Pretty maids all in a row

31

“Mm mm mm—“ Mona moaned "Ohhhh—"

Tiger couldn’t agree more, and he told her so, murmuring to her. What a great kid. What a girl. What a hon bun. He kissed her again and again, gratefully. What a throbbing girl. What a reward. Long months patiently thinking of her, watching her, wondering about her. Marvelous reward. Triumphantly, gloriously, mutually—patience’s reward. He viewed the situation in bliss, in all its exquisite glory. Warm. She w-as so warm. On his lap, still. Tiny pulsations

Pretty Maids All in a Row 183 still. He loved the warmth, the last tiny pulsations of bliss. The embers of that great bliss. What bliss. How deep had he probed? Embracing her, giving her face whisper kisses, Tiger wondered that. He thought of her stars. He would be generous and how. Two at least. Tiged mused. With a kiss. “You liked that?” He murmured low.

"Ohhhhh—”

“I loved it, hon—”

“Mmmmmmm—”

“Deep enough?”

“Ohhh—Were you deep—” She kissed him.

“Like that way?”

“It’s quite a way—”

“It’s a way—”

“Hope I don’t have a baby—”

“Not much chance—”

“Hope I don’t—”

“You won’t—” He kissed her again. They gave little kisses to one another’s lips. “Next time—” he said, “We’ll try another way—” He said— “And—I’ll give you a little something—to take—” The little kisses flew— “You take them like I say—then—everything—will be O.K.” She sighed, she moaned, “O.K.?” She nodded her head. "No worries no more .”

“Tiger. Ohhhh—” She embraced him.

She was all set again, Tiger couldn’t help note, amazed, almost, but, as always, open-minded, and ready for all things. He stirred, taking her warm, wet lips in full form. What lips. What marvelous lips. Her gorgeous tongue probed—

"Let’s go on the floor—”

He murmured low. . . .

“I didn’t touch her!” shouted the boy, whirling around to face Surcher, who sat absolutely unruffled, in that comfortable chair.

“Who said you did?” He asked, calmly.

“Well quit screwing around—” the boy said.

“Who’s screwing around, Jim?”

“You are.”

“Jim—listen—” Surcher said, quietly, calmly, as ever, “Sit down, let’s talk awhile—”

“What’s there to talk about?”

“Well—Jim—we’ve got a problem—” Surcher said, “Quite a problem—” He also said— “Look at it—Somebody, somewhere around here, probably yesterday morning, probably during Assembly, we think, killed that girl. You know that.” He paused “This guy is running around, somewhere, we think around here.” He paused again. “See the problem?”

“I’m not that guy.”

“Did I say you were?”

“You don’t have to„ man.”

“Jim—put yourself in my shoes—"

“You talked to the others only ten minutes—maybe.”

“Did they write the letter?”

The boy stood still. Then, he moved a few steps toward Surcher.

“That letter can’t prove a thing,” He said, quietly. “You can’t pin this on me.”

“I don’t want to, my boy,” Surcher said, in all sincerity, “I just want to find the guy.”

“I don't know about that.”

“You’ll have to believe that.”

“Why should I?”

“Well what good would it do?”

“Make a hero out of you.”

“Are you kidding? A monkey, you mean.”

There was silence. The boy stood there.

“Sit down, Jim,” Surcher said.

Slowly, the boy did so.

“Now,” Surcher said, leaning forward slightly, over his notepad, “Let’s start from the beginning again—”

33

“TigerГ Mona moaned, beside herself, once more.

“Aren’t you a hon—”

“Ohhh—what fun—”

“You bun—”

It had been even more spectacular on the floor, Tiger mused, finally withdrawing from her. She continued to sigh and moan, she held him close. It had been superb, without a doubt, and he was more than ever in favor of a free and complete mixing of the races, all the races, particularly white and colored. Particularly, Tiger mused, feeling her warm form pressed close. That marvelous form. Milk chocolate, really, that’s it. What a form. He perused and admired her form, he fondled her marvelous orbs, cupping them in his hands. The uplift was a sight to behold, a gift of the gods, he tried to think just who had more. It was much more than he had bargained for. A class of its own. The sweet tips sang. Truly they sang. Forever more. He thought of those two stars. Was he being generous enough?

“How long can we stay?” The girl said, cuddled on his shoulder. She murmured low.

He was impressed. He thought: More than two. Definitely.

“Better break fairly soon,” he murmured, “Fairly soon —Honey.”

“Mmmm—” said the girl, “Mmmmm—” She moaned.

“I feel the same,” Tiger said, helping her up.

“Look at me,” Mona said.

Tiger did, grinning, admiring her naked form.

“You’re a beauty. You’re beautifully formed. I could pet you all day. Know that?” He murmured.

She snuggled up in his arms, making soft little sounds, rubbing herself exquisitely, against him. Tiger chuckled, and urged her away from him.

“No more for now.”

“You’re a tiger you are—”

“Ah ha—save some for next time—”

“When will that be?”

“Soon as I can.”

“Let me know?”

“Don’t worry—I’ll let you know.”

She was fondling his love tool again. Gently, Tiger drew away. Without a doubt, it could go on all day.

“Let’s get dressed.” He said, tenderly.

“You’re spilling out of me—”

Tiger grinned, nodded at her.

“There’s a box of Kleenex over there.”

“Help me get dressed.”

He did just that, in gradual steps, giving her a little kiss, a nip, a caress, now and again. She loved that.

Finally, they were both dressed. She was smiling happily, dreamily, at him. She looked great in her dress.

“Well—” she said, “What’s the result of my test?”

Tiger grinned, she was a good-humored lass. A touch of wit, no less.

“We’ll discuss that next time,” he said.

“Promise that?”

“More than that.”

“I hope I passed.”

Cuddling her, Tiger said, ‘‘Now look—let’s just keep this our own little secret—O.K.?”

“But O.K.—” She said, her hands gliding downward again.

“Uh uh—and look—Here’s this little bottle for you—” She looked at the bottle he held. She smiled. She took it from him.

“See, it tells you on there how to take—”

She nodded, gave him a little kiss.

‘The little darlings work wonders—no kidding, hon—” “Are they The Pill?” Mona asked.

‘That’s right.”

“That’s wonderful!’' She said.

“I think they’re great. Just do as it says on the bottle.

O.K.?”

“O.K.”

“Promise?”

“Sure I do.”

“That’s the way. Then—no problems. Only fun.”

“Let me kiss you—Mmmmmm—”

“Let me know—when you run low—”

“I want one little kiss—Whitey—” She murmured.

Tiger chuckled.

“You’re some lovely honey,” he said, giving her a little peck, loving those lips.

“See you soon.”

“How do I look?”

“Good as new.”

She laughed her soft little laugh, he walked her to the door.

"Bye—for now—” She murmured to him.

“Be good—” He grinned at her.

She left.

Tiger, feeling very good, returned to his desk.. . ,

34

“Jim—” Surcher said, in his quiet way, “What I’m trying to do is get at the facts. In other words, the truth. I’m not after you.” He paused, observing the lad. “If you didn’t harm that girl, there’s nothing for you to worry about. Not a thing. Believe me.” Again he paused. “That’s a fact” They sat silently.

The Captain shifted around in Proffer’s chair. He put his feet on one of the desk drawers, which he had slightly pulled out. His hands were linked across his stomach.

“See, Jim—or Kid—I’ll call you Jim—The real problem here, as far as you’re concerned, is that note.” He paused. “I mean, both notes—the one you wrote to Jill, with your prints all over it, and—the one that was pinned to her.” He paused, keeping his eyes on Jim. "By somebodyHe paused again. “I guess you heard about that.”

The boy nodded, “Yeh, I did.” Then he said, “Whose prints were on it?”

Surcher waited before dealing with that. He was impressed with the shrewdness of the lad. He was no dumb kid. He wasn’t, in truth, sure about the boy. It could—or couldn’t be. He was only maneuvering now, trying to find out. And he wasn’t going to let himself be outfoxed. Prints or no prints, he could be his man. So he played his cards as close as he could, answering now.

“Whose do you think, Jim?”

“Not mine, man.”

Surcher watched the lad.

“That would look pretty bad."

“Were they?” The boy asked.

“Jim—why do you think you’re in here with me so long?” Surcher tried.

“The hell they were,” the boy said.

“Did you wipe them off?”

“You make me laugh!”

“But what if you didn’t get them all off?”

“What a load of crap!”

He asked, finally, “Is there football practice tonight, Jim?”

“There is."

Surcher moved from his comfortable position and leaned forward on the desk. He looked at the folder’s contents again. He made a few notes on his pad. He finally spoke but didn’t look up at the lad.

He said.

35

Ponce was in Trigonometry class, and he was feeling bad. If there was anything by itself, not to mention everything else, it was Trigonometry that could make him feel bad. He had to take it, for it was part of the Academic course, of course, and Mummer was the teacher. He could never hope to get into State if he didn’t pass it, either. Or anywhere, for that matter, that he knew of. He had always

Pretty Maids All in a Row 189 had a pretty rough time with Mathematics, especially that end comprising Algebra, Geometry, and Trigonometry. Was it a coincidence they were all taught by Mummer? Could he have made out better if the teacher had been another? He wondered. He often wondered. When he got to college, maybe, he would know. He knew he would have to take Algebra, his first year. At the moment, he was in anguish. That queer Mummer was babbling away up there —about something. Ponce was baffled. He couldn’t latch on to it. How had he ever got through Geometry? Algebra? True, he had just scraped through, but in Geometry, especially, he knew nothing. From time to time, even now, looking back on it, he wondered just what it was all about. He had once discussed his Mathematics problem with Tiger. He had been very understanding, in sum telling Ponce it didn’t matter. His talents lay elsewhere. Ponce knew it. Did Mummer? Would that creep give him just one more break now? Especially now? He thought, forlornly. He tried hard, he studied, he listened. Sometimes, he was sure he was just about to break through that solid wall and find himself on the other side, in the golden sunlight, basking and at last understanding the gibberish that was Trigonometry. Then, suddenly, the wall held, and he was back where he was, Nowhere. That was the moment of darkest despair, always. For then he felt he never would, no matter what he did. It just wasn’t in him. Definitely, he would have to see Tiger again about it For somehow, he had to get through this course, It didn’t particularly matter to him how he did—short of letting Mummer blow him. There, absolutely, he called a halt, and how he did. He’d rather die first. Sighing, he looking at Mona Drake, in the seat alongside him. She seemed to know what was going on. She seemed with it. She followed Mummer’s incomprehensible patter without a tremor. The rows and rows and columns of utterly mysterious figures apparently meant something to her. In fact, right now, she looked dreamy-eyed, almost in love with it. How could that be? Ponce was mystified. He stared at her. Maybe he could get her to help him with it. He wondered about that. He would ask her. She was a dark beauty, without a doubt of it. She was warm, just the sort of warmth that could help him get it. That queer Mummer—he could forget him. Ponce felt resentful. What the hell was it all in aid of, anyhow? Was he going to be a stupid engineer or something? Why did he need it? Why did the colleges require it? He smoldered over it, knowing there was little he could probably do about it—except try and get through it. Definitely, he would approach Mona. She had come to class a few minutes late. She had been tied up in the Guidance/Counseling office, with Tiger, she had explained. Was he testing her? What test had he sprung on her? Ponce wondered. He would ask her. That damn Mummer. If he was anything but what he was Ponce could have a heart-to-heart talk with him, about the thing. He might get that break. As it was —a talk with him. Suddenly Ponce got an idea. What if he cornered him—unless he gave him a break? For a moment or two, Ponce was excited about the idea. It sounded great! Poetic justice—almost! But then—he knew it was something he couldn’t do. Besides, it was stupid. It just wouldn’t do. Again, he was blue. Mona, Tiger—somehow, between them, he’d make it through, What a gorgeous girl she was though. Ponce mused about her, that curvaceous, gorgeous colored girl. What a girl. He thought of Jill. Suddenly, hitting rock bottom again, he saw that poor girl. He missed her, he felt an empty spot alright, without her around. When was the funeral? Saturday, he had heard. Practically the whole school would be there. He knew. He didn’t look forward to being there. Funerals were bad, this one was appallingly bad, he’d never get over it. The mere thought made him feel numb, and heavy, so heavy— and a little sick. Would he have to look at her—in the coffin? Would he have to do that? He felt scared, on top of everything else. He was right under the floorboards, with that. “Page one-sixteen—” Mummer said, and Ponce flipped to that page, woodenly. Tonight—football practice. And Ponce felt better. He had already passed the word on to most of the boys, after Assembly, where Tiger had told him. And next period—Eng Lit! Now, Ponce soared. He saw Miss Smith. He was way, way above those floorboards. There were only ten minutes to go. He looked up at Mummer. He would have to make a move soon about him. He couldn’t walk around forever with that on his mind, definitely. If Surcher didn’t soon crack the case— He looked around the room. There was Jeannie Bonni. That cutie. Sally Swink. What a sweetie. They were both trying hard to follow what was going on, but the fog was thick.

Pretty Maids All in a Row 191 He could see it almost enveloping them. He grinned, to himself, knowing only too well what they felt. He saw their breasts outlined under their clothes. They w-ere both stacked. Was that the rips? Jeannie had on a cute yellow blouse. Pale yellow. Sally a pink sweater. A very light pink. It looked great on her. Her breasts pointed right out at the world. Ponce stared at them, imagining the glory of fondling them, or at least seeing them, bared. He was growing warm. He saw Peggy Linski. He saw his Trig book. . . .

36

Tiger, in his office, was thoughtfully perusing his list and making little amendments, here and there. He mused, lovingly, doing it all with great care. His interoffice phone buzzed and he picked it up, hoping it wouldn’t be Hetty to say she just couldn’t come. He was looking forward to seeing her, so much. She would make his day. Sometimes she did cancel out, involved as she managed to get from time to time, in that library, between the stacks. He prayed.

“Hello—?” He said, in his gentle way.

It was Proffer—again. Ironically enough, he was relieved.

“Listen, I’m sorry to bother you, boy—”

“That’s O.K.”

“I just wanted to tell you—” Tiger heard the banal voice, dropping down to a low, confidential tone, “This Surcher—” He held.

“Yeh?” Tiger urged, completing the artwork beside Mona’s name.

“He’s had the colored kids down to see him this morning, you know—”

“I know—”

It was an extra half-star, in fact, she wound lip with.

“Well—” Proffer’s voice went very low, “He's had Jim Green in there with him for a hell of a long time now—”

192 Pretty Maids All in a Row “How long?”

“Over an hour—at least—”

Tiger had put the pencil down. His forehead wore a distinct frown.

“Where you calling from. Harry?” He asked.

“The Teachers’ Room—”

“Uh huh.”

Tiger checked his watch. Any minute, the Librarian was due.

“Nothing—I guess—” Proffer said.

“Don’t worry about it.” Tiger said.

“I was surprised—”

“And so am I—” Tiger paused. He was. “But don’t jump to conclusions—It may mean nothing—” He paused. “Nothing at all.” He hoped.

“It’s going to raise Holy Hell—”

“Wait awhile—”

“Harry—just wait a while—”

“I thought things had been going too well! Boy, that School Board’s gonna clobber us! Did I tell you the talk at the Legion last night?”

Tiger tried hard to imagine the lofty heights it had reached. It staggered his efforts.

“Uh uh, Harry,” He said to the prospective TV/Radio retail outlet.

“Well—let me tell you—you’d be amazed at the anticolored feeling it’s generated.”

“Generated?” Tiger couldn’t help venture, however aware it would bounce right off Proffer.

“And that was before this development—” The banal voice went on in his ear.

“What development?”

“Well—Jim Green, I mean—”

“Listen, It’s not yet a development—”

“Yeh, but—listen—”

“Is it?”

“O.K. It isn’t—” and—“I know how you feel—”

Tiger just had to smile at that.

“You’ll just have to wait and see—Harry boy—”

“Right—we’ll see—” Proffer said.

Tiger glanced at his watch again.

Pretty Maids All in a Row 193 “Well, Harry—We’ll see—Sit tight and see.”

“I’ll keep right On top of things, Mike—Г11 contact you as soon as anything breaks—Be there?”

“Until noon.”

“O.K., boy.”

And he hung up.

Tiger sat back in his chair. He was hurt. Was Surcher really chasing Jim Green? How had he got so fogged? Was he a Bircher too? Dumbhead Proffer had sounded happy about it, underneath it all. He pictured him last night, at the Legion, assuring them that he had never wanted to bring that bunch in. The wizard. The pure dismal wizard. Well, luckily, the whole town wasn’t that way. So, even if something was up—if the boy^;«^zs a suspect—Tiger winced, dumbfounded now at Surcher’s blunder—or, more precisely, apparent blunder. For, as he had told Proffer—Proffer! The Wonder, Sawyersviile’s own Wonder. Tiger ruminated, contemplating an even earlier retirement, for the wonder. He sighed, not exactly chipper. He would have to check with Surcher. He shook his head, slowly. He certainly was disappointed in him.

Hetty Nectar walked in.

She looked superb—as usual.

“Hi—” She greeted him.

“Well Hi—”

“Am I late?”

“Never.”

“Whew! What a day? Brother!”

She sat down on a chair, near the desk.

“Rough one?”

“Listen—Just Imagine—Those detectives have been around me all morning—more or less. Questions, questions, about a whole sheaf of pupils’ reading habits—and other habits. ImagineГ

Tiger nodded, imagining.

“What an awful affair!” She said to him, pulling out a cigarette, “How can anything be the same again?”

Tieer nodded.

“You said it.”

“Well, how are you?” She queried.

“Not too bad.”

“Busy?”

“I try to be.”

“You one-man show.”

Her eyes twinkled. Tiger always loved the way her eyes twinkled. They made his want to twinkle. Was it the Irish in her? Her personality was exuberant. She was a positive creature. The life force registered in the highest reaches, it bubbled over in her. He had rarely encountered such a positive person. She had the fiercest grip on life. His feelings toward her were utterly positive. Would this delightfully positive redheaded creature ever wind up with a husband? Already she was pushing twenty-four, wasn’t she? Didn’t she want one? Certainly, he knew quite a few who would want her. Would she want them? Maybe—all of them. He grinned, within. Certainly, she could handle them. She had a catalog with her. She wore a pretty fawn skirt, a pretty open-necked blouse, a soft cardigan. Cash-mere? It was something. It looked very soft. Tiger wondered. It went so well with her hair. Perfect. Tiger wished he could touch it.

“Thank you! Tiger”

“How’s everything?”

“I miss you.”

“You know how it is.”

She crossed her legs. Tiger admired them. Who was the genius responsible for stockings? Once again, for the hundredth time at least, he found himself wondering that. What legs she had for those stockings! He kept on admiring them.

“Well.” Tiger said. “What have you got for me?”

Hetty smiled. He could have grinned. He studied the warm, yet partly mischievous smile on her. The mixture was fascinating. Irresistible. He grinned. “Well—” she said, plunking the catalog on the desk. “Here’s the list.” She paused. “Formidable.” She opened the catalog, to a certain section.

Tiger took a look at it. Page after page of new Guidance/ Counseling/Career stuff. Just published. Tiger grinned.

“They really churn it out, don’t they?” He said.

“Don’t they! It’s getting big as a whale—each month it’s bigger—it’s crowding other fields out, Tiger, I’m telling you.” She said.

“Urn Hmm,” He said.

“How’s Hilda?” She said.

“Same as ever.”

“So it’s a problem. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Good thing you came to me.”

“Don’t they have anything else to do with their time?” “Well, it’s the way up, you see—”

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

“Wait till computers take over—”

She laughed, in that way he just loved, “I’ll just give up then—period.”

“Can't see you doing that.” He grinned again.

“Look—” she said, placing a loving finger on the page. Tiger admired the nail, an intriguing pink, well cared for, she had lovely white hands, warm too, the absolute temporary crazy utterly transient fleeting nature of things, Tiger mused, out of the blue, “Look at this one—” She said, “The Average Response Pattern And The Perpendicular Theory Of Rest,” She read out, from the page, looking at him afterward, befuddled and mischievous, those bright big blue eyes right on his. He loved her lipstick.

“Sounds great, doesn’t it?” He said.

“J. Kimona—” Hetty read, “Know him?”

“Never heard of him.”

“I mean, just what are they getting at?”

“Guess.”

“Ha Ha! Yes.”

“We need rest.”

“Tiger, honestly—”

“How’s the best?”

“Are you stuck with her?” She asked, softly.

“Looks that way.”

“How can you take it?”

“I try my best.”

“I know you do.”

“You help a lot.”

“Ah, that’s sweet of you,” she said, warmly, laying her hand on his.

“It probably has something to do with computers—to tell the truth—” Tiger told her.

“I’ll bet it does,” She said, stroking his hand. Tiger loved her warm, soft hand.

“I’ll tell you one book I’d really like you to get for me—” He said, telling her about Eble's gem. She nodded, jotted it down. Her hand came back.

“I’d like to read it,” she told him, “I think I’ll order two copies.” He nodded assent.

“It sounds great—let me tell you.”

“Whose hands are like mine?” She murmured now. “Nobody’s.”

“Ah—sweet—” She murmured, warmly, to him.

Tiger grinned, and nodded, and started patting her hands.

“1 do all I can to keep this teaching-machine and Programmed Instruction and computer racket down to a minimum,” He told her, speaking low, “You know that—” She nodded, her eyes were on him. tender and warm, as she listened to him. ‘ But those guys are shrewd little operators, let me tell you. They go and work on the individual School Board members, maybe even offer a cut, I don't know. That’s the latest. Once they sell them, the fight’s harder than ever. Sec?” He paused, caressing her lovely, slender arm. “They don’t bother at all coming to see me or Proffer anymore—How about that?”

“What a racket—” she murmured.

“We’ll beat them,” he told her, “I get along pretty well with the Board, due to factors, the team, other factors. He grinned, “At least the key members, I mean—” He was up to her elbow now, caressing tenderly, just inside. She gave a sigh.

“How are you?”

*7 love you—”

“How’s everything?”

“You'll see—”

“Will I see?”

“Always—”

“Let’s check the catalog.”

Tiger’s favorite Librarian came around to his side of the desk. She laid her hand on the catalog. Tiger glanced admiringly at her red hair. He loved her fragrance.

“Here’s one—” she said, softly, '7 locked the door, my love—" Tiger nodded. “Patriotism and Counseling—" She read “P. T. Johnson—” She said.

“Pat Johnson!” Tiger grinned—“I know him.”

“We'll get it—”

“Sure, get it—”

“But what’s Patriotism got to do with Counseling?” She asked, touching his face.

“Don’t sell it short—” he murmured, “Check his namesake—” He also murmured, touching her lovely soft hair, “What have you got on?” He murmured now, kissing her sweet nose.

“Just cologne—” She murmured, “Like it?”

“Love it.”

“Like my lipstick?”

“Gorgeous color.”

She smiled warmly, she brushed her lips against his.

“You angel—” She said.

“I try—” He said.

“Touch my breasts—”

He did so. He found them free.

She laughed, very softly, in his ear.

“That’s terrific,” he said, “Really terrific,” he also said, fondling those warm, full, joyful things.

“What about Patriotism?” She said, kissing little kisses all around his ear.

“It has its place,” he murmured to her, loving those soft breasts, stroking their tips now, gently. “There’s nothing perfect in the world—” He said, “Except you, of course —” He also said, as she slipped her arms about him, and looked at him, her sweet warm breath in his face, “You— of course—” He reiterated—“But—there’s a lot to be said for the USA—” He kissed her eyes. What an exquisitely feminine creature she was. Tiger idolized her. He could play all day with her. Time permitting. Time, time. The master of all destinies. It was Tiger’s archenemy. “Imperfect as it is—in many ways—” He said, gliding his right hand down her side, reaching her flanks, caressing them, tenderly, and around the back. She would have purred, he knew, if she could. Her breath was a purr, stirring him, more. Tenderly, he caressed. “No intelligent person would deny it’s imperfect—” He murmured, continuing to brush her ear with his lips, dozens of little kisses falling there, as her eyes closed, and she moaned, “But of all the many many imperfect countries in the world—and they’re all imperfect, of course—I, personally, prefer this one—” He said, “In many ways.” He also said, gently slipping his hand under her skirt, and upward, as she let him glide, ever upward, and sighed, making way for his hand—“England, for instance—” He went on, murmuring low, “I wouldn’t live in a class-ridden place like that—for anything—anything— What a rotten setup they have—and—as far as I can see—always will have—that’s their trouble that’s why they’re always in trouble—who’s got a chance?” He kissed her lips, which were moist, and warm, and opening for him. His hand reached silken skin, just above her stockings now. He stroked and caressed, quite awhile, before venturing farther on. She kissed beautifully, giving all to him. He loved her. He surfaced for air. “It’s in the Educational area of course that the worst injustices are perpetrated there—” He told her, soft and low—“In that country—” He said, as she licked his lips, gently, her warm, sweet tongue gliding tenderly, “They separate the kids with a vengeance, way back there, right at the beginning—almost—” He gave her longue a little nip, and she gave a little cry, and a quiver—“The poor kids of the community get a slum education, except those with the very highest intelligence—and drive—However, if the family has dough—or is titled—any of their dumbheads can get the best education—” She sighed, in his arms—as he went on—“A rotten setup—” He kissed her tongue, letting it slide into him. He kissed her. fully. They clung a long time. They surfaced, finally—“Very few get to college—” He went on—“The so-called ‘intellectual elite’—and the rich, of course—only—” He murmured, stroking her, his right hand lovingly on its goal, as she moaned softly, in his arms —“Result—” He said—“A moronic country.” He paused— “An uneducated mass of class-ridden and dominated nincompoops. No kidding—” He said—“What a country." She whispered something, he couldn’t make out what it was, she continued moaning. He went on, murmuring—“Then all the rest—’’ He paused, his hand stroking Paradise— “Germany—just marking time until the next Nazi Lunacy —or whatever they’ll choose to call it then—” He paused —“France, Italy—Russia—” He murmured—“All of them —" He kept on murmuring. “Not to mention South America—’’ He paused—"And the Far East—^,J

“God The Far EastГ Hetty cried out, softly, and moaning, holding so close to him.

Tiger unbuttoned her blouse. He bared the white, soft treasure breasts. His breath was taken away. He kissed

Pretty Maids AII in a Row 199 them. He buried his head in them. She caressed him, sighing, murmuring. He suckled her tips—

"Where?" He said, tenderly.

"Anywhere—” She gasped, beside herself.

Her skirt was up to her hips. He admired her thighs, he stroked them, gently, just below that moist zone of Paradise. She moaned. . . . He picked her up. . . -

She was on her back, her knees raised, on Tiger’s ample and comfortable office couch, where he had carried her. He murmured to her all the while. His head was between her thighs, which he lavished with marvelous kisses, gradually approaching the drenched golden rise. She moaned ever more, and moved, murmuring his name, over and over, she caressed his head. ... He reached the rise. . . .

She cried out, finally, urging him upon her. ... He

complied. . . . She moaned and cried. . . . His phallus throbbed, poised on the wet edges of life.. . .

37

Word had already started making fairly good progress around the school regarding Jim Green and his long session with the State Police when Ponce finally emerged from the Long Agony of Trigonometry class—blank, as usual. It was when Ponce hit the hallway just outside the classroom that he first heard about it. Amid that swarm of fellow students, it was Kathy Burns, of all kids, who broke the news to him. She was a good pal of his, as a matter of fact, actually living just two doors away from him on Britfield Avenue, that shade-tree-lined thoroughfare. She was a friend of the family, of course, a cute kid in her sophomore year. She had a turned up nose. She was small, but neat, really sweet. Ponce was fond of her, she was like his sister, almost. Or at least a close cousin. It was that way. He literally bumped into her, in that babble and swarm.

“Whooops!” She cried out—“Ponce! I’m sorry!”

He gazed at that cute kid. She was well formed. Two

soft mounds stuck out at the world. He certainly was fond

of her. He grinned at her.

“Gosh, I’m sorry, Kathy—”

“Oh it was my fault—I’m sorry, Ponce!”

“What class you going to?”

“Algebra,” she said, wrinkling up her nose.

He grinned again, he knew how she felt. He wrinkled up his nose too. They both laughed.

“Hear about Jim Green?” said the little lass. Her cute face was staring up at him. Ponce jumped a little, he started guessing already, as was his way.

“What?” He asked her, anyway.

She came closer, in the melee.

“He’s been in with the State Police a long long time,” she informed him, confidentially.

“Oh yeh?” Ponce said, fully rattled.

“Do they think he did it?” The girl asked.

“Gosh I don’t know,” Ponce answered.

“He is,” Ponce agreed.

“I hope they’re not hurting him—in any way!”

“Aw, they can’t hurt him, Kath—” Ponce said.

“Can’t they?”

“Well—thanks for telling me—” Ponce now said, sensing the time to break it off, “I gotta run now—Lit class—” He also said, turning, “So long, Kath—see you—say hello to your mom for me—”

“O.K., Ponce. Bye. Probably be seeing you—”

He disappeared in the crowd, bumping along in it down the hallway, on his way to his favorite class.

“Hey boy—” Dean Morgan, suddenly beside him, greeted him.

“Say, Dean—” Ponce answered him.

“Hear about Jim?”

“Yeh, 1 heard it.”

“Sure hope it isn’t him!”

“Aw, it wasn’t—ⁿ “Don't think so?”

“Heck no.”

Ponce pushed on, really rattled, wondering just what was developing down there, in Proffer’s office, no doubt. He was making up his mind, then and there, to break out of his shell, what the hell, and tell all—to Surcher. But he

Pretty Maids All in a Row 201 was going to wait awhile, to see just what developed—with Jim Green. He vowed that if they took him in, he would move, but fast. Or as fast as he could. Certainly. He shuddered. Could it be true, though? Could it? Jim? How could it? He was the tops, he was all there, he wasn’t even a minor nut case. Ponce knew full well the culprit was far, far out there, a first-class kookeroo, no doubt of it. What were they trying to do? He still looked forward to Eng Lit class, of course, but he would be glad, for the first time in his life probably, when it was all over. He also would be glad to talk with Miss Smith—about everything. If he got the chance. What would happen? His buddies and friends passed him by the dozen, they greeted him, but he hardly saw them. If he stopped and talked with them, however briefly, he knew what they would have to say, there was only one topic now, wasn’t there, and he didn’t feel like hearing it again. That damn Mummer! He pictured himself confronting Surcher—no—Tiger. He would see Tiger. He would hold fire of course until he knew what exactly was happening—but then—no delays any longer. He thought of Miss Smith. Last night he had had about a hundred dreams at least—all of her. In one she was purring. It had started out with Peppy walking into the room, purring. Then, there was Miss Smith, sitting on the bed, looking at him. reaching out her hand to him—and purring. He thought of football practice. What kind of a practice would it be tonight, he wondered? If Jim wasn’t there—especially! What would Tiger do? Ponce wondered and worried, on top of everything else, a whole series of key plays was built around that Right End. He was getting close to his classroom. His dream’s room. There was Miss Nectar, the red-headed Librarian, just coming out of Tiger’s office. Ponce had a little bit of a crush on her too—though of course nothing like what he felt for Miss Smith. She was carrying something, a thick magazine, or book, or something. Maybe a catalog. She looked glowing. That’s the only word Ponce could think of at that moment to describe her, his eyes falling on her. She was sure nice. What eyes. What a honey. He began to feel all warm inside, watching her. Next to Miss Smith, she was the only other faculty member who really gave him the hots, without a doubt of it. The love hots, and no doubt about it.

“Hello, Miss Nectar—’’ he greeted her, shyly, as she passed near him. His heart was thumping.

She looked up, and smiled, though she was somewhat preoccupied—Ponce could tell. He heard suddenly in his head the verse of one of those sometimes appealing songs the pop groups sang, was it The Cleaners—“What The World Needs Now Is Love, Sweet Love . . .” And so on.

“Why hello, Ponce—” She said to him. singing it out, clearly pleased to see the lad. He knew she was fond of him.

She was gone. He walked on, for obviously they both had things to do. Maybe later, in his Study Period, he could drop into the Library and have a talk with her. It was always nice talking with her. She was up on everything. Not only was the Library one of his favorite retreats, but he learned a lot from her.

As he got nearer to his Lit class, there was one thing Ponce was really very grateful for: No one, so far, had made any fun out of his screaming run. He was more than grateful for it. He began to hope he might even get away with it. He kept his fingers crossed, hoping hard, feeling ashamed of it, and aware of the tactical brilliance of iL ... So far. Because he was only so far. Time would telL He was at the door of Miss Smith’s classroom. Already, he thought he had caught the scent. His heart started jumping on top of the thumping Miss Nectar had triggered off. He almost didn’t make it any farther, thinking of confronting Miss Smith. Today, sure as hell, he vowed, he would control himself. He would put up the stiffest fight ever heard of—he didn’t feel like visiting that lavatory again— under any circumstances ... for one thing. Besides, he was more than in love with her. Last night, between them, something powerful, and beautiful had sprung up. He had to control himself. No more of that kid stuff. It was with her, he knew, that he had to prove himself. If nothing had happened last night, it was his own fault. Did he expect her to rape him? Ponce felt embarrassed, even thinking that. It had no place in the thing. His view, his image—of everything. He saw Yvonne Mellish, and Rochelle, entering the classroom. They smiled at him. Somehow, he smiled back. He followed them. . . .

After having spent most of the morning with Jim Green, employing just about every subtle device he could muster, Surcher was still nowhere. It could be—and it couldn't. The boy puzzled him. If he were the one, he was a tough nut and a half, and no doubt of it, shrewd way beyond his years, on top of it. On balance, things in Surcher’s mind were evenly balanced. He would like to work some more on the boy. Possibly, and preferably, over a period of days. Sometimes, that produced wonders. Confessional wonders. How could he hold him? The moment his people, and the civil rights people, got hold of it—Surcher felt grim. What a prospect. Should he just release him? And watch him? Surcher didn’t like it. Matters were urgent. For one of the very few times in his professional career, the Captain was troubled. He needed someone to talk to—and not a Policeman. He thought of Tiger—or Mr. McQ/ew—as Surcher still called him. He seemed like someone eminently qualified to talk to—Not only was he obviously smart, and sharp, but he knew the boy through and through. He must do. Certainly, much more than he did—or could hope to. And so. leaving the lad with his key assistants, Grady and Folio, he emerged from the office, walked through the outer office, encountering Miss Cray-mire's ravenously curious stare, and others’, and went to see Tiger, after first buzzing him to make sure he was there and not too entangled.

Tiger, as a matter of fact, was there, and not at all too wrapped up in things. He was on his own and would be for a half-hour or so, at least, musing, sort of resting, ruminating over things. His schedule, that sort of thing. It was a very full schedule. When Surcher buzzed, he wondered what he could want, and then quickly remembered Jim Green’s plight. And his own plight too, Tiger mused, thinking ahead to Practice. No doubt that’s what the good Captain would want. In Tiger’s mind, as he continued perusing his schedule, there was no doubt. He still was disappointed, not to mention baffled, utterly, over Sur-cher’s incredible blunder. He shook his head at it, sighing. What could he do about it? He would see, that’s all. Next period he had Civics class. He looked forward to it. He loved teaching. In fact, if his interests weren’t so catholic, he wouldn’t mind sticking to teaching and nothing else, period. But it wouldn’t work out. It couldn’t. He couldn’t kid himself. He would get bored. In a rut. He needed activities of a wide and varied nature. That was a fact, and he knew it. Then after Civics, and after a break for lunch, Kathy Burns coming to see him here for her weekly session. Tiger smiled fondly. She was like his own daughter almost, she was the cutest thing. He had watched her coming along, over the years, from the pre-bra set. Now of course she took a pretty-fair-sized one. He grinned, warm at the thought of her. Then there was Drama class, or play practice, or tryouts, which it amounted to, just now. They were casting for the new production scheduled for December. Flowering Cherry, by Robert Bolt, of course. It was a terrific little play and Tiger looked forward to doing it. Rochelle really had been the one to choose it. Everyone had agreed enthusiastically, including Tiger. He mused over the male lead. Ronnie Swann might do it. He didn't know for sure, he would have to bear a few of the boys give it a whirl. Rochelle would help him decide. He grinned warmly, thinking of her, that supreme kid. She of course would take the female lead. Who else could? Perfect. Of course, she could do just about any role —perfectly, such were her talents, up and up. He grinned more warmly, sensing her unique presence. Then, he mused, after that, which would no doubt take up just about the rest of the afternoon, Football practice. And Tiger braced himself for it, suddenly troubled, wondering just w^rhat the hell he was supposed to do if Jim Green really didn’t show up, due to that policeman’s unbelievable ma-neuverings. He was still wondering, when the good Captain himself strolled in, after knocking.

“How are you?”

“Fine, Mr. McDrew—well, pretty nearly fine, I guess I should say—” He grinned. He sat down. Tiger waited. He saw clearly that the man was unhappy.

“What can I do for you?’’ Tiger asked, finally, in his best Guidance/Counseling manner.

Surcher searched him, and said, “What’s the story on Jim Green?”

“Story?” Tiger asked.

“I’ll tell you, Mr. McDrew, I’ve got him on my list as Number One Suspect.” He paused, as Tiger took this in. “But—I can get nothing out of him.” He paused again, as Tiger sat calmly, waiting for more. Surcher looked around the room. He pulled a cigarette out of a pack, and lit up. “Smoke?” He said, offering Tiger one.

“No, thanks,” Tiger said, and, “Jim Green? What’s led you to Jim Green? May I ask?”

“You sure may,” Surcher said, grinning, wryly almost. “You’ll have to pardon me—I’ve been going all morning, working on him. It takes a lot out of you. Maybe you know —” He paused, as Tiger understanding^ nodded, watching him take a long puff— “It takes a hell of a lot. Well—this is strictly confidential, O.K.?” Tiger nodded again. The Captain went on. “We found a letter he had written to the girl—” Surcher paused. “It was pretty suspicious. I’d have to show it to you to make you see what I mean. So here it is.” And he hauled out one of his copies of the letter and passed it to Tiger, who read it, thoughtfully. “We know he wrote it.” The Captain said, “because his prints are all over it. Also did you know his nickname was Kid?” In truth, Tiger didn’t. He shook his head. “Well, maybe his owq kind just call him that—” Tiger, wincing slightly, nodded. He sat calmly. “Anyhow, that's the only damn thing we’ve really got. Nothing else. Not a thing. That’s the whole thing.” He paused. Tiger took it all in.

He said, calmly, “You can’t convict anyone on that— check?”

“Double check,” The Captain said.

“So—now?”

Surcher puffed his cigarette and blew out smoke. Tiger watched it. He would, at this rate, stink out the place. But Tiger wasn’t worried. He could air it out quick.

“That’s the question,” Surcher said, taking another long drag, “Lots of things could happen now—” He paused— “For example, he could confess—” Tiger nodded, but totally doubted it. “But that could take a long time—a lot of time,” the Captain said. “I could just turn him loose, of course—” He went on—“Keep an eye on him—or try to. But—I just don’t like to.” He said. “He worries me.”

“What else could happen?” Tiger couldn’t help ask.

“Well—all kinds of side developments could take place —the race problem, for example—” He paused, taking another drag—“The parent problem—’’ He said—“All kinds of things.” He stopped.

Tiger nodded. Was the Captain waiting to be prodded? He ventured, “I see what you mean.”

“I thought you would,” Surcher now said, “And that’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you—” Tiger nodded. The Captain talked on, “You know Jim Green pretty well, Mr. McDrew—”

“I hope I do.”

Surcher said, not without the hint of a grin, “I’m pretty

sure you do.”

Tiger waited.

“What do you think of him?” Surcher asked-“In what way?” Tiger answered.

“Well—in a general way—first of all.”

Tiger answered, carefully, “I have a high opinion of him.’’ He paused, keeping his eyes on the Captain. “He’s a good student, a fine athlete—I hope you don’t lose me an athlete—” He grinned—

“I don't want to,” Surcher told him, also grinning, in his way.

“And as a person, I like him. All in all, I think he’s a fine kid. A credit to his race.”

Surcher nodded, slightly. Then he said, “What do you think—could he have done it?”

Tiger shook his head, slowly, “I’d say no—” He paused —“Unless proved otherwise—of course.” A pause—“You’d have to show me ironclad proof, I’ll tell you though.”

Surcher nodded, and waited. He had finished his cigarette. He put it out in an ashtray. He looked up from it, at Tiger.

“I'd like to ask you to do me a favor, Mr. McDrew—” He said.

“What’s that?”

“Have a talk with him.”

Tiger nodded, “Sure—I’ll be glad to.”

“I mean really talk with him—” Surcher paused. “See what he tells you.”

“Sure. Any time. Captain. I’d be glad to.”

“1 appreciate that”

Pretty Maids All in a Row 207 “Tell you what—” Tiger said, “Send him over during lunchtime—I’ll pick up some sandwiches from the cafeteria—we can have lunch over it”

“That sounds great.”

“O.K.”

“I’d like to know what he says.”

“I’ll let you know.”

“I'll send him over.”

“Lunchtime.”

“O.K.”

There was silence.

“Get him back to me when you’re through—O.K.?” The Captain said.

“I’ll bring him back to you.”

“That’s great.”

Silence, again. And Tiger sat there, thinking about the development, in fact thinking a whole host of things, and wondering what to say. Right now he was hoping the Captain wouldn’t drag out his visit too much longer, for he didn’t want to be late for his Civics class. He glanced nonchalantly at his watch. Five minutes to go.

“I’ll let you know, don’t worry—Captain,” He said, finally.

Surcher stirred, “It might be a big help to us. Just might be, Mr. McDrew. That kid likes you, he thinks the world of you—it’s all a hell of a thing, in a way—but—this thing is too serious to play around with. You know how it is.” He paused. “I have to try everything—even if I hurt somebody a little bit, along the way.”

Tiger nodded, surveying the man, “I know—” He paused—“So everything else is a blank?”

Surcher said, “Right now it is—I don’t mind telling you.”

“A hell of a thing.”

“You know it.”

“Well—don’t worry. I’ll let you know what he says.”

“You having Practice tonight?” Surcher asked.

“Right.”

Surcher grinned his grin, “Tell me something—how do you do it?”

Tiger also grinned, modestly, “It’s the material here.” He paused. “I mean it, Captain.”

Surcher replied, “Yeh—I’ll bet it is. They could sure use you at Kitston—let me tell you—” He still grinned.

“Joe Palone is a fine coach—” Tiger said.

“Except when he bumps into Sawyersville—”

“Well, we’ve been lucky—that’s all—” Tiger grinned broadly.

"How lucky would you be without Jim Green?” Surcher asked.

Tiger still grinned. “Don’t tell me that’s your game—”

The Captain got up, not making Tiger too unhappy, of course. “Could be—” He said, kidding, of course. He looked around, starting to leave, “Nice office you’ve got here—" He said.

“Not too bad,” Tiger said.

“You’re a busy man,” Surcher said, opening the door, “I’ll see you—and thanks.”

“So long," Tiger said, watching him leave. He sat back in his chair a few moments, wondering, musing over things. He thought about Jim, that poor kid, who wouldn’t be coming to Civics class today, probably. Or football practice. Tiger felt definitely irritable now, at that, and Surcher, that bungler. How long would he screw around with that kid? He wondered. A confession. He could laugh, under any other circumstances. It was something. Would he be able to use him in the game with Carverton? That was something to think of, as if things wouldn’t be tough enough. Tiger grew more irritated, at the bungler. He hoped Looby Loo would give him a call, during lunch hour. That w-ould cheer him up, if nothing else did. It would be one job and a half, he mused, for Ponce and him to find a replacement for Jim. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He hoped that by tomorrow, at any rate, or the next day, the latest, Surcher would have come to his senses. Once the civil rights people and their lawyers got into this, he wouldn’t be long in his clutches. Should he call them? No, Tiger decided, better stay out of it—for the present. He pushed himself back from the desk and got up. He put his folders and other things away. It was something he always did. He said “Ho Hum—” and yawned, and stretched a little. He stood still a moment, then grabbed a few books, and walked out of there. He was well on his way to his Civics class, without a doubt one of his favorite classes. . . .

“Here we go—” Tiger said, as usual, detaching himself from a small group of students he had been talking to, and striding up to the front of the class. He deposited his books on the desk there and looked over the class, as usual, a moment or two. Jill’s seat, where she usually sat anyway, was unoccupied, he noted. He couldn’t blame them.

“Dink—” he said, addressing Sawyersville High’s brilliant quarterback, “What were we saying last time about referendums?”

The boy stirred, looked around, then at Tiger. “Weil—a lot of things—” He said, “Every body seemed to be saying a different thing.”

The class giggled, and Tiger grinned, at that one.

The boy went on, “Some said the referendum was the logical and most perfect method for the people to express themselves in a democracy—in fact, I think a majority of the class said—or felt that way—” He paused—“Some said just the opposite, that is, the referendum had no place in a true democracy, because—uh—it meant—well—uh—it meant that the people elected to decide things and formulate policies weren’t to be trusted—they said, what was the point of electing representatives of the people and other officials and then not trust them to know what’s best to do, in situations, in issues—in other words, how could they do their job, what they were elected to do—” He paused—“It was a—contradiction in terms, I think they said—”

“What do you say?” Tiger asked.

“I haven’t decided.”

That brought another round of giggles, and laughs, which Tiger joined in, heartily.

“Well—we’ll come back to you—” He said, going to the board. He picked up a piece of chalk.

“Right now, let’s have a little referendum here—O.K.? I’d like to get it down pat—just how many are for, and against. Referendums, that is. O.K.? Or ‘don’t knows’—like my good friend Dink here—” He grinned, writing three words on the board in capital letters—YES—NO— DON'T KNOW. “Let’s give it a whirl—all systems Go? How many YES? Raise your hands—” About half the class of thirty had their hands in the air, including, he noted, Yvonne and Marjorie. He counted them and entered the number. “NO?” He said, and noted that about a quarter of the class felt that way, including, among others, Rochelle, Mona, Ponce, Sonny Swingle, Jeannie Bonni, and Lennie Almot—He wrote down the figure. “DONT KNOW?” The rest of the hands went up, including Mary Holden, Peggy Linski, and Sally Swink—among others. The score was 15-8-7.

“Well—” he said, facing them, “Looks as if it’s a kind of

There were cries of protest.

“What’s the matter?” Tiger asked.

“Well—you can’t lump the DONT KNOWs with the NOs—Mr. McDrew—” Someone, Jim Rossi, he believed said.

“Why not?” Tiger asked.

“Well—Jeepers—that’s altogether a different category—”

“Is it?” Tiger asked, “Dink—what do you say?” He returned to the quarterback.

“Wow—” the boy said, “This is getting over my head—” He also said—“But I wonder about that too.”

“About what?” Tiger asked.

“Well—mixing up the two categories—”

“In other words,” Tiger said, “The question we really want to know the answer to is: Are DONT KNOWs really NOs? Or aren’t they?” He paused, talking to Dink— “That's why I picked on you.” He turned away—“Rochelle?” That unique girl had her hand up.

“I think they are NOs—Mr. McDrew,” she said, as only she could say, “The very fact that they can’t express themselves positively indicates a certain negative attitude to the whole thing.” She was caught under a swell of protesting voices, but she talked on, despite them, “. . . and that really is just one more argument against the whole theory and practice of the referendum—” she said.

“It isn’t!” John Campbell said, “The ones who answer DON’T KNOW in any kind of a poll do so because—uh— well they just don’t know—that’s it! They may not have the

Pretty Maids AII in a Row 211 information to make up their minds, one way or another —for instance—”

“And how does that explain the DONT KNOWs we got today? I’d like to know—” Rochelle said, “Everybody here has all the information they could possibly ever want or hope to have on the matter—”

“That’s right!’’ A small chorus called out, as Tiger gazed admiringly at the astute girl.

“I want to change my vote to NO,” Peggy Linski called out, amid laughter, and clapping too. Tiger readjusted the figures.

“Where do you stand on this?” Dink asked Mr. McDrew.

“I’m not going to tell you—” He was told, followed by a chorus of “OHHHs"—“Not now, anyhow—” The teacher added—“It wouldn’t be fair!”

“Will you tell us after awhile?” Dink pressed.

“Sure I will—” Tiger said, looking here and there, “Ponce, what do you say?” He asked that smart boy, who was on the verge of speaking in any event.

“Well, I think Rochelle is right, without a doubt—How could anyone here today, for instance, say they don't know? I’d sure like to know what they mean—/ don’t know—■" •

“Ask them—” Jim Rossi, and a few others, said.

Tiger called on Sally Swink, “Sally, why did you say DONT KNOW?”

That sweet honey blond attired in a pale blue sweater, and things, said, looking here and there, “I don’t know.” And the class laughed. She blushed. Tiger left it at that.

“There are other factors—other factors—” Rochelle now said, about to tread, Tiger sensed, where everyone else absolutely feared to, “Intelligence—” She said, as Tiger looked on, admiring her more— “For there’s where the real heart of the argument against referendums lies—” She went on—“We all know we weren’t all blessed with an equal amount of intelligence, there's no disputing that fact—” She just barely paused—“And so to throw a complicated moral issue, say—or any other issue, let’s say —out to the general masses for a free vote, a decision on —is absolutely ridiculous!” She paused—“And how!”

“That’s antidemocratic!” Fred Ripak, in the back row, said.

“No it isn't!” That fascinating girl said.

“Why?” Ripak said.

“Well, I was just about to tell you that—” She said.

“O.K.—tell us that—" Some other lad said.

“Tell us that!” A small but vigorous chorus said.

She said, ‘‘It isn’t antidemocratic because in the final and realistic analysis it’s a very, very tiny minority of intelligent. sane, and sophisticated people who keep any democracy going—define the term as you will—That’s Why!” She astonished Tiger, as usual, and perhaps even more than usual, with her acumen.

“Good Point—” cried out Ponce, suddenly aware of it too.

“My eye!” Someone, and then someone else, said. Voices were flying around fast.

“Hold it—Hold it—” Tiger said. And, more or less, the class did just that

“Rochelle—” he said, to that fabulous girl, “Care to elaborate on that?”

“No," she said, with the trace of a smile for him, “I’ve made my point clear.” That was that.

Tiger nodded, and looked around. “Dink?”

“Well, there’s no getting around it—1 think what she says does make a lot of sense—”

“Are you swaying toward the NO column, Dink?” Tiger asked.

“If this keeps up, I will—” the lad said.

“Don’t do it. Dink—“ John Campbell said, “What she’s talking is a lot of antidemocratic bunk!”

“Ponce—” Tiger said, “What do you say?”

“She’s opened my eyes.”

“Elaborate—?” Tiger said.

“Well—it’s a fact. I agree with her. An absolute fact,” the lad said. “1 just haven’t thought about it much, in that way. That’s all. When you stop to think about it though, it’s an obvious fact.”

“So, as far as you’re concerned,” Tiger said, “Getting back to our original quest—No specific issues per se should ever be put before the general public for a decision on?"

“Right. Let the elected officials and representatives do it.’*

“Dan—" Tiger said, turning to another lad, “You were a DONT KNOW—”

The lad nodded his head.

“Why?”

“Well—” Danny Moss said, “I think it depends—** “Depends?**

“Yeh, well, I mean—sometimes yes—sometimes no—it depends on what's coming off—”

“The issues, you mean—”

“Right, I mean, some things I think it would be alright to have one on, a referendum I mean, and other things I don’t think so—” He paused. “That’s why I said I don’t know.”

“I see,” Tiger said, “It was the only category you felt you could fall into—”

“Right”

“Actually, we need another category for you—YES and NO!”

There was some laughter at that.

“I guess so—’’ said the lad.

“Well, I’d like to change my vote to NO,” Mary Holden said.

“So would I—” chimed in Sally Swink.

Tiger, nodding, and grinning too, made the adjustments on the board.

“We’re going to wind up with a real tie!” He said, “If this keeps up—anyone else want to change their vote?”

“I want to change to DONT KNOW,” The one and only Marjorie called out

“Oh NO!” Tiger exclaimed, in mock pain, provoking more laughter now.

“Well I’ve a right to!” The maid said.

“You certainly have—I was only kidding—” Tiger said. “What w'ould Jill have said?” Joe Fletcher, out of the blue, suddenly said.

Silence reigned, and Tiger almost bowed his head. He looked around. Everyone seemed profound. There wasn’t a sound. Ponce coughed, a brief, subdued cough. Rochelle looked at Ponce, and then across the room, out of the windows. Marjorie was playing with her pencil, scribbling little things in her notebook. Peggy Linski looked straight ahead. Joe Fletcher, Tiger knew, felt like a fooL He just $at there. Tiger fell for the boy. For a few moments, Tiger just stood before that silent class and said nothing, nor made a move. Finally, he crossed to the desk. He flipped open his main textbook and examined a page. Silence. Only.

“Would you hand in your homework now,” He said, finally, quietly, to the class. . . .

Ponce, passing his homework forward, wondered how the class could go on. Joe had really dealt it a blow, though he didn’t know. How could Tiger possibly get it rolling again? Everybody felt bad. And things had been going so good. Almost as good as last period, in Eng Lit. where he had confronted his dream. What a class. He had soared in that class, he had controlled himself, admirably, too. And he had talked a little bit at the end with his dream. He didn’t know what he was exactly saying of course and he nearly fell over himself, to boot, but he knew they had talked a little bit. What a dream. She had said, this he knew, he could drop by to see her anytime, she didn’t mind. He couldn’t really remember anything else after that. Or before that. Next thing he knew, he was here, in Tiger’s class. He hadn’t forgotten what he had to do. It was just a question of hitting the right moment and telling all to Tiger, true. As far as he knew, they were still holding poor Jim. He glanced over at the empty place. Only the day before yesterday, incredibly enough, she had been sitting there, beautiful and lively, a flower in full bloom. Who could have dreamed it? Ponce felt so blue. He turned away from the empty place and the silent class and just looked down at his book. The homework had reached the front of the room now, and he could hear Tiger collecting it from the front of each row. Now what would he do? Just give a reading assignment, kill the rest of the period that way? If he were in his shoes, Ponce felt, that’s what he would do. What else could he do? What did Joe have to shoot his mouth off for? Ponce tried thinking of other things. He thought of miniskirts. They were something. As yet, you didn’t see much of them in the States—certainly, not this area. He saw them only in magazines and movies and TV. England of course was the place for them. In a certain pan of London, he knew, they wore them the shortest of

Pretty Maids All in a Row 215 all—in fact, there hardly was a skirt at all! That was Chelsea. He knew. That was the name of the place. They sure looked cute though. Different. Ponce wouldn’t mind seeing them in Sawyersville. Like Majorettes, actually. Even shorter! He thought what must happen when a girl wearing one, the shortest ones especially, bent over. Or leaned over. He pictured it. What about sitting down? That must be something. He pictured Miss Nectar in one. Miss Smith! She would look terrific. With those legs of hers— those legs—Ponce could see it, not his book. He started getting hot. Maybe though they wear something special under the mini-mini ones. What? It could be. But what? What would his dream wear? He got hotter, it started happening again. He thought of opera. Now, he started very hard thinking about opera, which he loved, as he loved all music, of course—or most of it, certainly. As a kid he had taken guitar lessons, and later, clarinet lessons. He still had those instruments in his room, and once in a while, when in the mood, he would play them. If he had more time he would really concentrate on them. Anyhow, he knew that throughout his life he would have them around and when he felt like it play them. Ever since his eleventh year, as far as he could honestly say, he had loved opera, especially. Before that, back even to his earliest memories, he had been exposed to opera, for it was one of the things both his father and mother loved—they had records of all the important operas, or at least highlights from them and major excerpts. Perhaps it was the Southern European origins of his father’s family, in the dim, remote past, far, far back, that accounted for it, or had something to do with it. In any event, Ponce loved it. Most of all he loved Italian opera, though of course nothing could beat Mozart, which wasn’t strictly Italian, after all. His tastes were eclectic. For instance, he was crazy about Carmen. He had in fact seen a wonderful production of the Bizet masterpiece in New York two years ago, with Victoria de los Angeles, who in his opinion sang the role best. He had gone with his mother and father. He had been absolutely swept out of this world by it, the music to this day intoxicated him, when he heard it. The strength, the vigor, the sheer beauty of it, like a Turner painting, The Fighting Timer aire, for instance, just overwhelmed him.

He loved it. Now, Ponce heard it, and he was aware of Miss Smith materializing once again in his reverie. He saw her. The music rose and swelled all about her. She had on a miniskirt. He was near her, the aria of love was being sung to him, by her. He responded. He was aware of the most powerful and formidable erection, responding to her. He was dying for her. He loved her miniskirt. . . . La Traviata. . . . Rigoletto. . . . Those two operas. Marriage of Figaro. . . . That most delightful of operas. . . . Pagliacci. . . * Now a whole torrent of operas fell all around him. ... On him. . . . His dream disappeared. He watched her, looking so terrific, disappearing. He was heartbroken, still dying for her. He waved to her, from the dark depths of Lucia de Lammermoor. ... A Wagner crescendo swept him off his feet. Where was it taking him? He tried to see her. ... He thought of The Teat les. . . . That phenomenon of the times intrigued him. And grounded him. He was thinking, clearly. He couldn’t say he completely hated that kind of so-called music, he grinned within, descending, because whenever he did hear one of their silly records he just felt good, at least the first time, jumping around inside with the beat of it. Really, it was kid stuff though. Most of the kids in the school, from Freshmen on down, generally, Ponce had noticed, wide-ranging and intelligent observer of the human condition that he was, were crazy about them, and got into a state of near-hysteria over them. It started petering out when they hit their Sophomore year. Ponce pondered it. He saw a million kids shrieking their heads off at a Teatles “concert.” He saw them breaking the barriers and ripping their clothes off. Or trying to. Would they stop there? Now they were ripping all the cops’ clothes off. Now suddenly and once again Miss Smith entered. She was wearing no skirt at all. What was that she had on? She was jogging around, yelling Yea, Yea, О Yea Yea Yea, all over the place. What was she up to? Ponce’s organ was up too—once again. He thought of Practice, struggling hard with his predicament. It would be great tonight alright seeing the boys out there and Tiger putting them through the ropes again. Even if Jim didn’t show up. A lot of plays would have to be revised, if he didn’t. Special T Pass Seventy-three And Fake To Left On Three From Quarterback Spin And hand off With Lat-erai Decoy, for example, would have to be completely rethought. Ponce fixed his thoughts. He saw the diagram of the play, clearly before him, in his head. He remembered the first time he had outlined that gem of a play for Tiger. A winner and a half if ever there was one. He didn’t even know how many TD’s had been scored with it. He could reshuffle the swing to right and cut off the pivot. But who would pivot? It was absolutely essential that someone step in and take over the pivot. Slim Elkins could decoy alright and spin without any trouble, but when it came to the pivot —and the ensuing snarlup in the defensive secondary that could always occur on that one without the split second timing called for—Ponce pondered, wondering, getting worried. No doubt Tiger was pondering over it, right now, in his office. . . . Ponce checked himself, surfacing suddenly, remembering where he was, and where Tiger was, right up there, in front of him. He thought of his Uncle Phil, who lived in Kitston. He was a lawyer. Once in a while, he went to see him. The poor guy was so busy though he just about saw his family these days. The funeral. Ponce suddenly found himself face to face with that again. Mummer. And that again. He would have to act. But when? Ponce was agitated. As soon as he could, without a doubt. As soon as he heard. He was sinking again, seeing the funeral. She would have a nice one, he knew. She came from a religious family, she was pretty religious herself. They would all go to the church. It was a nice church, a nice old church, the Methodist one. on the corner of Spring Avenue and Cherry Street. Miss Smith would wear black. A black miniskirt. He suddenly saw his dream, in that black miniskirt. . . .

“Well—” Ponce heard a voice, Tiger’s, speaking very quietly, “If nobody has any objections, we’ll move on to another topic—” He paused, and Ponce looked up, and then he went on, “No objections?” Another pause, and then, “Well—let’s see what we can do with the principle of voting in a democratic election. I’m thinking of the election of officials and representatives by majority verdict, as we practice it of course in our own country, as opposed to election by Proportional Representation, a method of course practiced, for instance, in several European countries.” He paused, Ponce saw him look around. Then,

“Yvonne—first of all, how about telling us the difference?’* “Well—I hope I can—” That sweet girl, smiling, said....

40

Tiger found Jim Green waiting for him when he returned to his office after Civics class. He had picked up some lunch at the cafeteria, for both of them.

“Howdy—” he said to the boy, setting his books and the lunches on his desk.

“What’s new?” he said, sitting down at the desk and starting to open the package. He noted how unhappy the boy looked. “Hungry?” he added.

“Not too much,” Jim answered.

The boy took one, slowly.

“What’s been going on?” Tiger asked, munching his sandwich. He was sitting back in his chair with his feet propped on one of the open desk drawers! He was thinking, some Surcher.

“Search me,’’ the boy said, glumly.

Tiger was enjoying his sandwich. They always had pretty good sandwiches up there, on top of everything else. It was a good cafeteria, Miss Eccles was a Home Ec grad from State, it ought to be. She ran it. He took another bite, thinking about her. She had often, in the past few months, caused him to think about her. He would see. He waited for the boy to say something. She wasn’t exactly a beauty —but—there was—something—

“You know they’ve been working on me all morning?” the boy said, “Do they have any right to do that?”

Tiger thought about that.

“Have they accused you of anything?”

“Not directly.”

“You didn’t do it—” Tiger said, taking another bite out of the sandwich, “Did you?”

“Heck no. Tiger,” The boy answered, a little hurt by it.

“Go on—eat your sandwich—” Tiger said.

The boy hesitated.

“ГИ try—” He said.

“If you didn’t you didn^pt—” Tiger said, munching away. He had an appetite. He took a sip of milk now, through a straw. That fool Surcher, he thought. ‘Trouble is,” he said. “They’re up against it.” He paused. “They haven't got a single clue to go on, from what I’ve been told, and so they’re pretty desperate.” He paused. “Like the sandwich?”

“Yeh,” the boy said.

“■Couple more here,” Tiger munched away, “Have some milk—” He said. “So—” He went on, “They’re hitting at anything they can find—or think they find—in that darkness.” He paused. “What I’d like to know is, why have they picked on you? That’s what I’m wondering. Again he paused. “You have any idea? What have they got on you?”

The boy was munching listlessly at the sandwich, however delicious it was. He answered, finally, “Well—see—” He paused. “I liked Jill a lot—maybe you know or don’t know—I guess though you don’t know—” He paused— “And, well—couple of weeks ago, after that Lansdale game, I was feeling so good—heck, high I mean—I wrote her a crazy note, no kidding—” He paused. “And, well, this guy Surcher latched on to it—in her house—see—” He paused —“Yeh, there it was, she kept it, and my fingerprints all over it—” Tiger absorbed it. “And that’s about all, far as I can see. That’s what they’ve so-called got on me—” He paused—“One thing, they been real cagey about that— other piece of paper—you know the one I mean—” He paused, as Tiger, munching on, took that in—“I mean, they been kind of hinting around that maybe my prints were on that—just hinting around, being real foxy about that—” He paused—“But that’s crazy, Tiger—because they just couldn’t be. I don’t know what their game is, I’m telling you—if my prints are on there, I sure as heck didn’t put them there!”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Tiger said, “If they had found your prints, by now you’d be up the creek. Don’t worry. I think they’re playing with you.” He paused, taking a sip of milk, and surveying the boy. “What was in that note you mentioned?” he asked, just to hear what he’d say.

After some hesitation, the boy told him. It coincided exactly with what he had read. Tiger nodded, and finished his sandwich.

“I don’t think they can do much with that—except worry about it,” He told the lad.

“They sure been trying.”

“Well, sure, as I said, they’re up the creek. I guess they’ll keep on trying too—” Tiger said.

“I oughta have a lawyer—right. Tiger?”

“If they take you away from here, certainly. If they just turn you loose, after they’re through with you here, I don't know as 1 would worry about that—unless of course they keep on bothering you.”

“That Surcher sure acts like he’s got his man—” The boy told him.

“Oh—I don’t know. Never can be too sure with those guys, who knows what’s on their minds? Maybe he’s just foxed, and ready to try anything—Maybe he hopes you’ll tell him something—if he works on you long enough.”

“I’ve sure got nothing to tell him.”

“Well, I believe that.”

A pause. Tiger started eating a piece of apple pie.

“Boy they sure make nice pie up there though,” He said, enjoying it, “So you never got anywhere with Jill?" He asked.

“Nowhere,” the lad said.

Tiger nodded, taking due note of it. He finished the pie. “Have a piece of that pie, Jim—’’ He paused, pushing a good-sized portion toward him. "One of these days, we’re going to be living in a civilized world, and you won’t have any problems with that kind of thing—I don’t mean you literally, Jim, because it looks like it’s going to be a long time away. That’s the way things move.” He paused again. “The more I get to know human beings, Jim. it’s a miracle things move at all, no kidding. That’s how we are. How we’ve always been. From time immemorial.” He paused once more. The boy was trying the pie. “Immemorial." He said again. “You really were stuck on that girl, weren’t you?”

The boy nodded. He said, “I don’t mind telling you.”

Tiger said, “She was a fine girl.”

“You know it.”

Tiger nodded. He said, “She used to drop in to see me once in a while. I can tell you, I used to enjoy those talks.” The boy nodded.

“Did you talk with her much?” Tigeę asked.

Pretty Maids All in a Row 221 “Oh—yeh, I guess. I talked to her quite a lot here in school—around the school—that's all.” He paused, looking very downcast—“I always wound up trying to take her out—” A pause—“And it was always no go—" Another pause—“That really made me feel bad, let me tell you. I hated her whenever she turned me down—the whole setup —that's a fact.” He paused—“Also, funny enough—Tiger —I felt sorry for her—”

Tiger nodded.

“I know,” he said, “It's that way. I understand that.” He paused. “She was a fine girl, Jim, like most of the girls around here. But—well—like most of us, I guess—she was a prisoner of her culture. That’s right, Jim.” He paused. “You understand what I’m saying? Her culture.” He paused, surveying the lad, he saw it had registered. “That’s a powerful, powerful force, Jim—” He went on—“It takes one hell of an extraordinary person, in the USA, to buck his culture. Jim. That’s w'hy it’s going to take so long. Long long. Any progress in any area of human social activity always does. As I said, it’s a wonder it ever does. Look how long it’s taken us to get this far!”

The boy nodded. He finished his pie.

“And how far is that?” Tiger asked. “You said it!” He added.

“What did Surcher send me to see you for?” The boy asked, after a silence.

“Oh—I guess he wanted me to work on you.” He grinned. “I guess that.”

The boy nodded, and grinned a little bit, too.

“I don’t think he’s a bad guy—” Tiger said, “I could be wrong, but I don’t think so.” He paused, thoughtfully. “He’s just up against it.”

“Those other two guys, Folio and Grady I think are their names, they’re pretty mean-looking—”

“I agree with you.”

A pause.

“What did she used to talk with you about, Tiger?” The boy asked.

Tiger thought about it. Memories were flooding back. He sat there looking around his office, giving quite a lot of thought to that. Finally, he turned to the boy again.

“Just about everything,” He said.

“She was great to talk with—” Jim said.

222 Pretty Maids All in a Row “She sure was.”

“Did she ever talk about me?" The boy asked.

Tiger thought hard about that.

“I’ll tell you the truth, Jim—she didn’t’*

The boy shook his head.

“That’s what I figured,” he said.

“She never talked about any boys, for that matter— come to think of it—”

“She didn’t?"

“Uh uh. She didn’t**

Another silence.

“Did she ever tell you what she wanted to be?" Jim asked, finally.

“She had a few ideas—” Tiger said—“Mainly, I think she was interested in Journalism—”

“That’s right. That’s what she told me.” The boy paused —“Like Mona—**

“Mona?" Tiger inquired, “Mona Drake?" He also inquired. "Is she interested in Journalism?" It was a piece of news to him. Certainly.

“Well—it’s one of the things—I know it’s one of the things—" The boy said.

“I thought she was mainly interested in schoolteaching, Jim—’*

“Yeh—maybe you’re right—’*

“She a girl friend of yours?”

“Well—yeh—in a way—I guess—” He paused, looking at Tiger—"I take her out once in a while.”

Tiger nodded.

“She’s a swell girl—’*

“You said it.”

And they fell silent. They had both finished their lunches. Although the boy looked a little better to him Tiger still felt very sorry for him. He would of course do all he possibly could for him, for he hadn’t touched the girl, certainly. He would have some rough hours to go yet with the misguided Captain, he knew, and his band of stalwarts, he also knew. But—in the end—of course—they would spring him loose. They had to. Still, he felt sorry for him. He had a pretty good idea of the ordeal he would have to go through. And why should he have it to go through? What effect would it have on him? Certainly, when he saw Surcher he would tell him bluntly just how he saw things. Would it matter?

Probably not. The man after all had a police mind, and a job to do, and he was jammed up to boot. He was doing his best, and he wanted to* show it. What kind of pressure would build up from all corners, all around him, if he didn’t show it? Tiger, in short, had compassion for him too. A situation like this was a hell of an affair, and scared everybody. He had to explore every suspect, or possible suspect, pretty carefully, thoroughly, Tiger knew it. And unfortunately, Tiger mused, that very unfortunate letter made Jim a sort of suspect. No doubt of it. Most unfortunate. Tiger, within, sighed at the injustice of it.

“Tiger," the boy now said, “What do you think—Who could have done it?”

Slowly, sadly, shaking his head, Tiger told him, “I wish I knew. I’m telling you.” And he stopped there.

“There sure is some nutty jerk running around loose in this place—” The boy said, ^liMcin there is.”

“You know it,” Tiger told him.

“I sure wish old Surcher knew it!”

“Don’t worry about him.”

“I’m in for it.”

“Well—maybe—but they can’t touch you.”

“Sure of that?”

“Positive.”

The boy sat quietly.

Tiger said nothing.

What could he tell the boy? Nothing. Reassurance got nowhere, essentially, especially in a situation like this, he knew it. His years of work in this field had taught him that, perfectly, and totally. The boy had a rough experience ahead of him, Tiger knew it, what was the point of trying to kid him? He would just have to go through it, for it was unlikely that Surcher would pay too much attention to him, unless he had somehow stumbled across something else, in the interim. Tiger almost shuddered to think what that might be, on his present form. Certainly. He kept on looking at Jim, feeling for him. It would be a unique experience in any event, Tiger thought, trying to find the bright side of it, he could look back upon it later on in life as part of the grand fabric and design of his life. Certainly. Involvement. Tiger knew it. How well he knew it. The human personality was a plant that thrived only in the rich terrain of contact and involvement with other humans, and concern for them. It would always be and had always been. Man hungered for contact. Humans were profoundly social animals. Though, of course, sometimes bizarre ones. Who ran away from this contact, this involvement, this concern, did so at the most terrible cost to his soul, his life, his entire being, in toto. That was the main force, this hunger for contact, which Tiger in fact always tried to stimulate or at least harness whenever he encountered a student with a few problems. Not that all students, in fact, all humans, didn’t have problems. Some, however, could face them, or at least tried to, and just needed some help to. That was it. And it was all really Tiger could do, for to probe deeper, to uncover the depths of some of these problems would take about half a lifetime, at least,’and some luck to boot. Such were these complicated, sometimes brutal, always complicated creatures, redeemed solely and uniquely and only by love. Only that. Human beings. Homo sapiens. Tiger mused, his eyes still on the boy. Here was this young boy, this fine young colored boy, and he would have to endure the pain and the humiliation of the next few hours, that’s all there was to it. No matter how much compassion Tiger felt for him. . . .

“Well, listen—” he said, suddenly, “Don’t let them keep you too long, will you, Jim? We need you.” And he grinned.

The boy grinned, for he loved football. He said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thought any more about those offers?” Tiger now said —“The one from State seemed pretty good to me—’’ It wouldn’t do any harm, cheering up the lad.

“What about UCLA?”

“That wasn’t bad—”

“State’s not been doing too well—”

“ Yeh, they did run into some trouble this year—” “Six-Three so far isn’t too bad though, considering all those injuries they had—look at Palmer—and Carlucci! Wow!” The boy said.

“That was bad—”

“Watch them next year though. When did they last have a bad year, Tiger, anyhow?”

“Heck—I don’t know—!”

“When do I have to let them know by, anyway?”

“Well—I think by the first of the year—Jim—”

The boy nodded. And was quiet once more.

Pretty Maids All in a Row 225 Tiger thought about the boy playing for some top university—State, he hoped—He would make the grade anywhere, of course, but Tiger had a soft spot in his heart for his old alma mater, no matter how much it had grown and changed. Tiger gazed fondly at the boy. He would be a pretty good bet for All-American, just one more started on his way by him. Chalk it up. Yes, Tiger mused, he would be chalking him up, sure enough. He could pull a pass out of the air like an angel, no less. And run—like a halfback, almost. Tiger admired the lad.

“You could play basketball too,” Now Tiger said. For the boy was great at that too.

“I’d want to.”

“Not a bad little team they’ve got there—last year they hit the NCAA Finals—I guess you know—’’

“Yeh, I know.”

Now Tiger felt the boy should go. After all, what could he do further for him here? He was a strong lad, he could take care of himself. Surcher had asked him to “Get him back” to him, but that didn’t worry him. He would just let the boy go back by himself, of course.

“Well, Jim—” He said to the boy, “I guess you’d better go back to our friend.” And he grinned. “Unless you have something more you want to talk over with me.” He paused. “Do you?”

The boy shook his head, “No—” he said, “I don’t.”

“O.K.—” Tiger said, nodding, and giving that friendly grin.

The boy got up. He looked a lot better, Tiger thought Without a doubt.

“Thanks for the lunch,” the boy said, “I hope I’ll be seeing you soon—” He paused—“I sure hate missing practice tonight—the guy said I might—”

“We’ll see you soon. Don't worry about it.”

The boy grinned, and left the office.

Tiger sat back and relaxed, and thought about things, after Jim left. He had about twenty minutes to go before young Kathy Burns was due to show up. Tiger reflected on things, all sorts of things, including of course the boy who had just left. Certainly it was news to him to have heard of his interest in Jill, not to mention the letter, of course, he had written. Even more interesting, in a way, though not all that much news, in another way, was his dating that peach of a Mona. That hon. He wondered what went on there. He would see if he could find out next time, from Mona. Of course it would have to be a very subtle approach—but, he thought he could swing it. He was good at that, and knew it. What a terrific couple they would make! Tiger suddenly thought of it Jim and Mona! He could recommend her to him, that young lad would have to travel pretty far and wide to find someone more eminently suitable, whatever angle you looked at it. What a girl. That girl. Tiger mused, over her. And the boy. He thought of the many years and many trials and experiences ahead for that young colored lad. Luckily, he was intelligent, and a gifted athlete. He would go to college and if he didn't play pro ball afterward, which he didn’t necessarily have to, due to the quality of his gray matter, he was sure to land a pretty good job somewhere, in whatever area, more or less, he chose to specialize in. What was he interested in? Tiger thought of his Brooder. He recalled that on that Profile he had scored heavily in the Scientific Humanities area, if he wasn’t mistaken, and Tiger very rarely was. So maybe he could go for Medicine, which was a great field, or something similar. He was sure someone would put up the dough. Tiger liked the lad, it was certainly one hell of an inane shame for him to have to go through this show. But then, Tiger mused, glancing quickly back at his own life, Look what I’ve been through! When would Surcher contact him? Tiger wondered. It was hard to predict what that guy would do. When he did, he would certainly tell him just what he thought of his suspicions. . . . Some Policeman, he mused, regretting again the initial rating given him. Well, they were essential, though. Unfortunately essential, Tiger mused, turning his mind to that problem, for a few moments, at least. The innate destructiveness and aggression in Homo sapiens made them essential, of course. Old Corn pone. He sighed and opened up another one of his desk drawers, hauling out a book he had recently acquired, through the good offices of Hetty Nectar, of course. It was a very interesting book, in many respects, and he was finding it not only readable but enjoyable, to a certain extent. Since obtaining it, he had spent at least fifteen or twenty minutes each day, working on it. He

Pretty Maids All in a Row 227 opened it and browsed here and there through it, it was his way of reading it—when he hit a part that appealed to him, he would start taking it in—and concentrate on it. It was an admirable book, the product of many years’ scientific research on the subject by a highly qualified team of medical scientific research workers, of course. He read: The vagina of Human Females in the age group spanning puberty to the mid-thirties, at the minimum, is ready to receive the engorged, fully tumescent, erect penis within a minute, at the maximum, of commencement of a suitable form of sexual stimulation . . . On the whole, Tiger would concur with that finding, though he had not actually ever utilized a stop watch, as the research workers, somehow, obviously had done. . . . Regarding The Breasts . . . He read on—The nipples definitely become erect when the human female is sexually aroused . . . Tiger acknowledged the phenomenon, having long been aware of it, and admired the astuteness of course of the researchers* recognition and detailed observation of it. . . . See Chart 52-C-l(a) ... He would, one day. . . . Definitely. He browsed on: Knee-Chest Position, Secondary ... He preferred primary, and would recommend it, any day. He flipped on, though he would look more closely into that, one day. Supine . . . Lateral . . . They were self-explanatory, practically . . . THE SEX BLUSH. Tiger halted. And concentrated ... The extremely interesting, uniquely human, and almost universal phenomenon of the Sex Blush has not received significantly meaningful attention heretofore . . . Tiger was only too well aware of that. . . . Without a doubt, it is now more than clear that the Sex Blush may take different forms and patterns in different Human Females ... He could vouch for it. . . . Generally speaking, however, it can be different only in clearly defined ways, though it can be definitively stated that it is directly related to the amount and type of Response to sexual stimulation on the part of the particular Human Female . . . Certainly, it was so, Tiger knew, and what a unique way of putting it. Like a gas law—almost. On he read. . . . The Sex Blush tinges the breasts a very delicate rosy pink, and it affects the anterior and superior surfaces first—(See Table 99-ll-a). By slow degrees there then occurs a diffusion of the rosy hue to the (1) undersurfaces of the breasts and (2) the anterior chest wall—just as the phenomenon of Orgasm is on the brink of manifesting itself—in the Female . . . Tiger took note of it, for he hadn’t ever noted this, so far as he was immediately aware, in any event, and certainly it was something to take note of, carefully. In due course of time and circumstances, for in actual essence it was a matter of circumstances, he would explore it. He noted it ... The Blush is not confined to the aforementioned areas, however . . . Tiger was wondering about this. . . . All of the following areas, in one way or another, are affected: The shoulders, the ante cubital fossae, the lower abdomen . . . Tiger nodded. . . . the entire back, in fact, and the thighs and buttocks . . . those magic areas, Tiger murmured, almost . . . The literature in the past has vividly described the state of the Human Female zeroing in on Orgasm . . . Tiger nodded. He himself had on occasion considered making a modest contribution on the matter. ... The post-orgasmic Human Female generally regains conscious contact with her external environment by degrees which can be more carefully perceived by studying Table 52-X-11 (z), as amended ... The following areas at this stage are generally covered in perspiration—(a shimmering sheen, in fact, it can best be described as): The back, the anterior chest wall, the thighs . . . HEAVENLY THIGHS, Tiger interjected, SILKEN SKIN PARADISE, he suggested. . . . He flipped pages, browsing here, there. . . . Masturbation in the Human Female has not been satisfactorily documented before . . . Tiger thought about it. It would be a gap, and no doubt of it. . . . Hundreds of Human Females were involved in our investigation of this phenomenon, under widely varying conditions and situations, from mechanical to manual... A vast spectrum of orgasmic experiences, falling into the normal curve pattern . . . Tiger chortled . . . resulted and were carefully annotated and studied. [See Table 24-Q-VlI(p)]. Two main avenues of investigation were paramount and can now be seen to fall under the salient headings: HOW? and: HOW MUCH? Definitively ... He didn’t doubt it, not a jot of it. He was aware how widespread the phenomenon was—Rochelle, that astonishing girl, had very considerably enlightened him, surprising him, he had to confess. Always, there were things to learn. . . . Now he was examining Figure 16-2 (c), having somehow arrived there. The Penis. It showed several views, not all of them conventional, actually, and extraordinarily well done, no doubt of it. Tiger noted . . . Detumescent (Side View) . . . Tumescent (or Excitement)—(All Views) . . . Peak (or Total) Engorgement . . . Tiger studied them. . . . Cow per's glands in action . . . He noted . . . The artwork was of the highest caliber. He flipped pages. ... The main function, in fact the only validly authenticated and historically implemented function of the tumescent (or Fully Erect) penile shaft has long been known . . . Tiger paused there. He had to. It wasn’t anything he could turn a blind eye to. . . . Penetration . . . He read ... or Mounting of the Human Female is sometimes attempted in the early phases of sexual play . . . Tiger winced, openly almost. . . . This creates a problem, for the Female may not be in fact ready at this particular stage to comfortably accommodate the fully tumescent penile shaft , , , And only a brute would attempt that stupid move. Monumentally stupid, Tiger knew. . . . He flipped pages. . . . The Human Vagina . . . Tiger lingered, briefly, then turned more pages, leaving that for the moment, reluctantly, for another day. He glanced at his watch. It wouldn’t be long. That cute Sophomore. That class had a batch of cuties this year, and she was about the cutest, hands down. He had always thought so in fact, since he had first spotted her on a visit to the elementary school a few yean ago, when she was just finishing up eighth grade. That was it. He recalled thinking at the time. How could anything be so cute? Could it? Now, here she was, a Sophomore, no less. . . . Tiger found he was at the back of the book, leafing through the last few pages of it. Mount, he read, the initial penetration (or thrust) of the erect penis into the vagina at the commencement of coitus

Still perusing, he picked the phone up with his free hand.

“Hello?”

“Hello.”

It was Looby Loo. He grinned warmly, into the phone. “Hi, Hon—” he said, lovingly.

“How’s everything?” She said, in her loving way.

“Oh—O.K.—” He informed her—“Considering things.” “Ummm, I know. Have a nice lunch?”

“Uh huh.”

“Janie’s just gone back—I took her.”

“Not a bad idea, bun.”

“What about tonight, honey?”

There was a knock at the door.

“There’s Practice, hon.”

“Alrighty, See you around the usual time?”

“Maybe earlier. Might cut it short.”

“I’ll have something nice for you.”

“You always do.”

“Uh huh—”

He chuckled warmly. He adored her.

Kathy Burns walked into the office. He gave her a little wave.

“You’re the best—” He murmured, into the phone.

“See you—”

"Si si—” She said, transmitting a warm little kiss.

He hung up, grinning warmly, still.

“Hello, Mr. McDrew—” Kathy Bums, in her usual sweet way, that cutest of ways, greeted him.. . .

Surcher took his decision. He took it while still in a state of gross indecision, and a creeping frustration, to boot. He took it while in the middle of his two-hundredth question at least to Jim Green, after lunch, after having welcomed him back from Tiger’s office, unescorted, he had noted, and after having had a talk with Tiger, over the phone, about him. He took it in spite of what Mr. McDrew had said, to wit, that as far as he was concerned, the boy couldn’t possibly have done it, and he had, from said boy, furthermore, elicited nothing. Not that he hadn’t taken due note of what Sawyersville’s Head Coach, among other things, had told him. He had the highest respect for him. But—he was frustrated. And not at all sure yet about the boy. And he had his duty, and his golden clue, which of course pointed straight at the boy. And so, in all conscience, he couldn’t, at this point at any rate, having weighed all the factors, let the boy walk away from him. He just couldn’t. And wouldn’t. He had decided, at the two-hundred mark. He would see what developed down at Headquarters. He said to the boy, after that one, in his usual mild and unhostile way, “Jim, I’m going to ask you to come down to Headquarters.”

The boy stared, definitely shaken at that “What for?” He asked.

“See what we can discover.”

“Well I want a lawyer.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll have a lawyer.”

“You’re sure screwing me up, man,” the boy said, "for nothing too.”

Thus, shortly after, walking between Grady and Folio, but not handcuffed, and following the Captain, Jim Green walked out of the high school toward a waiting State Police car. Before reaching it, however, the party encountered quite the little number of local citizenry, including of

course the sturdy Seimo contingent, and a sprinkling of media men, photographers as well. They were well controlled by a cordon of Troopers, not to mention Chief John Poldaski, of course, who strutted back and forth before them like a minor Polish-American Duce, no poke.

“Didn’t I tell ya, John?” Joe Grotto, one of Selmo’s called out to him, as the party passed by him. “The Fuckers!”

“You dirty Jig!” Abe Muvitz, another stalwart of course, called out, loud and clear.

“Take them all, the black bastards!” Someone else, Jake Dalton perhaps, shouted out. Other utterances were made, here and there.

The boy looked them over, and Surcher looked them over, and Poldaski mumbled something to them. They fell silent, miraculously. Meanwhile, the reporters were trying to get near the Captain, and in fact two or three of them were practically tripping him up.

“No comment.”

“This is a matter of great public interest, Captain—I represent—”

“Nothing to say.”

“What have you got on him, Captain?”

“You guys deaf?”

“Listen—Captain—”

“Out of the way.”

“Hey—who the hell are you? You’ll be sorry for this!” One of them said, actually elbowed aside by the Captain.

“I’ll issue a statement in time—don’t worry—” Surcher said. And that was that.

“So it wasn’t the other kid—De Leon—after all—Right, Captain?” One shouted out, as some Troopers and Poldaski pushed the rest out of the way, amid loud protests.

The party climbed into the car, under a small barrage of camera flashes.

As they drove off, the following comment was made by one of Selmo’s best, in stentorian tones, or just a little less.

“You Sonuvabitch! Black Prick!”

There was a flurry of media men heading for their cars. They would follow the Captain, no doubt heading, they correctly assumed, for State Police Headquarters, District “A.”

Pretty Maids All in a Row 233 At about that moment, or thereabouts, in the office of Guidance/Counseling, Kathy Burns, that cutest of cutest kids, was saying to Tiger McDrew,

“Mr. McDrew—” as she still would address him, despite his clear intimations that certainly she was free to call him by his more familiar style, “Who do you think did that awful thing to Jill Fairbunn?”

“I don’t know,” Tiger murmured, thrusting his formidably erect penile shaft into that cute maid’s well-lubricated and wonderfully receptive vaginal barrel, noting the rapidly spreading sex blush on the supple young body, and the widespread filmy sheen of perspiration on that utterly delightful cutest young form, “I just don’t know—” He told her, in short, mounting her. . . .

She gasped and cried out with sheer delight—

“Mr. McDrew—I love You—Г He murmured. “You little sweetheart—”

Ponce, along with most of the students having classes at that time on that side of the school building, watched the departure of Jim Green, and entourage, in the State Police car. He watched it with a sinking, sick feeling, and a growing resolution to speak to Tiger as soon as the class was over, or as soon as he could get hold of him. This was it. He would wait, he could wait, no longer—period. Mr. Hinkle, whose History class he was in at the moment, was trying as calmly as possible to get the students back to their places. Ponce stared out that window, feeling just awful—about everything..,,

42

When Captain Surcher arrived at Headquarters with the boy, he took him back to the Interrogation Room. Formally, he merely booked him for “questioning.” Which in fact was the case. He wondered how long it would be before all the lines to Headquarters were jammed up with callers—all kinds of them. He pictured the place swarming with civil rights people and lawyers, not to mention reporters, Of course, they would all be kept under control. It didn’t really worry him. He was only interested in one thing, Jim Green: Had he or hadn’t he? All the rest of the complications and developments which no doubt would be cropping up all around him were secondary things, they would take care of themselves, or be taken care of, in due course, and order. As far as he was concerned. He hoped. For if the boy hadn’t done it, if he could really convince him he hadn’t, that would be that, the end of it, as far as Jim Green was concerned. Sawyersville could have back its star Right End, all cleared. And—he would have to start over, and keep hoping. He had been disgusted by that mob of jerks hanging around outside the high school, so much so that he had issued instructions to the Troopers to keep them well away from there, at all times, in the future. They certainly had abused the boy. They would only be too glad, he knew, to see the boy burn for the thing. And it might have been one of them, for all he knew. That too he knew, and it made him blue. It could have, alright, only he had nothing at all to connect any of them with it. And in any event, he still stuck to the theory that it was someone inside that school. Part and parcel of the school. The question was: Was it Jim Green? In a few days, if he could somehow hold onto him that long, he would know.

In the Interrogation Room, Jim found things slightly different than they had been in Proffer’s inner sanctum. For one thing, it was plainly, even austerely, furnished. There was a desk, and a few chairs, and they were all wooden. For another, Grady and Folio hung around, as well as Surcher. And there was a Trooper sitting on the sidelines, taking everything down, in shorthand. And, if Jim had known, there was also a tape recorder, the microphone cleverly concealed, of course. Jim sat there on one of those wooden chairs and wailed for Surcher to start again. He was also waiting for his lawyer to turn up, or phone up, or something. This lawyer in fact was none other than Phil Marlowe, from Kitston, Ponce’s uncle, no less, a very energetic and active civil rights worker, and well known. He had played no small part in the token integration, so to speak, that had taken place at Sawyersville High School and other schools in the area, including G.A.R., of course. Jim wished he would hear from him soon. And what about

Pretty Maids All in a Row 235 his parents? Who was going to break the crazy news to them? He wondered.

It was Grady, however, who began. The others sat there, quietly, observing the lad.

“Jim—” Grady said, right off the bat, ‘Til tell you something—Don’t think you can get away with it—if you did it.”

The boy sat there.

“Because I’ll tell you—” Grady paused—“I think you did iL”

The boy said nothing, though aware of the new track.

“All you’ve got to do,” Grady said, “Is go through the whole thing, step by step, and tell me just how you did it.” He paused. “That’s what I want to hear, right now, primarily.”

Nothing.

“When did you first get the idea?” Grady tried now. “Where’s my lawyer?”

“Don’t worry about your lawyer—Just answer that—” Nothing.

“Listen—don’t jazz me—” Grady told him, sharply, “WeTe not going to play any little games down here—got me?”

“What about my lawyer?”

“You’re going to need a platoon of lawyers—”

“You mean you will—”

“Are you threatening me? Kid?”

“Show my lawyer.”

“Just what did you mean by that?”

“I want my lawyer.”

“What’s a coon like you doing chasing a white girl? That nice white girl? Huh?” Grady shot at him.

“You’re the coon, buddy.” Jim told him.

“Yeh? Look at my face. Am 1?”

“Get my lawyer.”

“When’s the last time you tried making out with Jill? Yesterday? Just before the whole school went to the auditorium for Assembly? Is that when?” Grady fired now.

“Go to hell.”

“Want a rap in the mouth?”

“Wouldn’t that be great. Man, great”

“Think we can’t do that?”

“Sure. Great.”

“You got a real lip, Blackie—don’t you?”

“Hey—go to Mississippi—you’d be great—” The boy said.

“What a lip!” Grady said, “Hey—hear this blackball of a mother’s lip?” He was apparently addressing the others in that room. “Christ, take his clothes off and bring in the strap!”

“What about South Africa?” The boy said. “There’s a place! That’s more your place!”

Grady glared at him. For a moment or two there was silence. Surcher sat quietly, just looking at Jim.

“You’re hot stuff—” Grady finally said, “Real hot stuff —an Integrated Boy—Right? Hot Stuff? You think so?” He paused—“You think I think so? Know what? / don’t give a damn! Who the frig gives a damn! Know what those whiteys in that school think of you? These white gals wouldn’t give you a tumble, would they, Hot Stuff? They wouldn’t be seen dead with you! So you decided to take care of that, didn’t you? Right, Hotshot? Some Hotshot! What about Jill? You really had the hots for her, huh? Boy, didn’t you! And what did she think of you? Hell, she wouldn’t look at the best part of you! So you sure took care of that—Right, Bright Boy? Like they take care of them in East Caxton once in a while—that right. Hot Stuff? Come on, quit wasting our time, we got you by the balls!”

The boy stared at him, for half a minute at least.

Then he said, “You make me laugh.”

“Like Jill laughed at you? Listen, she just about split her sides laughing at you! Know that? That’s a fact! A coon like you—”

“She’d have puked on you.”

“Where were you during Assembly, Kid?”

“I told your Chief.”

“A lot of crap!”

“Ask anybody. Ask Dink. Ask Lennie—”

“They don’t remember.”

^UThat's crap.”

“You’re a big strong boy—it wasn’t any trouble at all dragging that girl in there—where did you knock her off? In there, or where? How’d you get her head down there? You thought you’d taken care of the prints, that was a bright move, wasn’t it though—Where’d you learn that? TV? Or maybe you got a record—huh? Right now, we’re

Pretty Maids All in a Row 237 checking up on your whole damn family for records— Know that?”

“Buddy, I believe that.”

“Whaddaya mean by that?”

“That.”

“You black crap! Holy Crap! I have to take this crap? One more flip of that Lip—listen, you’re flat! Flat, flat! We’ll have a little session with that strap—see what a hotshot you are then—How about that? Like that?”

Jim sat quietly.

Grady went on, “Did she used to drive you nuts out there, on that football field? Is that who you played for? You used to see her, all sexed up, leading those cheers— what did you think of that hot cheerleader’s uniform, huh? Some outfit and a half, huh? What about her honey pot? She must have had you off your nut! Holy Hell, How’d you ever play a game? I’d like to know that! Ever take your eyes off her?”

The boy said DQthing,

“Who were you thinking of fixing next time?” Grady went on—“Who’s next on the list? How many more notes did you write?”

The boy sat quietly.

“I’m talking to you, boy!” Grady threw at him.

“I know you are.”

“How’d you get her head down there?”

“Where?”

“I'm Warning you—”

“My lawyer should be here—”

“What about that note you pinned on her? How’d you get that bright idea? Think it was pretty cute?”

“Were my prints on there?”

“You’ll find out in court!”

“You didn’t find a print of mine on there—”

“Wanta bet?”

“Any bet.”

“You think you wiped them all off?”

“Oh Man!” ‘

“What did you use? Prints aren’t that easy to wipe off—know that? I’ll bet you didn’t know that!”

“Christ! I’ll laugh!”

Grady stood there.

At last he said, “Was she already dead—when you shoved her head down there?”

Jim said nothing. He sat there, feeling funny. The way Grady said it, that last one sounded like the title of some weird song. He thought next he would sing it for him. The guy had talent. No doubt. He wanted to laugh, in a crazy way, at the guy. And maybe shout. But he sat there, as Grady pressed on. He glanced at the Captain. And Folio. They just sat there, taking it all in. It was all weird. He wondered when his lawyer would show up. He wondered how he had thought Surcher wasn’t a bad guy. He was nothing but a white prick. Like practically all of them were. What would he try when his turn came up? Jim wondered all this, sitting there, utterly unresponsive now to Grady’s barrage of questioning, flying thick and fast, from all directions.

Surcher listened attentively, and unhappily, not to mention forlornly, to the proceedings unfolding before him. It would be Folio’s turn next, and then, again, he would take over. What the boy wasn’t aware of was that he was being subjected to the special State Police Interrogation Technique known among its practitioners as “Change Up” and also, though not as popularly, “Chinese Indoor Polo.” This technique had been developed some time ago at the State Police Academy, though its origins could probably be traced to much more esoteric sources, somewhere along the line, geographically, and historically. It consisted mainly of a period of “soft questioning" followed by a period of “hard questioning” followed then by a period of “mixed questioning” or “no questioning,” depending on circumstances. It had proved highly successful, especially since its perfection through a long period of use and refinement, by the State Police force. Surcher was all in favor of it, though the “hard questioning” always disturbed him a little bit, especially if the suspect w'as someone he was in sympathy with, to some degree at any rate. This disturbance however was more than offset by his awareness that the technique worked. Sometimes wonders, even. Provided of course they had enough lime. So far, in Surcher’s experience, the record was five days, no less. He sighed, within, knowing he would be lucky to have one day with Jim. He wondered how they had ever got anywhere before its development, the days of crude approaches to the problem, such as a bit

Pretty Maids All in a Row 239 of clubbing or way before that a touch of hot irons, long over, of course, buried in the dim sad past, he fervently hoped. Would he have time enough? That was his main worry. The boy was obviously a tough nut, done or not done it. He would be jerked out of his hands before too long, he knew, unless he got something out of him, or on him. For Surcher just didn’t know. He was in that quandary. He wanted to hold him, and work on him, and if Jim but knew, which obviously he didn’t, much to the Captain’s distress, it had nothing to do with his color. He could have been green, yellow, or any color. The only point was, as far as Surcher was concerned, he happened to be—at the moment at least—his Number One Suspect. Of course, if his other assistants, still busy at the high school, happened to stumble across something else—that would be something. He would release the boy happily, nothing could make him happier. Not even a confession. For he admired the lad, not only for his athletic prowess, but also for his deportment under questioning, especially. Change Up Phase Two, now going on. . . .

“How many times have you jacked off over this girl?” Grady asked, and Surcher winced, within. The unfortunate necessity of the whole thing. . . .

“Where’s my lawyer?” The boy asked, for probably the thirtieth time. Surcher glanced at his watch. He felt a little hungry, to tell the truth, for he had only eaten a very light lunch. Grady had been going for over an hour now. Was it time? This was always a delieate point to judge, Surcher decided to stretch it.

“What really’beats me, Green, what really beats the hell out of me, is why in hell you didn’t lay her—or anyhow, try ramming it into her, when you had hold of her, even after you fixed her—know what I mean? Hell, she must have been still warm, man! Wasn’t she? How come you didn’t?”

The boy said nothing.

Surcher got up, intending to leave the room for a while, see what was doing up front, and grab a cup of coffee, and some food, to boot. A sandwich, at least. He was just opening the door, very quietly of course, when he encountered a Trooper Clerk who as a matter of fact was just about to do the same, from the outside. Surcher stepped out into the hallway with him and closed the door.

“His lawyer’s here,” said the clerk.

Surcher nodded. That was quick. He would see him, talk to him, put him in a good frame of mind—if possible—and stall for time. Time, Time.

“And a lot of other people,” the clerk said.

“What people?” Surcher asked, though of course he knew.

“Reporters. Other people. Couple of his brothers.”

Surcher nodded. And murmured. Something. . . .

43

“O.K., Johnny, let’s hear you read that again. Just once more, boy—” Tiger said, though in truth he had already practically decided the lad just wasn’t right for the part, no matter how hard he tried. That was his trouble, actually. He only tried. In acting, Tiger knew, it was much more than trying. It had but very little in fact to do with trying. For either it was there—or it wasn’t; either you had it, or didn’t. If you did, you fell naturally into it, effortlessly achieving the maximum identification with the character, and the project, totally. In fact, it was a lot like football, Tiger mused, looking around the room and noting Ron Swann, that nifty natural of an actor, if ever there was one, in conversation now with Rochelle and Sandy Seymour, whose light red hair was tied up in a bun. She was certainly another natural, though of course Rochelle topped them all. All. There was an incomparable. Without doubt. Tiger grinned, within, thinking of another thing, Ponce, that great kid, as a matter of fact. He wasn’t here, of course. Dramatics wasn’t his line. Though from time to time Tiger had mentioned it to him, attempting to encourage him. No, it wasn’t that. He was just thinking of what Ponce had told him, about a half-hour ago, bursting in on him to do so. It had been a revelation and a half, and Tiger certainly intended to take action on it. He would of course see Surcher, as Ponce had requested. And though of course it would be just another dead end for the man, he would do it. For it fitted in beautifully with his primary

Pretty Maids All in a Row 241 aim: getting rid of the creep, Mummer. Beautifully. He could barely restrain himself now from chuckling, thinking of what Ponce had told him. It had surprised him, totally. One of the few times in his entire life, so far as he could immediately recall, Tiger had been surprised at somebody, especially that kind of thing. He certainly had kept it hidden. Well hidden. Poor creep. No wonder. Now, Tiger did chuckle, so softly though nobody really noticed. The Teaching Machine Wonder! Tiger felt good, though not entirely discompassionate either, anticipating the early departure of Mr. Mummer. A windfall, if ever there was one. First of all, he would get on to Surcher. Tomorrow morning. There was no hurry. Jim was alright. Unlike Ponce, he wasn’t worried. He continued that soft chuckling, to himself, only. It really was something. In the room also sitting here and there about Tiger were Sonny Swingle, that very promising Junior with a special flair for tragicomedy, how she could swing such roles, Marie Amis, another quasi-red-head now in her Senior year and certainly very useful to Tiger in her capacity as Student Director, what production could ever materialize without her, Dick Traugot, a terrific little actor now in his Junior year, lively as a firecracker, he would go somewhere, Judy Johnston, only a Freshman really, unbelievably, and only just admitted to the Drama Society, a black-haired charmer of a girl, a winner, bursting with life and warmth and talent, to mention some things, and of course Anne Williams and Sally Swink, those adorable things, though the truth be known Sal looked down in the dumps today. That time again? And others. Here, there, listening, or taking a hand in things, a few others, Alice Patmore among them, that very talented blond, natural of course, and, as was well known, a close friend of poor Jill’s, and understandably way down in the dumps, under the floorboards, in fact, as Tiger noted. She was brave though. Tiger treated her with the greatest consideration, even more than usual, which was very considerable, of course....

“Alright, John boy, thanks a lot, that’s enough for now—” Tiger called out. The lad looked up at him hopefully. He was extremely sensitive, this youngster, and Tiger wondered just how to break the news to him. Wasn’t there some part for him? Maybe it would be best to let Marie handle it. She was good at such things. He thought of

Ponce again. He certainly had been embarrassed, agonizingly so. making that revelation to him. He almost hadn’t. Only Tiger’s gentle encouraging had finally toppled him into it. Was that what Ponce had kept to himself all this long time, the something Tiger had long felt was on his mind? It must have been. What a lad. Certainly, if Jim hadn’t been foolishly picked up that way, if—Jill hadn’t gone that way—he never would have heard of it. Tiger sighed, within, aware once again, as so often, of the truly ironic paradoxes of things, practically all things, always. . . .

“We’ll let you know a little later, Johnny—I have to have a little powwow with Marie—” Tiger told the lad, who nodded, still hoping, but somewhere of course aware of his fate. Tiger felt sorry' for him. W’hat could he do? There weren’t any one- or two-line parts he could shove him into. Not even walk-ons! That was the trouble with such plays. One day he’d do a light light comedy, and stick him in it. But—as for this one—they had wanted it, Rochelle and Ron especially, who would of course play the leads, spectacularly. Maybe even Shakespeare could be next on the list, he mused. There was the stuff—parts for absolutely everybody! He even had to reach outside the Club sometimes, in fact, for that one. In a corner of his mind, that notable playwright was known to Tiger as the Democratic One.

“ Alright, Sonny—” Tiger said now to that young actress, “How about taking a shot at Scene I, Act II—O.K.?’’

“Sure Mr. McDrew," she told him.

“Dick, you get in there too, will you—" He said to that boy.

Sandy Seymour detached herself from Rochelle and walked over to Tiger. She sat down near him. Rochelle glanced their way, then sat down over there, near the door, near Anne and Sally. She was saying something to Johnny, Tiger noted, hoping she was setting him up for the blow. Next time, Shakespeare, definitely, Tiger thought. ...

“O.K.-go ahead—” Tiger said.

Dick and Sonny started reading their lines. Tiger listened, as did everyone else, more or less—Anne and Judy were softly giggling about something.

Soon, Marie murmured to him, “He’s perfect—^и

Tiger nodded, “I think so.”

“Sonny isn’t quite there—”

“But shell make it.”

“You know what we ought to try one day?” Sandy said to him.

“What?” He asked her.

“Six Characters—” She told him, not entirely surprising him. She was gone on Pirandello. “Oh that would be great—” She said.

Tiger nodded, being himself very pro that fellow. “We’ll talk it over.”

“Might be over everybody’s head though—” She said to him.

“We still could do it”

She nodded. And they fell silent, listening to the rest of the reading. Those two kids really were pretty good, mused Tiger, taking it in. Dick was a natural and if he wanted to and worked hard and got the breaks through some right contacts, he could get somewhere, definitely. Professionally. Would Dick try it? He was a funny boy. Very funny. He wondered what he would do. On the Brooder his profile was spread all over the place, as a matter of fact. Tiger grinned, looking at Sonny. She was certainly one of the sweetest of honeys. There was something special about the way she held herself, and walked, and her carriage, it reflected her character. But then, thought Tiger, didn’t everyone’s walk? He remembered the way Jill used to walk. That had been a walk. She certainly intoxicated him with her walk. Her talk. Right up to the last moment he had heard it. . . . He remembered a dream, suddenly. From last night. He should have written it down. Nowadays he rarely did so. At one stage in his life, some four or five years ago, he used to write down most of them. They used to fascinate him. Certainly, they were the golden key. He had quite a number of notebooks filled with dreams, tucked away in a certain corner of his den at home. He used to study them. Nowadays, busy as he was, he rarely took a look at them. He felt blue about that. The dream: He was walking on the high-school grounds with Looby Loo, Ponce, and Hetty Nectar. It was strange, because with the exception of Ponce, that unique lad, they were all naked. Fortunately, it was a hot summer day. And that was the other strange thing, because out on the grounds there were at least several hundred kids milling about, and also teachers, and of course the school should have been closed, completely, for the summer. For example, he saw Betty Smith, Naked. Every single person on those grounds, in fact, was naked. And it was then that Looby Loo, interrupting a conversation he was having with Hetty and Ponce too it seemed about Vietnam, Violence and American History, suddenly said, “Why does Ponce have clothes on, Honey?” A good point, at that point. Tiger thought, noticing also. “I don’t know—” He had answered, turning to Looby Loo, lovingly, “I just don't—” He had added, putting his arm around her, fondling her, “You know what a bright kid he is.” And it ended. As far as Tiger could immediately remember, that was the end of it. Sitting there now, admiring Sonny, he mused, and wondered. . . .

Marie murmured, to him only, ‘Tomorrow, Tiger?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“What time, Tiger?”

“Ten-thirty.”

She nodded, gazing at him, warmly. He gave her a grin.

“Ten-thirty—” she was murmuring. . . .

Dick and Sonny had finished.

“O.K.—Great—” Tiger said, to them.

“Is the part mine, Mr. McDrew?” That brown-haired maid asked him.

“Sure it is,” Tiger told her.

“Oh gosh! Thank you! Thank уоиГ she said, beaming, smiling, happily. Dick gave her a hug.

“She'll be fine,” Tiger murmured to Marie, quietly.

She nodded.

“Rochelle—Ron—” Tiger said, looking over there— “Let’s hear your opener once more—O.K.?”

“O.K.,” that lad said, moving to the front of the room, Rochelle following.

“Now we’ll hear something—” Tiger murmured to his Student Director.

Marie nodded, and said, “You know it.”

They sat back, as indeed Sandy, and everyone else did, waiting for it.

Suddenly, Tiger thought of Jill, in her casket The funeral would be day after tomorrow. Ron and Rochelle

Pretty Maids A11 in a Row 245 began. He and Looby Loo would pay their respects tomorrow. He thought: She must look beautiful, like a princess, sleeping, in her casket. ... He was filled with sorrow. . . .

44

Surcher was having a rough time with the lawyer. Although he had been extremely courteous and friendly, as indeed he nearly always was, Phil Marlowe just wouldn’t see things his way, or even remotely his way, to be blunt. For example, he kept exclaiming, “I want to see him now! The hell with that crap!” Of course there was really no way for Surcher to make him understand, that he knew. How could he communicate to him that his great fear was the possibility of another Boston Strangler situation developing right here, in the area, with Sawyersville its ground zero, and epicenter? He wouldn’t understand that at all, he wouldn’t buy it. To him, Jim was no potential Strangler. He only saw a Negro boy, victimized. And he wanted to see him, and release him. Right away, now, as he kept reiterating, before they had even had much of a chance to work on him. It was a problem, Surcher wrestled with it. How could he keep him away from the boy, at least until tomorrow morning? By then—with some luck—within, Surcher sighed. He would try.

“Mr. Marlowe.” he said, patiently, calmly, “Believe me, I’m going to arrange for you to see him as soon as possible—”

“Right now, I said!*’ The response came.

“We're talking to him—”

“What have you got on him? Have you booked him?”

“What have you got on him?”

And, for the tenth time at least, the Captain explained, carefully.

“That's nothing! What the hell’s that? Nothing!'’ Marlowe said, waving his arms around, in front of him. “You can’t hold him! Listen, Г11 raise holy hell! You’ll see, you’ll be worth nothing! I’ll get a writ slapped on you in no time flat—”

How much time? Surcher wondered, as the lawyer talked on. If he got hold of Judge Flannery от one of that breed tonight, that’s how much time, probably. He observed one of Jim’s brothers—the older one. He was in the room, along with the lawyer and others. He had been introduced to him, by Marlowe, in fact. He looked a lot like Jim. Surcher was more unhappy. What a mess.

“Mr. Marlowe—” he said, “I really would appreciate it a lot if you could wait until tomorrow. There’s a lot we want to talk to Jim about. We’re not going to harm him. We just have to find out a few things.”

“Listen, I’ll get through to the Governor—how would you like that?” Marlowe threw back.

And so, for another ten minutes at least, on it went. At last, Phil Marlowe stormed angrily out of there, through that small mob, many of them trailing him, out of Headquarters. In front, before that imposing white colonial building, on the sidewalk in fact, he gave a press conference, impromptu.

With another sigh, and after a cup of coffee, and some brief consultations with various and sundry Headquarters men, and a glance at the teleprinter, Surcher returned to the Interrogation Room.

As soon as he walked in, he gave a signal to Grady, who stopped his questioning and walked away from the boy. In fact, he walked out of the room. He looked like he had been working hard. The last question Surcher had just caught as he was entering the room had been the roughest yet. The boy hadn’t answered. Now, slowly, looking up to see what was going on, he met Surcher’s gaze. The boy looked sullen, angry, ready to knock him down. Surcher studied him. He was in control of himself.

“Hello, Jim,” he greeted him, in his friendly way.

“Where’s my lawyer?” The boy said.

“Listen, you’ll see him anytime.”

“Has he showed up?”

“Not yet,’’ Surcher, much to his regret, had to say.

“You oughta let me go—” The lad said.

“Jim, I’d sure like to. You know that.”

The boy stared at him.

“You’re gonna look great—Real Great—Ever think of that?” He said.

Surcher didn’t reply to that.

“What happens now?” Jim said.

“Oh—few more questions—”

“Few hundred, you mean—”

“How are you?”

“Ha Ha!”

“Just my lawyer, that’s all, man.”

“I’m sorry you’re going to miss football practice—”

“Yeh, I know you must be.”

“Jim, were you in Assembly yesterday morning?” “Brother! Yehr

“How come your home-room teacher doesn’t remember?”

“Listen—you’re like a record, man!”

“When did you write that note to her, anyhow, Jim?” “About the same time I wrote you one.”

“You’re sure giving me a rough time, Jim. Put yourself in my shoes—”

“What size are they?”

“You’re not helping at all, Jim—I mean that.”

The boy said nothing.

“Let’s go back to yesterday morning, Jim—”

“Take your buddy boy Grady with you—” the lad said. “Was he rough on you, Jim?”

“Listen, he’s a sweetie, man.”

“He’s tired, Jim. He works too hard. I don’t know when he last saw his wife—” He paused—“I’m sorry he was rough on you.”

The boy stared at him.

“When’s the first time you asked her for a date, Jim?” Surcher asked, quietly. . . .

Tiger walked along the hallway toward the Guidance/ Counseling Office, after Drama class, and play tryouts, which were one and the same today, of course. He was very satisfied. It would be alright. There certainly was a lot of talent in the school, good old Sawyersville, it was some place, and no denying it, Tiger chuckled to himself, proudly. Rochelle alone would one day without a doubt rank with the greatest of them, of all time, if she wanted to. Already, that astounding girl was halfway there. Watching her, listening to her was a spellbinder, alright He couldn’t wait to see the show produced, that first night would be something. That wasn’t a bad idea at all of Sandy’s about Six Characters. It was powerful, dramatic stuff. If done right. And he was sure Rochelle as the daughter would be absolutely right. She would do her as she had never been done before, he was sure of it What a perfect peach of a part for her. What a part Yes, Sandy certainly had a great little idea there. He would start seriously looking into it. Who would they get to play the little boy and the little girl though? Tiger wondered. Maybe somebody from the grade school. That was it. Jane, his own Jane would do! What a chance for her! Tiger chuckled again. Looby Loo sure would get a kick out of it Ronnie of course would be the father. That would be his toughest role yet, but he knew he could count on him. Tiger kept musing over it. He was actually on his way to football practice now, the schoolday being over. He just wanted to stop by the office to drop off some books and also to check this and that. He thought about Anne Williams. She had read those lines just a little bit too fast, that was the trouble there. He would tell her, next time he saw her. He was surprised Marie hadn’t mentioned it She usually did, on those things. Football Practice. Tiger felt a little low suddenly thinking about that How would the boys

Pretty Maids A 11 in a Row 249 shape up tonight? What about Ponce? Would they be able to do anything at all? Somewhat glumly, he hoped so. At the moment he didn’t feel too wonderful, but as soon as he got out there, with them, on the practice field, he would start picking up, he was pretty sure. The old Tiger of old would come out again, as he always did, face to face with the team. Even under the circumstances. The sad circumstances. ... He loved the game. He loved his football squad, as he had all of them, all his squads, back to the days he had first taken over, after the demise of that great old coach, the one and only Hink Henderson, that terrific old guy from whom Tiger had learned plenty. Wouldn’t old Hink be proud of his record! He hadn’t done too badly himself, of course—but, since Tiger—Year after year, undefeated! One or two ties, only. Incredible. Tiger, feeling pretty good, and proud, of his efforts, knew it was that. And who didn’t? The material. What material! Tiger thanked God for it. He thought of Mrs. Mortlake. How much patience was the world made of? There was a fabulous piece of material if ever there was one. What a specimen. What thighs. Would his eyes ever alight on those thighs? Would they? It was absolutely essential to be patient though. It was the essence of life in the adult world, without a doubt. For where would all movement, perpendicular or otherwise, find itself without it? Could it find itself? The forces of inertia, ever beckoning life back to its primal, dead form, were formidable. Incredible. What could surmount them—if only, of course, and tragically enough, for the moment, temporarily? Life was a temporary, temporary affair. . . . When had he and Looby Loo last danced? Tiger suddenly felt like taking that sweetheart, that one and only wife of his, that honey bun, out somewhere nice and romantic, dancing. The Spinning Wheel? He would check into that. Definitely. The loving honey, how had he been lucky enough to land such a bun? He longed to hold her close and sway across the dance floor, dreamily, with her. What a partner. His life partner. He was utterly for her. And she for him. As far as he knew. She too was a Sawyersville girl. The wonderful letters he used to get from her in Korea. Now the boys were having a time in Vietnam. That was just about the dirtiest war ever fought anywhere, and Tiger, for one, was glad he wasn’t there.

What would it do to all those basically decent kids shipped over there? Sons of mothers, one and all, and what was happening to them? When they got back, what kind of members of society would they be? After that? What would human life mean to them? In that dirtiest of dirty wars, it meant nothing at all. Fry them one and all, that was their motto, he knew. What a dirty war, Tiger sighed. What was he supposed to tell the kids? In Civics class, where it inevitably came up from time to time, a thorny side issue which somehow always managed to get in, he let them slug it out, and it certainly was surprising to hear some of the remarks, those kids weren’t dumb at all. Not just the bright ones, like Ponce and Rochelle, but on down the line. They realized, most of them anyway, what a dirty show it was. Again, within, Tiger sighed. The messes Uncle could get into. Cornpone, take a walk, will you? He thought of scrimmage. He and Ponce would have to do some fast reshuffling and rethinking, in view of Jim’s absence. What would happen? What kind of shape would the team be in? He reached his office. He opened the door. He was surprised to find Yvonne Mellish inside, waiting for him. . . .

Ponce walked down the stairs toward the basement of the school and the locker rooms. He walked with Dink Reagan. He felt a hundred percent better since having told Tiger all. He wondered if he had contacted Surcher yet. With some luck, if he had, Jim might even be around tonight. He and Dink had talked about Jim of course. Dink was really worried, though Ponce couldn’t tell him what was going on.

“Gonna be rough without him, Ponce—^w Dink said.

“We’ll try.”

“Using the same plays? What should I call?”

“Wait until Scrimmage tonight—you’ll be surprised—”

“Yeh?”

T’U bet Tiger already has a few new ones worked out—”

“I hope so—” Dink said, turning his curly head to say hi to some majorettes going out to the field for a practice session too. “You have any ideas, Ponce?”

The lad grinned, “Maybe.”

“Not Bob Fritko! You’re not thinking of sticking him in!

Are you, Ponce?”

“Bob?” His grin widened, where did Dink get crazy ideas like that from he wondered, ”1 don’t think so.”

“Hope not!”

“He’s coming along though, Dink—no kidding—” Ponce said, “I think he’s better off at tackle though—”

“He’s great there—”

They walked along the basement hall now toward the locker rooms. A few more majorettes walked by, smiling broadly.

“Hi, Dink!”

“Hi!”

They greeted Ponce also.

“What about T-Twenty-one Buck Decoy Left And Pass Right On Four, Ponce?” Dink said, “How we gonna work it?”

Again Ponce grinned. He had in fact thought of it. If Jim in fact didn’t turn up, he would certainly ask Tiger to try it

“Wait till Scrimmage,” Ponce said.

“Give me a rough idea, Ponce—it beats heck out of me —no kidding—”

“Well—I’ll tell you what—” the lad said coyly. “Think of the number three and subtract ten—” He clamped up, and Dink stared . . . though he wasn’t worried. He was sure Ponce and Tiger could be counted on to pull them out of anything. Even this one. He would do his best, and cooperate with them, one hundred percent. He always did. He wanted to finish up his high-school career in a blaze of glory—and keep that fantastic Sawyersville winning streak soaring. In spite of everything, he felt strong, and good, he couldn’t wait to get out there. He couldn’t wait to see what Ponce and Tiger had cooked up. They could do it. He knew it. . . .

“Well, hi—” Tiger said to Yvonne, closing the door behind him. Certainly he was surprised, but he didn’t show it. He grinned at her, she was sitting on the chair near the desk, just waiting for him. She smiled at him and said hi, though it seemed to Tiger she wasn’t her usual glowing self tonight, or very late afternoon. Actually. Her usually warm and sparkling brown eyes seemed a little dull, maybe more than just a little. Was it her time? Tiger usually remembered. No, it wasn’t. He wasn’t unhappy to see her of course, though the visit was totally unscheduled, and unexpected. However, he was curious, and possibly even the slightest bit rankled, nothing at all, barely registering. How much time could he spare? At this time of year, there wasn't all that much time between the end of the school day and practice. The team was waiting for him. He took a quick look at his watch. Just may be. . . . She had the loveliest brown hair. There was hair. She wore a skirt and a sweater. And who could look nicer in a sweater? Would she be taking over as Captain of the Cheerleaders? Today? Is that what she had come to tell him? He walked up to her. He put a hand on her.

‘‘What’s up, Honey?” He asked, stroking her soft hair.

“Tiger—’’ she said, and he saw the tears in her eyes. She put her arms around his waist.

“Hey—tell me—” He said, murmuring to her, so low. “Just tell me—” He said, deciding the team would wait— this once.

*7 want to marry you—” she said, giving a few choking sobs. The tears were rolling now.

Tiger heard it and viewed it in his mind’s eye in a perspective akin to distress, though he did understand, completely, or tried to. It was the circumstances. For after all, it wasn’t the first time in his career he had encountered such a declaration.

He continued stroking her, aware of a growing need to.

“You do?” He said, humoring her.

“Yes I do,” she said, looking up at him. Her face was a mask of tears. It distressed him.

“Well—” he said, urging her up and putting his arms around her. He could feel the warmth vibrating in the maid, a warmth directed toward him, definitely. She kissed him, with those marvelous lips. He caressed her breasts, through that soft sweater. His face was getting wet.

“/ really do—” she said, breaking it, but remaining in his embrace, and looking into his face. He admired those brown eyes. What lovely brown eyes. Spilling tears—

“I wouldn’t mind,” he said, caressing her. It was more than perspective now, whether or not he was humoring her. She was growing warmer. Maybe no longer part of it. He pressed against her, definitely stirred.

“Do you mean it—Tiger?” She murmured now.

“Sure I do.”

'‘Because I really mean it, Tiger—"

“I know you do.”

She kissed him again, as only she could. His hand slipped into her sweater. He fondled her treasures. Of course, no bra. He found their sweet tips, already they were waiting for him. He caressed the firm things. He feather stroked them.

“Tiger—” She sighed.

“You honey you—”

“That’s why I waited for you—”

“How are you?”

“I wanted to talk with you—”

“I love you talking with me—”

“I really mean it, dear” she paused, giving little faint gasps in his arms, tilting her head back, her eyes closing now, he loved that nose. “I really do mean it—” She said, barely getting it out, “I just—I—Tiger—I can’t go on like —this—” She said, and Tiger almost paused—“I love you so much—my darling Tiger—mine—” She said, quickly now—“Oh my Tiger—” In one breath.

“I know you do,” he murmured to her, removing her sweater, and unbuttoning her blouse, “You think I don’t know it? Hon? You honey hon—” He said, his hands full of her treasures.

“So—darling—I’ve—decided—” She said. “Oh poor Jill—” She said suddenly—“Well I’ve decided—” She said— “Darling, we just have to get married—” She said,

Why? Tiger wanted to ask, saying nothing instead, merely nodding, helping her slip out of her skirt, admiring her slip, and her form. He caressed her form. He murmured to her, kissing her around the ears.

“I’m going to tell everybody about us—Tiger—if you don’t marry me—” She gasped—“I love you so—” She said, throwing this little problem in Tiger’s lap, as he moved on, along her fine neck, for his need was great, and she was one of the top eight. He caressed her thighs, still murmuring to her, his hand slipped between, parting them, gliding over silken skin. There wasn’t much time. How long could a team wait?

“Are you?” he asked, stroking her between those fine thighs, heading for Paradise, while she sighed, and let him stroke as he liked.

“Everybody—” she said, falling back—back, back— slowly—with him—supported by him—“But everybody—” She barely said.

“When?” He said, easing her gently onto the floor, on her back, on the carpet of course, slipping off the rest of her things, the silky things, and throwing his trousers off, deftly, reflecting for the moment and in passing the merits and possibilities of the knee-chest approach, and abandoning it, almost at once, in view of the pressing reality of the time factor, without a doubt the greatest plague of all factors and preparing to mount her, conventionally. She was ready. He gazed upon her momentarily. Admiringly. She was moaning, beckoning. What a treasure. Obviously dying for him. Sweet treasure. He adored her.

“Right after—” She said, whispering, hoarsely, and just barely, "Unless—you promise—" She added, as he mounted her.

Without a doubt, he was aware of her problem, as well as the need upon him. He thrust home beautifully, into that open way. Her legs rose higher, though her feet stayed flat on the floor. Tiger stroked, she moved wonderfully, under him.

“I promise—’’ he uttered, hardly aware of uttering it, as he stroked, exquisitely, thrilling both of them.

“You do? You do?” She said, on fire, streaking upward, on her heavenly way. Where was seventh heaven? She’d find the way—

“OH!” She said, “OH—OH!”'She said, crying out to him, clutching him, as they jolted, and pulsated, simultaneously, massively and stupendously. . . . She raised her feet and wrapped her legs around him, tightly. ... He gasped for breath. . . .

“I’m sorry—” She said at last, releasing him, Her feet glided to the floor, and rested flat again. “You really do?” She said, kissing him, her tongue gliding marvelously into him, meeting his.

He reiterated, quietly, almost sorrowfully, in fact feeling a great wave of sorrow now, without a doubt. Of course she was so young. And magnificent. And Beautiful. She was a beauty. Perfectly beautiful. That was the sorrow of it. For she meant it. He was aware she meant it. Tiger, arriving at the moment of decision, felt such sorrow for

her he could barely speak her name anymore. He felt her tongue so incredibly lovely and delightful, profoundly skilled in all the arts, within his mouth, as if all the ages

had done nothing but teach her the art. She did mean it.

She really did. He knew it. He had always tried to deny it, but she was a staggeringly imaginative maid. That was the pity of it. The greatest pity of it. Hot on the heels of it. Why, so hot on the heels of it? He was puzzled, as well as sorrowful. He couldn’t deny it, he had always had to bear in mind that she would pull this play. He had carried her. She was too beautiful. Vm growing old. The words echoed, within him, increasing his sorrow, twofold. Unfortunate play. Tiger, pulling slowly away from her exquisite lips, gazed down on her face. Her eyes were opening, she

looked in such bliss. What a shame. He couldn’t find a

name. There was a name—His hand slowly moved to her face, slowly, he caressed that young, glowing face. There were tears almost in his eyes, it was a fight to hold them back. Certainly, she meant it, he knew. Hot on the heels of— The tears, hotly pressing, nearly broke. A real shame. He caressed her face. She gave his hand tender little kisses. She caressed his back, beautifully, so soothingly.

“Are you in trouble?” He murmured, almost hopefully.

“No,” she told him, smiling beautifully.

“No, Tiger—” she told him, murmuring, “No.”

He sighed, loving her little kisses, and caresses, continuing to stroke her face. It was a catastrophic shame. Statistics had let him down. One in ten thousand, yes—he had been prepared for that. But now. It would have shattered another man. Sorrowfully, he had to act. Bizarrely, the rhyme came back. It flitted in and out—an instant, and gone. And then he thought: What was Sawyersville coming to? Could it be true? Incredible. He knew. The tears barely could be restrained. He kissed her, so she couldn’t see. He stroked and caressed her, the warm, young lovely—

“Tonight,” He had to say, sealing her lips with a kiss, the tenderest kiss, as his hands slid away from her face, and found her neck, pausing there, caressing it. Her head fell back.

“Tiger—” She said, with a sigh, all set to fly, “Darling —” She said, as he kissed her white throat, exquisitely lovely, beyond any doubt. Lovingly, he caressed her neck, both his hands now doing so. She loved it so.

“1 love it—Oh—” She told him so. Her voice let him know she was ready for more. Her warm form. Her heart pounding hard in that form. He gazed on her. Too lovely. That’s all.

“Nice—you're paradise—” He murmured to her, a million years, more, of sorrow in the tone. . . . His loving hands continued their caress. . . .

“Darling—” She gasped, near a divine state.. . .

Ponce, in the locker room with most of the team, walked around to each of the boys, checking them out. They were all getting their gear on, jazzing around, as they always did before going out on the field, though a little less than usual tonight, of course, in fact, not much at all, to tell the truth. Though things weren’t funereal. Of course. Out of respect for the late Head Cheerleader, things were subdued, though the fire burned. She was missed and mourned, by one and all. Without exception. Ponce knew. They were getting ready and Ponce was glad to see that only a handful of the third team was missing, three or four at most, he noted. There was even a chance they might still show up. He hoped. He had just about stopped hoping for Jim Green though. Well, it would be tomorrow night then. Certainly not later than then. Tiger was a little late getting here tonight, as a matter of fact, but that was understandable, Ponce mused. Was he tied up with Surcher—right now? Ponce was still a little scared about the whole thing, though Tiger had absolutely assured him there was nothing to worry about. He hoped not. He didn’t want to be in the center of all Hell breaking loose— over him. As far as he was concerned, the world never would have been told, no one would have known, the guy could have continued teaching here the rest of his life, as far as he was concerned—if the thing hadn’t happened— that way. And Jim—taken away—What else could he do? Tiger had agreed, totally. He had no choice. . . .

“How’s that shoulder pad, Beep?” Ponce asked a square, monolithic lad, Ralph (Beep) Satchell, that granite lad, their most formidable linesman, a Tackle, and the very best.

“Uh—O.K., Ponce—** the lad replied, in that always surprising high tiny voice, like a little boy’s, “I think.” He said.

“Let’s have a look at it.”

The lad leaned over a foot or so at least to reach Ponce’s level, and that lad checked over the massive shoulder armor carefully. It looked alright.

“Looks alright,” He said, “They did a good job on it.”

“Yeh!” Beep grinned.

Ponce grinned, and slipped on, after slapping him on the elbow, encouragingly. He stopped at the next locker, where another linesman, a massive youth named A1 Bartholomew, Right Guard, though on occasion Left, was making progress.

“Show me your helmet, Saint,” Ponce asked the lad, who fished it out of his locker without a word and tossed it over to that lad. He examined it.

“Aw—I think you better have another one—” Ponce said —“See that crack?”

Saint took a look at it. “Yeh—guess so.” And then he said, “Hey—how’d you know about it?’^x

“I noticed you were having trouble with it last practice, Saint,” The boy said.

“Geez, I was!” Saint grinned.

“I’ll get you another one,” Ponce grinned, heading for the Equipment Room, where that young Freshman, Billy King, Ponce’s first assistant, was sorting out a pile of stuff.

“Helmet, Bill,” Ponce said to him.

“Another one?”

“Yeh, Saint cracked it. Same size, of course.”

The youngster found what he needed and handed it over to Ponce. He took the old one from him and threw it in the corner.

“Hey, Ponce—” Then he said.

“Yeh?” the lad said, examining the new helmet, carefully.

“Jim gonna be here?”

“Search me,” Ponce said, “Don’t think so though,” And he was off.

“Where’s Tiger?” The youngster called after him.

“He’ll be here soon,” Ponce assured him.

He handed the new helmet to Saint and resumed his tour. He was thinking of Mona Drake, strangely enough, just at the moment. He had spoken to her about his Trigonometry problem, having cornered her, finally. And she had been real nice to him, agreeing to help him. Tomorrow in the Library they would start, first Study period they got. He was grateful to her, for now, he knew, he would make it. Even if Mummer wasn’t faded. He grinned warmly, within, thinking of Mona Drake. She certainly had been nice to him. It was real nice of her. She was warm and nice.

“Get that shoe fixed, FeefT’ Ponce asked A1 “Fifi” Gaudi, that ramjet of a Fullback, who could carry half the defense on his back, third-highest scorer on the team, no less. He would get Notre Dame, Ponce knew. Tiger had told him.

“Yeh, Ponce—” said the dark-haired, powerful lad, “Billy took care of it—before you came.”

That was alright.

“OK. then,” Ponce responded, “Let’s see it.”

Grinning, Fifi handed it to him. Ponce checked it over. He handed it back to him.

“You could have killed somebody,” Ponce told him.

“Yeh. I know it,” the lad said.

“How’s your brother?” Ponce asked.

“Aw, he’s getting along o.k. O.K.." the Fullback said, “He'll be back in there next week, you’ll see.”

Ponce grinned again, glad to hear it. Fifi’s brother was a Senior at State and not doing too badly. He had hurt his arm last game though. Ponce moved on and checked Slim Elkins. He was alright, anyway. Ponce moved around, checking everybody. “Pope” Poker, that classy left half, was o.k. Ponce checked them all. It was something Tiger had taught him to do, long ago. It was the first thing he asked when he arrived, “Check everybody?” Ponce grinned, moving around, he’d sure hate to ever say “No!” He never would, of course. He loved the game, and the squad. Even the two real solid dumbheads on the squad, no names mentioned of course, good only for plugging a hole once in a while, or warming the bench most of the while. He checked everybody, except Jim Green of course, whom he thought about sadly now as he passed his closed locker. Jerry Konski dressed forlornly near it. His was the last locker.

Pretty Maids All in a Row 259 “What about Jim?” That ace inquired, after Ponce had checked him over. He had a loose hip pad.

“Wish I knew,” Ponce told him, “Maybe Tiger’ll know.” “Geez, I hope so.”

“Better get a new hip pad,” Ponce told him, moving on. Tiger hadn’t arrived yet. Ponce walked back to the Coach’s room just a little bit concerned. Some of the boys were already starting to file out of the locker room on their way to the field. Dink, just pulling his sweatshirt on, stuck his head in the room.

“Tiger here?”

“He’ll be here soon.”

Tiger, walking along the hallway, reflected on the innumerable and indecipherable, not to mention inescapable, paradoxes of life, in particular human life, ironical to the nth degree, all of them. He couldn’t get over it. What exactly kept them from utterly annihilating all life, once their full propensities were realized? Was it love, that divinely mitigating force, only? It must be. For every human being, Tiger mused, every single solitary human being with any kind of mentality at all beyond an idiot came to realize, sooner or later, somewhere within himself, the power and presence of these stark, awful paradoxes, propensities and all. Even Cornpone. For example, Tiger mused, he loved Looby Loo not a jot less than the most happily hitched-up man could ever hope to, in fact he adored her. He was madly in love with her, had always been and very likely always would be, till death did them part, without a doubt. He remembered that line from their marriage ceremony in her own church, that sweetest church in all of Sawyersville, a dozen or so years ago. It had a special flavor about it, that church, being in the colonial style, which Tiger was especially fond of. In fact, it was his favorite style. And yet, Tiger mused, and yet, madly in love as he was with that dream, and, with the possible exception of that exceptional girl, Rochelle, utterly inseparable from her, he had to contend with a thoroughly bizarre dream he had just recalled from the other night. It was the other night. He was holding their pet cat up before her beloved face, that ever-loving face, he was holding it in such a way that its hind end was directly in front of her face. Clearly, an unloving act. Further, as if that weren’t enough, he was asking her, in a most unloving tone, “What the hell's this?" Waving it right in front of her face. But possibly, now that he reflected on it, her answer was the most bizarre part of the dream. It was, “The cat’s ass." Loud, clear, delivered in an extremely unloving way, in fact, a coarse way. Definitely. And that was that. The dream had faded, or certainly he couldn’t recall any more of it. He mused over it, heading for the climax of his full day, Football Practice. The nearer he got to it the more everything else began to slip back into a valley of ever-deepening shadows, no matter how hard he mused. By the time he got there, the shadows had enveloped everything, in fact, the valley itself had disappeared. There was only Football, his mind solely and singularly concentrated on it. As always. It always happened. Whatever the circumstances. Just before he got to the locker rooms he passed that Captain of the Majorettes, Marjorie Evanmore, of course, on her way out to the field with a few of her entourage, and he barely noticed her, returning her greeting automatically, almost. She understood, of course. When he reached the locker room, he was Tiger truly, Sawyersville’s renowned one and only, fabulous Head Football Coach, intensely, singularly. Nothing other. They all knew it, and that was it, in a nutshell, the true secret of his phenomenal success. He knew it. Not now though. Right now he was strictly a walking concentration of power, strategy, and tactics—and more. Possessed and blessed with that rare ability to project this concentration into every single member of his outstanding football squad, down to the dimmest block, including Beep Satchell, that irreplaceable tackle. How much did he weigh now? Tiger wondered, entering the locker room. . . .

Mary Holden was feeling blue. So blue that she had made the unprecedented move of skipping Majorette practice. Marjorie would be pretty mad at her, but she couldn’t do it. Not tonight. At any rate. She just felt too blue. She had walked home from school with Sandy Seymour, who as a matter of fact lived her way, just a block from her. She had really been hoping to walk home alone, because she felt so blue. But she had bumped into her, just coming out of the door. She had just come from Drama class. And that was that. Mary admired her red hair, and her personality. She had the right personality to go with that hair, always bubbling over with life, and talk, and high spirits. She was full of fun. Mary couldn’t help coming out of the dumps a little walking home with Sandy. She was that kind of girl, she got into you. But once she got home and said so long to her and closed the door she began to sink again. No one was home. She went to her room. . . .

She put her books and things down listlessly, and sighed. She looked around the room, that pretty, feminine room, decorated here and there with photos of pop idols, for she loved them still, especially Tim Clean and The Cleaners, that terrific group, zooming fast to the top, without a hop. She thought The Pigs were great, but—on their way down, definitely. Of course The Teat les, that group of groups, would never go down. Down. She sat down. Her gaze swept slowly around the room. She saw them one and all. Since she was in seventh grade at least she had collected photos of the idols. Unlike most of her girl friends, she still did. She loved them all. They gave her great comfort, here, in her room, when she was on her own. Often, she was on her own, here, in her room. She liked to be. Her gaze settled on the one who at the moment inspired her most, Tim Clean, of course. What a beautiful smile. She sighed, staring at him, his golden locks, his pure but rugged face, Angel Face, as secretly she thought of him. But

she turned away from him, and sighed again, looking out the window, hoping Marjorie wouldn't be too mad. She was feeling so blue, uninspired even by that terrific view of the hills she had from her window. She didn’t know what to do. She had plenty of homework to do, including Civics, she knew, feeling even more blue, thinking of Mr. McDrew. her Tiger, who she loved so much, and, she knew, so hopelessly. Her hopeless love. ... He was wonderful. She had never dreamed she could ever have been treated so nicely by so wonderful a man. And he kept her out of trouble. She took the pills just as she was supposed to, as it said. And they kept her right out of trouble. They were great. Fabulously great. As her Tiger himself—just—that terrific man. That man. She felt so low. She drifted over to her mirror, she glanced at herself and could see just how low. It had been this way for a couple of days now, actually, even before the awful thing. That thing. She hit a new low. Jill. Was she there? She closed her eyes, she didn't dare stare. ... It had started then and it hadn't been helped much by that. If anything, it had been made worse. That. But it had started somehow after a night of tossing and turning, wanting and burning, and not having him near her, next to her, the man of her dreams, let alone Tim Clean. For she knew her Tiger was worth twenty-five Tim Cleans at least. She wanted him, now, and forever. She had never wanted anything so much. She felt so blue, knowing it could never be. She had started knowing somehow after that agonizing night, that restless, tormented night, all aione, here, in that very bed. She couldn’t even possibly have him, more than she had him. And later? What about later, when she had finished high school and got out on her own—what about then? She grew ever more blue. She needed him. When had she last seen him? Last week, and that could have been years ago. Slowly, she opened her eyes, she saw herself in the mirror again. When was she scheduled again? Not this week. Gently, so gently, he had told her he just couldn’t see her this week. She had cried openly, even though she knew what a busy man he must be, all those activities, she was lucky she had him as much as she did, she had sobbed away, in his arms, as that wonderful man that very wonderful that—oh— what—his—of his—slipped right into her, so deep. . . . Site loved it. She closed her eyes again, suddenly seeing it,

Pretty Maids A11 in a Row 263 and feeling it, almost, in there. . . . She grew warm, her hands glided there, she touched herself, near there. She murmured his name, caressing herself now, her hand gliding over her dress, there. She grew so warm, she began feeling less blue. Her heart beat with some life again, as she caressed herself more, now whispering his name, over and over. She caressed herself much as her Tiger did, those wonderful hands of his, over her. She opened her eyes again. In the mirror she saw her face, flushed. She saw her figure, outlined under her dress. She was proud of it, he loved it so much. The breasts he loved so much. . . . She gazed at herself, she liked her pretty face. Her lips. She leaned toward the mirror, slightly opening her lips. “Honey,” she sighed, “Oh Tiger Honey —” she sighed. When would she see him again? She had asked him that, and he had assured her he would do his best, probably next week. Next week. It was a century away. She would be dead. Mary, again, felt so blue. She managed a last sigh at the mirror, turned, and drifted across the room. What would he be doing now? Her man. Football practice, no doubt. At least if she had gone to Majorette practice she might have caught a glimpse of him, if nothing more. She didn’t want that though. That probably was why she didn’t go. She couldn’t stand that, it was just agony. She wanted more. More. So much more. . . . The worst kind of agony was just seeing him, and no more. . . . She sat down on her bed, and then rested back on it, and finally lay flat on it. Almost crying, she turned her head, and saw Tim Clean. The photo was just next to her head. There he was, grinning at her. She liked him too, and blew him a kiss. Then she sighed, and turned away from him. She thought of her Tiger, only, again. She murmured his name. Her eyes closed, her hands drifted to her breasts. She caressed them, second best. It didn’t feel so bad. With her eyes closed, murmuring and murmuring his name, he was almost there, caressing them. She grew warm again, and her hand slipped inside her dress, there was no bra of course, and she played with her breasts. They were so soft. She brushed the tips, just as her Tiger would. He could brush them for hours, if he wanted to. She caressed and fondled herself, she began to feel really warm. . . . She moved. . . . she slipped off her dress. She caressed herself more, her hands gliding all over her. Her heart began to pound hard, she slowly raised her knees. . . . She caressed her thighs, she moved, and moved, gently undulating. She was very warm, her heart hammered loud, shaking the bed, as she caressed and played with herself. . . . She was perspiring. She was hot. She raised herself and slipped off ail her things. Now her warm, almost burning hand glided there. Gliding, and gliding it settled there. She was drenched there. Opening her legs, slowly, exquisitely slowly, she caressed herself there, her hand gliding, sliding, forever and ever it seemed, thrilling her. She thrust herself upward, in rhythmical movement now, accompanying her hand. Her Tiger was before her, on her, caressing her there, he was marvelously kissing and doing everything there ... his tongue glided, right in there . . . the way her hand her fingers her burning fingers drenched as they were now were sliding in there finding their sweet way into her, she breathed quickly, she was panting now, actually, thrusting herself upward frantically, urgently, rocking with her one and only her Tiger only terrific Tiger in her so deep so marvelously thrusting deeper and deeper into her thrusting a million miles an hour now deeper than ever oh ever in her. . . . Her legs were in the air, she thought she would touch the ceiling, she was drenched from head to toe, her hand had quickened its pace, reaching a frenzied rate, deeper, ever.. . . She was on fire. . . . She was a streaking fire. . . . She cried out his name . . . again . . . again. . . .

She lay on her side, her breathing gradually slowing. Her heart still hammered, but was trying to return to normal. She opened her eyes, slowly. She saw her breasts. She was alone. How white they were. “White—” she whispered. Her legs were drawn up, her hand still between her thighs. The pulsations were fading, gradually. Tiger loved those pulsations. He told her so. Beautiful, he murmured to her, “So beautiful,” she murmured now, though all alone. She saw her thighs, and the drenched nest there. She lay still. She felt sleepy. The drowsy afterward, as usual. Dreamy drowsy, usual. . . . She wished her Tiger were truly here. He wasn’t there to talk to her. Pet her. When he petted her—they would start again. How he could pet her. He never tired, nor did she, petting her. . . , She was blue. What could she do? Somewhere, downstairs, she heard a door. Mother had come in, and closed the door. She had come home. She would call her name, as she had always done. . . . She lay there, so blue. . . . She should answer her mother.. . . She should.. . •

47

“What time did you get up this morning, Jim?” Surcher asked, quietly, patiently. He had been at it for quite a while now, since taking over from Grady. He thought another twenty minutes or so would do and then he would hand over to Folio. Not Grady. Save him for Operation Midnight Oil, the Graveyard Shift. . . .

“Seven,” the boy answered, obviously beginning to show signs of weariness. Good. Surcher reacted, noting this development. He felt a certain profound regret as well, needless to say. For no doubt about it, he admired the lad.

“Seven, I said,” the boy repeated to him.

“I know you did,” Surcher said, “And yesterday morning?”

“Seven,” Jim said again.

“Sure about that?”

“Positive, man.”

“How did you get to school, Jim?”

“Same as I always do.”

“You caught the bus?”

“That’s right.”

“What time does it start running, Jim?”

The boy looked at him.

“What time, Jim?” Surcher asked again.

The boy didn’t answ^rer.

Surcher studied him, calmly.. . .

“Let’s Go!” Tiger called out, soon after coming on to the field. He blew his whistle also, as usual. The whole team began whooping it up and trotting smartly toward him, gradually crowding around him. Ponce was there, of

course, near Tiger, as well as a crowd of young kids and a

scattering of local citizens who always turned out to watch

their favorite and fabulous team practice. Now the squad had formed its circle around him, leaving enough space in there for him to pace around in, as he always did, while talking to them. He looked at them. He touched his cap. He walked around inside that circle and looked at them ail. He halted in front of Dink Reagan, finally.

“What are you here for?” He asked, firmly.

“To win!" Dink replied.

“What?” Tiger asked, snapping it.

“To win!” Dink replied in a much louder tone.

“That’s Right!” Tiger said.

"Right!" The players roared.

“Why do we win?” Now Tiger asked Dink.

“We’re the best”

“What?”

"The GreatestГ

“Right!”

"The Greatest! Right!" The squad roared.

“Who can beat us?” Now Tiger asked.

“Nobody.” Dink replied.

“What?”

"Nobody Can Beat Us!" Dink shouted out.

"Nobody! Right! They Can't Beat UsГ The players roared.

“What about Carverton?” Tiger asked.

The players roared. Ponce felt like roaring. He roared. It was a mass roaring, carrying far—"Ho Ho! HO! Carverton! WO!"

“Can they beat us?”

"No!"

“Will they beat us?”

"HELL NO!"

“What are we gonna do to them?”

"CLOBBER THEM! THERE'LL BE NOTHING LEFTГ

"Roar, Tigers!"

The field was filled with the massed blood-curdling roars of the team, and Ponce, and most of the spectators as well, as a matter of fact. It carried far and wide, it lasted a long time. A good bit of Sawyersville now knew, and without a doubt, that its renowned squad was about to start working out.

Pretty Maids All in a Row 267 When the last of the roars had died away, Tiger started talking again. His tone was conversational this time, though vigorous. It could be heard by them all. He walked around as he talked, his gaze falling on them one and all.

“I guess you’re all wondering about Jim. Well, you know as well as I do that he’ll be back one of these days. Just when, I don’t know. They’re still playing around with him. Don’t blame them. They don’t know what to do. Anyhow, the fact is we might not have him around for the Carver-ton game.” He paused, and Ponce, for one, was certainly surprised. Had something gone wrong? Or was Tiger just preparing them for the worst? He hoped that was all. Tiger went on, “We’ve got some changes in a couple of plays, and I’ll tell you about them after a while, before scrimmage.” Again he paused. “Joe Moran—you jump into Jim’s slot tonight.” He paused, letting that news sink in. It was news to Ponce too, though Joe was the one he too would have picked. “How about that?” Tiger was saying now to that lad, “Think you can handle it?”

“Sure, Coach—” the lad said, “You bet ”

“O.K.—you’re the man.”

He looked all around again.

He called out, with a clap of his hands, “Let’s Go!”

And without another roar and whoops, and yells, the circle broke up and the players started taking their long laps around the field.

Calisthenics followed, for about half an hour.

Then kicking, receiving, passing, blocking, tackling practice.

Finally, the climax of it all—Scrimmage, where men were made out of boys.

Ponce loved this most of all, of course. All his theories were put to the test, and Tiger’s too. He wondered what would happen tonight, with the new plays. He set the portable blackboard up for the prescrimmage drill and briefing always given to the team by Tiger. He sent Billy King to the locker room for some chalk.

Tiger, after a few last-minute consultations with Ponce, talked to the boys for about ten minutes, outlining the new ideas, sketching them on the blackboard.

Then Scrimmage began.

Tiger was a demon of activity and surveillance. He was everywhere and saw everything, with Ponce's excellent assistance, of course. There was quite a crowd of spectators now. Any Carverton spies? Ponce wondered—not that he gave a damn, What difference would it make? He looked around though, in any event. He didn’t think he spotted any strange faces. Once he had mentioned this matter of spies to Tiger—he had only laughed, what a good laugh he had over it. It just didn’t worry him. Hell, send them all the plays, he had said. Just before the game we’ll change them all! How about that? And he had laughed some more. Since then, Ponce hadn’t really worried about iL

“Beep! What the hell are you doing there, BeepГ Tiger yelled out, in there in a flash, after a particularly furious onslaught unleashed by the offensive squad had been stopped dead in its tracks, amid a crashing, crunching, thumping, battering, yelling melee. Ponce stared, aghast. What a mess! Had Dink survived that mess? What about Pope? Tiger roared, "You're not supposed to he there! Christ, Beep, Look What you Did! LOOK! What'd I Just Tell You! WHERE YOU SUPPOSED TO BE? Beep! LISTEN TO ME! Ponce—C’mere, Ponce—SHOW HIM AGAIN!” And as Ponce jumped in to do just that, having spotted Beep’s bloop himself, as a matter of fact. Tiger turned his attention elsewhere, “Pope!” He yelled out, "What the hell kind of a decoy was that? It fell flat! C’mon, get off your back! You screwed up the works! Look I’ll show you once more—Watch This—And don't screw up anymore! Wanta get everybody killed? Christ! Pope! Like This—” And Tiger demonstrated expertly, to the lad, who had made it up off his back. And then, pulling Dink out from under a pile of defensive men—“You Handed Off Too SLOW! Dink! You're gonna get yourself Murdered! I told you so! Now look—listen—you have only a Split Second—Got that? And no more! What the hell you think I got Pope decoying for? How's Joe gonna go? Christ! Try it once more!” And on he went, up and down the team, pointing out this and that, not neglecting to praise those who had got it right. He hammered away, and had them do it again. And again. Until finally, breaking out of their huddle with their characteristic roar, everything went perfect, they were streaking for paydirt, and Tiger could be heard yelling loud, "Go! That’s right. Right, GO! GO JOE GO! ATTAWAY TO GO! THAT’S IT! Great! Beauti-

Pretty Maids All in a Row 269 fulf THAT’S BEAUTIFUL, GANG! GO GO! WERE ALL GO! GO!” They scored.

The whole team, Ponce, the crowd of spectators roared. . . .

48

Jim Green was thinking, Practice would be just about ending up, just about now, wonder what Tiger had figured out—when—

“What did you have for breakfast, Jim?” Folio asked.

The boy lifted his head and stared at the man. He had taken over from Surcher about fifteen minutes ago. He was fresh. Jim could see, plenty of go. They were really screwing him up though, he had lost a lot of his go. Where was Surcher? And Grady? Would he be seeing them again? Now, looking around the room, he saw them sitting in the semidarkness of shadows cast by the one light on in the room—directly above him, though not in his eyes. Folio himself was in that semidarkness too, in fact. Though nearby.

“Bacon and eggs,” answered the lad, almost in the mood to giggle at the inane question from the man. Where was his lawyer? What had gone wrong? Were these white pricks bottling him up? He wondered and worried about that. How long could it go on? What the hell was Surcher’s game? Just out to make a name?

“Well done?” Folio asked now.

Jim only stared. It was incredible. Could they go on all night?

“Sunny side up,” he answered now, just for the fun.

“What about the bacon?” He was asked.

He was hungry, alright, he suddenly realized. When would they come through with some food? Christ, they were going to be in hot water, when this was all over. He thought how he’d like to meet each of these pricks one day, especially Grady boy, all alone, in some nice quiet place, an alleyway say. . . . Would be great—just great—

“What bacon?” He asked, surprising himself. He was losing track.

“You said bacon and eggs, Didn’t you?”

Folio asked.

Jim stared at the man. . . .

Ponce, nearly home now, after Practice, felt pretty good. In fact, great. That had been a practice and a half, without a doubt of it. Even if somehow things got screwed up about Jim Green, he wasn’t all that worried anymore about the game. The plays he and Tiger had worked out had gone great. The boys were now right with them. Joe Moran was no Jim Green, that he knew, and everyone knew, but he was alright. He was only a Sophomore, after all. Ponce was sure proud of Tiger, the way he handled the team. Even now. He knew they would go out next week and win. In spite of everything. If Jim came back before then, great. Better than great. Though Ponce saw now it wouldn’t be a bad idea at all to let Joe play that game, just to give him a break, in any case. He was all keyed up, and would be hurt bad, to be pulled out at the last second say. Or even day. Ponce had mentioned this to Tiger, after Practice. And Tiger had said, after thinking a minute, that he might well be right. They had talked about a lot of things. For example, Ponce was worried about Dink’s Jump Pass On Three, which somehow Tiger didn't seem to have noticed out there. He had definitely gone to the right too far, and had only just got the pass away, each time. He had been dumped hard. Too far. Why had he done that? He had plenty of time, Beep had blocked beautifully, and A1 too, just like they were supposed to. Ponce hadn’t called Tiger’s attention to it at the time because he was on top of a couple of the defensive men, hollering away. And then Dink had called another play right away, one of Ponce’s new plays, as a matter of fact, and he had become involved and hadn’t recalled until back in the locker room. On that new play, Feef had blasted through a ten-foot hole, at least. It went great. What decoying work!

Ponce had just said so long to Dink and a few other boys, as a matter of fact, having walked home from Practice with them, as he often did. Dink lived just a block away, on Jefferson Lane. That was one quarterback Saw-yersville would have a job replacing! Ponce knew, and Tiger above all knew, and they were working on it already. Ken Smith, a Sophomore, was the boy they both had their hopes on. Tiger had only told him tonight he would stick him in next week in the second half, if things went O.K. in that first half, that is. Funny enough, Ponce just recalled, he hadn’t asked Tiger if he had contacted Surcher yet. . . . Maybe tonight, he would call him up, and ask. Though he knew there was nothing to worry about. He probably had, or would soon, if he hadn't, anyhow. . . . What a mess. . . . Ponce turned back to Football. He loved the game. He never realized just how much until he got out on the field each day and found himself totally involved in it, like Tiger almost, he mused, grinning to himself, if such a thing were at all possible. Tiger had casually mentioned something tonight after Practice that made him feel pretty great. He had said it might not be a bad idea if he, Ponce, gave some consideration to coming back to Sawyersville one day, after college of course—to teach, to write—and to give him a hand! He mentioned this after Ponce had said to him how much he was going to miss the old team one day, w^rhen he went his way.

That wouldn’t be bad! He hadn’t ever really thought about it that way, but it sure wouldn’t be bad—at all. Of course, he wouldn’t be with Tiger until after four years of college had passed—and a heck of a lot could happen in four years, of course—but in theory, and as a long-range plan, it was O.K. Not bad! He wondered how the team would make out in those four years. They did alright before he ever came on the scene, so why shouldn’t they when he went away? Ponce grinned, musing, Who do I think I am? Tiger, he thought, must have given him a big head. . . .

Now Ponce was just a few yards from his house; prowling around along the side of the house he saw Peppy, that crazy cat. Ponce smiled as Peppy looked up suddenly and saw him, and loped in her funny way toward him. Ponce loved that cat. He called her name, and she came the rest of the way, comically slinking along, and turning sideways to him. Ponce picked her up, stroked her, and went around the house toward the back door, talking softly all the while to her.

He thought of Miss Smith.

Wouldn't it be great if she still happened to be around —five years from now!

But Ponce grew sad, thinking, fat chance of that. She’d be married with a houseful of kids—at least. . . .

He reached the back door, he saw his mother in the kitchen, she smiled at him, he smiled at her, and with Peppy dangling from his forearm, purring away, he opened the door. . . .

49

Chief Poldaski was in the comer poolroom, just across the way actually from his usual post in front of the Memorial there at Twelfth Street and Whitmaker Avenue. He was having a hamburger and a cup of coffee for himself at the moment in fact. During the day, when things were normal, he usually dropped in a few times for such a repast. And often in the evenings too. Of course these past few days, during the day, he hadn’t had the chance. And so he was especially glad to be there tonight. He had missed the place. He liked it there quite a ‘lot, for the boys were always talking about this and that, and he learned a lot. Besides, he liked their company, they were a great bunch of guys. He liked shooting a few games too. He wasn’t bad. Not an expert of course like some of them, who spent half the day in there, practicing away. But he could hold his own. Right now he was chomping away happily on his hamburger and gabbing with Sam Roto, the proprietor of the establishment in fact. Sam was a tall, skinny man, with black wavy hair, who always looked gloomy. He had a genuine Sicilian face. But, he was a friendly guy, despite how he looked. In the background, the crashing of pool balls and sticks and the steady talk of the players, sometimes boisterous, could be heard. The place was full tonight.

“So they got him,” Sam said, in his monotone, and with something like a grin.

“Yep,” Poldaski nodded.

“I knew damn well it was one of them jigs.”

“Yep,” Poldaski said, taking another big bite.

“What the hell they gonna do with the rest? Leave them there? That’d be great.” Sam said.

“Lots of jig-lovers around, Sam. You’d be surprised,” Poldaski said.

“Not in here.”

They had a little laugh.

“I put them on to his tail,” Poldaski said, confiding in Sam.

“That right?” Sam said, not believing it, though.

“I told them right away, hell, I knew it was one of them.”

“Him?” Said Sam, in his way.

“Well, he was one of them.”

“What’s Tiger gonna do?”

“Yeh, I know.”

“Hell, too bad it had to be him**

“Aw—I guess he’ll think of somethin’ though. You know Tiger. Always does.”

“Hope so.”

“Yeh.”

“How’s the wife?”

“O.K.”

“Mine’s got a cold. Jesus, what a pain she is with a cold.” “Bad cold?”

“Ehh—just a cold.”

“Huh.”

The Chief took a big sip of his coffee now. The hamburger was gone.

“Shot of whiskey—sent her to bed,” He then said.

“Yeh—try tellin’ her that—” Sam said.

“I kick mine in the ass—” John now said, as Sam laughed. “Yeh—Jesus—only way—they need it sometimes —man.”

“I know,” Sam said, though he knew who kicked who at John’s place.

“What’ll he get?” Sam asked, “The chair?”

“Sure, What else?”

“Ehh—who can tell?”

“Aw, don't worry. This one won’t get off. Not him.” “Well—”

“Don’t worry—for sure the chair.”

“Boy, you know.”

“Imagine that though, imagine, puttin’ them in there— Christ—what's wrong with those guys? They’ll be movin* in soon—that’s next—Wait and see!” Sam said, on a favorite track.

“The hell they will.”

“Oh no?”

“That’ll be the day they will.”

“Wait and see.”

“Aw, don’t worry about that. Hey—another one, O.K.?” “Pretty hungry tonight—”

“Yeh, I am—”

Sam opened the fridge door and pulled out another hamburger. He had the best in town. The biggest too. He dropped it on the grill. The Chief watched it cooking,

thinking a lot of things. One thing, how much he loved

them. He could eat half a dozen—no matter what kind of supper Mary had made. However, he usually stopped at two—or three. . . . Another thing he was sure glad they had caught the prick. That put an end to the traffic problem, for one thing. And what a thing. Now things would get back to normal, he could reoccupy his usual post, and hit Sam’s place three, four times a day. And no more crap from those friggin’ Staties. He hated them. Real king pricks. That’d be the day he called them in again. For

anything. King Shits. . . .

A few of the boys came up to grab some burgers too. They made a lot of small talk and invited John to join them in a couple games. He said he would. He polished off the burger first.

“What the hell’s new?” Poldaski asked them, subtly. He was rubbing up the tip of his cue.

“Christ! Ain’t you had enough news?” Ben Ryan said, with a laugh.

They all laughed. The Chief did too. He took the first shot and scattered the balls. A couple went in. He lined up for a second try as Ben marked up the two.

“How’s the huntin’ gonna be?” Poldaski asked, taking aim.

“Aw—I dunno. You all set?”

“What you gonna use this year?” Joe Bedenk asked,

Pretty Maids All in a Row 275 watching Poldaski’s shot clip one more in and then sink itself too.

“Scratch.” Ben said, moving in with his cue.

“Goddamn,” Poldaski said, “That’s nig’s ruined my aim—”

They laughed. They all had a good laugh.

“Hey—tell how you caught him, John—” Joe said.

“Did he have his pants down?” Ben said.

They had another laugh. This time Poldaski didn’t join in the laugh. However, he finally grinned a little bit.

“He had it out, right out,” He said, with that grin on his face.

“What color is it, John Boy? No shit—Cherry red?”

Another long laugh.

“Red-hot cherry red,” Poldaski said, at last.

“Is that what you grabbed him by, John?” Ray Shuddick said.

That brought a big laugh.

“You fuckin’ guys,” Poldaski said, good-humoredly.

“How’s the wife?” Ben said.

“Pain in the ass.”

“Hey—know those jig school gals? Know what? No shit, some ain’t bad—” Joe said.

“Aw Christ—you’d lay them, huh?” The Chief said.

“Hell Yes!” Joe said.

Another laugh.

“He’d lav anything.” Roy said.

“They ain’t bad!”

Joe sank his shot, as they laughed.

The Chief was having a good time, and without a doubt, He always did—up here. He would hang around probably until the place closed—around midnight. And then he would probably hit Selmo’s for a few brews and a plateful of that ravioli. Yeh. His mouth watered even now, thinking of it. Who the hell in the whole world made ravioli like that? He knew, no one. . . . Unless something came up. What could? What now the hell could? He knew nothing would. Another burst of laughter, from the boys at a table nearby, hit his ears. He grinned, feeling good. . . .

After getting home from Practice and giving Looby Loo a big kiss and a hug, Tiger had supper with his one and own. It was just great, as usual. She was some cook. Then, after that delicious meal, and some small talk, including of course the whole thing and Jim Green, and another hug and kiss, he never could get enough of her, Tiger went upstairs to give Jane a little help with her homework. Often he did. She had a lot of names and dates to memorize for History, her favorite subject, she had straight A’s in it, and she wanted her dad to see if he could help her get them down pat. He liked helping her with her homework. She was a cutie of a kid if ever there was one, it sure was fun being with her. You never could tell what she would come out with next. The things she came out with really made him laugh. He didn’t see much of her during the school year, especially during football season, of course, and he was always glad when the weekends rolled around. Her cute face was a lot like Looby Loo’s, though to tell the truth she had her daddy's eyes, and they were nice eyes, too. He was very fond of his little girl, he loved her to the point of almost spoiling her, he knew—which was something he didn’t want to do.

“And on what day was the Constitution actually signed?” he asked, looking at his little hon.

She tossed her long blond hair, what a girl, she gave a little pout.

“Wednesday?” She said.

“Just the date,” Tiger said.

“Did you and Mom used to date?”

Now why had she said that? What a playful little trick— “Did you? Hmmmmm? Daddy—Hmmmmm?” She asked.

“Ask Mom.”

Pretty Maids All in a Row 277 “You mean Mother, don’t you?”

Recently, she had decided it was best to address her mother in that way. She was growing up, she had said. Tiger didn’t mind. He understood little girls. He grinned. She was really the cutest thing. She loved her daddy so much.

“That’s what I mean,” he said.

“Well why didn’t you say so?” she asked. “Know what we did in school today? Want to know?" She also asked.

“And what did you do?” He said, knowing that’s what he had to say.

“I’m not going to tell you.” she said.

“Was it bad?”

“Oh, no—I’d tell you if it was bad!” ^r,Were bad,” Tiger corrected, fondly.

“Is it, Daddy? I never can get that—”

And there she was, kidding him around again.

“I can’t wait to get to high school, Dad.”

“Will I be in any of your classes, Daddy?”

“I think you will.”

“Which ones? Oh which ones, Daddy? Will you give me all A’s?” She was excited. He saw her warm face, all pink with excitement now. Her PJ’s were the cutest things. Pink and frilly, very sweet. She was a feminine thing. A copy of her mother’s really, come to think—though she usually wore nighties to bed. Her body was all warm under those PJ’s. He knew. He smiled fondly at her.

“Didn’t I tell you once? And you’ll have to work for your A’s.”

“Oh I forgot—Daddy, tell me again!”

He did just that.

“I hope I pass them!”

“I think you will.”

She gazed at him.

“How was Practice, Daddy?” She said, warmly.

“Very good.” And it had been.

“I want to be a cheerleader!” She suddenly said, her eyes sparkling at him, “When I get to high school—oh, Daddy, I want to be!”

He smiled again, “Well, if you try hard enough, I’m sure you can—” And she would make the prettiest cheerleader. He knew.

“Sometimes though I think I’d like to try for Majorette —” She said, frowning a little bit, still gazing at him.

“Well, you have some time to decide,” he said.

“And what happened to Jill Fairbunn, Daddy?” Now she asked.

He sighed. He said, “She died, Jane.” He always told her the truth.

“She was murdered, wasn’t she Daddy?” His little girl asked.

Again he sighed, reflecting that no doubt Looby Loo had already handled these queries, sad as they were, and painful too.

“That’s what they say,” he nevertheless said quietly.

“It’s horrible, it’s awful, isn’t it, Daddy?”

“It is.” He said.

“I hope no one murders me!” And she meant that

“We all hope that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, nobody wants to be murdered, little hon.”

“I know they don’t”

He smiled at her, she fell into his arms, wanting a hug. He gave her a hug. Her body felt so good and warm and young. He felt good. She snuggled up on his lap. She had always loved sitting on his lap. She was growing up. She would have a lovely form. He caressed her and gave her a little kiss. She kissed him. He was crazy about her.

“I love you so much,” she said to him, blushing again.

She wrinkled up that nose.

“Oh Daddy! Spoil Sport—”

He chuckled at her, eased her off his lap, giving her warm, cute bottom a little smack. She had a full life before her.

“Come on—let’s go—” He said to her now, picking up the books again.

She sat on her bed, knees drawn up, her arms resting on them. Her cute face was turned toward him. She waited for the questions to begin. . . .

After the homework session with his Janie, Tiger tucked her in and went downstairs to Looby Loo. He found her, and their cute little cat Sheba, in the kitchen. He played for a few minutes with that playful cat, that little orange cutie, only ten months old, a kitten really, then helped Looby Loo with the dishes. What he did was dry the knives, and forks, and spoons, and similar things, and put them away. He had offered to buy her a dishwashing machine once, but she didn't want one. She was funny that way. He liked drying those things for her. They chatted about this and that. Then he went into the parlor and sat down in one of the comfortable chairs. The small sofa, actually, just big enough for two. Their love seat. Tiger had a nice, spacious parlor, actually very tastefully arranged and furnished—by Looby Loo, of course. He had just switched on the TV when she walked in and sat on the sofa with him. They held hands. She gave him a few little kisses. Tiger gave her a real kiss and knew she was in the mood. She was nice and warm. How he loved her. She cuddled up to him, the TV came on. Ads about soup. Then, Lucy. It was one of their favorite shows. That girl was really a card, she made them laugh and laugh. Sometimes, she made them roar. They liked Quincey Mayhew too, and Jack Benny to boot. But Lucy flew.

“Is the little angel asleep?” murmured Looby Loo.

“I think so.”

“■Did she learn her dates?”

“Yes she did.”

“Are you going out tonight?”

“Don’t think so.”

“What’s new?”

“What about that boy?”

“Oh, he’s not the one.”

“And they’re holding him?”

“They made a mistake.”

“There’s a lot of prejudice around—”

“I know.”

“So you really think—”

“I think so.”

“They do.”

“What will they do?”

“Release him—I hope.”

“The poor boy.”

“I told them what I thought.”

“You did?”

“That Captain sent the boy to see me—to see what I thought—^и

“Why didn’t they let him go?” *

‘They’re up the creek.”

“Well, you did right—”

Tin pretty sure I did—”

¹⁴How are you?”

"Looby Loo—”

They kissed. A long one.

“Ummmmmmmm—you—”

“Love you—”

She said, at last, “Want to watch this—V “Yeh—let’s have a few laughs—”

“Oh—Mother wants us to dinner Sunday—”

“Sunday? Good.”

“Shall we go after church?”

“Good idea. Yeh.”

“Dad’s feeling a lot better.”

“I’m just not letting you watch this!” she said, with a soft laugh.

She snuggled up to him even more. She kept quiet now. They watched the show.

“Is Saturday the funeral?” She murmured, once.

“That’s what I heard.”

She sighed, they watched the show. Sheba slinked in and made herself at home on her favorite easy chair—the best one. They both smiled at her.. . .

After the TV show, Tiger retired to his den for a while. He had a few little things to do. But soon, in bed, he would be seeing Looby Loo. “Don't forget ” she had said, smiling warmly at him, giving him one more sweet kiss. He had grinned and said, "You kidding?” And left for his den.

No sooner had he arrived there though than the phone rang. It was Proffer, no less.

“What’s new boy?” The wonder said.

“Nothing much.”

“How did Practice go?”

“Oh, great. Those boys are really great. They’re something. Harry.”

“What about Jim Green?”

Pretty Maids All in a Row 281 “Are they still holding him?”

“Holy Hell are they—I hear his lawyer can’t even see him—all kinds of hell is breaking over that—I hear—I guess you didn’t hear—”

“I didn’t.”

“You still sticking to your theory, boy?”

“Right, I am. He’s not the man.”

“They’re gonna look awful silly—”

“You know it. They can’t help it though.”

“Listen, Mike, what about this funeral Saturday?”

“The whole school should go.”

“All together?”

“Why not?”

“We’ll have to work it out.”

“It’s in the morning, isn’t it?”

“Yeh—eleven o’clock.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Well—you don’t want to force anybody—”

“If they get there early, say about eight o’clock, why— maybe everybody could file by—before they close the coffin—that is, everybody who wants to—”

“Right. That’s right. That’s what I thought.”

“I guess I better announce it in Assembly tomorrow—” “Yeh, I think you ought to.”

“What about flowers?”

“Well—I guess the best idea would be for each Home Room to send some. Don’t you think?”

“I guess that’s the best way.”

A silence followed.

“Boy, if your theory’s right, Mike, we’re still in the soup.”

“Uh huh.”

Another silence.

“How’s Hilda?”

“Fine.”

“Just fine.”

Silence.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, Mike boy. Haven’t heard anything from Surcher, have you?”

“Not a thing.”

“Just wondering if they’re going to be around tomorrow—”

“Haven’t heard, Harry.”

“O.K.—I’ll see you, boy—’’He paused—“Who’d you put

in at End?"

“Joe Moran—Not bad—”

Proffer chuckled.

“O.K.—See you, boy.”

“So long, Harry.”

Hanging up, Tiger sighed. He also shook his head, slowly, from side to side. Then he sat down at his desk. He unzipped his handy slim briefcase and pulled out a few things he had brought home to work on. First of all, the book he had been reading earlier in the day. He wanted to examine it a little further tonight, here in his den, before tucking into bed. Then a folder or two, of this and that, including his Schedule of Activities for the next day, which he wanted to fill in. He mused over that, now, as a matter of fact. Ten-thirty of course Marie Amis, as arranged, so he penciled that in right away. He grinned, looking forward to that. He checked his notepad to see what else was on. He didn't have to write down to contact Surcher of course. That he would do first thing, probably right after Assembly. He wondered if Mummer’s four million fellow Masons, among other things, would rise to his defense, or contribute to it, at the minimum. A fat lot of good it would do him, in any event, as far as his early retirement from the school was concerned. That he knew, Tiger mused, grinning away. What a character! Where would he peddle his Teaching Machine next, he wondered? Mr. Programmed Instruction Queer, Tiger chuckled away there, thinking of him. What about Crispwell? Tiger mused over that one. Maybe he should see if old Ponce had any interesting scoop on that one. What a kid. That great kid though. His new plays had worked beautifully. Tiger viewed the future, blissfully almost. In spite of everything. . . . Peggy Linski at nine-fifteen, after Assembly and that contact with Surcher. She was completing Part II of the Brooder of course. He jotted that in. Was she the most promising of the younger Majorettes or wasn’t she? She looked a real sweetie out there on the field, or anywhere, for that matter, in front of the band. He grinned. That's the only way

Pretty Maids All in a Row 283 a girl can get to wear a miniskirt in Sawyersville. Tiger was more than fond of her. Those Polish blonds were something that never failed to captivate him. They were a class of their own alright, without a doubt of it. Marjorie was lucky she was graduating actually, or that kid could press her pretty hard for her job alright. Tiger was still grinning, musing over the complex intrigues and processes of high-school kids’ social life. Sandy was scheduled for twelve o’clock, he noted, and penciled that in. He stopped a moment, thinking over that one, for it was pushing close to lunch hour, wasn’t it, and maybe—but in any case it wouldn’t take all that long to give her the Bernkrokker, that was the beauty of that inventory. When had he last tested her, that talented kid? He checked up on that. . . . Then there was lunch and Health Ed and a little bit of Phys Ed and at three p.m. or a little after, he made it after, Barbara Brook, whom he hadn't seen for a couple of weeks, at least. He hoped her problems were coming along alright, she actually was pretty bright. Pretty and bright. He grinned, warmly. ... He thought of Jeannie Bonni—but then remembered she wasn’t due in until the following day, which in a way was good because it was cutting things a little fine again, though it could be worked in, he knew, if anything could. Who had a sweeter smile than her? Looby Loo? Maybe. He felt warm, and content, thinking of Jeannie—and Looby Loo. Soon he would be seeing her. He checked over the whole schedule again, carefully, making sure everything fitted in right. He realized he would have to make allowances for a phone call or two, probably a visitor or two. Proffer most probably, but possibly others too. Jim Green, maybe. He might be around tomorrow. He hoped so. It would be interesting to hear his account of State Police treatment and technique. It would. He sighed, feeling sorry for that lad. But, once again, thinking, it was an experience, it was life, wasn’t it. . . . Look what Pve been through. ... In a pensive, almost melancholy mood, he checked over a few more things and then pushed himself back from his desk and went to his easy chair, with his book. He wouldn’t keep Looby Loo waiting too long, but he did want to read just a little bit. He sat down, the book in his lap. He sat there like that for a minute, just thinking about that sweetheart of a wife of his, and his Jane, now asleep no doubt and God knows dreaming of what, and that lazy, sensuous, absolutely selfish little animal Sheba, that treasure cat. ... He thought about Practice. What a Team, what a pool of material, how could Sawyersville be so lucky, anyhow? Year after year, those kids, what material. And Ponce! He grinned fondly. What a fantastic kid. He had finally casually mentioned his ideas and hopes and dreams and vision to him. The lad certainly had seemed responsive, his eyes, his whole face had brightened. Four years though. Five. That was a long time. He hoped to God he could maintain that responsiveness all that time. A sharp kid like that—no telling who might latch on to him at college and spirit him away, somewhere. God knows those corporations were always combing the campuses for the best. But—there was a good chance, he knew. Ponce was a kid with deep roots, and those roots were right here, in Sawyersville, he knew. He wouldn’t desert the old place that easily, he was pretty sure. Time would tell. Time, Time, man's unique Hell. , . , Four years. What might happen to the team? Tiger found himself growing a little bit apprehensive. Sometimes it happened to him. Would the pool dry up? That was the worst question. For a moment Tiger was more than just a little apprehensive. How could it? That was the next question, and Tiger began feeling better. ... He knew it couldn't. .... He felt a lot better, in fact pretty good. He opened the book now.

The Human Vagina

He tried to recall, had he perused this before?

This very essential and interesting anatomical structure which can be referred to as the vaginal barrel, has two main functions (/) Heterosexual psycho-physical contact of the highest and most intimate order and (2) to serve a the main pathway for the Human Male’s contribution to the Human Female’s total conceptive apparatus . . . He might have, he wasn’t sure. He read on, in any event. Content. . . . The vaginal anatomy and physiology of the Human Female are instructive, in all respects, and provide the most important cluster of clues to an understanding of the very basis of her sexual life, in all its ramifications . . . Tiger nodded his head, admiringly. . . . Would Looby Loo let him undress her tonight? He hoped so. . . . For on the one hand while the Human Female's vaginal barrel pre-

Pretty Maids All in a Row 285 pares itself as described earlier for penetration by the fully tumescent penile shaft, so on the other hand the Human Male’s penile shaft, fully erect and engorged, demands to penetrate—and readily accepts the invitation on the part of the fully prepared vaginal barrel ... to be mounted, unquote, Tiger tagged on, in a frolicky mood, growing warmer thinking of Looby Loo. She often liked him to remove her bra and other things. Those dainty, cute other things. He smiled, warmly. Those things. How he loved that gal. On he read. . . . [See Table 34-D-LX (e)] . . .He flipped the page. . . . Anatomically speaking, the very foundation of the Human Female’s orgasmic experience is vasocongestion (or engorgement) of the labia minor as well as the vagina . . . Those wonderful letters she used to write him, they had pulled him through, what else could have? For a moment he glimpsed the nightmare. He saw the letters. They were there. He felt their warmth, sustaining him, there. ... He had known her since high school days, though he hadn’t actually dated her much then. She was going more or less steady then—Freddy Gilpin, wasn’t it— He was a banker now. That was it. He worked in a bank in Kitston now. Surcher’s stamping ground. Tiger grinned. Now . . . They had really started going together just before the Army, and Korea. That was when. He had finished up at State. ... He was aware of a surging warmth, thinking of her. Who, outside of Rochelle possibly, could ever take her place? He mused. In life you never knew. He grew sad again, knowing how life was, seeing it for a moment without Looby Loo. . . . For no one ever knew. What was around that comer—you couldn’t view. . . . Especially after thirty-five. That was the time. Time . . . Nipple phenomena . . . Tiger read on. . . . He studied a series of diagrams showing the changes in the size of the Human Female’s nipples during the various phases of sexual activity, including mounting. The measurements were precise, down to the hundredth of a centimeter. . . . Tiger browsed on. ... The Orgasm of the Human Female . . . Tiger stopped. . . . Orgasm cannot be separated from primal socio-psychologic factors . . . He knew it was thus. ... It is the peak, the most ultimate point, the zenith, in short, of the entire drama of sexual activity; it is deeply rooted in the complex biological history of the entire species . . . Tiger nodded. ... It is the sine qua non of the very existence of the species, in its present form, bio-psychologic and socio . . . Tiger pondered it, rereading it ... He moved on, finally. . . . Penetration of the Human Female while she is in a supine position (on her back, i.e.) demonstrates clearly and dramatically the high intensity vector of this phenomenon: Her hands and feet clutch her partner, she cries out, her face contorts in definitive spasms of release and ferment . . . Tiger nodded. . . . (See Chart 02-CX-9) . . . Tiger looked for it. . . . The Sex Blush is at its most diffuse at this climactic moment . . . Tiger noted. . . . The Human Female is capable of re-forming her spent tensions soon after orgasm, and in this connection it is apropos to examine in some detail the phenomenon known as STATUS ORGASMUS . . . Tiger halted, right on top of it. . . . This extremely interesting phenomenon can come about as a result of simultaneously surging orgasmic peak levels almost nonmeasurable in their singular entities per se, i.e. —or it can simply manifest itself as a definite, continuous, mono-orgasmic wav e-surge of the highest dynamic order . . . “Hmmm,” Tiger murmured, enlightened, definitely. . . . STATUS ORGASM US has been observed to last for as long as 160 seconds in certain instances, though on the whole it is true to say that the normal curve of distribution applies to the phenomenon. [See Tables 64-1 -D(2) and DiagramJ . . . Tiger checked that. . . . How does orgasm affect the vaginal barrel? Can the Human Female fantasy to orgasm? Tiger turned to the Diagram again. He loved that normal curve. He read on again. . . . At the peak of orgasm, an all-engulfing, wave-like suction-surge overwhelms the vagina . . . Tiger nodded. . . . Respiratory rates are very rapid at the peak point—in several cases, rates of 60 per minute were definitely observed and noted . . . Tiger noted it. . . . He flipped a page and ran into a photograph of a most interesting piece of apparatus devised and constructed by the investigators for the purposes of investigating. It did everything the Human Female vagina could conceivably require of it, under any circumstances. Tiger admired it. There were also detailed diagrams. Tiger browsed over them. What a piece of work. Electronically controlled, instantaneously and delicately responsive, it could match the real McCoy anytime. Anywhere. Its thrust was formidable. Tiger mused, intrigued,

Pretty Maids All in a Row 287 definitely. The female subjects must have loved it. Tiger grinned a grin, an image popping up in his mind, many images, as he thought of it . . . all of it. . . . Now he put the book back on his desk and just sat back in his chair, relaxing, thinking about things. He was thinking a whole range of things, from the mysteries and paradoxes of creation itself right along and down the scale to more mundane details, such as getting a haircut this week, due as he was for one. Hadn't Looby Loo mentioned it to him, in her loving way? Soon he got up, coming to no definite conclusion on the primal mysteries, in fact baffled as ever, and walked out of his den to the bedroom, thinking only of Looby Loo. . . .

She was just slipping out of her dress, and Tiger was glad he had timed it just right. She was standing with her back to him, her hands were reaching behind her shoulders for the zip, or little hook. “Hello—” she murmured low, stepping out of the dress. He came up to her and gently slipped his arms about her, his hands cupping her breasts, tenderly fondling the beautiful things. She gave a little murmur, and a soft sigh, her right hand touched his face. She caressed his face, and her face turned toward his, and she kissed him on the lips, as he unhooked her feather-light bra and received the superb gifts that fell into his hands, marvelously. The bra slipped away from her. He looked down at her, loving the view. He loved her flanks flaring out, they were sturdy beauties alright, what a well-formed girl she was. He loved her. "Darling—” she murmured, as he caressed her breasts, and her belly now, and downward, gliding exquisitely over her, over the silky things, starting them downward, as she exquisitely helped him ease them off her. They stood there, and he continued caressing her, so gently now inside her thighs, circling, back and forth, finding finally the sublime terrain, lingering there. His phallus was prodding and pressing against her marvelous buttocks. He caressed them. He kissed her along the neck and shoulders, and one hand still fondled her fabulous breasts, their sweet pink sentinels fully alert now. “Take off your things—” She murmured to him, reaching for him, kissing him, as only she could kiss. . . .

At a little before midnight, just as Chief Poldaski was about to hang up his cue and call it a day, the place having thinned out quite a lot in fact, most of the boys heading for Selmo’s, Harding’s, or similar places of refreshment, for a few brews before retiring for the night, Sam Roto’s phone, stuck under the counter, rang, and it was somebody asking for the Chief. Thinking it might be his beloved, who once in a while did give him a call at Sam's place, Poldaski walked reluctantly and even somewhat resentfully to the phone and answered it in not his most dulcet tones. However, it was not Mary. It was Larry Mellish, who ran Sawyersville’s most bustling electrician’s business (he had wired up the town hall, Sam’s place, the school, Selmo’s, and many other local establishments, including the Chiefs own little abode). He gave a piece of news to the Chief in very worried tones, and demanded that he do something about it. The news was: his daughter, Yvonne, was gone.

Missing.

Poldaski heard the news and nearly fell off the stool he had perched himself on. For a moment he said absolutely nothing, hearing only Larry’s voice saying over and over, “John? Hey, John? John?’*

Then he said, ‘‘You home, Larry?”

“Yeh—”

“Stay there. Don’t do nothin’. Understand? Nothin’. I’m

cornin’ right over.”

And he hung up.

A moment later, as Sam stared, he tore out of the place, jumped into the Borough Police Car, roared off, nearly plowing over a bunch of the boys* and rocket-powered for Larry Mellish’s place. . . .

Surcher felt they were getting somewhere. It was one A.M. and not only had all attempts by the lawyer (and others) so far failed to dislodge the boy from his grasp, but the boy himself seemed more and more like the culprit to him. He wasn’t as yet one hundred percent sure. They had been working on him nonstop, the three of them, taking turns of course, as per Change Up, Phase Four, and he seemed to be wearing down, or approaching the threshold, at any rate. Just now, Grady was questioning him, in his unique way, having taken over from Surcher, who at the moment was grabbing some shuteye in the special Police Slumber Room, well equipped for such vital

Pretty Maids All in a Row 289 breaks from prolonged periods of strenuous activity, or duty beyond the call, as it might be called.

“How much more shit you think we’re taking from you, Cassius?”

The boy mumbled something. He was obviously tired. “What? Can’t you talk? Can’t hear you, Hot Shot!”

“Fuck yourself—” The boy mumbled.

“You didn’t get much fucking out of her, did you, Boy?” Grady threw at him, “Not a thing, not a bunt, nothing, right there, Big Boy?”

“She was a honey—” mumbled the lad.

“Yeh! So Long Honey! That’s what you mean—” Grady fired at him. “That’s what you’re trying to tell me—C’mon, come clean—Where’d you write that—in the lavatory? What made you pin it on her? Tell us all about that. Who the hell are you? What was it, a joke, or something: Pretty funny? Give everybody a good laugh? That it? What's your name?”

“One of these days—” Jim mumbled.

“What’s your fucken name?”

“You know my name—”

“Is it Muhammad?”

"White prick—wait—’’

“You don’t have a white prick—what a shame! A Goddamn Shame! That poor gal would still be around! Right, Jackson? White. Big and white. That’s what you needed. Right? Kid? What a kid! Answer that one! Listen—when did you pin that note on her? Was it hard—getting her head down the head? C’mon, Kid! You sure must have worked fast! How’d you prop her up like that? We figure you did it all in ten minutes flatJ That’s fast! A jump pass! How’d you do it, Kid? Start from the beginning, that’s what, don’t skip a thing—”

“When do I sleep?” mumbled the lad.

“Sleep? Christ! All this on your mind and you want a sleep! A little snooze for Frooze! Pull out the bed! The Best bed! Floating Slumbertime mattress for you, Kid? Sweet Christ! Know when you can sleep? Now listen to me— Don’t drop off that chair because Jesus Christ I’ll just kick you to—Understand? Listen Boy—you can sleep when you’ve told the scoop. The Whole Scoop. Understand? Ready to do that? You’ll be here until you do just that! Better face that!”

Ponce was in his Home Room standing up with the rest of the class Pledging Allegiance to the Flag (and to the Republic for which it stands) the next morning when Jim Green’s ordeal ended, though unbeknown to him or to Ponce, or to Tiger, who at the moment was finally putting in a phone call to Surcher with his interesting news. It happened this way: The School Janitor, Bill Honeywell, opening up his broom closet in the basement not far from the boilers, for the purpose of selecting the appropriate brooms and associated equipment to commence his early-morning brush-up, found himself confronted with a totally unexpected and jarring sight—the lifeless form of Yvonne Mellish, Assistant Head Cheerleader—inside. She was propped against the back of that closet and she was leaning over a broom, she almost seemed to be using it, in fact She was completely naked, save for a pretty pair of briefs, on which was pinned the message—SWEEP, HONEY— written in pencil, in large capital letters on a standard sheet of school paper.

52

“Hello, Peggy—" Tiger said to the blond young lovely as she entered his office, right on time. He felt pretty good in fact. He had just finished talking to Surcher and he felt pretty certain it wouldn’t be all that long before his star Right End was back again, none the worse for wear, he hoped. Tiger didn’t know it, of course, but Surcher was about to get another phone call which would make that practically certain.

Pretty Maids AII in a Row 291 “Hi—** said that sweetie of a kid, giving him her sweetest smile.

“How are you this morning?” Tiger asked, with a grin. “O.K.,” she said, so sweetly.

And certainly she looked O.K., Tiger mused, surveying her. Never having really discovered the exact nature of the special something about this girl which so much appealed to him, he nevertheless loved it. The warmest instincts in him, as soon as he laid eyes on her, or, for that matter, thought of her, responded to her.

“Well, what’s new?” Tiger inquired, after she had made herself at home.

“I dreamed about you last night,” she said.

“You did, did you?” Tiger said, admiring the maid.

“It was a funny dream—” she said, moving in her chair, rearranging herself, so to speak. “You were asking me to come out for the football team.”

That was some dream. Tiger nodded, thinking about it. He had a few himself coming back to him now. He thought about them. He saw Looby Loo.

“And then—when I said no—" Peggy said, “You said I was probably too young anyhow—”

Fascinating, and how. Tiger mused.

“That sure was a funny dream,” he said at last He gazed at the lass.

“Can I sit on your lap?” She asked.

Tiger grinned, she was some kid, a sweetie and a half of a blond Polish kid, what a kid.

“Hold on—not just yet—we have Part II of this Brooder to take—”

“Oh—Brooder-pooder,” she said, pqpting at him. And then, “Do I have to take it?” She said.

“Well that’s what you’re in here for—” He said. ^uTiger—” She sounded so bored.

“It won’t take long.”

“Promise me?”

“My sister’s getting married—” she said, out of the blue. “Which one?” He knew three or four of them.

“Eleanor."

She was a dream.

“Oh yes,” He knew her fairly well.

“She’s twenty-two.”

292 Pretty Maids All in a Row “I remember her.’*

“She was a Majorette—Remember that too?**

“Sure I do.’*

“Can’t I sit on your lap?”

Tiger grinned again. What could he do? They’d never get through the Brooder.

He said giving in, looking at her warmly, fondly, “Better go and lock the door—”

She got up, he admired her form. . . •

53

It was after Peggy had departed that Harry Proffer phoned through with the startling news. It took a little while for him to get it out, for he was in pretty bad form. In fact, he could hardly speak. It was a series of grunts, and squeaks. Finally, having somehow and somewhat calmed him down, Tiger got the drift. In the quietest of tones, he told Proffer he would soon be around. He checked his watch—it was just ten o’clock. He hung up and just sat at his desk for a little while, he just sat, numb almost. Finally, he moved. He shook his head, slowly, from side to side. He sighed. He wrote a brief note—four or five words, at most—Back soon as poss.—placed it on his desk. He got up. He left the office. . . .

Ponce took the news like a man. He was stunned of course, and wondered just what in the hell Sawyersville and this world were coming to, but also he felt mighty glad that now without a doubt Jim Green would be released. And he knew who would be picked up. Only a few minutes ago, and incredibly enough, in fact, he had seen the freak. Ponce had given him two miles of berth, at least, and knew that before too long, everyone would. . . .

The frantic and barely comprehensible call from the school, in effect putting Surcher back to square one, was

Pretty Maids AII irt a Row 293 the first he had heard of Yvonne Mellish. And that had come on top of the call he had received a little earlier from Mr. McDrew, with his bit of news, which had set him back to square seven-eighths, at least, just possibly. For Chief John Poldaski had not bothered to contact him about the worried phone call from the father of the late Assistant Head Cheerleader last night. He had taken matters into his own hands. He had decided that. He would handle the matter himself, for he had taken the last bit of guff he would ever take from a goddamn Statie. And he had been doing that, however unsuccessfully, all night in fact. He had interviewed the distraught parents, carefully, skillfully. He had searched far and wide. And in fact, he had been making good progress there, for at the time Bill Honeywell was opening his broom closet, the Chief was just about to begin an examination of that notorious lavatory, having slipped in there very stealthily and cleverly during Assembly, the best time really, as he had concluded, for such improvised activities.. . .

He had found nothing.

54

Despite the development, and the tumult, not to mention near-furor following thereafter, Tiger managed to get back to his office in fairly decent time, after consultations and commiserations and a general review of the situation with Proffer, Surcher, and others. For he had an appointment. And above all, he hated missing appointments, though he might be late, in certain and very rare circumstances. This was one of them.

“Hi—” He said, to Marie Amis, who sat there, waiting for him. She had found the note. “What a mess—” He added.

“Did you see her?” She asked, without formalities.

“Uh uh,“ Tiger told her, sitting down at his desk.

“Will they close the school?” Marie asked, intelligently.

“Uh uh,” He said, to that bright miss.

“Think they should?"

“No, I don’t."

“It’s getting pretty dangerous though—"

“Well—in a way—” Tiger said, quietly. “But—all of life is a dangerous thing—Isn’t it?" And he paused. “Stop to think about it—Sweet Marie.” And he stopped.

Marie sat quietly a few moments, gazing at Tiger. Certainly, she appeared to be thinking about it. Tiger knew, as he sat there gazing at her, that if anyone, outside of Rochelle possibly, could seriously think about such a matter, it was this maid, this sweetheart of a girl. This dream. She had early shown a considerable talent and coolness under fire, so to speak, in her approach to the production of drama, and other matters, and life in general. And it wasn’t long before Tiger had designated her Student Director, in short, his Assistant insofar as matters in the Dramatic department were concerned. They had enjoyed a long and successful collaboration, and it was only a shame, to put it mildly, that she was graduating this year and heading for State, enrolled in the School of Dramatic Arts, no less, last report. She would do well there, Tiger knew. And one day, without a doubt, the world would hear of her—unless she married, raised kids, which was always a possibility. Which wasn’t a bad idea at all in any event, Tiger mused, gazing at her, fondly. That fundamentally, was what any normal woman really wanted anyhow, he knew. Who could deny it? Tiger knew what fulfilled them. He knew only too well the unassailable truth of that matter. It was beyond discussion, Marie knew it, he knew, within himself.

“I guess it is,” she said, sadly, keeping her gaze on him, “That leaves the Cheerleaders without any leader at all now.” She also said, quietly.

Tiger nodded, reflecting on that. Certainly it had also crossed his mind, the cheerleading squad was being decimated, without a doubt. Apart from anything else, he was certainly sorry about that. For they were vital. Who could take over? Was there a natural chain of command? What about Barbara Brook? He made a mental note to casually mention that to her. It wasn’t up to him of course, for that area didn't fall within his sphere of activities at all,

Pretty Maids All in a Row 295 well he knew. But he couldn’t help wondering about it. He loved the Cheerleading Squad, and knew how much the team did too. It filled an essential role, however you looked at it.

“You’d make a good cheerleader,” he said to Marie, almost wistfully. He knew she couldn’t fit it in.

“Would I?” She said bemused by it.

“You would,” he said, utterly seriously.

"Oh Tiger—” she said, laughing softly at him, and warmly.

Now he chuckled at her. He had got the pitch.

“How are you?” he said.

“I could feel good,” she said, with a soft sigh.

“What do you hear from your brother?”

“He doesn’t like Vietnam.”

“I’ll bet he doesn’t.”

“He says it’s criminal, Tiger, is it?”

“It’s a dirty war, no doubt of it.”

“Well—I don’t know—Marie—” He paused, reflecting on it, “I don’t know. Should Americans protest?” He halted. “Why not? Tiger?”

“Well—we’re involved, in it—” He stopped again.

“It’s pretty sickening—”

“Yeh, I know, I know.” He paused—“That I know— Marie.”

For a moment, silence. They were looking at each other. “Well, anyway, Tiger—” She spoke quietly. “There won’t be any protesters in Sawyersville—” She paused— “Will there?”

Tiger grinned, wryly. He was struggling with it. That statement was true, without a doubt, no matter who felt what about it. What a world. What a rough world it was. And no doubt of it. He thought of Old Compone. Dallas was on another planet. Would things have been different? He wondered. Gazing at her. He thought of her brother. Everything. He turned to other things—

“What about the play?” He asked.

“Do we have time to talk about the play?” She said.

She had a point there. What a girl.

“What shall we talk about?” He asked. “I sure like that blouse.” He said.

“Shall I lock the door?” She said.

“You think of everything—”

“You're a dream—”

"Let's dream—”

She reached out for him and touched him. He admired her red hair. What hair. She murmured to him and stroked him. What a girL “What are you thinking of?" She said.

He grinned. “Being a good girl?” He touched her nose.

She smiled at him, a little flushed. She bent over and toward him and rubbed her nose against his. He saw those green eyes, he never could see enough of them. She smelled fresh, and good. She was in some mood and a half alright, Tiger mused. He was pulling away from darkness. He was alive, again—

“I’m always a good girl,” she said, kissing him, her eyes closed. He took her in his arms, and kissed her too, warmly.

“What am I going to do without you?” She said at last, murmuring softly to him, in his embrace.

“There’s a whole year to go,” he murmured to her, gliding his hands over her.

“It goes quick—so quick—” she said.

“That’s life—that’s how life is—I'm going to miss you—” he said, helping her out of her blouse, delighted at the exquisite sight. She had the whitest flesh. Her slip was the prettiest feminine thing. The feminine principle was the thing. She had on nothing. He fondled her breasts, lovingly, through the sheer slip. She slipped out of her skirt. She clasped him in a passionate embrace, murmuring his name. She pressed against him. That was always her way, Tiger mused, very warmly, caressing her hips. ... A girl with her own mind, who really knew her own mind, and what a mind.... He caressed tenderly.. . .

“A really good one—Tiger—sweet—” Marie said, rubbing herself against him, loving the strong phallus probing against her, ready for her. . . . "Oh God 1 need a good one—” she said, in a murmur close to a whisper. . . . "Tiger Sweet—” She was kissing him, merging with him, who could kiss like that—

“I’ll try my best,” Tiger told her, murmuring low to her, slipping her out of her slip. . . .

Surcher was up against it. He had released Jim Green, amid a fusillade of promises from his lawyer Phil Marlowe to “tear the State Police apart,” which he would no doubt attempt to do, Surcher knew. He had picked up Mr. Mummer, as per Mike McDrew’s tip (via the kid, Ponce de Leon), and he had released him too, after several hours’ questioning, having found absolutely nothing to connect him with things, not to mention that he didn’t for one moment believe him capable of such feats, if only on physical grounds, alone, however much of a fag he was, potential or otherwise. (He had finally admitted as much. He would fight, but he would disappear from the school, Surcher knew.) Certainly not. The man, or kid, who had lifted those girls around was no skinny thing. He had muscle on him, without a doubt On any grounds, Mummer just didn’t fit. He would be the last man on his list unless he actually caught him in the act sometime, and then he would have his eyes tested. He was up the creek, he knew. Not only was there obviously a first-class and pri-ma-facie kook loose in the school, having the time of his life dispatching young maids, but he left no clues. What would lead him to him? Again, outside of that crazy note, with not a print on it, he had nothing, absolutely. In a way he had hated releasing that kid, Green, for he looked good. But certainly he had no choice. He couldn’t possibly have dispatched the latest one by remote control. A search of the girl’s home had revealed nothing. This time, not even a note. Pressure was starting to build up around Surcher from all quarters. The Governor himself might soon be sticking his nose in, he knew, being that sort of vote-catcher, he well knew. Not to mention the Attorney-General, who would soon be on his tail. And what about the carloads of media men who would be turning up? He was glad he had plenty of Troopers. He mused over things. The girl had been strangled, that much he knew. She was full of jism, someone had had a good time with her, that also he knew. It was no rape job, certainly. The pathologist absolutely discounted it. There were no signs of struggle, the girl had been dispatched almost effortlessly, it seemed, almost—with her cooperation—bizarrely enough. It was bizarre, alright. Surcher shook his head over it, thinking of it. Who was the jerk? How many more Sawyersville girls would bite the dust? Would it be best to recommend a closure of the school? This point in particular worried him and caused much conflict within. The parents would probably want the school closed—if they didn’t, they might well just keep their kids at home. He couldn’t blame them. God knew he couldn’t blame them. But—on the other hand —he also knew that was the surest way to prevent the discovery and apprehension of the lunatic, whoever he was. Who he was. Surcher slowly brought his fist down on Proffer’s walnut desk, four or five times at least, soundlessly. Was it a kid? Or a teacher? He had already crossed one off the list. What about the others? What about Proffer? Surcher weighed that a moment, then discounted it. He even grinned a bit. Then, serious again, he knew he would have to examine the possibility that one of the teachers was nuts, and not just like Mummer was. Who could that be? Who was the vicious nut? Surcher twisted around in Proffer’s comfortable chair and stared out the window. He saw the expanse of the athletic fields—the football stadium—one of the best in the whole area, he knew—the Practice field—the baseball diamond, what a fine setup Sawyersville had though, he mused, taking everything in, admiring in spite of himself the unbeatable powerhouse they were. Maybe, he mused, he could pick up some tips, before he was through, and pass them on to G.A.R.—courtesy of Mike McDrew. He thought about Jim Green. He fell a little bad. He hoped he hadn’t harmed him. Without a doubt, he had put him through a little bit of a rough time. For nothing, as it had turned out. He thought about seeing him, in a couple of days, and maybe apologizing—if Marlowe and his gang hadn’t got him thrown out of his job by then, he mused, grinning a little, over that one. . . . What a one. . . .

But who was the nut? How would he find him? Would he just have to wait until he turned himself in? How many healthy young Sawyersville maids would by then have been done in? The grin had completely disappeared. Surcher sat in that chair, staring out at those fields. . . .

Ponce stared down at the floor. He was in the Library, and Mona had just left. She had helped him a lot right off the bat. If it kept up like that, before long, he would actually know what was going on. But now she was gone, and he just stared at the floor. He was actually between the stacks, having wandered there shortly after she had left. He had heard about Mummer being released. Well, he supposed Surcher and his crew knew best. Would the guy still be around though? He wondered about that. He would talk to Tiger about that, he would wait and see. Certainly, quite a few people by now knew the score. And how long could a guy hang around with that on his door? Ponce stared at the floor. It was no good pretending he could hold up his head. The only good thing was that Jim had been released, though he wasn’t around yet. Maybe tomorrow he would be. Tomorrow. Would anyone be? His head carried a ton of dead concrete weight. He knew the score. Would they close down the school? He thought of old Bill Honeywell, and felt sorry for him. He certainly knew how he must be feeling, and above all, what he felt upon opening that broom-closet door. What a deal! For real. What about the team? He hadn’t been able to get an answer yet from Tiger about practice tonight. And the game? Poor Yvonne. . . . Twice he had been by the Guidance/Counseling office and twice the sign had been up, TESTING. He had almost broken all the rules—and barged in. He was dying to see Tiger and talk about things. He felt bad. True, he had taken the news initially like a man. But that was partly because he thought they had got their man. Now— the full impact of things was making its terrible way through him, utterly muting him. And what was wrong with that? How should he act? Couldn’t he feel bad? That was a man. Ponce, hanging his head, pondered all that.

“Hello, Ponce,” a warm and familiar voice said to him, between the stacks. He looked up and saw Miss Nectar. Immediately, he felt a little better. He even managed to smile at her, though not quite the usual one specially reserved for her.

“Hello, Miss Nectar,” he said to her.

“Feeling blue?” She had on a dress that was the color of

Autumn, Ponce suddenly realized, and it looked absolutely perfect on her. Beautiful. . . . The leaves of autumn— still—on the trees—beautiful there. . . . The fragmented sentence ran through his head on its own, having sprung up, suddenly, all on its own. It held him, almost haunted him. Would it depart from him? He listened to it. He saw her. He had always admired her, not as much of course as Miss Betty Smith, that dream of dreams. But—certainly—

“I’m sure blue,” he told her, sighing almost.

“I know how you feel.” Now she said.

“What’s going on around here?” Ponce asked.

“I wish I knew—” she murmured, “I wish someone knew," she also said, tenderly, to the lad.

“Will they close the school?” Ponce asked.

“I don’t know, It’s awfully bad—”

“I hope they don’t though,” Ponce said, feeling the warmth between them, longing for more. He wondered if she felt it too. He looked at her. He was sure she did. What a wonderful, warm woman she was. Like his mother, almost. That’s what it was. He gazed at her breasts..

“What are you looking for?” She asked, in a low voice.

“I don't know,” Ponce said, truthfully.

“You poor boy,” Tenderly, Miss Nectar said.

“What’s this place coming to?” Ponce, in a voice full of anguish, asked, between those stacks.

“How can I help you?” Miss Nectar asked, obviously affected, reaching out and touching him on the side of his face with her hand. He felt her hand. The warm, marvelous soft hand. Her mother hand. He caught her fragrance, which was wonderful. He stared at her face. There was warmth, a million years of it, tenderness, and human love in her face. Her brown eyes. Her hair. She had the nicest brown hair. Her lips were lovely. Full, soft, so receptive. He knew. His eyes were hot. Would he cry? There was just the barest hint of a tender smile on her lips, just for him, he knew, understanding him.

*T don’t know,” Ponce said, “I just don’t know,” he also said, only hoping she would keep that hand there.

She didn’t though. It slipped away slowly, he watched it slide to her side. He remained there, just staring at it. Then, at her. Next to Miss Smith, and his mother, she was the warmest woman on earth. He wished she would take

Pretty Maids All in a Row 301 him in her arms. He wanted to nestle against her, on her breast. His heart began to pound.

“There’s a big meeting going on soon,” she said, softly, “I heard.”

“Is there?” He said, still hoping she would.

“Yes. So I’ve heard.” she said, “School Board members, County Superintendent—Our Principal—” she said, “The State Police—”

“Surcher?”

“That’s it.”

She sighed. He saw her eyes. His heart pounded so hard.

“And I guess they’ll decide—”

“About closing down?”

“So Ive heard.”

Now Ponce really wanted to cry. Between that thought and his powerful desire, it was all he could do from bursting out crying. The tears were there, ready to pour out. What restrained them? He wondered, and marveled, staring again at her breasts.

“M-Miss Nectar—” he said.

“Yes?” What tenderness.

“Том sure are nice”

A moment, silence.

She smiled. When had he seen a warmer smile?

“Ponce—” she said, very softly, and tenderly, “That’s awfully nice.”

Ponce felt like shaking. Now, inside, alongside his rampaging heart, he was already shaking. Once it started, he knew, he was lost. There was no stopping it. He was getting in quite a state. He was really glad they were between stacks. He hoped no one else would dive in. The Library wasn’t very busy just now—but—you never could tell. It would be embarrassing as hell. He’d really be a laughingstock—they'd have him in a hammerlock—How he wanted her to take him in her arms!

“Miss—Nectar—” He said.

“Yes?”

He couldn’t get it out. He knew' he never would. He vibrated wildly. Disaster was just around the corner now. She would know all. Anyone might pop in. The warm and loving creature stood there, looking at him. Would she burst out laughing at him? Ponce dreaded that.

“Ponce—” she said, her voice caressing him, “What’s on your mind?”

He barely heard it.

“What are you looking at?”

“Your—face—”

She smiled.

“Just—your face—” He added.

How she smiled.

“Gosh you're nice—” Ponce got out.

“What were you looking for?” she asked.

“Jonathan Wild—”

“That’s a wonderful book—”

“Fielding shows an unrivaled mastery of the art of irony,” Somehow he got out.

“I agree there—”

“Have you read it?”

“I want to read it again.”

“I’ll get you a copy—”

‘That’s what 1 was looking for—”

She smiled.

“Do you like football?”

She smiled, but didn't answer.

He said, “I like it a lot”

“I know you do.”

The question was odd. He realized now. No sooner had it come bubbling out than Ponce realized how odd. He didn’t know what he was saying anymore, Ponce realized, suddenly. They remained standing there, so close. What would happen next? She was a warm flower. Would the stacks come crashing down? Ponce wouldn’t have been surprised—”

“It’s a very nice town—” He heard her reply.

She gave a little shrug. He loved that shrug. The shoulder moved, it was a shrug. Her dress moved too, upward slightly, over her breasts, gliding.

“Even now.”

“Do you go to bed late at night?”

She smiled, Ponce felt on fire. How had that one come out? He clamped down hard, nothing more would he say, He loved her smile, he wanted to fall, head first, into that smile—

“You aren’t the murderer—are you, Ponce?” She asked, murmuring very low. It staggered him.

“O-of—Of course—N-Not.” He said.

“I know you’re not.”

“I couldn’t murder a flea.”

“I know, Ponce.”

“I was only teasing you, Ponce.”

He knew she was. Though what a thing it was. She was teasing him out of his mind, she was. How much more could he take? How long could they stand there? Would he finish up his days there? Ponce, wild for her, wondered what to do. He thought of Miss Smith. Betty £mith. Within, he sighed her name. That wonderful, muffed opportunity. He should have known what to do. Who wouldn’t have— outside of him? Now, here, it was clear to him, a second opportunity was rapping hard at the door—miraculously enough. How could it be? Twice? in a row? Ponce pondered hard, over that one. How could it happen—to him? Time passed.

“D-Do you think—you have the book?” He asked, at last.

“You sweet boy—”

He saw what was happening and was sure he was in a dream. He would wake up any minute, wet with the dream. She was putting her arms around his throbbing form. She was—pulling him gently to her. Ponce hit a spin. Wildly, he spun. She caressed his head, and laid it on her breast. Ponce shook like a locomotive. He felt her hands caressing his head. She was murmuring, over and over to him, “You sweet boy—”

Ponce felt the sweet, soft breasts under his head. Was there anything so soft, so sweet in all the world?

He started to sob, suddenly. She kept on murmuring. He sobbed softly, uncontrollably. The tears cascaded from him. She held him like a son, caressing him, murmuring. . . .

They were deep in the stacks.

Marie, in a double-action furor on the Guidance/Counseling floor, let out a scream that could have shattered two or three chandeliers, even four. She thrashed her legs in the air, begging for more, and more, as she and Tiger soared and soared . . . clearing the summit of Mount Mighty Roar. . . .

The Chief was sore, mighty sore. He had come within an ace of discovering the body himself, which he knew in his bones would be around somewhere. If he'd only had ten, fifteen minutes more! He could have moved in, told Surcher and his gang the score. Now, he was only sore. Surcher had curtly relegated him once again to traffic duties, which had now assumed monumental proportions, of course. Staties were all over the place. He had heard there was talk about closing the school. He had seen John Slater and a few others on the School Board show up. Other major cfomos had showed up. Were they powwowing in there? About what? The Chief wondered. Would they close the damn school? What for? What good would that do? He pondered on that, thinking about going in and telling them a thing or two. He could tell them too. They had turned the jig loose. Well—o.k.—o.k.—maybe they had nothing on him, he wasn’t the one—But what about the other jigaboos? How талу of them? Eleven? Seven? How many were there? Anyhow, how come Surchef and his bright boys weren’t working on them? Poldaski, burning now, trying to unsnarl his end of the traffic, exchanging verbal fire from time to time with the friggin' Staties milling around him, here and there, vowed he would find the fiend. He would show all of them, for they hadn’t a goddamn clue. He knew. This was his lay of the land, and he knew—if anyone did. He would turn the tables on all of them. And then Surcher could suck hotchies—all day long, gong-dong. He had his plans. And how he did. He looked forward to it He knew he could do it. Surcher was going to find nobody. But nobody, He knew. Not unless the guy decided to walk himself into handcuffs. . . . That he knew.

“Chief—how ’bout moving your goddamn car out of there?” one young Trooper shouted at him. Poldaski hadn’t seen him around before. And where the frig had he come from?

He bellowed out at him, "Don't worry about that car,

Pretty Maids AII in a Row 305 budi Look at that goddamn Plymouth there! Move It, ВоуГ

The Statie looked around, the Chief kept on bellowing at him. It was a torrent of abuse.

“MOTHER FUCKS!”

He ended up. . . .