Chapter 1
It was easy to tail the girl in the bulging white slipover. She had an appointment, and she was anxious to get there. She walked with a fast, bouncy step, eyes straight ahead, hips rolling in her skin tight skirt, like a destroyer at sea. Even so, I kept my distance, letting the car roll along in low gear, a full half-block behind her.
I had started tailing her the moment she stepped off campus at the exclusive Parkview Girls' Academy with hundreds of other homeward bound students. She carried several textbooks in the crook of her left arm, holding them pressed against her chest, digging into a very delectable bust.
She looked about nineteen. I checked my notebook and found that I was right on the button. This was her second term at Parkview. Her name was Sue Landon.
Her parents lived at 33 Mulberry Drive in Yorkshire Heights, a swanky new subdivision of luxury homes in the fifty to one hundred thousand dollar bracket-He was an executive in Consolidated Motors, Inc., traveled a great deal, mostly in the Near East, and signed his checks John R. Landon. He was married to a show girl who, at thirty-seven, still maintained a belief that she would soon be hailed as a great character actress. At the moment, however, she was doing commercials for network advertisers, and possibly warming a few couches to get even that.
Sue Landon was an only child, born four months after their marriage. Today there was a combination maid-housekeeper in the Landon home. But service people who make the beds and serve the food never take the place of a good parent.
As of the moment, Sue Landon, very lonely and unwanted, was out for kicks.
Or if she wasn't out for kicks, some grudge-born compulsion was relentelessly driving her.
She was going to meet a man with a hot camera.
Unless I had my data wrong, she would peel for the picture. All the way.
I eased up to the curb and watched her turn into a shrub-bordered walk that led to this Spanish-style residence with the red tile roof and the architectural bric-abrac now decadent. The house was set well back from the street almost completely hidden.
I checked the number. Eleven Ramsey Drive. One Mario Ortega. A new tenant.
I uncased the binoculars, focused on the recessed doorway. The girl loomed up almost life-size in the high-powered glasses. She was the kind of chick that, consciously or unconsciously, causes men to have high blood pressure, which I had. Now a long finger punched at the bell. She waited, tapping a nervous foot. Once she turned and glanced at the street, a tight, determined smile on her lips.
The door opened. I couldn't see the man very well, because his face was obscured by a shadow-But he was a tall, lean man, possibly in his early thirties. He wore a black beret and had a beatnik beard fuzzing his chin. He smiled, showing a lot of white ivory as he stood back for the girl to enter.
I waited until the door had clicked shut. Then I recased the glasses and pulled the car closer to the entrance, to be certain that I wouldn't miss her when she came out. I managed to park between an Imperial and a Chevy, quite unnoticed.
"You silly, silly kid!" I said to the closed door of the Spanish house.
I didn't know too much about Mario Ortega, except that he was one of a group of what we called "yellow film" photographers.
I knew even less about Sue Landon-except the fact that physically, walking down the street, she was a very provocative girl.
But one thing was established. She went to Parkview. The school, within the last semester, had developed acute girl trouble. And that covered a wide latitude. The pattern seemed always much the same: rich family, neglected children.
I waited. The light was fading. Still she hadn't come out of that Spanish bungalow.
"The thing I should do," I berated the closed door, "would be to barge inside, wreck the place, poke Ortega on his beatnik chin, and give the girl a good spanking where it hurts."
But that procedure, as I knew too well, would do nothing but get me into trouble, and defeat my entire embryo plan.
I was on my third cigarette when she eased out of the door, came down the walk, toward my car. It was dusk now. However there was still enough light to see that she was very unsteady on her high heels.
I stepped out of the car and confronted her on the walk.
"Sue, let me take you home."
She jerked up. Her eyes raised, scanning my face. There was no recognition, of course, because she didn't know me from Adam.
"I've never seen you before, Mister...."
"I'm Mike Bonner. I know your father."
"That's an old chestnut. So you know my father-or maybe it's my mother. Okay, if ifs my father, what's his full name?"
"John Ralston Landon."
"Well, you do know his name. But you could have gotten that from the phone book."
I disregarded her tirade. "Please let me give you a lift, Sue."
She made a face. "Give me one good reason why."
She was going to argue; she was just drunk enough to get loud and boisterous and troublesome. So I moved in fast, slapped her across the cheek, just hard enough to make it sting.
"I'll give you a very good reason," I said sternly. "You're crocked! If you try walking home in this tipsy condition, the cops will pick you up for sure!"
She was nursing her cheek, rubbing it with her fingertips.
She hadn't quite decided whether to bawl or to start cursing me.
"Why'd you slap me? You had no right-"
"Didn't I? You had no right, going into this dive, and coming out tanked."
"That is my business. I am over eighteen-"
I walked over to the car, held open the door. "Do I give you that lift?"
She hesitated, measuring me with eyes that were filmed and glassy. "It could be that you're a psycho or a rapist...."
"It could be. Go back inside and have Ortega call up your father."
That evidently decided her. She got into the car, the belligerency seemed to dissipate. She giggled, her eyes watching my every move.
"You look like a stud to me...."
There was no answer to that one.
I went across town until I struck the thruway, then took it south. The houses thined out now, and the road snaked through the hogback hills in pleasant top-speed curves. I spotted this little eatery finally, pulled up, and pocketed the keys.
"What are we doing here?" she asked.
"First, you're getting a lot of hot, black coffee-and finally a steak."
"Ugh!" she said, made a face, and suddenly I realized she had a very sultry mouth. "Even the thought of food gags me ... '
"Even so, you'll eat a steak, down to the bone."
The school books were scattered on the back seat now. I got a firm grip on her arm, propelled her up the walk to the door of the eatery.
She was very near blotto. And that posed a question. Where had she gotten the liquor? Fellows like Mario Ortega don't as a rule pour it over the rocks for their cuties as they disrobe. That costs money for one thing, and causes trouble for the photographer, in many instances.
She was giggling as I forced her through the door. "You know something? I'm really stewed-"
I got her into an empty booth without mishap, and I sighed in relief. I winked at the counterman, held up two fingers, pointed to his coffee urn. He nodded, and I saw his eyes drop to her sweater, zero in. He poured two cups of coffee, came right over with them, one in each hand.
"The lady is very hungry," I said. "We'll each have a sixteen ounce steak, medium, with a tossed salad and American fries."
"Coming up!" he said. The sweater was still an enticement.
She sat there, staring at the coffee, lips tight.
"Drink up, kiddo," I quipped. "It's liable to be a long, tough night."
Her eyes jerked up. "What's that mean?"
"Exactly what I said." I clasped her left hand, pressed hard. "There is also a State Highway Patrolman in the last booth. Funny, but he's eyeing you, right this moment. If I were you I'd start swigging that Java."
She didn't take a single sip of the coffee. The drunken giggle came again.
"Pete, you don't scare me one bit-"
"The name is Mike."
"All right, Mike Bonner instead of Pete Bones. Do you want me to start screaming? I could tear my sweater, you know. And the cop'll wander over and I'll tell him you've got hands, and that you're taking me out for a rassle in the hay, which I don't want. What'll you do then, smart guy?"
I pressed harder on her fingers, bending them back just enough to make it hurt. "Call the cop," I bluffed. "We're old buddies. Then well both have a rassle in the hay with you."
Her eyes came up, wavered, then slowly steadied. She was just a bit frightened now, undecided, wondering what she might be facing. She was still bluffing, but the fear was in her eyes as well.
"Drink the coffee!" I said firmly, working a little harder on her hand.
She hesitated. "You're hurting me."
But she picked up the coffee mug at last, took a swallow-She shivered.
I'm going to be sick-"
"It will pass. Drink some more."
She tried again.
"Smell that steak frying?"
"Horrible-"
The coffee mug was nearly empty now. I grinned at her.
The steaks came finally, sizzling in their own juice.
"I can't eat a bit. You should know that!"
"Wipe the plate clean," I said. "I'll stay here until midnight if necessary, but you're going to eat that entire steak if I have to shovel it into your pretty mouth, bite by bite-"
"You can't force me to eat, if I don't want to-"
"Want to bet?"
I reached across the booth, sawed off a juicy morsel, and raised the fork. "I had twin brothers, ten years younger than me." I said by way of enlightenment. "I learned a few tricks, feeding them on their stubborn days. Want me to demonstrate on you?"
"You-you'd really make a scene, wouldn't you?"
"No, you'd make the scene."
She was getting angry now. That was better than stubborn placidity. She picked up her steak knife and started toying with the meat.
The acting was over, at last. It took a terrific effort, chewing that first bite. If it hadn't been for the coffee, I'm sure she would have been sick. But nothing happened, and after a few moments, she took the second bite, and toyed with the salad.
I took my time, seemingly indifferent to her problem, and ate slowly-The food was good-even delicious. I kept glancing at her face. Nineteen years old, a definite looker, and already on a pair of skates, going down hill. Her face was good, with a firm chin. The mouth was sultry, defiant, but that would be natural, considering her background. Minus her problems, relaxed in the buoyancy and carefreeness of youth, she might even fall into the beautiful category. But there was a defiance in her eyes, a don't-give-a-damn kind of defiance that suggested she was out on a limb and about ready to jump. It was something like the look in the eyes of a cornered animal.
And I read something else in those same eyes. Let's call it loneliness.
The plate was clean, at last. And she was on the last of the second cup of coffee. I noticed something else that pleased me. She wasn't very drunk any more-Her eyes were clearing and their very clarity gave them a new beauty.
I grinned at her and pressed her hand again. But in a far different way now.
"That's my girl! Let's take a ride."
We wound through the hills at forty miles an hour, strangely silent. Traffic was light, almost nil on this stretch of road. There had been a rain, earlier in the day, and the air had a good, earthy smell about it. I decided to let her do the talking. And finally it came.
"Mike, are you some special kind of cop maybe?"
"What makes you think that?"
"You acted like one, slapping my face-"
"That was the shock treatment; you needed it."
"Did I?"
She pulled up her knees, swung in the seat so she faced me. She was feeling better by the moment, her stomach filled with food, and some of the belligerence was gone.
"Why'd you do it, Mike?"
"Do what?"
"Tail me to Ortega's place?"
"Ifs a long story."
"We have a lot of time-or I have a lot of time-"
I took my eyes off the road long enough to meet her gaze. "What about your parents? What happens if you don't show up at dinner?"
The laugh came too quickly. And she couldn't keep the brittleness out of it. 'That's the question of the year."
"If you want to talk, let's talk. Name the spot."
Up ahead, moonlight glistened on water. I had fished this noisy stream and I knew there was a turnoff on the far side of the bridge, and a secondary road that led to different accessible spots on the stream. I hugged the willow fringe and turned down to a sandbar.
"Ever been here before?"
She shrugged. "Does it make any difference?"
"Not in the least."
"Is this a blanket stop?"
I acted dumb. "Blanket stop?"
She leaned closer, and her eyes suddenly teased. "Honey, don't tell me you've never trotted out the old Army blanket-"
"Upon occasion-"
"Isn't this one of those occasions?"
"In my book, the lady must be willing."
She leaned against me, mashed her lips on mine, surcharged the operation with a quick stab of her tongue. Then she pulled back, eyes frank and shameless.
"Does that tell you whether or not she's willing?"
"It does" I let my hand drop, moved it under her arm, against the side of her breast, pulled her closer. There was a king-sized breast under my hand.
I gave her the treatment now, our two mouths vacuumed together in a battle of tongues, both doing an adagio dance.
I pulled back at last, grinned at her. "I thought perhaps Ortega had run down your battery."
"He didn't touch me!"
I let my fingers play over her face. "Tell me something: why'd you drink so much of his liquor that you got jagged?"
She chuckled. "That's a laugh. You think it was his liquor?"
"Wasn't it?"
"Of course not! It belongs to my old man. I had it in a perfume bottle in my purse, all day."
"Why'd you want the liquor when you went to see Ortega?"
She didn't answer, kept her eyes averted. I waited a moment, then cupped her chin, so she had to look at me.
"Want me to tell you? You needed that liquor to boost your morale, before you peeled. Am I right?"
Suddenly her lower lip quivered; she was on the verge of tears.
She nodded. "Yes, I swallowed it as fast as I could, in his dressing room, to give me courage."
I kissed her lightly on the lips, held her face imprisoned.
"Why did you do it in the first place Sue? Why peel for a nude picture with a guy like Ortega?"
"It was the only thing I could think of to hurt them"
"To hurt whom?"
Her lip was quivering in earnest now, and she was on the verge of a big cry.
"My lousy parents; who do you think?" She really spat out the words.
I waited. "Why are you so bitter about your parents, Sue?"
"Must I draw a picture?"
"You wanted to talk, remember?"
She was still crying, not violently, but too emotional to stop now, before it climaxed.
"It's my mother mostly," she said at last. "Dad is gone, except upon rare occasions."
"That figures. It's his job, isn't it?"
She nodded. "But my mother, a corny has-been actress, thinking she's still a young girl, comes on like Queen Victoria."
"She still your mother."
"You are so right-She went to bed with my old man, and got herself pregnant. Do you know why? So she could nail him. I hear them quarrelling about it, all the time. She didn't want me! I'm just so much baggage she needed for the ride."
"You've got a fine home. They're sending you to one of the best schools."
"So what? So she can brag! And what's good about the house we live in? It's just a big, empty house!"
"Isn't your mother home much more than your father?"
"You kidding? She's playing around with some goon at the TV station, hoping he'll give her a chance to act."
"That's no excuse for you to go to Ortega's place."
"Isn't it? You know what I'm going to do with that picture, when it's done? I'm going to walk into the television station where she works, and show it to Clyde Bronson. He's the exec in charge of production. I'm going to lay it on his desk, some day when she's in the same room and I'm going to say, 'Mr. Bronson, your tastes are slipping. My mother's an old bag. Why not use me?'"
"You wouldn't."
"You think I won't?"
"I know you won't."
She started to say something in rebuttal, but clamped her lips.
"Will you give me one reason why I won't?"
'Yes. In the first place, you'll never see the picture you posed for in Ortega's studio."
"Are you kidding? Do you think I'd have posed for him unless I could get the picture?"
I bent and kissed her lips, just a friendly little peck. "Honey, you're very young."
"And inexperienced? Is that what you were going to say? Listen Mike, I paid Ortega for the picture. Just one pose, a full-length nude that I can lay on Branson's desk-"
"Honey, calm down and hear the facts of life."
I was watching her face. Anger was there, but fear was also making a slow inroad into her thoughts.
"Promise me something," I said. "First, I want to help you. But before I can help you, I must know certain things. You no doubt can tell me these things."
Her lip was trembling again. "Okay, Mike, I suppose I've ruined a perfectly good day, and I'm all mixed up."
"First tell me," I questioned, "how you found out about Ortega?"
"That's simple. Several of the girls know about him."
I massaged her back and neck with my fingertips. I'm a fair maseur, at least with the feminine sex.
"Can you name some of the girls who know Ortega?"
"Yes, that is, I suppose so. Mike, I'm not ratting."
"You're not ratting!"
"Well, there was Marilyn Brown, Maria Lilo, Lisa Cummins-"
"Okay, three is enough. Now one more question: what type of girls are the three you just mentioned?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean physically. Lookers, stacked-figures?"
"You mean, are all of them built something like me? Bra-busters?" I nodded.
"Come to think of it, Marilyn is even bigger than me. We measured one day, in the locker room."
"That figures."
"Maria is Italian. You know how Italian girls are generally built. Wide-chested."
"And very round, heavy breasts."
She grinned. "You know your women, don't you?"
"My hobby."
"Lisa Cummins isn't big-busted, though. She's small and delicate."
"And no doubt her breasts are also small, but very pointed?"
"You talk like you've rassled her in the hay."
"I've never seen the young lady."
"Well, you were right in your deductions, just the same."
"It figures," I said, thinking for a moment. "All these girls, and you too, are on the sexy side" Thank you!"
"All four of you were just the type that a man like Ortega would be looking for."
"We drew lots," she continued, "to see who would pose first."
"And you got the honor?"
She nodded.
I got hold of her hand, held it. "Now one more thing, Sue. How did you first learn of Ortega? Did any of the girls tell you?"
She shook her head, negatively. "No, I was slipped a card, when I posed for the school's yearbook picture."
There it was! This was the thing I didn't know and had wracked my brain over. How did they make contact?
"Now let me get this right," I prompted. "You had a yearbook photographer come to the school?"
She nodded. "She was quite a doll."
"A woman?"
"Young, for a photographer, but she seemed to know what she was doing."
"Do you know her name?"
She thought for a moment. "No, but I did hear one of the teachers call her Miss Johnson."
"You said you were slipped a card. How was this done?"
"Her portable studio was set up in one of the supply rooms of the school. We waited outside, went in one by one. She said she liked to work that way for the singles, so there was no nervousness.
"After she had taken my picture, she came over to me, and kept looking at my face. "You're very beautiful, my dear,' she said. "You should get into show business.' Then she handed me this card with Ortega's name and address typed on it. This man can give you the glamour picture that will help you land an acting job,' she said-'Don't delay if you intend posing for him, for he won't be in the city long.'"
"So you posed for him," I said, rather lamely.
"Yes, but not for an acting job. To hurt my mother, as I told you.
I pulled her closer. "Honey, do you want the bad news?"
"You mean I'm in some kind of trouble?"
"No, I wouldn't say trouble. But Ortega is a smut photographer. He takes all types of pornographic pictures. Even an innocent nude can be retouched into a dilly by this cookie-"
"Mike, what are you saying?"
"I told you, the bad news. The Post Office Department and the federal men have made it so hot for these nomographers that they've really got them on the run at last. They've been jumping to different spots on the map trying to keep on the move so fast that the government men can't keep up with them. But even that hasn't solved their problems. But now it seems they've come up with a new gimmick-in a new field."
"School girls like me?"
"Unsuspecting girls like you, not models, or beach tramps who will do anything for a quick buck. Innocent school girls, the shelter trade."
"Mike what have I done?"
"All over the nation, school photography is big business. So far it's been a good, clean business. Every kid from six to the college level gets his photo taken at least once yearly. The same thing applies to all the special schools and colleges, even the business and trade schools. It's a huge, legitimate business."
"But not any longer?"
"Not any longer. These pornographers have slipped into it almost overnight, in the guise of legitimate workers. They got into it by bribing school officials. Just a gift, they called it. Give us the school contract, then we'll do something for you! A new television set for your home, perhaps? Or how about an outboard motor, or some golf clubs? Things like that-Then to cinch the deal they set a lower price than the legitimate photographers could offer. For instance, they would take the pictures at cost, even below cost, if in so doing they could recruit a dozen girls from each big school for their smut."
The tears were getting close to the surface again.
"In your school, for instance, this Miss Johnson no doubt is a photographer working for a smut syndicate. But even so, she's a real photographer. Her work is professional. She'll deliver the school pictures. But the real money would come from you, and Marilyn and Maria and girls like that"
"The cards were slipped to the sexy girls only. If they fell for the nude photo, the smut peddlers were in business."
"Mike, how could one nude photo make them a lot of money?"
"Ifs the way they merchandise it. First, that print can be doctored in many ways. Then they'll make thousands of prints off the retouched negative. And they'll sell them, all over the world. That isn't all. They'll keep selling them, for years and years."
"What will Ortega do with my picture, Mike?" I didn't immediately answer. "Just how did you pose?"
"He-he asked me to completely disrobe. I was frightened, but I wanted that picture for my mother. And the whiskey was warming my stomach, giving me courage. So I did."
"What happened then?"
"He stood back and whistled when I took off my sweater. I suppose he was surprised how big I was. Then he posed me, very seductively, on a couch."
I didn't tell her, but when Ortega got done with that shot a nude man would be superimposed on the print, to make the thing look like an action sex job, the real McCoy. There were other tricks too. They had a catalogue of tricks they used. Sometimes the poses turned into Lesbian love acts or white versus black. Nice people, these men like Ortega!
She was frantic now. I saw it building in her face. I felt the tenseness prevading her body.
"Mike, you've got to help me!"
"Okay, honey, I'll help you."
Her lips mashed against my own now. There seemed to be a fury in her every movement. She was tight against me and her lips pressed tighter. Perhaps it was loneliness and fear, and a dozen other things intermingled with them. She was building a tingle and there wasn't much to do about it.
"Get the negative from him in some way, Mike."
I'll try-"
"Tonight."
I shook my head. "No, I can't just burst into the place, kiddo. Besides, I doubt very much if the negative is in that Spanish house. That is what we call a 'drop spot,' nothing more."
"Mike, you'll never get it back, will you?"
I pulled her up short and looked into her eyes.
"Yes, m get it back. But you've got to help me. And I want a solemn promise from you too; no more hatred of your folks!"
"Mike, if they would only love me!" The words had their own particular agony.
There it was again. And she suited her words to action. She flung herself into my arms, half crying, on an emotional binge.
"Love me, hold me real tight."
Our bodies were locked and so were our mouths. I picked her up bodily at last and carried her out on the sand, then went back to the car and got the blanket.
We lay there, tight in each other's arms, in the quiet of the night, with nothing but a frog to break the silence.
She was so young, so very lovely in the soft moonlight. I soothed my conscience by convincing myself she needed me. She needed her mother, but mother wasn't interested. So she was auctioning her affections elsewhere.
Whether she needed me was beside the point at this particular moment. Propinquity is a great builder of impulses. I needed her as well. That's the kind of a girl she was, one touch and the fuses got overloaded.
But evidently there was still some small voice of conscience pummeling at her brain for momentarily she pulled back.
"Mike, am I a tramp, loving you this way?"
"What made you ask that?"
"Isn't that what men call girls who take the initiative, induce men to become intimate on short order, like this?"
"I haven't put a tramp label on you, have I?"
"But tomorrow morning, will you be different then?"
At the moment I wasn't worrying too much about tomorrow morning.
I very reluctantly extricated my hand from her sweater, raised my fingers to her chin.
"Honey, listen. Listen hard-You are an exceptionally beautiful girl. If you kept acting as you did today, the tramp label would come sooner than you might expect. But you and I tonight, right now, does this have a tramp tag on it?"
"I don't know Mike. I'm so lonely and afraid. But I still want you."
"Let's put it this way," I rationalized. "You're starved for love. Not only this kind of love, but the affection everyone needs, day after day, belonging, caring for someone, being a part of a family. Dreaming dreams. You're starved for this wholesome love. I come along. We have a mutual attraction for each other. We have rather an emotional evening together. And at last I taste your lips and you taste mine. The fire is lighted. As simple as that."
"Mike, you make this sound so natural, so beautiful."
"Isn't it beautiful?"
Her answer was purely physical. She pressed tighter, and suddenly her lips were on my mouth. Her tongue was doing a very good exploratory job, playing tag with my own. I touched her at last and she made the kind of guttural sound, deep in her throat, that only a lover can understand.
Her breasts were tightening now as I caressed them with my fingertips. I bent my head. Her heart was hammering its hopeless battle against imprisonment.
She worked my head down, and suddenly she was whispering in my ear. I snipped at her with my teeth just enough to make it hurt. She pushed harder against me.
And then we were together, violent and demanding, and her fingers were digging into my flesh. She arched to meet me and her hips suddenly started their own particular limbo that built into ecstasy. And the only witness to our love was a lone whippoorwill, cavorting madly in the night sky above. He wasn't as lucky as me. He was still looking for his mate.
Then all of the emotion, the tenseness, the frustration that had been her day evolved into a blinding flash of fire, and she quivered in my arms and lay still in the sweet relaxation of fulfillment.
Out of the swift water of the creek, a fish broke the surface with a slapping noise of its tail, as if we needed an encore.
At last she pulled free of my arms, raised herself to her hands and knees and peered into my eyes.
"Mike, will you meet my mother?"
"Why?"
"Perhaps you could do something, say something-"
Her face was wistful. Her gorgeous breasts hung like pendants, inches away. I wasn't sure I wanted to met her mother, for one thing.
"It might only complicate matters."
"Please Mike."
I let my fingertips stray. The tautness was still there.
"If you want me to."
She lowered her lips and suddenly the ecstasy record was back on the turntable. And this time she was the protagonist, beating out the fury of her tawny body with her hips in a mad cadence of movement that was little short of sadistic.
"Sue Landon," I said to myself, "you've been misnamed. Your mother should have called you Fury."