As they drove, Tom talked in a soft, gentle voice. He was an artist, he said, from Los Angeles, just traveling through after a summer in New Mexico. Judy had never known an artist before; she was fascinated as he talked about a world that was totally foreign to her, a world of studios and models and galleries and rich women who wanted to buy much more from the artist than just his paintings. She had listened eagerly, trying to imagine what it would be like to be the wife of an artist.
They had parked in a lonely spot in the mountains, and Tom had gone on talking, about his dreams, his plans, his work. When he was through, they made love. Tom was as gentle as his voice, as fierce as his flaming red beard. She still remembered the dizzying shock she had felt when Tom came in her, the first time she had ever experienced a man's dick. By morning they had made love four times, and Tom had asked her to come with him to Los Angeles.
By then Judy had already forgotten about her parents, her job, her plans for college, had forgotten about everything except Tom and their new love. She wanted nothing but to be with him, to make love to him, to feel his delicious prick inside her warm wet pussy. She would go anywhere with him: Los Angeles, China, the moon; it made no difference as long as they could be together always. She withdrew the few hundred dollars she had saved, packed a few clothes, and set off with him for L.A.
For the first few months everything was fine, except that Judy often wondered why Tom never seemed to paint, all he did, when they weren't making love, was sit around sucking on a strange ornate pipe, which he kept refilling with a queer gummy black substance. When she asked him about his painting and about the pipe, Tom said he was resting, building up inspiration.
But Judy didn't really care. If Tom was resting that was fine with her, just so long as he didn't rest when they were in bed together.
Then Judy began to get sick. At first she thought it was just some minor ailment, something to do with the fact that her period was a little late. But when a month had passed and she still had not menstruated, she started to worry. Finally she went to see a doctor, who examined her and took a blood smear. A few days later the results came back: "Well, Mrs. Simmons," the doctor had said, sure that his news would be cheerfully received, "there's going to be a little one."
Judy had been dazed. Up till now she had not wanted to tell Tom about any of this, but if she were really pregnant, there was nothing she could do, she would have to tell him. Tom took the news calmly, even held Judy's hand and tried to soothe her. "It's all right," he said. "We'll just go ahead and get married. Now sit right here, don't move, and I'll go to the store and get you some orange juice."
The store was only two blocks away. When an hour had passed and Tom had still not returned, she began to wonder. After two hours she began to worry – maybe something had happened to him. It was only after the afternoon and early evening had gone by that Judy began to realize: Tom had left her. He had run out on her, left her alone to deal with the baby that was already forming deep within her womb. What was she to do?
Judy wanted no part of unwed motherhood. If there wasn't a man to take care of her, then there would be no baby either. She asked around, was told of a doctor in Tijuana. She took the bus to San Diego, walked across the border, had a quick, painless abortion. The operation cost her $150, all the money she had.
She returned to Los Angeles with no idea of what she would do with herself, with no feelings at all except raging hate for Tom, the bastard who had deserted her. She would find him, she thought, she would find him and make him pay. She searched all over Los Angeles for him, went to all his favorite bars in Hollywood and Venice, but no one had seen him, no one knew where he had gone.
Finally she had stopped looking. She was completely broke, had no job and no food, was too ashamed to go back to Bisbee and her parents. Then one night a friend had introduced her to Jay Snyder. Jay, she thought, another bastard. He had seemed very nice at first, and she had been impressed with his big gray Rolls Royce and fine clothes. He had taken her to his home, high in the Hollywood Hills, overlooking the city, and had given her food, something to drink, an odd-looking cigarette to smoke. Soon she found herself in his bed, dizzy from the drink and the strangely sweet-tasting tobacco.
When they were through making love, Jay had offered her a job. "How could I have been so stupid," Judy thought as she watched her john combing his long greasy hair. The job, Jay had assured her, was an easy one – all she had to do was set herself up in an apartment, which Jay would pay for, and wait for the men to come to her. All the men wanted was a little taste of her body, Jay said, nothing more, nothing unusual, and they would pay very well. "You can't really afford to turn it down, now, can you?" Jay had smiled.
So Judy accepted his offer. Quickly she had discovered that her customers did want something more than just her body, and that as often as not what they wanted was highly unusual, but the money was good and Judy found that she could satisfy any man almost without trying – some of them weren't even able to get an erection. But then there were others, like this bastard who had just walked out the door, the ones who abused her and laughed at her pain; and this type was appearing more and more frequently. Often she had asked Jay to release her, but Jay had always refused, saying that he would write her parents in Bisbee and tell them just exactly what Judy was doing in Los Angeles.
Judy wanted out, but all the doors seemed to be closed. Unless, she thought, unless someone would come along, someone stronger than Jay, who would get her out of this mess, some man…
Oh come on, Judy. Some man, sure thing. Just what you need, another man.
CHAPTER TWO
Smells of sulfur and grease mixed together as Tim Huntley lit his cigarette. The chef scraped the grill, leaving Tim's barbecued beef sizzling, an isolated heap in the center of the grill. It deserves to be alone, Tim thought, who else would want to eat in this dive?
Tim had been eating in greasy diners, and hating it, for as long as he could remember, ever since the night he and his cousin, both thirteen years old, had stolen all those carburetors. It had been Tim's first arrest, he still remembered the cold, disgusted look on the cop's face as he had shone the flashlight in his eyes, but certainly not his last. He often wondered who was really to blame for that night, for all the nights afterwards. He had done it himself, he knew, although it had been his cousin's idea, but his father's attitude had not helped. "What'd ya go and get caught for?" his father had said. "Christ, you don't even have what it takes to be a good thief."
Always Tim had had to prove to his father that he was good at something, that he was worthy to be called his father's son. When he brought home good grades from school, his father wanted to know why he hadn't been valedictorian, or at least made the honor roll. When he pitched a one-hitter in Little League, his father wanted to know why it hadn't been a no-hitter. The work he did around the house was never careful enough for the old man, the girls he brought home never pretty enough. Everything Tim did his father could do better. There was no satisfying him.
So finally, after he had tried everything else, Tim tried stealing. The carburetor theft, although unsuccessful, had made him a hero at school, and he found that all the praise and support he had been missing at home was available in the schoolyard. It seemed that every boy in school was eager to hear the story of Tim's caper, of the arrest and the overnight stay in Juvenile Hall. Girls he didn't know would point at him in the halls and whisper excitedly to one another, and Tim did not fail to notice the exaggerated swishing of their small, firm buttocks as they passed by.