Chapter 1

You stand at the office window, watching the purple-black grackle who comes each morning to breakfast on the crumbs you spread for him on the ledge. You wonder: Where does he go on Sundays? Does he have a regular beat for handouts, like cops and whores and the old woman who comes in to sell shoelaces and condoms?

The grackle teeters on one claw and stares with hateful eyes at your teasing forefinger. You think: It must be hell to take charity. Before he leaves, the dumb bird will spitefully foul the window ledge. So much for your charity, Sport. Maybe the bird isn't so dumb after all.

You look up from the ledge and across the street. That imbecile in the penthouse suite is entertaining his chubby blonde secretary again. She sits on the corner of his desk, her round little rump near his elbow, and she swings her pretty legs while they both laugh at his killing wit. Later, when she's gone he'll take the hand mirror from his desk drawer, straighten his hair and tie, sit officiously in his big leather chair and read stories of cuckoldry and virility in Esquire magazine. A real dude, he is. A real dude.. .

Tlie door creaks open and you turn from the window. It's Jackson, with the newspapers. Good old Jackson. The perfect secretary. He'd be as willing to whore as the little girl across the street if he had to keep his job. Well, maybe he wouldn't sit on your desk and make eyes at you-(or, come to think of it, would he?)-but he'd laugh his stupid head off at anything he thought you intended as a joke.

Only there aren't any jokes this morning. You joke when you're riding high. Right now, you're riding low. The case you lost was a big one. A very big one. And, when you lose a big one, it's no laughing matter.

You take the papers from Jackson and send him on his way. He gives you a small smile. A smile that lets you know he's pulling for you. All the pulling in the world can't help you on this one. You lost it and you lost it good. You'll appeal, of course, But with a case like the state has, the appeal is just a formality. You're nowhere, and you know it.

Sure enough, the Journal has come through with flying colors. Banner headline and three photos. The big photo shows Cembretti and Morgan walking through the pen gates. Chair for Cembretti; life for Morgan. They must've had a hard time figuring that one out on the jury. Especially since Cembretti had been the one who squealed. Maybe the yo-yos figured that a clown like him was simply too dumb to live. AU the bright ideas had been Morgan's, and if he'd run the show alone he'd never have been caught. So you're making a private bet with yourself on Morgan. Eight to five he finds some way of breaking out before the year is up.

So much for the Journal. Now you check out the News. They're playing it big, too. Banner headline and two photos on the front page, four more photos and six columns of type on the inside. Plus there's a special story dedicated to you, the attorney for the defense. And with the story is another picture-a picture of you, a head shot, one of your old ones.

They would have to use that photo. You look like a fox with those ears. And that smile! More of a smirk, really; a nasty-looking twisting of the lips where a smile would be if one was there. And tire eyes should be less disdainful. Successful criminal lawyers look honest and tough, like John L. Lewis; not like a damned Communist intellectual.. .

But you don't spend much time contemplating the picture. There are other things that annoy you even more. like the headlines DEVIL'S ADVOCATE BLOWS A BIG ONE. And the leads "Criminal lawyer Conrad Samuel Garnett, who earned the nickname of 'Devil's Advocate' by securing acquittals for dozens of alleged murderers, found himself advocating his first losing cause in three years yesterday as Rocco Cembretti and Dave Morgan were found guilty and sentenced, respectively, to death and to life imprisonment."

How much do you want to bet the writer doesn't like you? Otherwise, why would he have played up the middle name? Everybody knows you don't use it-that, in fact, you hate it. So why didn't the creep just write "Conrad Garnett," like all the other creeps did? Because this creep doesn't like you, Conrad Samuel. That's why. And, when creeps don't like you, they kick you. Especially when you happen to be down. Which you happen to be For now.

Conraa Samuel Garnett. Samuel, as in the Book of Samuei. Funny that you should think of that. You never were the Bible-reading type.

But wait-didn't some broad once say something about the Book of Samuel? And didn't she always call you Sam from that day on?

Yeah. Sexy broad. The one with the long legs that fell open much too easily.

Elena?

Right. Elena.

Elena the creep.

What was it she used to say? "Samuel the Devil. His Satanic Majesty, Conrad Book-of-Samuel Garnett."

Now there's a notion for you. Have you got anything better to do than to be Lucifer this week? Limited engagement; matiness on Wednesday and Saturday. Auld Hornie in. In what? Or, more-likely, in who?

Think of somebody you'd like to be in, Hornie Auld boy. No, not Elena. Elena belongs to last year, and besides, Elena was much too easy. A self-respecting devil-likes the more difficult cases.

They were on the beach together. He lay on his back, with his long fingers locked behind his neck.

She wondered if he was as dark in February as he was now. February. Six months ago. Six months ago, and three months before they had met. Only three months! Could he really have changed her so much in three months?

"Sam-" She moved closer. Close enough to touch his chest with the firm roundness of one of her breasts. Then she let her creamy soft thigh slip into place against his. Even through the dull white wool of her bathing suit, her hip thrilled to his touch. "What are you thinking about, Sam?" she asked after a moment.

"I was thinking about the mating behavior of the dung beetle," he replied promptly.

Too promptly. She realized instantly that she shouldn't have broken the silence. Now he probably would go off on another of his ridiculous speeches, flinging still one more precious hour into the maelstrom of his rhetoric. Hurriedly she pressed closer to him. She brought her hand to his bare muscled thigh, then ran her finger along the white stripe on his blue swim trunks. Her eyes captured the arched hair at his crotch, the insolent pride of that part of him that owned her most certainly and deeply.

"Our beach is nice today," she said in a voice already husky. "I've always wondered why no one ever came to this part of the beach." She pushed her round pink toes into the silky sand, and her smooth knee touched his thigh. She hoped that her talk of the beach would divert him from the speech, from the exacerbating stream of solemnly voiced non sequiturs which already seemed to be taking form in his mind.

"An interesting animal, the dung beetle," he went on, refusing to be diverted. "Or, more precisely, an interesting insect. We must be precise, must we not? Imprecise talk leads to imprecise thought, and imprecise thoughts leads to chaos."

"Sam," she pleaded. "Please don't start that again."

"Yes, chaos," he continued, ignoring her. "But then, while the dung beetle is an insect, he also is an animal. No bias in the animal kingdom. Even the lowly insect is permitted to grace himself with the name of animal. Very democratic, really."

"Sam," she whined. "Please." Her hand worked its way over the seam of his trunks, and her fingers raked the bulge.

"Yes," Garnett went on, unmoved, "very democratic. Man is an animal and insects are animals. Even reptiles are animals. Very democratic. Democracy in action." He shifted his hips, moving away from her probing fingers. "But, of course, vegetables aren't animals. So maybe there's some bias in the animal kingdom after all. Bias and prejudice and oppression of minority groups. Damn it all, anyway, whatever happened to democracy? Is it completely nonexistent? Vegetables of the world, unite. You have nothing to lose but your-your what? What do vegetables have to lose, Elena?"

She sat upright. A tight, sour ball formed in the pit of her stomach. "Why do you do this to me?" she asked. 'You know that I love you, and that I want to make love to you. Why do you torment me like this?"

He turned his face slightly toward her, his brows arching above his dark glasses in an expression of patient surprise. "My dear," he murmured, "you're becoming a first-rate paranoiac. Seriously, I'm worried about you. You're only a step from the voices in the night and the spies with the death-ray machine."

"Sam," she sighed weakly.

"What makes you think I'm trying to torment you?" he continued, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "This happens to be a very important philosophical question that I'm considering. Democracy doesn't that mean anything to you? Think of the poor vegetables, denied the right to call themselves animals. Doesn't it offend your sense of justice? Don't you agree that they should unite? What can they lose? Their-their what.. . ? Their vegetability, perhaps?"

A large tear formed in the corner of her eye and trickled down her cheek. "Sam," she said softly. "I love you."

"Of course," he said soberly. "But what about the vegetables? Don't you love them also? And, if not, why not? Because they lack the apparatus with which to physically express their love? Elena, I'm ashamed of you. You're not only a paranoiac. You re a first-class bigot."

Suddenly she could contain herself no longer. Eyes rimmed with red, she collapsed on top of him, her shoulders shaking, her throat choked with sobs. "Why do you do this to me?" she demanded hopelessly. "Why? I think you'd almost like to see me go mad. But why? When I first knew you, you were cruel sometimes. But now you're always cruel. Always! You say things to hurt me, or to make me angry. And then you laugh. Just like you're laughing now. Just like you've always been laughing. You've been laughing at me since that very first night, when I was awkward-because I was a virgin."

"Elena." He seemed to soften. His mockery was sheathed, and she grew quiet under the touch of his long, tender fingers. Her hand went out to his, and she drew his palm to the soft flesh on the inside of her thigh.

"Touch me," she whispered after a moment, urging his hand upward. "Please touch me."

Garnett grinned. He liked the sound of her voice. The eagerness was there, coiled tensely inside her throat. But with the eagerness was submission, total submission to his will. "So you love me, do you?" he asked quietly.

She put her hand on his chest and trailed a route across his naked stomach to the bulge in his swim-trunks. "Yes," she answered weakly, "I love you."

Garnett said nothing, but his grin broadened. His fingers played on her bare leg. Then he slowly filled his palm with her flesh, and, gathering a fold of skin between thumb and forefinger, marked the white surface with a violent red patch. She clawed ineffectually at his belly, but the gesture said only that she had no heart for hurting him in return.

For several minutes, they lay silent and motionless. She did not look at him. She did not want to find him laughing at her. Then, suddenly, she bent over him and cupped her lips to his stomach. Her arms stretched out, one over his chest and shoulders, the other over his legs. She buried herself against him, and her shoulder found his crotch. Her arm slipped between his legs, and she drew his thigh to her face. Her lips brushed the hair which grew coarsely at the point where his swim trunks met his leg. Her nostrils quivered as she breathed in the strong, pungent odor of his maleness. "Oh, Sam, if only you could be nice to me again, I'd die with love. Why can't you be the way you were at first? Why don't you treat me that way any more?"

He looked down at her half-bare buttocks and the curve to her deeply tanned back. To please him, to tempt him with her sexuality, she had worn a one-piece bathing suit so small and high on her thighs that it all but cut into her flesh. Her creased hams were scarcely legally covered, and, when she first had worn the suit, he had found it amusing to make her walk with him on the crowded public beach, talking to her nonchalantly, reminding her of her flaunted undress until she was blushing and ashamed before the lash of hungry and envious eyes all around her. Now, though, it was no longer amusing. It was merely ludicrous.

Her lips inched upward on his thigh, finally coming to rest over the bulge in his swim trunks. When he failed to react, she looked up at him. "Tell me what's wrong, Sam. Tell me what you want me to do. And put your hand down there." She guided it with her own. "Yes, there."

He waited until she had taken her hand away. Then he removed his from her hungry, up-thrust. mound and raked his fingers across her bare back. He said nothing.

"Tell me, Sam," she pressed. "Tell me what's wrong with me."

He reached into her bathing suit and moved his fingers over her buttocks. She pressed harder against his crotch, then eased aside one of her shoulder straps and touched his thigh with her naked breast.

"You know what it is a well as I do," he said, still manipulating her buttocks with his hand. "You can't expect me to act toward you now as I did before I really knew you."

"I don't understand," she lied, knowing full well what he meant but perversely determined to hear him say it.

"I know just what you are," he continued evenly. "And what you are is not what you used to be."

"What am I?" she whispered, lowering her head as if waiting for him to pronounce sentence upon her.

"You know," he said. And then he did laugh. It was a cruel, vicious laugh. A laugh which began deeply inside his lungs and shook his entire torso as it roared through his throat and out his mouth.

For a moment she lay silent. Her bare breasts quivered against his thigh.

"See?" he taunted. "I told you that you knew."

Suddenly she raised her head. "What you think of me doesn't matter. Nothing matters, so long as you take me to bed with you and so long as you like the feel of me and the way I act under the bedcovers."

"Or on them," he amended sardonically.

"It doesn't matter."

"Okay, it doesn't matter. I never said it did. It was you who started all this nonsense. I was very peacefully dissertating on the undemocratic ways of the animal kingdom when you-"

"No, Sam," she cut him off. "Don't start again." She rose to her knees and tugged the bathing suit to her hips. Then she swayed toward him, reaching for his body with her bare breasts. "Strip me," she said.

He lay motionless, his eyes scrutinizing her. "Why?" he asked.

She sprang to her feet. The close wool of her swimsuit clung hotly to her loins, and she suddenly could not stand to be anything but naked, not even for a minute more. She tugged the hated garment over her hips and let it drop to the sand. Then she stood naked before him, her shadow falling across his body as she sacrificed all of herself to his gaze. "I love you," she said.

"What would you do if someone came along?"

"No one will." Every cell of her body was alive with desire for him. She ran her hands down her sides, then inward across her flanks, caressing the soft flesh at the top of her thighs. Her hips weaved from side to side in open invitation.

"What if I told you," he went on, "that I had asked someone to come here today-two couples, friends of mine?"

"I'd say I didn't believe you. And, if I did believe you, I wouldn't care." She tossed her hair out of her eyes and buried her knees in the sand between his legs, bending far forward.

His trunks having been tugged open by her feverish fingers, she reached inside and took hold of his manhood. Hardened, choking with willingness, the ruddy organ lifted its ripe, fruit-like head to the benediction of her kiss. She seasoned it with the flower of her lips, then tasted it with the moist tip of her tongue.

"You'd be terribly embarrassed if these friends of mine found you like this," he reminded her.

She didn't answer. Stretching his foreskin to unsheathe the totality of his bright pink glans, she brought her face forward and closed her lips around the swollen tip of the organ. Her long blonde hair would have fallen to cover their deed like a curtain, but, in an agony of lustful renunciation, she caught it with one hand and held it back from her forehead so that he could watch every movement of her mouth as she lovingly performed her ministrations. When he turned to one side, she reached around his legs and pulled his trunks down over his tightly muscled thighs. Her ringers clawed into the sand as she sucked his member deeply into her mouth. Her body twisted, belly-upward. Her thighs gaped. Her knees flattened outward.

Finally she stopped, but only to fling her arms about him and cover the saliva-slick organ with the creamy opulence of her large, soft, young breasts. She let her nipples be bruised by the ardor of her caresses, shaming their proud pink pout with the obscene wantonness of her raging desire. "I love you," she said. And she added: "I make a mark in the back of my diary for every time I do this to you."

"Do what?" he asked, pretending bewilderment.

"You know. What I just did."

"What did you just do?"

"I-I-"

"You can't say it, can you? You can't force yourself to say the words?"

"I-sucked-your-" She let the sentence trail off.

He chuckled. "You can do it, but you can't say it. You're quite a woman."

Fiery waves of anger and desire coursed through her. Desperately she crawled toward him on her knees and kissed his cheek. She gave him her breasts, her soft belly, her thighs. His hands briefly sought her buttocks, and she drew up to him, legs spread, for the touch of his fingers in her hot, damp crotch. "I'll make an altar of sand," she whispered in his ear. Lust-and lustful anticipation-choked her voice. "I'll make an altar," she repeated, "and I'll be my own sacrifice to you."

"To me?" he asked mockingly.

Her helplessness gnawed at her. "To-to love, then," she fumbled.

"Love?" he said quietly. "You don't even know what the word means."

The anger and desire inside her raged more furiously than ever. She flew at him, scratching blindly for his eyes, bruising her fists on his chest. "I hate you!" she sobbed. "I hate you, hate you, hate you! You son of a bitch! Why do you want to make me despise myself? Isn't it enough that you despise me?"

His strong fingers closed around her arms, and he held her away from him. Still, she could feel the hot, insistent thrust of his rigid organ against her belly. "Build your altar," he said after a moment. "But don't try to deceive the gods."

She crept from him, and on hands and knees, labored at molding a low table of sand. He watched the slight sway of her breasts as she moved her arms, and he smiled at the doggish attitude of her head as she bent to her self-appointed task. Low between her buttocks, the pink-brown slit of her womanhood winked at him, appearing and disappearing as her body moved from side to side. Seen that way, between the thighs of a kneeling or bending woman, he thought, the pretty aperture looked prettier and more interesting than from any other angle.

As she continued to work, he studied her entire body. He was struck by the changes which three months of sexual congress had wrought in her. She was, he thought, like a whip, growing better fitted to its task and to the hand of the wielder as the softening leather lost its stiffness and resistance. It was, he told himself, really a pity to discard such a well tempered tool. But there was nothing else to do. His interest in women was that of a fine craftsman who, with consummate skill and patience, shapes raw material to the pattern of his imagine, then goes on to work with new material. Elena now had reaped the full benefit of his talent. He had found her virginal and unaware, and he had made a woman of her. He had uncovered her capacity for suffering, and her tears had made her radiant. He had made her alert to her senses and to her shames. He had, in short, taught her to feel, to live. But, now that he had given her so much, she no longer had anything to give him. Thus, she would have to be discarded. Although she did not know it yet, today would be her last day with him.

"It's finished," she said, turning on her hands and knees and looking across the mound at him. "The altar is finished."

He rose and started toward her.

She stood to receive him.

"No," he instructed her. "Don't stand. Kneel."

She looked at him uncertainly for a moment, then complied.

Suddenly he found himself becoming excited. Her submissiveness, coupled with his knowledge that the sex act about to be performed would be their last together, stoked his passions. Tugging open his trunks, he advanced on her. "Open your mouth," he commanded-superfluously, for she had already anticipated his wishes. Then, seizing her by the hair, he thrust his throbbing engine between her lips.

Her fingers clutched at his buttocks, pulling them to her. Her tongue and teeth played hungrily against his swollen shaft. He forced her back on the rude altar, his veins aflame from her helpless acquiescence. The sand crumbled under the weight of their writhing bodies.

But he didn't want to complete their union in this posture. The last act, the final experience, should, he thought, be a total one-a total one for her as well as for him. It should be one she could remember him by, one which would burn forever in her brain.

Releasing his grip on her, he lowered himself into coital position. She opened her thighs and clutched his shoulders. He felt between her legs with his fingers, finding the hair slick and wet, the lips hot and trembling. His finger entered her, and he smiled as he felt her belly rise against his. He pressed, looking downward between their bodies as her hands found his manhood and guided it into place. "Quickly!" she gasped.

He knew what she was asking for. She loved the sudden rape, the rending shock of his spear being driven violently inside her, gouging the tender folds of her womanhood. He had taught her to adore it, and she did.

Flinging her thighs wide apart, he tore into her with a savage fury. Her body buckled under the force of his assault. Her love-nest became dripping wet, and her eyes grew misty. "Make love to me," she moaned thickly. "Make love to me so hard that the whole damn altar comes tumbling down."

Grinning, he seized her legs and wedged them between his body and hers. Then he began plummeting against her with hard, rhythmic strokes. With each thrust, her body trembled. Her fingers clawed at his shoulders. Her buttocks burned against his thighs. The white sand clung to her skin in sweaty, damp patches.

"Feel me!" she begged. "Touch me! Do you like it? Am I soft and nice? Am I just the way you want me to be?"

He said nothing.

"Love me!" she continued. "I want all of me to be exactly the way you like it, so you'll love me! You do love me when we're this way, don't you?"

His hands closed around her waist, feeling the life pulsing through her. He knew that she would spend in just a moment. Covering her mouth with his, he kneaded her breasts, then ran his hands down her sides and over her thighs, touching her as lightly and delicately as an assassin thumbs his knife.

"You love me," she went on delirously. "You love me when we're like this. You love my breasts and my belly. And my mouth and my lips. Don't you? And my thighs and my legs. And my neck. And my tongue and my-my-Don't you love me?"

She seemed hardly to know what she was saying, except that it was wanton and that it excited her and that it therefore would also excite him. She was scarcely aware of the baking-hot bed of sand on which they lay. She could have been lying on hot coals without noticing it. The sun burned fiercely through her closed eyelids, and everything-all existence-was to her just one brilliant globe of ecstasy.

"Love me," she groaned. "Love me, Sam. Oh, please, please love me." Then she fell silent as the long, slow, warm waves of orgasm inundated her.

He felt her body go slack beneath his. She was exhausted, her womb and belly fluttering weakly in the afterglow of the soul-shattering sexual explosion. Digging his elbows into the sand, he took his weight off her. His swollen organ, sucked of its juices, slipped slowly out of its moorings. The job had been done. And it had been done well.

For all of a minute, neither of them said anything. Then, smiling weakly, she told him: "You've killed me. You've stabbed me, and now I'm dead.

He smiled back. "Dead?" His eyebrows arched. "Then you should be buried." And, not taking his eyes from hers, he grabbed a fistful of sand and let it sift through his fingers onto her sweat-streaked belly.

Her expression was one of puzzlement. She was sure that he was joking, but she had the uncomfortable feeling that the joke was on her. She tried a laugh that didn't quite come off. Then she smiled again and searched his eyes for a cue.

He did not return the smile. His face a study in sobriety, he took another fistful of sand and crisscrossed her damp skin with it. Then he seriously began to cover her body. He outlined her figure, built upon that foundation and soon had a heaping mound of sand which left only her head and her toes free.

"I can't move," she said. And with the discovery came a sick feeling of fear, a feeling which twisted her insides and made her mouth go dry. "Sam," she repeated, "I can't move."

He didn't answer. He continued to pile sand on her. Then, at the top of the rotund mass, he sculptured a pair of breasts, a heavy belly and a gaping caricature of a vagina.

"I'm--I'mscared, Sam," she said weakly. "I can't move, and I'm scared."

He stall said nothing. Stepping back from the pile of sand, he admired his handiwork. Then he pulled on his trunks, picked up her bathing suit and started toward the shore.

"Sam!" she cried. "Where are you going?"

'To wash out your suit," he said over his shoulder. "I want to get the sand all out of it."

"Sam!" she called, louder. "Sam, I don't like this game anymore! Help me out of here, Sam!"

But he did not reply. All she could hear was the roar of the ocean as he walked away from her. Soon his broad, bronze shoulders disappeared behind the mound which covered her, and she was alone. She began to cry.

At the water's edge, he put his arm through one of the leg-holes in her bathing suit and looped the garment over his shoulder. Then he waded into the light surf and struck out in a long, slow crawl. Two hundred yards from the shore, he took the suit off his shoulder and let it float away. Then he swam back.

She was nearly hysterical when he returned. "You had me scared witless!" she scolded him. "I don't know what to do! You were gone so long that I was afraid something had happened!"

"Shut up," he said quietly sitting on the sand next to her face. "You're boring me."

"I was so frightened-" she continued, as if by reflex. Then, lowering her voice to a conciliatory tone, she added: "Really, Sam. I began to imagine what would happen if you didn't come back, if the tide began coming in-"

"I wonder," he interrupted, "if you realize how easy it would be to kill you right now."

Her face went white. She tried to cover her fright with a smile, but her eyes revealed the terror which raged inside her. "Sam," she said softly, "don't talk like that, even if you're joking."

"Seriously," he went on, appearing to contemplate the sand pile which held her prisoner, "do you realize how easy it would be? A handful of water in my cupped palm would finish you off. Not a mark. Not a sign of any struggle. When the tide came in, all the sand would be washed away. And, when it went out again, you'd be left naked on the beach. Naked and dead. The perfect crime. Accidental death by drowning. No coroner could interpret it any other way."

"Sam"' she gasped. "Please! You're scaring me!"

He gazed at her curiously. "So much the worse for you. I'm amusing myself, and that's what counts." Smiling, he added: "If you're smart, you'll pretend that you're not scared at all. Even an armchair assassin like me-a man who wouldn't dream of putting his thoughts into action-might be compelled to commit murder if he found that someone was actually terrified of him."

"Well," she replied quickly, "let's not talk about it anymore then. But help me out of here, will you? Really. I'm very uncomfortable. And I want to get dressed. Where's my bathing suit?"

He groaned mightily. "Elena, Elena. Must you always nag? You know it bores me so."

"But, Sam-"

"Shut up! I'm tired of listening to your voice. Besides, I need silence for a moment. I have to think up some excuse to break away from my friends when they get here."

"Friends? Here? What friends, Sam?"

"Don't you remember? Didn't I tell you that I had asked some friends of mine-two couples-to meet us here today?"

"I thought you were joking."

"I wasn't. And, if I'm not mistaken, they should be coming along right about-" he glanced at his wrist-watch "-now."

Her head jerked as she tried to bolt upright, forgetting for the moment that she still was imprisoned in the sand pile. "Sam!" she exclaimed. "They're coming here?! Now?! But I'm not dressed. I'm naked, Sam! Where's my bathing suit?"

He chuckled. "Unfortunately, I lost your bathing suit in the water. And, also unfortunately, I have to leave as soon as my friends arrive. I've suddenly remembered an urgent appointment with a client."

"Sam!" she sputtered, her uncovered toes curling in helpless fury. "What are you trying to do to me?"

"Nothing, really. That is, what I'm trying to do is amuse myself. You happen to be the instrument of my amusement. But it's nothing personal. I'm not trying to do anything to you."

"Sam!"

"Shut up. I think I hear them coming."

From the distance, a quartet of voices wafted through the air. He stood and looked across the sand. "Yes," he announced, "here they come."

"SamF'

"Now, now. Don't get yourself in an uproar. They're almost here."

"But I'm naked!"

"I think you'll find them very sympathetic to your plight. They're quite nice people. One is a young clergyman, who's with his fiancee. The other is a sailor, with his girl friend. An odd combination, don't you think? I met them down at the public beach the other day."

"Oh, for God's sake! Make them go away! Don't let them find me like this! Please, Sam, I'll do anything you say."

He laughed. "But, my dear girl, what could you possibly do? You've already exhausted your entire repertory!" He patted the sandpile, as if to reassure her. "Quiet, now. Here they are."

The quartet appeared, all smiles and exuberance. The youthful, pink-faced preacher carried a picnic basket covered with a checkered tablecloth. The sailor carried a jug of wine and two blankets. "Ah, right on time!" Garnett greeted them. "Just like clockwork And it's so good to see you! Permit me to present my girl friend, Elena. She's resting now, as you can see. But she's quite eager to meet you. Elena, say hello to Rose Briggs and, er-"

"Mabel Lamour," coached the sailor's peroxide blonde.

"Mabel Lamour," repeated Garnett. "And Doctor Green and Jack Doyle."

The group exchanged how-do-you-do's, and the clergyman spread his tablecloth and began unloading the picnic basket. Garnett sat on the sand next to Elena, fit a cigarette and brought it to her lips. She puffed on it, then exhaled, her eyes glowering furiously.

"Well, it's a lovely afternoon, isn't it?" Garnett beamed heartily. "Elena and I just took a very refreshing dip. The water's marvelous."

"Yes," agreed the Reverend Doctor Green. "Rose and I were bathing earlier."

"A lovely day for a picnic," Garnett went on. "What a shame, really, that I have to miss it."

"Oh?"

"Yes, I have to meet with a client in just a few minutes, so I won't be able to stay. But I'll be back as soon as I can. And Elena will remain with you. I think you'll get along just fine together."

"I'm sure," smiled the clergyman.

Garnett brought the cigarette again to Elena's lips. "Another drag, dearest? But aren't you smoking an awful lot today. Doctor Green, don't you think it's scandalous how modern girls smoke so much?"

"Well, ah," the clergyman stuttered, "I, uh, that is, ah, I try to be very liberal about these things. Uh, one has to be liberal these days, you know. But, of course, I don't approve of extremes."

"You tell 'em, doc," the sailor agreed lazily from the blanket where, with his toe, he was tenderly tickling the belly of Miss Lamour.

Red-faced, the Reverend Doctor Green busied himself with the picnic basket. Garnett leaned over Elena's face and kissed her playfully on the nose. "See dear?" he teased. "Doctor Green disapproves of extremes. If you must smoke in the future, please be careful to do it moderately."

"Sam!" she whispered urgently. "Get rid of these people! Please!" When his only reply was a throaty chuckle, she added: "If you do I'll show you a better time tonight than I ever have. Really. It'll be much better than it ever was. I'll think of new things to do. Things we've never done before. Honestly, I will."

"Ah, Elena," he answered aloud, "how can a girl let herself get so addicted to a vice? Really, it's unbecoming." Then, turning to the clergyman, he said: "But I must be off. Duty calls, and all that Do forgive me. I'll try to get back as soon as I can. But, if I'm delayed, don't let Elena bake too long in the hot sun. Be sure of that now, won't you, doctor?"

"Oh, yes," the preacher volunteered. "I'll take good care of her."

"I'll bet," interjected the sailor, just loud enough for everyone to hear but soft enough that all could pretend that they hadn't.

"And Jack," Garnett told the sailor, tucking his towel under his arm and starting toward the road, "see that she gets in for a swim to get the sand off her. She'll surprise you."

"Sam!" Elena called, trying to twist her head around to see him. "Don't go! Please don't go!"

" 'Bye, dearest," his voice came back to her.

"Sam-don't!"

But there was no reply. Garnett trotted across the beach to the hotdog stand at the side of the road. Then he bought a frank dripping with mustard and cold sauerkraut, ate it leisurely, ambled to his car and headed back toward the city.

Ah, Elena, he mused as the car raced along the highway. If only you had grown hard and mean instead of soft and weak! If only you had become a woman instead of remaining a whimpering, simpering little girl!

The more he thought of it, the more it annoyed him. What the hell did it matter if someone saw her naked? If only she'd learned to be as shameless in public as she was in private!

But he quickly pushed the thoughts out of his mind. Even now, a few short minutes after he had left her on the beach, Elena was already out of his life. Gone. Past tense. Maybe she'd phone his office once or twice. But his secretary would give her the brush-off, and eventually she'd stop trying. Then she'd fade into oblivion, just one more dim memory in a lifetime of dim memories, just one more piece of raw material which had been fashioned by the master craftsman and then was cast aside.

So much for Elena. If only she hadn't called him Sam.

Yeah, Garnett, so much for Elena. Yesterday's garbage. Who needs it? Whatever made you think of her, anyway?

Oh, yes. The story in the News. And the way the writer used your middle name, "Conrad Samuel Garnett." And Elena was the only person who ever called you "Sam."

But is that the only reason you thought of her? You're not sure.

And, the longer you ponder the matter, the more convinced you are that there was another reason.

Suddenly you remember that during the Cembretti-Morgan trial you saw a broad out in the spectator section who looked vaguely familiar to you. The first time you saw her was when you put Cembretti on the stand. The second time was when you were delivering your summation to the jury. Both times you were so involved in the trial proceedings that you didn't give her more than a passing glance. And she was all covered up with a big-brimmed hat and sunglasses, so you really didn't get a very good look at her. But the look you got was enough to let you know that you had seen her someplace before.

The whole thing didn't mean very much to you at the time. After all, you'd seen hundreds-thousandsof broads. So why pay special attention to this one? But now-now that you've made a connection between Elena and the business about your middle name-everything seems to fit into place. The broad out in the spectator section was Elena. It had to be.

Oh, well, so what? So she sat in on your trial for a couple of days. Big deal. Maybe she still has the hots for you. Maybe she's been having wet dreams about you lately-do broads have wet dreams?-and she wanted to see you in the flesh again. Who cares? Besides, you've got some important things to think about.

You glance at your watch.

Ten-fifteen.

You've got to get to work on that brief for the appellate court. They've given you four days to file, and you don't like to miss deadlines Not that the appeal will do Cembretti and Morgan any good. They're both goners and you know it. Still, they paid a pretty penny for your services, so they're entitled to the full treatment.

And you've got to review the file on the Morrissey case. You've got a conference tomorrow afternoon with Morrissey's buddy's lawyer, and you're sure that the guy has a fast one up his sleeve. Might as well beat him to the punch.

And, now that we think about it, you've got to line up some fresh female action for the weekend. You've been so busy with the Cembretti-Morgan thing lately that you've let your social life slip. No time like the present to swing back into action.

You buzz Jackson and ask him to get the Morrissey file ready. Then you fold up the newspapers and stack them in a corner on your desk. Now to get to work on that brief. If you're lucky, you'll have it finished by tomorrow afternoon.