Chapter 3
Joe Danielson took another secret "pull" from his old man's concealed flask, then shoved it back into the bottom drawer of the massive desk and covered it up with some papers. The old boy wasn't exactly thrilled with Joe's always choosing to wait for him in his inner office any-way, and if he thought for an instant that the boy had been dipping into his private stock, there would have been hell to pay. Even so, his wrath would have been comparatively mild compared to the anger he would exhibit if he ever caught his teenage son taking magazines from his vintage collection.
Joe got to his feet and walked unsteadily towards the massive bookcase that dominated one wall of the impressive tenth floor office suite. From a "secret" place on the top shelf, he extracted the master key to the row of locked cabinets that occupied the lower tier of the case. He unlocked the center cabinet quickly, casting a furtive backward glance over his shoulder at the door. That damned Miss Fredericks the old man had hired as his new secretary was a real pain in the ass bitch. But then, he chuckled at the remembrance, Cathie Harrison, that little cock-teaser who'd lost her job of sucking his cock, was probably more than the old man could handle anyway. As the cabinet door clicked open, Joe reached into his hip pocket and pulled out the rolled nineteen-fifty-nine magazine he'd taken with him to the Guadalajara Cafe the night before. He rolled it the other way, so that it flattened out somewhat, then filed it neatly away in its appropriate position in the middle of one of the several stacks of the dated "for men only" periodicals. Christ, the old man must have two thousand different mags here! he thought with a smile. And I bet I ain't looked at half of them yet!
Quickly, before his father's new secretary came barging in on him, he reached in the middle of a previously untapped stack and brought out a couple of magazines the June and July issues of the now defunct RISQUE magazine. He locked the cabinet again, then returned to his father's desk chair and flipped to the first foldout. "Jesus," he mumbled aloud. "Now, that's some classy number!" He studied the sprawled figure of a dark-skinned brunette in orange pedal pushers and nothing else with interest. "Yeah, man," he smacked his lips, "she's a real live fox!" He glanced hurriedly at the photographs immediately preceding and following the full-color layout, including the title page. Instantly, his interest was piqued. Traffic ticket to "fix" or no traffic ticket to fix, he decided it was all right with him if his father was going to be tied up for a little while in his special Board Meeting this fine Saturday morning.
He studied the remainder of the magazine at his leisure, including a pair of lesser "nudie" features in the front and back parts of the magazine. Then, laying it aside, he picked up the second magazine and began to flip casually through its contents to the foldout. "Holy shit!" he stammered, getting to the center spread. "Just look at those fuckin' jugs!" His leering young eyes remained glued to the enormous breasts of the young redheaded girl in the foldout for a long moment before he flipped hurriedly back to the title page. "Minnesota Miss, " the feature was titled ... RISQUE salutes Miss July ... He read a little farther into the text ... Marion Summers, our toothsome Miss-Marion! Her name was Marion! ... And she had red hair and big tits! He flipped quickly back to the foldout, and reopened it in all its color splendor on the desk. "She's a fuckin' dead ringer," he stammered. "Except for her age ... This chick looks like-" He stopped, then rechecked the date on the cover. "Shit, yes! That's her all right ... nobody else could look that good and have a kid as old as Randi!"
Quickly now, the wickedly-smiling young biker rolled the magazine into a tight cylinder and stuffed it into his rear pocket. Then, returning the other magazine to its proper place in the cabinet, he turned on his heels and fled the room. Shit, yeah, his wicked young mind burned brightly, conjuring up a plan, Randi thinks he's super-stud 'cause he made Anita's toes curt last night? Well, baby, I got news for you; turnabout is fair play!
Marion took another thoughtful bite of her tuna fish sandwich and stared blankly down at her plate. Unconsciously, she was avoiding as much as possible looking directly at her son's handsome face as he sat eating his own lunch on the opposite side of the table from her. Randi,-likewise, was avoiding his mother's look, and for similar reasons. Both were ashamed of their previous "sins" just prior to the plumber's coming; Randi for thinking dirty about his mother, his mother for becoming so excited watching him playing with himself. Had either of them been aware of the other's thoughts during that episode, neither one of them would-likely have had much of an appetite at that moment. It was Randi, finally, who shattered the icy wall of silence that had gone up between them. "Mom," he said, "you promise not to get 'pissed' if I ask you a question? It's something that's been bugging me for a long time."
"Don't use that kind of language in this house, young man! ... What question?"
"I want to know what you've got against my friends."
Marion's face reddened. "Randi, I told you I didn't-"
"I just want to know what you have against them, that's all," Randi interrupted.
Marion took a bitter sip of yesterday's lemonade and swished it around between her teeth. "They're-They're just not the right kind of boys ... they're not nice boys!"
"What's the matter, Mom? Showing your prejudice?"
"That's not the point, son. I think-"
"You think!" He was furious. "You think I'm still a ... a God damn baby!"
Marion flushed hotly. There was no way she could think of him as still being a baby. She watched him get to his feet and start to slip into his jacket. "Randi, sit down and finish your sandwich."
"Fuck that God damn sandwich!"
"Randi!"
"And the can it God damn came in!"
Marion was stunned. Jesus, that kid's got a temper! Randi zipped up and started for the door. "Where do you think you're going, Mr. High-and-Mighty?" Marion had a temper, too.
"I'm going down to the God damn cafe and get myself a bowl of menudo ... I'm not going to sit here and eat this tripe!"
Marion had to stifle a laugh. Menudo ... was tripe ... a thin Mexican tripe stew. Instead, she teased vindictively, "People who don't like tripe shouldn't eat menudo!"
Randi slammed the door behind him. I'll get even with that bitch one of these days! he promised himself on the way to the garage.
"Hi, dear. Did the plumber come yet?"
Marion nodded in the affirmative. "Yeah, Stephanie. He said it was the float valve or something. He left the bill on your kitchen table."
"But it couldn't be the float, honey. We just had the float replaced last-"
"Listen, Stephanie," Marion snapped, "I've had a bitch of a day. Please don't add to it!"
Stephanie dimpled sympathetically, remembering that Randi hadn't gotten in 'til late last night. "Sure, honey. Here's your mail, I picked it up on my way over."
Marion took the small fistful of correspondence from her unflappable neighbor and closed the door firmly behind her. "Shit," she mused, thumbing through the stack of incoming bills and circulars. "Mastercharge ... phone bill ... electricity ... What's this?" She studied the front and back of a curious small envelope ... very crudely addressed, with no postmark and no return address. "Hmmmm?" she wondered.
She went into the living room and sat down on the sofa. Her long nails stripped the side of the curious little letter open and she shook out its contents a folded note and a small photograph that had been snipped from a magazine. The photo escaped her, fluttering face down onto her lap. She unfolded the note. Whoever had written it certainly had a peculiar childish scrawl. It read:
If you don't want your kid to find out your a bad girl meet me at the Rendevous Motel tomorrow at 3. P.S. It is room 43 ha ha!
"Oh. my God!" the young mother gasped, dropping the vile message. She didn't need to turn the snipped-out photo over to know that it was one of a much younger version of herself.