Pretty maids all in a row

60

Tiger took care of that Health Ed class after Ponce left. It was a Freshman class. In it, he made good use of a lot of the material (and technique of presentation) from the book he had of late been perusing and thoroughly enjoys ing. Of course, he had attuned it to their level, here and there. At this point in the term they were on the subject of Sex, of course. He had been a little apprehensive at first about utilizing the book, because there was just the chance that some of the kids might break out with some so-called typical adolescent giggles, and such. But, they hadn’t materialized—so far, at any rate. It had gone well, as a matter of fact, they had given him their rapt attention. He would certainly press on with it. In fact, he thought, it wouldn’t be a bad idea if they all had a copy of it. Maybe not right away, but in about a month—He would check with Hetty Nectar about it. He was just musing over that and checking his watch, about halfway down the hall from his office, when he was. suddenly aware of Jeannie Bonni, beside him. She had materialized out of nowhere. He grinned at her, and said Hi. She certainly looked cute today.

“Tonight, Tjger?” The girl said, in a voice unmistakably full of go.

“All right,” Tiger murmured, after a moment or so. He was aware of her urgent tone.

“Eight o’clock?” She murmured, still in that tone.

“Fine,” He told her, admiring her verve.

And she moved on, after a delightful smile. He walked on. He had barely been thrown off his stride. He couldn’t help smiling. She certainly had verve. She was a girl with verve. And with no practice tonight, as well she knew, or had guessed, the time was just right ... He smiled more. . . .

He reached his office, and walked in.

“Hello,” Barbara said.

That brown-haired maid with the cutest fringe turned around on the couch as she greeted him. She looked well. Very well. And this surprised Tiger just a little bit, considering how close her relationship was to her ex-sister cheerleader, so to speak, and Assistant Captain, no less. She had on the sweetest yellow outfit—a dress. Tiger stood there a moment, admiring her. Who had a cuter fringe? A long time ago. it seemed, Looby Loo had a fringe—definitely. He thought of that. He kept on looking at that fringe. It went just right with her slightly turned up nose. He loved that nose. She always made herself right at home. Now the Holy Hour, Tiger thought.

“What’s new?” He said, crossing to his desk. He had taken care of the door.

“Haven’t you heard?” Barbara asked.

What did she mean by that?

“Everything O.K.?” He asked. He had given her a good supply last time, so assuming she had been a good girl—

“Oh—I’m O.K.,” said the girl.

Tiger sat down in his chair and surveyed the girl. He knew what she meant.

“That was a blow, a blow,” he said, quietly.

“She was such a nice kid,” Barbara moaned.

“I know—” Tiger said, “I know—” His voice was very low.

“So was Jill—” the girl said, with another moan.

“I know—” Tiger murmured. The dress fitted her like a glove, he observed.

“It doesn’t even do any good praying to find the murderer, does it, Tiger, because that won’t bring them back, will it?” She paused, shaking her head from side to side, “No, no—” She moaned low, “It won’t.”

There was an indisputability about that that jarred Tiger. It hadn’t crossed his mind just that way, ever. Nevertheless, he knew he should be ferreted out. Whatever. It was essential. He told her.

“If they don’t find him,” he said, gently, “Who knows what will happen next?”

Barbara wasn’t impressed.

^f,But it won't bring them back—”

Tiger could think of no comeback to that. What could he say to that? She was dug in, impregnably. Now she was gazing at him, from that couch. He let her. Her eyes were moist, and in contact with his, and soon he felt a hot pressure building up in him. He knew how she felt. Exactly. Empathy couldn’t be more complete. He admired her fringe. Her eyes were almost exactly the color of her hair. She had lovely hair. Tiger felt his own eyes going moist. Would he break down, at last? He wondered. Would that help her? Without a doubt, she had a powerful effect on him. Would they both go over the brink, and break down together? He gazed at her.

"Whosoever cometh unto the Lord—** she began.

“That’s right, that’s right,” Tiger said.

The girl cried. She sobbed and sobbed.

Tiger held on, knowing he ought to. There was something more he could do. He got up, he went to the maid. He put his arms around her, and let her cry on his chest. “There,” he murmured, softly to her.

“Tiger—” She sobbed, “Oh Tiger—” She sobbed and cried, ‘7 love you so much—”

“I know you do,” he murmured to her, sitting back with her on the couch. She nestled in his arms.

"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh—” she said.

Tiger, murmuring softly, nodded his head. In his arms her sobs gradually faded away. Now, once in a while, she gave a tiny one. She sighed. He helped her dry her eyes. She raised her hand and gave his face a caress.

“You’re so good to me,” she said.

“I want to be,” he said, returning the caress. She raised her face to his. He saw her fringe. He was looking into her eyes. Tiger loved her warm brown eyes. And the fringe. He passed his hand over her eyes. And the fringe. She gave his hand a kiss.

“I’d better not talk about them anymore,” she said, “What can I do?” She paused, “What can anyone do?”

“Not much,” Tiger replied.

She kissed him on the lips. Tiger fondled her, through that nice dress. He fondled her breasts, soft and free.

“Ummmm—” she said, *7 don't have it onshe said, which he already knew. She gave him a marvelous kiss, her arms behind his neck. He was warm.

“I know—I know—” He murmured to her, “You’re a good girl—” He murmured low. He found their tips. He lingered there.

She came up for air. She was very warm, she sighed, her face next to his. Tiger’s hand caressed her thighs, and glided slowly toward Paradise. She closed her eyes. She sighed.

“Don’t you have a nice dress—” He murmured low.

“I’ll take it off—”

“I’ll help you get it off—”

“Like it—do you—”

“Really swell—”

“Ummmm—well—”

“How’s everything?”

“Just nice—”

Tiger gave a soft chuckle. He draped the sw'eet dress carefully over a chair. He admired her slip. He took her in his arms, and they kissed again. She was more than warm. His hands drifted downward again, caressing all the way. Her heart pounded hard against him. She gave little moans.

She came up for air. Now his hand was traveling upward, he loved gliding over her stomach and bumping into those fabulous breasts. They were treasures, just for him. He fondled them, and brushed their tips. He kissed the tips.

“Tiger—” she gasped, soaring toward bliss, “I have to tell you this—Tiger—” She said, “Let me—”

“Tell me—” he said, his lips on those tips.

“I dreamed—” she said, trying hard, “Tiger I had this dream last night—darling Tiger I—” She tried and tried —'7 dreamed you were Jesus Christ—” She stopped, as Tiger thought, escalation, that's all. He waited for more. He held, he continued to caress her throbbing form.

“Is that right?” He said, at last. Hoping for more.

“Yes—Oh yes—” She replied, her hands straying wonderfully over him. Her lips brushed his ear, she whispered, “Is that blasphemy?” A little gasp. “My love?”

“I don’t think so—” Tiger said, though he wasn’t all that sure. Could a dream be blasphemous? He thought that one over, in the heat of the moment, and wondered more. He could check with her father one day. That was the way. Next time. Sunday, maybe. But maybe before, for often he ran into the Reverend here or there, in Sawyersville. On Sunday certainly during the course of conversation, possibly after the sermon, he could put the question to him for his consideration. It was most interesting and worthy of expert consideration. The finer nuances of Theology certainly weren’t in his sphere, Tiger was well aware. The Reverend was the man, definitely. They were standing up now, which was something he knew she loved to do, he was behind her, caressing those magnificent orbs. She bent her face back to his, and sighed, and kissed him. She leaned against him, and his organ.

“Aren't they gorgeous—” Tiger murmured, fondling her. He couldn’t find praise enough for their marvelously soft

fullness. She sighed, and gave sweet little cries, whenever he brushed the tips. She kissed him about the ear, and caressed his head.

“What was I doing?” Tiger inquired, drifting back to her dream. He was interested. Definitely.

“Well—Darling—” She said, “My sweet darling—” She said, and what a state she was in, “This—I think—-Tiger— Honey—” She fought for her breath, “Do I—have to—tell you?”

She didn’t, of course, but it would be more than interesting to hear. It intrigued him, no end. He stroked gently between her exquisite thighs. He found treasure island.

“Tiger—” She cried, as her state fused with his more and more, “You were—on the Mount—you—I was there —” She paused, gasping divinely, “You weren't giving a sermon—” She paused again, she had to, “Is that blasphemous?"

“I don’t know,” Tiger had to reply.

“Oh—” She cried, as her silky slipped off.

“What was I doing?” Tiger murmured again, tenderly fondling her. His hand was drenched.

“This—” she cried, “Just this—” She managed to cry— “Oh—I—Love—You—Tiger my Darling my Honey my Only I Love You—” Once more she cried, barely, “Is It Blasphemy?"

Tiger gave no answer this time, she fell back on the couch with him, she caught sight of his formidable shaft, she took hold of it, she held it.

“Oh JESUS!” She cried out, raising her knees, utterly gone now, writhing, dying for him, “GIVE IT TO ME!"

He obliged. . . .

61

What about Honeywell? Surcher wondered, in the mid- _# die of interviewing Mr. Crispwell, Commercial Studies teacher. He had of course interviewed the Janitor after

Pretty Maids All in a Row 327 the discovery of the body but had no grounds for any suspicion whatever toward the man. The same was now true of this Mr. Crispwell, whom he didn’t like very much, to tell the truth. He was a Bircher. He had proclaimed that fact, right off the bat. But that had little to do with the matter. That was the matter. Honeywell. It was odd his thoughts should turn to him once again. Perhaps it was that phone call from the Attorney-Generals Office. For that phone call had certainly made very clear to him, as if he didn’t already know, that swift and prompt action, and the leaving of no stone unturned, were expected in the matter. Assistance, in the form of a small platoon of Special Investigators from the Attorney-General’s own office, would be on its way within twenty-four hours, unless he came up with an answer, or something pretty close to the answer. The FBI was also mentioned. And the Governor. In short, Surcher had an ultimatum. Looked at from any angle, it was, put up or shut up—Buddy. Well he knew. TTiat was it. And not that he minded all that much, for he was of course a man not easily ruffled, whatever the circumstances. He was also well aware of the special problems and sensitivities of politicians, who would come and go, Attorney-Generals or whatever. Especially ambitious Attorney-Generals, he mused, not unhopefully, formulating his next question for Crispwell.

“How old are your children, Mr. Crispwell?”

The man answered, precisely, tightly.

Well what about Honeywell? Surcher reflected, jotting dow'n the answers. Was he possibly a Don Juan of the Furnaces? Or Broom Closet? He mused. Not to mention the Lavatory. He seemed like an ordinary enough fellow. In his working clothes, he was no Brando. He was in what appeared to be a genuine state of shock, or close to it, when he had interviewed him. He was married, with a couple of kids of his own. Middle forties. No record. Well thought of. Should he have another talk with him? Surcher wondered. Certainly, it fitted in with the Attomey-General’s directive. Or would he just waste his time again? Jim Green. Surcher almost sighed, thinking of him. There was the honey. He almost shook his head too. forlornly. His hunch still was that the nut was some kid, not a member of the faculty. Though the latter couldn't be excluded totally.

He and his assistants would know more about that by the end of the day. Naturally. He thought of Poldaski. His Troopers had reported he was a hard man to work with. He had to grin, picturing that.

“Well, now, Mr. Crispwell—just one more question, and then you can go. Just a routine question, please understand. Would you account for your movements between the time you left the school yesterday afternoon—and this morning?”

The teacher sat back, somewhat taken aback.

“You understand it’s strictly routine, Mr. Crispwell,” Surcher told him again, in his friendliest way.

“Yes—I understand—” Mr. Crispwell said, finally, adding, for the record, “I know what you’re up against.” And he began answering.

Did he? Surcher wondered, as he began writing.

He doubted it.

He would check out Honeywell—just once again.. . .

62

Ponce, taking the bit in his teeth, was on his way to Miss Betty Smith's place that evening. More than ever, he was aware of being caught up in a matter of unprecedented historical importance, so far as he was aware, in the story of Sawyersville, and possibly the whole state, at this rate. And though on the whole it appalled him, it also undeniably excited him. He was well aware. When had Sawyerville known such excitement? The football team was exciting, but in a different way. Nothing like this way. Where would it end? What would the end be? That added to the excitement, of course. Ponce was caught in a paradox, he was aware of the most bewildering spectrum of emotions about the whole affair. He began to reflect, for one thing, on the fascination that catastrophes of all kinds, natural or man-made, most particularly manmade (such as wars, e.g., the current Vietnam war) have for humans. What a strong

Pretty Maids All in a Row 329 pull. It made all life touch and go. It was hard to deny, Ponce now felt, on that track, that there did seem to be some connection between his going again to see that dream and the matter. The situation. The disaster. He seemed to sense that it had in some odd way boosted his courage, in fact given him a verve, so to speak, and nerve hitherto nonexistent, or certainly totally dormant, inaccessible, in him. It had affected him. Stimulated him. Infected him. This, he was well aware. And it only meant more confusion. For he was basically and had always been a prudent, careful boy, as he and the whole world knew. Certainly, the whole of Sawyersville knew. In some way, the situation seemed to free him, it seemed to open up a whole new vista of long-buried, only dreamed-of, occasionally thought of, but definitely and powerfully longed for—raw freedom, as such. Certainly, such. Ponce knew it, though he was ashamed to admit it. His heart pounded, in a new, fierce kind of way. He felt he had in his grasp some unparalleled and spectacular experience whose essence was Treasure, pure Treasure, no less, and fabulous. It would be equal at least to the hoard of eternity, with the universe thrown in, for free. That’s how it was. He felt great. He felt bad. He felt appalled. And he swayed, back and forth, a mad pendulum, on the one hand genuinely in need of rapport, contact, a meeting of minds with Miss Smith—on the other— where was the measure? He was in a state. That Treasure. His head whirled as never before.

He rang the doorbell a few times before she answered it. Of course, she wasn’t expecting him. Ponce had taken her at her word. That was it. She opened the door finally and his heart pounded like artillery. For a moment she was startled, or very faintly appeared to be. Then, she broke into the warmest smile imaginable, welcoming him. Ponce grinned even more warmly back at her. He was relieved. For a fraction of a second there he had thought she was going to slam the door in his face. Did she think he was the Ipnatic?

“Ponce, well, how nice to see you!” She said, “Come in. Come on in. What a nice surprise. I’m telling you—” The divine creature said to the lad, as he stared at her, and then found himself floating in. He was under a massed bombardment, floating in. She had on a dressing gown, and it was the prettiest thing. And what else? The question flew up in him. embarrassing him. Also, it inflamed him. And raced around in him.

“How are you?" She said. “Here, let me take your jacket—" And she helped him off with it. It was a lightweight, lined, all-weather jacket. The latest thing.

“Ah—not too bad. Miss—Smith,” Ponce said, hardly stuttering. He couldn’t help noticing. His eyes were glued on her.

“Listen, now you call me Betty," she said, and Ponce hit a spin.

"Betty—” he said, in a dream. Would his feet ever touch the floor again?

She stood there, smiling warmly at him. A troop of cavalry were thundering inside Ponce, across the parched plains. Was that a bugle call? Rusty Joe loved them. Ponce grinned at that. And—Miss Smith. Betty—

“That’s better, isn’t it?” She said, Ponce wondering what she meant. “Isn’t that a nice sweater!” she said, touching it lightly with her hand. The sweater was soft wool, cash-mere, in fact, a special present his last birthday. He had rarely worn it.

“Thanks—” he said, grinning again. His face was burning.

“Sit down, Ponce. Want to?”

He followed her. The small sofa.

“I was just thinking about you, Ponce, isn’t it incredible?” She sat down. “Sometimes I think there really is something to this extra-sensory-perception business, that business, you know what I mean—” Ponce sat down, a foot from her. She smiled, and reached for a cigarette. “That’s one of the reasons I think I may have looked a little startled when you turned up—I was—you know?”

“You were?’’ Ponce only said.

“I certainly was. I was,” she said, lighting up, taking a puff. Ponce’s eyes fixed on that puff. He went in with it.

“What—were you thinking?’’ Ponce said, like that.

“Oh—” she said, withdrawing the cigarette, he loved the bit of red where her lips had been, holding it just to one side, near the left side of her face, her arm just resting against her breast, “I was feeling a little blue, to tell the truth—” She now said, lowering her tone, “You know, after—today—” She paused—“In a way—” Another pause —“I was thinking how you must be feeling, and taking it—as a matter of fact—” She stopped. Ponce lowered his head.

“Is that why you came?’* she asked, tenderly.

“I—” he said, staring at her lap, “I guess so—” he said, at last

She sighed. She puffed. Ponce saw the smoke drifting by him. And about him. It smelled good.

“I guess so—•** Again he said, continuing to stare at that lap. It moved.

“Partly—” he said.

“I’m almost scared to go back to that school,” she said. “You are?” Ponce said, slowly raising his head. She was just taking another drag. Ponce wished he could go in with it

“Ponce, let’s face it, there’s a nut loose there.” She blew out smoke, slowly.

“Yeh—I know it—” He said.

“Aren’t you scared?”

“Well—” He said, groping for it, “I’m not a girl.”

She smiled.

“That’s true,” she paused, “That certainly is true, isn’t it”

Ponce nodded his head.

He said, “But I’m scared, don’t get me wrong—” He paused—“Just—well—not in the same way—”

“Yes.”

“Aw—they’ll find him—” he said.

“But when?”

“Yeh—” Ponce said, “That’s it.”

“Isn’t it!”

“Gee—I’m sorry you’re scared—I really am—”

“I’m going back though,” she said.

“Aw, that’s good. Real good. Wonder how many kids will though? That’s the thing. It’ll be something to see—won’t it?”

She nodded her head.

“I’ll bet a good number of the girls stay home—”

“Yeh, I’ll bet—” Ponce said, “But—wait and see—”

“It’s a terrible thing—”

“It’s like a—dream—”

“Nightmare, you mean—”

“That’s what I mean.”

She pulled on her cigarette again. Her eyes were on him.

"But—” she sighed, smoke going for a ride, “That’s life —” She paused—“I’m afraid.”

“I guess it is.”

They were quiet. Ponce wished suddenly they wouldn’t talk any more about it. What good would it do? And—it spoiled everything. And that was a funny thing, because he thought that was supposed to be one of the things he really wanted to talk about. In fact, wasn't it the main reason he needed her so badly to talk to—tonight? Ponce pondered, thinking hard all around that one. More smoke enveloped him. He loved it.

“How’s your theme coming along?” Now she asked, gently. Ponce was glad she did. She moved her arm. The dressing gown moved too, however slightly. Ponce caught a fleeting glimpse of the tops of her breasts. With a casual movement of her hand, she adjusted the dressing gown. The treasures were lost from view, save for their glorious, soft fullness outlined under the gown. Ponce’s head swam.

“I—was up in the Library today—doing research—” he said.

“That’s good. Find much?”

“Well—you know—”

She nodded understanding^.

“Miss Nectar’s—very helpful—” he said, suddenly.

“Oh, Hetty’s awfully nice,” Betty said.

“She is,” Ponce said, feeling strange, hearing her first name used so familiarly.

“Did you discuss the theme with her?” Betty asked.

“Well—I—mentioned it—” Ponce said.

Betty nodded.

“I just—mentioned it—” Ponce again said, hoping to get away fast from that debacle. He nearly blushed.

“I think your approach is so good, Ponce. I hope you develop it. I can hardly wait to see the final item. Know that?”

"Hope I can do it!” he said.

“Oh you will, you will,” his English Literature teacher reassured him, giving another warm smile.

“What do you think of Crochet Castle?” Ponce suddenly asked, surprising both of them.

Betty’s lovely arm was moving. She was seeking an ashtray. Finding one, she put the cigarette out in it. She looked at Ponce.

“One of the finest of satirical novels,” she said.

Ponce nodded, and said, “The dialogue abounds with eccentric and sardonic wit—”

“It does.” Betty said, “I think it’s definitely Peacock’s masterpiece.”

“Oh, yeh, it is—”

“I think it is.”

“What about Jonathan Wild?" Now Ponce asked.

The dream moved, and Ponce’s eyes followed every nuance of the move. Was she getting another cigarette? No, Ponce observed.

“Well—” she said, “In having a thief and a gallows-bird as a hero, Fielding shows an unrivaled mastery of the art of irony—”

Ponce nodded, for he couldn’t agree more, of course.

“But probably, Ponce—you know—probably the greatest piece of satirical writing of all time—now that we’re on it—with a unique approach and a more than unique appeal for young and old alike, on quite different levels, is Gulliver's Travels—don’t you think?” She said.

“It sure is up there,” Ponce replied.

“I think it’s on top of there," Betty said, “Definitely.”

Ponce remained silent, for he couldn’t commit himself on that. He wasn’t exactly positive. She ought to know though, he thought, if anyone did. Maybe.one day he’d see.

“I like Donne’s Poems of Love a lot,” Ponce ventured, blushing just a little, having said it, however quietly.

Betty Smith’s warm eyes stayed on him, as she said, “I love them. I really do—” She paused—“Ranging from a lyrical ecstasy to—arid despair, those poems, both sacred and profane, arc a supreme reflection of the eternal conflict between the flesh and the spirit, Ponce, you sweet boy—”

“They are—” Ponce could only say.

She smiled, “But don’t let all this take you away from Milton—will you?”

“Oh, it won’t—it won’t—” he said.

Sitting back relaxed and cuddled up in her dressing gown, she looked terrific. Warm, wonderful, and terrific. Ponce waited for more.

“Literature’s so wonderful, isn’t it, Ponce?” she said, soft and low, turning her head upward a moment, toward the ceiling, as the lad gazed at her lovely white throat. “I don’t know what life would be like without it—” She faced him again, those warm eyes on him, “I don’t. 1 can’t imagine it. Ponce, can you?” She asked.

“No,” he said.

She laughed softly, and Ponce loved it. “You know what I’d like?” She said, “I’ll tell you my dream—I’d like to have one copy of all the world’s masterpieces—I mean, really nice copies—all about me, up and down the walls—well, most of the walls!” She said—“Oh, I’d like that, Ponce—” She paused—“Surrounded by them.”

The boy nodded, vowing he would do all he could to help her fulfill that dream.

“How are you, Ponce?” She asked, tenderly, reaching out toward the lad, taking his hand, “How’s your family?” She said.

“Oh—they’re all right—” Ponce said, the whole world hovering about that beautiful warm hand, on his.

“Your brother’s awfully cute, isn’t he?” She smiled, “Where did he get that red hair?”

“I—don’t know—Betty—”

“You have nice hair.”

Her other hand moved to the side of his head, and he felt it pass through his hair.

“Don’t you?” She asked, her hands still there. She was drawing him closer to her. Ponce trembled.

“What’s the matter?” She murmured low. ^uHmmmm?ⁿ

*'Wow—” He managed, though how he didn’t know.

“You’re the sweetest boy—” Her hand now caressed his face, she was looking right into his face, “Aren’t you, now?” And leaning forward just a bit more, she gave him a gentle and tender kiss on the lips.

“Gosh—” he said, "Holy Cow—” he also said, trembling more, and wondering when he would w ake up.

“Ponce, I’ve got an idea—” she said, continuing to caress his face.

“You have?” he said, staggered at what it might be.

“Yes, I have,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “Would you dance with me?” she said.

Ponce answered, shakily, “Sure—Miss Smith—”

“Betty—” She smiled, gently reminding him.

“Betty—” He said.

“You’re shaking an awful lot, Ponce—you’ll have to calm down—” She murmured to him, “Come on, let’s calm you down—” She added, sweet and low.

Ponce was suddenly aware only of being nestled in the most divine of arms, on that sofa. She was stroking him and murmuring little sweet things to him. Ponce tried hard to calm down. Her fragrance, a rose, made him float. He lay against her breast.

“There—” she murmured, “There—” she kept murmuring, "You sweet boy—”

“I—dream about you—a lot—” He said, at last.

“You do?”

“To—tell you the truth—Betty—” He suddenly said, “I —Tm in love with you—” He heard himself say.

“You’re such a sweet boy.” She said, hugging him, her face against him, “That’s an awfully sweet thing to say—” She spoke just next to his ear, her voice soft and low— “Want to dance, Ponce?”

“I’ll—try—” he said, hoping he could stand up, mortified by what she would see—if he did make it up.

“Come on—” she said, gently helping him.. . .

63

Looby Loo’s luscious kisses still lingered on Tiger’s lips when he left the house to have a look around that night. It wouldn’t take him long to get to where Jeannie should be waiting for him. that little doll, the honey bun. The little sweetheart, Tiger mused, thinking of her. What a verve. And ingenuity. How many Sawyersville maids could have persuaded their parents to let them out of their sight—that night? Very few, Tiger knew. Few, few. He mused. If any.

Cruising along through Sawyersvilie’s streets, passing the Town Hall, the Fire Station, the Roll of Honor, the pool room, Chief Poldaski’s favorite station, catching a glimpse of his car parked outside there, putting in a little overtime tonight, no doubt, the poor guy certainly with a job and a half on his hands, those crazy reporters and other media men milling about, making his life hell, plus the general curiosity-seekers, and so on, Tiger found himself thinking somehow of an ad he had seen in some British weekly some time ago. The New Statesman? It could have been. He had been looking through this weekly doing some off-hour looking around in the Library, as he sometimes would, Hetty had shown it to him, he recalled, for she had some friends working over there for a couple of years and they sometimes sent her such journals, weeklies, and such. This advertisement read, and it had stuck in his head, photographically, almost—“First Director for NACRO—this new national organisation [and that’s how it was spelled, all right] concerned with community involvement in the prevention of crime and the after care of offenders, seeks to appoint its first Director. Salary up to £4,000 per annum, pensionable [That was about $12,000, not bad, over there.] The post will be London-based but will involve travelling. It is desirable that the candidate should have academic qualifications and experience in social administration. Application should be made to the National Association for the Care and Resettlement of Offenders—” He had forgotten the address. Like the snatch of nursery rhyme that from time to time ran through his head, he didn’t quite know just why this should have stuck in him, or why he should be thinking of it, as a matter of fact, at this time, or any time, in fact. He chuckled, turning a comer and drifting out of Sawyersville’s seat-of-govern-ment area—was he planning on applying for the job? He wondered, still chuckling away there. Certainly, it had its appeal, no doubt—though he couldn’t even begin to see those people considering an American—No, he mused, he really wouldn’t dream of pulling out of Sawyersville, for any place, no matter the job, let alone England, that corny old place, that place, filled with snobs, fobs, fags, and Royalty—and Harold Wilson, don’t forget. Old Corn-pone’s best buddy, not to mention girls who wore skirts up to their ears— He chuckled again, thinking of that, and

Pretty Maids All in a Row 337 how a few of the Sawyersville kids had tried imitating that —it had fallen flat. Then he thought, still chuckling a little bit, was it connected up somehow with that exchange teacher from England who was due to arrive at Sawyersville next term? For a year. She was a young Englishwoman, and from her photograph quite a fair maid. Tiger, as Assistant Principal, knew all about her of course, having in fact dictated the letters finalizing the matter, though Harry Proffer had signed them, the tube. It could be, Tiger mused, looking forward to seeing her. He had never encountered an Englishwoman. He might learn a lot more than he already knew or anyhow thought he knew about the place, maybe even find out just what the trouble with the place was, nearly flat on its face as it always was, or so they claimed. Suddenly, he felt sorry for the place. Maybe it was just too old. Maybe nations, like people, reached a certain age and then irreversibly started sliding downhill. It could be. It’s going to happen to me, Tiger mused, sadly, already I’m on the wrong side of the hill, he reflected, somberly. And when would it happen to the USA? He wondered. Or would this place never see it, having blown itself and everything around itself to kingdom come before that time rolled around? He wondered, pondering sadly on the matter. He cruised past the swimming pool, the Community Recreation Area. That area. What would be left of Vietnam, he wondered? What was Old Cornpone after? Did he know? Anyhow? Tiger chuckled, however sadly, thinking of that current occupant of the White House. That crafty boor. Perfect. He mused, was it true a country gets the leaders it deserves? Generally speaking, that statement could be said to be true. He knew it. Did that make him unpatriotic? He wasn’t. He knew. Didn’t I prove it? He mused. Who wanted to be a leader, anyway? Anywhere. What types were attracted to it? What kind of personality and character structure was essential? Tiger grew sadder, pondering all this. ... He thought of the Englishwoman. She could turn out to be interesting, and how, and no doubt of it. Would she come equipped with miniskirt? Tiger grinned. What would the School Board say? The P.-T.A.? He loved the P.-T.A. They loved him. When exactly was she scheduled to arrive, anyway? He made a mental note to check the date. Things should be part of History by then, he mused, hopefully. And what about Nur-sey Mortlake? He thought, taking a comer, getting nearer to his destination. Was that as walled off a situation as it looked? Could it be? Well—wait and see. It could be. It wouldn’t be the first—or the last, definitely. There was hope. She had a powerful pull. That was always grounds for hope. Well he knew. Always. He mused about her. She was worth it. Was she fighting, and hiding it? That could be, also. Well he knew. And it wouldn’t be the first either, that’s how those married sweethearts were, always. He tended to steer clear of them. But—this one—he sighed, thinking of her. Caution, patience—wait for the moment— judge it. That was all-important. The most important. For failure in judging it—he shuddered, almost. What a trial it was. A supreme one. It could unhinge one. Was it worth it? What a pull though. He couldn’t stop feeling it. What would Rochelle say? Or Betty? Those two had brains in the highest reaches. Should he talk it over with them? He wished he could. It would be something, talking it over with Rochelle. He could see it. That incomparable sweetheart, that darling, that possible life-partner—he felt he could talk over anything with her—practically. There was a limit. He was aware even there of a limit. Was there though? Should he give it a whirl—subtly, tactfully, obliquely? Would she see it? That was it, in a flash she would probably see it. No, he mused, a frontal approach, with her, or nothing. Tiger’s thoughts drifted on, he lost that one. He was thinking now of all the poverty in the world, still. The unfairness. The ass-kissing. He knew the enormous feat of strength, of character strength it took to go through life without ass-kissing, say twenty or thirty times a day at least, for a start. Tiger knew it. That was another facet of the beauty of his Sawyersville setup—there was nobody’s ass he kissed. Not that he would, he knew, no matter where he would be. Had he ever? Even in the Army —in Korea—He was proud of that. Not many could say that. Tiger mused, on other things. He grinned. It would take a hell of a lot more than the Offenders’ Directorship to pull him away from here. ... He thought of Janie’s last birthday party, that cutie, and all those little games they played, the same as a matter of fact he used to play at parties when he was a kid. Post Office, he grinned, that was some little sexy game. He used to love it. They all loved it. He knew Janie did. Parlies. As a kid. That all seemed like a

Pretty Maids All in a Row 339 million years ago, out of another world, somewhere. Again, Tiger felt blue. He was on his way, on his way, nothing could stop the unidirectional slide down that way. Oblivion. Nothingness. He thought of the game. It was set for next week. He hoped he was right and that everything w'ould go alright. Tomorrow, unless unforeseen developments prevented it, there would be practice. Tiger was in somewhat of a quandary about this, and made a mental note to talk it over with Ponce tomorrow morning, first thing. The quandary was this: Should he put Jim Green back in and scrap the new plays they had unfurled? How would Joe Moran take this? Wouldn’t it be best to utilize him—for a quarter say—at the minimum? Tiger thought about it. He would have to talk very seriously with Ponce about it. No doubt of it. That poor kid certainly was low, he was the most sensitive kid he’d ever met, which was one of the reasons he liked him so much, on top of the talent he had, of course. It hurt him though to see him suffer so much. He was young, he didn’t yet understand fully, did he, the hammer-blow cruelty of life, from all quarters, and any, anytime, the most unexpected of times. Tiger sighed. The boy was like a son to him. Also, he would talk to Jim tomorrow. Though no doubt things would be pretty tight tomorrow. What a mess. Anne Williams might have to be cut by half an hour, and she would love that. He pictured that. And Sally Swink. What would she think? He didn’t look forward to it. Could he make it less? He would do his best. Now Tiger’s mind crowded with a whole host of things. How many of those parents would really keep their kids away from school? He wondered. He turned into Chestnut Avenue. He thought of the Kennedys. There she was. He thought of Vietnam. He pulled up. Grinning, he opened the door.

“Hello Tiger honey—” She said, immediately cuddling up to him, as he drove off, smoothly.

“How’s everything?” He asked, warmly, aware only of her sweet form, near him. He glanced at the dark-haired maid.

“I almost didn’t make it,” she said. She looked great.

“I can imagine,” he said.

“There’s school tomorrow, isn’t there, Tiger?”

“There is.”

“That’s what I told them.”

340 Pretty Maids A11 in a Row “Didn’t they think there was?”

“They said there couldn’t be—”

“We’ll fool them.”

Tiger suddenly thought of the back yard of his house when he was a kid. The pear tree in it. The grass. The way he used to cut the grass. His father was dead now. So was his mother. He only had a few cousins around somewhere —and a brother. He was a couple of years older, he was in California, he taught at the University there, Berkeley. Looby Loo wanted to take a trip out there this summer. They were working on it. The back yard. He saw himself, that kid, running around that back yard. He was there, in it. He was climbing the pear tree. He saw his father working in the garden, which took up about half the yard. He was always working on it, they had vegetables all summer from it. He even grew watermelons, though it wasn’t hot enough to bring them to maturity, of course. How far was he up that pear tree? His father turned, and saw him. He grinned at him. Tiger grinned. He was a little scared, up that tree. His father would help him down. Often, he dreamed of him. He had always been close to him. His death, while he was in Korea, had been a cruncher for him. And when he got back—his mother. That was another one. He saw his father, tying up the tomato plants. His brother was running out of the house—he was going out to the field—to play baseball—“Bob—” He called out to him. “Hey Bob—” He wanted to play with him—

“Where are we going, Tiger honey?” The little darling asked softly. She smelled sweet. So sweet. What a sweet— “Oh—” Tiger reflected, “Let’s see—”

That delighted her, “A surprise? Oh Gee!"

Tiger chuckled, “Let’s just see.” He hadn’t thought of it. But now an inspiration hit him. The fields—behind the high school! Great. Nice and quiet, private, he had never thought of it. Really great. The beauty was, it took no time at all to get there. That was the beauty of it. Why had he never thought of it? He would have headed automatically for the hills, and Rochelle’s favorite nook, with its spectacular view. Of course it was rare that he saw a maid after school hours, very rare, outside of Rochelle, that is. That was it. Probably. She insisted on it—

“Where did you tell them you were going?” Tiger asked her, suddenly. It had come to him.

She gave that sweet little laugh she had, and said, “Majorette Meeting.”

“With Marjorie?”

“That’s right.”

She was dreamy.

Tiger grinned, what a kid. He was thinking of her now in her majorette outfit. He had first taken notice of her out there. Who cut a cuter figure than she did, in that outfit? That was when, alright. Maybe Marjorie did, it could be—but in a different way. They all had their ways—she had this sweet, cute appealing way. It was hard to say. She was a fine majorette. A twirler.

“I hope we have a nice meeting,” she said, the little devil.

Tiger chuckled, he couldn’t help it.

“How’s your dad?” He inquired now, for he hadn’t seen her father. Dr. Bonni. for a couple of months at least. He was Tiger’s dentist, in fact his whole family’s, and without a doubt the best one in Sawyersville. He was sure of it.

“Mother?”

“She’s O.K.”

Tiger nodded. Looby Loo was friendly with her, in fact they belonged to a few clubs together. Once in a while she came over to the house. She was from Jersey. Not far from Atlantic City. Was she a bathing beauty? Tiger wondered. Even now she had a form. Though not like Looby’s. He grew warm, thinking of Looby Loo. And Jeannie. And Jcannie’s mother. He pulled into the road that led to the back of the high school. Tiger drove slowly. He grinned. It certainly was dark back there.

“I know where we’re going!” Jeannie suddenly said, lifting her head from his shoulder.

“Uh huh,” he said.

“That’s a terrific idea,” she said as they rolled onto the fields and Tiger cruised around for an ideal spot. Probably down by the baseball diamond, he thought, driving carefully, avoiding the various benches and paraphernalia, here and there.

“Glad you like it,” he said.

“I guess you won’t see me tomorrow now, will you?” It was true, she was scheduled. “I just had this urge to see you tonight—Tiger. Were you surprised? In the hall, that is? I just had to—”

He chuckled.

“That’s alright, believe me. You little sweetie.”

“What about tomorrow?” She asked again.

Probably, he would reschedule her.

“Aw—don’t worry about tomorrow now,” he said,

“O.K.?”

“O.K.,” she said, though Tiger knew rescheduling wouldn’t go down well. In fact, she hadn’t finished the Brooder. Tiger mused.

He pulled up, just beside the baseball diamond. It was pitch dark. Would there be a moon later on? Tiger mused.

“Are you crazy about me?” She said, in the darkness, putting her arms behind his neck, as soon as they had stopped.

He felt the warm young form against him, eager and throbbing for him. He gave her a little kiss and touched her face, passing his hand over it. She kissed the hand.

“Don’t you know it?” He asked, caressing her warm, smooth face. She closed her eyes. He brushed his fingers over her lashes. They felt so nice. He was more than crazy about her.

"Yes—” She sighed, turning her face upward, kissing him. . . .

64

“Ponce, you’re a very nice dancer,” said Betty Smith.

“I am?” Ponce asked, surprised himself at how well he was doing. There was a smooth, slow number on. Vibes. It was dreamy, nice. Full of warm life. They were close, in spite of things, in fact she had her cheek next to his, which of course was a burning fire, or more. He tried hard to keep the lower half of himself out of contact with her, for he was in some state, but she didn’t seem to mind that, in fact she seemed definitely to like it, and even want it, and so Ponce had to stop trying, finally. He let himself merge with her.

“You are,” she said, as they flowed about the floor, “You certainly are,” She said, as Ponce began trembling again. “Do you like dancing with*ne?” She asked, tenderly.

“M—M—Betty—I think it’s great—” the lad said.

“What’s wrong?” she murmured, aware of the trembling.

“W-Wow—” He said, barely murmuring.

“Now now—” She told him, “There now—” She murmured, in his ear.

“Am I hurting you?”

“Of course you’re not—” She spoke so softly, her warm breath caressed his ear, she smelled so sweet, “Certainly not,” she murmured, “Certainly not you’re not—” She told him. His heart pounded, his body bounded. Without a doubt she liked it. She pressed even closer and held him tighter. Softness. Warm, divine softness. He still worried about hurting her. He didn’t want to do that. He didn’t know if he was here, or there, or in a dream somewhere, but he certainly worried about that. Could it hurt him? This was something else to worry about. Ponce was a bundle of worries now. The whole thing was something he always had trouble with anytime he danced, which was one of the reasons he didn’t do too much dancing. He wore a jock strap whenever he did go dancing, and that helped a lot, though it was uncomfortable, to put it mildly. At last year’s Sophomore Hop he had danced quite a few with Anne Williams, who was just a Freshman at the time, and it had really saved his life. Where had that kid learned to dance like that? Why hadn’t he worn one tonight? He wondered, trembling, aware of Betty’s soft murmuring—

“That’s a very lovely thing—how could it hurt me?” And her hand caressed his neck. He had never felt a hand like that before, not even his mother’s. What was she doing tonight? He wondered. He thought and thought about her.

“D-Do you have a mother?” He asked, in one breath.

She laughed so softly he was barely aware of it. Her lips were brushing his ear.

“D-Dо you?” He asked again.

".Ponce—” she said, “Dear Ponce^:—” She also said, softly, in his ear, once again giving that little laugh, “Yes, I have a mother,” she said, both her arms around his neck now, as a matter of fact. Ponce found himself with his arms around her. He was a pounding, trembling, burning form, pressed against her₄ “A very nice mother,” she said, warmly, pulling away gently from his ear and looking into his face, ‘‘Almost as nice as yours—” She said.

“G-Gee—” Ponce said.

“Tell me about your mother,” she said.

Ponce looked into her face. Where had he ever seen such eyes? Such hair? Was he there?

“I-I—love her—” He said.

“Does she kiss you goodnight?”

“Y-Yes—”

“Like this?"

Soft, full, warm lips pressed against his, luscious dream lips on his, Ponce had never known or heard of anything like this, where was the dream taking him? Would he be the same again?

“Ummmm—” She said, breaking away for a moment, warm, moist, “Like that?"

What kept him from exploding? She was the softest, most exquisite dream. He held tight to it—

“G-Gosh—'” He could only say, “Holy Gosh—” He said.

She kissed him again. He was shaking fairly violently, certainly uncontrollably. Her hand caressed his head. He was about to fall over. The kiss was a warm tongue of fire now, exploring him—

“B-B-B-Betty—Betty—” He said, barely, he was fighting for breath—

“What’s the matter?” She murmured, continuing to caress him. He noticed another number was playing now. It was a soft jazz tune, slow and low. When had it dropped on? How many more had? They were in the middle of the room, holding tight and close, not dancing, just sort of swaying. How long had they been there? She was kissing him.

“I sure—like to dance—” He said, “With you—" He also said.

“What else-can we do?” He heard her.

Roses. Only roses. How warm her face was. She was looking at him now. Her hand passed along the side of his head and face now, tenderly.

“Ponce—listen now—you sweet kid—” She told him—‘7 want you to control yourself." Her voice was soft and enough. And he hoped to. For he was determined to do one thing if it was the last thing he ever did do in this world— Give those Staties the crunch. The whole bunch. They weren’t around the school tonight, of course. Nobody was. It was dark, deserted, he was the only one who was. With his hunch. He had parked Sam’s snazzy car in a cleverly concealed position overlooking the school and the athletic grounds, the whole works, and the road leading to those grounds. He had been sitting there, calmly, patiently, occasionally uttering a curse at those Staties, or at his wife Mary, for an hour and a half, at least, ever since nightfall. He had been thinking a lot of things. All kinds of things. He was even back at the Second World War, in which he had served as a Military Policeman. He had pulled plenty of long stretches of lonely night-guard duty, of which this reminded him. A long time ago. He had checked his revolver. His rifle. His club. His duster. His flashlight. His notepad and pencils. His pen. Everything was right. Then —he saw the headlights. And he just about kissed Jesus Christ. He watched those headlights circle around, and down, slowly, he watched them playing on the stadium wall, the football practice field, the baseball diamond—he watched them go out, just beside the diamond. And then— pitch darkness. He sat there awhile so excited he couldn’t move. He could see Surcher’s face, and those other hot guys. Folio, Grady, all the rest of those wise guys. He wouldn’t tell them a goddamn thing. He had it all planned: He would capture the jig, hold him at the Station, call in the reporters, the photographers—and then the D.A. That was it. And the Staties would read about it, and hear about it—most of all, his name. He could see the headlines. No question about it: spectacular fame. And all those hot Staties hanging around—sucking hotchies. Yeh man. Down the lane. Way down that lane. He only wondered, still sitting there, which of those jigs would it be? There was no doubt at all in his mind, one of them it would be. All these things, these images, these predictions, raced through his mind in a furor, as he tried to calm down, as he congratulated himself more and more. It was brilliant. Ten minutes passed at least before he could move. Finally, he got out of the car, quietly, drew his revolver, held it in one hand, hauled out his flashlight, held it in the other hand, slung the rifle over his shoulder, checked everything, and started to move, soundlessly, classical commando style, toward the area. For it was only an area, so dark was it He couldn’t see the car and knew he wouldn’t until he was practically on top of it. That was great. He was an expert at that. And had always been. He could prowl around in the dark like a cat. That was one of the reasons he had so often been detailed that night-guard duty, long ago, he knew. His technique was perfect. Over the years he had utilized it. He moved steadily, silently. He made progress. At last, he was upon it. He moved in on it Every muscle in his body got set—to pounce on it—

66

Ponce was floating in the warmest darkness he had ever known. He was a million miles from anywhere. Everywhere. And nowhere. He wanted to get out of it, for it bothered him. At least if he could just touch down somewhere—this was the most dangerous thing in the world, in the whole of the universe, he knew—floating around nowhere, in that darkness, far out there—no matter how comfortable he was, and no denying it there wasn’t anything uncomfortable at all about it. He just knew it would end, and disastrously, somewhere. Where? On the moon? A crash landing on the moon? Would he be the first? Was that allowed? He wasn’t even an astronaut, or a believer at all in the Program, in fact, it was all a colossal waste of money, the whole .space malarkey, that was his view. Ma-larkey. It had always been. Well what was he doing in it? On it? Upon it? He heard music. No doubt about it: Tristan and Isolde. It grew, it flowed all about him. It was magnificent, and powerful. He was riding on it. . . . Now, a voice spoke to him. Out of the darkness, somehow the voice came to him. Part of the music, it sounded right next to his ear. He couldn’t identify it. But it was asking questions, at first he couldn’t at all comprehend the nature of the questions, but gradually he realized they were part of a test— in English Literature—"And what's an Elegy?" It asked, pausing, obviously waiting for his answer. Could he answer? What was the answer? A voice, his, yet completely dissociated from himself, answered, "A lyric poem that is a lament for the dead." It was his voice, no doubt of it. "And what is a Requiem?" The next question came. He answered, "A sad song or chant which is in reality a prayer for the repose of the dead." The examination was over. He knew. No one told him, but he definitely knew. Now, the music, only. . . . Suddenly, he was no longer floating. Without even knowing it, he had landed. He was amazed to have been so gently landed. There would after all be no lunar crash landing! Ponce, on his back, lying on something hard and flat, found the courage and strength, not to mention curiosity, to open his eyes. He found a strange sight. He was on a hill in a brilliant, warm climate. At first it blinded him. Then, gradually, it came to him. To the right and left of him: tall upright columns. Doric? He seemed to be in the Parthenon. Flat on his back, staring up at a cloudless blue sky, between two Doric columns, magnificent things, in the Parthenon. This was all he could see. Those columns were massive, and endless. From where he lay, Ponce could not see an end to them. They seemed to penetrate the sky. Ponce tried to move, he wanted to see just where they ended. He could not move, however. He could see, he could hear, and feel, but there was nothing at all he could do about moving. Instead, in a moment, the columns were moving. Ponce was alarmed. They were moving toward him, closing in on him, and would surely crush him, within a matter of minutes, like two gigantic pincers. Now Ponce fought desperately to move. He couldn’t. More: He couldn’t move his head to the right or left anymore. It was fixed, he could only stare straight ahead. In anguish, he awaited his end. He tried to close his eyes but found that he couldn’t even do that. What fiend, what forces had dreamed up this end? He saw the columns, before him, suddenly. They had not crushed him! They had merged into each other so that now they were one enormously massive column, a colossal one—stretching upward—and upward—ad infinitum—and it seemed to be growing out of him! Ponce couldn't see, but he was absolutely sure it was part of him! Ponce felt so hot, the sun

Pretty Maids Ail in a Row 349 was burning him. Was this his end? Would he lie here, forever, tortured by that burning sun, that column part of him, probing the universe? He heard a voice—

“Ponce—Ponce—”

He saw Miss Smith—Betty—he had come to, finally. She was beside him, leaning over him, gazing down on him. It wasn’t a statue. She was so soft, and warm. So warm. He was flat on his back on the floor. He was naked—utterly —as was the divine form. . ..

67

Which jig would it be? The Chief wondered, just before pouncing. Would his black prick already be in her? How far in her? He pounced—he yanked open the car door— his light flashed on—he leveled his gun—

“TigerГ He hollered out, when he finally realized what he saw, totally astounded at the sight.

In the glare of the Chiefs powerful flashlight, Tiger turned, shielding his eyes with one hand, trying to see what it was, out there, all that noise. The maid was still in his

other arm, though now she was clinging to him in a state

of fright and near-shock. . . . They were still clothed, having spent the relatively short time since their arrival talking and kissing and playfully petting, only. There was silence now. In the glaring light, Tiger finally understood what it was, going on. He almost smiled.

“John—” he said, in the friendliest way, “How are ya?” The Chief stared. He could only say, after a moment or two—

“Tiger.”

In a much more subdued tone, however, than his initial greeting. Which in a sense it was. He was surveying things, thinking hard, figuring out things. Or trying to. Who war that girl? Half hidden as she was. he couldn’t tell. He stood there, collecting his thoughts. He couldn’t talk.

“What’s new, boy?” Tiger said, utterly calm.

“I—geez—Why—” The Chief was trying hard. His light came down. Tiger, surveying him, saw that he bristled with arms.

“Working a little overtime?” Tiger said—“How’s the wife? Hey—let’s turn off that light—look, there’s a light—” He pointed at the dim light in the car, which had come on when the Chief pulled open the door.

Poldaski switched off his light. Tiger saw the revolver in his hand, leveled at them. He grinned.

“Hey, what’s that in your hand?”

Still in a daze, the Chief looked down at his hand. Tiger

watched him for half a minute at least, staring at that

hand. He felt the maid trembling, though possibly just a little less, against him. He gave her a squeeze.

“Put it away, John,” he said quietly.

Slowly, the Chief did so. He stood there. Tiger surveyed the rest of his armory. Certainly it was formidable, he mused, almost bemused. Though now he grew sad. He looked a long time at the Chief, who just continued standing there.

“Coming to the game, John?” Tiger asked, finally. Definitely, the maid’s trembling was less. She remained buried against him.

“Yeh—Tiger—” The Chief replied, mumbling really. He stared at them.

“Who’s out there with you, John?” Tiger now asked, casually.

A moment’s pause.

“We’ll beat them,” Tiger said, “Might be a little rough, though. And tough.”

“Yeh—” The Chief mumbled.

“I’m using Joe Moran for this one, at End. We worked out some new plays—”

“Yeh?” Poldaski asked, interested.

“Yeh, we had to. Other ones were built around Jim Green—”

The Chief stiffened at that name, but he was definitely glad to hear about Joe Moran. He lived just a couple of doors from him, as a matter of fact. Sometimes he shot a few games with his old man, up at Sam’s. He wasn't bad. Last yąar they had gone hunting together, couple of times. In the mountains—

Pretty Maids All in a Row 351 “Who you startin’ at half?” Poldaski slowly asked.

“Left?”

“Right.”

“Pope, I think.”

“He’s good.”

“You’re not kidding there, John, that’s gonna be one to replace, huh?” He chuckled, “You want the job?”

The Chief chuckled too, somewhat. Years ago he had been a pretty fair back, of course, under old Hink Henderson, right here at Sawyersville. He might have got a scholarship, only his grades weren’t too good, and then, anyhow—along came the war.

“Old Fifi at full?” He now asked.

“Sure,” Tiger said, “Who else?”

“There’s a boy—”

“See him go last week?”

“Jesus, he don’t need holes—”

“You said it.”

“Just get down to the ten—hand off to him—■"

“That’s what we always do.”

“What about Jerry?”

“I’ll start him.”

“He alright now?”

“Oh, yeh. Wasn’t broken.”

A pause.

“Tough about those Practices though—huh, Tiger?”

“What can ya do?”

‘‘We’ll take them though.”

“Think so?”

“I think so.”

“Geez, I hope so.”

“Keep your eye on Moran.”

“No kiddin’—you really got some good new ones?” “Beauts.”

“From the T?”

“Mostly.”

“Deployed wide?”

“Wait—I’ll come out and tell ya—I’ll show у a—”

Tiger eased his way out of the car, gently sliding away from Jeannie, leaving her sitting there, fairly calmed down. »

"Who's she?” The Chief murmured to Tiger, outside the car.

“Jeannie Bonni,” Tiger replied, "Know her?”

“Oh, yeh—” said the Chief, “Yeh. Nice kid,” He said. “Real nice kid,” Tiger told him.

“I go to her old man,” said John.

“Yeh? So do I.”

“Good man.”

“I like him.”

“Real nice kid—”

“I like her.”

“Did I scare her?”

“Aw—not too much.”

“She alright now?”

“Oh yeh.”

“Some dentist. No kiddin’—” The Chief said.

“I know it,” Tiger said, “Here—John—got a pad and pencil? I’ll show you—” He added.

The Chief, after a search, obliged.

“Let’s go over there,” Tiger said, indicating the benches near the diamond. He stuck his head in the car and murmured a few words to the maid. Then he walked with the Chief to the benches. They sat down.

“Shine your light on it,” Tiger said. Poldaski did so.

Tiger expertly sketched two opposing teams on the pad. He began drawing lines this way, that way, just about all ways. It put the Chief in a spin. Tiger chuckled.

“This is the age of razzle-dazzle, red-hot football,” he told John, who chuckled also. “Little different from your days, huh, John?” He added.

“You’re not kiddin’.”

“Listen, that old single wing was pretty good though, let me tell you—”

“It just about went out when you hit State, right, Tiger?” ‘That’s right, John.”

“This 7’ is what gets me though—Jesus!”

“Yeh, well, I’ll show you some with that too. In a while. But take a look at this, John. See here, that’s Dink there of course, at quarterback—” Poldaski nodded. “Well, this is T-Fifty-four Left Decoy Pass Right Five On Two—” He paused. “With me?” Poldaski nodded. “Check. Well that’s how it was anyhow with Jim, see here he is cutting out and in and swinging hard right after deploying left, notice the

Pretty Maids All in a Row 353 decoy there too. See it?” Poldaski nodded, slowly. “Check. Well, here’s old Dink faking off to Pope, and Jerry, and getting set now to drop back—here he is—and left—that’s it—there it is—that’s the beauty of it there, see?” The Chief nodded. “Check. Right. So—what happens?” He paused. Poldaski waited. “Well, with Joe Moran we switched the fake on Pope and flicked him left, while Beep there on the line does the good work, opening up that decoy hole—see it there? Right there. That’s great. That was Ponce’s idea, I don’t mind telling you, John. That kid is great, and no kidding about that at all. O.K. So there goes Pope and all hell breaks loose. What happens now? He’s plastered at the secondary—carrying nothing, of course —while Dink juggles around, spinning right, and hands off, though he doesn’t, and there goes Jerry into the line— drawing the rest of them off—he's carrying nothing. Of course. And that’s the second beauty of it, John. See what I mean. No kidding, it foxed hell out of our defensive boys at Scrimmage the other night. It all happens so fast of course you don’t even know it. But watch out for it. O.K. So what happened? He hands it back, see what 1 mean? Just like that, it takes half a second. And all the time Joe Moran’s drifting left. Left, I said—”

“Wow—” Poldaski said.

“Yeh—now—there he goes—see him there—he’s going —who sees him going? Bill Linksi there, the other End, he’s deployed too—and decoying too. What does he do? Look —watch—just look.” Poldaski gave a low whistle, as Tiger’s hand raced here and there on the paper— “And so? Before they know what’s hit them, Joe’s out there, alone, open—Dink’s right—see him there, well protected, though, Hell, by now he doesn’t need it, getting set there— right—he flings it—What a catch, man! What a pass! Chalk up another one!”

“Goddamn,” Poldaski said, astounded, admiring it all, though in truth, baffled totally.

“That’s one,” Tiger said, grinning.

Poldaski nodded, studying the pad, “Wow Wow—” He said.

“Now take the Jump Pass—remember that? We scored our first TD last week on that—”

“Oh yeh—” The Chief said.

“Well, get this now. And we can do this because Dink can jump and pass a mile, you know that—”

“What a kid!”

“Is he! Notre Dame’s getting him, you know—'*

“Yeh, I heard—”

“You’ll hear about that kid—”

“Geez, he’s in all the papers now, Coach—” The Chief said.

“So here we go, Jump Pass T-Twenty-one Jump and Run Decoy Right On Three—” Tiger’s hand flew this way and that, over the paper. The Chief tried hard to follow. Tiger talked rapidly, engrossed in it, totally. He explained all the dazzling intricacies, pausing to check with the Chief once in a while—“And what about that?” At last he said.

“That’s some Jump Pass!” John said, more baffled than ever. He stared at that paper.

“Sure,” Tiger said, “And only Dink can do it—but notice Joe Moran? Notice?” Poldaski nodded, “He’ll go for yardage—big yardage—maybe all the way—after picking that up. Hell, he’s not slow! He could go."

“I’d like to see that—■"

“You will. Don’t worry—”

“He just lives a couple houses down the road—”

“That kid’s got it, I’m telling you.”

“I’ll bring his old man. Know him?”

“Sure I know him. O.K. Look now, John—Here’s the *1’—” He paused, starting on a new sheet and sketching rapidly, flashing all over that paper. The lines went everywhere, crisscrossing here, there. Poldaski stared hard. At them.

“Christ!” He said. “Holy Christ!" He also said. "How do those kids do it?”

Tiger chuckled, “They do it.”

“I’d never do it. No kiddin', Tiger—”

Tiger nodded, still chuckling. Then he spent ten minutes at least outlining that one.

“Boy!” The Chief said, only.

“See that?” Tiger said, enthusiastically.

“Oh Man!”

Tiger chuckled.

“Wait till the game.” He said quietly.

“You’ll clobber them!”

“Now this one—”

And Tiger sketched that one, and two other ones, and then it was over. A little more chitchat, about this and that, and they got up from the bench and started walking, still talking. Tiger gave the Chief back his notepad—and pencil. The Chief said he would be at next Practice, come hell or high water, tomorrow night—wasn’t it?—to see the action. He wanted to see those plays in action. That’s all. They walked past Tiger’s car. Tiger thought about the maid inside. They walked on, still talking, until they got quite a way from the car.

“Where’s your car, John?” Tiger asked him.

“Aw, just up there—” The Chief said, pointing toward the general direction of the school. In the moonlight, which had just emerged and probably wouldn’t last too long. Tiger mused, he just saw the vehicle. Was it John’s? He wondered. Could just be. Couldn't it? They were about halfway up there, no doubt of it, Tiger mused, glancing at the night sky, noting all those clouds, the moon getting set to dive once more into them. He was growing sad again, thinking about John Poldaski, one of the best Police Chiefs the town had ever known, without a doubt of it, in many ways, he knew it. He wondered, growing even sadder, thinking about his wife now, who wasn’t at all bad-looking, what was her name, Mary, a good wife for him, he knew, even though she had that temper, he grinned a little bit, through his sadness, he had heard about it, even heard it, once, somewhere, here or there. Somewhere. He hoped Jeannie was alright He had told her he wouldn’t be too long, and he was pretty sure she’d still be there. She should be. She was that kind of girl. But he couldn’t stop thinking about John Poldaski. It was so painful he wished he could stop thinking about it. But the forces that govern all destinies, he mused, in the depths of himself, sometimes worked out this way, converging at just a certain, unbearably unfortunate point, as only too well he knew, so well he knew. That’s how it went. It was a process alright, and nothing could stop it, no matter how much you knew about it. And who knew more? Tiger knew it didn’t count, not in the crunch, the confrontation, with that convergence of tragic forces, whenever that might be, and who knew that, no one, that was true, until face to face with them, facing them, or running head first into them. He knew. It was tough. And John had seen plenty of action too. The Legion didn't have a better man on its rolls. They’d turn out in force.

“What’s with that little gal?” The Chief suddenly asked, in a low tone, indicating a genuine concern, and that he wouldn’t turn down a turn.

Tiger almost shook his head at that, from side to side, as sometimes was his way, slowly, so much was he affected by it. It was a fact. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so sad, not just now, anyhow, though in time, he knew, reflecting Over everything, things, he knew he probably would. It went that way. Remorselessly. He was in the depths.

But he said, quietly, “She’s got a few little problems, John.”

“Yeh?” The Chief said, curiously.

“Yeh,” Tiger only said, gravely.

He didn’t know what else he could have said. For the process now was irreversible. It put words into his mouth, no doubt of it. There was absolutely nothing he could do about it. For the years had come. And gone. They were gone. He thought of John’s wife again. Insurance. The concept of insurance fascinated him, revolving as it did around the darkest corners of the processes, irreversible as they were, and had always been. Complexes. For it could be said, certainly, well he knew, that it all consisted of innumerable factors, processes, interacting, interweaving, clustering to form these complexes. Life was such a complex. The process a combination of complexes. Death another. The other side of it. He knew. And where they touched—He sighed, almost. Life was an organized affair. There was nothing random about it. That was probably, in fact without a doubt, the saddest part of all. He knew. The interaction of human beings—He thought of Looby Loo. From the first time, so long ago, that he had really noticed her, he had been drawn to her. He loved her. He had always loved her, and so far as he knew always would. She loved him. He knew Lheir lives touched at just the right point and intermingled—perfectly. That’s what it all meant, what it was all about, man and wife. John. Mary. John loved Mary. She loved him. He knew. It must be. Despite her hot temper, which after all was just one of those innumerable factors. It too found ils part in the process. The com-

Pretty Maids A U in a Row 357 pi ex. For the other side was darkness. Emptiness. Nothingness. That was it alright. This was the only reality we would ever know. We hung on to it. Clung to it. Fought tooth and nail for it. What else could we do? Tiger pondered, touching depths of sadness he had rarely known, in fact had he known—aware at the same time that with the passing of time he would touch still further, deeper, and more frequently, and descend in fact, who knew, the depths were immensely profound there—He thought of Jeannie. He sighed, within himself. That wonderful girl. He saw her at the football games, in her majorette outfit. He saw her in Health Ed class, without doubt the healthiest in the class. In his office. She had done pretty well on the Stummper, much better than he had anticipated. He thought of her parents. Without a doubt the moon would disappear soon, diving head first into those clouds. Lost for a while. It was a matter of normal distribution, who disputed that was in peril, for the entire spectrum of human activities, attributes, acts, what have you, fell in that pattern. In fact, anything, so far as he knew, did just that. And where the lines converged—where they dared not diverge—Where did John Poldaski at just this moment lie on the curve? Tiger wondered. Did he know it? How many knew it? He himself, he knew, didn’t know it. What was it—all fantasy? What did it mean—in terms of fantasy? He thought of teaching machines. There was the matter of teaching machines. He was aware of himself on the Practice Field. He saw his eternally triumphant football teams. He saw John Poldaski. Was he at all aware of where he stood? Had he ever heard of the curve? Tiger groped in the depths, as he stopped, and said to the Chief.

“I’ll see you, John.”

It was true, strictly. Tiger thought this, as John answered—

“O.K., Tiger.”

He watched him turn, after a moment or so, and start to walk off, no doubt heading for his car.

“John—” Tiger called out, softly.

The moment, no doubt of it. Now. And Tiger knew it. Fused with it. Poldaski turned, curious, hopeful, who would know it, and a karate blow, deadly, true, already slicing the night air with the speed of sound at least, struck him like a bolt—though he never knew it. He fell in a massive heap, at Tiger's feet. It killed him instantaneously.

Tiger looked down on him, mournfully. There was nothing now but to mourn him. He thought of his widow. He shook his head from side to side, so slowly, he murmured two or three times, just audibly. The moon had ducked into the clouds again. He left him.

68

Ponce found he was paralyzed. Stretched out, like

Christ almost, though the arms were a little wrong of course, and he was flat on his back on the floor of course, one thought now ran through his mind, terrifyingly; Was it permanent? Betty was doing all she could do for him. She stroked him, murmured to him, so softly. She kissed his lips, his face, his wide-open eyes, staring starkly. She caressed him, all over. She leaned over him, and lay beside him, pressing herself to him. She reached down for him, she fondled him, she leaned over and kissed him there.

“Ponce—can you hear me?” The divine voice came to him.

He couldn’t answer. He wanted to, but just couldn’t. What would she do with him? Who would find him? Would she phone up an ambulance now? What about his mother? He wanted to cry. Who had undressed him? Had Betty actually undressed him? What would become of him? What would Tiger do?

“What am I going to do with you?” She murmured. Now she was leaning over him with her magnificent treasures. They were right over him. He longed to touch them. He saw her face. There was concern for him.

“I just can’t understand it,” she said, “You seem O.K.”

What did she mean by that? He wanted to ask. How hard he tried to ask. She was caressing his face, he was aware of the warmth of her, next to him. Her breasts brushed him, he felt the tips. They brushed his chest.

“What shall I do with you?” She asked again, her face

Pretty Maids All in a Row 359 just above his. What a lovely face. Her red hair touched his face.

“Can you see me?” She asked. How he wanted to tell her. Would he ever again tell her? She moved her legs, he felt her thighs moving against him, and gliding onto him. One of her gliding thighs touched a column. Definitely a column. He was aware suddenly it was his column, colossal, pointing straight upward. How he wanted to look, for he wondered: Did it go through the roof? How else could it probe the sky? The ceiling. What about the ceiling? He tried moving his eyes. He tried to see. Why was he having these crazy thoughts? He thought, suddenly.

“You’re huge, Ponce. Lovely—” Divinely, Betty murmured—“As lovely as I’ve ever heard of—” She said— “Know that?”

He wished he could answer. He thought of Ivanhoe.

“Shall I just go for a ride on you?” He heard the voice. Ponce didn’t know. It was up to her what to do. She should know. Besides—what could he do? If she did what she said, he couldn’t answer for it. Certainly. He loved her, he worried about her, but what could he do about it? She could hurt herself. He wished there was some way to warn her that she could harm herself. Didn’t she know it? Couldn’t she see? Why didn’t she? How he wished he could see!

“Shall I?” He heard her, sweet and low, murmuring to him. She was moving. He felt her form, warm, wonderful, hovering over him. Warm, gentle hands fondled him. “Ummm—” Her sweet voice, “Ummmm—” He fought for his voice. “Ummm—Ummmm—” If he had a voice— “Ohhhh—” He was in agony. “Oh—Ohhhh—” Where was his voice? . . . “Ponce! Oh! ... He felt her upon him. . . . Her soft treasures were on him. . . . Her face over his. . . . Her lips pressed to his. . . . The column was sliding, sinking. ... He wanted to scream. . . - a profound, warm depth beckoned it . . . and enveloped him.. . .

“Gosh! Hi!" The maid said, breathlessly, as he slipped

back into the car, and beside her.

“Hi,” he said, cuddling her. She was warm in his arms, that sweet young form.

“Is he gone?”

“Yes.”

It was definite.

“Впт—he scared me!”

“Do I scare you?”

She laughed, in her way, so sweetly. She kissed him.

“Never, Tiger.”

“That was some surprise,” he said to her, kissing her. He caressed her form. He certainly was hungry for her.

She murmured, “Let’s lock the doors.”

“I did.”

He told her. . . .

Was there anyone in the world with a sweeter form? Gently, presently, he slipped the clothes off that form. She sat on his lap, playfully. She certainly could play, well he knew. He admired, kissed, caressed those young breasts. She played, marvelously. She murmured to him. She wanted to straddle him. He let her. She kissed him a thousand times about the face. He held her at last so close to him, in a tight embrace. She wouldn't get off his lap. She cried out with delight as he penetrated her, the first time, on his lap, he ever had. She clung to him, giving little cries, wonderfully kissing him. . . i Gently, at last, Tiger eased her over, and off him, very gently, barely interrupting a kiss, until she lay on her back, under him, on that ample seat, for he loved her that way. She sighed, she murmured, she raised her knees. She was really enjoying herself, as Tiger was. Of course. And he thought about her. For certainly there was quite a lot to be thought about, in connection with her. He thought and thought, connected, exquisitely, to her. Without a doubt she was a treasure of a

Pretty Maids All in a Row 363 were human. Only. Korea. War was clumsy. As in Korea. We did what we could there. He had played his part there. Now the boys were again over there, another part of course over there, doing what they could, there. Here, slowly, white supremacy and tyranny were coming to an end. Here. One day, even those rotten Southern African nations, as he and Ponce had discussed only the other day wasn’t it, would wise up to themselves. They had to. There was one life, only. This was it Wasn’t it? Wasn’t it? How many times had he fallen off that tree? His father never fell off, that he knew, and what about Bob? Tiger caught a glimpse of that stranger, his brother, that bookworm, if ever there was one. He thought about Jeannie. He thrust deeper and deeper into Paradise, and he knew they could go on all night. Not tonight. She was burning hot, the rocking young thing, crying out and crying out to him, she tasted so sweet, he could live the rest of his life inside that young thing, to hell with the brink—What brink? Where was the brink? Tiger wanted to laugh, to shout, to roar— He could roar—

“Tigerr She screamed.

“Oh GOD TIGER1”

She screamed and screamed. . • •

How Ponce got home that night, he’d never know. How he got home! He just didn’t know. He knew only that morning had come, and he was in bed, and Peppy there too, lying luxuriously, blissfully, supremely comfortably, as often she did, on a select comer of the bed. He gazed down at her. Crafty cat, she had one eye slightly open, loving him, but warily surveying him, as he stirred. He grinned at her. He felt nothing but love and admiration for her. What a cat. What creatures they were. Dogs couldn’t even begin to compare with them. How had she got here? He moved. It was strange, for a minute there he

Pretty Maids AII in a Row 345 warm, divinely for him. He only wondered—How could he control himself? He was only just barely still around now—How had he done it? He tried thinking about football plays, and variations thereon, and next week’s game. He tried hard. He thought of his mother.

“Try—” she said, “Please try—” she only said, “Because we can do something awfully nice—” She said, “Know it?” She murmured low, “Close your eyes—”

When had he vibrated more? He closed his eyes, as ordered. He thought of his father. Of Peppy. Of Rusty Joe. Of Jill. Of Yvonne. Of Hetty. Hetty. Exquisitely gentle fingers were unbuttoning his shirt—Tiger—

“Ponce,” She said, her voice a dream. What would she do next? He only stood there, letting her. He would die there, what did it matter? He saw a well, a deep, dark well. He was waiting, vibrating—He thought of The Reader’s Digest—

“Open your eyes ” she ordered in that caressing voice, a million years later. Somehow, Ponce did that.

She was naked, utterly, before him, breathtakingly beautiful—Her form—Her divine form—Her dressing gown on the floor—He was wild at the sight of her. There was red hair. Music was playing Tristan and Isolde. Could it be? Red hair. It was all he remembered. He fell over.. . .

Tiger was unaware of it, but his nocturnal penetration of the playing fields of Sawyersville High School had not gone unnoticed. The observer was none other than Chief John Poldaski, whose car Tiger thought he had seen outside the pool room, just a short while ago. And in fact, he had. For the Chief was a cunning one, he had left it parked there deliberately, as a ruse, while he drove up to the High School in Sam Roto’s car, on a special mission, all his own: surveillance and investigation, based on a hunch. Which was—There might be something worth seeing around that high school, at night, if you stuck around long maid to be connected to. And how she moved. A little sweetheart. True. She gasped his name. The thrusting, eager, warm young form, under him, putting its life into him, renewing him, pulling him back from the brink. For there was the brink, and over into it he had to gaze, well he knew. He thought of John. He would have to go back to him. Get that notepad and pencil off him. He thought of that. He hadn’t thought of that. He gazed and gazed. There was the brink. There, his life had become fixed, at that point, what else could be done? There was nothing else to be done. It had all begun—How had it begun? What a process. There were these processes. Did he have to? Was it true? He knew he had to. Nothing else would do. She was whispering to him, whispering the sweetest things to him. Once the process had begun—Soon they would reach the highest peaks of ecstasy, and she would scream. There was absolutely nothing to be done—He remembered the first time she had given that scream—It had a life all its own—It wasn’t all that long ago—And took hold of his own —It had undoubtedly been the most thrilling moment of her young life for her, he knew, wonderfully supple maid, for she had been a virgin, one of the few—What could he do? Do? When it was time to. He hadn’t hurt her, he had been exquisitely gentle with her—He remembered it. What could he do? Fate played it this way, and had beckoned her, touching her, guiding her to him in that hall, today. It had. Or she wouldn’t be here, now, he knew. The process was extraordinary beyond any and all comprehension, and he knew he never could hope to begin to achieve a penetration of it. The threshold itself was as far beyond his reach as the origin of the universe. He was a part of it. That he knew. Only a part of it. Well he knew. He remembered his mother, once his only universe. Now there was Looby Loo. He knew what there was to do. In a sense, in a very real sense, she was his mother now. And always would be. And what was he? Escalation was this way. She loved him deeply, without reservations, that was clearly the thing. Perhaps it was all that mattered, finally. The only thing. When he held her, when he penetrated her, she was the universe to him. The process was more than a dream. In a dream his mother was calling him, when he turned, it was Looby Loo. Where was Jane? Out of her had come Jane. That sweetheart Jane. Janie. Jane. His little Jane. He thought of Jeannie’s mother. That was the thing. The hardest thing. He tried veering away from it, but it wouldn’t do. There was absolutely nothing he could do. The forces, the processes, the complexes, and fate moved and converged this way. In this way. What else could he do? It had begun. If there was anything else at all he could do—gladly, he would do. This, he knew. He knew—

“/ love you so much so much so much Tiger—OH—”

The young thing was mounting the highest reaches, he knew, Heaven was not far, he was supremely aware. Her voice was a column of fire, next to him. She rocked, she rolled, her knees were high in the air. This was life, the undying source of it, as far as we were concerned, no doubt of it. The wet edges of life pulled and pulled him, ever in. He was pulled in. The depths. Where had he been? Divinely, she caressed him. He caressed her. Held her. He caressed her hair. She had the nicest dark hair. Where was there a sweeter young girl? Could there be? His hands caressed her face, her mouth was part of his, she smelled so sweet, love sweet. They were drenched. The USA was sweet, sweet, what a treat, despite everything, crime, corruption, so many things, teaching machines, all those things, Old Corn pone, everything, Vietnam, everything, when they came, in the night, the moonlight, there was the moonlight, we opened up, we cut them down, my God they fell down, and down, down, thousands down, well placetį machine guns, what guns, they were guns—He knew. True. Wasn’t it true? What other place would do? What place was true blue? No place. He knew. For the complexes —all the processesylhete was a cherry tree his father used to graft brancnes to. Branches. What was the world full of? He knew it. He felt sorry for those Vietnamese, but what branch of civilization did they want to be part of? That was the issue, he knew, and everything else was a sad, tragic, dirty, bloody ancillary of it What about India? The misery, the poverty, the disaster of those vast hopeless masses was staggering, beyond all comprehension. Who could comprehend it? Help them? Who had helped us? That was the key issue. Well he knew it. He knew it. We had done it. They must do it. This sweet place would do what it could, naturally, however at times clumsily. We

Pretty Maids All in a Row 365 drifted back—Betty Smith was talking to him—talking so softly to him—was she tucking him in? What a beautiful day it was. Ponce could only see clear blue. Rusty Joe burst into the room—

“Hey! You going to school today?”

Ponce turned from the window and surveyed him. Peppy had already scurried under the bed. Rusty Joe was

diving after her, but wouldn’t have a chance of reaching

her. Ponce grinned. He’d be lucky to even see her!

“How come she always runs away from me?” The boy

asked, on his hands and knees, trying hard to see.

“Don’t ask me,” Ponce said.

“You gonna get up?”

“Sure I am.”

“Mom’s been calling you.”

“She has?”-

“Is there school today?”

That one stopped Ponce, and he began remembering things. That was a good point. Tiger, he remembered, said there would be. What was Rusty Joe asking that for? Ponce guessed he must have heard a lot. And guessed the rest.

“Sure there is,” he replied to the lad.

“Well I’m glad!” the lad shot back.

Ponce grinned and moved out of the bed.

“Hey! You have different tops and bottoms on!” The lad said.

Ponce examined himself, and sure enough it was true, strangely enough. He wondered how that had come about Now Rusty Joe would have something to broadcast to Mom about. Standing there, before the mirror now, Ponce had to grin. Though it puzzled him no end. He almost looked like a clown—salmon-colored tops and green bottoms. He shook his head. The boy started to laugh.

“You sure look funny, Ponce!” He shouted out.

“Aw shut up," Ponce replied, suddenly feeling very strange.

He got dressed in no time flat, while Rusty Joe watched —and poked around too, under the bed. No luck.

“I’m playing football today!” the lad said.

Ponce heard Peppy spit, the kid must have come close thought he wouldn’t be able to move. Why should that be? He remembered a dream. Miss Smith—Betty—was here. She was talking to him. Murmuring low, all sorts of things. How had she got here? It almost seemed—in the dream— she had brought him here! He grew warm with that dream—or fragment of dream. Was it a dream? Ponce stared at Peppy. Soon, Rusty Joe would be cruising about. All hell would be loose. Peppy would have to hide—and that’s something she was absolutely expert at, as she was at so many things. Clawing and spitting, for instance, if someone screwed around with her too much, or in the wrong way. Or a stranger! She dived like a streak behind the nearest sofa, or ran behind the stove in the kitchen, at first sight of a stranger. Ponce grinned. He loved that animal. Maybe she did have nine lives, but she sure wasn’t going to take any chances—just in case. Ponce felt good. He couldn’t figure out how come he felt so good. He lay there, just feeling good. It almost was—it felt—it was like—something extraordinary had happened to him. When had he last felt like this? Christmas—as a kid? He grinned. He really felt good. Or maybe when he had been to a nice dance at the school—or even at a juke joint? Dancing slow and easy with a real nice girl? It always made him feel all dreamy, and good. Right into the next day. But what dance had he been to? He remembered the first time he ever danced with a nice girl—Rochelle, wasn’t it—at the high school. He had danced quite a few with her, and he had dreamed about her. He was a Freshman then. He had gone through a phase there of a terrific crush on her, almost right through the whole of his Freshman year. She had even liked him a little—it seemed—then—she had drifted away. She had lost interest. She had—grown up. Girls quickly grew up. She wasn’t interested in kids like him—He grinned. Ponce, lying there, gazing at Peppy the Great, and out the window, where it looked like a really beautiful Autumn day, felt great. Warm, dreamy. He could lie here a long time, and would, if there wasn’t school today, which of course there was, or if Rusty Joe let him, that crazy poke. He remembered he used to feel something like this when he was younger, when his mother used to tuck him in and read stories to him, or talk to him, or hug him. Ponce smiled. He loved her so much. He mused. What was up? The dream. Was it the dream? More of it

The lifeless forms of Chief of Police John Poldaski and Drum Majorette Jeannie Bonni were discovered on the playing fields of Sawyersville High School by Art Murray, night watchman at Feldman’s Furniture Factory, on his way home from work that morning, at just about the time Ponce was lying in bed all dreamy and warm, all over. Art lived near the high school and always took a shortcut across the athletic grounds except when it snowed hard. He was pretty shook up by his find. But so was Surcher, who uttered, when he got the news, “Holy Christ!” and that’s all, for quite a while. He uttered those words in a tone most unusual for him. For now, he knew, things were not only much worse—but all hell would break loose, certainly. The place would be swarming with “assistance,” courtesy of the Attorney-General. The Governor himself, especially in this election year, might even show up and start personally directing operations. Against what? Surcher wondered, starkly aware of what he was up against. This was turning into a real circus, without a doubt, and fifty governors couldn’t help, ex-Attomey-Generals, D.A.’s, whatever they had been, on the way. He shook his head, slowly. Not only had he two more victims on his hands, but the entire Sawyersville Police Force had been wiped out. And whatever the limitations of local police forces, they certainly were essential, they had their role, without the slightest doubt. Surcher’s head kept shaking. Undoubtedly, the same madman had struck again—Two notes had been found. On the late Chief, the caption read, GONE ON. On the young girl, pinned there: OH MY HONEY. And that was that. A doubleheader. The Chief’s mode of death had not yet been established, though Surcher had observed a certain slight bruise on the neck and had his own theory on that. The pathologist Would have the answer in a couple of hours. The girl had obviously been strangled and—“sexually molested”—though that was the wrong term, he

“Hey, leave her alone,” he said, as if that cat couldn’t take care of herself.

He went downstairs, Rusty Joe trailing after him, close.

“Think I’ll ever make Tiger’s team?” the boy asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Uncle Brucie says cats are for the birds!”

“Aw—” Ponce started to reply, then toned it down, “He didn’t mean it—” He said, though he wished the lunatic were here so he could punch him right in the nose.

Ponce’s father had already gone to work, of course, and so Ponce sat in the kitchen with his mother and little Joe. His mother was cooking him bacon and eggs, his favorite breakfast dish. Joe sat there, monkeying around.

“I didn’t even hear you come in last night, honey—” his mother said.

“You didn’t?” Ponce said, feeling stranger and stranger.

Now Joe started, “He had different tops and bottoms on! He did!”

“What?” his mother asked, smiling at that.

The lad played it for all it was worth, and wound up making a penetrating jingle out of it, which he repeated over and over.

“Well, Ponce—” His mother finally said, “Whatever’s got into you?”

“I dunno—” He replied, sheepish.

“You must have put them on in the dark—when you got home,” his mother told him, reassuringly.

“I must have,” Ponce said, staring at the bacon and eggs on his plate. He felt hungry.

“What’s the matter?” His mother asked, leaning over him, an arm around his shoulder. Rusty Joe had finally left the room, in search of better things to do, before going to school. “I know—I know—” She now said, softly, “It’s just awful—” She said, putting her face next to his, and hugging him. It felt good.

Ponce said nothing. He only nodded, and started working on the bacon and eggs. He certainly was hungry* Very.

“Want more toast?” His mother asked him. . ..

knew, if ever there was one, for there was no sign of any struggle, absolutely. She had just—gone on. The same pattern. The same blank wall. No clues at all. And John Poldaski. A walking arsenal. What a cruncher! What had he been doing here, the poor sucker? Surcher wondered. Just what had happened? Honeywell was out of it. He had eliminated him, definitely. Not that he had ever seriously considered him. Surcher reconstructed the affair. As far as he could tell, the late Chief must have been on the prowl and stumbled head first into the arms of the quarry. Had he surprised him while in the act with the girl? If so, how in the world had he succumbed this way? He was a dope, but a hunk of a man, to put it mildly. What had happened? He could have held his own with a small squad of full-sized Troopers, he was sure. And he was armed—to the teeth, no less. Just what had happened? What was he supposed to do —comb the school for a karate expert? A super expert! That was his theory. He could have moaned. What kind of a fiend were they up against? Was he, after all, not connected at all with the school? Could that be? Surcher shook his head again, worried, wondering, and feeling sorry for that poor hunky. A dope, alright, but he had run into it. If only he had lived to talk about it! Or—Surcher wondered—Or hadn’t the poor dope realized he had it? Was that it? It could be. It just could. He knew. He mused. It could explain a lot of things. It could. If it would! Surcher was stuck with it. He had to work with it. At least until the army of “assistants” arrived. He knew it

He was at the school, which was now besieged by a small army of media men, local citizenry, and curious onlookers. He was in serious conference with his assistants and the two key men of the school, Harry Proffer and Mike McDrew.

Proffer was saying, “My God, what are we gonna do?”

That was a fair question, Surcher knew. “Try to find the bird,” he answered.

“What are you gonna do to protect these kids?” Proffer

asked.

Surcher said, “Station Troopers all over the place— that’s one thing—” He paused, “And tell those parents to keep them in at night, for another thing.” He paused, “Until we find the answer, that is.”

Proffer nodded, but had grave doubts about the second thing. He knew his Sawyersville kids.

“PoOr old John!” Proffer said now.

They all agreed.

“He sure gave his life, didn’t he?” Proffer added.

They all nodded.

“He did, alright,” Surcher told him. “And—he had found the answer.” He added.

“I hope his insurance and everything was alright,” Tiger said, quietly.

“My God, if it isn’t, the town ought to provide it,” Proffer said.

“Well, he no doubt had police insurance, most local forces have—” Surcher told them, “It’s not bad. Not too bad at all,” He said, quietly.

Tiger nodded his head. As did Proffer.

There was silence.

“Mike—” Surcher said, finally, “Are there any karate experts in the school—that you know of?”

Tiger looked his way. Thoughtfully.

“Not that I know of.”

“Was John killed that way?” Proffer spoke up.

Surcher nodded. “I think so.”

Silence.

“You’re not one, are you, Mike?” Surcher inquired, mildly.

Tiger grinned, “Wish I was,” he told him.

“Don’t get me wrong—” Surcher put in.

“Aw. don’t worry—” Tiger grinned.

“I just thought you might have some Phys Ed class in it—”

“My God no,” Tiger told him.

Again, silence.

Surcher mused. He had a lot of looking to do. And looking out too—when that “assistance” arrived. He knew. He had a lot of looking to do in Jeannie Bonni’s house today—this morning—for example. There was something he would find one of these days which would lead him straight to the lunatic. He knew it. But there was also something else he knew, which wasn’t too good: he might not. Nothing. He (and/or the “assistants”) might just have to wait like chumps until the thing had run its course, grim as that could be. For he knew these things did run their course, chilling thought though it was. It was even possible that one day the nut would just hand himself in. It had

happened.

He spoke now to his assistants.

“I want you to ask every girl in the school one question: “Has anyone ever made a pass at you, a sexual pass, with sexual intentions?” He paused, letting that sink in. Tiger mused, hearing it, it was some question. “I mean anybody. This is very important. It could be a teacher, a classmate, some guy out on the street—I mean anywhere. Take all the names down.” He paused again. “There should be a good batch of them.” He stopped, surveying them, and Proffer, and Tiger. This was one approach to the matter he had so far not put enough emphasis on. First he had wasted too much time with that colored boy and then that Janitor. Though he had done right, he knew. For anybody—within limits—could be the culprit. Sitting there, musing, he tried to build up a picture in his mind of the kind of man he would be, when and if they finally cornered him. Obviously. someone with something. A way with the girls. And Police Chiefs. Something. An expert killer. More and more, as he sat there, he saw his man as an adult, a formidable one. Though he couldn’t discount a school kid. Anyone. So far. no one impressed him. He sighed, within himself, almost glad in a way that “assistance” was coming. Though of course he would prefer to see the affair right through to the end, possibly the bitter end, with his own team. He gazed at Proffer, and Mike McDrew. No, neither of those two. On that karate thing, which he had sneaked in, McDrew hadn’t even batted an eye, he knew. Surcher was up the creek.

“I’ll bet you quite a few of the girls won’t be around today," Proffer told him.

Tiger wondered about that, casting a passing glance at his watch, in the process.

“We’ll see them at their homes, that's all then,” Surcher told him. He turned to Tiger, “Things all set up for that meeting with the parents?”

“All sot." replied Tiger, “Tomorrow morning, here in the auditorium.’’

“’Good,” said Surcher, still looking at him. “I hope we can get their cooperation—” For a brief moment, his eyes locked with Tiger’s.

“So do I,” said Tiger.

“We’li certainly try our best,” said Proffer.

Surcher’s eyes left Tiger, and he sat quietly a few moments, looking down at the table, tapping his finger against it, half a dozen times at least.

‘Two cheerleaders—a majorette—” he murmured.

“A police chief—” Tiger put in.

“Cod almighty—” Proffer winced. ...

On the sidewalk in front of his house, just a few minutes after stepping out of the door, Ponce remembered—everything. It roared through him like a flood, staggering him. He had to lean against one of those big shade trees to keep from falling over. He was poleaxed. His heart was pounding. He was sweating. He hoped to God his mother wasn’t near one of those big front picture windows. If she saw him, she would come running out after him. Rusty Joe had already buzzed off to school on his bike, with his pals, so that was o.k. Ponce just leaned there against that tree for a few minutes, absolutely about to keel over. There was no doubt about it—It Had Happened. He closed his eyes, he almost swooned, only the tree kept him from toppling over, as the details fell into place, in him. He saw that dream, the world’s most beautiful thing, Miss Betty Smith. He was with her, they were doing things. He had never known or even heard of such thrilling, incredible, miraculous moments as when they were doing those things. What things. Ponce hung on. When she was doing things. For Ponce remembered: He hadn’t done a thing. Nothing. He had just lain there, totally unable to move, a hot, massive column between his legs, pointing straight upward, for her. How she loved it. How she had loved it. It. He remembered it. He had never in his wildest dreams touched close to such mystery and ecstasy. He remembered the wild climax of it Fantastic moments there. Hours. Eternity there. Her cries, her divine cries as that climax swept and surged all through them, her body had surged, and jolted, like a—volcano! Or was he the volcano? That was itl Certainly! Ponce remembered, leaning against that tree, propped up there, his heart battering at him. The hot fluid, the love fluid, bursting out of him, shooting into her, filling her. She was crying out—Ponce remembered it. She had clutched him, surging against him. She had kissed him and kissed him. . . . Was it still in her? How she had cried out! Calling his name. . . . Ponce opened his eyes, coming around somewhat, calming down, little by little, somehow. ... And afterward—he remembered now—she had lain there, upon him, murmuring and talking, she had talked such a long time to him, kissing him, caressing him, tenderly. He saw her face. Her sweet mouth. Her eyes. Her warm, sweet breath. Just above his face. . . . Ponce closed his eyes again. . . . Then, she lay by his side, and helped him, murmuring softly all the while to him, stroking him. Helping him—to move. To regain his power of movement. . . . What a long while! Ponce opened his eyes again. He moved off the tree, and after a few wobbly moments, started walking away, up the street. ... He didn’t know how long it had taken, only finally he found he could move his head at least. Sitting up, she had supported his head in her lap. That divine lap. Above him, her breasts. She let him suckle her breasts. . . . Ponce walked like a man in a trance, up that street, remembering that. . . . And then— when—he didn’t know when—she had helped him get dressed. He could still only move his arms and head by then. She made him something warm to drink. She caressed him and talked to him more. . . . Finally, she had driven him home. He remembered it, late, late at night— or was it dawn? He could just barely walk, with her support, he remembered his arms about her neck, and shoulders, and her arm about his waist, as they made their way slowly. ... In the car, as she drove, his head rested on her shoulder. . . . She kept murmuring, talking softly, all the way home. . . . It wasn't a dream. He knew it . . . At his house, she had opened the door. . . . Upstairs. . . . Up those stairs, with her. . . . She helped him to undress. • . . The only light was the moon. ... He remembered

Pretty Maids A11 in a Row 373 the moon. ... It ducked in and out. . . . Where were the PJ’s? There was trouble finding PJs. ... He got into them, with her help. ... He sat on the edge of the bed. . . . She held his face in her hand. . . . She had tucked him in. . . . What sleep. What bliss. What sweet bliss. . . .

“Hey! Ponce!” The voice crashed against Ponce like a barrel of ice water. It jolted him out of his reverie. Looking around, shaking all over, he saw Dink, calling to him. He was catching up to him.

“Hey—What’s up?” Dink said, finally pulling up to him, been hollering and hollering to you!”

Ponce had walked right by his house, he suddenly realized this.

“How come you didn’t call me?” Dink asked, surveying his friend.

Ponce was acutely embarrassed. What a hell of a thing! How could he explain things? What could he tell Dink? About this? He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. It was something he wouldn’t.

“Holy Poke! I’m sorry, Dink! Gee! Know what was going on? I was thinking of plays. New plays. Honest, Dink! I’m sure sorry—”

Dink grinned, still surveying his friend. He was a funny guy, but some guy, he knew it. Who didn’t know it? And all that trouble at the school didn’t help. Well he knew it. He knew how he felt. He let it go.

“I hope they’re good ones!” He said, walking off with his friend, toward the school. . , .

For what is momentum? Tiger mused, opening the door to his office. The very stuff of life, upon which its renewal is based. Could life possibly exist, without it? How could that be? And Surcher and his karate expert. From the beginning it had been so. It had been the history of this staggeringly successful Republic, for example—wasn’t that so? There certainly was a batch of funerals coming up.

Jeannie would have quite a funeral. He knew. Her father was a devout Catholic, well he knew. The Majorette squad had definitely suffered a blow. He had suffered a grievous blow— He saw Anne Williams.

“What’s your favorite band, Tiger?” That brown-haired Sophomore asked him.

Tiger grinned. Ajid closed the door. She was standing near the desk. She must have got here just a minute or so ago. He admired her form. She wore a sweater and skirt, white socks, her hair was held back by a band, she had long hair, just long enough, Tiger mused, he didn’t like it too long, like some girls wore. Down to the waist, almost He grew warm. He admired her curves. Nature had blessed this girl with the most perfect curves. He thought of curves. Nature’s most perfect form. He just stood there, looking at her, which was something she always loved.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, spontaneously.

She smiled at him. She moved away from the desk. She touched this and that. Now she stood near his chair, behind the desk. What a fifteen-year-old.

“Am I?” She said, just standing there.

She was a little tease, it was her little game, but that added quite a lot to her appeal—bar none.

“You know it.”

Tiger felt more than warm. If he had all day, he could spend it admiring that form. This is momentum, from here it sprang. He reflected on that. Was it in the Bible? Ask Barbara next—

“Aren’t you going to tell me?” She asked.

What was she referring to? He remembered.

He grinned again, acknowledging momentum’s surge, “Ralph Marterie—used to be—” He moved, toward her, “Don’t know anymore. They still have bands anymore? I don’t know. . . .” He paused, two feet from her—“How are you, hon?"

“How’s everything?”

“Do vou like Tim Clean?”

“Who’s he?”

She giggled at him.

“Oh, never mind,” she told him. And then, “Do you like

me?"

He picked her up, he carried her across the room.

She loved that. She didn’t like the floor.

“Where did you used to hear Ralph Marterie?” She murmured, somehow, fondling him. They were on the couch.

He told her, helping her out of her things.

“Someday—” she said—“Take me there—” She sighed —“Will you? Darling—” She clutched him.

He nodded his head. . . .

Miss Craymire spoke to Harry Proffer, urgently, in the outer office, as soon as she got him alone—His own office had of course been once again commandeered by the State Police.

“Mr. Proffer—” she said.

“Yes?” he asked.

“I don’t think 1 can work here anymore.” She said.

Proffer looked at her. Obviously she was quite distressed. On top of everything, the whole damn thing. The phone hadn’t stopped ringing all morning. Policemen, people, all kinds of people, big and little people, barging in and out, everybody checking things out, and only that strong cordon of State Troopers out there keeping things from turning into a rout. He certainly thanked God for them. Above all, Surcher, on the lookout for a karate expert. He admired that man. He kept his head. He kept on looking at her. He sympathized with her, knew how she felt. In fact, he felt the same. He couldn’t walk out now— but—when this whole thing was over—He sighed, seeing that TV store. She could work for him. He was strongly attached to her, they had worked together for years, ever since he had been appointed. If she went, he went, and he didn’t want to, how could he, just yet? More and more, he saw that TV store.

“Now Jane, listen to me—” He said to her.

“What do you think?”

“Take me on a trip.”

He grinned. Soon, they’d be traveling marvelously. Partly, that was what she meant. She had a style all her own, and where had she learned it from? These things came naturally though, that he knew. It was a function of the individual personality, each one just that much different, if no more, and that’s what made life fun. And momentum.

“Where shall we go?” He asked that, standing there, just looking at her. So warm, so young. Young warm form. Tiger knew she was warm, her heart was pounding away under that form. He loved to fondle that form. Her eyes were a very light brown. She was still teasing, still on that game, but definitely trembling a little bit. She wanted that trip—

“Gosh oh I want to go!” She said, and, “Promise you won’t murder me though.”

He grinned. She was some kid. Reaching out now with one hand, he touched her face. It was warm. “Why should I do that?” He murmured, good-humoredly.

“I know you won't—” she murmured too, her voice very low. Her eyes were on his. She moved her face against his hand and gave it a little kiss. Her breath was in the palm of his hand, warm, sweet. He loved it there.

“I’m scared,” she said, falling against him, “Know that?”

Why shouldn’t she be? It was something anyone could understand. He took her in his arms, and kissed her. She gave a marvelous kiss, soft and luscious. He felt her soft form, against his. Her arms were about the back of his neck, caressing it. Now they locked in a tight embrace.

“Still scared?” He said, after a while. Now he fondled her form. Good girl, she hadn’t wrapped that form. That marvelous form. He would reach under the sweater soon, but for now, for a little while, he fondled them through it, they felt wonderful to him. He felt the tips, through it. What a soft sweater. What a form.

“Uh Uh—” She said, in a husky voice, giving a little gasp when their mouths parted finally from that long kiss. She went limp, she was sighing now, and trembling more, as he fondled those tips.

“Uh Uh—” She repeated, obviously being carried away. She sought his lips once again.

Pretty Maids A11 in a Row 379 of h, Ponce had to note, in spite of himself. He even got caught up in it. He felt it. Look at them there, with Jim! A burst of raucous laughter hit him. It must have been a good one. Turning away, by himself again, he Telt as he knew he should feel—pretty low.

What helped him from sinking down to the lowest depths he’d ever known was the spectacular memory of last night. What helped even more was actually seeing his dream, Eng Lit class, of course, which he had second period that morning. He sat there in that class, utterly unable to follow a thing. A dreamy-warm mist enveloped him. And it smelled good. He looked up once or twice and there, in front of the class, wearing the prettiest pale green dress, was his dream. He flushed. He burned. He yearned. He had to look away from her. He would have exploded right there, like a low-yield nuclear device at least, if he had kept his eyes up there. As it was, trying to stare at his books was hard enough. His body shook. His heart pounded like mad. He was in love, hopelessly. And would always be. With that dream. He was aware of her fragrance—even in the classroom filled with plenty of sweet-smelling maids. There was only one fragrance like that. It was enveloping him. He thought—of everything. She had done it for him. Ponce wanted to marry her, right away. And here he fell low once again. For it would be a long time, he knew, before he was in any position to marry her. At least—at the very least—until he finished high school. She wasn’t all that much older than him— there were guys right here in Sawyersville, he knew, married to ladies that much older—and more. Wasn’t Kish-ner’s wife ten years older than him? Or was it fifteen? It might have been. That’s what he’d heard. His mother had even said it, once. If she didn’t know—who did? She was good friends with Ruth. ... Two years at least, Ponce pondered, despondently. And what—he suddenly thought— what if he had given her a baby last night? Ponce nearly panicked. It hadn’t come into his mind at all before this, and certainly—it should have. He knew. It was something that followed logically—as a result of. Why hadn’t he thought of it? The amount spilled in her! Ponce was sweating. She didn’t seem worried about it. He took a peek at her. In fact, she didn’t seem worried about anything. The few glances he had cast upon her told him clearly she was

“I just can’t take any more,” she cried, suddenly, “I’m a bundle of nerves,” she said, sobbing at him, "That’s all.”

“I know—I know how you feel—” He said, putting an arm about her, the first time in all these years he had laid a hand on her, “How do you think I feel? I feel the same way—Believe me—” He said to her.

“I don’t know what to do!” She sobbed, against him.

“Now, Jane—There now—I know how it is—Jane—” He wondered what he could say, what should he say, or do, he really felt for her, “Maybe—maybe you could do with a rest—” He said, groping desperately, “Why not take a few weeks’ vacation, huh? Jane?” The idea gripped him, he wouldn’t mind a month off himself, right now, “By the time you got back—they’d have cleared up—the mess—” He paused, praying hard, ‘They’re bound to!” He said.

“I don’t know—I just don’t know—” she moaned.

Proffer could have groaned. If she left, on top of everything, it would be the final blow. He cursed the murderer. A bright idea hit him, out of the blue.

“Listen, Jane—” It really had him, “Why not do me a favor—and yourself a favor—heck, everybody a favor— and have a talk with Tiger—Mr. McDrew—” He said, “You know how great he is at talking to people—helping them—” He paused, “You know that” He was quite excited by it— “Look at all the kids he’s helped! My God, you know—”

Her sobs diminished somewhat. Proffer dared to hope. He continued standing there, his arm about her. Gradually, hoping more, he was aware of her sobs running low.

“Maybe—” she said, as Proffer hoped and hoped, “Maybe—I will—” She said, remaining there under his protective arm, quiet—and snug—

“I wish you would,” he said now, in his gentlest tone, “I’ll bet it would be an awful lot of good—” He paused, very slowly withdrawing his arm, “A lot of good—Jane—” He said to her.

She stood there, near him, looking miserable, once again. She was about to sob, a lonely figure in need, indeed.

Then—she nodded her head, slowly, as Proffer nearly gave a deep sigh. He stood there, watching her, not daring to move. He was offering up a dozen prayers, in all the languages he knew—

“Yes,” she said, “Yes, you’re right,” she said, her face turned to his, “I think I will—”

Proffer could have kissed her, then and there.

The new developments hurt Ponce very much, of course. He was particularly staggered by the demise of the Chief. He had known him since he was a little boy, he was in his mind a monument, not a human being, as permanent a feature of the Sawyersville scene as the Roll of Honor —or the Town Hall. He had just never associated the Chief with the concept of mortality at all. Ponce was shook up, deep down. And Jeannie Bonni. That was it. And all that crazy mob around the school. He thanked God for those State Troopers, they were great. He had always admired them, in any case. Without them, he would still be outside the school. They sure knew how to handle those jerks. Without a doubt. What a crowd. And those goddam reporters and stuff. Ponce hated to curse. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he had. It was something that would hurt his mother very much. But—in thinking of them—it was the only way he could. It was the right word. The only word he could honestly employ—He was fussy about words, as any budding writer would be.

Inside the school, he had found things not too bad, to his surprise—and relief. It was almost as if the—thing—were getting to be routine. He rebuked himself for having that thought. It was an evil thought. Classes were going ahead, all the kids seemed to be more or less around, he had been glad to see Jim Green, looking none the worse for wear. A whole gang had gathered about him, firing questions at him before classes started. He was a hero more than ever. Ponce would wait till later, to have a talk with him. Now Ponce wondered: What would they do? For it was pretty bad, he knew, no matter how near-normal things seemed to be. Things couldn’t go on—like this. The kids didn’t seem scared—in fact, they seemed to be getting kicks out as perfect, as beautiful, as absolutely divine and marvelous as he had ever known or seen her. She conducted the class, he heard her voice, the same as ever, no less. It absolutely amazed Ponce, and increased his admiration for her, if that was at all conceivable, at least twofold. Certainly, one-half a fold. He worshiped her. Could it come true? Was there any chance at all of his wildest dream coming true?

“Ponce—” Her voice.

Was that her voice, calling on him? What should he say? He was in a hell of a way. He hadn’t any idea at all what the class was about today. He would have to answer, and look up. Their eyes would meet. How could he manage that?

“Yes, ma’m?” He said.

Their eyes met. He was a pounding, quivering thing. He was zooming to the heart of heaven, he was almost there, those divine eyes were on him—

“Would you say Milton was the outstanding figure of his time?” She asked, and he heard the voice.

Ponce had heard. Now he pondered the words. They had a meaning, he knew. And there was an answer somewhere. Somehow, that warm, steady, divine gaze of hers was definitely and lovingly guiding him there. In spite of the calamitous clamoring and hammering within, he was getting there. He kept his eyes on hers.

“I would say—” He heard himself say. . . .

Tiger looked up. He hadn’t even noticed her come in. He was working on some papers on his desk—tests, football plays, interviews, a sketch of the stage, this and that— when she walked in. He had just about given up hope of her walking in. He checked the time.

“Hi—’’ Sally Swink said.

“Hey, you’re late,” he said.

The honey blond, whose hair was exactly the color of his own Jane’s, and worn in just about the same style as a matter of fact, smiled at him, though she looked wan.

“I’m sorry, Tiger,” she said, crossing toward the desk. She stood before it. She certainly looked depressed. And there wasn’t all that much time. Tiger thought, another time? It just might be best. Rarely did it have to be, but he understood, completely. And if it had to—it had to. That’s all. That was all. He looked at her. What a sweetheart of a girl, that’s all. He was warm. He observed her. She had on a pale blue sweater, and what a sweater. She looked the picture of the sweetheart she was. In that sweater. He was unhappy though, seeing how low she was. Another time. That’s all.

“What’s the matter?” Gently, he asked her.

“Oh gosh. I’ve been having a rough time—”

“Everything alright?”

She looked up at him, and seemed to blush a little. There was just the hint of pink on her. It made her look even prettier. She was so pretty, pale green eyes. He loved those eyes.

“Oh, that's alright,” she murmured, “I’m pretty sure.”

Tiger was glad to hear that. Pretty sure meant sure.

“Running low?” he asked, tenderly.

“Oh—I could use a few more,” she said, in the softest way.

Tiger nodded, and reached into a drawer. He handed her the small bottle. Their fingers touched as he did so. She smiled, still standing there, and her eyes seemed to come a little bit alive, he observed. So did his. Sally was one of the most sensitive of maids. It was one of the things that made her such a treasure, he knew. He treasured her, and handled her supertenderly, and gently. There was poetry in her. She stood there, from time to time her eyes meeting his.

“What’s the matter?” He asked again.

“Oh—” she said, “A U this trouble—” She halted.

“Want to sit down?” He murmured.

The girl nodded, and moved to the chair beside the desk. She sat down, and Tiger observed her. Who could sit down like that? She had an exquisite class. Even the simplest movement told you that

“I know,” he said, “It’s bad.” He meant that.

She was looking into his eyes. He was admiring her hair, her face. The way she held her hands. This girl could be a ballerina. What grace. What a naturally classy girl. As a woman, one day, she would be elegant. He knew. That was the only word. Well he knew. Her eyes were tenderly sad. Her father worked at the electronics plant. He was an engineer.

“They’re questioning everybody—” she said, unhappily. “All over again.”

“That’s why I’m late.” She gave a wistful smile. She reached out, suddenly, with her hand. She reached for his hand. “I’m sorry I’m late—darling—” She said, her hand meeting his. She gave it a squeeze. Tiger admired her beautiful hand.

“That’s o.k.,” he whispered almost, “I’m glad you came.” He checked his watch. Though who would have known. It was too late. He took that blow.

“You know what they asked me?” she said, distressed. Tiger waited to hear, understanding her state.

“What?" He asked, gently. Though, of course, he knew.

She spoke in the lowest of voices. But at the same time, Tiger couldn’t help but observe, was that the trace of a smile there? It could have been. Well he knew.

“Had anyone ever made any sexual passes at me—” She paused, as Tiger sat there, fascinated by her face. “That’s what they wanted to know.”

Tiger nodded, perfectly composed.

“What did you tell them?” he posed.

^4,No.**

He grinned, in his way, tender and warm.

“Nor

She gripped his hand, "I love you so much**

He knew. He told her, “ You’re in a class of your own.'*

Her hand was so warm.

“Am I too late?” Now she asked.

Tiger knew she was. But she was approaching some form. It was a problem and a half to grapple with, though he didn’t shrink from it. And never would.

“How are you?” he asked, murmuring low.

“Great," she said, and he knew that was so. Her heart was pounding hard. Well he knew. Yes, some form. He

Pretty Maids All in a Row 383 mused, grappling hard. She would never forgive him, if time won out. He knew.

“Get on the floor,” he told her.

It would be fast, but sometimes that could be fun. Certainly, he would do his best. And she would appreciate that. If possible, he would try working her in again—later today. Maybe after Civics class. He thought about that. For half an hour at least. She squeezed his hand. He murmured to her. Tiger mused, warmly, watching her do as he asked.

What a lass. . . ,

Surcher knew he was at the crossroads. Certainly, a crossroads. The trouble was, well he knew, each of the roads led nowhere. For example, where was the karate expert? So far, he hadn’t unearthed one. Nobody had even heard of one. He just got blank stares. Calm, steady investigator though he was, experienced and seasoned man of the force, he was nevertheless uncomfortable. He was idling low. He knew that before this thing ended, there was more than a good chance that he would need at least a minor overhaul. He was frosted. Certainly, he was buffaloed. He had all his men working full steam, all his resources were beamed. A squad was combing the school, interviewing every single girl available, including teachers. Those who weren’t in school—and surprisingly that didn’t even amount to a handful—would be checked out at home. In fact, it had already been done. And he and several assistants had gone through Jeannie Bonni’s house meticulously. leaving no stone unturned, despite all the difficulties. For that home was a pathetic scene of supreme catastrophe. Her mother was in a state of near-hysteria. Neighbors, relatives, thronged around her. Her father was in a state of collapse, on the sofa. A doctor was with him. Despite his mandate, Surcher had barely been able to go through with it. In the end, he might just as well have skipped it—He found nothing. Definitely frustrated and unhappy, but even more determined than ever, and unrelenting, he slipped away from the place, with his assistants, and returned to the school. There, after breaking through the considerable crowd gathered there, with the assistance of his club-waving Troopers, he found his men hard at work, checking all the girls. Otherwise, he noted, everything else was pretty much in order. Classes were being conducted, though he wondered just what could be going on in them, and everybody seemed to be reasonably calm enough—under the circumstances—in a way, he was glad to note. The one place where calm didn’t reign was in Proffer’s outer office, of course, where the phones rang and rang and people came and went, mostly students, policemen, plus a number of local dignitaries and functionaries, including men of the cloth, of course. Proffer himself, sweating, his tie loosened, shirt collar unbuttoned, jacket draped over a chair in fact, seemed to be talking to everybody at once. Surcher felt sorry for him. It was a mess. What had happened to his secretary, Miss Cray-mire, he wondered? She seemed to have disappeared. He wasn’t surprised at that—last time he saw her she was in some shape. Something like you'll probably be, old buddy, before this is over, Surcher mused, to amuse himself.

“Captain—” It was Grady, calling out to him, above the voices.

“Yeh?” Surcher turned to him.

“Attomey-General’s been on the line again. Wants you to call him back right away."

Surcher nodded. He had expected this.

“Any message?”

“I think they're sending an army down.”

Grady was a fairly young man, not long assigned to the Investigating Branch. He was excited, even though he was trying to hide it. To him, this was war, and platoons brought victory. No doubt of it. Surcher, gazing at him, before going toward a phone, knew that in time he would learn.

“No helicopters, I hope,” he said to him, picking up a phone. Grady grinned. He had a sense of humor. He admired his chief.

Tiger wasn’t feeling too bad. It was lunchtime, or nearly so. He had taught a Civics class, among other things, talked to Looby Loo, that true blue, on the phone, quite a little while, that honey-bunch, his only one, and he had just come back from quite the harrowing little session in the Conference Room with Proffer, the Area Superintendent, Burgess Totsi, practically the whole School Board, Rever-ened Brook, that peach of a theologian, officials of the P.-T.A., assorted and varied sundry others—and Surcher. Tiger stopped. Surcher. He shook his head, slowly. The barrage that guy had to face was murderous, they just couldn’t believe he was doing his best, or in fact if he even knew what he was doing—that had come out, from at least two of them. Tiger admired him. He had handled it beautifully. He was a man to watch, alright, no doubt about it. Tiger admired him, unqualifiedly. If ever a man was up against it, and knew how to handle himself, there he was it Without a doubt of it. But what had really uplifted Tiger, so to speak, was the decision taken then and there to (1) keep the school open, and (2) go on with the game. It was something they had all more or less agreed on, after a while, thanks in no small part to Surcher’s efforts, not to mention his own effective advocacy of both matters. The only problem now might be the parents. At the meeting tomorrow, Tiger would put all he had into it. He was impressed however with the massive turnout today and so he had hopes they wouldn’t be too much of a problem—if any. After all, despite everything, the parents of Sawyers-Yiile were interested in the education of their children, not the cessation of it, and were, on the whole, rational. Well they knew how meaningless it was, statistically, to worry unduly about the possible dispatch of one of their loved ones by the fiend, whoever he might be. Besides, State Troopers would be everywhere, and certainly no young maid was going to be allowed out at night—until the situa-lion was settled. And it would be settled. So Tiger, all in all, didn’t feel too bad—though he was in mourning. Nothing could help that. It had gone on all morning. It was a process as inevitable as the sun rising. Or setting. The moon waxing. Waning. That was life. Name it. It was the case. Place it. There, without a sound, soundlessly, converged all the forces. Without a doubt, a part of him hovered low. There was Alice Patmore.

“Hi—”

In that frock, that bosom friend of poor Jill’s looked fetching. It was a pretty pastel shade, close-fitting, and could almost pass as a mini. With her blond hair—worn in the latest and cutest style, what a style—it was perfect. Tiger grinned at her warmly. Right on time, the honey.

“What’s new, Pretty?”

He knew she liked that, almost as much as he liked

saying it. In fact. She sat down.

“Are they going to close the school?” Came the query, right off the bat, as he admired her lipstick. He wanted to ask her what shade that was. And he would.

“No,” he said.

She sighed, “That’s good.”

Who could sigh like that?

“I like your lipstick.” He said.

“Do you?” She was as coy as they came. No doubt of it. He loved it.

“What shade is it?” He asked. “What do they call it?”

She smiled. She had perfect teeth.

"Coral Wonder."

“No wonder.”

“A cool number.”

Tiger grinned, and she was smiling. Her position on the curve was—Tuckwell. The last name of the teacher due from England next term popped into his head, suddenly. Without warning. He toyed with it. She would have one of those nice British accents. He loved that accent—on the fair sex. The young fair sex. At any rate. It had something. He always thought of English maids as friendly, fresh, in love with life—and that sweet accent. His favorite accent of all of course was American. Except southern. He thought of him. Old Cornpone. He smiled.

“How’s everything?” He asked Alice.

“Oh—alright—” she answered.

Tiger nodded.

“Tiger—” She halted, He gazed at her hazel eyes. Intriguing color. In it, were all colors. He loved them. He waited. “Those little pills—” She paused. He waited. Here we go again. “They can’t hurt me—can they?” She murmured.

“No,” he told her, “Not if you take them as directed—” He reassured her, quietly. She sighed, reassured once more. Until next time. She had this quirk. Tiger sat there, gazing at her. She certainly thrived on reassurance. It would be o.k. now. He knew. He loved those eyes.

“Aren’t they wonderful,” she murmured.

“I think so,” he told her.

“Just like you’re wonderful,” she murmured. He loved blond hair. He thought of Jill’s blond hair. He had loved it It was slightly different from Alice’s. There was nothing like blond hair. Or red. Or brunet. That was true of hair. There was this subtle and intriguing shade of difference between heads of hair. The hair on their heads. No two blond-haired maids for instance had identical hair, he mused, anywhere in the world. He knew. What color was Miss Tuckwell’s?

“Where were we?” He asked her.

“Oh—” she said, and she spoke softly, “On the couch.”

He grinned. There was a memory. But it wasn’t what he asked her.

“I meant the project.”

She was looking at him, and pouting.

“Was it the one with all the drawings?”

He said, “We did that one.”

“I finished it?”

“Sure, you finished it”

“Can’t we sit on the couch?”

This was the other side of her coyness, and no ignoring it. He gazed at her form, outlined invitingly under her frock. It was true of all coyness, as he had gleaned, through experience.

“Then—” she said, very softly, “You could tell me how I made out—” She stopped.

He gazed at her. He would do that. There was nothing like comfort. Above all, she was for comfort. He got up, opened the filing cabinet, and pulled out her folder. He

Pretty Maids All in a Row 389 the same footing as any of you directly working on the case—I mean, as far as access, within reason of course, to information is concerned. You’ve got to use your judgment there, naturally, on certain things, I know, I know just at the present moment you won’t be able to tell him everything—but within these limits, you see what I mean, tell him what he wants to know, let him circulate—” He paused. “Got that?’’ Surcher grabbed it. “Later on,’’ the man went on, “when it’s all over, you can fill in the gaps for him.” He stopped.

“Do we get a cut of the royalties?” Surcher asked, full of fun.

There was a long pause, and then, another surprise: a burst of hearty laughter. There was a sense of humor, Surcher noted, forlorn.

“Who knows! Wait and see!” he next heard, finally. And then, again serious vein, “O.K. Is everything all clear? Do you have any questions?”

“Alright then. Don’t be surprised to see me around there —tomorrow—next day—when is that Carverton game? —Though by then, I hope, everything will be O.K.”

There was menace in that hope, Surcher couldn’t help note.

“We’ll try our best.”

“Right.” Said the man. "Find him ”

Surcher put down the phone, thinking, what a good idea. He turned around, as Folio crossed the room to talk to him. Maybe, now he thought, Ben Shingle would have an even better one. Despite everything, he had to grin. . . .

When Tiger returned to the office, after a quick Health Ed class wiih the Freshmen, he found none oiher than Miss Craymire sitting there. She looked unhappy to an grinned at her. He gave a little nod at her. Her form was

warm.

“Come on.” he said, warmly.

He walked tow'ard the couch.

Smiling, she followed him.. . •

Surcher said into the phone, after a pause, “What am I supposed to do—give every body the third degree?”

He said it very calmly, after reflecting on it, in response to the Attorney-General’s last sally, a brilliant one: "It’s somebody in that school. I know it. It has to be."

“No—no—nothing like that—” said the voice in his ear, almost astounding him. The guy had taken it seriously? Surcher mourned the lost sarcasm. Wasted. And studied too. To boot. Well, it could be. He was the Attorney-General. Who now went on, “But Christ, listen—how big of a place is it? Listen, you can pin him down, my God I’m sure of it—He must stick out a mile! No kidding. Once my men get there—” A pause. “I know 1 can count on your total cooperation—” Another pause. “Got that?” Surcher had. “Listen, this is dynamite. We've got to find him." There was another pause, while Surcher said nothing. Why? He felt like asking him. Just for the hell of it. What would his answer be? How many votes, he wondered, would it mean to him? He almost asked him. He could have chuckled— under different circumstances. “Here’s another thing—” Pause. Surcher waited for it. “Captain? Are you with me?” He confirmed this. “Good. Listen—there’s going to be a writer coming along with my men. Ben Shingle—you’ve probably heard of him—he's one of the big ones. He just flew in and the Governor passed him on to me. He wants to write a book on this, the whole case, from start to finish, eventually. That will be quite the book you can imagine, Captain.” He paused again. Surcher could have groaned. He pictured it. “Well, now get this, take good care of this man, Captain—as far as I’m concerned he’s on extreme degree. He had been expecting her. Proffer had contacted him and made arrangements for him to see her. Checking his schedule, he had agreed to do that. It would just fit in. Tiger also found a tiny note on his desk, reading simply, “When?—H.L.” He had grinned. Hilda Linder. Yes, it certainly was time for that maid. He was glad she reminded him, though he hadn’t forgotten her. He would set her up, he mused, tomorrow. First thing. That was it. He thought about her. She was a fair-haired maid. As soon as Miss Craymire left, he would set her up alright What time was it?

“Well, Jane, how are you?” Tiger asked the secretary, in his open, friendly way.

She wasn’t exactly the most beautiful creature in God’s creation, but there were points in her favor. True, she ivas on the wrong side of that curve, of course, as he himself was, well he knew, of course, but—her eyes, for instance. They were a beautiful, clear green. Beautiful eyes. Her figure wasn’t all that bad either, though she kept it hidden. Her hair wouldn’t be bad at all—if she did more with it. Her teeth—well, they were a little big, true. But not offensive. Her face, in toto, wasn’t unpretty. Certainly, there was warmth in it. And it could be pretty. She was an old maid, Tiger mused, but didn’t have to be. He didn’t think she was born that way. He felt for her. It was the first time he had ever had a chance to reaJly talk to her. Maybe, he thought, he just might help her. Maybe, he also thought, the whole sad chain of recent events would have at least one fruitful offshoot. He hoped. It could be. In any bombed site, flowers grew. Tiger stopped. It could trigger off a whole day’s review. But he thought, for this too is part of the process. Complexes. Normal curvature—

“I’m really feeling awful, Mr. McDrew,” she confessed, “In fact, I can't stand it.” She would sob. He knew. In a minute.

He nodded, gazing at her in that friendly way. He thought that under the circumstances, at least to start off with, it would be best to utilize a strictly nondirective approach. He would try it.

“You really don’t feel too good,” he told her.

“I feel awful."

“Everything seems pretty bad.”

"Awful."

them take him along, “Anything’s possible—isn’t it? Jane?”

He waited. It was a process of serial approximation. And this was the challenge, the heart and life, the excitement in it. Well he knew.

“But I don't want to die that wayl” She cried out

He couldn’t blame her. He was in total sympathy with her. He gazed at her. Those green eyes were just beautiful. He knew. He thought of Rochelle.

“How do you want to die?” He asked, gently.

“Why—” She was choked for words.

“How many of us choose how we die?” Now he asked her.

“What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean?”

“What—” she gasped—“What did I come in here for?”

“I wonder.”

She sank back in her chair as if she were dissolving into it. Tiger watched her. Her eyes never strayed from his, they were terror-fixed. He felt for her.

“Sex has always been associated with death in your mind, hasn’t it?” He said, softly. “To have sex is to die, in your mind. Am I right?”¹

She sat there. She seemed paralyzed. He wondered if she would scream.

“Am I right?” He pressed on with it.

“Yes.” She said barely above a gasp. It was like the last word she would speak. She sat there, soundless.

‘‘Have you ever had sex?” He asked her.

“No.” She answered—

“Do you masturbate?”

“What?”

“Play with it—?”

A pause. She was about to cry.

“Yes / do.”

Her hand sank toward her chest. She hadn’t passed out She began to sob quietly.

“How do you play with it?” Now he asked.

“I—” She said, barely, through her sobs.

“At night? On your bed? All alone? In the dark?”

“I—plav with it—”

“How?”

“I—rub my hand—over it—” he barely heard.

“All of it?”

“It feels so good—”

“Do you talk to it?”

“I rub a long time. I get very hot. I sweat. Mr. McDrew —I’m all wet—" The words emerged slowly, little drawled bunches of them, barely audible.

“Are your legs up?”

“They’re up—”

“Open?”

“Way up?”

“I’m on my back. My knees are—up—”

“Way up?”

“Up—”

“Is your hand wet?”

“So wet—”

“What else do you do?”

“Do you put anything into it?”

“How deep into it?”

“What do you think of?”

“All—sorts of—things—I—” “Do you like it?”

“Oh—I—”

“How often do you like it?”

“What do you thiuk of?” “Sometimes—”

“How high up?”

“So—oh—High up—”

“Do you play with them?” “I—caress them—”

“The tips?”

“I—stroke the tips—” “How are you?**

“Way—oh—way up—” “Who are you thinking of?”

“Harry?”

“What?”

“Harry Proffer?”

Tiger thought of soccer. He had always taken a dim view of that game, so called. It made him unhappy to see what a tremendous drive was now going on in the athletic-commercial complex to establish it as a major sport in the USA—of all places. They might even succeed. The scoundrels. He saw signs of that It would be a sad day, and no kidding. He hated the game. What would come next? Cricket? Jane Craymire remained silent

“It’s really got you down,” Tiger said, “Under the floorboards.”

“Oh God it has. It has. Yes.” She told him.

Soon, she would sob. Tiger decided to shift his approach. As always, he sensed it, intuitively. “What’s upset you most about it?” He put to her gently.

She blurted it out, surprising him, “The sex. The sex in it. Oh God! Disgusting!” And she burst into tears, a flood of them.

Tiger sat quietly and calmly across from her, watching her sob her heart out, as he knew she would. It was a release triggered by the depths, and no doubt of it, he mused. Not to be tampered with. He watched her.

After a while, she said, “I can’t possibly work here any longer.”

He nodded. Certainly, he agreed with her. But there was more. No process ever had more. And he was out to help her. He recognized the limitations of the help he could offer her, but his obligation was clear. A frontal assault was called for. He would do what he could, if no more than that. Proffer might even thank him. He was fully aware how much the man leaned on her. For one. He must be about ready, he mused, for that TV store.

“Do you feel you might be the next one?” Tiger asked, as soon as her sobs had abated, somewhat.

She looked up at him. She certainly looked miserable.

“It’s possible!” she said, “I’ve thought of it!”

“I think the thought dominates you," he offered her.

“Well it is possible—Mr, McDrew—isn’t it?"

Tiger searched for an answer to that

“Isn’t it?" she demanded.

Where was the answer to that? And her need was total.

“Well,” he said, finally, finding words as he went along, as he did, often, his gift being what it was, “You and I. we both know what kind of a world it is—” He paused, letting

394 Pretty Maids All in a Row “Do you think of him?”

“I—think of him—”

“What do you do then?”

“I play—I play—”

“And then?”

“After a long time—”

*7 come—”

“Yes—”

“It’s beautiful. For a moment. A moment—” She paused. She was murmuring inaudibly. Then, *7 get so wet—" Another pause. A long one—‘‘I curl up—I have—spasms—” She paused. “Then I’m sick.”

“That’s death.”

“Sick, sick—”

“You’re dead.”

She remained with her head down.

“You’re in love with Harry Proffer,” he told her, quietly.

Strange, but true. He knew. How well he knew. He sighed to himself, in wonder, at the byways, the under-the-surface ways, as always, the multiple intersections and skyways, all ways, of human life, that most astonishing of processes. What a process.

“That’s right,’* she murmured, barely there.

“Do you think he’s the murderer?"

“No,” she told him.

He watched her moving. Her head, very slowly, was moving. Soon, she would be looking at him.

“In your mind though—he is.” He told her. “Because you want him. You know what I mean. And since all these —sad events—these tragedies—” He paused, surveying her, “These murders—” He paused again, “You can’t bear being in the same room with him—for you know what you would like him to do to you—and you know what that would mean—in your mind, that is—” He paused once more, he continued speaking very quietly, “That’s why you want to leave here—” He told her, “That’s what you’re really terrified of—” He paused again, “Don’t you think so?”

She said nothing. She only stared at him. Those beautiful green eyes were staring steadily at him.

“Sex, Death.” He said. “Sex means death to you.”

Pretty Maids All in a Row 395 This much he told her. He knew well there was much more. But he had plans for her. There would be plenty of time to get down to it. Deep down. All of it He knew it “What kind of a figure do you have?” He asked her.

Those eyes stayed on him.

“Stand up,” he said to her. She did so. “Take off your jacket.” She did so. She had on a blouse. And under that, he knew, a tight bra. It nearly flattened her. “Take off your blouse.” He told her. She hesitated. ‘Take it off.” He murmured. Slowly, she did so. She stood there. “Now the bra.” He told her. Very slowly, she slipped out of it She held it. She stood there, nothing on from the waist up, still gazing at him. He gazed at them. He had been right Not bad at all. They were white. Fine uplift free of their straps. Tips. He liked the tips. Very fine uplift. They screamed for kisses, caresses. Her hands only fondled them. He knew it

“Do you look at them?”

“What?” Her voice was far away.

“Before your mirror—when you’re undressed—do you stand there—looking at them?”

“Yes—” she told him.

“You can’t suckle them—”

“No—”

“You’d like to—”

“Yes—”

“They’re very nice.”

He thought about her. There was plenty to think about there. He continued gazing at her, quite a while. And she was permanent.

“Turn around,” he told her. “Slowly.” She did so. There was the side view. Beautiful. “Slowly.” She completed her turn. She faced him—ready for anything.

“Get dressed.”

Slowly, after a long moment, she did so. She said nothing.

He told her, “I want you to come to see me here once a week.” He paused. “At this time.”

She was just slipping back into her blouse.

“Can you do that?” He murmured.

Slowly, her eyes on his, she nodded.

His eyes stayed on her. . . .

Ponce floated down the halJway, after the class. She had called to him, just as he was about to go out the door, and he had turned, and gone up to the desk. To her. The others had by then all left the room. He stood before her, rubber-kneed and trembling, too afraid to look at her, waiting to hear her. He was ready to stand there all day long—if necessary.

“Ponce—” he heard. Her dulcet tones.

Somehow, and slowly, he looked up. He almost saw her face. There was her—chest—

“How are you, Ponce?” She said, and he thought he would melt.

“O.K.—” He said, fighting hard, his eyes still on her breast.

“Look at me, Ponce,” he heard. And he lifted his head. Her face. He fell, head first, into those divine eyes—

Now she said, as he swam. “Keep up the good work,” she paused, he gave a nod, it was his head, nodding, her voice was so warm so low—soft and low—“/ want you to keep up the good work” She paused once more. “Promise that?” She stopped. He nodded his head again. He wanted to rest it on her breast—“That’s all.” She said. “You can go now.” She also said.

And he said, only dimly aware of the words being said, “Can I come to see you again?”

She had smiled. That warm smile. He lived for that smile—

“Of course.”

He had heard. . . .

Ponce, floating along down that teeming hallway, heard only those words. . . .

Lieutenant Folio was interviewing Rochelle. He was struck by the maturity of the girl. Her records said she was a Junior and age seventeen. Yet, if someone had asked him, and he was no fool, he would have said she was at least in her early twenties. It was her way. She had some way. Folio knew she was no kid. She had seen life, and how. That was sure. He was getting nowhere with her.

“Now—Rochelle—” He had some trouble calling her that. It would have been better, would have sounded better, if he said, Miss Hudson. That he felt. But—he had started out this way, as of course with all the others. Come to think of it—some of the others—he mused—kids these days! They grew up so fast He thought of his own, ten years old and already wearing a bra—of some sort. Pre-bra. That sort. Sure, he knew, nowadays they all did that. He had heard—the latest rage. He knew that. He was nuts about her in any event, no matter how many bras she wore—“I’d like to give you another chance to think about that question—” He said—“Because I’ll tell you, if you can help me, it would be helping yourself, in the long run, and all the girls in this town, you know it—”

The girl nodded, and sat there. All Folio could do w-as stare. She was a beauty. That dark hair—

“I know it” At last she said.

“Well—what about it?” He said, patiently.

“Lieutenant—” She said, looking him straight in the face, “What kind of a girl do you think I am?”

He didn’t know. What a voice. She had this low, soft voice. It shook him. No doubt about it. Just what were kids coming to?

“Well, I think you’re a nice girl—” He said, “A very nice girl, in fact—don’t gel the whole thing wrong—Rochelle —” He stopped.

“And that’s exactly what I think I am too,” she came back.

“I know that—”

“Well, what kind of a question is that to ask of a nice

girl? Hmmm? Lieutenant? Tell me.’*

Folio sat there. This kid was beginning to make him feel like ten cents. And it made no sense.

“That’s not—” He started to say.

“What kind of girls get that kind of thing said to them?” She trampled him—“No man, no boy, would make that kind of an approach to a nice girl. Don’t you know that, Lieutenant? They wouldn’t dare. When they want to proposition, they’re very careful to select just the right type of girl. Not my type. I’m not that type. Do you follow me?”

Somewhat stunned, Folio just sat there, and even became aware, gradually, however dimly, at first, of the pun she had played on him. He began hating his name. Also, Rochelle. Could she be next? He began wishing, he was aware . . .

"O.K. That’s all. Thanks," he said in a low monotone. To the girl.

She left . . •

What monolithic consensus drove a notion say along paths that could only be described as heinous? Flagitious. And all with pious, righteous phrases? This was the crux of it. No doubt of it. Was it a nonevent? The worst crimes perpetrated by mankind, on vast national, international scales were wrapped in pious, righteous phrases. It had always been. So had it always been. We were no exception. The best, yes, but no exception. But why the consensus? Tiger mused оусг this, and could only return to the concept. the basic concept of all the complexes, and processes; normal curvature. That was no nonevent. It seemed an unchangeable, tragic factor, that inescapable and irrefutable concept. In the whole complex of processes. There was the bulging center, the hulk. And the edges. And only along those edges—Tiger pondered, sadly—that tapering right

Pretty Maids All in a Row 399 side edge, that edge, was there any real hope of redemption, mitigation, release from consensus. The light of day. Blue sky. Daylight. It was tragic. Nature had cast the tragedy. What could men do, bound as they were—by their nature—to act out the tragedy? Reparation. Amelioration. Restoration. They were all. Ever. Or what tentative steps could be taken in those directions. For once on that downward slope—that slope—the wrong side of the slope —Tiger floundered, shrouded in shadows. He petted Sonny Swingle. She liked to pet for a long long time. She was a playful thing. Whom he would have called Pussy all of the time, not just some of the time, as he did now from time to time, if she let him. She preferred Sonny. Except for those few times— He didn’t belabor the issue. He would have to see about setting up something for the evenings, after football season, for certainly it w-as clear that more than an hour was required here. Where had she learned it? It all came naturally. He knew it—

“Going to purr for me?”

“Sure. . . .” She said, and did so, with that word, and who could purr like that? Not even Sheba. ... He loved her purrr. ... He kissed her cute nose. What a nose. Her eyes. Her brown hair. He let her frolic with him in the chair. Who could frolic like that? There—

“How’s everything?” He inquired of her. He heard a tune. It was his tune. It came, it went, it was the cutest tune. Long ago, he remembered, his mother sang him that tune. Looby Loo and Jane. The tune—

She was lying in his arms, her eyes closed, letting him fondle her bundle. “Pussy—” he said. And she sighed, and kissed him again. His hands caressed those sweet breasts. They were delightful, and soft, nice-sized, the tips were aflame. Great. “Pussy—” again, he said. She caressed his face. She kissed him again. They played. . . .

“I took it off for you,” she said, her sweet mouth next to his.

“Were you mad at me last time?” she asked.

He grinned. How could he get mad at her? She had arrived last time with it on. He hadn't complained. He hadn’t minded at all. Together, they had slipped it off. Off. The treasures fell in his hands. He thought of Mrs. Mort-lake—

“Are you kidding?” he said, kissing her. Her kiss was luscious on his. Their tongues met. And strayed. They played. . . . “How could I be?” He said, fondling them. . . . They kissed, and kissed. She could set a record. He knew. He loved this maid—“Sweet Pussy—” He said, in her ear. . . . She sighed a deep sigh, she clung to him, pounding hard, hot, and quivering. . . .

“Ummmm—” she said, “Ohhhh—” She now said, fighting for air.

“How are you?” He murmured, nuzzling her ear.

“I love that—” she barely said.

“Where did you get that bra?” He mentioned, referring to last time. It was the cutest thing.

“Like it?" She managed, playfully gliding her finger along the bridge of his nose, she stopped at his mouth, and he gave the sweet member a little nip, she loved that, he knew, as he did. Nip, nip. She gave a little cry. “I saw it in Glamour—” She said. “I fell in love with it—isn’t it sweet? Sweet—” A little gasp—‘'It’s called the Curveallure—it has curve-caressing allure—allure—oh sweet—” She was limp in his arms. He was slipping off the rest of her things. “Are my curves alluring?" She said, her eyes closing. . . .

“They are.”

He picked her up. . . .

Looby Loo he knew, once in a great while, bought that magazine. He leafed through it. There were lots of cute things in it. There were. He hadn’t realized it interested Sonny’s age group. He learned a lot. Every day.. . .

They were on the floor.

"Glamour?" He asked, sweet and low. She was dying for him. He knew. But she gave that sweet little laugh. There was a laugh—Her knees rose. She gave little moans. She was trembling. Eyes closed. There they were. Rising. He observed her. “It was on the table in the dentist's waiting room—” She said, though how, he never knew. "Oh Tiger —Please—’’ Now she said.

“Dr. Bonni?” He asked, admiring the view.

“That’s right.” It was a moan, "Is he your dentist—too?”

He loved her.

He was on top of her.

He kissed her, and played with her. They played, more. She trembled beneath him, she was on fire, and wet, more

Pretty Maids All in a Row 401 and more. She moved, and moaned. She fondled him. More. . . .

“How do you like the play?” He murmured, after a while. She wasn’t a bad little thespian. She would have a part. She looked great—up there— He was fondling her breasts.

^4tl—like it,” she gasped, her pounding heart—

“Do you like your part?” He was on fire.

*4 love it—” She said—somehow—

He was kissing the precious orbs, the soft treasures all for him, he was lingering at the tips, sucking them, gliding his tongue over them—

“Tiger—Please—”

She could have screamed.

“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. . . .

In the locker room, at halftime, while out on the field the Sawyersville band and the Majorettes put on their show, Tiger gave the team hell. Ponce hoped to God it would ring a bell. Ben Shingle had slipped into the locker room, Ponce observed. He was tucked in a comer, out of everyone’s way, but, Ponce knew, taking everything in. Ponce almost grinned. He had been pretty thrilled to hear about him, not to mention actually meeting him, for who was a more famous and celebrated writer than he? He was a real nice guy too, that was the best part of it. And no doubt about it. Ponce had talked to him quite a lot, since his arrival. Especially since he had moved into Tiger’s house. He had encouraged him a lot. He had even said he would try to help him. And that was great. Now he did give a grin, the best he could under the circumstances, and nodded to him, for he had caught his eye. Tiger didn’t seem to see him. He was before the team, pacing back and forth, not saying a thing—yet. He called to Ponce. He had a little talk with him. Then—he pitched in—

“Just what were you guys playing out there? Hopscotch? What do I have—a Hopscotch team? Where the heli is my team? Are you here? Where are you guys now? Out in space? WELL GET BACK DOWN HERE! You know who you are? WHAT you are? We’re playing Football! Know what that is? Remember? You played it last week—and the week before—and all of last year—Just Like A Sawyersville Team/ You know what that is? You Guys Are That TeamI Know that? Well I’m reminding you of that—Alright? Because you sure as hell didn’t look like you knew it out there—AT ALL! Not At All! GET ON THE BALL! Get hold of it, and hang on to it! YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE! YOU HAVE TWO QUARTERS TO PROVE IT! What kind of blocking was that, you guys on the line? Beep —I’m surprised at you! Was That You? What about you, Al? And you, and you—Joe—Cal—HOLY COW! You oughta be able to push those jerks back a mile—A MILE: RIGHT OUT OF THE STADIUM! All I’m asking is that you open some holes. What’s Pope supposed to do? Run through a Wall? What about Feef? JESUS, LOOK AT HIM! You just about KILLED him. And Dink! How many passes has he got off? Huh? WHAT’S UP? WHAT THE HELL’S UP? Is this My Club? What’s the Score? Don’t you want me as coach anymore? HELL, I DONT CARE! I’ll quit right now if that’s what you want! IS THAT THE SCORE? And your Defense! WOW! They push you around like toys! You’re outfoxed every time! EVERY PLAY! The holes are big enough to get a tank through. A Tank! What’s up? What’s bothering you? Don’t blame it on the Practices we missed! DONT TRY THAT! You oughta beat that gang with NO PRACTICES AT ALL! Know That? Well, / sure know that! Let me tell you! WHO DOESNT KNOW THAT? What’s Up? What’s got you down? ARE YOU TIGERS OR ZOMBIES? You LOOK like ZOMBIES! What is it? The troubles got you down? All those sad events got you collared and down, way down, right right down? Is that it? Listen: Those girls would want you to win—All of them—to play ball like a Sawyers-vrlle team—Know that? Look at all Jill did for you! And Yvonne! Jeannie! Think of Jeannie! Remember that girl? WELL WHAT ARE YOU DOING FOR THEM!

All of them/ И1 tell you: SITTING FLAT! Flat! ON THE MAT! If they could see you now—you look like a bunch of zombie jerks. JERKS! You want this to be a JERK TOWN? That what you want? Like Carverton? There’s a jerk town if ever there was one? WHAT A TOWN! You know it! AND THEY’RE KNOCKING HELL OUT OF YOU! How many will they rack up? What about us? If you get out there and played ball—rough—tough—Real Football—If you charged like the Tigers you are—AND NOT ZOMBIES—if you blocked—ran—opened those holes—IF YOU PROTECTED DINK!” He paused, just an instant, hitting the highest crescendo yet—“WHAT A SCORE! WHAT ONE HELL OF A SCORE! A REAL TIGERS SCORE! You wouldn’t even HEAR of Carverton anymore! They’d quit the League! Like they ought to! WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO? It’s Up To You! I can’t come out there and play for you! Ponce here can’t do it for you! ITS UP TO YOU! ALL OF YOU! Look how you screwed up his plays! Those are GREAT plays! Think of those girls! AT LEAST PLAY FOR THEM!” He paused, he thumped his hand on a table—“ROARI" The whole team roared, Ponce roared, he had been electrified by the talk, he roared and roared, he had never heard such a talk, he even thought he saw Mr. Shingle roar, “ROARГ They roared and roared, the room shook with their roars, Ponce was sure of the score, Tiger hit the table again, and again—“ROAR! The walls would fall down with the roars—“TIGERS— ROAR!” ROAR! NO PUSSYFOOTING AROUND ANYMORE!” Ponce was drowned in the roars.., .

In the second half, they scored thirty-five points, Carverton—none.

Surcher and Ben Shingle watched a spectacular display of awesome and dazzling Sawyersville might. Everything clicked just right Their stands roared, the band blared, the cheerleaders turned a thousand cartwheels. At the end, Surcher and Shingle, standing up in a sea of roaring, saw Ponce and Tiger carried off the field—high on the team’s shoulders—the band blared—Majorettes’ batons flew high in the air—it was a wild scene of pure jubilation—one vast, wild roaring—

Ben Shingle, turning to Surcher, made himself heard somehow—

“Jesus."

Surcher grinned.

Broadly. . . .

Ponce, smiling and happy, on top of the world, after the game, was in Tiger’s office. The joy and jubilation, the noise and happy horseplay of the locker room still rang in his ears. He had gone to the office at Tiger’s request—to put some football folders and other items away in the files for him, for Tiger's wife was waiting for him outside in the car and he didn’t have time for it “Do that thing for me, Ponce, thanks—” He had told him. Ponce of course had been only too happy to do so. This had been quite the day. He had really thought, in that first half, Sawyersville had finally reached the end of the line. He was absolutely amazed, and of course mighty proud of, the way things had gone in the second half. Nothing went wrong! Practically every play ate up yardage! Dink and Jim had clicked beautifully! Jerry had snaked sixty-five yards for one, Pope fifty-yards for another, Feef twenty-five, after breaking through like a bulldozer, Dink and Jim got the other two. Beauties! What beauties! Perfect! Each one had thrilled the stands, which had gone wild. Twice in the third quarter and once in the fourth Ponce had improvised new moves, and Tiger had approved, and sent them in right away—and they had clicked. It was on that first one that Jerry had got away. They had danced for joy—-Tiger, Ponce, the whole bench! What a run! What a day! Some day. And Carverton had been stopped cold, stone cold. Ponce really had loved the day. And now here he was, putting things away, in Tiger’s office, for that terrific guy, the top high-school coach in the country, without a doubt, among other things, so many things, Ponce knew, whose assistant one day he would be, just wait and see. Ponce, smiling away, thinking so many things, stood before the filing cabinet and started filing away. There didn’t seem to

Pretty Maids A11 in a Row 409 be much room there—it was full of test results, all sorts of Guidance/ Counseling stuff. He thought of Betty. He hadn’t yet been able to see her again, he wondered if she had seen the game. Tonight, he would see her for sure. He had the theme done. He had promised himself he wouldn’t go back to see her until he had it done. He knew she would want it that way. He grew warm, thinking of her, and his possible future with her. For there was no doubt, it was possible, and he would try hard. When should he propose? Did guys still propose? Or did it just happen? Should he ask Tiger? What a day. What a game. Ponce was still spinning. What about it? Just happened? Like everything else? He wondered about that, and also worried a little bit—but not unduly. It was a technicality. Mary Holden. What had happened to Mary? He had heard the craziest stories—it was all crazy. A technicality. He knew Betty would help him out on that. He wondered what his mother would say. He would tell her—one day. He tried picturing that day. Surcher. The troubles. Mary Holden. That sure had been a funny one. He would comer Surcher—or Mr. Shingle —and get the straight story. Though by now, Tiger probably had it. When he had asked him, a day or so ago, he hadn’t known—exactly. One thing for sure—it wasn’t connected with the others. He would find out alright. Everything. He had felt bad, as he had of course about the others. He even felt bad still about that poor dope the late Chief John Poldaski. Who would take over? He had heard talk about Joe Linski, Peggy’s old man. Maybe so. Id the Army, he had been an MP. That he knew. Right now, there was no one. The town had no Police Force. Dozens of Staties though. He thought of the funerals. He felt sad. Jeannie’s had been some funeral and a half. That’s how they were, those Catholics. He thought of Ben Shingle, and what a fine guy he was. Out of all this, because of it, he, Ponce, had been given the chance to meet and get to know a writer like that, of that caliber, no less. They were friends, no doubt of it, what a great guy he was. He felt bad about it though, having happened this way. He felt bad, it was like—cheating, almost. But—Ponce knew that’s how life was, or certainly sometimes was. The breaks—deserved—undeserved—out of the blue—Things happened that way. If he were given the choice, of course he’d want those girls all back alive—and never get within sight of

Ben Shingle, or anyone like that. Any day. He knew that And even the Chief too. To boot. But the choice hadn’t been his. He mused. It had happened this way. He knew that. He felt bad that Surcher and all the others who had turned up, including the Attorney-General himself, who had turned up today, he had watched the game, had so far hit a stone wall, and had turned up nothing. It was still, without a doubt, one hell of a mess, despite the great victory today. But things had been quiet, at any rate, outside of the Mary Holden thing, which could have happened anytime, anywhere, to anyone, so far as he knew, from what he knew, and had nothing at alL to do with the thing. Only this morning, he had heard Surcher confide to Tiger, while they were having a talk about things, and Ponce happened to be around, Mr. Shingle as well, he had heard him confide that maybe it was possible it was the end of the trail. It was just possible, he had said, it was classical, he had also said, Ben agreeing with him. He remembered Tiger nodding his head at that. Looking very pensive at that. In any event, what a day. And he was glad no colored boy had been tagged with the thing. He was glad all the dirty pressure from certain elements had been resisted and finally whittled down—to nothing. He admired Surcher. Now, he knew, only the hardcore Birchites were still out for their blood. And everybody knew what they counted for, so they were no worry. This wasn’t Mississippi, or any of those crapulent Southern states. Or California, for that matter, that nuthouse of a Reagan State. The phone rang. Ponce picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Who’s this?” the voice said. A female voice, low, warm.

“Ponce.”

A pause. She was still there.

“Ponce de Leon," he said, to make matters absolutely clear.

The phone clicked. There was the dial tone.

^4,Hello?" Ponce said, just once more. She had hung up. He hung up. Wondering who it was. It almost sounded like, he thought now, in his astute way, his mind working with it—Rochelle. He mused, thinking about her. He wasn't sure though. What a girl. It might not have been, or —could just have been. Wrong number? He mused a bit more. Then dropped it, of no consequence. Whoever it

Pretty Maids A11 in a Row 411 was, if she really wanted Tiger, she would phone back. He could find no room for some of the stuff in the file cabinet at all. He turned and thought about trying the desk. Tiger hadn’t mentioned it, but it could go in the desk. If he filed anything there. He didn’t know. He tried a few drawers. In the top drawer he saw some folders. One was lying on its back, on top. Possibly put there by Tiger in a hurry, to be filed properly later, when he had time. He picked it up and started turning it over the right way so he could tuck it in the drawer properly, It bumped the drawer and fell out of his hands, spilling its contents onto the floor. He said, “Damn—” in a mild way, feeling embarrassed about his clumsiness, and maybe having messed up that folder on Tiger. To boot. He started to pick the stuff up. They were football plays, he noted, grinning about that, fondly. They were rough sketches of plays, he and Tiger had worked on from time to time. Here was the old Reverse-Shuffle-Fake From The ‘I* On Three. That was a one. He liked that one. Pope had clipped off forty-five the first time Dink had called it today—in the second half, that is. He looked through the sheets, each one a different play. He put each one back in the folder, carefully, after a glance at it. Then there was other stuff. Referees’ names, Coaches’ phone numbers, colleges, universities—their head coaches—all that stuff—clubs—that kind of stuff. Ponce hastened to put it back in the folder, feeling embarrassed again, as if prying. He felt like a prying kid. Though Tiger wouldn’t have minded though, he was that way. Of course. He sure had a nice wife and kid. Tiger did. She was real good-looking, his wife was. He thought of Betty again. He came across the last sheet and was just about to tuck that in. He stopped, for some reason. Incurably curious as ever, his eyes were perusing the sheet. It was just a list of names, girls’ names. His eyes ran up and down the list He saw the names. He began feeling funny, suddenly. Just a little funny, suddenly. There were marks beside each name, stars they looked like. That’s what they were. His eyes saw the names. Four of the names had lines drawn through diem. A line, through each of the four. They were crossed out That’s what they were. He could just make them out though. He felt funnier now. Just a cold kind of feeling coming up in his stomach, and at the top of his spine. That was it. Jill Fairbunn, he made out—Yvonne Mellish—Jean-nie Bonni—He could make out—Mary Holden—He also made out. He halted there. All he could do was stare. He felt funnier and funnier. The cold was spreading. What the hell was this list? What were those blue stars beside Rochelle’s name? What was Betty’s name doing—on this list? Look at those stars there—three and a half—red ones— And what did they mean? There was Mrs. Mortlake’s name —the School Nurse—number 21 on the list—a question mark after her name—What did that mean? Ponce felt icy-lingling waves spreading all over him, and through him, he felt mighty cold. What was this list? Was it Tiger’s list? What was it doing here? What did it mean? He saw Mona Drake’s name on the list. Barbara Brook’s. She just lived down the road. Her father— Marjorie Evanmore. Hetty Nectar. Ponce stared. He digested every name on that list. Each one hit him like a hammer blow. He was more than cold. What was the score? What the hell did it mean? Suddenly, with a staggering surge that nearly knocked him off his feet, Ponce realized what he had in his hand. He fell back, he slumped into Tiger’s chair. He put his head between his knees, to fight hard to keep from keeling over. He didn’t want to keel over. His heart pounded, he felt sick, and ice cold. He had never known such a sick feeling as this. He fought and fought, hanging on, going under, surfacing, going under, again surfacing —a dozen times or more. At last, he raised his head, slowly, and sat back in the chair. He was a man near death. He sat there, numb, like a ghost. Or the sole survivor of a shipwreck, after long days on the open sea. Or worse. He had the list. He stared at it, starkly, dumbfounded. His world whirled. He knew one thing: Nothing again would ever be the same. For he knew, with an excruciatingly painful burst of awareness he suddenly knew: Tiger must be insane. He stared at that list. His eyes wandered over each name. Who was Looby Loo? He hoped for a moment now that it wasn’t Tiger’s list. That someone had put it there—or—that Tiger had confiscated it, from some nut of a kid. He hoped. And hoped. But—he knew he was wrong. Somehow, he knew it was Tiger’s alright He had seen that writing a hundred times. That printing. That way. His eyes stopped and riveted themselves on Betty’s name. In the name of God, if there was a God, what was she doing on this list? Just what were those stars? Those

Pretty Maids All in a Row 413 marks? Could it really be what he thought? How could it? For up to now, Ponce had only grasped part of the matter, the horror had only been associated with the names crossed off. Now—more. He saw more. With a fresh wave of agony he began to realize fully just how much more. His acute intelligence and imagination suddenly flared and filled in the full details. It was before his eyes. And he was rocked—to the depths of his soul. He wanted to cry out, a cry that would echo through all history, and eternity, and reach the very ends of the universe: What Kind Of A World Was I Born Into? He thought of his echoing cry down the hallway that morning. He thought of Betty. His eye was still locked on that precious name, on that list. He couldn’t believe it. He had to. He thought of Tiger, whose image lay shattered about him in a million bits and pieces, forever more. He slumped back in that chair even more. What to do? He was overwhelmed, Just what was he supposed to do? He wasn’t about to take off on another run, of that, he was determined. He held the list, acutely aware through all the agony that he had come to a terrible crossroads in his young life. His life. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. That too he wanted to cry out. What should he do? What was there to do—with his discovery? Surcher? Take it to Surcher? Put it back? Forget about it? Let somebody else find it—one day? What would the score be? Or—tear up the list? Or—just remain sitting there, until someone came in? Would Tiger come in? What would happen, if he came in? Would he join the list? He hadn't seen the Chiefs name on the list—Would he just disappear? With the list? Was that it? Ponce moaned. He was aware of the moan. He wanted to talk to Tiger. He almost wished he would come in. Maybe if he could only talk with him. . . . Ponce was stuck at that crossroads. He just sat there. He only saw all the alternatives, crystal clear. . . . Surcher—that was the sane, the only rational thing to do. . . . He knew. He thought about that. He thought about all those girls—on the list. On active status, on the list. He thought of the game. The team. That great team. It would go to hell. He knew well. He could have cried. He was in agony. Who could help him? It would just all go to hell, the team, the school, everything. All to Hell. He knew well. Well he knew. The shock alone would wreck everything. And those girls. Betty. He wanted to die. Was it the end of the line? Was that how things were—in this life? He was plunged into the most profound crisis of his entire life. He was in anguish—and suddenly also angry. Why him? Why, at such a tender point of his life, should he have to face such a crisis, terrible in the extreme? It was enough to poleax the most seasoned of human beings, adult stage. Why should he have to stand at those crossroads, agonizing beyond belief? He hated it. His tender age. Why was he selected for it? He wanted to run like lightning from it. Ben Shingle. He thought of him. . . . Everything was going along so smoothly. He really hated it. That stupid piece of paper. ... He thought of his mother. His father. Rusty Joe, Peppy. Surcher. His thoughts stayed with Peppy, that cute little animal, innocent little creature if ever there was one. or could be, anywhere, on this earth, anytime. . . . He knew he had to face it. There was absolutely no getting away from it. The sane thing. To do. His eyes were wet. His face was getting wet. The list was blurred. How he loved that little animal. He wished she were here now, so he could hold her, and stroke her. Betty. The tears flowed. He sat there, staring at that blurred list. Tiger. He wept . . . The moment, the event for all of them, was momentous, he knew, and ineradicable, well he knew. ... A million years from now, he was sure, he would still see himself, here, staring trancelike at that list. . . . no matter what he finally decided to do ... or who might walk in that door. . . .