Annette Larreau could not definitely pinpoint the exact moment in her twenty-two years when she first contemplated suicide; it was as if the idea had been haphazardly floating around in her brain as far back as she could remember, before all of her father's mistresses, before "Cousin" Antoine had been sent to prison and his Madeleine had disappeared, before the evil ogre who had first her committed her mother to an institution for the mental deficient when she was ten, even prior to the time when she had come to understand that the name Larreau was synonymous with every conceivable vice and evil imagined or otherwise, and that her father was lord-governor of the domain.
All the same, she had never tried it, nor was it a mania or fixation with her, any more than did she fall into morbid states of depression or dwell on the subject when she was with the select few people she called friends. The simple explanation was that she had long ago decided she was a social freak and had always been, that the sight of her name in the elite gossip columns nauseated her, that she did not belong and in general, was not wanted; but she was that novelty piece, the risque bit, the notorious daughter of the nefarious Gaston Larreau, crime czar; and her first and immediate appearance at any function always made for a delightful raising of eyebrows and exciting under-the-breath conversation. The entire picture of her whole life had been, presently was, and would be as long as she existed, a waste, and she had no desire to continue on with it further. It was that simple; the time had finally come to put an end to things, but the question was, how?
Being of the new, mod, non-violent generation, she abhorred guns, knives and the like, and the mere thought of strangulation by hanging one's self, or administering poison, even wrist-slashing, seemed nothing short of crude, abominable methods. An overdose of sleeping potions was probably the more practical and less painful approach, however, a little item on the back page of the Montreal Star had finally helped her to make up her mind. It was a short and concise piece that told of a young man being found in his apartment, dead from an overdose of heroin: thus, Annette Larreau decided to become an addict first… a corpse later, once the novelty wore off.
There was one more issue of importance to be taken into consideration she thought, as she drove her sporty red, Karmann-Ghia south on Highway 9 from Quebec City where she had spent a "square-peg" few days with old Laval schoolmates, and that was the disposition of the sleek, noble beast seated erectly on the seat beside her… the future of her gallant and faithful Great Dane, Sir Launcelot. He was devoted to her and she loved him with a depth of feeling that went far beyond the shallow emotions peculiar to the human animal; she loved him as no woman ever loved even her lover, and the thought of leaving him behind to the unmercy of the world raised tears each time it crossed her mind. Yet, she had only to look into his great brown eyes to know that she couldn't bring herself to take his life; still, neither could she bear to leave him behind to some worse fate… Dear God, she did love him so…!
He was the only meaningful thing her father had ever given her, and she had raised him from a pup, raised, trained and taught him that his entire existence was meant to fill the void in her life. She had treated him as a human, never an animal, showering her love upon him and demanding the same in return. Her Launcelot had never known copulation with another dog for she had denied him that, jealously so, but in place of a bitch dog she had given him herself, patiently teaching and guiding him until she was certain there was no human of the male specie who could begin to match his magnificent love-making.
Dear God, she had only to think of their nightly intimate moments to work herself into a sexual frenzy. If only people could rise to the level of so-called dumb animals… what a different and wonderful world it would be, she thought. She reached over and stroked his great head, smiled at him and he whined back his response. Damn, for two cents she was tempted to pull off on a side road to some secluded spot and let him lick her between her legs to climax. That anticipating, wanting expression was gleaming innocently in his great round eyes, and the mere thought had pleasurably moistened the tight, hairlined slit between her warm, itching thighs. She shifted in the seat and felt her panties draw snugly up into the soft, vibrant crevice, gently splaying the fleshy lips to tauten provocatively against her suddenly aroused clitoris. Once more, she squirmed her buttocks down into the leather of the cushion causing delightful little sensations to tingle in her loins and belly. The giant dog, with ears erect, watched her and whimpered longingly, his brown eyes pleading, as if somehow he could, and had, read her thoughts. His nose twitched also, as if the odor of the excitement forming down between her legs had wafted over to him.
Annette laughed warmly, almost excitedly, again reaching over to stroke his head. "Ah… mon cher, but I'm afraid it will have to keep, eh? Maybe later, sweetheart… but for sure, tonight…" Then, her smile changed to an expression of sadness. After awhile, she said: "My gallant Launcelot… what's to become of us, you and me…? We are all that either of us have in this rotten world… and in all humaneness I can't leave you behind when I go… nor can I take your life… Mon Dieu… I don't know… I don't know, cheri."
Her abrupt solemn change of mood immediately dispelled her prurient desires of a few moments before. She settled back in the seat and drove with her eyes fixed on the road as she thought. There was something almost sadistic in the method she had settled on to bring things to an end for herself, plus the idea of addicting her body to heroin, inasmuch as her own father filled his coffers from the illicit traffic, amongst other evil things; yet, at the same time, it sounded like a wild and crazy adventure. She'd tried it and liked it, freaked-out on "speed" a few times and forgotten her woes, but "smack" was going to be a brand new trip, and getting the stuff should be simple. Armand Nicolet would help her.
She smiled as she thought of sweet little Armand, son of Canada Steel's first family, introvert, homo and addict. He'd help her all right; they were buddies who occasionally cried on one another's shoulder, understood each other's plight, had even slept together to see if he could stand it heterosexually, but with the exception of a bit of soixante-neuf it had fallen flat for him. Still, they were friends each knowing and sharing the other's problems, finding mutual consolation in their individual ostracism from the established world. Tonight, she'd see Armand and the few others she called friends… tonight at Mother Turtle's… and that would be the beginning of the end… but first, she was going home and spit in her father's eye. That was one more of the few remaining pleasures she still enjoyed on this earth.
Gaston Larreau, when he stood, towered a maximum of five-feet-seven-inches, a portion of this supplied by his one-hundred-and-fifty dollar elevator shoes, but what he lacked in height he made up in width, both in belly and shoulders, for he moved the scale-hand beyond the two-hundred-seventy pound mark. He possessed a glistening, naked pate and was deeply indebted appearancewise to his tailors who made him appear meticulous of dress. His nubbin head was round and set close between his shoulders, leaving him neckless, while his round-face gave him a pumpkinish look; his small grey, nearly colorless eyes were spaced too-wide apart, just as his too-small ears clung tight to his head. The aged scar left from an early razor wound ran the length of his right cheek, ending at the corner of his mouth, making the flesh there puffed and malformed until he smiled, and then one noticed little else but the line of strong golden upper teeth.
At the moment, he was not smiling as he sat imperiously behind the massive desk in his "ballroom" sized study, facing his daughter who had walked in to inflict a bit of mental torture on this man whom she despised with a passion.
"The hell you say!" he blurted in his native tongue. "The Godamned hell you say girl. I won't stand for it, you hear? Not one Godamned minute will I stand for it…!"
The idea had come to Annette not minutes before as she walked into the house. It was so insane and bound to torment him that she couldn't imagine why she hadn't thought of it before. Right at the moment, she could hardly control her elation as she watched the little ogre before her fume and rant, and even Launcelot at her side momentarily bared his teeth and growled at the fat man's sudden fury.
"I can't imagine what you're going to do about it, pere," she said in English, knowing this, too, irked him. "I've made up my mind… I'm going to marry Armand Nicolet."
"Jesus Christ! You must be out of your rattled head!" the czar bellowed. "You know what he is…? Do you? That Godamned little queen! He's one of those, for Christ's sake… He's a… a… a…"
"A homosexual, pere," Annette put in calmly. "Is that what you were trying to say?"
Larreau gaped at her, his cheeks bloated, his eyes bugged. "What the hell… all right, yeah, that's part of it, and that ought to be enough for you. He's a Godamned queer! On top of that, he's a… a… a…"
"He's hooked, pere, eh?" she interrupted again. "Addicted… and to heroin, right?" She lay her hand on Launcelot's massive head to keep the animal from growling. "But then, that should make you happy, mon pere, I mean, if it weren't for people like Armand, how could you get along? Really, I think you're very short-sighted…"
"Godamn you, girl! Don't stand there and talk to me like that, you hear? I won't put up with it!" Larreau raged, the scar on his cheek a livid purple. Angrily, he struggled to his feet and once more, Launcelot unleashed a fierce growl. The little fat man stared at the great animal and swallowed tightly. "Damn it… get that thing out of here. You know I don't like him, and he doesn't like me any better. I warn you, if he ever tries to bite me I'll put a bullet right through his skull…"
Annette's own eyes narrowed viciously before he had hardly gotten the words out of his mouth. "And I'll put one through yours, damn you, if you ever try to lay a hand on him!" she spat through her teeth.
Once more, the ugly little man gaped at his only child, but this time in shocked disbelief. For a long moment, he didn't speak, then finally, he said: "Ma chere… what the devil is it that's wrong between us? Mon Dieu! You're my daughter… my baby… all I have in this world…" He started to come around his desk but stopped at Launcelot's guttural warning. Again, he swallowed the lump from his throat. "Look, cherie… all I want is your happiness, eh? Whatever I have will someday be yours… all yours… everything you see around you. My God… why do you treat me like this…? I mean, if you want to marry, then go find yourself a husband… a man… not some Godamned fairy…"
"A man, pere…? Like Antoine, perhaps, one you might be able to use as a scapegoat and send to prison in your place?"
"Damnit, that's a lie and you know it…!"
"It's the truth, and I know it… just as I know you had Ginny Novak murdered by your hoodlums and drove Madeleine away in fear because you were trying to get her to share your bed… but she was too good for the filthy likes of you, just as my mother was too good…"
"Shut up! You hear, you little bitch! Shut up before I lose my temper entirely!"
Annette laughed. "Like you did those nights when I was only ten and eleven and you sneaked into my bedroom, and I cried when you put your rotten hands between my legs? You used to lose your temper with me then, too, pere, remember?"
"You… you ungrateful slut, you!" Larreau half-screamed, his face pale, his colorless eyes near insane with rage. "I ought to beat you within an inch of your life…"
"And you would, if you dared, but you don't, do you, pere?" Annette taunted him. "Because if you lay a hand on me you know that my Launcelot would tear you to pieces." Again, she laughed tormentingly as she gazed with a mocking sneer at the fat little man who was her father. And then, she watched the tears puddle in the almost fat-hidden sockets of his eyes, feeling nothing herself.
"Pl-Please, my baby… there's nothing in this world I wouldn't do for you," he pleaded softly. "Please… try to forgive me… I'm your father…"
Annette stared at him in utter disgust. At last, she turned away and started for the door.
"Annette… cherie… wait…" he called after her. "Please… tell me you didn't mean these terrible things you said…"
She paused and faced him again. "But I did, mon pere… every word."
"Mon Dieu!" he gulped. "You couldn't… it's impossible! How… how could you marry that… that…?"
"Cocksucker, pere," she finished, the faint trace of a smile playing around her mouth. "And why not? Live and let live, I say…"
"You don't know what you're saying!" he blurted. "You're only trying to hurt me! Don't you suppose I know what you're doing?"
"And does it hurt, pere?"
"You little fool! He's a dope fiend… a drug addict! You have any idea what that means? Damn it, girl, do you?"
"If I haven't, I'll learn," she spat at him.
"How? By prostituting yourself to pay for his fixes…?"
A last time, Annette laughed at him before leaving the room. She said: "To pay for our fixes, pere… and keep you in the luxurious style to which you're accustomed."
"Annette! Come back here! You hear me? Come back here…!"
But she didn't, and Sir Launcelot's throaty growls filled the room as they left.
The willowy girl in the tight dark slacks and sweater with the straight, shoulder-length raven hair enframing her face caught his attention immediately. She was slight of build, her breasts small but firm and pointed, boyish hips, even though her buttocks filled the seat of the slacks with round, protruding ovalled spheres and her thighs were full and exciting looking. She was extremely tiny waisted which gave the illusion of feminine curvaceousness she didn't possess. Her mouth was small and thin-lipped, yet not unattractive, and her cheeks a hollow ivory hue with almond shaped hazel eyes that scanned, fixed and penetrated. The ugly, fat woman behind the bar told him her name for a ten-dollar bill. Annette Larreau… and Shannon lowered himself to a table in the shadows of a corner, wetting his lips in surprise. The picture he had seen of her had depicted a shapeless, unattractive, sickly looking female. She was not that. As a matter of fact, she suggested sex… but the Godamned brute of a dog stretched out on the floor protectingly beside her was enough to discourage any such wild thoughts. He liked dogs; he hoped to hell he wouldn't have to kill this one.
It had taken him two weeks to grow the half-inch beard he wore. Madeleine wasn't sure that she liked it; it irritated her face and inner thighs, she told him, but she liked to feel its furry softness with her hands. He really gave little thought to her reactions; its purpose was not only a matter of disguise, but a more fitting admittance ticket to such places as Mother Turtle's and the other swinging spots where he had learned that the "czar's" daughter hung out. In fact, he'd learned a hell of a lot in the last couple of weeks, thanks to Madeleine's bank balance and his own ingenuity. For instance, even before he was familiar with her appearance, he had managed to obtain enough information regarding Annette Larreau's likes and dislikes, personal habits and companions to know that she was a little rebel who hated her powerful papa and all he stood for, the odd-ball variety.
A good example was the scrawny, hollow-chested male with the page-boy hair style sitting across the table from her at the moment. He was named Armand Nicolet of the multi-buck steel family, a playboy by trade… a hype and pansy by desire and whatever the hell his magnetism was it certainly couldn't be physical, yet, he, Shannon, had turned up a rumor concerning their impending marriage.
It didn't make sense, a stunningly attractive girl of her standing marrying a spindly, hooked queer, but then, the longer he lived and the more he saw of the human race, the less he understood it; besides, it wasn't going to make any difference one way or the other. With what he had in mind that marriage was going to be postponed… at least, for awhile…
A lantern-faced individual accompanied by another of the bull-necked, barrel-chested type, both in dark suits and dark turtle-neck shirts, caught Shannon's attention as they slunk into the cellar-room through the grotto-like doorway, abruptly interrupting his immediate thoughts. Their hoodish air definitely eliminated them as belonging, and when their eyes fell upon, and stared fixedly at Annette Larreau and her dainty companion, Shannon could almost feel their reason for being there, as well as guess who might have sent them. He sensed blood and swallowed tightly.
Armand Nicolet evidently perceived it also, for he paled noticeably. He leaned forward, whispering to the girl across from him who sat with her back toward the two. She took his hand, her knuckles whitening, started to turn but evidently thought better of it. The thin little man whispered again, his fright obvious, then arose quickly and made toward the rear entrance. The two hoods seeing his move started after him just as Annette stood to block their way, while simultaneously the Great Dane came erect to bare its teeth at their hasty, if, belligerent approach.
"What the hell!" the bull-necked one snarled, stopping dead before the menacing, bare-fanged growl of the massive animal. Automatically, his hand shot inside his coat, fumbling for the weapon there. Lantern-jaw had dodged around a table to charge after the escaping Nicolet and might have caught him if Shannon hadn't stuck out his foot to trip the gangly one and send him sprawling forward onto his face.
From that point, there was ample commotion, with patrons shuffling and scampering for the sidelines as Bullneck leveled the ugly looking gun in his hand on the Great Dane. Annette screamed and Shannon leaped, throwing all of his weight onto the big man and forcing the bullet to go wild. They went down with Shannon on the other's back, the bull-necked one's chin catching on the edge of a chair with enough force to stun him momentarily. Quickly, Shannon got to his feet, grabbed Annette by the hand and started for the front entrance.
"Come on! Let's get out of here… and tell your dog I'm a friend! I don't like the way he's looking at me!" he snapped, pulling her along behind him up the stairs, two at a time, to the street. "You have a car?"
"Around the corner… but what about Armand? They'll kill him if they catch him…!"
"Let's hope they don't catch him, baby… In the meantime, I don't think they like me either. Let's go!"
Shannon took the wheel and they were out of the area in minutes. He kept to the back streets, moving in no particular direction, except further away from the shabby section where the two hoods would be undoubtedly canvassing with blood and rage warping their brains. After awhile, he said: "Your father evidently doesn't like Nicolet."
He felt her eyes on him. She sat in the middle with the dog she had called Launcelot, on her right by the window. She said: "Do you know my father?"
"I know who he is and who you are," he replied, his eyes fixed ahead.
For a moment she was quiet, then: "Why did you help? You could've been shot."
"I don't like hoods who shoot dogs," he said, easing around a corner onto a well lighted street. It was Sherbrooke East and they were headed west.
"We both owe you a debt for helping us… Launcelot and I," she said slipping her arm around the animal's neck. "Do you think Armand got away?"
"I'd say that depends how resourceful he is. He certainly had time enough."
"Well…" she said, pausing momentarily. "I suppose it won't make much difference anyway, knowing my father. They'll find him sooner or later… poor Armand."
Shannon made a little grunting sound. He couldn't get up any pity for the scrawny queer. Nevertheless, he said: "I doubt if they intend to do more than rough him up a little. Even Gaston Larreau can't go around having men knocked off just because they want to marry his daughter."
Again, he felt her eyes on him; it was progressing nicely, he thought.
"How do you know that?" she asked. "I mean, about Armand and me getting married?"
"Rumors."
"What else do you know about me?"
"That you've been on and off 'H' for the last week… and that young frilly fruit's been supplying you." He turned toward her. "Are you hooked?"
She hesitated. "No… that is, I don't think so."
"How long since you've had a fix?"
"Yesterday morning… say, who in hell are you, anyway? How do you know so much about me?"
"You can call me Shannon," he replied evenly. "As for the second question… I've been doing a little inquiring."
"Inquiring…? Why?" There was an edge to her tone now.
"You intrigue me." He smiled over at her. "Don't get upset. Nothing's going to happen to you. I've been trying to locate you for a mutual friend of ours who wants very much to see you."
"Mu-Mutual friend… of ours?" Annette said, her head tilting questioningly to one side. "I don't understand… Who is this friend?"
"Madeleine Poirier."
"Madeleine?" She sat ahead in the seat. "Do you know where she is? No one has seen her since Antoine went to prison…"
"That's where we're going, Ma'm'selle." Once more, he smiled in her direction, his most fetching, disarming expression. "Just relax. It's going to take us awhile to get there. All right with you?"
"Yes… yes, of course," she replied anxiously.
"Madeleine and I were always close. My God, I can't think of anyone I'd rather see… I've been so afraid that something terrible might have happened to her… like it did to Ginny Novak…"