Chapter 2
A bulky-knit sweater landed at Bill's feet as he pushed his way into the dimly lit room. The pulsing jingle of tambourines, pierced by the beat of a small Indian drum and the lilting, but plaintive melody of a recorder, assailed his ears as soon as he had closed the rickety door. Leaning down, Bill picked up the heavy sweater, then dropped to his haunches next to the doorway.
He waited while his eyes accustomed themselves to the dim blue light bathing the crowded room. He could make out the undulating shape in the center of the room and decided that was where the sweater had come from. Deciding to play it by ear, he settled back, placing himself as comfortably as possible against the thin wall of the apartment. His nose twitched and then wrinkled as his scent buds caught and held the pungent burnt almond smell of weed. As his eyes adapted to the faint light, the undulating form in the center of the room took shape and became real.
I wonder if she's a real blonde, Bill thought to himself as he watched her supple body start to bend and sway in time to the weird music. She was bare to the waist except for several strands of beads which swung loosely in front of the swelling mounds of her breasts. Bill's eyes riveted on her breasts. They were large and lush, held up firmly by youthful muscles. The beads brushed across the two pink nipples as the girl moved slowly back and forth, like an upright pendulum. Bill noticed the nipples begin to swell and pout as the beads brushed hard against them again and again as the girl swayed from side to side. Her hands were held at her sides, flat against the curve of her hips as she moved in time to the music.
The beat increased, and the blonde began moving her feet to the rhythm. She bent at the waist, throwing her large breasts forward, then straightened, arching her back and shaking her shoulders from side to side with the beat of the drum. The breasts shook and the knotting muscles of her smooth, flat belly rippled. As she arched back, she brought her hands slowly upward, sliding them to the front of her hips, then up over the well-defined mound at her crotch, tracing a delicate pattern across her stomach and coming to rest under the swaying breasts. She bent forward slightly and then back again. Straightening again, she cupped a tit in each hand, kneading and lifting the heavy, full flesh. The blonde teased each nipple with her thumb and forefinger, rolling the delicate tips, bringing a glow to the already pink and straining points.
Some of the people lying around the room started to clap in time to the music, encouraging the girl to continue her erotic dance. Soon most of them who were crowded into the dingy room, including Bill, began clapping their hands as the tempo of the music built.
"Go, baby, go. Do your thing. It's all for love," some of the more vocal members of the group called as they clapped sharply.
Apparently pleased by the attention and encouragement, the dancing girl started circling the group, her hands waving at her sides. Her hips were sensuously moving in one direction while her now heaving breasts and shoulders were thrown in another. She took long steps as she circled the room with a series of slow and graceful pirouettes. She moved to the center of the circle as the tempo of the music again increased. She stood with her legs wide apart, the cloth of her bell-bottoms stretched tight over her rounded thighs as she gyrated her hips forward and backward in an imitation of the act of love. Bill Sherman felt a familiar stirring in his loins as she increased the violence of her movements. Wadding the sweater, he stuffed it into his lap. It would be his introduction. The lush blonde now had her hands stretched over her head, lifting her breasts even further. Her hips were making fast circles as she moved them back and forth in time to the music. Small beads of sweat were running down between the gorgeous globes, making her body shine and reflect in the dim blue light. Bill watched as the beads gathered and then tumbled down her muscled stomach, dipped into the indentation of her navel and then trickled to the belted waist of her bell-bottoms.
The music was pounding now, thumping a violent rhythm of raw passion. The girl was jerking her hips forward and back with exaggerated speed. She dropped her arms to her sides once more, and her shoulders and elbows also started to move back and forth in time with her wildly jutting pelvis. The music and movement built to a near ear-splitting crescendo and then came to a crashing stop as the girl lifted on the balls of her feet and spun to the floor, ending with her legs crossed, head and shoulders bent forward between her thighs.
During the brief moment of near-deafening silence which followed the ending of the wild dance, Bill looked quickly about the room, searching faces. They were mostly old regulars whom he knew well.
Forgetting the people for a moment, Bill looked at the room itself. There were splotches on the peeling plaster walls, a threadbare rug which was spotted with the droppings of various previous tenants and ragtag collection of furniture which looked like rejects from the Salvation Army. It was a typical hippie pad.
Hippies, he thought, bless their little lovin' hearts. They kept him in bread. They provided him with a wide and varied sex life. He was one of them, but then again, he wasn't. Bill believed as they did in the hypocrisy of the straight society, but he couldn't stand the way they lived. The squalor and the hand-to-mouth existence revolted him.
Bill looked like a hippie when it suited his purpose. His reddish hair was long, but not too long. It was just long enough so that he could cross that tenuous line between the hippie society and the Establishment. When he was making the scene, Bill wore the uniform of the hippie culture. Garish velvet shirts, bright Indian beads, hip-hugging pants which flared at the bottom, flat-nosed boots and wide leather belt. Of course, when he was dealing with the parents, he dressed very conservatively in a suit, tie, freshly laundered white shirt and plain shoes.
He had carefully cultivated a select group of hippies whom he helped out now and then. He provided bail money when they were busted by the narks. Sometimes he paid the rent or supplied wine and beer for their parties and. it wasn't unknown for him to invest in, a little hash now and then for a really cooperative friend. He had always told them that they were not really being traitors to their society's code of ethics, but merely buying a little insurance against a bad bust by the narks, or some other disaster which money could repair. It worked out well all around, but Bill tried to keep such contacts to a minimum.
Getting to his feet, Bill made his way to the blonde girl still slumped in the center of the floor. Her back and sides were heaving with the effort of her lungs to gather enough air to supply her depleted system with oxygen. Sweat still poured from her body and dripped from her flanks to the floor. Squatting down next to her, he waited until the breathing became less labored.
"You might need this," he said holding out the bulky sweater.
She lifted her head with effort. Brushing her long tresses away from her face, she looked at him with deeply probing blue-gray eyes.
"Thank s," she said simply, taking the sweater from his hands and getting to her feet. She held it demurely before her nakedness, still keeping Bill's eyes in the locked grip of her frank stare.
"My name's Bill Sherman. You new around here?"
Her eyebrow arched up, then she turned on her heel and walked away toward a bedroom in the rear of the small pad. A kook, Bill thought, and moved toward another part of the living room.
As he made his way between the various clusters of people, Bill nodded to some, caught snatches of conversation, and checked carefully for any face which might resemble one of the pictures he carried in his pocket. He was about to give up and hit another crash pad. This was his usual method of operation. He would go from pad to pad just looking at faces and taking in the action.
He was moving toward the door when he spotted a pair of well-formed legs ticking out from behind a low couch which had seen better days. Deciding to see what was attached to the legs, Bill moved around the end of the couch and stared down at the girl sitting with her back against the badly peeling white plaster wall.
She was young and apparently couldn't handle her grass too well. Holding an empty water glass in her hand, she stared blankly at the floor in front of her sandal-clad feet. Her short minidress was hiked up around her hips. She wasn't wearing much makeup, just around the eyes, which had been lined with black pencil 'to accent their shape. Her hair was light brown and worn straight, parted in the center in the standard hippie fashion. Looking closely, Bill knew he was going to earn a fee tonight.
Kneeling down next to the girl, he gently shook her by the shoulder. "You okay?"
Turning her head in his direction with an obvious effort, she looked at him with bloodshot staring eyes. Bill smiled reassuringly. She didn't say a word, but merely shook her head negatively with a small pout on her pale lips. "Have you got any place to crash tonight?" he asked.
Again the girl answered in the negative, taking a deep breath and letting it out with a whoosh. As she inhaled, Bill's glance darted to her bosom and watched it swell beneath the thin fabric of the dress.
"What's your name?"
Jerking his eyes up from the curving mounds, Bill looked at the girl's face. Her eyes were slowly focusing. "Bill. What's yours?"
"Manda," she said with a long sigh of expelled breath.
"Looks like you had a little too much grass," he said casually as he sat down beside her, placing his back against the wall.
"I'm hep, man," she said.
"That can be a real bummer," he said. "Especially in the morning."
"I dig, baby," she replied taking another deep breath.
"like to make it out of here and see if you can get your head straight?" he asked her hoping she would agree without to much fuss.
"Why not," she said. "This is a drag."
Clambering to his feet, Bill turned to help Manda get up from the floor. As he pulled her to her feet, she wavered, tried to take a step, but stumbled and fell heavily against him. Her breasts pushed and flattened against his chest and he felt their firmness. As his arms moved around her to steady her, he felt no restriction beneath the thin dress. She wasn't wearing a bra, he noted with pleasure. She had grabbed his shoulder when she fell forward and now moved her hands, running her fingers into his long, red hair. Pulling his head down, she tilted her face up and opened her lips.
Bill held her tightly as he kissed her, feeling her tongue work across his lips then slip gently into his mouth. He met the invasion with his own tongue and they stood together for a long moment, swapping spit. Her little probe was everywhere at once. On the roof of his mouth, his lips, across his teeth. It was seeking, finding, feeling with its own urgency. She finally pulled her head back and looked at him with a small smile playing at her wet lips.
"You're groovy," she commented, slurring the words.
"So are you," he said. "Have you got a coat of something?"
She merely shook her head and stepped back.
Bill quickly moved to her side in order to help steady her as they stepped over the groups of people lounging in various states of undress. As he turned toward the door, his gaze swept the room once more, just in case. He spotted the dancing blonde standing by the front door idly smoking a joint and looking at him intently. Holding tightly to Manda, Bill made his way to the door managing to stumble only once across a couple who were trying to imitate the act of love through their clothes. Bill breathed a silent sigh of relief as he and Manda got to the door without major mishap.
"Thanks for holding my sweater," the blonde said coolly, blowing a stream of smoke in his direction as he pulled open the door.
"Anytime," he said as he started to propel Manda through the opening and onto the porch.
"Got yourself a winner," she said with a warm smile.
"I hope so," Bill replied, regretting that it was strictly business. He really wanted to drop Manda and make a real pitch for the blonde. She was a rare find, one worth pursuing.
"Have fun," she said as she closed the door.
Bill turned his full attention to Manda who had been leaning up against him during the entire conversation with the blonde. Circling her waist with his arm, Bill started down the long walkway through the rundown court and to the street. Once on the sidewalk, Bill steered Manda toward his white Volkswagen parked at the curb. He could have afforded a more expensive car, but then he had his role to play and anything more pretentious would have been suspect. Opening the door, he eased Manda into the passenger's seat. She plopped into the low seat, exposing the sheer, pale green panties she wore under the simple white minidress. Bill's eyes appraised the white expanse of firm thigh and he didn't feel too bad about leaving the blonde. There was always another night. He walked quickly around the car to the driver's side, opened the door, and slid into the seat. Starting the car, he looked at Manda. She had slid down in the seat, her dress hiking up around her hips. Her head was thrown back against the headrest, her lips were parted, and she breathed evenly. Hell, she was asleep already, Bill thought with a feeling of disappointment and disgust. She was worth three hundred dollars to him. Not dead or alive either, but alive and in reasonably good condition. He wanted her more lively than she was at this particular moment; a lot more lively. He again thought of the blonde and her wild, abandoned dance. She was new and different in some way. He'd have to meet her again and the sooner the better.
Putting the Volkswagen in gear, Bill Sherman pulled away from the curb and headed the little car toward the Hollywood hills.