He had never seen his father do anything with a pen except scrawl a hasty signature and then bite the cap, twiddle the shaft, and hurl the instrument away.

The most sensible explanation was that Mary was an actual woman, perhaps using a pen name because of the nature of her expression; though perhaps, being a mad exhibitionist, not. And in either case she was a customer of his father's or even a friend, or both, quite a good friend to put this nutty garbage into his keeping. With that thought he remembered a phrase about "extortion or blackmail," as used by the Selection Committee, and next the reference to a "law-enforcement officer."

These would certainly be real worries if you ran a dirty-book club. With the choice of blackmailer, who in the movies always lost, and FBI man, who always prevailed, one would not hesitate in the labeling of one's own dad.

That his father was indeed an undercover G-man, collecting evidence against a smut ring, would go far to explain his nervousness, as well as his frequent absences from home at mealtimes. In picture shows the Feds were depicted as cool and collected, but then neither did anyone ever seem to sustain real hurt in movie fistfights, whereas, in the real ones you occasionally saw on the street outside the Star Bar & Grill, when the rare punch connected with a face it caused damage which was still visible a week later.

Ralph and Hauser had seen a medium-sized guy named Dutch Ballbacher close the eye and break the nose of Turk Tucker, a much larger man, in that spot only last July. He might have killed him had not the cop come along and pulled him off.

"That Ballbacher is a mental case," said Horse. "He goes out of his head if somebody looks at him crosseyed. Lester went to school with him. One time he was walking across a railroad trestle when the train came along, and he had to jump down on the rocks in the gulley and he broke his skull and they put a steel plate in it. It don't pay to fuck with that monkey."

Nevertheless, a week later, Ralph zoomed around the post-office corner on his bike and ran right into Dutch Ballbacher, who had just stepped off the curb. It was like hitting a wall of masonry. With lightning reflexes, Dutch caught both bike and Ralph, who said his prayers. However, what Ballbacher said, while gently bringing his assailant into balance, was "Gee, I'm sorry, sport. You hurt?" Upon being reassured, he slapped Ralph's rump and continued across the street. Thereafter when they ran across each other, Ballbacher remembered and would say: "Hi, sport," and Ralph would answer proudly: "Hi, Dutch," impressing Hauser if he were along.

Ralph now shut the drawer and picked the lock in reverse, throwing into place the little vertical bar. In search of further evidence of his father's connection with the FBI, he went to his parents' bedroom, flipped back the chenille spread, felt beneath the pillow, and found the object he had seen his naked dad put there when they were preparing to go to the laying-out of Leo's mother.

Of course it was a pistol.

He replaced it and smoothed the bed. The only trouble with the discoveries he had made was that they could not be revealed to Horse Hauser. The great thing though was that at long last he was fascinated by his father. Ralph had never had much interest in used cars.

At this point the telephone rang. He crossed the hall, went through the kitchen, and lifted the instrument from the little stand in the corner of the dining room.

"Hi, Ralph. It's Margie." Her voice was huskier on the wire than in the open air. "I was just calling to see if you were still mad at me."

"Mad?" In his distraction he had no clue to her concern. "No, I'm not mad."

"Well, I'm going to apologize anyway."

"For what?"

"I shouldn't have criticized you, at least not when you were doing me a favor."

"Oh, well, forget it," Ralph said generously, remembering at last. "It was an awfully hot day and I had to wear that suit."

"You sure looked real nice in it, though.... I took a chance on finding you home. Is that party over already?"

"There wasn't any party." He was reminded, however, of the box of candy; he might well eat it before he could get it to Laverne.

Her voice was gleeful. "Oh, really? What are you wearing now?"

He had to look down at himself. "Wash pants and a sport shirt, I guess." He really had nothing to say, so he asked: "What are you?"

This provoked a giggle. "Oh, I can't tell you."

What a bore she was. "All right," he said, "don't."

She breathed audibly for a while. Then: "I mean, because it's not much.... It's awful hot here and nobody else is home."

"Uh-huh."

She raised her tone in mock indignation. "Well, I'm not in the nude! I've got on, uh, you know-underwear." Her voice cracked slightly on the last word.

At hearing "nude," Ralph's pecker went instantly rigid; at "underwear," it began to throb violently. He could get an erection by looking up "vagina" in the unabridged dictionary.

Margie said in the boldest voice yet: "I guess I shocked you. But it's almost as much as you would wear at the swimming pool."

Ralph had to get back his self-esteem. "That's the point I was trying to make this afternoon about words like 'pregnant.' They just describe things that exist. Take 'underwear.' If you called it a 'bathing suit,' you could get away with it."

Margie giggled again. "I couldn't get away with this, unless I was a boy."

The blood in Ralph's member now surged so brutally that he felt as though he might be toppled from the stool. He assumed a counterfeit indignation of his own. "You mean you don't have on-" He absolutely did not have the nerve to say "brassiere" to a girl; anyway, he knew from feeling her bosom that she did not wear one when going about in the outside world.

He tried again: "You don't have an undershirt on?"

"Never in summertime."

Suddenly her brazenness annoyed him. "What about in winter?" he cried.

"Say," said she, "aren't you getting pretty fresh?"

"Well, I'm not sitting here naked!"

A silence ensued. His hard-on had withered.

At last she said: "I guess I got you burned up again. I'm always putting my foot in it. I don't know how to talk to boys."

She sounded so contrite that Ralph, the eternal sucker for other people's apologies, came down from his high horse.

"Look," said he, "if every time you are inclined to say something impulsive you take a deep breath first, it might come out different. Secondly, other than that, you talk just fine to boys-at least to me. I can't talk to a lot of girls: Imogene Clevenger for example. I guess you just have to find something in common to talk about when dealing with members of the opposite sex."

"That's the nicest thing you have ever said to me," murmured Margie.

He noticed again her tendency to make it personal when his intent was to establish general principles. "Well," he said, "it's been nice talking to you, unless you have something else to discuss."

"I never called up a boy before."

"Now that I think about it, I've never been called up by a girl before."

"You don't think it's too forward?"

Actually, he did think so, but she had enough troubles. "It's like anything else, as long as it doesn't become a habit."

"The first classes start tomorrow."

"Yeah," said Ralph, groaning ritualistically.

"You hate school? But you always get good grades."

"Only fair. The eighth grade was one thing; high school is another. I don't look forward to algebra. Ordinary arithmetic was always my downfall. I never did learn how to divide fractions."

"That's my best subject," said Margie, her voice taking on authority. "I'd be real glad to help you anytime. It's really a trick, you know: you just think in terms of numbers instead of in words. Know what I did this summer? I took books in algebra and plane geometry from the library, and went through them. In fact, I got all the way to trigonometry, which I think you don't get until the junior or senior year. It's easy. I could explain it if you want."

"You'll have some job," he said dolefully. He had not known of this gift of hers. In the eighth grade they had had different home rooms. He had not been aware that she possessed any virtues whatever. He admired people who could do things. Again it occurred to him that with a little grooming she could improve her appearance a lot. But now he began to believe that the result would not just get by but be positively pretty.

She might be a terrific girl when all was said and done. She already had brains and might well be on her way, with a little encouragement, to being downright beautiful. In the movies he had seen Jane Wyman among others play the mousy intellectual who was long ignored by the guy she worshiped and helped in class, and then one day he said: "Take off your glasses," and she did and proved a knockout.

"If I can do it, you certainly can," said Margie. "I'm just a girl." However, there was nothing humble in her voice.

"Say," said Ralph. "I was thinking of going down to Elmira's for a Coke."

Before he had a chance to issue an invitation, she said: "Now? Well gee, I don't know if I can make it. I'm cool and comfortable, and I wanted to start this book on trig."

To his amazement, proud fellow that he was, Ralph heard himself plead. "Tonight? Isn't it soon enough for you that school starts tomorrow? You don't want to be a greasy grind, do you?"

"You're not just feeling sorry for me?"

"Goddammit," said he, "you want to come or don't you?"

"I warned you about cursing."

She was not content just to bring him down; she had to walk all over him. Nevertheless, he groaned: "I'm sorry."

"I'll be there in about fifteen minutes." She hesitated, then added: "I really like you, Ralph."

"That's nice."

"I mean, really.... I care for you."

"Likewise," he blurted fearfully and slammed the receiver into its hook.

chapter 14.

AFTER PAYING the check at Wong's Gardens, Buddy had taken Naomi on a long aimless drive through the outskirts of the suburban area, here and there reaching roads that bordered small farms.

Now that he had abandoned his plan to murder her, he had an appetite for reminiscence, and proceeded to feed it, recalling Ralph's walking through the cowflop, his own allergic reaction to alfalfa fields in bloom, and her cousin's wife's homemade bread, hot from the oven and spread with fresh-churned butter and peach preserves made from the fruit of their own trees.

"That's the only real life, I guess," said he. "You know: no phoniness." He was driving at 25 mph.

"Do you think so?" asked Naomi.

"You don't?"

She seemed startled by the question. "I have never been able to decide what is more real than anything else."

Formerly he would have been annoyed by this statement, finding it a subtle rejection of his point of view. Laverne would have agreed instantly, and then would have made it flatteringly personal: "Yeah, Bud, but I can't see you as a farmer, wearing overalls and a bandanna." But Naomi had actually listened to what he said, and done something with what she heard.

"Growing things," said he. "Getting up at sunrise and going to bed at dark. That seems more natural. I don't know. You get what I mean?"

"I think I do."

"Maybe after a couple more good years I'll sell the lot and buy a little farm, get away while the getting's good, before the ulcers and heart attacks."

"It's certainly worth thinking about," said Naomi.

"Free eggs and milk, anyway," Buddy said, pursuing his sentimental fantasy. "Fresh air instead of carbon monoxide. You could can fruit and make jams and jellies."

"I would be willing to learn."

Without warning he felt a strange access of affection for her. "I know you would, Nay." He took his hand off the steering wheel and briefly touched hers, which lay on the seat between them.

"Be good for Ralph too. Make a man out of him to be around animals." He had said that seriously, but got the inadvertent joke and chuckled. "You know what I mean. I think he might be led astray if he falls in with the wrong crowd. I don't see him developing leadership qualities living in this town. A dose of rugged individualism might do him good."

Naomi listened gravely to these ideas, and whenever he turned to her, she nodded in respect. However, it was her habit seldom to express a personal opinion unless asked, and then it might well be not at all to his intended point, as now.

"What do you think, Nay?"

"Ralph," said Naomi, "is a free spirit. He ranges far and wide."

Buddy frowned and increased the pressure of his foot on the gas pedal. He felt like getting home now. "I don't know," he said. "He's been getting sneaky. When I caught him breaking that window he clammed up. When I was a kid and got in trouble I talked a blue streak. I'd say anything. That's how I usually got off, even if they knew I was a bare-faced liar. At least I was open about it, see? Funny how most people will forgive you when they think they've got your number."

When they reached home Naomi changed into her quilted housecoat, brought forth her sewing basket, and settled down in the living room to darn a pile of Ralph's socks. However, after doing only the first pair, she squirted out the wooden egg, put it and the socks aside, and picked up a library book.

Buddy observed this with interest though ostensibly he was for once carefully reading the forward portions of the evening paper that he ordinarily rejected in favor of the used-car ads of his big downtown competitors. He discarded his own socks when they developed holes, which generally took a long time owing to his changing them daily and keeping his nails cut close. Ralph was not as diligent in pursuing either of these measures. Neither did he shower with regularity, as you could smell if you put a nose in the doorway of his room.

In an all-around mood of familial affection, Buddy dropped the paper and went to the master bedroom, where he felt beneath the pillow for his gun. He had it all worked out now about Clarence. After Naomi fell asleep he would go down to the basement and wait until the Negro arrived at the door. Trying to waylay him before he got that far would be impractical; prowling the streets by car or on foot, he might miss him if Clarence came by some furtive route, slinking through the shadows of back yards, guided by his jungle instincts. Of course Buddy had no reason to shoot him now, and no cover story for so doing, but being armed was wise in the event that Clarence took offense at losing the other half of his fee.

Thinking further along the same line, Buddy decided he was within his rights, and had the power besides, to demand that Clarence also return the advance payment.

He crossed the hall and, having opened the door on the right of the entrance to the bathroom and having thrown the light switch, illuminating the cellar floor at the bottom of the stairway, he went down the steep stairs. He was not a basement man by nature, had no workbench in the corner, no wood-turning lathe on which he made early-American reproductions from knotty pine, as did certain male neighbors; another had a ham radio and talked nightly to colleagues in Nevada and even Alaska.

At the bottom he unhooked the door to the outside. He also pulled it open, and was happy he had so done, because it resisted and squawked loudly. He left it ajar. Then he went upstairs, stripped in the bedroom and, carrying his robe over his arm, went into the bathroom and filled the tub. Ordinarily he was too nervous to bathe except by shower. The very thought of lying supine, bare rump on wet enamel, water at his nipples, caused him to quake with paranoia.

He was now however in a rare state of ease. For once he yearned to be vulnerably immersed in the engrossing element. He climbed in and slid down until his chin touched the surface of the water, his knees rising high and parting company to touch the lip of the tub on either side. At the angle, looking along the trough between the little mounds of his breasts, which had developed a plumpness in the months of Laverne's meals and were now distorted by the water, he could not see his genitals over the rise of his belly.

He was in the attitude of a woman about to be penetrated. The conceit amused him; he jazzed the water in parody. It was a ridiculous position. He had assumed it only once before, then by accident, when Ballbacher knocked him to the blacktop. He scrooched back, sliding his spine up the cool slope, and at last saw his floating dick, drawn back, like a boy's, inside its dunce cap of foreskin.

He decided now that Laverne would come out of her mood rather sooner than later. She was totally dependent on him, not only for bed and board, the alternative being a return to the drive-in, but also, more importantly, because of her insatiable appetite for sex. Buddy was the unique man who could feed that. Fucking was all she did, other than preparing him the occasional meal. The rest of her day was a blur of candy, movie mags, and radio serials. Unlike Naomi, she had no mind whatever.

Buddy began to develop quite a resentment against her, sitting there, and to relieve it scrubbed himself furiously with the bar of Camay gone snotty from lying in a Bakelite soap dish filled with water.

When he eventually stepped from the moist warmth of the bathroom into the cool of the hall, the time on the wrist-watch he took from the pocket of his robe was 10:20. In his congress slippers he went to the living room. Naomi was as usual reading in a cloud of smoke, but he took no offense.