“I hope we have a nice meeting,” she said, the little devil.
Tiger chuckled, he couldn’t help it.
“How’s your dad?” He inquired now, for he hadn’t seen her father. Dr. Bonni. for a couple of months at least. He was Tiger’s dentist, in fact his whole family’s, and without a doubt the best one in Sawyersville. He was sure of it.
“Mother?”
“She’s O.K.”
Tiger nodded. Looby Loo was friendly with her, in fact they belonged to a few clubs together. Once in a while she came over to the house. She was from Jersey. Not far from Atlantic City. Was she a bathing beauty? Tiger wondered. Even now she had a form. Though not like Looby’s. He grew warm, thinking of Looby Loo. And Jeannie. And Jcannie’s mother. He pulled into the road that led to the back of the high school. Tiger drove slowly. He grinned. It certainly was dark back there.
“I know where we’re going!” Jeannie suddenly said, lifting her head from his shoulder.
“Uh huh,” he said.
“That’s a terrific idea,” she said as they rolled onto the fields and Tiger cruised around for an ideal spot. Probably down by the baseball diamond, he thought, driving carefully, avoiding the various benches and paraphernalia, here and there.
“Glad you like it,” he said.
“I guess you won’t see me tomorrow now, will you?” It was true, she was scheduled. “I just had this urge to see you tonight—Tiger. Were you surprised? In the hall, that is? I just had to—”
He chuckled.
“That’s alright, believe me. You little sweetie.”
“What about tomorrow?” She asked again.
Probably, he would reschedule her.
“Aw—don’t worry about tomorrow now,” he said,
“O.K.?”
“O.K.,” she said, though Tiger knew rescheduling wouldn’t go down well. In fact, she hadn’t finished the Brooder. Tiger mused.
He pulled up, just beside the baseball diamond. It was pitch dark. Would there be a moon later on? Tiger mused.
“Are you crazy about me?” She said, in the darkness, putting her arms behind his neck, as soon as they had stopped.
He felt the warm young form against him, eager and throbbing for him. He gave her a little kiss and touched her face, passing his hand over it. She kissed the hand.
“Don’t you know it?” He asked, caressing her warm, smooth face. She closed her eyes. He brushed his fingers over her lashes. They felt so nice. He was more than crazy about her.
"Yes—” She sighed, turning her face upward, kissing him. . . .
64
“Ponce, you’re a very nice dancer,” said Betty Smith.
“I am?” Ponce asked, surprised himself at how well he was doing. There was a smooth, slow number on. Vibes. It was dreamy, nice. Full of warm life. They were close, in spite of things, in fact she had her cheek next to his, which of course was a burning fire, or more. He tried hard to keep the lower half of himself out of contact with her, for he was in some state, but she didn’t seem to mind that, in fact she seemed definitely to like it, and even want it, and so Ponce had to stop trying, finally. He let himself merge with her.
“You are,” she said, as they flowed about the floor, “You certainly are,” She said, as Ponce began trembling again. “Do you like dancing with*ne?” She asked, tenderly.
“M—M—Betty—I think it’s great—” the lad said.
“What’s wrong?” she murmured, aware of the trembling.
“W-Wow—” He said, barely murmuring.
“Now now—” She told him, “There now—” She murmured, in his ear.
“Am I hurting you?”
“Of course you’re not—” She spoke so softly, her warm breath caressed his ear, she smelled so sweet, “Certainly not,” she murmured, “Certainly not you’re not—” She told him. His heart pounded, his body bounded. Without a doubt she liked it. She pressed even closer and held him tighter. Softness. Warm, divine softness. He still worried about hurting her. He didn’t want to do that. He didn’t know if he was here, or there, or in a dream somewhere, but he certainly worried about that. Could it hurt him? This was something else to worry about. Ponce was a bundle of worries now. The whole thing was something he always had trouble with anytime he danced, which was one of the reasons he didn’t do too much dancing. He wore a jock strap whenever he did go dancing, and that helped a lot, though it was uncomfortable, to put it mildly. At last year’s Sophomore Hop he had danced quite a few with Anne Williams, who was just a Freshman at the time, and it had really saved his life. Where had that kid learned to dance like that? Why hadn’t he worn one tonight? He wondered, trembling, aware of Betty’s soft murmuring—
“That’s a very lovely thing—how could it hurt me?” And her hand caressed his neck. He had never felt a hand like that before, not even his mother’s. What was she doing tonight? He wondered. He thought and thought about her.
“D-Do you have a mother?” He asked, in one breath.
She laughed so softly he was barely aware of it. Her lips were brushing his ear.
“D-Dо you?” He asked again.
".Ponce—” she said, “Dear Ponce:—” She also said, softly, in his ear, once again giving that little laugh, “Yes, I have a mother,” she said, both her arms around his neck now, as a matter of fact. Ponce found himself with his arms around her. He was a pounding, trembling, burning form, pressed against her4 “A very nice mother,” she said, warmly, pulling away gently from his ear and looking into his face, ‘‘Almost as nice as yours—” She said.
“G-Gee—” Ponce said.
“Tell me about your mother,” she said.
Ponce looked into her face. Where had he ever seen such eyes? Such hair? Was he there?
“I-I—love her—” He said.
“Does she kiss you goodnight?”
“Y-Yes—”
“Like this?"
Soft, full, warm lips pressed against his, luscious dream lips on his, Ponce had never known or heard of anything like this, where was the dream taking him? Would he be the same again?
“Ummmm—” She said, breaking away for a moment, warm, moist, “Like that?"
What kept him from exploding? She was the softest, most exquisite dream. He held tight to it—
“G-Gosh—'” He could only say, “Holy Gosh—” He said.
She kissed him again. He was shaking fairly violently, certainly uncontrollably. Her hand caressed his head. He was about to fall over. The kiss was a warm tongue of fire now, exploring him—
“B-B-B-Betty—Betty—” He said, barely, he was fighting for breath—
“What’s the matter?” She murmured, continuing to caress him. He noticed another number was playing now. It was a soft jazz tune, slow and low. When had it dropped on? How many more had? They were in the middle of the room, holding tight and close, not dancing, just sort of swaying. How long had they been there? She was kissing him.
“I sure—like to dance—” He said, “With you—" He also said.
“What else-can we do?” He heard her.
Roses. Only roses. How warm her face was. She was looking at him now. Her hand passed along the side of his head and face now, tenderly.
“Ponce—listen now—you sweet kid—” She told him—‘7 want you to control yourself." Her voice was soft and enough. And he hoped to. For he was determined to do one thing if it was the last thing he ever did do in this world— Give those Staties the crunch. The whole bunch. They weren’t around the school tonight, of course. Nobody was. It was dark, deserted, he was the only one who was. With his hunch. He had parked Sam’s snazzy car in a cleverly concealed position overlooking the school and the athletic grounds, the whole works, and the road leading to those grounds. He had been sitting there, calmly, patiently, occasionally uttering a curse at those Staties, or at his wife Mary, for an hour and a half, at least, ever since nightfall. He had been thinking a lot of things. All kinds of things. He was even back at the Second World War, in which he had served as a Military Policeman. He had pulled plenty of long stretches of lonely night-guard duty, of which this reminded him. A long time ago. He had checked his revolver. His rifle. His club. His duster. His flashlight. His notepad and pencils. His pen. Everything was right. Then —he saw the headlights. And he just about kissed Jesus Christ. He watched those headlights circle around, and down, slowly, he watched them playing on the stadium wall, the football practice field, the baseball diamond—he watched them go out, just beside the diamond. And then— pitch darkness. He sat there awhile so excited he couldn’t move. He could see Surcher’s face, and those other hot guys. Folio, Grady, all the rest of those wise guys. He wouldn’t tell them a goddamn thing. He had it all planned: He would capture the jig, hold him at the Station, call in the reporters, the photographers—and then the D.A. That was it. And the Staties would read about it, and hear about it—most of all, his name. He could see the headlines. No question about it: spectacular fame. And all those hot Staties hanging around—sucking hotchies. Yeh man. Down the lane. Way down that lane. He only wondered, still sitting there, which of those jigs would it be? There was no doubt at all in his mind, one of them it would be. All these things, these images, these predictions, raced through his mind in a furor, as he tried to calm down, as he congratulated himself more and more. It was brilliant. Ten minutes passed at least before he could move. Finally, he got out of the car, quietly, drew his revolver, held it in one hand, hauled out his flashlight, held it in the other hand, slung the rifle over his shoulder, checked everything, and started to move, soundlessly, classical commando style, toward the area. For it was only an area, so dark was it He couldn’t see the car and knew he wouldn’t until he was practically on top of it. That was great. He was an expert at that. And had always been. He could prowl around in the dark like a cat. That was one of the reasons he had so often been detailed that night-guard duty, long ago, he knew. His technique was perfect. Over the years he had utilized it. He moved steadily, silently. He made progress. At last, he was upon it. He moved in on it Every muscle in his body got set—to pounce on it—