Chapter 3
It was after two a.m. when Mavis Preed dropped her fare token into a subway turnstile slot and moved ahead of Sandra Mathis onto the seemingly deserted platform. Trains at this hour were few and far between, and the girls faced a long wait. As Mavis sauntered along the platform towards a seat her cheap skirt clung snugly to her softly rounded hips. She dropped a coin into a slot machine, got a package of cigarettes, lit one and drew thankfully at it. Her breasts beneath her tight sweater quivered as she exhaled.
"Gee!" Mavis said with profound feeling. "That's good. Want one?"
Sandra shook her head. "Are you sure you know where to go?" she asked nervously. Mavis nodded, seated herself.
"First we need a room," she said. "Something cheap but not too crummy. Then after we get settled in we'll decide what to do. I suppose we'll have to find jobs. Maybe I'll get a break in show business."
"You still harping on that? Honestly, Mavis."
Mavis ran her hands over her breasts, straightened her back to add still more prominence to her bust. She inspected her legs. "Why not?" she demanded, "I've got the shape for it and I'm willing to try anything. I'll get by. We'll both get by."
"I could never act or dance or anything like that. I can't even sing. Who'd want me?"
"Quiet!" Mavis said tersely. She was watching, listening intently, peering into the gloom.
"Somebody's there!" she whispered.
Hulking shapes were emerging from the deeper shadows, invading the platform. Slouching youths, five .of them, swaggering teen-age punks dressed in tight fitting jeans and leather jackets. None of them wore hats. Two were tall, muscular, a third short but massive, ape-like. The others were stocky and fat. One of the flabby characters wore his hair close cropped, and his sallow face was covered with blotches and pimples. The others had long hair trimmed duck tail style.
Quickly they surrounded the two girls. Sandra looked frightened. Mavis eyed the smirking gang disdainfully, badly scared in spite of her bold front and apparent calm, but resolved not to show it.
"Want something?" she asked, trying to appear casual. One of the tall youths grinned, exposing uneven, discolored teeth.
"You can say that again, doll," he told her. His pals sniggered.
"Tell her, Rube," one says, "Tell her what we want. I reckon we'll have ourselves quite a time with these two, man...."
"Like crazy, dad. Dig that shape. Cool."
Rube reached out, thrust his insolent hand inside Mavis' coat and closed his fingers on her left breast. The broad, thick-set punk stepped toward Sandra, grinning.
"Don't you touch me!" she squealed, backing away. "Keep away!"
"Leave her alone,' Mavis snapped with a defiance she didn't feel, "She isn't well. Get lost, you creeps."
She pushed the youth's hand away. He laughed and slapped her across the mouth, knocking her sprawling off her seat. Her skirt hiked up around her smooth thighs, and Rube chuckled obscenely.
"Grab em!" he ordered. He stooped, gripped Mavis' arm, dragged her up. His hard palm clapped over her mouth effectively checking her outcry. Sandra screamed once before the muscle-bound punk kicked her legs from under her and a dirty rag stifled her cries. A girmy hand groped. Other hands ripped her clothing, tore aside her bra, exposing soft, white flesh. The powerful youth and the two fat slobs piled onto her. One held her down, pinning her arms. Another jerked her legs apart. She felt her undergarment tear, slide down, give again as it was pulled completely free. The young punk leering down into her terrified face stank, and his breath was foul.
Rube had Mavis' sweater up while his pal held her, and was grunting like an animal with his spotty face against her bared breasts as he wrenched impatiently at her clothing. Some of the thing she had heard about New York's teenage hoodlums were passing through Mavis' mind, undermining her bolt front. Her courage evaporated quickly, and fear swiftly dispersed the mild excitement aroused by the savage assault and the big youth's coarse embrace. Sex, normally, was enjoyment. But this was different, and she struggled violently. Sandra, close to strangulation with fat fingers gripping her thoat, went limp under the broad youth's weight.
Fingers pressed against Mavis' neck restricted her breathing too. Her mouth was bleeding and the strength was fast draining from her limbs. Eventually she couldn't resist any more and lay still, panting.
What did it matter anyway? Just get it over with, she thought. Suddenly authorative voices were calling, threatening, demanding. A torch beam stabbed the dark and a gunshot roared, reverberating hollowly.
Instantly the youths were up and running, scattering, cursing, disappearing like ghosts into the shadows. Footsteps clattered on stone and receded. Somewhere a metal gate clanged and two forms materialized. Police. A torch played its rays over Mavis' face then her half naked body, switched to Sandra's prone form. Compared to the dim platform lighting the torch beam seemed brilliant, blinding. Mavis sat up, gasping. The cop holding the torch was young, around thirty, tall, and tough-looking. Not handsome but ruggedly interesting. The officer with him was older, powerfully built with long arms and massive shoulders.
"Take a look at the other one, Brady," the tall cop said, "You all right, Miss?"
Mavis nodded. For the moment she couldn't speak.
"This one's out cold," Brady said. He holstered his smoking thirty-eight special.
"Fainted, poor kid," the tall cop said. "Damn those sneaking bastards! What the hell's this country comin' to, Brady?"
Brady shrugged.
"Who are you, girls?" he asked Mavis, "Who are you and what are you doing here? Where were you going this time of the mornin'?"
He helped her to her feet.
"Just a coupla kids," he muttered, "You get a good look at any of them punks?"
Mavis shook her head.
"Where you from?"
"Out of town."
"That's for sure. You run away from home maybe?"
"No, nothing like that," Mavis lied. "Just visiting. We got in on a late train, later than we expected."
"You're askin' for trouble roaming around these platforms at two in the morning," the tall cop said, "Where are you making for?"
"Broadway," Mavis said without hesitation. He consulted his watch.
"There's an IRT local due any minute," he told her, "I'll ride with you as far as seventy-second street. She okay, Brady?"
The thick-set cop, on his knees beside Sandra, nodded as her eyelids flickered and she moaned.
"She's coming round," he said, "I'll put a call to the station, Davis. I've an idea that tall punk was Bart Nolan's kid."
"The others called him Rube," Mavis offered. The cops exchanged glances. Davis nodded. A dull rumbling heralded the train's approach.
"See you at Court Square," Davis told Brady. "Okay. C'mon, kid."
Brady lifted Sandra to her feet and supported her. She shrank away until she recognized his uniform, then clung to him and started to cry., "It's okay, kid," he said, feeling awkward, "They won't bother you any more. Davis here will ride right along with you. Here's your train now."
He helped her along the platform.
"Next time," he cautioned, "travel before dark, before punks like them get on the prowl. There's a hell of a lot of subway in this city, kid. We can't be everywhere. Watch it, huh?"
Mavis boarded the train with the tall cop. Sandra slumped onto a seat. Brady, watching the IRT pull out, shook his head and rubbed his craggy jaw thoughtfully. He shrugged, spat onto the rails, and walked towards the trunstiles.