On the Thursday following the party, at eleven-thirty a.m., Ralph Taylor left Auto Circus and drove into downtown Morriston. He parked his year-old Cadillac in front of the large graystone building which housed the post office on Second and Market Streets, and stepped out into the brilliant sunshine. He was smiling openly, with smug self-satisfaction and anticipation, as he made his way along the crowded sidewalks, filled with morning shoppers, to enter the mausoleum-like structure.
He walked leisurely along the marble interior corridor, his eyes seeking out and locating the window above which a horizontal sign jutted out at right angles, reading: Parcel Post – Post Boxes. He stopped by one of the canted writing desks set against the opposite wall when he noticed the fat woman with a large parcel under her arm step up to the window and begin an earnest conversation with the smallish figure who sat behind the counter.
Ralph waited patiently, casually puffing on one of his expensive cigars, until the woman had finished transacting her business and left the window deserted. Then the automobile executive sauntered slowly over to the cubicle and leaned his thick elbows on the countertop. He smiled lazily as the gnome-like clerk looked up at him and said in a gravely voice, "Help you?"
"You can," said Ralph, blowing smoke over the clerk's right shoulder with studied disregard, "if your name is Steve Samuels."
The government employee frowned, close-set eyes narrowing. "That's my name, all right. What's it to you, mister?"
Ralph laughed softly, smoothly. "Oh, nothing much. I'd like to take you to lunch, that's all, Samuels."
"Lunch?" The clerk's eyes were almost hidden now beneath their puffy lids, and his rubbery lips were set warily.
"That's right."
"What for?"
"To discuss a certain matter."
"What matter?"
Again, Ralph Taylor blew a stream of smoke. "Concerning a certain young housewife named Cindy Jamison," he said easily.
Fear leapt suddenly in Steve Samuels' eyes, and his claw-like hands clamped hard onto the edge of the counter until the knuckles were white. Sweat popped out in beaded pustules on his forehead and sallow cheeks, and spittle flecked his thick lips. "I… I don't know what you're talking about."
"I think you do, Samuels," said Taylor.
"No… no. You'd better leave now, or…" Samuels let the sentence trail off as more sweat appeared on his face.
"Or what?" Ralph said with a soft chuckle. "You'll call the police, or the building guards? Who're you kidding, Samuels? You don't dare call anybody, and you know it." He lowered his voice even more than he already had. "I doubt if you'd want your superiors to know what kind of little racket you've been running from behind your postal position."
"R-racket?"
"Don't try to bluff it out," Taylor told him, some of the patience leaving his voice to be replaced by hard, authoritative tones. "I know who and what you are, Samuels, and I know what you've been doing with the mails and with some of Morriston's more nubile young wives. I've got you cold, Samuels."
The fear was a living entity on the wizened civil servant's face now, and he looked wildly about him, as if seeking an avenue of escape. His tongue came out like an ugly pink snake to moisten his lips again and again. "What… what do you want?" he managed to quaver.
"I told you," Ralph Taylor said, once again letting his voice go casual. "I want to take you to lunch."
"Who are you, mister? You're not…"
"From the authorities, state or federal? No, I'm just a private citizen, Samuels, with what you might call a personal stake in this matter."
Samuels' eyes flickered nervously to the clock overhead. It was almost noon. "I… I get off at twelve, for an hour."
"That's fine. We'll go down the street, to Marian's Steak House."
The postal clerk's eyes flicked over Taylor's shoulder, and he hissed, "Customer. I… I have to wait on him now."
"Sure," said Ralph carelessly. "I'll be waiting out front for you at noon, Samuels. And you'd better be there, if you know what's good for you."
The frightened man nodded spasmodically, still sweating, and Ralph Taylor turned away with the smile playing over his mouth once again. He walked slowly down the gloomy marble corridor and passed through the exit door into the bright noonday sunlight.
Steve Samuels went through the motions of waiting on the customer who had come up, his hands and mouth working mechanically, to do and say the proper things. But his brain was whirling furiously. Fear lived in him like an animal in a dark cave. Who was that casually grinning man who had come out of nowhere to threaten his very existence? How could he have known about Cindy Jamison? How could he have known about the others as well, about the use he was making of his position and the government regulation allowing him to open public mail at will?
And most important, what did he want? What did he intend to do with his knowledge?
Blackmail? the clerk thought suddenly, as the customer turned to leave the window. Samuels stared unseeingly at the retreating back. Was that it? Did the big, grinning man intend to blackmail him? Oh, Christ, if that was it, he was completely trapped; he had no bargaining power. He was a poor man, his job at the post office paying only a mere pittance, enough to keep him alive and clothed and with a roof over his head. He couldn't pay any blackmail sum, no matter how small…
Oh, Jesus, Jesus! What was he going to do? But wait… maybe it wasn't blackmail for money; maybe the stranger was after something else, something he, Samuels, could supply and supply easily. Maybe… But there was no use speculating on it now; he would know soon enough, when he went with the stranger to lunch. Again, his eyes flicked up to the clock, saw that it was three minutes 'til noon. There were no customers in sight, and so Samuels hurriedly closed his window. He began to shrug into his hat and coat and his hands were trembling as he did so…
Outside, finishing the last of his cigar with relish, Ralph Taylor waited nonchalantly for the appearance of the postal clerk, watching the lithe young girls in their short skirts and dresses passing by on the street. He felt good, damned good; he felt as if he was on top of the world right now.
He had that ugly son of a bitch right where he wanted him, by the short hairs, by the balls. Samuels would do anything he asked him to do; the bastard had no choice but to do it or risk exposure and a probable jail sentence. Ralph had recently sold Morriston's postmaster an almost new Cadillac, and consequently was on pretty good terms with the man; all it would take would be a few well-chosen words, and it would be all over for the clerk. The postmaster would be inclined to believe a man of Ralph Taylor's stature and respectability over a simple rank-and-file postal clerk, that was for sure…
As he waited, Ralph let his mind wander back to the night of the party and Cindy Jamison's soft young legs spread out wide under him. He could almost feel the soft, sensitive, wetly warm walls of her sweet young cunt squeezing and clasping his heaving cock as he fucked deep and hard into her, could almost feel her hardened cervix slamming against his bloated prickhead, could almost feel the unleashed torrent of cum which had finally escaped his balls to fill that tender little pussy of hers to overflowing…
Goddamn! She was some fine little piece of ass, all right, and the random samplings he had had of her – that fuck two nights ago, the sucking of his cock unbeknownst to her that it was him at their mountain cabin – had only made him want more of her, want her completely and totally his, want her as his plaything to do with as he bid. That was the way that ugly son of a bitch Samuels had had her, according to the story Norma had said she related; that was the way he, Ralph Taylor, wanted the wife of his best friend and star salesman.
And that was the way, with the help of Steve Samuels, he was going to have her…
Samuels came down the post office steps at five past twelve and stood next to Ralph, his eyes mirroring the fear and hate which were inside him. Taylor smiled, but said nothing; he started off down the street, walking leisurely, and the wizened civil servant came tagging along at his heels like a dog following its master. Elation was strong inside the automobile executive as they made their way through the thickening lunch-hour crowds.
Marian's Steak House was jammed with businessmen and secretaries, blue-collar workers and shoppers. The waiter at the door greeted Taylor and Samuels as they entered, gravely informing them there would be a short wait and nodding to the group of people standing about waiting their turn at tables. Ralph slipped him a folded bill, whispering that they were in a hurry, an important business conference, and the waiter miraculously found them an empty spot upstairs on the mezzanine moments later.
When they were seated, and Ralph had ordered two rare sirloin steaks with mixed salad and garlic French bread, the postal clerk leaned across the table and said in a voice barely audible above the buzz of lunchtime conversation from the tables around them, "All right, whatever-your-name-is. You've got me to lunch, and I'm willing to listen to what you have to say. I'll listen. Now what's on your mind, mister?"
Ralph Taylor smiled complacently. "Cindy Jamison," he said.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Figure it out for yourself, Samuels."
The postal clerk licked his rubbery lips wetly. "I'm no good at figuring."
"No?"
"No." Then Samuels cast a furtive glance about him, and leaned further across the table, his face only inches from Taylor's. His breath was fetid, and Ralph wrinkled his nose distastefully. "You want a piece of the little bitch for yourself, that's it, isn't it?"
Taylor laughed. "For somebody who's no good at figuring, you do a damned good job of it."
"I thought so." Samuels seemed relieved, as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He relaxed visibly.
Ralph Taylor said, "I know the kind of thing you're working, all of it right down the line, and it's a good deal, Samuels. I don't want to fuck it up for you – as long as it's worth my while to keep silent."
"How did you find out?"
"That's not important, Samuels."
"Listen, what's your name? I like to know who I'm talking to."
"That's not important, either. What is important is Cindy Jamison."
The venereous government employee toyed with his napkin. "She's a snooty little bitch," he said softly. "She deserves what she gets. They all do, every last Goddamn one of them."
"Sure."
"Fouling our mails, sending filth by public conveyance. The dirty bitches."
"Never mind the bullshit, Samuels," Taylor said sharply. "You're nothing but a fucking little weasel, a lecher that hasn't got the guts to admit it even to himself. But I don't care about that, any of that. The only thing I care about is Cindy Jamison, and you can help me get her right where I want her."
"How?"
"By setting up a little session with her."
"What kind of session?"
"I've got a Polaroid camera, a good one with a timer and a tripod," Ralph said easily.
Samuels' beady eyes glittered evilly. "What kind of photos are you planning to take?"
"What kind do you suppose? Good ones, hot ones. The kind that you would call 'filthy' and 'degrading'."
The postal clerk's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, and his chest rose and fell jerkily with labored breathing. "Just… just with you and Cindy Jamison?"
Ralph Taylor laughed sharply, a sound that caused one of the nearby customers to glance curiously at him. Then he smiled, smoothing his napkin on his lap, as the waiter brought their steaks. He began to dig into his immediately, eating hungrily and with obvious relish.
Samuels didn't touch his food. His eyes were almost fever-bright as he stared across the table at the automobile executive. "You didn't answer my question," he accused.
"You'd like to be there when I nail Cindy Jamison, wouldn't you, Samuels?" Taylor said around a mouthful of blood-rare sirloin.
"I… I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to. It's written all across that ugly face of yours. Well, I'm a generous man by nature. I wouldn't want to deprive you of any of your warped kicks, Samuels. Providing you do as you're told, and set things up just as I tell you."
The venereous civil servant had spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth now as in his mind he pictured Cindy Jamison, being subjugated before him again as he had enslaved her that night ten days ago and not only him this time, but this big, brawny man across from him. Both of them meting out punishment to the brazen, haughty bitch well-deserved punishment for what she had tried to do. Oh, it would be fitting and just! He had not gotten in touch with her in the past ten days because he had wanted her to sweat, to know fear and trepidation every time the telephone or doorbell rang, to expect him back at any time but not to know when or where or what would happen when the time came. He had planned to torment her in this manner for another week or so, then call her up and submit her to a session which would make the last one seem tame in comparison a session involving him and his faithful German Shepherd, Ringo.
But now this – this was even better! It would not only be him, Steve Samuels, and Ringo fixing that little bitch's wagon – but this big, evil-grinning man across from him. The wizened clerk no longer feared the big man, for now that the stranger had shown his true colors, shown his playing hand and the cards he held and the wager he wanted to make, it was no threat to Samuels' welfare at all. The big man wanted the same things as he, and as long as the clerk didn't ruffle the man's feathers, as long as he was careful to work closely with him, they could be a team – two men after the same thing, looking for the same pleasures in life. Oh, Christ, this was too good to be true! He couldn't have asked for a better deal if he had arranged it himself!
He said, "Don't worry, mister. I'm on your side in this, all the way. You just tell me what you want done, and I'll do it. The only thing I ask is that I can be there when you give it to Cindy Jamison – and that I get the opportunity to give her some myself!"
Taylor laughed softly. "You'll get that chance, Samuels, as long as you follow orders."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Call Cindy Jamison on the phone late Friday afternoon. Her husband won't be home; I… have ways of seeing to that."
"What should I tell her?"
"Tell her that you want to see her again, that she's to meet you that night. Tell her that she'd better show up, or else you'll tell the postal authorities about those pictures you have, and that you'll tell her husband, too."
"She'll come, all right," giggled Samuels. "Where should I tell her to go? My place?"
"That's right. Nine o'clock."
"And you'll be there then, too?"
"I'll be there long before that," Ralph Taylor said, finishing the last of his steak and leaning back contentedly, sipping from the coffee he had ordered with his lunch. "With my Polaroid," he added meaningfully.
"Okay!" the venereous government employee said eagerly. "Is there anything else you want me to do?"
The automobile executive frowned thoughtfully for a moment, then smiled again, slowly and anticipatorily. "You might have another girl there, too, on Friday night. One of the other Morriston housewives you've been blackmailing into your bed."
The evil light in Steve Samuels' eyes grew yet brighter, and more spittle gathered around his thick mouth. Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus, Friday night was going to be an evening beyond his wildest dreams! One of the mad, ribald orgies he had often thought of having! His cock was throbbing hard, close to orgasm, in his pants as he thought of the potentialities inherent with two men and two beautiful girls and one huge, hungry dog…
"A pretty one, you want a real pretty one, don't you?" he husked to Ralph Taylor.
"That's right. A young and pretty one, one with a little experience. One who'll keep her mouth shut."
"I know just who I'll get!" Samuels wheezed. "Sally Reagan! I've had her before, a couple of times! Oh, Jesus, she's…"
"Keep your Goddamn voice down, for Christ's sake!" hissed the automobile executive, looking around him, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to the two of them.
Samuels dropped his voice. "She's a good one, the best next to Cindy Jamison. You'll like her! She's got black hair and a nice set of tits, and when she gets turned on she can really fuck, the little bitch! She deserves to be a part of this, she really does! Sending filthy pictures through our mails…"
"All right, all right, never mind any more of your Goddamned self-righteous speeches." Ralph Taylor looked smug once again. "Have you got it all straight now, Samuels?"
"I've got it!" the evil postal clerk assured him. "You don't have to worry none at all!"
"I'd better not have to." Taylor stood, found a couple of bills in his pocket, and tossed them on the table. "I've got to be going now, Samuels. Friday night. And if you value your ass, don't foul it up." With that, he walked off through the crowded tables and disappeared down the stairs to the main floor of the steak house.
Steve Samuels stared after him for a long moment, his eyes half-glazed with lust and excitement, then turned his head back again. Hot damn! Oh, Christ, he couldn't wait until Friday night! Cindy Jamison was really going to get hers – and so was Sally Reagan – both the little whores were really going to get theirs! He and the stranger and Ringo would see to that…
Even though the food was now cold, Steve Samuels finished every last bit on his plate with a ravenous hunger, as if it were the flesh of the two young and beautiful housewives he was consuming with his wet and ugly mouth.