He could imagine it now. The whole damned town of Elston would be overrun by kids who'd come from miles around to hear the local talent. The poor shop owners would have to lock up their merchandise for the whole damned weekend and stare out from behind drawn shades, watching their own moral town turn into a God damn drug circus. There's be problems with under-age kids trying to buy beer, probably a few gang fights over a naked dancing girl. Before the weekend was over the local jail would be full.
But the pushers. Those were the ones he was really after. They had money and a smooth way of talking that would make any unsuspecting kid count out his pennies for some dope that would only rot his brain, ruin his morals. The poor gullible kids, they didn't know any better. They'd pay ten bucks for an ounce of alfalfa if some fancy talking guy told them it was the real thing.
Yeah, he'd get them! He'd track them and trail them for the sake of justice. Then let them see how smart they were. But somebody like Jim here, he had probably just bought a couple of ounces worth and was selling one ounce to his buddy. No big deal, just enough to cut his expenses, like any smart businessman would do. But who was supplying Jim? That was the crucial point, the reason why he was an undercover cop.
The credits flickered across the movie screen to the background music of roaring rock n' roll, amidst a cheer of hooting from the front rows of the theater where the junior high rowdies always sat.
Art felt a light tug at his sleeve and, knowing Kathy wanted to feel young like ninety-eight percent of the audience, wanted him to slip his arm around her shoulder like he used to when they first started dating nine years ago. Compliantly, he crossed his legs and stretched his sleeved arm around the back of her seat.
Damn! he thought with a twinge of guilt. I just can't seem to get my mind off of work. But Jesus, when I see a kid selling dope in front of my nose, what the hell can I do? I can't just ignore it to give Kathy a little rub on the thigh. What the hell kind of cop would that make me?
Aching for Art to take her in his arms, Kathy let her head fall on his shoulder. Surely he felt something, too, when they were around all these young kids, hugging and kissing so openly, not caring who saw them, just enjoying the freedom of being together. Instinctively, she knew her husband's attention was riveted on some suspicious looking face, some off-handed remark, or obscene gesture. Anything that was immoral was also illegaclass="underline" that was Art's philosophy, and he never ceased trying to prove it true.
Would he always be like this, she asked herself. He didn't have to tell her why he had chosen this particular movie. God knows, the six o'clock news would have been more entertaining and more their style, but with silent patience she'd sit through this second rate film and watch enviously as the couples surrounding them found pleasure in each other's company, hugging and kissing between chomps of popcorn.
This was Art's mania, his livelihood. It would never be any different, she thought with resignation. At least he could learn from it, learn that being young does not necessarily imply vulnerability. These kids, if her guess was right, knew more about some aspects of life than Art would learn in fifty years of tracking down crime and watching gangster movies.
CHAPTER TWO
Two hours and fifteen minutes of watching budding bosoms poking out from tight tee-shirts only to be leered at by tall, lean boys with broad hairless chests and taut thighs, racing on motorcycles, drinking beer, and pawing at each other's bodies like it was merchandise on a sale table, and Kathy was ready to go home. Listening to the couples in back of her, their lips smacking and tongues sucking as they sparred and sparked in the darkness of the movie theater, the auburn-haired wife nudged her husband in the ribs with her elbow and whispered, "Let's go home, Art."
"But the gang bang hasn't even happened yet," he protested hissing. "… And the leader of the gang still has to fight her boy friend."
Kathy smiled flirtatiously. "Let's go home and have our own gang bang, Art. Huh? What'd you say?"
What could he say? All those young kids making-out and carrying on like there was no tomorrow had affected him, too. Especially that honey-haired actress with the high, round breasts that she strutted around so proudly to show off to all the guys who followed her with their tongues hanging out. Art consoled himself with the fact that she would be gang-banged in the end… although they never really showed that in the film, only implied it.
But he couldn't protest. He had a damned good looking wife who wanted to go home and make love.
And good looking she was, too. Long, thick auburn hair that she tied back with barrettes and ribbons, hair that shone yellow and red in the sunlight… flashing blue eyes that cooled the flames of her red tresses, showed off her peaches and cream complexion. A smattering of Irish freckles pebbled her nose and cheeks, with just enough color to catch and hold the sun's tanning rays. The look of health and vivacity was she, and he couldn't help but smile every time he caught a glimpse of her in a mirror or shop window.
Feminine too. She spoke in a soft, unobstreperous manner, always polite but not syrupy to cause suspicion. Delicate was the word, delicate as fine Irish lace.
She stood erect and proud, yet in a gentle unassuming way that couldn't help but make you want to run up and throw your arms around her neck.
"Yeah, hon. We'll go," smirked Art, slipping his arm in his corduroy jacket.
They silently slipped from the theater just at the climax of the film. Art took one final peek over his right shoulder before giving up the fantasy of "No Tomorrow" for real life. He loved movies and he loved adventure.
The moon was just rising over the sloping hills surrounding the outskirts of the town when they reached the car parked only a block from the theater.
Kathy slid in, unlocking her own door, and slithered over to the middle of the cold plastic seat and rubbed her hand along her husband's firm thigh, then rested her head on his shoulder.
Ah, she felt young again, like a nineteen year old girl out on a date, instead of a twenty-eight year old woman going home from a movie with her husband. To be young, again, she thought with a sigh of nostalgia for the recklessness of youth.
Well, tonight she just might be a little reckless herself! The movie combined with the necking behind her had reminded her there was more to life than washing dishes and reading magazines. Life was to be lived, and tonight, by God, she was going to live!
Darlingly, she slithered her hand further up her husband's thigh til it reached the warm vee of his pants, where her fingers explored the growing bulge in his trousers with ever-increasing lust.
"Hey, baby," cooed Art, his knuckles white as he clutched hard at the steering wheel. "You're gonna get it tonight, you little devil, you."
With a satisfied grin, she drank in the promising words, hoping that tonight Art wouldn't get sidetracked by a sudden plotting inspiration or a telephone call. Tonight would be theirs alone to share.
Art was breathing hard by the time the Dodge Dart pulled into the driveway of their rented home in the newly constructed patch of tract homes outside of Elston.
Out of habit that had become a ritual, Kathy got out of the car first to open the garage door, walked to the door adjoining the garage to the house, and stepped inside just as the phone burrrhhhhed.
"OH, God," she spat with a hiss, "now what's the matter?" After eight years she'd learned to detect the different signals from the mere sound of a telephone ringing. Perhaps it was a parapsychological talent she'd developed from the necessity of paranoia. The short impatient rings… now more than two or three… those were the hasslers. Four or five meant a neighbor or Art's parents. Any more than that and it signaled work.