Chapter 11
The powder puff felt like a tiny sponge as Barbara Judd dabbed it on her nose. She inhaled the scent of pine which emanated from the powder. Then she swung around in her chair, a swivel seat at the desk in her office, and nodded toward a man who stood near the hat-rack. "You know quite a few secret things about me," said Barbara. "And we never even met until ten minutes ago."
Yankee Lane hooked his thumbs under the front buckle of his tight fitting denims. Barbara felt uneasy at the passion aflame within her, and she wished his multi-bulged manhood didn't show so clearly. She found herself desiring his thrust, his animal attack upon her innards.
"I stopped pullin' punches when I grew out of knee britches," snarled Yankee.
"What makes you think I'd cooperate in a-" She paused to check the windows and door, wary of being loose with her tongue. Any student or faculty member could walk by and get an earful which might spell finish for the Dean of Women. Barbara was satisfied by the quietness outside her room. "Blackmail would be a drastic step," she amended. "Your motive is clear enough, certainly."
"Because I want Ida."
"That's right, Yankee. But do I hate her so very much because she has her sights on the professor? He's just another man on our staff here."
"I happen to know better." He slammed his palm on the desk. "You asked for my plan and I gave it to you-free. It's your choice. Do the prof in or let us both go beggin' instead of livin' like royalty with the lovers we both want."
"You sound rather hopeless when you put it all up to a woman."
"If you chicken out, I got other ways. Pretty gory ones."
Barbara's eyes widened at the notion of physical violence being wreaked upon Maurice. She needed him alive, not crippled or dead. Calmly, without panic, she examined the little camera and tape recorder which Yankee had put on her desk. Yes indeed ... his ,idea had merit.
"I seem to have but one choice," she muttered. "Call me in a few days and I'll let you know what transpired."
"Crazy. Be gentle with the camera, hon. I have to return it to a stag movie producer for his nudie films."
She put her fingertips together in the shape of an Indian tepee and stared at Yankee's loins. He looked as big as a horse. His boots thudded heavily on the floor as he moved out toward the corridor. Barbara got up and put the machines back into their carrying cases. Then she dialed Ida's number on the intra-college phone.
There was no reply the first three times she tried. On the fourth attempt Barbara heard a high-toned voice say, "Hello?" and she knew it was the girl.
"Ida, this is Miss Judd. I'm having a group of friends at my apartment this afternoon, to look at modern paintings. You'd enjoy seeing them, I bet."
"Modern pictures?"
"Done by the great young Village artists. I can count on you to be there?"
"Well, I had other plans-" Ida sounded rather hesitant, but then she always did put forth a hard-to-convince armor against social advances.
"At two-thirtyish, dear. You wouldn't disappoint the Dean of Women right before exams start. Be casual in dress."
Barbara felt the veneer of sweat on her hand as she hung up and cut off the objection on the other end. Maybe that oaf, Yankee, was smarter than he had shown. During the rest of the morning she tied up loose ends in her paperwork and gave the secretary typing and filing to occupy her. Then Barbara drove west from the campus toward her residence neighborhood.
Yankee's scheme was ingenious-if it didn't backfire. She realized that Ida was intelligent and would have her guard up. Trickery, though, would be the last thing she'd be alert for in this innocent social liaison with a school official.
A sign above the apartment house entrance bore the number 13 in stark black-on-white. Good old 13 Hell's Kitchen Road, where the landlord didn't care who was brought into the rooms, nor did he ever seem to know when it happened-he lived in Florida most of the time. She started preparing the props for her drama.
She found the concealment of the oaf's camera easy enough. Patiently she positioned its lens until is stuck out a half-inch from the mirror at her movable wall bar. The snout was camouflaged by bottles and aimed squarely at her bed.
After peeling her clothes off, she threw a satin robe around her naked body. Before long the doorbell rang and she knew it had to be Ida, since there were no other guests. Barbara gazed at the expensive paintings which lay stacked along the wall. Then she let her visitor in.
"They sure are fine pieces of art," said Ida when she had surveyed them. She sat on the couch and took a drink from the whiskey glass.
"Would you like another drink? I see you're more relaxed now, and that's good for our morale. After all, we work at the same university."
"Gosh, I'm dizzy as it is."
Barbara nodded and sat beside the girl. With the aphrodisiac which had been added to this liquor, Ida had already consumed plenty-for purposes of what lay ahead. "Put your head on my shoulder. Go ahead, Ida. Be at ease in a friend's house."
"Your guests ... they're very slow in arriving, I must say."
She yawned at the effects of a drug whose existence she couldn't have begun to suspect. Barbara went to the bar and turned the camera on. The whirr of film was nearly inaudible, as was the tape recorder; she circled behind the couch with the drinks in her hand. It nauseated her to think of what must be done. She ruffled her long hair until it covered her eyes and most of her face, so the camera would not catch her identity.
Then she curled on the wide seat, letting Ida's body slide backwards. "What are you doing?" said the youth.
"Massaging your neck until the color gets high again. You're fatigued."
"Oh. Mm-mm! You have nice gentle fingers, Miss Judd, and I love the way you stroke my belly."
Barbara smiled, knowing her name could be stricken from the tape by splice jobs. "Ida, kiss me on the lips."
"That's a wild thing you're talking about!" She tried to get up but the drug had dulled her will and she required scant persuasion.
"Off-trail sex? Everyone does it and you'll gain a new respect with the 'in crowd.' Just relax."
Ida fought the advances in erratic flashes of resistance. Soon she lay nude, as was Barbara, their bodies clashing with aroused lust. They traded kisses frenzily. Barbara caressed the young flesh under her and kissed the breasts and arms and mouth, feeling her own throat burst into a fire that had to be quenched.
She knelt on her hands and knees, straddled herself above Ida. "Do it!" the woman demanded. "You want to have me like that, so let yourself go!" She made sure her voice was a raw whisper that could not be traced to her later upon the tape.
Her pendulous breasts dangled like twin sacks, touching and rubbing upon Ida's. Suddenly Ida stared upward. Her eyes were crystal clear and she seemed sober as a judge.
"You filthy old hag!" she spat out. Her elbows levered against Barbara and shoved her aside and then Ida was on her feet.
Fear gripped Barbara's heart when she saw that the sex potion had worn off too quickly. Ida ran to the bar. "What's this thing poking out here? My God ... a camera! You fiend!" She wrenched at the panel until the hinges came open to reveal the hideous secret weapons.
She hurled the recorder onto the floor. Cursing, she seized a broom off the carpet and started smashing at the camera, although its metal casing protected it.
Barbara ran over to the bar and shrieked, "Leave my property alone! How dare you treat me so boldly!" She reached out and yanked Ida's hair, nearly knocking her over.
The coed launched a left hook which sent Barbara spinning to the floor. Then Ida grabbed her purse. She dug out some matches, lit one, and held it in the camera slot until the film was ablaze. Then she looked at Barbara, cowering in tears on the carpet.
"Why did you try this stunt?"
"Ida, please understand."
"Horse crap! You wanted to blackmail me or get me thrown out of school! Why?"
The Dean of Women covered her eyes against the gush of tears that sickened her in defeat. She refused to answer. Ida stormed toward the couch, put on her skirt and blouse, and hurried to the door.
"You're soft in the head, lady. I should report you to the police or Dean Fedorhall. But they'd only take your word over mine." Then Ida also burst into tears and ran out into the hallway as smoke from the camera clogged the air.
Maurice paced up and down the floor of the dorm room. He was bewildered and shocked by what had been told to him by Genevieve, who lived in this flat. Maurice halted near her at the bed.
"I find it hard to believe a girl like Yvette would skip out. And without any good-bye." He threw his arms toward the ceiling in despair. "Some one please donate strength to me so I can figure out the weaker sex."
"The rumor's true," insisted Genevieve.
"She wanted her degree in math so badly that she could taste it."
"I know."
"Gen, will you please stop talking like a Western Union telegram and tell me where she is?"
"Leapin' lizards ... if I could only remember the address. Empire Street-" The coed squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again, smiling. She hopped off the mattress towards him. "The corner of Empire and Route Eighteen. I knew I'd think of it if I tried hard."
Maurice let out a sigh of victory. He kissed Genevieve on the lips and pried her hand away from his vital zone. "Maybe later, duck."
"You don't appreciate the secret I told you?" she pouted.
"Sure. But Yvette is the cat I've got to see before she leaves town and vanishes from sight altogether. Chow."
"Bye-bye."
He patted her on the sleekness of her hip as he pivoted around the coffee table. Yvette had left word that she had information for him. But she didn't give her forwarding address; just like a broad-to pick up and leave the halls of education as Korin had also done.
He rushed out to his Renault in the lot and burned rubber speeding up the concrete paved boulevard. Early evening traffic slowed him down at the bridge. Then, about twenty minutes after leaving the college, he screeched to a halt at the house on the corner of Empire.
Somehow it looked vaguely familiar, with shiny, smooth bricks the hue of yellow chrome, a rotunda jutting out front, windows of Czech stained glass, and brick walls. He searched his memory for the key. Then, as he entered the first story behind the porch, he knew.
The flowzy painted woman who greeted him was obviously a madam. That fitted the picture, all right; Maurice nodded as he held her hand while they paused inside a low aspe.
"We have many girls to choose from, sir."
"One will be enough. Her name is Yvette Tho-her and I must see her only."
"Names lose their value for those who undertake our hallowed profession. You're in luck." Her thickly mascarad eyes fluttered. "Go into that room and say I sent you."
"Thanks, ma'am."
"Don't forget to punch the clock on your way out."
He wrinkled his nose at her gesture of rubbing her thumb and index finger together. Everybody wanted cash these days. He knocked on the door, heard a voice murmur, and then he pushed into a dark den lit by lantern glow.
"Pretty romantic," he said. "Love by kerosene and other ulterior trappings. How have you been?"
"I'm glad you located my whereabouts," said Yvette. She walked toward him and let the slit robe show off her brunette nakedness.
"I can see why you didn't-"
"Give you my new address? Cut out the pity and face the facts, Maurice old boy. You thought I'd end up like this. Certain things are inevitable and we can forget the hunt for reasons. Maybe I chose this life out of fear or a defense against my gay nature."
"Each human being to their own code of ethics," he said. "I won't pass judgment."
"So I love money and I'm too weak to resist it." Yvette cinched her robe, looking tired and thin in the sheen of light upon her. "You're in trouble."
"That's the understatement of the year. A wife and a mistress have me right square in their sights as I row upriver without oars. Or are you speaking of different trouble?"
"A tangent of the same. You've already met Yankee Lane, I guess."
"Yeah, he did swing his chains at me the other day."
She lit two cigarets in her mouth and passed one to Maurice. "Go on."
"You deduce from his character and physique that he's very likely to kill anyone who gets between him and Ida. That's half of my warning. Be careful, and don't give Yankee a chance to hit you."
"I appreciate it. And the second half?"
"John."
The teacher furrowed his eyebrows and dragged quickly at the cigaret. "John DiCauslow."
"Having gone steady with him I know what he is. A brilliant thief, burglar, and potential killer. He wants Ida as much as Yankee does."
"And he's equally dangerous." Maurice stuck out his lower lip thoughtfully and then took her by the wrist. "I should have realized his real nature. Eve, I can't thank you very eloquently."
"You always were tongue-tied," she winked.
After showing her his gratitude in the most apt manner conceivable, he put his pants on again, and went out to the street. How did you fight two distinct enemies like Yankee and John? Offensive action would only stir them up more perilously; Maurice figured that would be unwise.
He had the answer doped out by the next morning when he took his customary early constitutional through the park. A veil of mist had risen, shrouding the trees and bushes of Catacomb Park's terrain. In the murky haze he was able to see only a hundred feet in each direction as he walked. The nude goddess statues were indiscernable shadows. Maurice decided he must remain defensive, and retaliate against his two avid rivals purely as a last resort in self-defense.
The eerie milieu around him brought a barrage of doubts and regrets to his thinking. Fog had always made him dwell on death and disease and the middle-age change of life, which he knew was a psychological revolt. Old-age spells, he called them.
His shoes scraped along hidden stones under the spider-web mist. Once or twice he could swear there were other footsteps nearby, echoing his-but maybe it was the steady beat of the ocean. Imagination often twisted things around. Trying to lighten the trend of his thought, he remembered how active life had been ... a few short years ago when he had run politically for alderman and then the school board.
I was forever on the move. Travelling to where the scenery beckoned, speaking at famous author parties and athletic banquets, heading, a charity or church drive to raise funds.
The super activity had quieted his tensions, until he had felt settled down and without need for such tranquilizing. Now there were new troubles. He jammed his hands disconsolately into his pockets and moved around a clump of cedars.
That was when the shot rang out in the dark, primeval silence. He halted in his tracks, frozen with dread and horror. Another slug crashed into the trunk beside his head. Maurice stared through a heavy gloom worthy of the best Frankenstein movies and saw who was manipulating the hardware.
Yankee Lane-in person. He stood about twenty yards away, the weapon extended from his shoulder and aimed straight at Maurice.
"Good show, professor! Your nerves are holdin' up real nice. A lot of guys would have jumped outa their royal red scivvies already."
"Hunting is frowned upon at Catacomb Park."
"Let's get even more technical. I found you, so there's no hunt at all. Haw!"
Maurice felt perspiration pop onto every inch of his slightly trembling frame. The initial fright had worn off, for he noted that his pursuer carried a baby-sized .22. In the mute privacy and semi-darkness the shock of hearing a noise like that had made it sound like a cannon.
"I have ten dollars in my wallet, if that's what you want. Otherwise I wish you'd stop joking around."
"Jokin'? Yuk it up, fella!"
The tiny pellet zinged past his ear as he heard the echoing blast. Yankee stepped closer. He was enormous in a pink sweater, ivy league khakis, sneakers and loud cotton socks. But the obvious fat around his neck and stomach meant that he'd be vulnerable in a fight.
Maurice snarled, "You're brave with a gun in your hand."
"Don't push your luck, or it might come back to haunt you. Ida still rates on your hit parade. I thought I gave enough warnin' about-"
"Go ahead and shoot."
"Stubborn courage is the cousin of stupidity. Maybe I will cut the temptation away." He aimed the .22 at Maurice's groin, then walked even closer and threw the weapon aside.
"Whatever she and I do is none of your business, Lane. If she prefers me over you-"
"Let's decide that touchy point right quick on your terms."
"Bare knuckles?"
"I got everythin' goin' for me. Youth, weight, strength ... your best feature is a flip mouth."
" Maurice used the element of surprise by reaching back to his days as an extra-point kicker. The toe of his right shoe flashed upward. It smashed into Yankee's elbow and hit bone with a sickening crunch. The giant chauffeur screamed in pain.
Then he growled, "You dirty son-of-a-bitch," as he waded forward.
His bolo chop arced down and swished the air when Maurice ducked away. Yankee found minor success with a left cross that ricocheted off his foe's shoulder. Maurice faked a haymaker, then shot another kick with lightning speed at the target.
The oaf gurgled with pain as he crumbled to one knee and held his violated sac. But he had amazing resources. Although the two mighty punts had drained his power, he got up with his fists clenched. "I'll fix you! Ida's goin' to puke when she sees what I've left of the old professor. They'll scrape you off this lawn!"
He hurled a savage right which caught the ozone beautifully. Maurice rolled over and over, the mud damp on his body as he ate ground. He grabbed the rifle angrily.
"You talk a good fight," he grunted.
Yankee stormed ahead and flew through the air in a desperate, lunging try at a tackle. His arms boa constricted around the teacher. Maurice, though his legs were thus imprisoned, brought the metal barrel of the gun down and felt it thuck into Yankee's back.
The next stroke seemed to shatter his ribs. He slithered upon the ground and sat there dumbly. Tears and blood covered his face-he could have risen to continue the duel but he apparently had cried uncle.
Maurice said, "We're living in a civilized era of history. I can be as primitive as you, however."
"God damn you!"
"I guess it's obvious that a warning works both ways. Do we understand each other?" He stalked off toward the road and his car, gasping from the effort of having made a rather valid point.