A Pocket Full - Imo Yashima - ebook

They called Billy "The Kid," but when he took to the road, he drove women wild in this tale of blackmail, seduction, group sex, and murder.

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Table of Contents
A Pocket Full
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen

A Pocket Full

Imo Yashima

This page copyright © 2009 Olympia Press.

Chapter One

I was in bed with Joanna Nuzzi when I first got the news of Lucy Nye's disappearance. My lips were tightly pressed to Joanna's left thigh when the phone rang, smashing through my obsession with the tiny veins that curled just below the surface of her skin.

“Crap,” I thought. But I answered it, muttering an unfriendly hello into the receiver.

It was Mr. Nye, rambling hysterically that Lucia (that's the way he pronounced her name) had been kidnapped.

“She probably just ran away,” I commented. Running away was not an uncommon occurrence in Hunter, New York. Teenagers, especially girls, vanished every month, convinced that a new life awaited them in Manhattan or San Francisco.

“My Lucia wouldn't do that!” Mr. Nye maintained nervously. All the parents in Hunter, New York, feigned disbelief at the wandering eyes of their beloved kiddies, unwilling to admit their beloved city was on its way down.

Once, Hunter had been a bustling tourist area, teeming with wealthy summer vacationers. Now clapboard hotels, weather-beaten beyond repair, crumbled from lack of use. The area was still as beautiful as ever, full of wild animals from deer to chipmunk.

“Well, Mr. Nye,” I offered graciously, “did the kidnappers contact you yet?”

“No,” he admitted, somewhat sheepishly.

“Well, what makes you think it was kidnapping?”

“Because my Lucia wouldn't do anything like that.”

Full circle. The conversation had reached something of an impasse. I knew why he was calling me. It was for advice. He knew I was on my summer vacation and that I came from the big city. He, therefore, associated me, in his mind, with big city wiles. Obviously, he really believed his little Lucia had run away, and that I either knew something about it or could find out for him.

“Well, I haven't laid eyes on her, Mr. Nye. If I run into her, I'll call you....”

“You know where she is!” he screamed, angry that he hadn't offered any information.

“Are you accusing me of kidnapping?” I laughed.

The ability of parents to change conversation direction always amused me.

“Don't get so smart, you little half-baked punk,” he continued, his voice now an abrasive half-growl.

“Eat shit, sir,” I chirped, hanging up on him.

Joanna put my head on her belly and began massaging my temples. I could sense her curiosity.

“Who was that, Billy?” She was struggling to keep her voice absurdly matter-of-fact.

“Nobody.” I toyed with her breast, distractedly, waiting for her next question. I knew it would make her happy. Women like that—the little tease that draws the juices out.

“Billy,” she murmured, trying to sound coyly jealous, “please... tell me.”

“That was Mr. Nye.”

“So? What did he want?”

“He wanted a little pussy. I told him Jo Nuzzi was here and that she'd be happy to take him on for ten bucks.”

She couldn't decide if she should smirk or pout. She almost enjoyed sex but any joke about the “sanctity of love” still upset her. I ignored her, and pushed my way down into the softly rising flesh below her navel.

“Tell me what he wanted,” she demanded, her voice as cold as a dead fish.

My head was still buried deeply, but I could picture her face. She had eyes and lips that never softened, not even after we balled, when a woman achieves the only true relaxation of her life.

“Don't be a shit,” I said, my voice a bit muffled by her curly brown bush.

“You're the one who's a shit,” she said, her voice holding a note of pride.

“No, you are.” I couldn't back down immediately.

“You!” Did I detect hysteria?

“All right,” I agreed, laughing in my most magnanimous fashion. “Lucy split on them. Nye's half-crazy and hysterical and he thinks I know where Lucy is. He wants me to find out where she's gone and all that stuff. Satisfied?”

“Lucy wouldn't run away.” Jo was obviously upset by the news. She spoke quietly.

“It's my guess she did.” I returned to my nibbling.

“No. Not Lucy. She didn't run away.” She sounded sure of herself.

“Would you please move your legs apart? And, for chrissakes, stop chopping down on your final syllables.” She did sound as if those last consonants were as secure as her family savings.

“I'm serious, Billy,” she protested, her voice rising into that recognizable whine which always signals the end of sex.

“Tell me why,” I said, wearily, raising my head and rolling over to face her. It didn't matter now. My body, steadily throbbing a few minutes ago, had respectfully withdrawn into indifference.

“Lucy was looking forward to college. She's just graduated from high school and really wants to go to Clark. She wouldn't leave, Billy. She's just not the type.”

I searched my mind for a picture of Lucy. I'd never known her well, but she was an excellent ball, the best I'd run across in the mountains. We'd both been very drunk at the time (this was before I managed to turn the local populace on to the glories of good grass) and we never did get around to really talking to each other. She was going steady (an absurd term, but still in fashion around Hunter) with a grammar school teacher. He was a young guy who courted her with the permission of her parents. I remembered him as something of a liberal who had fought the town elders for the right to include sex education in the schools. It was a battle he not only lost, but which almost cost him his job.

“She probably went and got married to that dummy schoolteacher,” I said, yawning.

“She would have told someone if she was eloping. Besides, I saw Roger today. He didn't say anything.”

It had become clear that if I was going to get laid that night, I was going to have to solve the mystery, or at least put Joanna's mind to rest by establishing Lucy's whereabouts beyond a shadow of a doubt. I handed her the phone.

“Call up Ding-Dong and ask him where his beloved is staying tonight.”

As she dialed, I put my hand over the receiver. “Wait. Let me go into the other room, darling. I don't think I can stand the performance.”

I puttered around in the kitchen for awhile, drank some hot tea and had a ten-minute fantasy of Lucy Nye's breasts, small and round. I was licking them and she was whimpering. Passionately, of course.

Actually, I was getting hot again. I might yet extract some pleasure from Joanna's unfriendly body. The sounds of her conversation, growing louder and louder, interfered with my fantasies; so I opened the door and enjoyed the view of Jo's buttocks. Her ass was large, but firm. Twin cheeks curved away from the slope of her spine toward heavy thighs. Those thighs would, undoubtedly, be at home behind a mule-drawn plough.

She was too absorbed in her conversation to notice me creeping up behind her. I crouched quietly behind her big fat ass, my lips only a few inches from her rotund cheeks. I waited, hoping for her buttocks to pull apart. Unfortunately, they never did, being far too large to separate without some effort on her part or mine. She finally hung up, murmuring comforting words to Lucy's boy friend. She bent over to replace the receiver and I popped my tongue into her ass.

“Oh!” She glared at me, speechless. She didn't take my intrusion into that sacred orifice lightly.

“You're really disgusting, Billy. How can you do that?”

Marijuana is a funny drug. It sensitizes you to the point where any rejection is cause for instant paranoia. And behind fear there is inevitably its first cousin, rage.

“You're getting it tonight, bitch, whether you like it or not.” My voice was even, but Joanna understood my meaning. She trembled visibly.

“All right,” she said. “You can have me.”

She dropped on her back and let her thighs drift slightly apart.

“Go ahead,” she ordered.

“Open them wider,” I said, a hard edge creeping into my voice. She did as she was told.


She opened up all the way. I stared down. The thought of diving down into that desert made me even more angry.

“Let's try the higher entry,” I suggested sarcastically, while I moved up to stand by her head.

I let my limp penis fall onto her lips. “Go ahead, lick it—and watch those teeth.”

She opened her mouth and the head disappeared inside.

“What an ugly broad you are,” I observed, my voice edged with venom. “You've got the torso of a refrigerator and your tits are drooping at nineteen. You'll be a disaster area by the time you're thirty, bitch.”

I was getting very hard. The rising blood was pulling me up and out of her mouth, so I sat across her chest and fed it to her from that angle.

“That's good. Five years in a Harlem cathouse would do you a lot of good, baby. You might even blossom into a mediocre lay.”

My fingers wandered across her bush and I pushed down onto the ragged cleft. I entered her with two fingers and then pushed my hand up hard. Her reaction was instantaneous. She pivoted on my fist, moving her body in a series of half-circles. I knew she was expecting me to pull out of her mouth and drop down, but I was much too excited to worry about her. I held her head as I came in her mouth. She choked becomingly, still playing the part of the used virgin as I thrust until I had nothing more to give.

“You're a bastard,” she said as soon as she was free.

“You better shut your mouth now,” I warned. She shut up but didn't make an effort to dress and leave. We were in my parent's cabin. They no longer used the place because they vacationed on their yacht, now that my father had hit the big time.

I took her hand, searching her face with understanding eyes. I moved it over her vagina tenderly, placing the fingers on her clitoris.

“Don't be ashamed,” I counseled. “Shame never made anyone come. You go ahead. Have your orgasm.”

She pulled her hand away, but was charitable. I went down on her. She almost made it, working herself up to a quick series of bumps and grinds as I pushed at her with my tongue. But it was, as usual, no use, and she came down to her normal sense of frustration as soon as I gave my aching jaws a rest.

“I really hate you,” she said, lying motionless on the sheets.

“You should wash more often,” I observed. I wondered, absently, if she would tell her friends about the blowjob.

I lay quietly beside her, eyes closed. The effort of so many emotions was having an effect on my brain. All I wanted was a few minutes of peace. Joanna, sensing my need for calm, set out immediately to upset it.

“I called Roger Oberman,” she began. I didn't respond. She persisted. “Do you want to know what he said?”


“He's as surprised she's gone as Mr. Nye. In fact,” (and this she confided with all the assurance of a schoolteacher) “he's near hysterical himself.”

“So what?”

“And,” she snorted, “they're organizing a search party for her. They're going to look in the woods.”

I hadn't thought of that. There had been some instances where girls had been raped. The whole town was frightened. But that had been several months ago and things were calm now. There was always the possibility of her being hurt and unable to reach help, but I doubted it. Very few of the locals were of so poetic a turn of mind that they'd wander alone in the surrounding forests.

“You should go and offer your help,” she clucked.

I looked at her resentfully. I stared for some seconds at her broad jaw with its tight frame of close-cropped hair.

“Everything about you is square,” I declared. “You're the ugliest cunt I ever saw.”

“If you really thought that,” she hypothesized, “you wouldn't be here with me now.”

I guess she thought that was pretty damn clever of her.

“Actually,” I smiled warmly, “I wouldn't be here, but the last cow I cornered in the pasture kicked me in the knee, and sheep are quite scarce in the Catskill Mountains this time of year.”

Lucy Nye's father wasn't exactly happy to see me when I arrived to join the search party. He accepted me because he needed every man he could get. He even swallowed his pride and apologized for yelling over the phone, explaining that he was upset by Lucy's disappearance. He admitted he didn't suspect me of having anything to do with it. After all, I was, he said, well-known to the whole community, having grown up there. Actually, it was probably one of the city people who come up to hunt and fish. City people were notorious in Hunter for the insatiability of their libidos.

I listened patiently, wondering what would happen if they finally caught up with her shacking up with some guy. I enjoyed several brief fantasies of lynchings.

We marched through the underbrush holding flashlights, calling Lucy's name over and over again. We were as persistent as we were dumb. We walked mile after mile, exploring farm buildings that had been abandoned years before. The sun was coming up. The only thing we found was a skunk, who sprayed one unfortunate member of the posse directly in the face, which put him in the hospital for three days.

During the search, I questioned Lucy's friends. I was convinced that someone knew where she was and simply wasn't telling. I was, in fact, unhappy that I wasn't in on the secret. I had a reputation to uphold. I was supposed to be a fast, hip New Yorker. This was true when I was in Hunter, Manhattan being a little tougher to impress. My exclusion naturally upset me and it was only after questioning a dozen kids that I finally understood. Lucy really had vanished and no one knew where she was.

My closest friend in Hunter was Martin Lenmanski, a Polish kid who played a good guitar and fantasized a rock-and-roll life, with groupies clinging to every opening of his body. He was also an especially close friend of Lucy's. He listened to all her adolescent problems without demanding the usual sexual privileges.

“Where is she, Marty?” I half-kidded when we met for a moment on the top of a mountain.

“Gone.” He spoke in a half-dazed whisper.

“What does that mean?” I asked, sarcastically.

“I don't know. She's just gone. I can feel it.”

After that, the search became meaningless. I felt afraid, as if I'd stumbled onto something more serious than my own adolescent flippancy was ready to handle.

Chapter Two

For the next few days all anybody spoke of was Lucy Nye and her sudden disappearance. Nothing much ever happens in good old Hunter. The opening of a new motel is usually enough to qualify for the year's biggest event. Something like Lucy's disappearance was bound to receive a lot more attention that it deserved.

I tried to keep away from all the discussions of her kidnapping, her rape, her murder, her body buried somewhere in the hills and all the other morbid suppositions. Looking back on the whole scene now, I think I must have been more intrigued than I wanted to admit.

The week following the moonlight search passed interestingly for me. I was trying to make Beverly Peterson, a registered WASP with all pretensions pertaining to such an exalted station. (“I'm just as good as any Rockefeller!”) My advances, delivered with all the sophistication I could muster, were getting me nowhere. Yet, I persisted. My dog-like devotion to this worthy cause finally got to the brink.

We'd been walking all afternoon in the woods, pausing to drink from a stream or to watch trout and crayfish that clung to the bottom where the current was slowest. We caught frogs (a sure aphrodisaic, I've since discovered) and shared a picnic lunch. Not even once did she catch me peeking up her dress as she ducked beneath some barbed wire, nor did she spy me staring down her blouse, which was partially opened due to the heat.

At last, exhausted, we came to clearing right next to my cabin. This feat truly demonstrated my superb woodsmanship since we'd started on the opposite side of the mountain.

“Let's go in and get something cold to drink.” I suggested this blandly without explaining how we happened to be here. I've learned one thing about seduction. You can't allow yourself to really care because women genuinely love to exercise their cruelty on overeager males.

She looked at me quizzically, but not in the same cow-like manner as so many girls do. I suppose she knew damn well what I was up to but she just nodded and said she was thirsty. There was, after all, no one around, no spies to ruin her reputation in the community. I caught her looking around as she walked into the room.

“Looking for someone?” I asked, smiling prettily at her.

“No one special,” she returned evenly. “Just anyone at all.” She had great lips, and a crystal clear complexion that smacked of thorough hygienic training. Her eyes, coldly blue, were intelligent and quick to recognize my maneuverings. I liked her especially for her legs. They were long and slim, just the opposite of Joanna's ponderous trunks.

I puttered with bottles and openers, imagining her thighs ending in a quick slash of red, a mound visible without her legs moving apart.

“Here,” I said, offering her the bottle instead of bothering with glasses and ice cubes. If she suspected there was something amiss in my manners, she didn't show it. She said nothing, accepting and drinking deeply-

“Bev,” I began, taking her hand in mine, “let's ball.”

“Don't be so sure of yourself,” she snapped, “it's not becoming to you.”

“Gee, Bev,” I said, leaning closer to whisper in her ear, “you sure talk funny for a girl. I hear your mother's Jewish.”

That got to her. She jumped up and swung at me. It was an obvious blow and one which I avoided without undue dignity.

“You shit,” she screamed. “You dirty shit.”

“Come off it, before I expose myself.”

She settled down after that. She made no attempt to leave, which is something I've never understood about women. I wasn't holding her prisoner—if she decided to stick around I had no choice but to see it as an open invitation to screw.

“You're a child,” she decided, giggling. You're probably enough of a child to do just that.”

“Do we ball after the insults?” I asked. “This must be leading somewhere.”

“Do you think I'm a virgin?”

“Well, aren't you?”

“No, I'm not.”

“Well, what happened?” I asked casually. Did you fall on a picket fence? Or was it horseback riding?”

“No,” she returned easily, “it was my Uncle George.”

“Come off it, baby. That incest rap is as old as the hills. Who the fuck needs it?”

“He caught me,” she continued, “behind the barn one night when I was fifteen. He was stinking drunk and when he pulled me down I didn't scream because I was scared my parents would hear.”

“Did you read all that in My Secret Confession?” I asked. “Or did you make it up all by yourself?”

“Expose yourself,” she ordered.

I pulled it out obediently and showed it to her, already erect.

“Not too bad. I wish I had one as big. I'd stick it right up your ass.”

“Let's get down to business,” I said, taking off the rest of my clothes. She followed the lead, stripping quickly and efficiently. Naked, she was beautiful. Her breasts, the only fault I could make out, were flat and shaped like cylinders, standing straight out from her chest with abnormally large nipples. Her stomach was perfect, running inward to the navel, then pushing out toward her mound. Her legs were all I'd hoped for— long, straight and slim.

“You name it,” I suggested.

She went into the bedroom and laid across the mattress, pulling her legs up over her chest.

“Eat me,” she ordered.

I belt down to her thighs, sniffing carefully. As I expected, a heavy sweat had collected at the opening of her box (we'd been hiking all day) with the resultant fragrance abundantly evident. Just as I was about to probe between the folds and expose a clitoris I knew would be swollen and red, there came, apropos of any bad novel, a knock at the door.

“This is getting to be ridiculous,” I muttered, getting up to pull on my pants. “Wait here and don't make a sound. I'll get rid of whoever it is.”

I had every intention of tossing her clothes under the couch before I answered the knock, but the outline of a blue peaked cap through the screen put such thoughts out of my head. I couldn't imagine the police being here for any other reason than marijuana and I expected the inevitable search warrant and arrest.

“Yes?” I called without opening the door, unable to keep the trembling from my voice.

“Open up, we want to ask you a few questions.”

I considered making a dash for the bathroom, thinking that I might have enough time to flush my drugs away.

“What do you want to talk to me about?” I asked.

“Just a few questions, son,” a softer voice called, “about Lucia Nye.”

I let them in with relief, forgetting Beverly's clothes draped over the back of the chair. There were two of them, one in uniform and the other in a dark business suit. They were both about forty, but the detective was graying with dignity; the regular cop was fat and sloppy with small eyes and a mean, thin mouth.

“Well, what can I do for you?” I asked when they were inside.

“We're trying to find Lucia Nye,” the detective said, his voice thick as if he'd just suffered a stroke.

“Look, I don't know where she is,” I wanted to establish that from the outset.

“Take it easy, son. No one's accusing you of anything. I'm sure you're just as worried as the rest of us. If you could give us any information, no harm would come to you. You have my word on that.”

“Look, man,” I said, “she just ran away like five or six other chicks this summer. Put up a reward poster in the East Village and hope for the best. That's all you can do.”

“We don't think she ran away,” the detective slurred.

“Why not?”

“Let me ask the questions, all right?” he threatened. “Did she ever talk about running away?”

“No, but I wasn't that close to her,” I said. “You'll have to ask some of her real good friends.”

“We already did,” the uniformed cop spoke for the first time, “and nobody knows nuttin.” He really did say it that way, and the detective looked at him coldly, obviously warning him to keep his mouth shut.

“Well, I don't know anything about it either.”

That ended it, and they were about to leave when the detective turned back and fired a quick question at me. “Do you know a man named Groper? Or The Groper?”

“No,” I lied without knowing why. Not only did I lie, but I did it so convincingly that once again they turned to leave. The cop in the brass buttons, unfortunately, spotted Beverly's clothes on the chair and wheeled back to me with a malicious smirk.

“What's this?” he asked. “You married, kid?”

“They're my sister's,” I lied obviously.

“Who you kidding?” he returned. “How do I know they don't belong to the Nye girl?”

“What kind of filthy remark is that, you moron?”

I thought he was going to hit me—I know he was going to hit me. He stepped forward with his fist cocked, but the detective stepped between us, pushing him backward toward the door.

“Did you hear what he said to me?”

“Just move it, Reilly,” the detective ordered, and they left Beverly and me alone again.

“I think what you said to him was very brave,” she said to me when we were again on the bed.

“Not half as courageous as my sticking my face in that stinkpot of yours,” I declared.

“I washed while you were talking to them.”

I dropped my head down and took a deep breath, finding her clean and free, the dark curls of her thin hair still moist. I dipped down to her vagina and felt her thighs curl lazily around my head. The work of my tongue was slow and easy that night; we seemed to have all the time in the world, and I knew that Beverly was going to make it. As I pressed my forehead harder against her crotch, her response was clear and wild. I felt the walls of her vagina contract and pull against my tongue. Almost in a daze, I pulled myself up until our faces were together, lips exchanging caresses and bodies locked in ecstatic union.

Beverly began to moan something about my sweetness, and I was too excited to respond with customary sarcasm. I kept kissing her, biting her tongue and licking the end of her nose, my hips pushing forward quickly, only to withdraw instantly, then push again. The bedsprings were creaking wildly, the mattress bouncing up and down, but both of us were oblivious to anything but our shared passion. For once in my life, my orgasm was free of the slightest traces of pain and the moans that passed between my lips became a smile that stayed with me long after we had finished.

“That was beautiful,” I told her as soon as I caught my breath.

She didn't answer, but lay with her eyelids lightly closed, her breathing slow and even. I nuzzled against her breasts, kissing them until they stood on end, and she moaned softly.

“We're going to do it again, tonight,” I whispered directly into her ear. She smiled at that, nodding her head.

“Do not disturb,” she said, imitating a sign on a hotel doorknob, “I'm making the whole thing last. I'm remembering everything.” She tightened her already closed eyelids, as if forcing the image into her memory. “Where did you learn to fuck like that, you asshole adolescent?”

“Well, it all began when I discovered that the only straight path to a clear complexion was a pair of empty testicles.”

She took my sac in her hand and squeezed tentatively. “I think there's still a little moisture left,” she speculated, moving for the first time to take my limp, wet prick into her mouth.

“I love to do this,” she admitted. “I like it when it's wet. Don't tell anyone.”

She licked me into an erection once again. I felt vaguely disassociated as I watched my flesh grow in her mouth. Her face was even more beautiful now that we'd gotten to this point—too beautiful for my own safety.

“Are you trying to make me care about you?” I asked.

“Glug, glug, glug,” she returned, her tongue much more concerned with my penis than with her words.

“I don't think I like this.” That was the last thing I said for awhile. I was about to come and uncertain as to whether I should give her pussy the pleasure of my orgasm. Unfortunately, I hesitated a bit too long, not that it bothered her. She never lost a beat, swallowing my sperm with what could only have been long-practiced precision.

When I left the bed, standing next to her, she put her hands down between her legs and began to massage her clitoris.

“Men don't know how to do this,” she said. “How could they?”

“Where does it hurt?” I asked, putting my hand down flat along the sharp line of her cleft.

“Push a finger down inside,” she requested, her breath getting ragged. “That's nice. Now use the back of your thumb on my clit. Don't be afraid. Push hard.”

I did as I was told, watching her closely. She had the look of utmost concentration, as if she was conjuring up an orgasm that had at least as much to do with her head as her body. Her feet were set flat on the bed and she was pushing her crotch up to meet my probing fingers. I slid my free hand across her buttocks, probing down between them for the tight circle of her anus.

“How's that?”

“You've found my weakness,” she answered, groaning as I pushed between the grasping ring of muscle to penetrate her bowels. “Is nothing scared?”

Her body began to move in the beginnings of orgasm, slight jerks that had nothing to do with whatever fantasy she was holding in her head. Her cunt grew wetter, the walls of her vagina opening and closing rhythmically. A flush crept over her breasts and belly, pushed up her neck until it seemed as if she had a bad case of hives, an affliction which in no way bothered her, however, for she began to shake like a spastic as I wriggled my fingers, reaching almost to the entrance of her womb.

“Oh, shit, shit,” she cried, her voice trailing off into a series of inarticulate sounds as her orgasm built to its peak. I was hard again, something unusual for me, and I withdrew my fingers to plop down on top of her, guiding my penis between her lips and plunging deep inside. It took me exactly two minutes to come since I didn't have any worry about her pleasure, it being enacted before my eyes. She hadn't yet finished as I started my final plunge, and our eyes met as I poured into her, sweat in our brows and hair, looking just as disheveled and happy as we should have been.

“Do you always come like that?” I asked later, while we were enjoying a post-ball cigarette.

“Not always.”

“Most of the time?” I persisted.

“Very rarely.”

“When do you come?”

“All right,” she conceded, “only when I screw my uncle. Satisfied?”

“Jesus Christ, you're perverted,” I said. “For a second I thought it was something I did.”

She seemed honestly hurt by what I said, and that wasn't playing fairly. At that time, I believed that any emotional ties signaled the death throes of pleasure, and I avoided involvement in the name of orgasm.

“It was you,” she declared firmly. “You did it.”

“Did what?”

She got up and began pulling on her clothing. “You're a total shit. You're a filthy cocksucker.”

I said nothing when she started toward the door although I was scared of losing her, a fear I didn't want to acknowledge. I was determined to let her go without a word, but she turned back to me with her hand on the screen.

“If you don't admit that you care about me, I'll never see you again. If I just wanted to come, I could screw my uncle all the time.”

I hesitated for just a moment, long enough to see that she meant it, then gave in. “I care about you, you fucking pig.”

She came back and sat beside me on the bed. Neither of us spoke for a long time, for what seemed an hour. We smoked cigarette after cigarette, always about to speak, but never quite getting the words out. I was actively hating her.

Finally, she broke the silence. “What did the cops want?”

It was a good enough excuse. “They were looking for Lucy.” Silence again which I broke a few seconds later. “Have you seen Groper?”

“No. I think he left for Jersey City. That's where he's from, isn't it?”

“Yeah. It's funny, his leaving just when Lucy disappeared.”

“Billy?” she questioned.


“Are you going to look for Lucy?”

“I don't know,” I answered, my head turned tightly to the floor. “What do you care?”

“I think it's time for me to go.”

“Yeah, I think it is,” I decided. “Why did you have to blow a good thing? Why couldn't you leave well enough alone? Isn't ecstasy enough for you?”

She said nothing, but headed quickly out the door.

Her triumph having been attained, she had nothing more to accomplish.

“I hope the mosquitoes bite the shit out of you,” I yelled after her. Yet, already, I was thinking of Groper and Lucy Nye, of what possible connection they could have, and of why the police had come running to me.

Chapter Three

This is the point at which definitions are in order. I think all of us know instinctively that we are no longer the same person we were at nineteen, which was my age at the time of Lucy's vanishing, so perhaps these delineations of my character are as much for myself as anyone else.