This nude for hire

“But I thought there was work to do.”

“Forget it. Just leave. Please.”

“All right.” Llona dressed quickly. “Do you want me to come into work tomorrow?” she asked when she was finished.

“Of course. You’re not fired. Just as long as you do me a favor and keep this our little secret.”

“Naturally. I’m sorry,” she told him sincerely as she left.

“Sorry!” Raunch was having trouble picking up the pieces of his self-image after she’d gone. “What the hell good is sorry?”

He hadn’t even remembered to c1aim the panties as a prize. Sorry!

CHAPTER NINE

H. Reb Klein’s paternal grandfather was the son of black Africans made slaves to white cotton. His maternal grandfather was a Hassidic scholar from Poland who was too occupied with unraveling the complexities of his Torah to be bothered assimilating the prevalent prejudices separating white goy from black goy in his adopted land. With such a heritage, Afro-American and Orthodox Jew, a man learns early that a sense of humor can be the most important item in his survival kit.

Reb learned it by growing up in a neighborhood whose population balance shifted slowly from immigrant Jew to relocated black (and later from black to Black to BLACK with the building of individual awareness of group identity) over a period of many years. When he was very small he learned the uses of a smile when you happen to be coffee-colored in a milk-skinned environment. When he was older, and he went to the yeshiva with the other Orthodox Jewish children, he learned how laughter can grease the skids when you’re the only black kid on a half-black block who has a white mother, a grandfather who speaks nothing but Yiddish, and are required to wear a yarmulke and pais curls. i

At home as well—and perhaps even more so-—Reb knew from his earliest days that humor was the balance wheel. His parents’ marriage had not come off without howls from both ethnic camps. His mother’s father hadn’t blinked one eye at the prospect of a black man for a son-in-law, but a goy!—generations of rabbinical ancestors would rend their shrouds in their pine-box coffins! His father’s mother turned off the first time her son brought his intended home for dinner and this snit of a white girl, this Semitic white missy, turned up her off-white nose at the roast pork repast because it wasn’t kosher! About kosher, Reb’s paternal grandmother knew nothing, but about the duplicity of white logic vis-à-vis black people, she was an expert with the credentials of a lifetime of experience.

Despite the barrage of black flak and Semitic spears, the marriage took place. Agreement to bring up offspring in the Orthodox Jewish faith mollified Hebrew wrath to a mumble, although Reb’s father’s refusal to personally convert ensured that the mumble would never completely die out. And when Reb’s mother brought the bloodline determination of a Talmudic scholar to bear on Afro-American history, culture and current problems, her ebony in-laws slowly and grudgingly began to believe in her sincerity. Both sides harbored doubts, but they learned to coexist and even to respect each other.

Still, for Reb, the more direct abrasiveness stemming from his mother and father’s different backgrounds marked the classroom in which his appreciation of the compromise of humor was formed. If there was reinforcement of his self-image in his father’s insistence that “Black is beautiful!” and his mother’s belief that Jews are the chosen of Jehovah, there was also the recognition that his mother silently put down her husband for refusing to learn Yiddish and that his father disapproved of much of The Word Reb brought home from the yeshiva. His parents’ love for each other and for him easily sidestepped such sandtraps during his childhood and adolescence. But when Reb hit his twenties and left home to set himself up in his own apartment not too far from theirs, the friction seemed to grow between his parents in a way which paralleled the manner in which it was growing between the two minority groups in the community at large.

With age, his father’s sense of black pride increased and he edged more and more into the black power camp. And with the years his mother seemed more and more strongly to cling to the Orthodoxy of her faith, perhaps because of the knowledge that with adulthood her son had rejected all but the outward appearances of belief, and that he adhered to them not so much for his own sake as for hers. Also, with Reb out of the house, his parents bickered over both attitudes as much to fill the hours as for any other reason. With the years love always grows abrasive; but if sarcasm frequently sparked the dialogue, love still prevailed -- and with it the recognition that the dialogue itself (for them as for the world) was more important than the conclusions it never arrived at.

Reb was often called upon to referee. He loved his parents even when they exasperated him, and so he didn't really mind. And his humor always proved effective as the coolant.

That humor was so ingrained a part of his personality, so appealingly on the surface of it as well as deeply imbedded, that it came close to charisma in its effect on those with whom Reb came in contact outside the family circle. Jobwise and socially the black Jew had an easy time of it. People just naturally cottoned to him. Llona was no exception. She fell under his spell from the first. Whenever she encountered the attractive photographer during the working day she found herself responding to him with genuine pleasure.

Reb’s suggestion that they stop and have a drink together as they were leaving the office after work one day seemed casual and unplanned, although it really wasn’t. Llona had been burned when it came to extracurricular office activities, but with Reb it really did seem different; his friendliness was so much a part of him. She accepted his invitation without hesitation.

Actually, she welcomed it. There were no visiting hours at the hospital this particular night. It would break up the monotony between work and the loneliness of the apartment without Archer.

Over their cocktails, she mentioned the loneliness to Reb without revealing anything of her marital situation. He nodded his sympathy. “Yeah, I live alone too,” he told her. “Of course I can always go visit my folks; they don’t live very far from me. But sometimes I don’t feel like doing that, and when you’re single being lonely’s the alternative too many times.”

“Oh, but you can always make a date,” Llona pointed out. “A girl has to wait to be asked, but a fellow’s always got the option.”

“I suppose. But you know, sometimes you just don’t want to have to go through all the ritual even though you feel like being with somebody. So you end up eating alone and maybe taking in a movie by yourself, and then maybe you’re sorry you didn’t make a date.”

“And I guess money’s a consideration too,” Llona sympathized.

“It sure is.” Reb grinned engagingly. “For instance, I’d love to take you out to dinner tonight, but to be honest, payday’s still two days off. I hope you’ll take a rain-check.”

“We’ll see.” Llona was purposely non-committal. She liked Reb a lot, but she just didn’t know how she was going to feel about Archer and things in general from one day to the next. She kind of wished he had asked her for tonight when she had nothing to look forward to but going home to an empty apartment.

“Do you like pizza pie?” Reb’s eyes sparkled.

She found herself laughing as she answered. He looked just like a little boy planning something particularly mischievous. “Sure I do. Don’t you?”

“And how! I’m nuts about it the way you can only dig something you never tasted until you’re all grown up and discover what you’ve been missing. The first pizza I ever had was only about a year ago. Now I go ape for it.”

“How come? I mean, how is it you never had it before?”

“I was brought up kosher. My mother’s Jewish, very Orthodox. But listen-—” Reb was bubbling with enthusiasm and it was catching. “I have some wine up at my place. We could pick up a couple of pizzas and have them there. What do you say?”

“All right.” Llona found that she was as filled with excitement and anticipation at the prospect as he was.

They were both still laughing for no particular reason as they left the cocktail lounge and started down the street. They joined hands and swung them between them like a pair of adolescents on their way to the high school picnic. After they picked up the pizzas, they ran to his apartment so that they could eat them before they got cold. People seeing them smiled at their exuberance. When they got there, Llona collapsed on Reb’s living room sofa, out of breath, while he went into the kitchen to take the pizzas out of the box and open the wine.

They ate like greedy children, chuckling all the while at the elastic cheese stretching from their mouths. When Llona got some tomato sauce on her chin, Reb dabbed at it with a napkin and teased her about being sloppy. She retaliated by dipping her fingers in the wineglass and flicking droplets of the purple chianti at him.

“Uhuru!” Reb jumped up on his chair and pointed his finger down at her sternly. “Do you realize that you have assaulted the dignity of one who is descended from African kings?”

“A thousand pardons, Your Highness!” Llona fell in with the play and cowered in mock fear. “Please don’t throw me to the rhinoceri!”

“Rhinoceri are herbivorous, you ignorant wench!”

“They are not! They eat meat! I know that. I saw it in a late show on a Tarzan movie!”

“Edgar Rice Burroughs! Bah! What does that goy know about the eating habits of wildlife indigenous to black Africa?”

“Are you going to tell me those African kings were kosher too?”

“Of course they were. The Queen of Sheba picked it up from Solomon himself!”

“I don’t even believe you are descended from a king. I’ll bet your ancestors were plain old peasants, same as mine.”

“They were all rabbis and kings. Dare you doubt it?”

“I dare!”

“For that you’re going to pay!” Reb jumped down from the chair and advanced on Llona menacingly.

“Oh, Tarzan! Where are you? Save me!” She ran squealing into the living room.

“Boy, are you ever in the wrong jungle!” He chased her and cornered her behind the couch. “Uhuru!” He grabbed her by the elbows, lifted her over the back of the couch, dropped her on it and then dived on top of her, pinning her there. “Now, Paleface, you’re going to pay!”

“Oh, Noble Savage, what are you going to do to me?”

“Let me think about it.” Reb rested on his elbows. “How about a fate worse than death?” he asked after a moment.

“Are you asking me, or telling me?” Llona giggled.

He kissed her. It was a long, deep, expert kiss. “I’m telling you.” He smiled down at her when the kiss was over.

“Barbarian!” Llona purred contentedly. She had really enjoyed the kiss. It had been warm and tender and -- well, friendly -- as well as exciting. She hadn’t felt so relaxed in a long time.

“Ku Klux propaganda!” He kissed her again. “It’s the black lover’s greatest asset. The trouble is you always wonder if you can live up to it or not.”

“You’re doing fine,” Llona murmured.

“That’s the Jew in me. That’s where the hot blood really comes from.”

“I’ve never been kissed by a Jew before.” Llona’s eyes danced. “Do they always taste of mozzarella?”

“Look who’s talking!” He kissed her again. “Mrnm, that garlic!” He smacked his lips.

“That’s not fair! My mouthwash let me down. It’s you and your damn pizza pie.”

“I’m not complaining. I like the way it tastes.” He proved it.

“I think you got all the oregano,” she told him breathlessly.

“And you obviously got all the crust.” He jabbed her gently in the stomach. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to leave it?”

“You are not.”

“You are so.”

“You are not. I’ve been eating pizza all my life and you’re just a parvenu. That’s what you are, a pizza parvenu! The crust’s the best part.”

“I bow to your expertise.” Reb stood up and made a sweeping bow.

Llona couldn’t resist it. She kicked him lightly in the rear as he bent over. “Oops! Sorry, Your Highness!” She giggled.

He grabbed her and pinned her arms behind her back. “For that you get thirty lashes!” He sat back down on the couch and turned her over his lap. “One!” He smacked her round bottom soundly.

“Oh, no! Please, no!” Llona wriggled.

“Two!”

“Please stop. I really bruise easily. I’ll be bright red. I probably am already.”

“Three!”

“Oh! I can feel it. I’ll bet I’m the color of a lobster.”

“Really? Let’s see.” Reb reached under her skirt and found the elastic of the black bikini panties.

“Savage!” She pulled free of him and scampered to the other side of the room.

“You could always depend on a shiksa to get ethnic.” Reb shook his head sadly and rocked back and forth.

“You know that hurts.” Llona rubbed the injured spot.

“Fun’s fun, but I won’t be able to sit down tomorrow and everybody in the office will be able to see it too. Can you imagine the kidding I’ll take?”

“Come here.”

“Why?” Llona was suspicious.

“So I can kiss it and make it better.”

“I don’t trust you; you’ll probably bite it.”

“Are you anxious, or eager?” Reb laughed. “Your trouble is your skin’s too light,” he told her. “If it was darker, the marks wouldn’t show.”

“Now who’s being ethnic?” Llona went back to the couch and sat down next to him. “You know,” she said, “I don’t know when I’ve behaved more childishly, and I don’t know when I’ve had more fun. Are you always like this?”

“Nope. I have my depressed times too.”

“Black moods.” Llona nodded. “I know. I have them too.”

“Black’s not a mood with me; it’s a living condition.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“No sweat. I know you didn’t.” Reb kissed her again to reassure her.

“Oh, that was nice.” Llona sighed and cuddled in his arms. “I really feel so content.”

She was resting on one hip so that her bottom was within easy reach. Reb patted it. “Does it still smart?” he asked.

“No. It just sort of feels like it has a warm glow,” she sighed. “Just a little warmer glow than the rest of me.”

Reb stroked her flank. “That feels good,” she said languidly.

“I think so too.” His voice was soft, deep and warm. “And so does this.” His other hand closed gently over one of her breasts, stroking the summer cotton of her sweater.

Llona was comfortable with the caress, and she was also aroused by it. She snuggled contentedly with the first feeling and nibbled at the juncture of Reb’s neck and shoulder with the second. It made Reb chuckle

“That’s it, baby. You have some dark meat and I’ll take the breast. He slipped his hand inside her sweater and pushed her bra strap aside.

“And I thought you only liked the part that goes over the fence last.” Llona gasped at his touch and her breast swelled with the sudden intake of air so that the long nipple fluttered against the palm of his hand. She raised her lips to be kissed.

Reb obliged. Then he raised the sweater and removed the bra altogether. His light brown skin was a striking contrast to Llona’s ivory complexion as he burrowed his face in her bosom. Her fingers snarled in his hair as she clasped her hands over the back of his head to pull him the more tightly to her breasts. His hair looked wiry, but it was softer than it looked. (Reb’s father had called it “nappy” and been delighted, while his mother used to try in vain to comb the kinks out of it.) Now the hair bristled as Llona tugged at it.

Reb took off his shirt. His torso was slim and muscular. His naked chest was hard against the excited red of Llona’s breasts. She pulled his mouth to hers again and their tongues leaped like flickering flames throughout a kiss that was hot and deep and both satisfying and arousing at the same time. When the kiss was over there was no question in either of their minds that they were going to have sex.

Llona made no protest when Reb removed her skirt and panties. She waited, watching, unable to keep from licking her lips as he peeled off his own clothes. Nor could she restrain herself at the sight of the cinammon brown spear of his manhood. She reached for it greedily and tugged it to her lips.

“Hey, I thought I was supposed to be the cannibal.” Reb’s protest wasn’t at all serious. He stood over her as she stretched out naked on the couch and the muscles in his thighs stood out and rippled under the bronze skin as he watched Llona’s eager red lips and tongue assail his manhood. Finally, he pulled away. “It would be a shame to waste it,” he told her.

He sprawled over her and her legs shot up, widespread. She rested them on his shoulders and locked the ankles around the back of Reb’s neck. Her nether-lips were wide, the region beyond semi-exposed, the red flesh quivering. “Hurry!” Her nails raked his buttocks as she pulled him to her. His muscles tensed under her biting touch. He drew back, almost as if he was taking aim, and then he lunged!

He hit—-with remarkable accuracy, considering — between the two bottom cushions of the couch. His smiting the alternate target—-and becoming momentarily embedded in it -- was the result of the original one having suddenly and violently moved. And the reason it moved was that the doorbell buzzer had sounded loudly and raucously and Llona had been so startled that she’d jumped and rolled right off the couch.

“Who the hell can that be?” Reb snarled, pulling himself free.

“Were you expecting someone?”

“Hell no!”

The buzzer sounded again; it was a particularly harsh and disconcerting sound. "

“I think you’d better answer it,” Llona said.

“All right. I’ll get rid of whoever it is.” Still naked, Reb walked over to the door of the apartment and looked through the peephole. “Mom!” The syllable was a rising note of unhappy surprise, “Mom! What are you doing here?”

“This is a greeting?” His mother, small and trim with a figure that was still qiute good, regarded the peephole with a baleful eye. “From such joy a person could get frostbite.”

“Now, Mom. You know I’m glad to see you. It’s just—”

“From your left eye—or maybe’ it’s your right — I couldn’t tell if you’re glad or sorry. So let me in already, I could tell if its bloodshot from happiness to see your mother, or only dissipation.”

“Well, just a second, Mom. It’ll take a second. I don’t have any clothes on.”

“What are you some kind of nudenik, running around your apartment with nothing on?”

“I was just going to take a shower,” Reb improvised. “Just give me a minute.”

Llona looked up at him questioningly as he came back into the living room. “Did you get rid of them?” she asked.

“I couldn’t,” he said miserably. “It’s my mother. Look, I’m sorry as hell, and I know this must seem ridiculous to you, but she’s very old-fashioned. Would you duck into the bedroom?”

“Some shenanigans for an African prince,” Llona teased

“This is the Hebrew side of the family. They’re all hung up on civilization. Please?” He nodded toward the door to the bedroom.

“Oh, all right.”

“I’ll get rid of her as fast as I can,” Reb told Llona as she closed the door behind her.

He started for the front door to admit his mother. En route he stopped to pull on his pants and noticed Llona’s clothes strewn about the place. Quickly, he gathered them up and shoved them under the couch. The last thing he grabbed was the Nymph panties. He hesitated a moment, then remembered the terms of the office lottery and shoved them into his trouser pocket. He felt like a heel, but he pushed the feeling away without analyzing it. There was no time. He opened the front door and his mother sailed through the foyer and into the living room.

“Slob!” She looked around her disdainfully at the sight of Reb’s clothes thrown over the furniture. “Did I bring you up when you take a shower you leave a trail of dirty underwear behind you? Pig!”

In the bedroom Llona giggled silently. She could hear everything being said in the living room quite clearly. Reb’s mother reminded her of her mother-in-law.

“What brings you here, Mom?” Reb refused the bait, refused to fall into the trap of defending his slovenliness.

“I need a reason to drop in on my only child?”

“Well, you never did before.”

“So, all right. A reason I got. It’s that man!”

“What man?” Reb asked.

“ ‘What man’? What am I, Elizabeth Taylor, I got such a selection? You know there’s only one man in my life, so why ask?”

“What’s the matter? What did Dad do?”

“Better you should ask what didn’t he do.”

“All right, what didn’t he do?” Reb obliged.

“Don’t ask.”

“Look, Mom. I’m very tired. I just want to take a shower and get to bed. So what do you say you just tell me what’s bothering you.”

“All right. So what did he do?” She took a deep breath. “He says he’s throwing me over for black power, that’s what! Twenty-seven years we’re married, and now all of a sudden I’m too white for him. We should change our name to Triple-X and I should wear a long robe and walk behind him with my chin in my neck, his friends shouldn’t see I’m marshmallow colored.”

“You mean he’s becoming a Muslim?”

“Does he confide in me? How should I know? All I know is we’re talking about the yeshiva and all of a sudden he’s telling me that’s what black people should do, run their own schools, and I’m saying you sound like Adam Clayton Powell, and he’s telling me he agrees with him and he believes in black power. So of course I let him know I think he’s meshuginah, and he says I’m just like all the other honkies. What’s a honky?”

“It’s sort of a slang name black people use for white bigots.”

“Bigots! Ooh! Twenty-seven years we’re married, we never once had a fight over black and white!”

“Well, times are changing. People are more outspoken now.”

“You know, it never occurred to me before.” Suddenly her voice was very small and “Do you think your father could be a secret anti-Semite?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You know Dad isn’t anti-Semitic, or anti-white either; he’s just pro-black.’

“Twenty-seven years sleeping in the same bed with his cold feet on my tookus and never a word of complaint! And now all of a sudden he’s Stokely Carmichael and I’m an Israeli aggressor!”

“What do you mean an Israeli aggressor?”

“That’s the worst of it. He says the Arabs are victims and the Jews are aggressors and the Arabs are Africans like the blacks in America are really Africans and so if you’re black, you gotta support the Arabs. That’s when I walked out!”

“Now, Mom, I’m sure you’re exaggerating. Why don’t you go back home and--”

“Never! I’m never going back there! Let him wash his own dirty socks, that Arab!”

“But what will you do? Where will you go?”

“Well, for tonight, I’ll stay here,” Reb’s mother announced.

“But there’s no room.”

“You could sleep on the sofa. It’s too much to ask a son should give up his bed for his mother one night?” In the bedroom, Llona, still naked, crossed over to the window and looked out. It was five flights down. There was no fire escape. And there was no other way out of the bedroom except through the living room. Heart pounding, she went back to the door to listen some more.

“I’m very tired; that man wears me out,” Reb’s mother was saying. “So I’m going to bed now just as soon as I get your linens and make up the couch for you.” She started for the bedroom door. Just then the door buzzer sounded again. “You’re expecting company at this hour?” she asked Reb.

“It’s probably Dad coming after you.”

“He should care so much!” she sniffed.

“Dad.” Reb opened the door and hurried his father through the foyer and into the living room before his mother could have a chance to head for the linen closet in the bedroom. “See, I told you it was Dad,” he said to his mother.

“What’s the matter, I forgot to wash and iron your burnoose?” she greeted her husband sarcastically.

Reb’s father was a large man, heavier and darker than his son. His hair was gray and his face would have been quite handsome if it weren’t wrinkled with a scowl: “Tell the woman I’ve decided to forgive her and take her home where she belongs,” he instructed Reb.

“Tell Ali Baba he should live so long!” his mother told Reb .

“Mom, why don’t you go home with Dad and the two of you straighten it out there?” Reb pleaded.

“He said that! Your son! I didn’t!” Reb’s father was quivering with black indignation. “I didn’t ask you! I told you! You come home now!”

“You didn’t. You didn’t even talk to me. Through your son you communicate like all these years I had ears to listen and now I don’t!”

“Tell her I’m ready to leave!” Reb’s father announced.

“You hear how he talks to me? A sheikh talks to his camel like this, maybe. Well, you tell your father the sheikh it’ll be a cold day in Mississippi before I live in the same apartment with him again! You tell him that!”

“Dad, Mom says --”

“I heard her!” Mr. Klein’s voice thundered. “And I didn’t miss that subtle ethnic slur either. Mississippi indeed! That’s the kind of remark that betrays her. She’s a racist in her heart, and she doesn’t even know it!”

“A racist? Oy, vey!” Reb’s mother rang her hands. “Twenty-seven years I live with a Negro and—”

“A BLACK MAN!” Mr. Klein roared. “Not a Negro! A black man!”

“Excuse it, I forgot that all of a sudden you’re an Afro-American. I married a Negro, and now from nowhere, I’ve got a Swahili!”

“Why don’t you just call me ‘nigger’ and have done I with it?”

“Sure! .So then you’ll be able to excuse your anti-Semitism!”

“What anti-Semitism? I’ve never been anti-Semitic in my life and you know it. Didn’t I even let you bring up my son as a Jew? An Orthodox Jew, at that!”

Reb interjected hastily, “You’re both being silly. Dad, you know Mom isn’t a racist. And Mom, you know Dad isn’t anti-Semitic. I mean, we all know that’s true, because if it wasn’t you’d both have to be anti-me. So why don’t you just apologize to each other and kiss and make up?”

“Let him apologize first.” Reb’s mother held her head high and facing away from her husband.

“Never!” Reb’s father turned his back on his wife and stuck his chin out.

“Then I’m not leaving. I’ll go get the linens and make up the couch.” She started for the bedroom door again.

“Neither am I,” Reb’s father announced.

It brought her up short She turned around and faced him indignantly. “What do you mean?”

“I’m spending the night with my son. I refuse to go home to your house.”

“But you can’t do that!” Her lower lip was quivering. “I’m staying here!” She sat down at one end of the couch as if establishing her claim.

“I can and I will. You’re staying here? Well, so am I!”

He plopped himself down at the other end of the couch from her and turned his back.

“Now see here, both of you--” Reb stood in front of the couch and looked from one to the other. It was no use. They weren’t listening. Reb knew his parents. They were stubborn as mules, both of them. “All right!” He gritted his teeth with frustration. “But I’m damned if I’ll give up my bed to either one of you! You can both sit out here and sulk all night as far as I’m concerned. I’m going to bed.”

“Sleep well, son,” Reb’s father called after

“You want I should make you a cup hot milk your stomach should rest too?” his mother asked.

“No!” He slammed the bedroom door behind him.

“What are we going to do?” Llona whispered.

“Just wait. I know them. Both of them escalate when they’re playing to an audience. If I leave them alone, maybe they’ll get bored and start talking and work it out and go home.”

“I’ve got to go home too,” Llona reminded him. “I’m a Working girl, remember? I need my beauty sleep.”

“Gee, I hope you’re not going to run off right after they do. You can stick around a little while, can’t you?” Reb stroked her naked breast.

“We’ll see.” Llona pulled away. “Stop that. It makes me nervous with them right in the next room.”

“Okay. Let’s just be patient and see what happens.”

It was a long wait. In the living room Reb’s mother sat at one end of the couch, his father at the other end, each stubbornly facing away from the other. First one would sigh, and then the other, but neither broke the frozen silence. Finally, however, Reb’s mother got up, went into the kitchen, came back with a rag and started dusting the furniture.

“What’s happening?” Llona asked. She was sitting on the bed while Reb was on his knees in front of the door with his eye pressed to the keyhole.

“Mom’s dusting.”

“Oh, great. Ask her if ’she’s got a free day,” Llona said sarcastically. “I’ve been looking for a cleaning lady.”

“Shh!” Reb turned back to the keyhole.

“Harumph!” Reb’s father cleared his throat.

“Yes?” Reb’s mother chose to regard it as a verbalism, which meant that by breaking the silence he had spoken first.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You did so. I heard you!”

“I was only clearing my throat.”

“If you didn’t smoke like a chimney, you wouldn’t always be choking to death.” She knelt down to dust the shelf of one of the end tables.

“What do you think you’re doing, woman?”

“I’m playing pick-up-sticks. What does it look like? I’m dusting. As long. as I’m here with nothing else to do, it shouldn’t be a waste, my hands at least should keep busy.”

“If you’re so ambitious, why not go home and clean?”

“A home I don’t have any more with black power and anti-Semitism and who knows what.”

“You’re being ridiculous!” He pulled back as his wife bent over so that her rear end was almost sticking in his face. “Now what the devil are you trying to do?”

“To clean under the couch. 0y! The dust is so thick under here it hasn’t been cleaned since I don’t know when.”

“Ohmigod!” Reb was on his feet, remembering that he’d shoved Llona’s clothes under the couch, but it was boo late.

“Ohmigod!” Reb’s mother unknowingly echoed him. She’d found the garments. “Look at this!” She pulled the clothes out from under the couch and showed them to her husband.

“What is it?”

“From Brooks Brothers they aren’t,” she told him. “It’s female clothes hiding under our son’s couch.”

“I don’t get it.” Reb’s father scratched his head.

“And you think I do?” Confronted with what looked like a problem, Reb’s mother forgot that she was supposed to be mad at her husband. “You think maybe our son’s a hermaphrodite?” she said, tragedy in her voice.

“What makes you think that?”

“I got here before, he wouldn’t let me in. I bet you he had the female clothes on and he had to get them off in a hurry and he hid them under the couch. How else?”

“Queer.”

“You shouldn’t be calling him names. He’s sick and he needs our help.”

“I didn’t mean that. I meant it’s odd, unusual. Besides, you’re jumping to conclusions. There could be another explanation."

“Give me a for instance.”

“For instance maybe he’s got a girl in there. Maybe the clothes belong to her.”

“Oy! A girl! My son?” Reb’s mother rocked back and forth on her heels. “Oy!”

“For God’s sake, it’s normal enough. Get hold of yourself. Would you rather he was a fairy?”

“I suppose not.” There was a note of reluctance in her voice. She picked up Llona’s and looked at it suspiciously. “A shiksa!” she decided.

“How do you figure that?”

“Such a short skirt a hamishe Jewish girl wouldn’t be wearing.”

“Maybe she’s a short girl.”

“A midget she’d have to be. No, it’s a shiksa. I could feel it in my bones. I’m going to go in there and see for myself.” Holding the skirt gingerly, chin high, she marched toward the bedroom door.

“Quick!” Reb turned to Llona. “She’s coming in here. Get under the bed.”

Llona bent over and tried to wriggle under the bed. “The space is too small. I can’t fit,” she hissed at Reb.

Her naked posterior jutting out was the first thing Reb’s mother saw when she opened the door. She stared at it for a long moment. Then she closed the door and turned toward her husband, her eyes wide and staring.

“What is it?” He was concerned at her expression. “You look like you saw a ghost. Here, sit down.” He crossed over to her and led her back to the couch.

“There’s a naked woman in there!” Her voice quivered up the scale.

“There is?” Reb’s father sounded interested.

“A thing like that I wouldn’t lie about. See for yourself.”

“All right.” Reb’s father crossed to the bedroom door, opened it, looked inside, closed it again and turned back to his wife. “She’s under the covers.” He sounded disappointed. “How could you tell she didn’t have any clothes on?”

“She wasn’t under the covers before.”

“Just my luck,” Reb’s father muttered to himself.

“A shiksa! Just like I expected,” Reb’s mother sighed. “A shiksa!"

“A white shiksa!”

“Don’t start again! We don’t have time, we got real trouble. What should we do?”

Maybe the best thing would be just to go away quietly and leave them alone.”

“I should leave my son all alone with a nudenik hussy a shiksa? Never! What kind of mother do you think I am?”

“A Jewish mother,” Reb’s father sighed.

“Don’t start! We’re going to go in there and talk to them.”

“I don’t think we should.”

“Look, Mr. Black Power, you’re his father. So come on!” She took her husband’s hand and led him to the bedroom door and threw it wide open. “Reb, your father has something to say” she announced.

“Yes, Dad?”

“Uh— Well— Now, Reb—- Eh, how’s the job coming, son?”

“Fine, Dad.”

“Good. Good. I’m happy to hear that.”

“From such fatherly advice a boy could just as well be an orphan!” Reb’s mother shot her husband a withering look. She took a deep breath. “What do you call this?”

Her arm snapped straight out, the finger at the end quivering with indignation as it pointed at Llona.

“That’s a girl,” Reb answered quiefly.

“A white girl,” his father amended.

“She’s Jewish?” his mother demanded.

“I don’t know. I never asked her.”

“Aha! She’s got a name, maybe?” '

“Yes. Llona. Llona, I’d like you to meet my mother.”

“How do you do?” Llona said, huddling under the blankets on the bed.

“So tell me, Llona, you’re Jewish?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Almost, I’m relieved. A Jewish girl wouldn’t be naked in a boy’s apartment,” Reb’s mother confided to her husband.

“Now, just a minute—!” Llona was beginning to get mad.

“What do you want to get mixed up with white girls for anyway, son?” Reb’s father asked. “Why don’t you stick to your own kind?”

“The way you did, Dad?” Reb asked sarcastically.

“Look,” Llona interrupted. “I wonder if one of you would be good enough to bring me my clothes.”

“I’ll get them.” Reb’s father went into the living room, picked up the clothes and brought them back to Llona.

“Here.”

“Thank you.” Llona took them and vanished beneath the covers which rippled and heaved with the movements of her dressing.

“So, Reb, my son, this is the way a good Jewish boy to act?” his mother demanded.

“This kind of thing doesn’t reflect well on our people,” his father told him disapprovingly.

“Where are my panties?” Llona’s head popped out from under the covers.

“Search me.” Reb played innocent.

“It wouldn’t be necessary.” His mother pointed toward Reb’s hip where the black Nymph panties were sticking out of his pants pocket. “Here.” She. extricated them gingerly and handed them to Llona. “As short as that skirt is, I’m surprised you should bother with panties,” she told Llona disapprovingly.

Llona wriggled into the panties, threw back the covers and got out of the bed. “I’m leaving now,” she announced. “It’s been very nice meeting you all.”

Reb watched her go with regret. The panties had been the last straw. Not only had he lost out with Llona, but he’d lost his chance at the office lottery as well. But he had one consolation. At least his father and mother were reconciled.

Black power and his Jewish mother presented a united front. The only trouble was that he was the one who had to face it. He squared his shoulders and prepared for the ordeal.

“A shiksa!” His mother opened fire.

“A WASP!” His father loosed the second salvo.

“Intolerance,” Reb sighed weakly, “is the inalienable right of the underdog! “

CHAPTER TEN

“So Othello came a cropper.” Beulah summed up Reb’s confession of failure for the others in the office lottery. “Care to let us in on the details?” she added, curious.

“Just say it was a combination of black power and the B’nai Brith that beat me and let it go at that,” Reb replied.

“He doesn’t have to spell it out,” Raunch Rammer ruled. “Any more than the rest of us did.”

“That’s right,” Comstock Bowdler agreed quickly, remembering his own inability to perform with Llona. “All that counts is that it’s four down and two to go.”

“That narrows it down to Irving and me,” Pierre Strongfellow pointed out.

“But it’s what’s up front that counts,” I. M. Zihnzeehr retorted happily. “And what’s up front happens to be yours truly. When I come on the scene with our little Llona, her invisible shield will just evaporate like last year’s Nielsen ratings. And Pierre will never even get to make his pitch.”

“You’re pretty damn cocksure of yourself,” Pierre said calmly.

“A very apt description.” Irving smiled Rinso-white. “But face it. Hertz has put me in the driver’s seat. And the rest will be as simple as snap-crackle-pop!”

Irving might not have been so confident if he’d been privy to Llona’s thoughts following the incident with Reb. The higher you fly, the further you drop, and Llona had really been up there on Cloud Nine with Reb before the arrival of his parents spoiled things. She’d felt a solid rapport during that evening, and she’d also felt a greater physical attraction toward him than toward anyone since Archer. The disappointment was great when the idyll was shattered. It left Llona bitter.

An office romance just wasn’t in the cards, she decided. Four fiascos in a row was putting too great a strain on her business relationships. And besides, she didn’t like feeling guilty whenever the subject of her job came up during her visits with Archer.

Archer still wasn’t reconciled to her working. He steadfastly refused to display any interest in her job. He’d never even asked the name of the firm for which she worked, nor what sort of business it was in which they were engaged. And yet he was always implying that Llona’s job would lead her into infidelity.

The validity of his suspicions didn’t allay Llona’s feeling of guilt any. Technically she may still have been faithful to him, but impulse had carried her pretty far along the road of confirming his jealousy. And it was uncanny the knack he had for pinpointing the potentialities for adultery in her employment.

For instance, there was that night Llona visited him shortly after the pizza party with Reb. Archer was just hanging up the phone as she arrived. “That was Cousin Mortimer,” he told her.

“Oh?” Llona didn’t like Mortimer and made no secret of it.

“We were talking about this business of you working. Mortimer doesn’t think it’s wise either.”

“Oh, doesn’t he?” Llona frowned.

“No. Mortimer thinks we’re right and that you should quit immediately.”

“And did Cousin Mortimer offer to support me until you’re able to go back to work?” Llona asked sweetly.

“Of course not. But he says we’re right about how it could lead you into immorality. He illustrated it with a story.” Archer chuckled.

“It must have been a funny story.”

“It was. Seems Archer ran into this girl who used to be a receptionist for some magazine. And do you know what they made this girl wear on the job?”

“No. What?” There was a sinking sensation in the pit of Llona’s stomach.

“Nothing! That’s right.” Archer nodded vigorously. “Absolutely nothing! They made her work in the buff. What do you think of that?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Llona said weakly and with honesty.

“Well, we know what to think! There ought to be a law! That’s what we told Mortimer! But wait ’til you hear the rest of it.” Archer paused dramatically.

“I can hardly wait.” Llona nibbled a fingernail.

“Well, it seems this girl ran into her ex-boss at and they were talking about her replacement. And boss told her, and she told Mortimer, and Mortimer us, that the girl they hired when she left IS married! Nobody knows it in the place except her boss. But she’s married! Can you imagine what kind of a jerky husband she must have letting her work stark naked all day? If it was our wife, we’d break her neck before we’d let her do a thing like that!”

“Naturally.” Llona was feeling a trifle ill.

“Mortimer says there’s more to the story too.”

“More? What do you mean?”

“We’re not sure. He had to hang up because his wife came in and whatever it was, I guess he didn’t want her to hear him talking about it. But he said he’d call us back next week—he’s going to be out of town until then—and tell us the rest. I wonder what it could be.”

“I wonder too,” Llona told Archer with honest trepidation.

“Anyway, you can see what kind of mess a wife gets into when she insists on going to work.”

“There’s no alternative.” Llona sighed.

“Ooh! Ouch!” Archer’s face suddenly contorted with pain.

“What’s the matter?”

“We’re not sure. It’s just that every time we see that our sphincter muscle contracts.” Archer was pointing at the enema bag being carried by the fat nurse who had just appeared in the doorway. “I guess it’s sort of a Pavlovian reaction,” he added.

“It’s time for us to have our you-know-what,” the fat nurse chirped cheerfully.

Llona kissed Archer good-bye and left. All the way home she worried and wondered if Mortimer knew she was the nude receptionist he’d told Archer about and if that was the rest of the story he meant to relate next week. Well, there was nothing she could do about it, she told herself later as she tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep. But at least she could stick to her resolution not to get involved in any more office kanoodling, she decided. On that she would stay firm.

Of course, I. M. Zihnzeehr-—Irving, that is-—had no way of knowing that Llona was turning over a new leaf. To him it seemed only that she was rejecting his overtures while she had at least accepted sundry invitations from those who preceded him in the office lottery. To a man like Irving, such rejection constituted a challenge to the fundamental hucksterisrns on which he’d built his life.

Three invitations to have a drink after work were turned down. When he asked Llona to have dinner with him, her refusal was likewise firm. Nor would she go sailing with him on Sunday, to a beach party Saturday night, or even to a movie premiere he’d wangled tickets for during the week. She was polite about it, but there could be no doubt that she was giving Irving the cold shoulder.

“I think you should pass and give the next man up his turn at bat,” Pierre Strongfellow suggested.

“Ho-ho-ho! Jolly Green Giant! Go play with your corncob,” Irving replied. “Ford has a better idea-—and so have I!”

A few days later he put it into effect. “I have to entertain some of our out-of-town distributors.” he told Llona. “It'll be a small party at this basement pad a friend of mine is lending me. I’d like you to come.”

“No thank you.”

“You don’t understand.” Irving’s voice was deliberately cold, clipped, impersonal. “This is business. You’re not just a receptionist here. You’re a symbol of Nymph magazine.”

Llona didn’t know whether to believe him or not. She might have called Irving’s bluff and gone in to consult Raunch Rammer about whether or not this was legitimately included in her duties. But she and the publisher had been avoiding each other since she’d inadvertently been let in on the secret of his baldness. Llona preferred to keep it that way. And there was no one else who ranked I. M. Zihnzeehr in the office hierachy.

“All right,” she agreed reluctantly. “If it’s really business.”

“It is.” Irving told her where to go and when to be there.

His cursory manner assuaged Llona’s suspicions—just as he’d intended it should. She was annoyed, rather than apprehensive, when she arrived at the address that fateful evening. She descended a flight of stairs and knocked at the door of the basement apartment. Irving answered the door and admitted her. The party was already in full swing;

With Llona’s arrival, there were five couples present. Irving introduced the other girls with a wave of his hand that was practically an admission that they were doxies hired for the occasion. He took more pains with the men. They were presented to Llona as Lou, Andy, George and Herb respectively.

Lou and George were the out-of-town distributors Irving had mentioned. They were big, paunchy men in their late forties, or early fifties. Both of them were loud, boisterous, well on their way to becoming quite drunk, and very free with their hands on the girls, none of whom seemed to mind.

Herb was the head of an ad agency which Nymph sometimes used on special promotional campaigns. He was a small, dapper man, sort of a pint-sized version of I. M. Zihnzeehr. Like Irving, he seemed more humanoid than human, more like a product turned out on an antiseptic assembly line and packaged to sell itself than like a man born of woman’s womb.

The fourth man, Andy, was a cheesecake photographer whom Irving knew professionally. He was younger than the others and had a barbell body with knots of muscle sticking out from it like clumps of dough deposited at ran- dom. He was the one who had arranged for the other four girls. Now he stood and talked to Llona while Irving went to mix her a drink.

“I’m a commercial photographer,” Andy told her, his small, somewhat beady eyes looking right through the skimpy black cocktail dress she was wearing and appraising the body under it. “You ever done any cheese?”

“No.”

“If you’re interested, look me up some time.” He handed her a card.

“All right.” Llona didn’t think she’d be interested, but she took the card anyway.

“I also do artistic stuff, just for my own satisfaction,” he told her. “You want to see?”

“Sure.” Llona wasn’t exactly bubbling over with enthusiasm.

“Just a second.” He strode over to the other side of the room and returned immediately with a portfolio. “This is what I do just for the sake of my own creativity,” he told Llona. He opened the portfolio with a flourish.

Llona found herself staring at a twelve by eighteen blowup of Andy himself. He was completely naked in the picture and his knotty body was smeared with some kind of grease that made it glisten. He had a truly impressive erection and there was a smirk of satisfaction on his face.

Llona looked from the face in the picture to Andy’s face staring at her as if trying to gauge her reaction to the photo. There was a smirk on his visage now too, a smirk to match the one in the photo. Llona looked at him coolly and her voice was without emotion when she spoke. “So what?” she said.

“Don’t you think it’s an interesting picture?”

“Not particularly.”

“I mean artistically interesting.”

“So do I,” Llona’s voice stayed flat.

“Maybe you think it’s obscene?”

“No.”

“Do you find it offensive?”

“No.”

“Well, what then? I mean, you must have some reaction to it.”

“Oh, I do.”

“Well, what is it?” Andy wanted to know. “What’s your reaction?”

“Indifference.” Llona shrugged. “Sheer indifference.”

“Everybody’s apathetic!” Andy snarled. “That’s what's wrong with the world. Everybody’s apathetic!”

“I’m not apathetic, Andy, honey.” A small blond with a cuddle-body and a voice like tinkling costume jewelry came over and wound herself around the photographer. She looked at the picture. “Why, Andy! Naughty!” She giggled and kept on staring at the photo while Andy tested the resiliency of her left breast with his right hand.

Llona moved away from them. A moment later Irving rejoined her and handed her a “Did Andy desert you?” he asked conversationally.

“He found an art lover. I guess they have more in common.”

“Oh? What did he do? Show you that lewd poster of himself?”

Llona nodded.

“I’m sorry.” Irving apologized. “Andy isn’t noted for his soft sell.”

“Yikes!” Llona jumped as Lou, dancing by with an Amazon brunette in tow, squeezed her derriere as he passed. ‘

“Fly now, play later.” Irving chuckled. “You’d better stand here with your back against the wall.” He guided her to a dimly lit corner. “Now all you’ve got to guard is your front,” he told her.

“This party’s getting rough,” Llona. observed.

It was an accurate evaluation. Andy and the petite blond were huddled in the corner looking at his more “arty” photos; her hand was stroking his thigh; his wrist protruded from the bodice of her dress. Lou and the giant-size brunette were dancing on a dime, the lower parts of their bodies grinding out the change. Herb was on the sofa, all but lost to view in the embrace of a leggy, braless, and thoroughly uninhibited redhead. The fourth girl, very slender and very young with long, straight brown hair, was sitting on George’s lap, giggling and bouncing up and down as she stuck maraschino cherries between his lips and removed them with her teeth.

“Visiting firemen.” Irving shrugged. “There’s no obligation to buy,” he assured Llona.

Such was the campaign Irving had mapped out. It was predicated on what he knew about human nature, female nature in particular, his evaluation of Llona specifically. The product was sex, and she was the potential consumer, even if she didn’t know it. The four chicks were swingers; along with the low lights, the music and the champagne, they were part of the packaging preplanned to build eroticism. The sales approach was to create a desire for the product by subtly witholding it from Llona whilst the others were enjoying it. Irving didn’t know the specifics of Llona’s sales resistance, but he calculated that while a head-on approach might only stiffen it, exposure to the product without pressure would break it down to the point where she would sell herself. A girl as sexy as Llona just had to be in the market if the pitch was handled right.

Still, at first, Llona did stay aloof from it. When she realized that Irving wasn’t going to make a pass, she relaxed and watched the others. What else was there to do?

The party showed signs of turning into an orgy. The small blond had teased Andy about enlarging a specific aspect of his self-portraits, and he had responded to the challenge by revealing the original and allowing her to fondle it. The tall brunette was standing against the wall now, Lou seated between her feet, her skirt covering his head, her teeth gnawing at the knuckles of one hand. Herb and the redhead writhed full-length on the sofa; one of her breasts was exposed, the tip glistening redly in the dim light. The thin girl was dropping maraschino cherries down the front of her low-cut dress and George was retrieving them with his thick tongue.

“Would you like another drink?” Irving asked Llona politely.

“Yes, I would.” Llona was suddenly aware of how tense she felt and how dry her throat was.

Irving fetched it and stood by politely, not touching her as she drank it. Without intending to, Llona found herself gulping it down. Also, she was unable to control the fascination with which she continued to watch the others.

The blond’s head was in Andy’s lap now, and his hands were claws in her hair. The tall brunette had slid halfway down the wall, her dress up over her hips, her thigh muscles rippling against Lou’s ears. The redhead, stretched across Herb, was plucking maraschino cherries from George’s mouth while the thin girl was removing her bra and giggling as she squeezed the cherry juice from it.

“Would you like to dance?” Irving asked Llona formally, coolly, as if he were completely unaware of what was going on around them.

“All right.” Llona was glad of the opportunity to move. She was beginning to feel—well, itchy—-standing in one spot.

Irving held her loosely, circumspectly, guiding her through a slow fox-trot. But he made sure they passed each of the other couples for a slow, lingering view. Even though their bodies weren’t pressed together, he could feel the heat emanating from Llona’s body, and he smiled to himself as her tongue involuntarily licked her lips.

The thin girl with the long straight hair was also dancing, by herself, her bosom completely exposed and swinging free now, trying to recall George’s attention from the redhead. But George was caught up in vying for the redhead’s attention with Herb and there were four hands struggling over her naked buttocks. Andy and Lou, the Amazonian brunette and the small blond, had also joined forces. The four of them were locked in an intricate embrace, their hands mutually busy at one another’s quivering loins.

Irving led Llona into a second dance without asking. He held her closer now so that the tips of her breasts pressed against his chest. She made no objection. On the contrary, her body quivered in his arms, and slowly the contact between them increased. When Irving dipped, Llona caught her breath at the hardness probing her thighs. But she didn’t pull away.

“The skin you love to touch,” Irving’s fingers slipped between the buttons at the back of her dress and slid down to knead the naked flesh of her hip.

Llona hardly noticed. Her eyes were darting around the room, drinking in the increasingly bawdy scene. The large brunette and the thin girl with the bare bosom were dancing, not together, but facing each other. The brunette kept raising and lowering her short skirt enticingly; she wasn’t wearing any panties. Andy had frankly exposed himself and the small blond and the redhead were taking turns weighing and measuring his manhood. The redhead was bent over and George was playfully slapping her naked bottom while Herb crawled under her. Lou stood back, watching, obviously waiting his chance to pounce on the blond. As Llona and Irving danced past him, he reached out and slid his hand all the way up Llona’s leg.

Startled, Llona jerked away, seeming to catch Irving off balance. He stumbled, and they fell to the floor together. Llona had no chance to think about it, to make any conscious decision. Irving was kissing her and her body was responding automatically.

The hand on Llona’s breast wasn’t Irving’s; it was Herb’s, but Llona was beyond caring. The perfume of sex had descended on the room and her will was suspended in deference to its aphrodisiac effect. She felt her hand placed on some anonymous male genitals and it moved rhythmically, uncaring. She was only vaguely aware that Irving was removing her Nymph panties and that two soft breasts were fluttering over her lips. Two hands were fighting at the juncture of her legs, under her skirt, and her pelvis rotated with the excitement of the struggle.

Now. she felt Irving grabbing her under her arms and pulling her to her feet. The top of her dress fell away, the buttons in back ripped off, her bra pulled down on one side so that one of her breasts pushed free. Herb fastened his lips on the tip of the naked breast, managing to hold the contact as Irving led Llona across the floor to the couch. As she sank down to the couch, the tall brunette pressed her nether-lips against Llona’s face and writhed spasmodically, maintaining her balance despite the fact that Lou was attacking her from the rear. The redhead was on the floor beside the couch, her legs locked around Andy’s neck, one of her hands playing with Irving and preventing him from reaching his target—Llona’s quivering feminity.

With Llona the fulcrum, they were all clustered around the couch now—all except George. His bladder pressured by all the liquor he’d consumed, George had taken time out to go to the john. This was a primitive privy behind a curtain at one side of the cellar apartment. Just as Llona shifted her body to provide Irving with the access he sought, George pulled the toilet chain.

It was a disaster!

There was a rush of water, and then a roar of water, and then a crescendo and finally an explosion. It was as if every sewer in New York were bent on releasing its contents via this one lavatory fixture at the same time. The toilet erupted like a geyser, spewing its contents out over the room. Volcanic defecation shattered sexual appetite for one and all; girls and men alike scampered and squealed to get out of its path.

Like the others, Llona leaped from the couch, disgust replacing desire, her only thought to flee the scene. She rescued-her panties before the deluge could reach them and raced for the door. Outside, she kept running, ignoring Irving’s plea as he followed her.

“Take me along!” he caroled. “Take me along with you!”

But Llona was flying alone.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“I’b god a very bad cohd ad I wod’t be cobig id today.”

“One of the hazards of her job,” Raunch Rammer opined philosophically when Cal Lowe relayed Llona’s message to him. “She must have caught a draft.”

“All over,” Pierre Strongtellow mused. He’d been sitting in Raunch’s office going over an upcoming Nymph publicity campaign with him when Cal brought the news. “Raunch, you should either institute a health insurance plan for our receptionists, or move the reception desk where the air-conditioning blower won’t blast it.”

“You’re just miffed because your crack at the elusive Llona has been delayed by the common cold.”

“Delayed?” Pierre smiled. “On the contrary. I hear opportunity knocking real loud.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll tell you all about it later, Raunch. After. After I collect our little office lottery.” Pierre’s smile was confident.

But the smile was gone, replaced by an expression of concern, when Pierre rang Llona’s door bell that evening. “Who is id?” she called.

“The Public Health Service come to bring comfort and solace to shut-ins.”

“Bierre!” Llona stood in the doorway and shook her head. She looked thoroughly miserable in a pair of Archer’s pajamas, an old bathrobe and floppy slippers. “Whad are you doig here?”

“I represent the Strongfellow Home Nursing Organization; we fight the holy war against the common cold; we give no quarter in our struggle against the stuffed head, the postnasal drip, the aches and the miseries.”

“I’b id do conditiod to be seed by mad, beast, or durse. Go ’way.”

“Nonsense,” Pierre elbowed his way into the apartment and kicked the door shut behind him. “You’re just suffering from low self-esteem; it’s quite usual in afflictions of this sort.”

“Whad’s all thad?” Llona pointed at the bundles Pierre was carrying.

“Flowers for the frail of sinus.” Pierre unveiled them. “Spirits to raise yours.” He produced a bottle of Scotch. “Sundry pharmaceuticals to relieve the physical condition.” He emptied a paper bag of bottles of pills, throat sprays and nasal inhalants. “And last, but not least, Mother Strongfellow’s Elixir.” With a flourish, Pierre unwrapped a jar of chicken soup.

“Chicked soub! I dod’t believe id!” Llona clapped her hands.

“Fresh from the pot.”

“You’re a Jewish mother! Thad’s whad you are!” Llona giggled.

“In times of plague, epidemic and sneezing, those of us who are humanists are all Jewish mothers.”

“Tell the truth. Wherever did you ged the chicked soub?”

“You won’t believe it.”

“Dry me.”

“I have a friend who happens to be Jewish. His mother brewed it for me.”

“You’re kiddig!”

“Nope. It’s the solemn truth. But that comes later in the course of treatment. The first step is a large dose of this.” Pierre hefted the bottle of Scotch.

“Oh, cub od dow. That wod’t really help my cohd. Will id?”

“Not one whit,” Pierre admitted cheerfully. “Not one germ will it eliminate. But it is guaranteed to add immensely to the enjoyment of your suffering” He went into the kitchen, found some glasses, returned with them, poured a healthy slug of Scotch into one and handed it to Llona. “The first step in the treatment,” he told her. “Down the hatch.”

“Thad’s ad awful lot,” she protested.

“Don’t argue with the doctor. How do you expect me to cure you if you don’t follow my instructions?”

“I dod’t,” Llona told him truthfully. But she drank down the Scotch nevertheless.

Pierre poured himself a drink as well. He drank it down and smacked his lips. “Ahh,” he enthused.

“You dod’t hab a cohd,” Llona reminded him.

“A preventive measure.” He poured them each another drink. “You believe in preventive medicine, don’t you?”

“I subbose so.”

“Now, the next thing is to make the patient comfortable. One feels as good--or as bad—as one looks. That is a truism of the psychosomatic dynamics of the common cold. Too often the victim wraps the body in rags, thereby increasing the feeling of misery. In your case, I would advise a wash, a combing of the hair, the application of makeup, and the donning of your most attractive nightie and robe in place of the garments reflecting your low self-image which you’re wearing.”

Llona flushed. “I wasd’t eggspegtig compady,” she said defensively.

“I know. I know. I’m not criticizing. It’s just that aesthetics play their part. Believe me.”

“All ride.” Llona’s ego asserted itself. “Eggscuse be a midute.” She vanished into the bathroom. When she returned, Strongfellow was nowhere in sight. “Bierre?” she called.

“In here.” His voice floated out to her from the bedroom.

“Whad are you—-?” She stopped in the doorway to the bedroom, taken aback at what she saw.

Pierre had stripped the sheets and pillowcases from the bed and replaced them with crisp, fresh linens. He’d cleaned off the debris on the night table, remade the bed and turned back the covers. It looked cool and inviting.

While Llona was taking this in, Pierre was appraising the changes in her appearance. She was wearing the nightgown he’d sent her with a clean silk dressing gown over it. Her hair was combed and tied back with a ribbon. Her face looked scrubbed and she’d put on mascara and lipstick. She looked warm and inviting.

“Now, you just hop into bed,” he suggested.

“Do!” Llona’s refusal was loud and definite.

“No?” Pierre looked surprised.

“Ed-o. Do!” Llona spelled it out for him.

“But why not?”

“Because be blus bed blus you adds ub do trouble!”

“Surely you don’t think I’d-”

“You bed your sweed vaborizer I do!”

“Medical ethics forbid—” Pierre started to say.

“But I dod’t hab tibe to check with the A-Eb-A,” Llona said firmly. She turned her back on him, strode back into the living room and sat down on the sofa.

Pierre followed her. “You know what’s wrong with you?”

“I hab a cohd.”

“I mean besides that.”

“Do. Whad?”

“You’re suflering from Clinophobia!”

“Frob whad?”

“Clinophobia,” Pierre repeated.

“Whad’s thad?”

“Clinophobia is a marked dislike for beds, an aversion based on unreasonable and usually deep-seated fear.”

“You’re kiddig!”

“I am not. The symptoms are unmistakeable. I’d even go so far as to say that your Clinophobia, doubtless aggravated by your cold, is currently in an advanced state, at a critical point so to speak, and that the next few hours may be crucial in the progression or retardation of the disease.”

“Whad do I do aboud id?”

“You must face your fear head-on. There’s no other way.”

“You mead-—-?”

“Exactly! Llona, you have to jump into that bed and face up to your Clinophobia!”

“Oh, do!”

“Don’t be afraid. I’ll be right there to lend support.”

“Thad’s whad I’b afraid of!”

“Llona, think back.” Pierre tried another tack. “When you were a very little child. Did anything happen to you in your crib that might account for your fear?”

“I god by head caught betweed the slats once.”

“Aha! Just as I thought. That must be the traumatic incident from which your terror stems.”

“Bust be.” Llona shrugged noncommittally. “So whad?”

“Llona, I want you to close your eyes.”

“All ride.” Llona complied.

“Now just try to picture that crib.” Pierre paused. “Got it?” he asked finally.

“God id.”

“Good. Now, picture yourself in the crib.”

“Okay. I’b id the crib.”

“Now just let the feelings come.” Pierre waited through a long silence before finally speaking again. “What do you feel, Llona?” he asked softly.

“By head hurts.”

“Aha! Now think carefully, Llona. Why does your head hurt?”

“Begause id’s stuck betweed the goddab slats of the crib! Thad’s why!”

“Now, Llona, I want you to keep your eyes closed through what happens next. I want you to keep them closed and hold onto that image of yourself in the crib even after this next experience is over. Do you understand?”

“I udderstadd.”

“All right then.” Pierre bent over her, grasped her head in both his hands, moved it gently a few inches, and then kissed her. It was a long and thorough kiss. When it was over he released her head and waited awhile before speaking again. “Do you still see yourself in the crib, Llona?” he asked at last.

“Yes.”

“And what’s the feeling now?”

“I’b bad.”

“No you’re not. You’re a good girl. Llona’s a good girl.”

“Dot bad! Bad! Aggry!”

“Oh. I see. But what are you angry about, Llona?”

“You dook advadtage of be! You god be do glose by eyes so you could kiss be!”

“What about the headache, Llona? Do you still have the headache?”

“Well, do. I dod’t hab id any more.” There was a note of wonder in Llona’s voice.

“Good. Good!” Pierre was triumphant. “Now, keep your eyes closed.” He took her hand and drew her to her feet. “Just come along with me.”

“Where are you takigg be?”

“Don’t be afraid. Just trust me.”

“Trust you! Hah!”

“Come on now.” Gently but firmly, Pierre led her into the bedroom. “Sit down.” He guided her to the edge of the bed. “Lie back. That’s it. Now are you still holding onto that image of yourself in the crib?”

“Yes. Bud I’b onto you too! Dod’t try anythigg fuddy!”

Pierre ignored her suspicions. “Open your eyes now,” he told her. “Now, where are you?”

“I’b lyig od by bed.”

“Right. And there are no bars around it, no slats. Is that right?”

“Yes

“And you’re not afraid?”

“As logg as you keep your distadce.”

“There, you see!” Pierre stood back and crowed.

“See whad?”

“Your Clinophobia. It’s cured!”

“So? Ad hour ago I did’et eved habit. Add I dod’t hab it dow. So what?”

“That’s gratitude for you!” Pierre shook his head ruefully. “I make you all better and all you can say is ‘so what?’ What can anybody do with a patient like that?”

“Ker-choo!” Llona sneezed loudly. “You cad cure by cohd! Thad’s whad! Or cad’t you?”

“Well, uh__”

“Thad’s medical sciedce!” Llona blew her nose. “Clinophobia they cad cure! But whed id cobes to a cohd, they’re helpless!”

“Not at all.” Pierre reasserted his authority. “It just takes longer. It requires more intensive treatment.”

“Thad’s a cob-out!”

“No it’s not. Just be patient. I’ll be right back.” Pierre edged out of the bedroom.

“Where are you goigg?”

“To the kitchen. I’m just going to heat up some of that chicken soup for you.”

Llona waited. “Whad’s takig you so logg?” she called after a while.

“I can’t get this goddam cover off this goddam chicken soup jar!” Pierre called back from the kitchen, grunting.

“Pud id under the hodwader.”

“I did. It doesn’t help.”

“Dry tappigg id with the haddle of a knife.”

“I tried that too. No soap. Oof!”

“Brigg id in here.”

“Why?”

“A woban pud id od, thed a woban cad take id off.”

“If you do, the whole male ego goes kerflooey.” Pierre reentered the bedroom and handed Llona the jar of chicken soup.

She struggled with it mightily, but to no avail. “I cad’t do id!” she panted, beads of perspiration breaking out on her forehead.

“You’ll raise your temperature. Let it be.” Pierre took the jar away from her and set it down on the nightstand beside the bed. “And the exertion is making you cough,” he observed.

“Thad’s by cohd.”

“Whatever it is, it’s a nasty hack. Wait a minute. I’ve got just the thing for it.” Pierre popped into the living room and came back with a small plastic container.

“Whad’s thad?”

“It’s a special homemade liniment. The same lady who made the chicken soup gave it to me for you.”

“You’ll never ged the cab off!” Llona told him positively.

“Wrong!” Pierre was triumphant. “This one pries off. See.” Pierre held up the container in one hand and the lid in the other. “Now, if you’ll just pull your nightgown down from your shoulders,” he said with studied disinterest.

“Whad do you mean?”

“I’m going to rub down your chest with this. It’ll help clear out your lungs.”

“Nod on your life!”

“Now, you’re just being silly. I see you naked every day. Why are you being coy now?”

“I’b dot beigg coy,” Llona protested coyly. “I’b just shy.”

“Look, I’ll turn out the light. There.” Pierre suited the action to the words. “Now I can’t see you. There’s nothing to be shy about. Pull down the top of your nightgown.”

“Oh, all ride.”

“Good. Now I’ll just-—”

“Phew! Whad the hell is thad smell?”

“That’s the liniment.”

“Id smells like chicked fad.”

“Well, it does have a chicken fat base,” Pierre admitted.

“Id’s awful!”

“Oh, I don’t know. I thought it had a kind of romantic aroma.” He dipped his hand into the jar and groped in the darkness for Llona.

“Hey! Whad are you doigg?”

“I’m just going to rub in the liniment.”

“Rub id in where? Thad’s my face! Ugh! Whad a smell!”

“Sorry.” Pierre lowered his hand, located her bosom and applied the liniment. “How’s that?”

“Id bums a liddle.”

“That just shows it’s taking effect.” Pierre renewed his efforts, using both hands now.

Llona’s breasts tingled under his manipulations. “Yes, id is,” she sighed. “Id’s definitely takigg effect.”

“Turn over. I’ll do your back.”

Llona turned over. Pierre straddled her, bracing himself on his knees, one on either side of her hips. He bent over and began rubbing the liniment into her back with both hands.

“Ahh!” Llona moaned contentedly as knowing fingers worked up and down her spine. “Thad’s nice!”

Pierre leaned over and kissed the back of her neck. When she made no protest, he ran his lips over her back in the darkness. His hands massaged the liniment into her plump buttocks.

“Whad are you doigg?” Llona wriggled under his kisses.

“Just getting my bearings.” Pierre’s hands were just below the derriere now, gently separating her thighs. “Ah yes.”

“Ah, yes. You’ve got your bearings all ride.” Llona squirmed under his touch. “Dow whad are you doigg?”

“I put on too much liniment. I’m just taking some of it off.”

“With your libs?”

“Yep.”

“Add your toggue?”

“Sure. It tastes good. It has a very unusual flavor. Sort of like a kosher aphrodisiac.”

“Mmm!” Llona was on her knees now, crouching. “You sure know how do cure a cohd!” she panted, rotating her luscious bottom in anticipation of the final “treatment.”

“And now for the miracle drug of physical therapy!”

Pierre judged her willingness aright. He pulled off his trousers, sprawled over her, and —

There was the sudden sound of a window being raised across the room. “Whad’s thad?” Llona gasped.

“Who cares?” Pierre grasped her breasts firmly and groped for the target bobbing in the darkness.

“Do! Waid!” Llona grabbed him and held him off. “I think it’s a burglar. Look!”

Pierre looked. A shadowy figure was climbing over the windowsill, stealthily groping into the apartment bedroom. Pierre sprang into action.

He sprang off Llona. He sprang to the night table and hefted the jar of chicken soup. He sprang on the intruder and hit him over the head with the jar as hard as he could.

Llona turned on the light. “Oh, by God!” she exclaimed.

“What is it?”

“Hib!” Llona pointed at the unconscious man stretched out on the floor.

“What do you mean? Who is he?”

“Mortiber! He’s by husband’s cousin Mortiber!”

“So?” Pierre was confused. “What was he doing crawling in through your bedroom window in the dark?”

“I dod’t know.” Llona wrang her hands. “Oh, dear, he’s comigg to! Quick! You’ve god do ged oud of here.” She hurried Pierre to the door, shoved him out in the hall as he was still trying to get into his pants, and locked the door behind him. Then she returned to the bedroom.

“Owee!” Mortimer opened one eye. “What hit me?”

“A jar of chicked soub,” Llona told him.

“Homemade?” Grogginess prompted Mortimer to the irrelevancy.

“Hobebade,” Llona confirmed.

“It’s a Jewish plot!” Mortimer groaned. “That’s what it is! A Zionist conspiracy!”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Everybody stared. They were all momentarily speechless. The black bikini Nymph panties had been flaunted in their faces and the group was stunned.

They looked from the panties to each other and back to the panties again. To each the panties represented the same thing -- a reminder of failure. But to each the reminder was a different image.

To editor Hugh Esquire, Esq. (née Comstock Bowdler), it was a flash of shrunken, waterlogged manhood. To art director Beulah Von Dyker it was a crackling electrical shock. To Raunch Rammer, publisher, it was the self-image of glamor sliding oft a bald pate. To H. Reb Klein, black-and-white photographer, it was parental poppycock pulling the rug out from under the fun of making love. The panties evoked the gurgling rush of plumbing gone berserk in the huckster ears of I. M. Zihnzeehr. And P.R. man Pierre Strongfellow sighed for the slosh of an unopened jar of homemade chicken soup.

Pierre was the first to get over his surprise. “Are you dryigg do dell uz you bade id with Lloda whed all of uz bobbed oud?” he asked.

“I don’t think I understood the question.”

“Zorry. I habe a derrible cohd,” Pierre explained.

“And I guess we all know who you caught it firom,” Rammer interjected. “Now, about these panties—-”

“What would you like to know?” Cal Lowe, office boy-turning-man spoke without stuttering.

“Everything.”

But Cal Lowe didn’t know everything. He knew nothing, for example, of the scene in Llona’s bedroom that night after Pierre departed. He knew nothing of her dialogue with Cousin Mortimer.

“A Zionist conspiracy!” Mortimer had insisted bitterly, wincing as he finger-tested the lump on his noggin.

It hadn’t taken Llona too long after her marriage to find out that Cousin Mortimer was the family bigot. Still, the extent of his bigotry, its all-encompassing nature, which managed to apply to all ethnic groups and all situations, continually amazed her. Mortimer was no run-of-the-Klan bigot; he was a hater par excellence.

When Mortimer’s TV went on the blink, it was the fault of the “kike manufacturer,” the “mick salesman” and “that lousy wop repairman.” When Mortimer’s taxes went up it was blamed on “all those little spic bastards crowding up the schools,” and “the lazy niggers on welfare” and “the bohunks on the city payroll.” All day and every day, the “chink” was trying to choke him with too much starch in his shirts, the “frog” at the restaurant where he ate was trying to poison him, and “that kraut” he worked for was out to put the final nails in his coffin.

George Wallace was too middle-of-the-road for Mortimer. Lester Maddox sold out when he didn’t “string up that nigger, Julian Bond.” Only for Adolf Hitler-“kraut” though he may have been-did the Eternal Light burn faithfully (albeit secretly) in the stone cranny of Mortimer’s heart.

“A Zionist conspiracy!” he repeated now to Llona as he picked himself up from the floor.

“Mortiber,” Llona asked, “why are you such a bigod?”

“Me? A bigot? How can you say that, Llona? Just because a man sees the dangers around him—”

“Whad dangers?”

“The Jewish plot. The insidious Oriental conspiracy. Black Communist revolution. The Catholic takeover. The Red clergy. The--”

“Enough!” Llona held up her hand. “By the tibe you ged through, who’s left?”

“Not many,” Mortimer confessed morosely. “There’s only a stalwart handful of hundred percent Americans ready to defend our—”

Llona interrupted him. “The odly huddred per cent Abericad,” she pointed out with firmness, if not originality, “is the Abericad Indian.”

“Bloody redskins!” Mortimer was off. “The only good Injun—”

“—is a dead Idjun.” Llona finished the sentence for him. “You’re beating a dead pinto, Mortimer. They’re all dead dow. ‘The ones we didn’t slaughter whed we ‘civilized’ the West have been fidished off by the movies. It’s gedocide by MGM, Udiversal add Republic, with ad assist from Johd Wayde. But dod’t desbair. There’s always adother reservation to raze over the horizon. Viet Dam is odly the Missouri River of manifest destidy circa 1969. We’ve god a whole other contident before us. The cavalry may be mechadized add wear greed berets, but we haved’t rud out of Indians yed.”

“Some times I just don’t understand you, Llona. First you hit me over the head without the slightest regard for law and order. And now you spout anarchist propaganda. If you weren’t Archer’s wife-—”

“I didd’t hid you ober the head!” Llona protested.

“No? Then who did?”

Llona reversed her field quickly. “Well, I did,” she admitted, realizing that if Mortimer found out about Pierre’s being there he’d most certainly tell Archer. “Bud id was ad accidedt.”

“And with a jar of Zionist soup too!” Mortimer rubbed his head. “Where did you get it anyway?”

“A deighbor.” Llona thought fast.

“I told Archer he should have found an apartment in a restricted neighborhood. First the sheenies, then the spades—-”

“Mortiber, whed id comes to cause add effect, you’re fantastig! Bud led’s stigg to the poidt. Whad were you doigg crawligg through by widdow ad this tibe of dight adyway? I thoughd you were a burglar!”

“Well, I just came from seeing Archer in the hospital and he asked me to—”

“Oh? How is he?”

“In the hands of Jewish doctors and Papist nurses and heathen Chinee attendants, how should he be?”

“Forged id. Go od with your story.”

“Okay. He asked me to stop by here and pick up some fresh pajamas for him and some shaving stuff. He gave me a key so I could let myself in.”

“Why didd’t you use id?”

“Because some goddam wop neighbor of yours made it impossible! That’s why!”

“Whad do you mead?”

“Just as I was coming up the sidewalk in front of the house this old wop bumps into me with an armful of bundles. He falls all over himself saying ‘Scusa! Scusa!’ -—all those dagos talk Yiddish, you know; you’d think they’d take the trouble to learn American! -- but it’s too late.”

“Why doo lade?”

“Because I’d already taken out the key to open the vestibule door, you know, and when he slammed into me—these Mussolinis think they own the streets-—he knocked the key right out of my hand and it fell down a grating. I didn’t even have a piece of chewing gum to try to fish it out. Goddam Mafia greaseball!”

“Why didd’t you just rigg the bell?”

“I was going to, but all your windows were dark. I figured you must be out. I was just going to leave when I noticed the fire escape. Well, it was right there and I figured if the window wasn’t locked, why not? I’d save myself the trouble of having to come back and Archer would get his stuff. I never thought you’d hit me with some Semite blackjack!”

“I’b sorry. Bud how could I know? I really did think I was beigg robbed.”

“You could have asked first.” Mortimer patted his injured scalp. “If you hit me any harder, I’d have ended up in the hospital with Archer at the mercy of those spic interns and the limey attendants and--”

“Boy! With thad kind of talk you bust habe done wonders for Archer’s borale!” Llona said sarcastically.

“Actually, I did.” Archer said smugly. “When I left him, he was laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes.”

“Laughigg? Aboud whad?”

“I was telling him about this married chick who went to work as a nude receptionist.”

“I cad believe there were tears id his eyes,” Llona told Mortimer.

“What do you mean?”

“You know how he feels about my worlcigg. Why do you have to add fuel to the fire, Mortimer?”

“Because I think he’s absolutely right. A woman who works can't help being brought into contact with sheenies and micks and all kinds of other lechers! He should have forbid you!”

“I knew I could depend od you, Mortiber,” Llona sighed. “Bud whad was so fuddy about id? Why was he laughigg?”

“Well, you see, I know this -- umm—lady who used to work there, and she goes out with the boss and he told her -- now catch this— he told her that the entire office staff got together and formed a pool to see who could make her first.”

“A pool?” Llona stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“An office lottery. They drew lots to see who went first, second, and so on, and then each of them had a crack at seducing her. And they arranged it so she’d have to wear some sort of special underwear, and the one who brought back the underwear to prove he made it, he gets all the money in the pool. Hah!” Mortimer chortled. “And all the time her poor jerk of a husband doesn’t know his wife’s the prize in the office sex lottery. That’s what broke Archer and me up. The thought of the silly slob probably thinking his wife’s working to help him out when all the time she’s up for grabs. Isn’t that a pistol?”

“A bistol!” Llona agreed through clenched teeth.

“See? There are tears in your eyes too.”

“Yes. I know.” What Llona didn’t tell him was that they were tears of furious anger.

“But you’re not laughing.”

“Inside I ab,” Llona assured “Inside I’b laughigg like crazy.” And there was some truth to it. Mad as she was, Llona could still find a chuckle of satisfaction in the thought that she’d frustrated them one and all. Office pool indeed! Well, at least none of them had been able to collect!

But it wasn’t solace enough. Llona was mad and she had stayed mad. Every time she thought about it during the next few days as she waited out her cold, she became furious all over again. Actually, she stayed out of the office longer than was necessary. Knowing that Raunch Rammer himself was in on it, she told herself she was entitled to collect money for just sitting at home, even if she was no longer sick. That was the least she had coming to her by way of revenge.

Revenge was what she wanted all right. She thought of and discarded a dozen means of getting it. Then, over the weekend, it fell right into her lap with the ringing of the doorbell.

Llona opened the door to find Cal Lowe standing there, a large bouquet of flowers in one hand, a box of candy in the other. “I knew y-you were sick, so I th-thought I’d stop b-by and try to cheer y-you up,” Cal stammered, blushing.

Llona stared at him with all her pent-up rage coming to a boil. Even the office boy! Not just the staff! Even this mewling kid was in on it! The colossal gall!

“W-why are you 1-1-looking at me like that?” Cal shrank back at the expression on her face. “I g-guess maybe I shouldn’t have c-come, huh?”

“Why not?” Llona asked sweetly, rage having cleared her sinuses altogether by now. “Do come in.” Spider webbing closed off the foyer as he buzzed along behind her into the living room. “Sit down.” She indicated the couch. It wasn’t covered with flypaper stickum, but it should have been. He sat down. She stood over him, hands on hips, staring him down.

“Is your c-cold any b-better?” Cal asked. It was a warm day; why did he feel chilled?

“Oh, yes, it’s much better.” Llona thought for a moment. Then she nodded. She’d reached a decision. She sat down on the couch, very close to Cal.

“I h-hope the c-candy is the kind you l-like,” Cal said helplessly.

“Oh, yes,” Llona purred. “And so sweet of you to bring it. Awfully sweet, really. I think you deserve a reward.” She grabbed his head firmly in her two hands and kissed him. It was a long, deep, expert kiss.

“Hey! P-Please!” Cal broke away. “I can’t hold a k-k-kiss for such a long time. I have a d-deviated septum and it makes it hard to b-breathe.”

“Oh, you poor boy.” Llona oozed solicitude. “Then I guess I’ll just have to find other places to kiss to show my gratitude.” She kissed his ear, and then his neck. “That doesn’t bother your breathing, does it?” she asked throatily.

“N-no.” Cal felt dizzy. Things were moving too fast for him. “B-But why?”

“You’re a very attractive man,” Llona told him. She stroked his thigh. “Even irresistible, I might say. But surely you know that.” She bit his earlobe. “Lots of girls must have told you that. Be truthful now. Isn’t that so?” She slid her hand inside his shirt and caressed his chest.

“N-No.” Cal was truthful. “To be honest, with m-most girls--well, I s-sort of t-turn them off.”

“Well, you don’t turn me off.” Llona slid her hand further down, under the waistband of his trousers. He jumped. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

“That t-tickles.” Cal giggled nervously.

“Don’t I appeal to you?”

“Oh, g-gosh yes! You sure d-do!”

“Wouldn’t you like to make love to me?” Llona cooed.

“W-Well, yes. Yes, I sure would. Only --”

“On1y?”

“Uhh-- Isn’t it the man who usually-—? You know.”

“Now, Cal, we’re going to be honest with each other. When you came up here today, weren’t you really hoping to make love to me? Didn’t you have it in the back of your mind to—-oh! it’s such a trite word—seduce me?”

“Eh-- Yeah. The idea crossed my mind. But I didn’t think--”

“Then let it happen, lover. Just let it happen.” Llona stood up and slipped out of her dressing gown. She stood naked in front of him and stretched sensually. “You’ve got too many clothes on,” she purred. “Let me help you.” She removed his jacket and started unbuttoning his shirt. “Why, you’re trembling,” she noticed.

“J-Just a little chilled, I guess.” Cal gulped. He was naked now and he had to fight the impulse to fold his hands over his groin figleaf fashion.

“Don’t I excite you?” Llona asked, eyeing him pointedly.

“Well, sure. It’s just so f-fast.”

“We'll fix that.” Llona was confident. She knelt beside him and worked her wiles. “There. That’s better.” She stood up and pulled him to his feet. “Much better.” She stroked him intimately. “Much, much better.”

“Yeah.” Cal was pleased. He squared his shoulders. He hadn’t known he could grow so large. He’d never felt so manly.

Llona lay down on the couch, her thighs apart. She held out her arms invitingly. “Take me, lover!” she crooned.

Cal sprawled over her. He scrambled to his knees and reared back. Greedily, he squeezed L1ona’s lush breasts and plunged forward.

WHAM! Llona swung from the shoulder with all her might. The blow caught Cal smack on the side of the head and dislodged him from his perch before he pierced target. He toppled to the floor like a felled tree. Even as; he sprawled there, dazed, Llona was on him. She kicked for the groin, but—fortunately for Cal -- her rage threw her off and she caught him in the stomach.

“OOF!” Holding his gut, doubled over, Cal scrambled away from her. He took refuge behind an armchair across the room. He didn’t have the wind to speak, but his eyes were brimming over with unasked questions.

Llona supplied some of the answers. “Office lottery!” she screamed, hurling an ashtray at him. “Fun and games for the whole office and the victim is the last to know!" She followed up the ashtray with the vase. It shattered against the wall behind Cal and the flowers he’d brought cascaded over him, clinging soggily to his head and shoulders. “You teen-age lecher!” The box of candy followed. and Cal was spattered with syrupy chocolates.

“J-Just a m-mi-minute!” he pleaded, scraping a maraschino cherry from his right ear with a flower stem. “Ouch!” the stem had thorns.

“Go ahead! Deny it!” Llona flung a stack of magazines. She looked around wildly, frustrated; there was nothing else to throw. “Go on, you pipsqueak Romeo. Just try to deny it!”

“All I’m t-trying to d-do is g-get my clothes and g-get out of here,” Cal told her desperately.

“First I want to hear you admit the truth.” Llona sat down; firmly on his clothes, took a firm grip on the end-table lamp and brandished it at him threateningly. “Go on! Admit it!”

“Admit wha--wha--what?”

“Admit there was an office pool to see who could seduce me first.”

“Well, y-yes. There w-w-was.”

“And everybody in the office was in on it but me. Right?"

“N-no. Not quite everybody.”

“Oh, come on now! Who was left out? Everybody from the office boy to the publisher was in on it. What did they do? Exclude the janitor? What have they got against him?”

“Not the janitor. I m-mean, I d-don’t know about him. But they excluded m-me.”

“You! Then what the hell are you doing up here?”

“I r-really came up because you w-were sick and I wanted to s-see how you w-w-were,” Cal told her miserably.

“You mean you weren’t in on the lottery?”

“N-No.”

“But you knew about it!”

“Y-Yes.”

“And you didn’t warn me! That makes you just as bad as the rest of them!”

“I g-guess so. I’m s-s-sorry.”

“Well, maybe not quite as bad.” Llona relented. “How come you weren’t in on it?”

“They wouldu’t l-let me. They said I was the office v-v-virgin and they made f-fun of me and said I wouldn’t stand a ch-ch-chance.”

“Oh, they did, did they!” Llona was mad all over again. She’d thought she was getting even for the scheme, and here her victim wasn’t even in on it. Her mind took a ZAP!-turn and she suddenly saw herself and Cal in the same boat. Both of them had been made fools of by the Nymph staff. “Well, we’ll show them!” she told Cal through clenched teeth.

“W-What do you in-mean?”

“You just sit right back down on this couch.” Llona disappeared in the bedroom for a moment. When she returned, Cal was perched where she’d told him to sit.

“Here.” She handed him a pair of Nymph engraved panties. “Stick these in your pocket.”

“I d-don’t get it.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. You do get it! Which is more than any of those other bums can say. The panties are your proof. That’s how the lottery was set up, isn’t it?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Okay. I’m giving them to you so they’ll all know you scored where they couldn’t.”

“B-but, I haven’t--”

“But you will, baby. You will.” Llona knelt beside him again. Her hands and mouth were very busy for a few minutes. “There we are,” she said finally. “All ready now.” She patted him, drew him to his feet and lay down on the couch. “We’ll show those bastards!” she told holding up her arms. “That’s it, lover!” Her knees locked; around his hips as he clambered over her. “Sock it to me; baby! Sock it to me so they’ll know what they missed! Now! Now!”

Cal had never been more ready. He scrambled forward eagerly. Llona grasped him, guiding

Revenge is sweet! And some revenges are sweeter than others!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“I’m s-s-sorry,” Cal Lowe stammered miserably.

“Nothing to be sorry about.” Llona patted his cheek. “It happens.”

“Yish!” Cal wiped his cheek with a handkerchief.

“Oops. Sorry. I should have washed my hands.” Llona went into the bathroom and the oversight. When she came back in she contemplated Cal. He looked like a whipped dog. “Now, come on,” she told him. “You’re getting all upset over nothing. It could happen to anybody.”

“It n-never happened to m-me before.” Cal sighed dejectedly.

“You were just overexcited. It happens to lots of men the first time. They even have a phrase for it in the medical books: ‘premature ejaculation.’”

“Yeah?” Cal looked puzzled. “I always thought that m-meant something grammatical.”

“Huh?” Now it was Llona who was bewildered.

“You know, I-like when you say ‘Whee!’ t-too soon.”

“Oh. Well, you’re not far off. It is sort of the same thing. Just a matter of timing.”

“I n-never thought it would h-happen to m-me.” Cal was still unhappy.

“It happens to lots of men the first This was the first time, wasn’t it?” Llona asked, although she knew the answer.

“Y-Yes.” Cal hung his head as if he’d made some terrible confession. The sin of innocence! There’s no repentance for uncommitted sins!

“Well--” Llona really felt bad for him. Something like this, she thought to herself, might color his whole future sex life; it could make him doubt his virility for who knew how long? (Llona had cut her teeth on romance stories and the cause-and-effect melodramatics had stayed with her.) She felt responsible and determined to bolster his sinking ego. “If you really want to look at it the right way,” she told him, “what happened only happened because you’re so damned young and virile.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“When you’re very young and very potent, you’re really all man and there’s no bothering with subtleties like control. When you’re ready, that’s it. Older men, or less erotic men—they can’t do what you did because they just plain don’t have the sexual strength any more. They may have great control -- but none of the spontaneity of good, healthy, young lust.” It wasn’t strictly true in Llona’s experience but she was more interested in building Cal’s self-image than in what was really only subjective truth anyway. “You’re a real stud, Cal, believe me. Before long now, you’ll be driving the girls clear out of their skulls.”

“Yeah?” Cal was perking up.

“Damn right!” Llona was firm.

“Still, you know how they’d l-laugh at me in the office if they knew w-what happened,” he reminded himself moodily.

“In the first place, not one of them has anything to gloat over. Believe me, as far as I’m concerned, you succeeded where they all failed. You’re just knocking yourself out over a technicality. And in the second place, they don’t have to know.” Llona thought about that for a few seconds. Yes, there was revenge to be had there as well as solace for Cal! Let them think he made it! Let them eat their hearts out, the stinkers! Let them eat their livers, one and all! “You have the Nymph panties,” she reminded him softly. “That was supposed to be the proof, wasn’t it? As for the rest, except for that technicality I mentioned, you made it where the rest of them failed. Hell, you were less than an inch away when --”

There was a lot more in that vein. The upshot of it was that by the time Cal left, he was believing himself that he’d made it with Llona, that he was one helluva guy, one helluva lover-boy. And the attitude carried over, was firmed up and arrogant when he walked into Raunch Rammer’s office that morning and displayed the Nymph panties to the office staff, who were also the participants in the office sex lottery.

“What would you like to know?” Cal had asked them, flaunting it, remembering how they’d teased him about his lack of manhood and refused to let him participate in the lottery. And the answer had been “Everything!”

“I don’t think I should cater to all of your -- umm -- voyeur tendencies,” Cal told them.

Raunch Rammer smiled to himself at the office boy's new manner. He was sure that Cal had indeed made it with Llona where the rest of them had failed, and he attributed the arrogance to that. Hell, the kid was entitled! “I think Cal should collect the purse by default,” he announced to the others.

There was some protest. Cal hadn’t been in on the lottery, it was pointed out. It wasn’t really fair.

“Maybe not,” Rammer granted. “But it’s just.” He followed up on the distinction. “Justice isn’t always fair,” he told them. “But certainly none of us is entitled to the pot. This kid here has given us our comeuppance. I say it’s his by right.”

And that’s how it was settled. Cal accepted it modestly, without giving a thought to the “technicality” involved. He was discarding his innocence in more ways than one.

Shortly after the meeting broke up, Raunch Rammer received a telegram. It consisted of two words and a signature. It read: “I QUIT.” It was signed by Llona.

Llona luxuriated in a hot bath after she sent the telegram. She supposed she’d have to find another job, but for the time being she didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to think about anything. She just wanted to lie there and listen to her skin tingle in the frothy hot water. But reality—as it seemingly must --intruded on her.

The telephone rang. Naked, trailing hot suds, her body feeling very alive now, Llona went into the living room to answer it. The hospital was on the phone.

They were calling to inform her that her husband was well enough to be released the following day. The cast had been removed, and while he’d be on crutches for a while he was ready to come home. Would she come and sign him out?

Llona told them she would and hung up the phone. There was something ominous about the call. It took her a moment to place just what it was.

Then, dripping her way back to the tub, it fell into place. Why hadn't Archer called her himself? He had a phone right beside his bed. It surely would have been easier than having to arrange for the hospital to call her. Yes, there was definitely something ominous about it.

It wasn’t until she brought Archer home the next day that she found out what it was. Before then, there was all the rigmarole at the hospital to be gone through. It started in the Hospital Discharge Office where Llona had been told to stop in before going upstairs to pick up her husband.

“'I'here’s a bill here,” the lady in the office told Llona. She consulted her records and came up with a figure that made Llona blanch.

“But I thought my husband’s hospitalization took care of that,” Llona protested.

“It does. But the check from them hasn’t come through yet. And we can’t discharge the patient until the bill is settled. They can reimburse you directly.”

“But I don’t have that kind of money to lay out.”

“Then we can’t discharge your husband.” The lady was stern.

“What do you mean?” Llona was getting her dander up. “What are you going to do? Hold him here for ransom?”

“He can’t be officially discharged until the bill is set—“

“Then don’t discharge him officially,” Llona told her. “But he’s ready to leave and he’s leaving anyway.” She turned on her heel and strode out of the office.

She took the elevator up to Archer’s room. She found him sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed, ready to leave. The fat nurse was also there.

“Let’s go,” Llona told him abruptly.

Archer stood up and struggled with an unfamiliar set of crutches.

“We’ll have to be taken down in a wheelchair,” the fat nurse chirruped. “It’s hospital rules.”

“Then get a wheelchair,” Llona told her.

“There’s one just outside the door, waiting.”

“Okay.” Llona went outside and wheeled it back into the room. She helped Archer into it. “You carry the crutches, dear, and I’ll push,” she told him.

“Just a minute.” The fat nurse held up an authoritative hand. “First we have to have our discharge slip.”

“I didn’t get one,” Llona told her.

“But we can’t leave without being discharged officially.”

“Wanna bet?” Llona got behind the wheelchair and started pushing.

“This is highly irregular,” the fat nurse wailed.

“Sue me!” Llona was angry.

“Why don’t you have the discharge slip?” Archer interjected.

“Because they wouldn’t give me one.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t pay the bill.”

“But my hospitalization—”

“I know. I went all through that. They want cash. We haven’t got it. So, no discharge slip. But you’re leaving anyway.” Llona pushed the wheelchair out the doorway and started down the hall.

The fat nurse ran alongside. “No discharge slip! No discharge slip!” She kept repeating it loud and clear like a battleship p.a. system summoning the crew to battle stations. “No discharge slip!”

The result was that they picked up a wake of other nurses, attendants, orderlies, doctors and assorted administrative personnel. The group trailed onto the elevator behind them, echoing the nurse in hushed, shocked whispers. “No discharge slip!”

In the downstairs lobby the fat nurse stepped around in front of the wheelchair and blocked Llona’s way. But she didn’t speak to Llona. It was Archer that she addressed. “We shouldn’t leave without an official discharge,” she told him. “We should stay.”

“But the doctor said it was all right to go,” Archer protested .

“It’s not right!” The fat nurse insisted. “This woman—” She pointed a quivering finger at Llona. “—is removing us illegally. Are we going to listen to her? After what she’s done to us?”

“What have I—?” Llona tried to interrupt, but she was ignored.

“We know who our friends are, don’t we?” The fat nurse was wheedling now. “We know who looks alter us and brings us our stewed prunes and sees that we get our you-know-what three times a day. If we stay, we’ll go right on with that too. But if we leave without an official discharge, we may never again—”

“This is ridiculous!” Llona wasn’t as indignant at the fat nurse as she was at Archer himself. There was a light in his eyes that she didn’t like one bit. There was no doubt about it! He was being swayed by the fat nurse’s offer!

“Get out of the way!” Llona pushed the fat nurse aside and wheeled Archer out the front door of the hospital.

“We’ll be sorry!” the fat nurse called after them. “What will we have to look forward to now?”

“Maybe we should--” Archer started to weaken, but it was too late. Llona was already hustling him into a cab.

Then the fat nurse uttered one last call from the steps of the hospital, one last desperate reminder of that which had been theirs, of that which had been the basis of their relationship, the keystone of their rapport. “Up yours!” she called, dropping her pluralisms as a discarded lover drops all dignity in a final plea that the affair continue on the basis of yesterday’s love. “Up yours!” she bayed, sobbing.

“Up yours!” Archer called back, his voice cracking. He was almost sobbing himself as he called out the final testimonial to what, after all, had been their relationship. “Up yours!” Partings are not always sweet sorrow . . .

But by the time they arrived at the apartment, Archer had put it all behind him. In the past, that is, since “behind him” had been where it was at with the fat nurse, and where it was at no longer. Anyway, there was no time for regrets or fond memories because now Archer had come to the confrontation with Llona. .

“Why did you have the hospital call me yesterday?” Llona asked when they were at home alone. “Why didn’t you call me yourself?”

“I did.” Archer was exercising very careful control now. “I did call you. I called you at your office, at that number you gave me. You weren’t there.”

“Oh. That’s right. I’m sorry. But then why didn’t you call me at home?”

“Because I didn’t want to talk to you. I wanted to think about something first.”

“What?” Llona asked.

“Something Mortimer told me.”

“Oh.” Llona’s heart skipped a beat.

“Yes. He told me about this girl who worked in the nude and how the people in the office where she was the receptionist made up this pool to see who could make her first.”

“You told me about that,” Llona reminded “And so did Mortimer,” she added.

“Uh-huh.” Archer was still holding himself uptight. “But the other day he told me one more thing.”

“What was that?”

“He told me the name of the company where this girl worked.”

“Oh!” The pit of Llona’s stomach took off on its own.

“Yes. Nymph magazine. And when I called you yesterday, whoever answered the phone said—that’s right! ‘Nymph magazine.’ Quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

“Let’s not play games about it, Archer. I worked at Nymph magazine. I never denied it. You were never interested enough to ask me the name of the place, that’s all.”

“Was I supposed to ask you what you wore on the job too?”

“Well, no—I guess I did want to conceal that from you.”

“I guess you did. And I guess you wanted to hide the fact that you were balling everybody in the office too.”

“But I wasn’t!”

“Come on now!” Archer’s control was slipping now, and his voice went up the scale.

Llona’s reaction was instinctive and female. When on the defense, always attack! “Just because you feel guilty about your hospital interlude with that fat nurse,” she told Archer, “is no reason to come on all moralistic and attack me.”

It threw Archer off balance. “What do you mean? There was nothing between me and Miss --”

“Oh, wasn’t there?” Llona followed up her advantage. “How about that tearful good-bye scene. What about that three-times-a-day stuff? Or don’t your anal amours count?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Archer protested. “She was only doing her job.”

“So was I!” Llona cackled triumphantly.

“But she kept her clothes on!” Archer tried to recover lost ground.

“And I didn’t go around playing with men’s bottoms three times a day!”

“It was part of the treatment. Hospital procedure!”

“You told me yourself you enjoyed it,” Llona reminded him.

“Well, only because there was nothing else to do. I mean, when you’re hanging from the ceiling with a cast on your leg and your wife is off somewhere with who-knows-who, it’s only natural that --”

“Natural!” Llona leaped on the word. “Natural! Archer, whatever it was that you and that fat Florence Nightingale had going, it wasn’t natural!”

“That doesn’t excuse you! I was at her mercy. But you had a choice.”

“And I exercised it. I was faithful to you.”

“I wish I could believe that.” Archer was weakening. It wasn’t just Llona’s arguments. It was also the fact that throughout the discussion she had been undressing and now she was standing across from him completely nude. It had been a long time. Archer’s face betrayed his interest.

“I missed you,” Llona told him softly, coming closer. “Didn’t you miss me a little bit?”

“Yeah.” Archer gulped. “Yeah, I did.”

“I’ll bet I can make you forget that fat nurse and her enema bag,” Llona crooned.

“I’ll bet you can.”

“I’ll bet I can make you forget everything.” Llona put her arms around him . . .

But she wasn’t quite right. Archer couldn’t forget everything. Later, after they’d made love, he came back to it again with a sigh. “I guess I’m better off not knowing what really happened between you and those creeps up at Nymph,” he sighed.

“I guess so. But I’d like to tell you one thing, Archer.”

“What?”

“I’ve always been true to you. All the time you were sick. Nobody else had me. That’s the truth.”

“You were faithful to me?” There was wonder in Archer’s voice.

“I was faithful to you!”

And, strictly speaking, it really was the truth!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Waves of sex can wash away the suspicions of marriage. Llona knew this intuitively, and during the days that followed she made sure that the breakers rolled constantly so that Archer, riding the crest of one after another, had no time to brood over questions of fidelity in the recent past. Their time was filled with erotic pleasures and Archer’s questions remained unanswered.

Slowly, he forgot to wonder about them at all. The Pierre Strongfellow story which had been the start of Archer’s quarrel with Llona receded into the unexamined past. The job with Nymph, since Llona had quit it, was no longer an issue. Whatever had happened had happened and Archer didn’t dwell on it. Their marriage had turned a corner and the road ahead seemed tranquil.

Only one pothole remained from the time prior to Archer’s hospitalization. This was the matter of his employment. During his convalescence, both he and Llona skirted the subject. But the day came when the cane he’d substituted for crutches was no longer necessary; his convalescence was over and he and Llona were forced to take stock of their financial situation.

It wasn’t encouraging. The time he’d spent at home after his discharge from the hospital had eaten up virtually all of their savings. An immediate family income was imperative.

Diplomatically, not wanting to shake the boat, Llona refrained from suggesting that she look for another job. Instead, she went all-out to be supportive of Archer in his quest for work. But it wasn’t easy. There still wasn’t much demand in the promotional field for someone with experience in contraceptives.

Then, one evening, Archer arrived home with hope shining from his face. “You’ll never guess who I bumped into today,” he greeted Llona.

“Someone who owes you money from the look on your kisser,” she supposed.

“Nope. Even better. E. Z. Holdkumb, that’s who!”

“Your old boss?”

“The very same. E. Z. Holdkumb himself, right in the middle of Main Street.”

“What was he doing, checking the wrappers in the gutter to make sure his brand is getting its fair share of the market?”

“Don’t be sarcastic, Llona. As it happens, he was very friendly to me. Surprisingly friendly.”

“No kidding?—-as the company motto goes Well, it’s nice to know he isn’t still crying over spilled blood.”

“He didn’t even mention that incident with the Chihuahua. I'm telling you, Llona, he was really chummy. He asked me what I was doing and I told him the truth. I told him l was just getting over an accident and that I was looking for a job. He sort of mulled this over.” Archer grinned from ear to ear. “And then you know what he said? You’ll never guess!”

“Rubberiness is next to godliness,” Llona guessed.

“You’re being cynical. Don’t be cynicall” Archer wagged a finger in her face. “You’ve been supportive up to now. Don’t spoil it.”

“I’m sorry. What did he say?”

“He asked me to pay him a visit. Not just me. Both of us. He said there are things we can discuss. He’s going to offer me a job, Llona. I know he is! It’s the break I’ve been waiting for!” Archer was jubilant.

“When?” Llona asked. “When are we supposed to go there?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“I think you’d better go yourself. I don’t think I should come along.”

“Why not? Don’t be silly. Of course you should come, Llona. I need your help. I need all the help I can get.”

“I might be more of a hindrance,” Llona told him frankly. “I said all the wrong things last time. And then I went and sat on their-—”

“That’s all forgotten. I told you. And you won’t put your foot in your mouth again either. I have faith in you, Llona. That last time we were just married and there was all that unconscious hostility because of our lack of sexual adjustment, but this time will be different. We’ve got our sex life straightened out just great. Haven’t we?”

“Yes.” Llona smiled, pleased that he was satisfied, and glad that she had no complaints either. “Yes, we have.”

“Just don’t go trying to shove oral contraceptives down E. Z.’s throat,” Archer cautioned, “and everything will be fine.”

“I hope so,” Llona said. “I just hope so.”

Her fingers were still crossed the next night when she and Archer arrived at the Holdkumbs. Neva—Mrs. Holdkmnb—greeted them at the door. Mama Hippo hadn’t changed.

The voice was still jungle strident, high on the hog as a feasting hyena, and baying with status. Fangs still glittered yellowly at the corners of her lips, the beak was as predatory as ever, and the orbs seemed even redder and meaner than Llona remembered. An Indian sari had replaced the Hawaiian print of memory, but like the former it was slit up the side, and the leg displayed was'tic- tac-toe’d with the varicose updating of Mrs. Holdkumb’s veins. “Hello-hello-hello,” she greeted them. “E. Z.,” she called over her shoulder, “the honeymooners are here.”

“How have you been keeping, Mrs. Holdkumb?” Archer asked with intense sincerity.

“Neva,” Mrs. Holdkumb reminded him. “We’re very informal. Call me Neva.”

“Of course. Neva. You’ve been well, I hope.”

“Yes, thank you, Archer. I’ve been well, but I heard you had an accident. All healed now?”

“Oh, yes. Fit as a fiddle and raring to go.”

Llona didn’t miss the fact that the first-name basis had been denied her. “I’m fine, thank you, Mrs. Holdkumb,” she answered evenly.

“Well now, here we all are!” E. Z. joined them in the living room, rubbing his hands together convivially. “How have you newlyweds been, anyway?”

They replayed that routine as a foursome for a couple of minutes. Then E. Z. scooped up what looked like a small fur muff from one of the chairs and held it up for Llona and Archer to see. “Have you met Trikikidikki?” he asked, his voice cooing in singsong.

Llona and Archer looked mutually blank.

“Trikkidikki,” E. Z. repeated.

“Trikkidikki, Trikkidikki,” Neva Holdkumb crooned. “Izum Mama’s furry pooh-baby, love-fuzz, Trikkidikki!” She took the ball of fur from E. Z. and cuddled it against the scales of her rhino-bosom. “Trikkidikki, Trikkidikki!”

Archer squinted and Llona peered. Since Archer was nearsighted and Llona wasn’t, she was the one to perceive the true nature of the coddled cuddler first. “Why, it’s a dog!” she exclaimed.

“Of course.” ‘There was an edge to Mrs. Ho1dkumb’s voice. “What did you think it was?”

“Naturally, Llona.” Archer was fast on the pickup. “But she was just trying to be funny,” he explained. “She knew it was a dog all the time, same as I did. Isn’t that right, honey?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course,” Llona agreed. “It’s just that I’ve never seen a Chihuahua with so much hair.”

“Chihuahas are hairless,” E. Z. told her.

“Of course they are,” Llona purred. “But then where did you ever get such a tiny sheepdog?”

“Trikkidikki is not a sheepdog!” The icicles in Mrs. Holdkumb’s voice testified to Llona’s verbal faux pas. “He’s a Yorkie.” She relented just long enough to explain.

“He’s adorable.” Llona tried for a recovery, but there was too much enthusiasm in her voice. It called down a Neva-eye filled with bale and an irreversible judgment of insincerity.

E. Z. sighed, took the Yorkie from his wife and set it down on the floor. He patted it safely under the couch and then and only then—he invited Llona and Archer to be seated. There was an awkward pause after everybody sat down.

Mrs. Holdkumb finally deigned to fill it. “Well, I suppose the honeymoon is over for you two,” she said, her tone making it sound like a much-deserved punishment had been administered, and she, for one, was glad of it.

“Not at all.” Llona was prepared to bend over backward to be agreeable, but there were some things she wasn’t going to be pressured into denying. “It’s better than it ever was.” She took Archer’s hand and patted it fondly. flfifirrcher blushed, pleased, but wary, and didn’t say anything.

Really? Well, maybe there’s more to The Pill than I thought," E. Z. said without rancor.

“Oh, Llona doesn’t take The Pill any more,” Archer interjected quickly, afraid that his chance at a new job with E. Z. might be in jeopardy.

“Don’t tell me you’ve come around to the condom?” E. Z. asked.

“She probably uses that greasy kid stuff!” Neva Holdkumb couldn’t resist the dig.

“As a matter of fact, neither.” Llona determinedly maintained her equanimity.

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” E. Z. decided. He turned to Archer. “There have been some changes since you left, my boy,” he told him. “Policy changes.”

“What sort of changes, sir?” Archer snapped to -- alert, attentive, eager.

“I’ll come to that in a moment, my boy. The thing is that right now I might have an opening for you. Do you think you’d be interested?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. Good. Now—”

“Wait a minute.” Neva Holdkumb had been brooding. “If you don’t use something and Archer doesn’t, then just how—?”

“Neva, you’re interrupting,” E. Z. pointed out gently. “I was just about to tell Archer about the firm’s changes in policy and our new product.”

“I’m sorry. But I’m curious to know . . .” Mrs. Holdkumb’s voice trailed off at the look of annoyance her husband shot her.

“New product, sir?” Archer picked up smoothly, brightly.

“Yes. We’ve decided if you can’t lick ’em, join ’em. No obscenity intended.” E. Z. paused for his laugh, received it, and continued. “We were taking such a beating from The Pill, that we decided that the only thing to do was to put out an oral contraceptive of our own. We’ll have one on the market by next month. And We’ll need an experienced man to promote it with the retailers. That’s where you come in, Archer. And if memory serves me, your wife was devoted to The Pill, and she should be of great help to you there.”

“But she doesn’t take it any more!” Mrs. Holdkumb was triumphant. She’d only been waiting for the pieces to fall into conversational place, and how they had. “If you’d been listening, E. Z., you’d have heard that before.”

“Oh? No?” E. Z. looked puzzled. “Then what—?”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to find out, only you keep interrupting!” Mrs. Holdlcumb’s justification was now complete.

“Nothing,” Llona told them calmly.

“Nothing?” E. Z. thought that over and got nowhere. “Have one of you had some sort of operation or something?”

“Of course not, E. Z.,” Archer reassured him.

“Then you’ve decided to have children!” Mrs. Holdkumb’s tone said such a decision was unforgiveable in an overpopulated world.

“No, we haven’t,” Llona demurred.

“Abstinence?” E. Z.’s raised eyebrows said that was no more acceptable than parenthood.

“Hardly.” Llona giggled and squeezed Archer’s hand.

“Well, then how—?” E. Z. was becoming exasperated.

“The rhythm method.” Llona lowered her eyes and managed a maidenly blush.

“AIIEE!” E. Z. was speechless, but not soundless. He was quivering with indignation.

Mrs. Holdkumb nodded her head, satisfied; the infamy had been revealed—and she was the one who had caused it to be exposed.

Archer understood the reason for the Holdkumb’s response before Llona did. It didn’t matter whether the company was manufacturing condoms, or The Pill, or any other contraceptive device. The rhythm method was the common enemy! The company and its competitors might fight over the market, scrap for it with a variety of devices, but they would always present a united front when it came to the rhythm method. It was the one birth control policy which threatened the business and negated the products of all.

And now his wife, Llona, had admitted to practicing the rhythm method! It was worse than a betrayal of the company! It was an act of treason against the entire industry!

“Of course it’s only temporary.” Archer tried desperately to smooth it over. “Llona’s going back on The Pill just as soon as we can afford it, as soon as I start working again. Isn’t that right, dear?”

“If you want me to.” Llona was still bewildered at the response she had evoked. “But it’s really working out okay and I don’t see any reason”

“Reason,” E. Z. groaned.

“Now don’t overexcite yourself, E. Z.” Neva Holdkumb glared at Llona accusingly.

“We’re going back on The Pill!” Archer told Llona through clenched teeth. “We’re going to use The Company Pill! The rhythm method is useless. Right?”

“I don’t—” Suddenly it dawned on Llona. “Oh! Yes-yes! Of course,” she babbled. “That’s right. We ain’t got rhythm. The Pill! The Company Pill! Yes-yes-yes!”

“I think Archer and I should discuss this alone for a few moments.” E. Z. got to his feet. “Will you come into my study with me, Archer?” He shook his head doubtfully at Llona and led the way.

“Of course, sir.” Archer followed him quickly, pausing just long enough to shoot Llona a look that said she should keep her mouth shut while he was gone.

“You don’t mind if I leave you alone for a few moments, do you, dear?” The “dear” tripping off Mrs. Holdkumb’s lips was like the coup de gâce from the officer in charge of the firing squad. “I just want to go into the kitchen and fix some crépes suzette for Trikkidikki’s dinner.”

“Of course. I’ll be fine,” Llona murmured.

When she was alone, Llona stretched to her feet and wandered around the room, berating herself silently for her lack of tact. She had her back to the sofa when Trikkidikki emerged from beneath it. Nor did she see him hop up onto the seat of the chair she’d vacated and burrow under the cushions. There was no way she could have known he was there when she sat back down—hard!

Mrs. Holdkumb returned at the same time as E. Z. and Archer. “Trikkidikki,” she called. “Come and get your dindin! Here, Trikkidikki. Now where can that naughty dog be hiding?”

“He’s probably still under the couch.” E. Z. got down on his hands and knees and peered under the sofa.

“Maybe I can spot him.” Archer joined him.

“Here, Here Trikkidikki ”

Llona shifted in her chair. She felt a slight bump that hadn’t been there before. She groped under the cushion. Horror spread over her face as her worst suspicions were confirmed.

“Here, Here, . . .” Mr. and Mrs. Holdkumb scrambled around the room, bending to look under the furniture. “Here, . . .”

Llona sat very still, immobilized by the realization of what had happened. She was incapable of movement, of speech, even of coherent thought. And all the time this zany verse the kids used to chant baek in grade school kept repeating itself in her mind like a broken record:

Ooey Gooey was a worm.

Ooey Gooey, he did squirm.

He squirmed in front; he squirmed in back.

He squirmed across the railroad track.

Ooey Gooey!

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN