Connie understood. Men, weren't responsible for their depravity since, after all, it was their nature. Sex was filthy. Sex was perverted. But the sin never fell on the soul of a man. It was the woman who encouraged him and led him on. Connie's mother recognized her own guilt and made certain that her daughter, too, recognized it. She hoped that Connie would learn from her mistake and avoid repeating her sin.
"You must be on your guard at all times," her mother had warned. "It's going to be harder for you than it is for other girls your age. You are the daughter of sin, the product of a sinful union."
Connie tried, all her life, to make her parent proud of her, to show her that she would never fall into the pit of sin and, depravity which was her heritage. And, as her mother had predicted, it was harder for Connie than it was for the other girls. By the time she was twelve, her breasts had begun to develop and to push proudly against the fabric of the boy-cut shirts which she always wore in a vain attempt to hide them.
By the time that she was thirteen, boys had really started to notice her and her budding figure. They scuffled for a place near her on the lines at school and were always finding excuses to bump into her, mauling her tits with their elbows and even with their hands.
When she was fourteen, she began receiving invitations from older boys to everything from school dances to quiet weekends in the country. She was always swift and unhesitating in her refusals. Her knowing mother had taught her that even the most innocent hesitation could be misinterpreted by a boy and could lead to sin.
But in spite of her open hostility, the boys continued to ask her for dates, continued to brush against her in the auditorium and on line, and continued to whisper indecent proposals in her ears. Even grown men ogled her and looked for ways to peek into her blouse whenever she bent over. When they talked to her they looked for reasons to touch her, to put their hands on her shoulder or on her knee in a phony fatherly way.
Connie was always quick to shake off the overfriendly hands. Her mother bad taught her to avoid doing anything which might make a man think that he could have his way with her. "Once they get started," she had warned, "they're too strong to be stopped. And if you don't stop them, it isn't their fault."
Connie knew that there were plenty of girls who not only didn't try to stop the explorations of male bands, but who also actually encouraged their advances. And she was sure that these women were largely responsible for the decline in morality which characterized twentieth-century America. And that was why she had joined the Police Force – to prove to herself, to her mother, and to the world that a woman could dedicate her life to fighting sin rather than fostering it.
If only my mother had lived long enough to see me in my uniform, she thought. That would have proved that she didn't have to worry about me. But her mother had died two years before, poisoned by her own bitterness.
Connie looked at Sheri, the blonde-wigged, star-birth marked prostitute, and an expression of contempt came over her face. The girl had pulled on her pantyhose and was zipping her skirt when she saw Connie looking at her. She detected the glint of hatred in the young policewoman's eyes and shuddered involuntarily. "I'm going as fast as I can," she said, anticipating Connie's command to hurry it up.
Sheri's breasts bobbed as she bent to retrieve her bra from the floor. She slipped it over her arms and stuffed her tits carefully into the cups. "Will you snap this for me, hon," she said, turning her back to Connie. "I usually get the johns to do it for me."
"Well, you'll just have to do it yourself this time," Connie said. "I'm not your maid. I'm a cop and you're a criminal. Remember that."
A shiver passed through Sheri's body as she reached behind her to snap her own bra. This bitch gives me the creeps, she thought. She acts like she doesn't have a cunt. She picked up her sweater and put it on quickly, anxious to be dressed and out of there. She had the feeling that the policewoman hated her enough to kill her and she couldn't imagine why. But it frightened her.
"All right," she said. "I'm ready."
Connie wondered for, a moment whether she was supposed to put the cuffs on the girl. She didn't seem dangerous, but Connie wasn't sure. Just then the door opened and the detective with whom she had come popped his head into the room. "Everything all right?" he asked.
"Sure," she answered. "But this one sure took her time getting dressed."
"Nobody's in a hurry to get to jail," he answered with a grin. "Let's go, kid."
Sheri walked to the door and Connie followed. When they got to the street, the detective opened the back door of the police car and assisted the young woman of ill fame into the back seat with an extravagant flourish of his arm. "Your coach, milady," he said.
Sex fiend, Connie thought. Without a word she walked to the passenger side of the police car and climbed into the front seat. She looked through the wire mesh which separated the front seat from the back and saw the detective hand the prostitute a cigarette and light it for her. Connie turned around to face front. Staring out the window, she rode in silence until the car pulled up in front of the precinct.
She led the prisoner from the car and was about to escort her to the squad room for booking when the desk sergeant spotted her. "Hey, Connie," he called. "Better let someone else take the prisoner. Lieutenant Blumenthal wants to see you."
"Me?" Connie asked, a faint look of worry coming to her face. "What does he want to see me about?"
The sergeant shrugged and grinned. "He forgot to tell me," he said.
Leaving her prisoner in the charge of another policewoman, Connie walked up the rickety stair-way which led to the lieutenant's office. She knocked on the frosted glass of his office door and opened it at his musical "come ee-un".
"You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?" she asked, her voice serious.
"Why, yes, Connie. Yes, I did," he said. Lieutenant Blumenthal smiled at her in a friendly fatherly way. He was a heavy set man of about forty-five with a ruddy face and a thick walrus moustache. Although his hair was gray, the moustache was a reddish brown. Connie thought that it gave him the appearance of a comic-book character. But she respected the lieutenant. He was the only man that she bad ever met who didn't seem to be thinking about sex all the time.
Connie sank into the soft-cushioned, overstuffed chair which faced the lieutenant's desk. He smiled again and said, "Understand you went out on a 'prost' bust today. How did you like it?"
"Like it?" she said incredulously. "How could anyone like something like that?" Then, calming herself by a deliberate act of will, she added, "But at least I can take some satisfaction in knowing that that vile creature will be off the street for fifteen days."
The lieutenant's face broke into a wide mirthful grin. "Fifteen days?" he said, echoing Connie's incredulity. "We'll be lucky if we can keep her fifteen hours."
"What do you mean?" she asked. "What about the Penal Law? It says Class-B misdemeanor. Fifteen days."
"Ah, yes, the Penal Law," Lieutenant Blumenthal said slowly. "Well, my dear, it may take you a while to learn this, but there's a big difference between the law and enforcing the law. Did you see her take any money?"
"No, of course not," Connie said, a bit shaken.
"And nobody else did, either. We haven't got a case." The lieutenant's sad expression told Connie that he was almost as displeased with the situation as she was. "But she's only a small fish, anyway," he continued. "If we tried to lock up every whore in New York City, there wouldn't be any room in the jails for the real criminals. And it's the real criminals that I want to talk to you about."