Chapter 4

Some of the soreness was soaked away in the hot bath, and Donnie felt better, both physically and mentally. He relaxed in his room, getting dressed, finally, and going into the kitchen to forage for some food.

Charity heard him rummaging around and went in to help him. Together, they put some sandwiches on the table, along with a quart of milk and some cookies. Don wolfed down his food, talking now to his sister, as he chewed huge mouthfuls.

"That's out of sight... you getting the lead in the musical!" he told her. "Sorry, I laid it on you... when you first told me about it..."

She glowed, happy that her brother had complimented her.

"Thanks, Donnie... it's real groovy... and it's a good show they chose this year..."

They chatted on about groups, festivals and school happenings. It was nice, Charity reflected, to be able to talk to Donnie. He could be nice some of the time, and he seemed to be working at being extra polite to her.

Dad had not been home, all day, she remembered and asked her brother, "Where's dad... ?"

"Who cares... !" he said, offhandedly; then, "Probably stoned somewhere!"

"I'm worried about him!"

"Don't!" he snapped. "It's not worth it!"

"He's still our father!" she pouted.

Donnie snorted. "Not much of a father!" He was sarcastic, disdainful. He arose from the table. "I'm splitting... got to take care of some business."

"Girl type business?" Charity kidded.

"Yeah!" he said, grimly. "Girl type?"

It was just getting dark when he left the house, mounted his motor bike and roared off down the street. He stopped, on his way across town to change the twenty dollar bill for two tens.

He parked his cycle in front of Marcy Lunceford's house, ambled up the front walk and rang the doorbell. Her mother come to the door, eyed him up and down and barked, "Yes?"

"May I talk to Marcy?" he asked politely.

"And who are you?"

"Don," he told her. "Just tell her Don wants to see her."

Mrs. Lunceford, again, looked him over from his boots to his middling-long hair. She must have found something distasteful in the way he looked, for she turned away, saying, "I'll call her... She'll see you, I suppose, if she's not busy!" She closed the door in his face.

"She'll see me!" Don assured the intricately carved portal.

The door was re-opened in a few moments. It was Marcy. Don lounged on the porch railing; he did not go to her. She was forced to walk over to him. He held the bills in his hand.

"I brought you your blood money!" he gritted.

"Groovy! Give it to me!"

He flung the bills to the floor at her feet.

"Pick them up... whore!"

Hers was a bitter laugh. "Wake up, Don... smell the coffee! If it gives you a thing... try the same label out on your mother!"

Don shot off the porch railing. He grabbed her by the shoulders. "That's a God damned lie!" he grated into her face. "You little bitch... I ought to give you some of what I got this afternoon!"

Calmly, she shrugged free of his grasp. "You wouldn't dare! Jack and his boys are just waiting for a chance to cut you up!" It was a bare-faced threat.

He backed away from her. There would be no point in running into something he knew he couldn't handle... yet.

"All right... lay it on me... you know so damned much! How do you know... that... about my mom... ?"

"I've known it for months... my uncle was talking to my fatherããI overheard them. He said he'd laid Dottie Scott... took her to that motel, on the highway... just outside of town. He said she sucked him off... and fucked him!"

"That's enough!" Donnie's mind was seething. Christ! My own mom! "Did he pay her for it... just like a regular... p- prostitute?"

"Yeah... he said it cost him twenty bucks!"

"The God damned bitch!" he raged.

"Cool it, Don! It's her bag! She's the one that's doing it! It's her thing!" she reasoned.

"But... it's my mom!"

"... And, maybe there's a reason..."

"Like what... ?"

"Like your father, Gabby... he's the town drunk... isn't he? When was the last time he worked?"

Her truths were hitting home. Damn! Maybe she's right! Maybe Mom did hove reasons for... for doing it! He walked to the edge of the porch and stared out into the street. Then, it's really dad's fault! He's to blame!... And, mom just wanted to get things for us kids... like her helping me to get my motor cycle! Christ!

"I know something else, too..." she taunted.

"Lay it on me... too!" he growled, not turning to face her.

"Your dad's in jail! He beat up a guy in a bar... because he called your mother a whore!"

"Great! Just great! Don grunted, "I hope he rots there!"

He walked quickly down the walk, started his bike and shot off down the street, without a backward glance.

God! What a mess! Our family's just one great big nothing! Christ... the sooner I hit the street, the better!... But, I've got to have some bread... before I leave! Got to have something to start out with!

Don headed for Ray Donahue's house. In Ray's room, lounging at ease, he talked about what had happened to him at the hands of Jack Roberts.

"We've got to have muscle, man! We can do the same things better... if we've got the organization!" he told Ray.

"Yeah, like that's what I say, too. We could get a couple more cools guys... and do some leaning of our own!" Ray agreed, enthusiastically.

They talked for hours and laid it all out. Their meticulous plans, they were convinced, was going to net them a lot of bread. The money would come their way, now, and they were going to use every means at their disposal. Don, of course, didn't tell the tall, freckled-face boy that for him, at least, this was going to be a short-term project. All he wanted was a stake... then he would get the hell out of Redfern. It was the street for him... probably in San Francisco! Things happened up there. He wanted to be in on it... where it was happening!

"You want to go the whole route, Don... use some real muscle?"

"Like what?"

"Like guns, maybe?"

"Guns?" Don was incredulous. "Christ! You get caught... and they send you up North! No simple little Juvie for that!"

"But, if you're smart... real brainy... you don't get caught!"

"Yeah... But..."

"I lifted a couple, already!" Ray boasted.

"Guns... ?"

"Like, why should I put you on... ?" Ray reached into his closet and produced two pistols, a snub-nosed.38 and a.45 automatic. He handed Don the.38, and he hefted it in his hand. "Be careful... it's loaded!" Ray warned.

Don was impressed. "Like, man... nobody'd argue with this!" He suddenly saw the weapon for what it was: A powerful force, in the hands of the wielder... and equalizer... a counter force. He had given up some ideas about Peace, Love... and Non-violence that afternoon. Those ideas had fled as the blows rained down on him from the fists and boots of Jack Roberts and his two goons. Christ! What a temptation!

"You want to learn how to use it?" Ray asked.

"Sure, man! Go ahead... lay it on me!"

Ray Donahue showed him the mechanics of the pistol and gave him a half-full box of ammunition and loan of the pistol so that Don could do some target practice.

"Now... don't let that thing get away from you!" Ray told him. "I can let you have it till Saturday... got it?"

"Right on... I'll get it back to you on Saturday, sure!"

Riding home on his big motorcycle, Don felt important, confident, even a little cocky, with the.38 tucked into the waistband of his jeans, his windbreaker zipped up to cover the butt of it. As he rode along, his hand would steal to the pistol, to feel it, fondle it, and he idly wondered whether or not he would use it. Could he point it at a person? More importantly, could he fire it... if he had to do so? He didn't know. One thing he did know: There could be no such thing as a three to one fight... with the loaded gun in his hand.

A station wagon, standing at the curb on the opposite side of the avenue, attracted his attention. A stockily built man labored, in shirt sleeves, to change a flat tire. It was almost one o'clock in the morning. There was no traffic. The man was alone.

Don rode on for two more blocks. He wrestled with an idea he couldn't shake. It was late. The guy was alone. He was a middle- aged establishment type, and he probably had a wallet stuffed with bread. Man! it would be easy! He fondled the butt of the short- barreled.38 that nestled in his groin. Like taking candy away from a baby! Shit! This could be perfect! The guy couldn't possibly identify me... it's so dark!

The boy pulled over to the curb and parked. His heart pounded. Fear and a certain sense of profound excitement welled up in him. He had experienced it once before and overcame it, as he reached into his mother's dresser drawer and stole a twenty dollar bill. What he contemplated, now, was bigger... much bigger. With an effort of will, he calmed himself. His mind was racing, planning what he must do. He must have every detail set in his hastily formulated plans. Every move must be thought through... so there could be no possible foul-up. Satisfied, finally, his mind made up, his plan of action settled, he went to work. He took off his boots, removed his socks, put the boots back on and used the socks, tying them on with bits of string from his saddlebag, to conceal the registration plate on the rear fender and the manufacturer's name on the right side of his bike. He was almost ready, but he looked around to make sure he was not observed. All the homes were dark and peaceful; however to throw off suspicion, he knelt down and pretended to tinker with the engine. It was a master stroke. A car drove by on the avenue, and he was caught in the glare of its headlights, as head down, he delved into the machinery of the motor. His heart beat like a jackhammer, momentarily, until he was sure the car would not stop. It continued on up the avenue, not pausing in its steady forty mile an hour speed. Damn! That scared the living hell out of me!

After long moments, he stopped shaking, mounted his bike, made a U-turn and headed back towards the parked station wagon with the flat tire.

Don had tied his handkerchief over the lower part of his face as he rode along and pulled his stocking cap down to his eyebrows. He pulled up beside the car and behind the man changing the flat tire, noting that he was just tightening up the lug bolts. Don said nothing. He waited, the gun in his hand.

The salesman looked up at him, finally, and started to say, "Got the damn thing..." He stopped. The menacing pistol in Don's hand was pointed directly at him.

Speaking low, Don told him, "Put your wallet on the hood of the car!"

The frightened man hastened to obey. It was the second time tonight he had stared down the barrel of a pistol.

"Now, put your hands up... on the roof!"

"He retrieved the wallet, looked in, saw several bills and removed them. "This all?" he barked.

"That's it... l-look I've got to drive eight hundred miles to get home... I-I can't..."

Donnie put a twenty dollar bill back in the man's wallet. Then, he threw the billfold under the car.

"Crawl under after it!" Don ordered. Again, the full-faced man obeyed. Far be it from him to argue with a gun.

Stuffing the bills into his jeans pocket, Donnie mounted his motor cycle and roared off down the avenue, in the opposite direction from his home; then, taking a round-about route he worked his way homeward, parked his bike in the driveway, removed the socks from it and put them in his windbreaker jacket. Easy! Christ! It was almost too easy! The damned guy was seared almost shitless!

Don hastily counted the money, as soon as he was in his room. It amounted to seventy-nine dollars. Not bad! Not bad at all! He put the money in a safe hiding place, the gun into the back of his closet in a cloth duffel bag. He was just emerging from the closet when he heard a soft tap at his door.

"Don... ?" It was Charity, his sister. "Can I talk to you... ?" she murmured in a half whisper.

"Sure... why not?" He opened the door and let her in.

Earlier that evening Charity had performed the necessary household chores, after Don left the house, washing the dishes, vacuuming and setting the house to rights. She did these tasks cheerfully, realizing that her mother's work schedule did not allow her the time she would need to accomplish them; of course there were occasional conflicts with her mom concerning things she did or not do, but this was the normal turn of events in almost any household.

Afterward, she applied herself to her school assignments and watched a favorite T.V. show. It was later than usual when she prepared for bed. Her father had still not returned home, and she wondered, again, briefly, where he might be, deciding after some reflection, that it was not unusual for him to be away from home for long hours. He was probably drinking with some friends, trading stories, or maybe telling dirty jokes. He did get completely stoned, at times, she knew... but his absence out of her mind, went into the bathroom and began her bedtime ritual of bathing.

She couldn't, however, put her father completely out of her mind. The way he looked at her, lately, really bothered her. It was as though he was mentally undressing her, his half-lidded eyes following her every movement, avidly, devouring her every contour, and she knew, almost instinctively, that it was wrong. No father should have that kind of interest in his own flesh-and-blood daughter as a sex object.

... And, it was sexual interest in her, on his part; she knew it and recognized it, and was afraid to be alone with him. This was, of course, the reason why she had wanted to remain at school in the nurse's room, rather than go home. It was the unmentioned subject of her conversation with Mrs. Keaton, the school nurse. It was also what prompted her to remain in her own room, as much as possible, with the door locked, and she, habitually, locked the door to the connecting bathroom when she occupied it. On more than one occasion, he had accidentally blundered in on her, his eyes sweeping over her naked young body before he excused himself and left the room.

She knew, also, that Donnie was doing the same thing, now. There was the same look in his eyes, a lustful yearning... an unnatural desire.

Stripping her clothing from her young body she prepared to step into the warm bath she had drawn. Her reflection in the mirror caught her attention, and she studied her definitely womanly figure. She was satisfied with what she saw... But I'm not really as beautiful as mom. My breasts are smaller... and my hips are not as curvy... at least not yet.

Running her hands over the smooth, satiny skin, she brought up both hands to cup the rounded hemispheres of her high, proud breasts, rolling the erectile buds of the nipples in her fingers until they were distended and the areolae puckered up around them, the warm flush of tumescence flooding through her... that feeling of need... of desire... of sexuality.

With an effort of will, she denied that sexuality, making herself think of other things to relieve the concentration of her thoughts on her body... and its promises.

As she had undressed a few moments before she was elated to discover that her menstruation had stopped. Well... that's finished and done with... for this month...

Charity knew about and understood the mechanics of sex and reproduction. She had had the Sex Education Class in school, but she had no burning interest in sexual things. She had refused to go steady with any one boy; she preferred to date several, but the mores of modern youth dictated steady dating as de riguer. It followed, that although she was an extremely attractive girlããno... she was an extremely beautiful girl--she didn't have many dates, because the word was out: Charity doesn't want to go steady! She was practically cut off the vine, so to speak, for one of the main reasons for steady dating was easy availability for petting... heavy petting... and sexual intercourse. Making out was the word, and Charity knew that many of the couples of her acquaintance were either going all the way in sexual encounter... or were petting to orgasm, so-called heavy petting.

She remembered with an embarrassed blush the boy she had consented to date for the third, consecutive time. He had parked after their date, and she had consented to a few kisses and embraces. Bill Cartwright, the boy, had gotten more and more aroused, his kisses deep and probing, his tongue tantalizingly sweet and demanding in her mouth, then his hands were on her breasts, dipping inside her blouse, unhooking her bra and going under it to the warm, satin smoothness of them, her nipples coming up spiky-hard, unbidden. There was that warm glow in her, and she did not stop him, strangely, in spite of her resolve not to, wanting it to go on and on, as searing sensations played in her loins... new, delightful feelings with their ever growing promise of rapture.

His mouth had trailed down her neck to the cleft between her breasts, and then unbuttoning her blouse, he claimed the budding nipples with his warm, wet lips. Oh, God! It was wonderful!

... But, something in her told her that it must stop, and she tried to pull away from him, mumbling, "No... Bill, no! We can't go on... !"

He muffled her protests with his mouth, welding it to hers, as he kissed her, again, deeply, his tongue doing wonderful things to her, and she reciprocated, giving him her tongue to suck and nibble upon, while he allowed his hand to caress and smooth down across her flat belly, arriving, finally, at the vee between her thighs where he rubbed at her through her clothing.

Again, she objected, but his insistent hands were under her skirt, moving up her satiny smooth inner thigh against the rising wetness of her panties, his finger through the filmy nylon material, finding the hardening flesh of her clitoris in its secret hiding place, the sparse hair-ringed furrow of her femaleness. His finger played there, stroking her while the fiery sex sensations flooded through her, making her weak in her objections to his manipulations, until finally, with a low throaty groan up into his mouth, she surrendered to them.

She hadn't wanted to do it. Her reasoning mind told her that it was wrong, but her body, sensate and reaching for ecstasy overruled all rational thought and grasped for the pleasure of the moment, as her hips moved, uncontrollably, in tiny, undulant movements up against his teasing finger. Then, he pulled aside the wispy material of the crotchband of her panties, his finger teasing into the tight, virginal lips of her cunt, moving, tantalizingly, in the vestibule, but not entering further, merely stimulating her beyond all reason.

"Oh, God... Bill! Don't do any more to me... I'm afraid!"

"Like what... ?" he asked. "Orgasm... ?"

"I've never... d-done... That..." she faltered.

"Man... you're strung out and ready, now!" he said with authority.

Reaching up, he grasped the waistband of her panties and pulled them down as far as he could, she, unconsciously, shifting her weight until he was able to pull then halfway down her thighs. He wormed a finger into the viscous moistness of her pussy, again, and drew it through the coral furrow up to the pulsing miniature phallus that peeped out, above. She gasped when his finger touched her there, the nerve endings sending out desperate signals for fulfillment. He stroked and fondled with his hands, one in her cunt, moving with gentle caresses on her clitoris, the other squeezing and smoothing her firm, rounded young breasts, alternately, his mouth, meanwhile, busy sucking, nibbling and chewing at her mouth, her neck and the hard, erectness of her nipple-buds.

Under his manipulative movements, her body had gone wild. Her hips moved back and forth, now, countering the stroking movements of his fingers, her mouth returned his kisses, and as the building fires in her loins became almost unbearable, she began to moan, incessantly, her voice keening in the closeness of the car. Her breath came in short gaspings; she knew it was a sign that her climax was near. Oh, God! It feels wonderful! I never want it to stop!