The Nude Wore Blaсk

Chapter Seven

Another brainwashing. They were coming to interrogate him again. 'Interrogate'! Ha! Polite Commie word for torture! Sliver of light as the door to the torture cell eased open. Footsteps. Somebody new. Senses heightened, hearing acute, it was easy for Ogilvie to make the distinction. New footsteps. A woman. Well, they'd tried that before. Pleasure-punishment principle. She'd wheedle like the other Red broads had. And when that didn't work, they'd send in some burly Viet King-Cong to put the screws to him. But maybe this slant-eyed Red chick would slip. Maybe he'd be able to escape. Yes, he had to be very cunning and watch for the slightest opportunity. Escape! That's what he had to do! Escape!

Llona stood over the bed now and looked down at the white mound there. It was indistinct in the faint rays from the night-lamp. Shapeless, squeezed-together flesh tightly encased in a securely laced strait) acket. The confined body was lying face down.

"Archer?" Llona spoke hesitatingly. "Is that you, Archer?"

"Leave me alone, you Commie bitch!" The words came out muffled by the pillow in which his face was cur-ied.

Llona couldn't be sure if it was the voice of her Archer or not. It had been so long. She touched his shoulder, and the muscle there tensed under the material of the strait-jacket. "Won't you please turn over?" she asked. "So I can see your face."

"What drugs are you shooting today?" he sneered. "Mind-crackers, or truth serums? Whatever it is, I'm damned if I'll turn over. So you can just jab me in the rear and get it over with."

"You don't understand. You're confused. I'm your friend. More than a friend."

"Aha! The seduction technique. I figured it would only be a matter of time before they got around to that. I'll bet you're an all-American blonde stacked like the proverbial all-weather outhouse."

"Well, I am a blonde," Llona admitted. "And I guess I do have a good figure."

"Only at the last minute you turn into a Mongol torturer. If I turn over, I'lLsee a blonde, and then the switch. That's the agenda for breaking me down tonight, isn't it? Well, I'm not cooperating."

"I tell you I'm not your enemy!" Llona insisted.

"Yeah? Then prove it. Untie this Chinese puzzle I'm laced up in."

"I don't think I should do that. You're sick. You're bound for your own protection. So that you won't harm yourself."

"Okay, then. If you won't untie me, I won't turn over. Why should I cooperate with you if you won't cooperate with me?"

"Let me get a look at your face first, and maybe then I'll untie you," Llona hedged.

"Oh, no! That's what you pulled in Korea! Make a deal, break a deal-that's the Commie way. We Americans may be naive, but we're learning. You've got to put up before we fall for those tricks any more."

"I'm not a Communist," Llona protested.

"Then prove it. Set me free."

"I can't do that."

"Some friend," Ogilvie said cannily. "This is torture the way I'm trussed up here." He appealed to her sympathy.

"You certainly do look uncomfortable," Llona granted. "Maybe if you turned over…"

"I am uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable." Ogilvie tried a new tack. "If you won't help me out of this gismo, maybe you'll just loosen the ties a little," he pleaded.

"Well, I guess that won't do any harm…" She loosened the laces at the back of the strait jacket. "There! Now will you turn over?"

"It's still too tight. And the laces are cutting into me." Ogilvie was holding his breath and expanding his muscles so that there appeared to be more stress on his body than there actually was.

Llona further eased the tension on the strap-lacings of the straitjacket. "Now will you turn over?" she requested again.

Ogilvie turned over all right. He relaxed his muscles, took another deep breath, and then, with a burst of energy, tore free from his bonds. All this in the one motion as he turned over and hit Llona solidly on the jaw with his fist. She went crashing to the floor and lay there unconscious. She still hadn't seen Ogilvie's face.

Ogilvie counted it a lucky break when he found that the door to his cell hadn't been locked behind the interrogator. He slid it open cautiously and peered up and down the hall. No Commie bully-boys in sight. Good. He darted toward the barred gate at the end of the hall. No sentry there, either. Peculiar. But good. Good. The gate was locked. Bad! He heard voices coming from a side corridor leading into the main hall. They drew closer. Bad. Dangerous. They were talking in English. How come? No time to wonder about that. He had to hide. The linen closet. Good. Door slightly ajar. Good. Ogilvie slipped inside and shut the door behind him.

Pitch-black. Sounds of breathing. Heavy breathing. Frightened breathing, or fat man's wheeze, or a combination of both. Sinister fat man? A gaspy quality as if the breather were trying to keep the sound quieter, but only succeeding in magnifying it. What to do?

Sammy Spayed was confused and frightened. The glimpse of white jacket he'd seen had convinced him that the man who'd entered the closet must be an attendant or a doctor. But why was the man just standing there in the dark?

The wheezing was louder now. A fat belly brushed against Ogilvie's haunches. His mind tripped all over itself trying to judge the situation. If the fat man was a Viet Cong, then why was he hiding? A deserter, maybe? Or maybe a commando, or a spy from the South? Or-and suddenly this seemed most likely to Ogilvie-another escaped American prisoner like himself! He decided to take a chance that his last guess was right. But he also decided to take precautions just in case it wasn't.

Ogilvie turned around and put his hands firmly around the fat neck. The slightenst hint of an outcry and he'd strangle the other man. "You an American?" he whispered.

"Y-Yes," Sammy gulped, trembling.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" The hands tightened menacingly around the neck.

"Uhh… I could show you my driver's license," Sammy offered.

"No good. Couldn't see it in here, anyway."

"Oh. Well, umm, I think I have a match." Sammy started to fumble in his pockets.

"Keep your hands on top of your head!" Ogilvie snarled. "You try any more tricks like that and I'll tear your throat out! "

"S-Sorry," Sammy gasped.

"What are you doing in here, anyway?" Ogilvie demanded.

"Hiding," Sammy replied truthfully.

"From the Red guerrillas?"

"From the authorities," Sammy told him diplomatically.

"Me too." Ogilvie felt weak. "They been pumping drugs into me," he confided. "You too?"

"Just a little something for my hay fever."

"Hay fever? You been brainwashed?" Ogilvie asked suspiciously.

"No! No!" Sammy protested hastily as the hands around his neck tightened again.

"You sure? How do you feel about Police Review Boards?"

"I'm a detective. I'm against them."

"Co-existence?"

"Drop the bomb!" Sammy said desperately.

"Earl Warren?"

"Impeach him!"

"Okay." Ogilvie removed his hands. "I guess you're a hundred percent American all right. Now, Buddy, you got any ideas how we can get out of these Commie bastards' clutches?"

"No," Sammy admitted.

"Well, we can't stay here forever." Ogilvie inched the door open. "There's a guard at the end of the corridor near the gate," he hissed to Sammy. "Follow me and be very quiet. I'll clobber him, and you grab his keys."

"Gee, I don't know. I'm not very athletic," Sammy admitted.

"Duck soup." Ogilvie was already leading the way down the hall.

"I'm a little overweight and I have a touch of asthma and my feet are flat and' my teeth bother me a lot." Sammy delivered the litany as he followed in Ogilvie's wake.

"Shh!" Ogilvie crept up behind the attendant and felled him with one neat karate blow to the back of the neck. "You got the keys?" he asked Sammy.

"This kind of excitement isn't good for my blood pressure, either," Sammy told him.

"Jeez! How'd you ever get in the service, anyway?" Without waiting for an answer, Ogilvie knelt down and rifled the attendant's pockets himself. He came up with a ring of keys, tried a couple on the lock in the heavy metal door, and finally was successful.

The door swung open. Ogilvie led the way to the staircase, Sammy trailing dubiously in his wake. They'd just reached the landing of the floor below when the shout sounded from behind them. "Hey, you two! Stop!"

"Quick! Split!" Ogilvie shoved Sammy through the door into the hallway. He gave him a second shove that propelled him in one direction and then began running in the other direction himself. Still confused, Sammy plunged through the nearest doorway. A moment later, as a second shout sounded behind him, Ogilvie also sought a hiding place behind one of the doors off the hallway.

It was just as the shout sounded a third time, in the now empty hallway, that Llona regained consciousness in the cell on the floor above. She staggered to her feet, still a bit dazed, and shook her head. She was still trying to get oriented when Hannah burst into the room.

The fat girl's eyes swept over the scene, and then she nodded to herself. "So it was him," she said. "It figured. One of the attendants just reported to the doc in charge that he was slugged by a patient on the loose. In a minute they'll be checking all the cells to see who's flown the coop. You've got to get out of here."

Llona followed her out into the hallway. Hannah went to the linen closet. "Sammy!" she hissed. No answer. She called the name again and then opened the door. The linen closet was empty. "Now where the hell did he get to?" Hannah wondered. But there was no time to puzzle over it. She led Llona out through the gate and to the stairwell beyond. "Think you can find your way back to the office?" she asked.

"I think so."

"Good. Wait for me there. I'll see if I can find Sammy. Be careful nobody sees you." Hannah left her.

Llona tiptoed down to the floor below. Just as she reached it, a man came charging through the door from the landing, still shouting. Llona flattened herself against the wall behind the door, and the man didn't see her. White hospital coat flapping, he took the stairs two at a time, his shouts reduced to mutters now. Halfway up, he wheeled around, spied Llona, and yelled again. She bolted through the door, down the hallway, and into one of the rooms.

Llona didn't know it, but Ogilvie was already hiding from the very same pursuer in the room next to the one in which she'd sought refuge. At the moment, he was in the middle of a discussion with the occupant of the room. "Either you're for the American way, or you're against it," Ogilvie was insisting. "The fence has been torn down. You can't sit on it anymore."

"I don't know," the gaunt, skeletal man in the bed sighed. "'Ban the Bomb!' or 'Bomb the Banners!'? Confusion! Confusion! Confusion! I suppose that's why I'm here. I've lost all my buttons."

"You mean your marbles." Ogilvie corrected him.

"No. My buttons. I used to make them. That's how the confusion started."

"They wouldn't fit the buttonholes, or what?" Ogilvie asked.

"No-no-no! You don't understand." The skeletal patient was quite agitated. "Not that kind of buttons. Not for buttoning things, you understand. The kind of buttons I manufactured had slogans. For political campaigns, originally. Yes, that's how I started. I'll never forget my first button. 'VOTE FOR ALF LANDON.'"

"Most under-rated statesman of our time," Ogilvie commented. "He would have bombed Peking years ago."

"Perhaps. Perhaps. Anyway, things were simpler then. A slogan-button manufacturer could put out a product he had some faith in. Landon. Dewey. Even Taft. Not that it was all political, of course. There were Yankee and Dodger buttons and 'Beat Army!' buttons and Eli buttons and even high-school buttons. But nothing like what's happened today. Why, do you know that buttons today are fast replacing television as the chief means of non-communication between people. I mean it. People don't talk to each other. They just read each other's lapels."

"But that should have been good business for you," Ogilvie pointed out. "And WHAT'S GOOD FOR BUSINESS IS GOOD FOR AMERICA!"

"GOOD BUSINESS IS BAD PSYCHOLOGY," the button-maker replied. "That was one of my buttons. UP GM'S! That was another one. You see what I mean? I never knew what to believe."

"I BELIEVE IN THE AMERICAN WAY," Ogilvie proclaimed;

"YANKEE GO HOME!" the button-maker countered.

"FIGHT COMMUNISM!" "BETTER RED THAN DEAD!" "RIGHT IS MIGHT!" "LEFT IS LIFE!"

"LIBERALS ARE LIBERTINES!" Ogilvie gritted his teeth.

"LOVE THY NEIGHBOR'S WIFE!"

"LOVE THY NEIGHBOR'S WIFE!"

"WOULD YOU WANT YOUR DAUGHTER TO MARRY VLADIMIR NABOKOV?"

"STAMP OUT MARRIAGE!" "PRESERVE THE HOME!"

' "I'M FOR SEXUAL FREEDOM!" the button-maker countered.

"PROTECT CHILDREN FROM PORNOGRAPHY!" "PORNOGRAPHY IS FUN!"

"NUDITY IS LEWDITY!" Ogilvie snarled.

"BARE PLAY IS FAIR PLAY!" "DRESS FOR DECENCY!"

"GOD MADE MAN NAKED!" the button-maker quoted.

"GOD IS ALIVE AND WELL IN MEXICO CITY!" "GOD IS DEAD!" "JESUS LIVES!"

"JESUS WAS A DROPOUT!" the button-maker remembered.

"THE FAMILY THAT PRAYS TOGETHER STAYS TOGETHER!"

"TAX THE CHURCHES!"

"KEEP CHRIST IN CHRISTMAS!" Ogilvie insisted, sisted.

"DECK THE HALLS WITH BOSTON CHARLIE!" "LET GOD IN THE HALLS OF IVY!" "DON'T LET DIRKSEN PREY ON YOUR CHILD!"

"IMPEACH EARL WARREN!" Ogilvie was getting very red in the face.

"RESURRECT LENNY BRUCE!" "DRAFT WAYNE MORSE!" "DIAPER BOBBY KENNEDY!" "DRAFT LBJ!"

"DRAFT LBJ!"

"LSD NOT LBJ!" the button-maker sought common ground.

"IMPEACH JOHNSON!" There was agreement of a strange sort.

"LBJ-FIRST GREAT SOCIETY DROPOUT!" "LYNDON LOVES BARRY!" "LYNDON LOVES LENIN!"… in point-counterpoint.

"IS LB J AYN RAND IN DRAG?" the button-maker wondered.

"I STAND WITH AYN RAND!" "AYN LOVES BARRY!"

"JOSEPH HELLER IS A POLTROON!" Ogilvie retorted viciously.

"EDGAR ALLAN POE IS A LUSH!" Ogilvie swung wildly.

"SOCRATES EATS HEMLOCK!" The button-maker followed his lead.

"GENET LIKES BOYS!" "MARCEL PROUST IS A YENTA!" "HERMAN MELVILLE EATS BLUBBER!" "NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE IS A PRUDE!"

"ALDOUS HUXLEY TAKES DRUGS!" Ogilvie shouted.

"LET'S LEGALIZE POT!" "DOPE IS FOR DOPES!" "PSYCHEDELICIZE SUBURBIA!"

"SICK! SICK! SICK!" Ogilvie snarled.

"STAMP OUT MENTAL HEALTH!" the button-maker snapped back.

"SUPPORT MENTAL HEALTH OR I'LL KILL YOU!" said Ogilvie menacingly as he moved toward the button-maker…

Meanwhile, in a room at the other end of the hall, Sammy Spayed was having troubles of his own. The room was occupied by two men, and Sammy's entrance had sparked an argument between them which he now found himself in the position of attempting to arbitrate. Still, as an arbitrator, Sammy couldn't help feeling ignored.

"… not possible that barbarians could have performed such a feat," the dark-haired, Latin man was insisting vigorously. "Only a culture such as the Italian, founded on the glory which was Rome, could have produced a Columbus capable of discovering America."

"Culture snob! All you Italians are the same! Scandinavians were walking the shores of America while you Italians were crawling around the ruins of the Roman Empire!" The blond, blue-eyed Norwegian looked at his roommate with contempt.

"Just listen to him!" the Italian turned to Sammy for support. "He talks like Italians invented the idea of Columbus discovering America. It's history! How can he argue with that? Vice-President Humphrey was right. If this prejudice against Italian-Americans persists, they'll be claiming Joe DiMaggio couldn't hit and Da Vinci did really paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel!"

"Humphrey! That politician! The only reason he took sides is that there was an election going on in New York and there were lots more Italian voters than Norwegian! But there's proof that Leif Erickson discovered America! Positive proof!"

"What difference does it make?" Sammy interjected mildly. "Whoever discovered America, it was hundreds of years ago. Why fight about it now?"

"History must acknowledge the accomplishments of the Vikings!" the Norseman insisted.

"Italian honor demands that Columbus be recognized!"

"Italian honor!" the Norwegian sneered. "It is typified by the army surplus sale which took place in Rome directly following the Second World War. Ten thousand army rifles were placed on sale and advertised as never fired in anger and only dropped once. Five thousand tanks were sold under cost because the rear gear was stripped on each and every one of them."

"Canard! Base canard!" the Italian sputtered.

"And culture! Italian culture," the Norwegian continued, ignoring the Italian's outrage. "Do you know how many Italians it takes to pull off a kidnapping?" he asked Sammy.

"No." Sammy played straight man. "How many?"

"Six. One to snatch the victim. One to drive the car. And four to write the kidnap note."

Sammy giggled.

"Bigot!" the Italian accused. "Perpetrator of ethnic stereotypes! Barbarian!"

"Do you know why Italians aren't allowed to swim in the East River?" the Norwegian asked Sammy.

"No. Why?"

"Because they leave a ring around the pier!" The Norwegian chortled. "And do you know how you tell a bride at an Italian wedding?"

"How?"

"She's the one with the clean bowling shirt."

"That's a lie!" The Italian was apoplectic. "And it has nothing to do with Columbus. The greatest explorer- Who but an Italian could have-?"

"Columbus!" The Norwegian snorted his contempt. "The fact is that I can prove conclusively that no Italian could possibly have discovered America because no Italian has anything remotely like a sense of direction. Why, do you know that they won't even hire Italians as elevator operators because they always forget the route?"

"Hun! Barbarian! Savage!" the Italian shouted. "Vandal! Cultureless destroyer of ancient, hallowed civilizations! Robber of historical truths! Next thing you'll be claiming Julius Caesar was a Svenska!"

"Why get excited?" Sammy pleaded. "Even if Leif Erickson did get here before Columbus, that can't take away the other attainments of Italians. Their art, their opera, their sculpture-"

"Their Mussolini," the Norwegian stuck in spitefully.

"Name one Scandinavian accomplishment that can com pare with the contributions Italians have made to the world!" the Italian demanded. "Go on! Name just one!"

"We discovered America!" the Norwegian said triumphantly.

"But what difference-" Sammy started to say for the upteenth time…

"Don't be afraid." Llona had also spoken the words quite a few times before. "I'm not going to hurt you." Each time she tried to make her tone imbue reassurance.

But it didn't seem to work. The strapping young man occupying the bed in the room in which Llona now found herself seemed anything but reassured. His beefy face was contorted with fear and his once steely blue eyes were on the verge of tears. Even his muscular frame was trembling at the threat posed by the intruder.

"Maybe if you tried telling me what you're afraid of," Llona suggested, "we might work it through together."

"Decisions," the hulking patient admitted in a voice that was almost a whisper. "I can't face making decisions."

"But you don't have to make any decision," Llona told him soothingly. "There's nothing to decide."

"Yes, there is. There is something to decide. But I can't do it."

"What?" Llona asked logically. "What is there to decide?"

"Whether to scream or not." His voice was so low now that Llona could barely hear it.

"But what is there to scream about?"

"You."

"Me?"

"You."

"But why should I make you scream? A great big hunk of man like you?"

"Because you're authority. Or you're defying authority. I can't decide. And if you are authority, I can't decide if I should scream or not. And if you're not authority, I can't decide whether or not to scream. You see, that's why I'm here. That's why I had my breakdown in the first place."

"Well," Llona opined, "I certainly don't think you should scream. Absolutely not. Screaming would be childish. It would be giving in to your illness-whatever it is. I'll tell you what, to get your mind off screaming, why don't you tell me what it is that's responsible for your being here. Maybe I can help you."

"Help me?" His voice rose. "Then you are authority!"

"No, I'm not."

"If you're not, then why should you help me?"

"Just out of human feeling."

"Human feeling? Then you're anti-authority. And that means you have no right to be here. Which means I should scream for help."

"No, it doesn't. What do you need help for?" Llona asked quickly. "Surely a tough-looking bruiser like you can handle a weak woman like me."

"Not any more. Not any more, I can't. I can't handle anything. Not any more." His voice stayed low, but he was obviously very disturbed.

"Tell me about it," Llona suggested, stalling for time. "You'll feel better if you tell me about it."

"That's what they all say. All the ones in authority. You sure you're not an authority figure?"

"I'm sure."

"Then I should scr-"

"No-no-no!" Llona interrupted firmly. "We've been all through that. You shouldn't scream. You should just tell me about it."

"I should? Oh, all right. You see, that's one of my problems, too. I accept things too easily. I'm too prone to go along with whatever anybody suggests. And then when somebody else suggests just the opposite, I accept that, too."

"I see. How did it all start?" Llona prodded.

"How? Well, I guess it started when I graduated from the Police Academy in New York City. They assigned me to a beat out in Queens. That was when O'Connor was D. A. I wanted to be a good cop, to uphold the law. But I had no idea how hard it would be."

"A policeman's lot is not an easy one," Llona agreed.

"You can say that again."

"A policeman's lot-"

"Yeah. Yeah. Skip it. Anyway, the first dichotomy (how's that for a cop-word?) came when I was assigned to a meeting in a high school of this organization dedicated to promoting decent literature and stamping out the other kind. You know, I was on duty there just in case there was any trouble. Not that any was really expected, and not that there was any trouble. Well, this outfit had samples of the kind of cheesecake pictures they wanted not to be available to kids posted on two bulletin boards on either side of the stage in the high school auditorium. Before the meeting started, just about every man there went up for a look at those pictures. They'd stand there, staring, shaking their heads and clucking their tongues and staring some more. I guess it was an eye-opener for them, but it was even more of an eye-opener for me."

"What do you mean?" Llona asked.

"It began to dawn on me that when you scratch a blue-nose, you invariably find a lecher. See, I always accepted these values. That's why I became a cop. To me, right was right, and wrong was wrong. But watching these paunchy, middle-aged, married types licking their lips over these pictures they were trying to have banned, I began to see where things weren't that simple. But it was when O'Connor spoke that I really got confused."

"What did he say?"

"He said that under the law, these cheesecake magazine publishers and book publishers were allowed to publish this kind of stuff. Then he said that his office was dedicated to harassing them anyway. He implied that while they couldn't win any cases in the courts, by harassing the publishers he could make it so hot for them that they'd think twice about publishing what he called 'salacious material.' The audience applauded him, but I was more confused than ever."

"Why were you confused?"

"Well, if the law says it doesn't have jurisdiction, then how can a public official sworn to uphold the law justify badgering people? That's what I asked myself that night. And about a month later I asked it again-of myself, I mean. I was sent out on a raid to pull some of these very magazines off the newsstands in Queens. The order came from down O'Connor's office. And I realized it was a waste of police time and taxpayers' money because there was no real infraction of law involved. It was just a case of pandering to the morality set up by one self-appointed censorship group. Maybe it got O'Connor votes later on, but what I couldn't reconcile was that police power was being used to pressure people who hadn't broken any law. Indeed, when the state legislature, some time later, tried to pass a law that would have justified raids such as ours, it was defeated because many of the lawmakers felt the Supreme Court would throw it out as unconstitutional. So you see, all this was the beginning of the confusion in my mind between authority and anti-authority. Later on that confusion just seemed to grow and grow."

"How do you mean?" Llona wanted to know.

"Well, you have to understand that I only carried out orders."

"So did Adolf Eichmann," Llona couldn't stop herself from pointing out.

"Then you do understand. But the difference with me was that one authority said one thing and another authority said something else entirely. The law of the land said a man can't be forced to testify against himself, but the precinct captain said it was part of my job to get a suspect to confess. The law of the land said you couldn't invade a man's home without a warrant, but New York State law gave the cops permission to try to get around that. The Constitution says a man can walk the street without fear of being accosted by police, but the state gave us permission to stop and frisk, and many an upper-echelon cop encouraged his men to do just that. Police are supposed to carry out the law, but I found out that lots of my superiors thought it was their job to make it. Like I said, the confusion in my mind kept growing until the whole business of a Civilian Review Board came along. That was the straw that broke the camel's back."

"You were against it," Llona guessed.

"Sure I was. I was a cop, wasn't I? Maybe some of the boys do get a little rougher than they have to sometime, but-"

"A policeman's lot is not an easy one," Llona repeated, finishing the sentence for him.

"Exactly. I may have been confused, but I was still a cop. So I campaigned against the Civilian Review Board every chance I got. How could I have known that it would be the issue that would send me straight to the laughing academy?"

"What happened?"

"I was sent out one day with the tow truck for parking violations. Remember, there was a campaign on then to crack down on drivers who parked their cars illegally in the midtown area. The idea was to ticket them fast and tow them away. Then they'd get charged a fine for illegal parking, a. towing fee, and a storage fee by the city for keeping their car."

"Let the punishment fit the crime," Llona murmured.

"I don't know about that. I was just acting under orders. Anyway, this particular day I tagged a car on Lexington Avenue, and I'm helping the guy with the tow truck hook on to the vehicle when the driver comes on the scene. He protests that he's there, and so there's no reason to tow the car away. I point out that the law says it should be towed away anyway, and that's what we're going to do. Well, this character gets real red in the face and steam starts coming out of his ears and first thing I know, he's lying right down in the street in front of his car and refusing to move. Well, a crowd collects and they're cheering the guy on and jeering at me and the situation is really getting out of hand. So I call the precinct and the captain send the lieutenant down to straighten things out. When the lieutenant gets there, first thing he notices something I missed."

"What was that?" Llona wondered.

"Plastered all over the back of this guy's bumper are stickers saying 'SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL POLICE!' and 'STOP CIVILIAN REVIEW BOARD!' " "Oh."

"Yeah. Oh. Well, the lieutenant calls me around to the back of the car and points these bumper stickers out to me. You can imagine how I felt. Here I am caught in the middle. On the one hand this guy is supporting my cause. On the other, he's breaking the law and I'm a cop and I'm supposed to enforce the law. The way he's lying in the street now is a clear case of interfering with an officer in the performance of his duty. I point this out to the lieutenant. The lieutenant points out the bumper stickers to me again. Is he telling me to let the guy go? I put it to the lieutenant. He isn't telling me nothing. That's the lieutenant's only word. Let my conscience be my guide, says he. So there I am. I have to make up my own mind. Do I arrest this guy? Or do I appreciate his stand and let him go? It's a predicament."

"A conflict of interest," Llona defined it.

"Yeah. So I stood there and thought about it. And the more I thought about it, the more confused I got."

"Only a civilian without any axe to grind for the police could have decided," Llona suggested.

"Hey! You know that's true. Some higher authority not connected with the police. That's what there ought to be in cases like that. Somebody or some group that could be impartial."

"Like a Civilian Review Board," Llona said very softly.

"You trapped me!" He looked at her with an injured air. "Just for that, I think I will scream."

"No! Don't do that!" Llona urged hastily. "Tell me how you worked it out. You must have done something. So maybe I'm wrong. Maybe the police don't need supervision. What did you do?"

"I cracked," the patient admitted. "I flipped. I couldn't make the decision. I couldn't decide what was authority and what was anti-authority. I couldn't decide where my obligation was. I couldn't decide whether to support him because he was supporting the police, or to arrest him because he was breaking the law. So I broke down. I'm ashamed to admit it. I started crying. That's all I remember. Crying. And then being in the station house with this police psychiatrist asking me all kinds of questions. And then coming here."

"How come they sent you here?" Llona wondered. "After all, this is a long way from New York."

"Oh, the PBA looks after its own. I guess they figured I'd get better treatment here. After all, in a way I was incapacitated in the line of duty."

"Or maybe they thought it would be better to have you far, far away," Llona took a stab. "After all, your predicament could have been embarrassing with that referendum coming up."

"That wasn't it!" He sounded positive. "Or was it?" Now there was doubt in his voice. "Anyway, that's how come I'm here. And that's how come I can't decide what to do about your being in here. I just can't make decisions any more."

Fate stepped in to relieve the ex-cop of the responsibility of making this particular decision. The door to the room opened, and Hannah's bulk filled the entryway. "Here you are!" she exclaimed. "I've been looking everywhere for you. I thought I told you to go down to the office and wait there!"

"At last!" The ex-cop took in Hannah's white uniform. "An authority figure. Tell me what to do."

"Close your eyes and pretend you never saw this girl," Hannah told him.

He closed his eyes and pretended he'd never seen Llona.

"I ran into an attendant and had to hide," Llona explained as Hannah hustled her out of the room.

"Well, never mind. I'm going to take you back to the office myself. And you wait there until I can find Sammy and get the two of you out of here. If they ever trace your being here to me, I'm out of a job." Having made her point, Hannah fell silent as she led Llona back to the office. When they got there, she spoke again. "I have to go back and find Sammy," she told Llona. "You'd better get back in the closet and wait there while I'm gone in case someone comes into the office. I'll bring Sammy back here and then help the two of you get off the premises. I won't breathe easy until you're gone. I never should have agreed to any of this in the first place."

"Why did you?"

"That Sammy is a devil. So masterful. What woman could resist him?"

Llona didn't really feel it necessary to ponder that question as she waited alone in the darkness of the closet after Hannah left. As far as she was concerned, Sammy Spayed was one of the most resistible men she'd ever met. Still, she could understand how Hannah felt. When a woman's body yearned, that yearning was apt to grow into an obsession centering around the first man who paid any serious attention to it. And, after all, wasn't that the way it was where she and Archer were concerned? Which reminded Llona that she still hadn't seen the face of Archibald Ogilvie, and set her to wondering again if the elusive and violent Ogilvie really was her Archer.

As her thoughts dwelt on him, Ogilvie was still occupied with the button-maker. A zealous light lent menace to his eyes as he stood threateningly over the bed. "What do you believe in?" he snarled.

"I BELIEVE IN THE AMERICAN WAY!" the button-maker quoted. There was a note of desperation in his voice. He sensed that he was in danger. His brain struggled to push forth the thoughts of the right buttons.

"What else?" Ogilvie demanded.

"I WALK WITH GOD!"

"And?"

"HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS!"

"What do you fight?"

"I FIGHT POVERTY. I WORK."

"What else?"

"MY COUNTRY, MAY SHE ALWAYS BE RIGHT -AND THE FARTHER RIGHT THE BETTER!"

"Very good. For a while there I thought you were one of them. I have to be going now. I have to make my break and try to make it back to our lines. Goodbye, and- BOMB HANOI!"

"BE PROUD OF AMERICA! FLY THE FLAG!" the button-maker replied as Ogilvie opened the door. "FUCK FOR FREEDOM!" he added under his breath as the door closed behind Ogilvie. "COPULATE FOR COEXISTENCE!"

Ogilvie made a beeline down the hall toward the staircase. Just as he reached it he heard footsteps coming from below. He went up half a flight and waited, ready to bolt, eyes fastened on the landing below. A fat girl in a hospital uniform appeared and entered the hallway Ogilvie had just left. He waited until she was out of sight and then started downward. On the ground floor he headed down the hallway toward the front door. Before he could reach it, the door was pushed open and a man and woman entered the hallway. The woman was very agitated, and the man was attempting to soothe her. Ogilvie recognized both of them. He ducked quickly into a doorway before they could see him.

On the other side of the door he waited and listened as their voices drew closer. When the possibility increased that they might enter the room, Ogilvie dived for a door on the opposite side, opened it, and closed it behind him. It was pitch-black inside. Ogilvie dropped to a crouch on his hands and knees. Just in case the door opened, he wanted to be ready to spring to the attack before he was seen. He crept to one side of the closet and slowly raised his head.

It had all happened too fast for Llona to see anything save the sudden flash of light as the door opened and closed. She huddled to the side and toward the back of the medical supply closet. She stood with her feet wide apart, braced for whatever might come. But she wasn't prepared for what did happen.

The head rose under her skirt, the ears grazing the in-sides of her naked thighs. At first her thighs parted in reaction to the unexpected contact. Then they contracted involuntarily, catching the head between them and holding it there. She gasped as a hot flush swept her body when the head, struggling, turned upward and the hps made contact of the most intimate nature. She was about to scream, but the sound of voices beyond the closet door stilled her voice with the greater fear of being discovered. The voices also stilled the protest which had been on the insinuating lips of the head pinned between her thighs.

"My baby!" The woman's voice was a sob. "We must find him before he harms himself. My poor, impulsive Archibald. Remember the last time? They'd almost sworn him in as a Marine before we rescued him. I shudder to think of how close it was. The nick of time. And now he's loose again! We must find him quickly! We must!"

"We're doing everything we can, Mrs. Ogilvie." Llona recognized the voice of the doctor who had been in the office with Hannah earlier in the evening. "Depend on our efficiency. Look how quickly the staff contacted you and me. If we're lucky, we'll find your son before he even gets off the grounds."

"My poor boy! Driven to homosexuality by women! Driven to war by his madness!"

"Driven mad by his mother," the doctor murmured.

"What? What did you say?"

"Nothing, Mrs. Ogilvie. Nothing at all. Just be patient. We're doing everything we can."

"But suppose he manages to enlist before you find him?"

"Then we'll have him released. The information you've supplied us adds up to an obvious case of homosexuality. I'm sure that any of the armed services will accept our diagnosis."

"Well, it's true," Mrs. Ogilvie sniffled. "He can't stand women."

Can't stand women? Llona's mind was in a whirl. She had guessed by now that the head between her thighs must belong to Archibald Ogilvie. But if he was her Archer, then her recollection was that he was anything but against women. Ergo! He couldn't be the Archer she sought. But just as she arrived at this disappointing con-elusion, the head moved slyly, the teeth nibbled at the flimsy silken material covering the juncture of her thighs, and the warm tongue dipped upward in such a way as to throw the conclusion into a cocked hat-or whatever kind of hat the opposite gender over one's head might imply. Can't stand women? The woman, Llona decided, just didn't know her son-whether her son turned out to be the right Archer or not. Llona wriggled a bit-more from desire than for comfort. The teeth ripped the material completely out of the way in response to her movement.

"I wish Hannah would get here," the doctor mused. "I'm sure she could bring us up to date on the situation."

He was wrong. Hannah, at the moment, was quite out of touch with the situation. Indeed, she was involved in quite another situation. It was a situation involving the extrication of Sammy Spayed from his role as arbiter between two ethnically devoted kooks.

"He can't leave," the Italian insisted. "Not until he confirms the glory of Columbus."

"Fair play demands that he tell this misinformed Itali-ano who really discovered America," the Norwegian thundered. "He must do that before he goes."

"What difference-?" Sammy kept muttering. "What difference-?"

"Italian honor demands-!"

"Viking history has a right-!"

"Now look," Hannah interceded. "It's 'way past time for you two boys to be asleep. Come on now. Say good night to the nice man and go beddy-bye. No more arguing. If you're good boys, I'll talk to the doctor about some extra hydrotherapy for you tomorrow. But if you're bad – Electric shock treatment!"

"Not until he decides who's right," the Italian whined.

"Not until he says," the Norwegian echoed.

"Look! I'll decide! Okay?" Hannah offered.

"All right," they agreed. "Who discovered America? Who do you say it was?"

Hannah pushed Sammy out the open doorway. "Who discovered America?" she repeated the question. "I'll tell you who. Henry Miller. That's who. Henry Miller discovered the real America." And she quickly closed the door on their mutual protests.

"I thought I'd never get out of there," Sammy sighed with relief.

"Well, you're out, lover. Now come on along. That girl is waiting for us downstairs. I've got her stashed away in the supply closet. Let's go get her and hustle the two of you out of here." She started down the stairs at a trot with Sammy behind her. "I must have lost twenty pounds on these damn stairs tonight," she wheezed.

"Not where it counts." Sammy watched her bobbling derriere, and as they reached the bottom of the steps he reached out and bestowed a fond pinch.

"Later, lover." Hannah simpered. "We don't have time now." Cautiously, she opened the door to the office.

Not cautiously enough. "Hannah!" The doctor identified the nose peeping through the crack in the door. "Come in here. We've been waiting for you. What's happening?"

Reluctantly, Hannah entered the office. Unthinkingly, Sammy followed behind her.

"Who's that?" The doctor pointed at Sammy.

Hannah thought fast. "This is Mr. Spayed," she said glibly. "He's a friend of mine. And he also happens to be a private detective. When Mr. Ogilvie escaped tonight, I called Mr. Spayed up and asked him to come right over. I was sure his professional assistance could be very helpful to us."

"There!" The doctor turned to Mrs. Ogilvie. "Do you see with what efficiency and dispatch the staff of this institution acts, Mrs. Ogilvie? Can you doubt our efforts to find your son? We've even got a detective on the job." He turned to Sammy. "Tell me, Mr. Spayed, have you uncovered any leads as to the missing patient's whereabouts?

Sammy's brow furrowed. He seemed to be thinking very hard through a very long moment of expectant silence. Finally, he spoke. "Uhh, no," he said in a tone that couldn't have been more sure of itself.

"My poor boy!" Mrs. Ogilvie dissolved in tears.

Her "poor boy," at the moment, was incapable of responding to the mother's grief in her voice for the simple reason that he couldn't hear it. And the reason that he couldn't hear it was the flesh of Llona's thighs was shutting out all sound from his eardrums. Indeed, as his avid mouth searched higher and higher, the pressure on his ears increased and his head began to feel like an acorn caught in a nutcracker. Nevertheless, his aroused passion proved far stronger than his discomfort.

His hands clawed at Llona's plump buttocks now for support. On his knees, his back arched and his neck stretching, he held her nether-lips in a prolonged, exquisite kiss. Llona moaned, and her nails raked the back of his neck through the material of her skirt as she squatted lower and lower to receive the full benefit of the unorthodox-but highly pleasurable-osculation.

Ogilvie attempted to pull away, suddenly threatened with imminent suffocation. But Llona only held him tighter, more insistently, her hips writhing like twin egg-beaters as the tunnel of her passion seemed bent on enveloping him. Finally his superior strength prevailed. He yanked his head free from between her thighs. But immediately his panic vanished and his desire reasserted itself. He pulled her ankles out from under her, catching her so that her body made no sound as it settled to the floor. He pushed her skirt up over her still undulating hips and likewise raised the tail of the hospital garment he was wearing. Then he sprawled over her and lunged.

Too hard! His ankle caught on one of the shelves even as Llona's urgently whispered cry of "Archer! Archer!" tickled his ear. There was a loud crash as the shelf collapsed, and a collection of vials and bottles poured over them in an antiseptic-smelling avalanche. An instant later the closet door was flung open, and light flooded over the scene.

Four faces peered down at them. None of the four was capable of speech. Nor was Archibald Ogilvie. He was still half-dazed by the alcohol bottle which had ricocheted off his cranium. And the other half of him was lost in the passion evidenced by the outrageously swollen manhood poised at the gates to Llona's oscillating aperture. Also, the sudden light shining in his eyes blinded him.

But not Llona. She wasn't blinded. And she was the first to speak. Her voice broke the silence as her eyes fo-cussed on Archibald Ogilvie for the first time.

"You're not Archer," she said disappointedly. "You're not my Archer!"

Once again her quest had proven in vain.