One gray fall afternoon several days before this telegram was sent, in an exclusive club high above the dismal windswept streets of lower Manhattan, two expensively dressed gentlemen had just finished discussing the effects of the latest peace initiative on the stock market and were turning their thoughts to lighter subjects. Their relationship was broker-client, but over the years they had become close friends despite the enormous differences in their characters and backgrounds.
Axel Borman, the broker, was a massive bear-like gray-haired man approaching fifty who gave an impression almost of a ponderousness which, as his opponents on the handball courts of the club found out to their regret, was totally misleading. He kept his muscular, heavy-framed body in excellent condition and could still move faster than many men half his age. As for the quality of his mind, it was generally referred to as being of the steel-trap variety. The son of a poor Wisconsin farmer, he had put himself through college, won a scholarship to the Harvard Business School and gone on to become the top executive and driving force in one of Wall Street's most prestigious brokerage firms.
His client, Breckenridge Richmond III, known to his close friends as "Jock", was cast from a completely different mold. Scion of an illustrious old American family and heir to a considerable fortune, which, incidentally, he had more than doubled by having the good sense to take Axel Borman's advice, he was a trim slender man, about five feet eight, blond, blue-eyed, with a lazy indolent manner of moving and speaking which gave to strangers the impression that he was just one more of the brainless rich who had inherited their wealth and couldn't get a job as a messenger boy if he had to do it on his own. Only his closest friends knew that he had graduated from Princeton at the top of his class and had been one of the most decorated fighter pilots of the Korean war. Blessed with perfect coordination, wiry strength and apparently limitless endurance, he was one of the few members of the club who could trounce Axel at handball. This was a fact which often entered obliquely into their less serious conversations.
"I was just wondering, Jock," Axel was saying as he studied the long fine ash on the tip of his cigar, "what kind of shape you're in these days; for example, do you think you can still run fast enough to snatch a lady's handbag on a crowded city street and get away with it?"
"You should know what kind of shape I'm in," Jock reminded his friend pleasantly. "What was the score the last time we played?" He knew better than to ask the reason for this odd question, which had come completely out of the blue. Axel enjoyed taking people by surprise. "Anyway," he added, "if it's this city you're talking about, that's not much of a test. Nobody would bother to chase me."
"I would," Borman replied firmly.
"Oh well, if it was only you…" Jock let his voice trail off, waiting for Axel to come to the point. The older man opened his dispatch case, pulled out a manila envelope and handed it across the table.
"What do these say to you?" he asked, a faint smile of anticipation creasing his square-jawed, usually expressionless face.
Jock opened the envelope and gave a low whistle of astonishment. Inside there were three glossy photographs, close-ups of a young girl sucking a very hefty cock indeed. In the first shot only the tip of the swollen head was inside her ovalled mouth, and her eyes were wide open, registering shock or fear. From the way the photograph was cut it looked like her disembodied head had been stuck on the end of the mighty shaft the way warring South American tribes used to plant the heads of their victims on the ends of their spears.
In the second photo the girl's expression had changed completely, and her eyes were crinkled with pleasure as half of the thick tubular rod had disappeared into her mouth. In the third there was no more cock to be seen, just the girl's nose buried in a thick growth of pubic hair and her chin nestled against two gigantic balls. Her expression was both dreamily blissful and wistful at the same time.
"She looks like she could use more of the same." Jock commented dryly. "And damned if I wouldn't like to give it to her."
"Recognize her?" Borman asked.
"No…" Jock hesitated, studying the delicate heart-shaped face in the first photo carefully. "Say, this isn't the girl in that cruddy fuck movie you showed us last week, is it?"
"Right." Borman nodded emphatically. "And the reason you didn't recognize her at first is because she's such a lousy actress. With a cock in her mouth, she's Sarah Bernhardt. Unfortunately, even in those dumb movies you have to walk into a room sometimes or say hello and this kid is so stiff she's painful to watch. She takes your mind off sex, for Chrissake. I'm getting awfully tired of lousy fuck movies made by amateur actors and actresses," he finished irascibly.
"Sure, who needs 'em," Jock agreed. "Anybody in our group can do what they do better." They both belonged to an informal group of wealthy married couples who entertained at each others' homes on convenient weekends… Not a swap club really. The only requirements were an uninhibited attitude toward sex and a healthy understanding between husband and wife that at these get-togethers each was free to do as he or she pleased. Jock had fucked Nina, Axel's attractive young wife, many times, and he had it from no less authority than his own wife, Stella, that Axel was still one of the best lays she'd ever had.
"So I'm going to make my own Goddamn movie," Axel said, still pursuing his train of thought.
"What?" Jock looked at the older man in surprise.
"Don't get me wrong, Jock," Borman chuckled. "I know my limitations. I'm not going to hold the camera or try to direct the actors. All I'm going to do is create a dramatic situation. Bring some people together in a situation loaded with potential dynamite and let a professional cameraman photograph whatever they do."
"You mean it won't be rehearsed," Jock expanded the idea. "Like one of those happenings painters and artists are always putting on."
"Exactly," Borman nodded. "Except this will have its roots in real life. You see, when I showed that film last week…" He pointed to the manila envelope, "I thought I recognized that girl. And, as the man who made the film is one of my clients, it wasn't hard to check out. She comes from a small town not far from a farm I bought in Maryland last summer. In fact, her older sister works for the real estate agent who sold me the farm, and I happened to meet them together in his office one afternoon. They're both beautiful girls, but in such completely different ways you never would believe they're sisters. That's one reason I guess their faces stuck in my mind. So, when I recognized the younger one, naturally I was intrigued. I mean, when I saw her last summer she seemed to be a typical normal healthy small-town American girl. Now, what could have happened in a few months time to transform a girl like that into the star – if you pardon the expression – of a trashy sex movie…?"
Borman paused, signaled the waiter for two more drinks and went on. "Well, it so happens that my client keeps pretty close tabs on his stable of actors, and that includes reading any of their mail he can get his hands on. It helps to keep them in line if he knows where they're from. Most of them wouldn't want the folks back home to know what they're up to in the big city. Anyway, he knew all about this girl – her name is Tiffany – and was even able to give me a letter written to her by her sister."
He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a soiled rumpled envelope which he handed to Jock. Sipping contentedly on his fresh drink, Axel leaned back in the comfortable old leather armchair and studied his young friend's face to detect his reaction to the brief missive that June had written to her sister Tiffany two months before.
Dear Sister,
Daddy and I were glad to hear that you are well and have found a good job. Naturally, Daddy misses you a great deal as you have always been his favorite, but I don't suppose that will make any difference to you.
You are absolutely wrong in saying that I will never forgive you for doing what you did with Cliff Farrow. I have already forgiven you for that and am only thankful that I found out what kind of man he is before making the awful mistake of marrying him.
What I can't forgive is your saying that you did it for my sake to protect me from him. That is a horrible lie and you know it. Some day maybe when you are grown up, you will learn to be honest with yourself. Until then, I can only pray for you.
Your sister – June
P.S. You couldn't possibly have known that I was coming home early that afternoon.
"Wow! Some loving affectionate letter!" Jock exclaimed softly. "Just exactly what did little Tiffany do with Cliff Farrow to deserve it? I mean, I can guess, but give me the juicy details."
"Sorry. We don't have the details, Jock." Borman smiled. "Whatever happened, little Tiffany ran away to the big city. As she had acted in a couple of high school productions and had always dreamed of becoming a Hollywood star, she answered an ad in the paper for girls with acting experience. Result so far – three films like the one you saw at my house last week. My client – his name is Dippy Gallagher, by the way, and it fits him perfectly – says she is one of his most cooperative stars. Apparently he is obliged to use booze, drugs, blackmail and sometimes even force on some of the other actresses to get them to play their roles realistically.
"Sordid bastard," Jock interposed with a chuckle.
"He is," Borman agreed. "But, apparently, Tiffany doesn't need any artificial stimulants. She's sure she's on the road to Hollywood and is happy as a lark, except for one little item. Cliff Farrow is bugging her to death. He found out what she is doing, and it's tearing him apart. He follows her everywhere like a dog, begging her to marry him and come back home. He is out of a job, running out of money and drinking himself to death. A very sad state of affairs."
"I think I get it," Jock said with a gleam in his eye. "You're going to bring the three of them together, June, Tiffany and Cliff, and see what happens, right? But suppose nothing happens?"
"That's where you and I come in." Borman winked broadly at his friend. "That's why I asked you if you could run fast enough to snatch a lady's pocketbook and get away with it. We've got to make damned sure something does happen." Then he quickly outlined to the younger man the plan that had been gradually taking shape in his mind ever since he had recognized Tiffany in the movie the week before. When he had finished, Jock whistled again, this time in admiration.
"By God, Axel," he drawled. "It's a good thing you can't manipulate stocks the way you can people."
"What makes you think I can't?" Borman grunted derisively. "Anyway, Jock, do you think Stella will mind you… uh… taking a part in this little drama? It goes without saying the film will never leave our hands, of course."
"Are you kidding!" Jock exclaimed. "It'll turn Stella on. Now, let's go over it again. There are a few bugs to work out. First, you get in touch with Gallagher to start the ball rolling, right. And then…"
So the two men ordered another drink and settled back to plan the scenario of the events which were to take place about a week later.