Chapter 1

Alfred Bombannente was a parole officer who worked for the city of San Francisco, and for the most part he did an excellent job of making sure paroled prisoners walked the straight and narrow. He did such a good job, and his methods were so completely effective, it was decided he would be moved from male parolees to female parolees. For some reason, women were harder to rehabilitate than men. In spite of Womens' Lib wanting to make certain there was no discrimination between the sexes, the state of California found no pleasure in sending women to prison, making them hard, bitter, and useless members of society. If anyone was capable of rehabilitating them, Al Bombannente was the man.

Al was a handsome looking fellow. He stood at five-feet-ten inches in height.

Al had dark-brown hair, cut short and combed straight back. He had a straight nose, a handsome face, and though he looked slightly roly-poly, under the little bit of excess weight he had a firm, solid body.

Al Bombannente hated no one. He was not the kind of man capable of carrying a grudge. By the same token he didn't love anyone, either, because he knew love led to complications, especially in his line of work. To marry would mean to make himself, and his wife, vulnerable to attacks from the occasional dissident convict who didn't want to be rehabilitated. Now that he was working with women, it would have been even more difficult, since a wife would have automatically been jealous.

This didn't mean that Al was lacking for female companionship. On the contrary, Al had more feminine companionship than he was capable of handling. Some of the women all but forced themselves on him, while others had to be coerced a little, but Al had all the feminine companionship he would ever need. Just where he got it from will be explained more fully, shortly.

Al always went out of his way to help his female parolees, finding them better-than-menial jobs at better than minimum pay since many of them had abilities that would elevate them above the norm.

Four different women had become fashion models because of Al Bombannente. All four had been thrown into prison while in their late teens, their basic crimes being, associating and being caught with known criminals while said criminals were in the act of performing a felonious act, such as smuggling hash or marijuana, or even cocaine from one state to another. They had been young, out for kicks, wanting a good time, aching to have a man care for them and spend money on them.

Al had many connections in many fields, and he had been able to convince each of these girls, at a different time, to accept model training, and from there they went on to become highly paid models, making two, three, and even four-hundred dollars an hour.

Each of the models showed her gratitude to Al by "convincing him" to bed down with her. This, Al did, more than happy to accept the grateful showing of each of the women.

But for the most part Al got jobs such as those of waitress, counter girl in a cleaning establishment, and worker in a day nursery for these women. He kept constant tabs on each woman for a year after he got her the job, even after she was no longer on parole, and his rehabilitation rate with females was almost forty percent better than that of any other parole officer.

One of the reasons for it was the fact that he would brook no nonsense from a wisecracking woman just released. He had his own method for making sure those who strayed, but were still capable of rehabilitation, came back into line.

Ella Montefusco was one of Al Bombannente's "girls." That is, she was part of his caseload. Ella, as she was known by everyone acquainted with her, had served an eighteen month term at one of the heavy security womens' prisons for having attempted to stick her brother-in-law with a butcher knife. It seemed Ella had developed a heroin habit, and her brother-in-law had been her supplier. Lucky for Ella the man had gotten greedy when she was into the habit less than two weeks, or she would never have been broken of it.

Where methadone was the prescribed treatment for most junkies, because Ella had been on it for such a short length of time, she had gone the cold turkey route. She hadn't wanted to go that route, but during her days in the city jail, waiting arraignment--since no one had put up bail for her--and while she was on trial, no one had supplied her, so by the time she went to prison, she had been broken of the heroin habit.

Her brother-in-law, her sister's husband, had wanted much more than money from Ella, and when he had insisted she give him her body, as well, Ella had gone into a rage and had attacked him with the butcher knife. She had stabbed him three times before he had gotten the knife away from her and called the police. When the officers arrived, they found no evidence to support Ella's claim that her brother-in-law had been her supplier, though they did find track marks on her arm. So she was arrested for assault with intent to kill, and her brother-in-law had testified at her trial against her.

It was only because the man had been arrested sixteen months later that Ella's five-year sentence had been reduced, since he had been caught with two kilos of pure heroin on him. It took two more months for the courts to decide that Ella should be allowed out on parole, provided her temper didn't get the better of her.

She was an absolutely lovely little redhead, standing at five-feet-two inches in height, with bright, bluish-green eyes, a very tiny upturned nose that was covered with freckles in summer, and a cute little heart-shaped mouth. She had been the littlest bit plump when she had first gone to prison, but the fat had been taken off her in a hurry, and she had a perfect shape, now. Her apple-shaped breasts were thrust out against her pink dress the morning she was in Al Bombannente's office in such a way that made every man who looked at her want to bite into them. She had pa slim waist, no more than twenty-one inches around, and her hips, though not boyish, were not quite full, even though her small, tight fanny was very round.

Ella had been sour about the fact that she was on parole. As far as she was concerned, the fact that her brother-in-law had been picked up as a narcotic's peddler substantiated her story about his attempted rape of her. Al explained that although it lent more credibility to her story, there was still no proof of the attempted rape, while her stab wounds on her brother-in-law's body had been definite proof of attempted murder. The fact that her sentence had been reduced and that she was out on parole was the best the court system was able to do.

For three weeks Al worked with Ella, trying hard to explain to her that she had to stop trying to find kicks and look for a decent job in order to make a living. He even found her a job, working as a clerk for the local office of the Pruriental Insurance Company.

Al checked with the company every week and learned Ella was reporting to work regularly and though she was somewhat slow in learning, she was definitely learning. Nevertheless, the redheaded girl seemed resentful each time she reported to him, until the end of the third week. That was the time she had suddenly been all smiles, and Al Bombannente was suspicious. Girls like Ella didn't simply change overnight.

When she left his office, Al had one of the other workers take over the rest of his caseload for the day, and he followed Ella. He followed her to downtown San Francisco, near Chinatown, where he saw her speaking with different men. She was still on her lunch hour, so she was not violating her parole. Not only that, but she stayed away from bars, out in the open.

It was when she stepped into an alley with one of the men with whom she had been talking that Al became alert. He waited until the man came out, and Al noticed the man was putting his wallet away. This meant the man had either taken money out of the wallet or had put money into it.

Ella had been in the alley for too short a time to do anything sexual with the man, so Al assumed the girl had bought something. He waited while she came out and crossed the street to an outdoor phone booth. She didn't see him sidle up to the booth and listen as she called the insurance company and claimed she wasn't feeling well that day.

She hailed a cab after that, and Al managed to get another cab. He followed her to the small rooming house where she now lived. She had a small set of rooms in the basement of the house with her own private entrance. It was when she unlocked the door to walk in that Al forced his way in, grabbing her arm, frightening her with his sudden appearance.

"Wh-what do you want?" she gasped, as he pushed her inside, shutting the door behind him.

They were in the combination living room cum bedroom of Ella's small living quarters. In the far corner, on top of a cabinet, she had a hot plate where she occasionally cooked when she didn't want to join the rest of the roomers for meals. There was a large sofa-bed, still open, though properly made up, off to the right, and though it was somewhat dark down here since it was partially below street level, Al saw Ella had managed to keep the place fairly clean.

Turning on a lamp, Al hurled the lovely little redhead onto the sofa-bed, her green coat flapping open, revealing her pink dress again. He took off his own heavy winter coat, it being the middle of December, and without a word he grabbed her purse.

Ella gasped as he opened it, turned it upside-down on a small table, and took out a "nickel bag." It was a small, glassine envelope the size of a postage stamp filled with white powder.

"You know, Ella," he said to her. "If I open this and taste it and find its heroin, you'll be right back in state prison, and there'll be no parole, this time. This is a definite violation of parole. Have you used any of this shit, yet?"

"No," she whimpered. "This was my first connection. I was going on a high to end all highs. I need something--anything."

Al watched as she leaped to her feet and walked to a small cabinet at the far end of the room. She took out a bottle of Chianti, saying, "What the hell, if you're going to bust me for using H. then my taking some wine won't matter much."

There was a small sink in the corner, probably a laundry sink at an earlier time, and she took a glass sitting in the sink, washed it out, and poured herself a quarter of a glass, tossing it down quickly. She did it a second time and Al watched, saying nothing.

"Considering the hell you went through while you were inside," he said when she had finished her second glass, "I'd think you'd be smart enough to do the right thing in order to stay outside."