Chapter 10

Phil was easily cleared of any implication with the theft of his own research data, simply because he refused to implicate himself. All the blame rested on Wini Brent, or Bea Palmer, as she was really known.

He took her advice and the fifty thousand dollars and moved to New York. Even though he was cleared in the case with Northern Chemical and Research, not another firm would consider hiring him. The money began to run out and Phil became desperate.

One day, a well-dressed man came to see him in their apartment. He offered Phil a job. He accepted it at once. Late at night, he was escorted to a car, blindfolded and driven to an estate upstate. He thought it might have been up as far as Mt. Kisco, but he couldn't be sure. When he was allowed to see again, he stood in a completely equipped laboratory.

He was shown a granular substance.

"Do you know what this is . . . ?"

"Yes, I think so," he answered. "I'd have to run tests on it to identify it properly."

"Can you refine it . . . ?"

"Yes . . . ?"

"Do you know what the end result will be . . . ?" he was asked. "Heroin!" he said.

"We'll need you for one run a week!"

"I couldn't do that..." Phil told him. "The fall-out from that stuff has the same effect as if you were shooting it into a vein! One run every two weeks would be safer ..."

Phil knew better, but he began running one bath a week. It was not long before he was hooked; he became a main-liner, and the habit became more and more expensive. He had to buy it just like any other addict. A rotating armed guard made sure that he had no opportunity to siphon off any of the white powder for himself. He never did know for sure who his employer was.

Rhoda began entertaining men in their apartment, charging up to two hundred dollars to selected clients for an all-night session. Phil could have cared less. The false euphoria of his drug-induced day-to-day stupor claimed him, completely, and he was no good for her in bed.

"Hell!" he told her. "Why should I care ... ! You've been giving it away, anyway!"

"Won't you ever understand ... be willing to forgive me?"

"Get off my back!" he growled.

"Well, you'll have to get out . . . I've got a visitor coming pretty soon."

Phil moved off the couch, went into the bathroom and shot up. He emerged feeling better, dressed in hat and top-coat and went out into the crisp, cold night of November in Manhattan. Wistfully, he longed for balmy, smoggy California and the way it was, then, when he was an ambitious, struggling young research chemist with his whole career and a full life ahead of him.

What the hell happened. . . ?

Rhoda's visitor back at the apartment made his mission clear very quickly.

"The big man sees you've been operating independent-like . . . Now, he wants everybody to be safe . . . including you! You never can tell when somebody's going to blow the whistle on you ... or some nut comes up here, and gets violent with you . . . What do you do then . . . ?"

Rhoda was puzzled. "I don't understand . . . ?"

He took her to the window, forced her to look down from the dizzying height. He continued, "Have you ever seen what happens when somebody falls out of one of these windows from way up here fourteen floors above the street . . . ?"

"Why ... no ... I haven't ... but they'd be killed ...!"

"Exactly!" he leered. "Now, you wouldn't want that to happen ... to you . . . would you...?"

"N-No . . . !"

"Well... to make sure nothing like that ever happens to you . . . the man wants fifty percent of everything you make! The pick-up will be every Monday night! Here's a list of special telephone numbers . . . start working on them! And, in case you've got any ideas about holding out. . . we've got all kinds of ways to check up on you ... is that clear?"

"Y-Yes ... I think . . . I-I understand ..." Rhoda said. "You're nothing but a... a gangster . . . and . . . you're stealing my money!"

The veneer of smoothness was thrown off. He rasped out at her, "Gangster? That's kind of old-fashioned! You see . . . you happen to live in territory belonging to my family . . . and we always take care of our people . . . You make the pay-off regular . . . and you're safe. Try to pull some kind of smart play on us... and ..."

The switch-blade appeared in his hand as if by magic, its blade snicking open to gleam keen and deadly in the soft light of the room. Working swiftly, smoothly, expertly, he shredded her clothing from her, and she stood nude before him in a matter of seconds. Suddenly, the message was clear to her.

"Oh, my God!" she sobbed, her tears quick and hot.

Then, idly, he reached over and deftly snipped several strands of curling golden hair from the triangle of her pubic mound.

"You get the idea?"

"Y-Yes . . . !" I-I understand . . . !"

"My name's Gino ... he said amiably. "I'm supposed to sample the merchandise . . . Let's start off by seeing how well you eat cock!"

Rhoda managed a smile. "I'd love to . . . It's my specialty!"