsons was saying his best manner.
The blonde chick shrugged her shoulders.
"You won't find anything," was her sly comment.
"Never mind that. You kids all stay right here, understand? We don't want anybody leaving before we find the stuff." Parsons was walking around the living room while he talked, looking at the posters on the walls, eyeing a vase of colored flowers with suspicion. He took a few books off the shelf and opened them. Finding nothing, he turned his attention to the television.
"Mind if I take a look inside?" he questioned.
The blonde chick, who seemed to be the spokesman-for the group, shrugged again. This time, however, she was really sly.
"Yes, I do mind." she said tersely. Voice evennot impolite, just firm.
'Coll number,' thought Laguele to himself again, 'real sly.' Aloud he said, "I'll take the bathroom."
He went down the hall. When he got to his destination, he looked first of all behind the bathroom door, for douche bags. Lageule's girl-friend Jeannine was always hanging hers there: it looked like a hot-water bottle.
But there were no bags of any sort hanging behind the door. "These hippies probably don't even use them ... though Lageule to himself, shrugging with disgust.
He opened the medicine cabinet. Nothing there-except, he noted with interest, a jar of Psorexma. psoriasis medicine! What a coincidence, when he and Parsons had just been talking about it!
He lifted the top off the back of the toilet-again nothing. There was a leak between pipe and float; in trying to fix it, he got the cuffs of his uniform wet.
"Damn Hippies!" muttered Lageule to himself, punching the toilet.
"Lageule!" came the sudden shout, "Got anything?"
"Nope," Lageule yelled back. "Should we go?"
"Yeah," his partner shouted. Lageule obediently returned down the hall to the living room.
"All right, you kids, you got off easy this time," Parsons was lecturing in menacing tones, "but if we ever get another complaint about you ... we'll throw the book at you!" He paused dramatically. "And I mean THROW!" he emphasized. Then he turned abruptly on his heel. Lageule followed giving a last glance to the blonde chick in the short skirt.
She eyed him in return. "See ya," she said coyly, not loud enough for Parsons to hear. "Come again soon."
Her voice, though sly, was incredibly provocative, unbelievably arousing ... Lageule felt his huge prick stiffen again, just when he'd got rid of that first erection!
Then she winked at him! It was dark, but he was sure he saw it-a real wink. His cock began to pulse and strain against its blue serge confinement. He slipped a hand casually into his pocket, and turned out the door.
What would it be like, Lageule was wondering to himself as they descended the stairs, what would it be like to screw a real Hippie? What sort of weird, perverted things did they do-exactly?