“I liked it too,” she said, and she meant it.

  “Will I see you again?”

  “How long will you be in town?”

  “Another week,” he said.

  “I’ll meet you in the cocktail lounge at eight o’clock tomorrow night,” Janey promised.

  “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

  “Me too,” she said.

  It was ten minutes to ten when she finished saying goodbye to him and left him in his room. Hurrying to the elevator, she rode downstairs and walked quickly up the block to the place where Charley had parked the car. He was waiting for her.

  He looked unhappy, the way he always did when she came back from a session. He can’t help feeling jealous, Janey thought. Even though he wasn’t the first fellow she had made it with, he hated it when she cooped up with anyone else. Only the thought of the five hundred bucks made him swallow his jealousy.

  “Well?” he said roughly.

  “It worked fine,” she said. “I picked up an architect from Philly. He was looking for companionship. I gave it to him.”

  “You took your goddam time about it,” he grunted.

  “I said I’d be back here by ten, and I am. So what are you moaning about? Come on, get this heap moving—we don’t have that much time, you know.”

  “Okay. Okay.”

  He pushed the starter and got the car going.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later they were back at their own apartment. Janey rushed quickly through her transformation. Off came the low-neckline dress, off came the fancy-dan brassiere, off came the nylon stockings and the makeup and the sophisticated-looking hairdo.

  Hastily she donned the outfit Charley laid out for her. A cheap yellow sweater, tight against her body. An ordinary plaid skirt. Bobby-sox, loafers, a wide leather belt. She bunched her hair in a ponytail, put a different color lipstick on, and made a mental change of gears so she would be wearing a more innocent expression. The transformation was complete. In the space of ten minutes she had blotted years from her apparent age.

  “How do I look?” she asked.

  “Like a perfect bobbysoxer. All set?”

  “Yeah. Just let me find the bubble-gum.”

  By ten-thirty they were on their way again, and by quarter to eleven they were standing outside of Ron Martin’s room at the Boardwalk Plaza Hotel. She and Charley exchanged a glance. He looked nervous, the way he always did when they went to cash in.

  “Go ahead—knock!” Janey urged him.

  Charley nodded and rapped twice on the door.

  “Who’s there?” the architect’s deep voice called out from within.

  “Mr. Martin?”

  “That’s right. I’m coming.”

  The door opened. Charley pushed it open before Martin could do anything, and Janey followed him in. Martin was wearing only a silk dressing-gown. He looked puzzledly from Janey to Charley and back to Janey again.

  “You ever see this girl before?” Charley demanded belligerently.

  “Why, no! I mean—oh, no!”

  “That’s right,” Charley said. “She was all dressed up before, but now she’s in her everyday clothes. I made her change. A girl her age don’t have any business dressing up the way she likes to.”

  “A girl her age?” Martin repeated, frowning. “Just—how old—is she?”

  “She’ll be seventeen next month,” Charley snapped.

  Martin looked bewildered. “This is some kind of joke you’re pulling, huh? This is the kid sister of the girl who—who was here earlier.”

  “She’s my kid sister,” Charley said. “And she’s the same girl you put your lousy paws all over. Show him the birthmark, Sis.”

  Janey had made a point of showing Martin the small birthmark on the inside of her left thigh. Now she hiked her dress up to her hips and sullenly demonstrated the mark again.

  “See it?” Charley said. “It’s the same girl. And not even seventeen. There’s a law against that kind of stuff, Martin.”

  The architect chuckled. “But how is anyone supposed to know? I could have sworn she was in her twenties when she picked me up in the bar. And she picked me up, no two ways about that.”

  “It don’t matter,” Charley said stubbornly. “The law is supposed to protect young girls against themselves, too. It don’t matter who picked who up. You went to bed with her, and that makes you guilty of statutory rape.”

  The architect stared expressionlessly at Charley. After a moment he said, “Statutory rape?”

  “You heard me. They can put you away a long time for that. And it makes a noisy splash in the papers.”

  “Are you going to turn me in?”

  Charley shrugged. “All depends on you.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that I don’t want my kid sister’s good name to get ruined by being smeared all over the front pages. So I’m willing to let you get off easy.”

  “How easy?”

  “Give me five hundred bucks in cash and get yourself out of town by tomorrow, and I’ll forget all about it. Otherwise I go to the cops and tell them that you’re the bastard who seduced my sister.”

  Instead of answering, Martin began to laugh.

  “What’s so damn funny?” Charley asked.

  “Nothing, really. Except that this is such a good dodge I wish I’d thought of it myself!”

  Janey and Charley exchanged uneasy glances.

  “Huh?” Charley said.

  “I mean, this business of sending the girl into a hotel to pick up wealthy-looking strangers, and then dressing her up as a teenager to milk some dough. It’s a lovely idea! And you damn near fooled me, too.”

  Charley took a step forward. “Listen, mac, I don’t know what you’re chattering about, but I want five hundred bucks for what you did to my sister, or—”

  “Listen yourself, mac. It’s a good story and you put it over well, and she sure looks the part. Only a little common sense tears the whole thing apart. If your kid sister’s as young and as innocent as she looks, where’d she learn to be so good in bed? That ‘teenager’ knows some pretty grownup stunts, let me tell you. And she puts on a pretty sophisticated act in a bar, too. So I’m not swallowing your story. Go tell it to the cops.”

  * * *

  Charley was absolutely silent. Janey looked at him in surprise. This was the first time anyone had called the bluff. They couldn’t go to the cops, of course. Martin wasn’t guilty of a thing except going to bed with her, and there was no law against that. If he flatly refused to pay, they couldn’t do anything.

  Charley said uncertainly, “I want that five hundred bucks, or—”

  “Or you’ll go to the cops. So go to the cops, if you want to. Try telling them she’s seventeen, and prove it. You got a birth certificate or something?” Martin laughed. “Suppose you two get the hell out of here, now, before I call the cops and have you both run in for extortion. It’s been very pleasant talking to you, and it was very nice to get an hour in bed with your sister or whoever she is. Now scram.”

  Janey saw the anger flare up in Charley. “Why, you lousy—”

  He came rumbling forward. He was three or four inches taller than Martin, and maybe thirty pounds heavier. He brought one big fist up, but before he could do anything Martin’s right hand slipped between Charley’s fists and landed a solid blow in the middle. Charley grunted and stopped advancing. Martin came in to attack him.

  Charley was cut to ribbons. He had all the weight, but Martin fought with practically professional skill. His fists weaved in and out, round about the confused Charley, landing damaging blows on face, chest, midsection.

  Charley’s lip was split and bloody, his eye puffed, his cheek bruised, within a moment. He hadn’t landed as much as one blow himself. Janey stood frozen, unable to do a thing, as Martin mercilessly battered Charley to a pulp and finally grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him, tottering dizzily, out into the hall.

  Martin slammed the door. Janey said, “Let me out of here. You hurt him!”

  “He asked for it.”

  “Let me out. Why are you keeping me here?”

  Martin stepped forward and his hand dug into her shoulder. “You’ve got a pretty good racket there, kiddo. It’s too bad Charley picked the wrong customer to deal with. How old are you, really?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  “How old are you?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  Martin’s open hand sailed through the air and collided with Janey’s cheek. The impact nearly tore her head off.

  “For the third time,” he said. “Don’t make me knock all your teeth out. How old?”

  “I’m—I’m almost twenty-three,” she said, stammering with fright.

  “That’s about what I thought. Though you make a very convincing teenager, in this outfit. Okay. We leave for New York tomorrow morning.”

  “New York? We leave?”

  He nodded smilingly. “I was just handing you a line, about Philadelphia and my being an architect. I’m from New York. Down here on vacation. I’m not an architect, either. I’m—in a number of businesses. And now I’ve got a new one.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “You will, soon enough. You have any family here? Are you married to that goon I beat up?”

  “I was just living with him,” she said faintly. “I don’t have any family.”

  “Okay, then. You’re coming with me. I’ll set you up in my place in New York and we’ll run this statutory rape gimmick for all it’s worth.”

  “No—no,” she murmured. “Charley and I—we were supposed to get married—”

  “He’s a nothing.”

  “I don’t want to go away with you.”

  The so-called architect’s face was suddenly menacing. “You’ll leave with me or I’ll fix you so you aren’t good for anything, after this. You hear?”

  Thoughts pinwheeled wildly through her head. She was afraid of this strange man, afraid of his strength, his cruelty. But he offered the mystery and adventure of New York, of money. Why hang around with—he said it, a nothing—like Charley, when she could go to New York? She wavered, half afraid, half tempted.

  Suddenly the door burst open. Charley stood there, a battered, bloody, disheveled figure. There was a knife in his hand. He had gone back to the car to get his knife, Janey thought.

  “Okay, you bastard,” Charley muttered in a low, hate-filled voice. “You’re pretty handy with your fists, aintcha? And you got cute ideas about my girl? Well, after I’ve carved you a little maybe you’ll have different ideas.”

  He came forward, kicking the door shut behind him. Martin, unarmed, retreated into a corner of the room. He had gone very pale. Charley was like a hulking gorilla, moving slowly toward him with the knife.

  “Nobody gets to beat me up like that,” Charley grunted. “I’m gonna cut your ears off first. Then—”

  “Keep away from me, you ape!”

  Janey watched, dry-throated. In another moment Charley would reach him, would cut him up, and then the two of them would be free to leave. Suddenly she remembered the way Martin had been in bed, and the slick, smooth way he had talked to her in the bar. That was lots better than spending the rest of her life with a clod like Charlie, she thought.

  The decision took only a second. She grabbed up the ornamental vase that was sitting on top of the television set and smashed it down on Charley’s skull.

  He dropped like a felled oak. She looked down, seeing the blood welling out of his hair.

  “Janey,” he whimpered. “Janey—you hit me—”

  His voice died away. He was out cold. Martin snatched the knife from his nerveless fingers and put it in his pocket.

  “I didn’t think you were going to do that,” Martin said in a hoarse voice. “I thought for sure that ape was going to cut me up.”

  Janey smiled. There was a strange, bright, new look about her. She looked down at the unconscious Charley. To hell with him, she thought.

  “We leave for New York tomorrow,” she said.

  DRUNKEN SAILOR

  Originally published in the October, 1958 issue of

  TRAPPED DETECTIVE STORY MAGAZINE

  Marty Bowman felt slightly scared as he walked down Broadway in his sailor’s uniform, heading for the big bar on the corner at 42nd Street. Tony Donelli had told him he was sure to pick up a girl for the night there, and Marty hoped so. But he was scared. He had joined the Navy to see the world, like the posters said, and this was the first time he was seeing New York.

  The bright lights of Times Square dazzled his eyes. He had never seen anything like them before, certainly not back in his home state of Nebraska. He had been to Omaha a couple of times, but Omaha was pretty small potatoes compared with New York.

  He reached the corner and stood outside the bar, looking in. It was a big place, long, dim inside. He could see people sitting at the bar—other sailors, too—and girls. Other people were sitting at tables in the back. Marty felt a lump in his throat. He was nineteen, a big raw gangling blond kid, and he had never had a woman in his life. Tony Donelli had been kidding him about it on the ship, all the past months while they had cruised the Atlantic making a tour of the American defense bases. Marty wished Tony Donelli had come along with him tonight, this first night of shore leave in New York.

  But Tony had insisted that he go out on his own. “It’s the only way to learn, kid. The fledglings have to be pushed out of the nest. But you’ll make out okay. I got faith in you, kid.”

  It was encouraging to know that Tony had faith in him. Tony Donelli was about thirty, a tough, lean-faced man who was on his third or fourth reenlistment hitch. A real sailor. He had been all around the world for Uncle Sam’s Navy, and he knew all the angles, every trick there was in the book.

  In the last month or so he had taken Marty under his wing, so to speak. He had coached him in what to do when he got to New York. Good old Tony, Marty thought warmly. He really helped me out.

  Yesterday, before the ship had docked, Tony had spent an hour giving Marty his final briefing. He had told him exactly what bar to go to for a pickup, had told him how to know which girls were looking to be picked up. Tony had advised him to carry a lot of money—girls like to be impressed that way—but also to be careful with it. Marty had cashed in a couple of checks and had borrowed a little dough too. He had better than two hundred bucks, all of it in small bills. It made a fine thick roll in his wallet. It was sure to impress any girl.

  A couple of people went past him and into the bar. Marty moistened his lips, then licked them again. He couldn’t stand out here stalling all night. Tony was sure to know if he was telling the truth or not, when he got back to the ship. He had to go inside, pick up a girl, take her to a room.

  He sucked in a deep breath and decided the time had come. He pushed open the door and went in.

  * * *

  The place was noisy. Some kind of jazz band was pounding away on a raised stage in the back. Marty was bewildered and confused by the sudden rush of noise and smell that came to him at once, the noise of hundreds of people talking and the smell of liquor. But he got control of himself quickly. He remembered Tony’s detailed instructions.

  Go to the bar first. Have a drink first thing. Loosen up a little. Then look around.

  Marty found an open stool at the bar and slid onto it. The bartender was a thick-set bald-headed man who looked at him inquisitively without saying anything.

  “B-beer,” Marty said.

  A moment later he found a glass sitting in front of him—half full, with a couple of inches of foam on top. He reached for it.

  “Thirty-five cents, sailor.” Marty peeled a bill off his roll and slid it across the bar top. Only as he handed it over did he realize it was a five and not a single, but by then it was too late. The barkeep glared at him and made change with obvious reluctance.

  Marty sipped his beer. Thirty-five cents for a glass of beer seemed awfully expensive. But this was New York, he reminded himself. Everything cost too much.

  He looked around, next. Now was the time to find himself a girl. He tried to remember the things Tony had told him.

  Stay away from blondes. They’re all pretty phony and some of them will play you for all you got and then not come across. Redheads you can’t predict. Better look for a brunette.

  And don’t pick one too young, either. A lot of them can get you in trouble. Look for a girl about thirty or so. Old enough to really know the score. She’ll give you a good time and help you along if you don’t know what to do.

  No flashy dressers, either. You want a simple type. She’ll be sitting alone, maybe, or shooting the breeze with another girl. Don’t cut in on a guy who’s already hooked a girl. You may get your guts chopped up that way. Just look around and don’t rush things. If you find a girl, talk to her without coming to the point. If she asks you to buy her a drink, you got it made.

  Marty sat back on the bar stool, looking around, thinking about all the things Tony had said. And then he saw the girl.

  She was sitting by herself at one of the tables, drinking a cup of coffee. She had light brown hair and she wore a brown coat that didn’t look new. By the fleshiness of her throat she looked to be about thirty. Tony had showed him how you could tell a woman’s age by looking at her throat.

  This girl seemed to fill the bill as Tony had outlined it. Alone. Brunette. Not too young. Not well dressed. This is it, Marty thought. He stared at her a minute, and then she saw him and smiled at him. It was a direct invitation. Feeling calm and self-confident now, Marty pushed himself away from the bar and headed over to her table.

  * * *

  She looked at him. “Hello, sailor.”

  “Hello, there. Mind if I sit down—Miss?”

  “Glad to have you. Always looking for company.”

  He sat down. His stomach was fluttery now and his heart was pounding.

  She said, “I’ll bet you came in with the fleet yesterday. You on shore leave?”

  “That’s right. Just back from a tour of the Atlantic bases.”