“On the couch?”
“Anywhere—”
He thought of Rochelle.
Slowly, he got to his feet. He helped her rise. They embraced, tightly, in a long kiss. He loved that kiss. She moaned. She trembled more and more. His shaft pressed against her form. She swayed, she moved, her body was a hot undulating form. He caressed her back. Her hips. Those marvelous hips. His hands glided now over her thighs. She was purring, he knew. It was a purr like the world never knew. He touched Paradise. She gasped and sighed. She thrust herself against him even more.
He thought of Hetty Nectar.
She moaned, she would go up in smoke—
He turned her around, slowly, she gave little cries, his phallus touched her, her shoulders and hands rested against him. A blissful kiss. Her lips met his phallus. He fondled those curveallure breasts—Now his loving hands gently glided between her thighs, and caressed Paradise. . . .
She said, her whisper red hot, “Let’s play all day—” And, strangely enough, “Poor Jeannie—”
He thought of Mona.
He said. “I wish I could—”
He carried her to the couch.
On her back, her knees high, she was a beautiful sight. He gazed on her. He stroked, and caressed her. He loved gazing on her. They played and played, she was a trembling form, on fire, they played in her way. He loved it. Could they burst into flames? He wondered. She cried out, just gasping the words, finally, hoarsely, "Do you love my
pussy?"
He thrust home.
"What a pussy/*
She moved and moaned, wildly, exquisitely. Here was glory. He stroked massively, marvelously. ... He stroked the depths, gloriously. ... His pace broke all records,
known.. . .
“Oh Tiger! OH!” She screamed—“OH-—OH H H H H!” They were drenched, from head to toe, they rocked, they rolled—It was all glorv.
“TIGERRRRRRRRRR!**
She screamed beautifully. They rolled off the couch. They hit the floor with a thump, they never felt it, they rolled, and rolled, they rolled timelessly. . . .
A week had passed. The funerals of the deceased had taken place. There had been no new developments, outside of the strange Case of Mary Holden, which, however strange, did not appear to be connected with the case, in Surcher’s opinion. Nevertheless, he reflected once again on the bizarre details. She had been found dead in her bed by her mother three days ago. She was completely naked. Her legs were apart and her hand was between her thighs, over her genital. She was curled up, as if in a spasm. In her vaginal barrel, inserted as far as it could go, was found a device that remarkably resembled an erect penis. It was made of a substance which turned out to be plastic. Just what the object was had not as yet been determined. Certainly, it remarkably resembled a phallus. There were no signs of foul play. Pathologist’s report: Heart Failure. He had said to Surcher, privately, “Died Loving it.” And, wryly, “Her epitaph.” Surcher hadn’t replied, he knew his
Pretty Maids A U in a Row 403 Pathologist. A record had been on her phonograph, it had been playing over and over, loudly, this had in fact been the reason her mother had gone up to her room—the record was by the fellow Tim Clean, and his group. The Cleaners—“ What The World Needs Now Is Love, Sweet Love" And, ready to drop on, though it had never made it, It Means To Be Lonely.,J Same group. That was all. Nothing else was found. Yesterday, she had been buried. . . . Today was the big game with Carverton. Surcher had a seat on the fifty-yard line, in the magnificent Sawyersville Stadium. Next to him sat Ben Shingle, who had turned out to be a lot better than he had anticipated, not a bad guy at all, in fact. He was quiet. Modest. He got in nobody’s way, and yet had a sharp eye. He was on the ball. Surcher had respect for him. When he asked questions, he didn’t mind at all answering them. He had stayed at the motel the first two nights after arriving, but now was staying with Mike McDrew, who had become pretty good friends with him. They hit it off alright, they spent quite a bit of time together. Surcher had taken time off to come to the game, for he was in need of a break, despite all the “assistance.” And—he wanted to see this phenomenal Sawyersville team in action. He couldn’t deny that. He wondered how they would fare. It should be some game. Carverton, so far this year, was unbeaten. In fact, Sawyersville had been the last team to beat them—last year, he remembered. The stadium was packed full, in spite of everything. Secretly, he was rooting for Carverton, though he felt slightly guilty about it. He had become almost a part of Sawyersville. That he knew. So far as the case was concerned, there had been absolutely no developments—despite the intensive work by himself, his men, and the Attorney-General’s platoon of Assistants, including an FBI man attached in a purely advisory capacity. In fact this man had so far given no advice, confining himself in the one talk Surcher had had with him to delivering a long, quiet, very sober panegyric on the distinctly remarkable, supremely unassailable, and untarnishably super-American qualities of The Director. Surcher took it in stride, like a man. The Attorney-General had turned up today. He was sitting a few rows above Surcher—surrounded by local dignitaries, and Assistants. Surcher hoped he enjoyed the game. He was tired. He only was grateful there had been no further departure of maids, outside of Mary Holden, of course, which didn’t count in his book. Maybe, he hoped, watching the teams line up now for the kickoff amid thunderous cheers and rolling roars, the madman had run his course. Maybe, he further hoped, he would turn himself in, having regained lucidity and having become aware of the horrors he had committed. Surcher mused. It was a theory he had discussed at length with Shingle, who saw some merit in it. Much as he wanted to find the fellow himself, Surcher wouldn't have minded, for it would have solved the problem. That was the only important point, well he knew. There were plenty of State Troopers in and around the stadium, and in the high school. No chances were being taken. The parents were cooperating excellently, and he owed it to them to give their kids the fullest possible protection, possibly in spite of themselves, and no matter what the overtime came to. He watched the ball sail through the air as the Sawyersville boys kicked off. A beauty of a kick. What a kick. Who was that kid? The crowd roared. Surcher relaxed. He liked a good game. He needed this break. And he was going to enjoy it.
“That sure does look like quite the little team,” Shingle commented as the Carverton ball carrier was clobbered by a swarm of Sawyersville players.
Surcher turned to him, and he couldn’t help grin, in spite of his secret wish.
“Keep watching.”
He told him.. . .
Tiger was leaping on and off the bench, striding back and forth, yelling here and there, pulling players out, sending others in, shouting for Ponce, holding conference after conference with him, the cheerleaders were working hard, the stands were roaring, and Ponce was worried. He hovered over Tiger’s clipboard. Sponges, towels, water bottles, equipment, were all about him. He studied everything going on. with computer speed. Profoundly. He tried hard not to show it, but he was worried, and he knew damn well Tiger was worried. Things weren’t going too well. The first quarter had gone by—and no score. True, they hadn’t scored, but the fact was they had once come mighty close to scoring. Only Beep’s tremendous work had saved the day. As for Sawyersville—they had been com-
Pretty Maids AII in a Row 405 pietely stoppered. They hadn’t even moved out of their own forty-yard line. It was awful. Everything had flopped, even the special-pass plays, and variations thereon. That Car-verton defense was rock solid, it had even broken through and dumped Dink three or four times, while he still had the ball. Tiger had pulled Joe Moran out. Jim was in there. Now, it was halfway through the second quarter. And things were still awful. Look at now. He jumped off the bench like a shot, with everybody, Tiger was hollering and hollering, there was the Carverton fullback down to the twenty—the ten—and dropped, but hard, finally, just beyond there. On the five. When had a team last hit that five? Time out. Ponce and Billy King raced out there with their stuff, Tiger sent in four or five fresh men, hollering all the while. The whole team stood around them, down in the dumps, no doubt about it. Ponce felt awful. He talked to them, but it wasn’t time. A1 Bartholomew limped about. Fifi looked in a daze. He had the wind knocked out on that play. He had made that tackle. Time out was over. Ponce and Billy left the field.. And on the next play, Carverton scored. And converted. Their side of the stadium went mad, off their rockers, Ponce had never seen cheerleaders vault so high. He felt bad. Bad bad. Tiger, all of them, looked glum. They sat on the benches, stunned. There was no further scoring that half. . . .