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CHAPTER ONE 

I AM WRITING this book in the death cell. 

I have been convicted of murder in the first degree by a judge and jury. Though I am innocent of the crime, I have no way of proving it; but keeping in mind the fight for freedom put up by Caryl Chessman and others like him, I hope that by calling attention to my case to find someone—anyone at all, for I am desperate—who may see the truth and convince the authorities of it before it is too late. 

It began three years ago in Florida...

I was walking down Collins Avenue in Miami Beach. 

Forty cents jingled in a pocket of my expensive Appia slacks. It was all the money I had to my name. The keys to my Alfa-Romeo convertible made a pleasant weight in another pocket. I had a wallet—empty—riding one hip and a five-dollar lawn handkerchief on the other. I clung desperately to the trappings of wealth, even though I didn't have the money which should go with them. 

My father had died three months before, leaving an estate estimated at between eighty and one hundred million dollars, all of which should have gone to me as his sole heir. The only difficulty was, he was not my natural father. 

Twenty years ago, when I had been the loneliest inhabitant of any orphanage in Pennsylvania, and only three years old, Randolph Mason Horne had seen me, taken a liking to me, and ordered his attorneys to make out adoption papers. The trouble was, somebody in the law offices of Hathaway, Moncke and Flanders goofed. As a result, there was a flaw in the title of adoption. I had no more claim to the estate of Randolph Mason Horne than I had to the imposing bulk of the Eden Roc which was looming up ahead of me on Collins Avenue in Miami Beach. 

I was broke. A pauper. All this was bad enough, but in the past twenty years of being David Mason Horne, I had acquired the tastes of a gourmet and the appetites of a jaded Roman emperor. On forty cents, American, I could scarcely indulge any of them. 

Even the gas tank of the Alfa-Romeo was less than a quarter full, which explains why I was walking. Frankly, I walked to hunt a job. Any job. Even if I couldn't indulge my palate with Crépes Suzette in the Fontainebleau, at least I could still wolf down a hamburger at an open-air stand. 

So far in my life I'd had only one job. A friend of mine—a classmate at Harvard who had a Mark Continental concession in his home town—paid me one hundred dollars to drive a brand-new car south to Miami every so often. I'd been in Miami for one week and needed gas money to get home on. 

Fumbling in the pocket of my glen-plaid jacket, I brought out a crumpled pack of Old Gold filters. The pack was empty. I made sure by running my finger around inside. I figured if I couldn't eat, I could at least smoke. 

Forty cents would buy cigarettes, however. 

I turned in at a drugstore doorway and collided, full length, with a woman on her way out. I was aware of girdled softness and Chanel perfume. I reached and caught her elbows, preventing her from doing any worse than teetering on her high heels. 

"I've been careless," I told her. "Please excuse me." 

She was not a young woman, but there are few young women visitors to Miami Beach. I judged her to be in her early forties, very chic and polished by years of frequenting the best hotels, the finest restaurants, and receiving the very best of service everywhere she went. I knew the type. Wherever my adoptive father had taken me, I had seen women such as this one. 

She smiled up into my face. I'm a little over six feet tall. She was small and fleshy and modishly dressed. Her mouth was heavy with lipstick which glistened redly as she ran her tongue over it. 

"Well, of course I'll excuse you," she bubbled. "Goodness, neither of us was looking where we were going, so why should I blame you?" 

It was a longer speech than the situation called for, and it made me suddenly alert to opportunity. I squeezed her elbows. 

"You're very kind," I told her. "If the situation were a little different, I'd invite you to have a drink at the Chez Bon Bon coffee shop. As it is," and I shrugged and looked off down the street, "all I can offer you right now, besides my apology, are cigarettes. And I have to go in and buy those.” 

Her eyes touched my sports jacket and slacks, the open-throated cotton chambray shirt. It may have been my imagination, but her eyes seemed to harden with suspicion. Then she drew a deep breath and laughed softly as if she'd made up her mind about me. 

"I'd like a cigarette,” she said. 

I went in, put down thirty cents and got a pack of Old Gold filters in exchange. I ripped the seal, opening it. Tapping the pack on my fingers, I held it out to her, glancing down into the vee slash of her blue organza dress as she bent to the match I struck. I saw a black brassiere and full white breasts gently quivering to her movements. 

Her eyes came up and saw where I was staring. Her lips curved into a smile. "Can you dance?" she asked suddenly. 

"The cha-cha, the meringue, the fish," I informed her, bowing slightly. "You name it, I dance it.” At the social accomplishments, I was an expert. 

"You sound like” she began, then shook her head. 

I laughed. "Like a gigolo? Well, I'm not, Oh, I admit I may sound like one, but circumstances are against me. It seems to be a trademark of mine. Have you ever heard of Randolph Mason Horne?" 

"Of course. I have an estate in Loudoun County, Virginia, not far from his. He died a few months ago, didn't he?" 

"He did. I'm his adopted son." 

Her eyes went wide as she flushed with embarrassment. "You must think I'm a ninny,” she murmured in irritation at herself. 

"On the contrary, I find you a most discerning woman. And if you'll forgive the liberty, a very attractive one. It's true Horne was my father—my name is David Mason Horne—but I'm just what I seem to be a pauper." 

"Now you're teasing me." 

"It's a long story," I said, smiling disarmingly, giving her an opening if she wanted one. She did. Her arm caught mine and drew me out the door and along the sidewalk toward a parked Fleetwood. 

"You're going to tell me all about it, David. Please?” 

At the car she fumbled in a handbag for the keys, lifting them and holding them out. "You drive?" 

“These days, to make a living. It's one of the few things I do well." I explained about my job chauffeuring Mark Continentals from New York to Florida, while she slipped into the suicide seat with an exposure of shapely legs in taut blue nylons. 

As I eased the big Fleetwood up Collins Avenue she told me something about herself. Her name was Travis, Mrs. Rhoda Travis. She was a widow whose husband had been something of a tycoon in Wall Street and had left her loaded with IBM and AT&T stocks. She could live very handsomely, I understood, on her dividends alone; but she was tired of her kind of life. There was no excitement, no challenge in it. To while away the time, and since she had a certain facility with her slim fingers, she'd opened a hat store in Westport, back home in Connecticut. To her surprise, it made money from the start. 

"I came down here to have fun," she said, turning her neatly coiffed head on the back of the car seat to glance at me. 

"You came to the right town," I admitted. 

She pouted, "I've been here a whole week and I'm bored silly. I eat three meals every day, I swim dutifully in the pool during the mornings and the ocean in the afternoons. At night I sit alone at a table and listen to a comedian make jokes, and watch chorus girls do high kicks before I stumble off to an empty bed. That's fun?" 

"I'll level with you," I said frankly. "I have one thin dime in my slacks. If you foot the bills I'll personally guarantee you'll have as much fun as you're game to take.” 

Her hand came over to rest on my thigh, fingers widespread. My slacks were thin and her palms seemed to burn my flesh. "I have more money than I know what to do with, David. You need money—I need fun. We trade and we'll both be better off. Is it a deal?" 

"A deal," I agreed, and patted the back of her hand. She tightened her fingers and wriggled closer so that her shoulder nudged me and her thigh lay warm and soft against my leg. I could even feel her garter clasp pressing into me. 

"Have you eaten?” I wanted to know. When she shook her head I went on, "Then we're dining at a little place which serves the finest soft-shell crabs you ever bit into, and imported, unwatered French wines. The tab will come to around fifteen, twenty dollars. Fair enough?" 

"David, please," she protested. 

"All right. I'm sorry. But I want you to enjoy yourself and not wonder if maybe this is going to cost you a lot more than you figured." 

Her answer was direct. She unclasped her pocketbook, opened a grained-leather wallet and took out all the folding money in it. “There's over five hundred there. It's all yours. Show me a good time tonight, that's all I ask. I don't want any of it back.” She pushed the roll into my slacks pocket, down deep. Her fingertips were exciting as they moved around. When she sat back she had a smile on her face. 

I swung off Collins Avenue and headed toward Carol City, about thirty minutes away. There was a bistro there, the Sea Chest, where I'd been known to come in the past and work at spending some of the allowance my father handed me every week. They knew me, liked me, and saw to it I got good service. I wondered if they'd learned I didn't have a penny to my name. 

Bad news had traveled slowly for a change. The hostess gave me a toothy smile and an excellent table under some expertly draped netting in a dim corner. The candlelight made Mrs. Travis' face seem younger. She put her nyloned knees on either side of mine and squeezed. 

"Thank you, David—for bringing me here, I mean. I like it. Already I'm having fun." I put my hand over hers and held it. Her smile told me she liked what I'd done. 

I ordered a decorated concoction called a Manta Sting which was served in a bowl for two, with straws. It was a heady drink, made with rum, sherry and pineapple, and tasted like ambrosia. Mrs. Travis had to lean forward to sip from her straw and the blue organza obligingly fell away a second time. For a small woman her bosom was impressive. I cautioned her about sipping too fast. A Manta Sting is no drink to fool with, despite its smooth taste. 

We dined on soft-shell crabs when the Manta Sting was gone. By this time Mrs. Travis was flushed and her knees were beginning to play games under the table. Not exactly impervious to the rum and sherry myself, I joined in the fun. The tables at the Sea Chest are intimate little arrangements. By putting a hand below the tablecloth, I found I could run my fingers up under her skirt and along her nyloned thigh as far as her garter clasp. It added to her excitement. 

I decided on an orange pudding liberally sprinkled with almonds and wine for dessert. By the time my companion was done with it and the coffee royale, she was glowing. She hoped the evening would go on like this, so she could keep floating around on the nice pink cloud. 

When we left the Sea Chest I walked her through the moonlight to look at the fish pond and its submarine lighting effects. I kept my arm about her waist until the cool night air dissipated some of the fumes muddling her head. Then I took her to the Fleetwood. 

She turned to me as I got in, expecting a kiss. 

I kissed her slowly, with pleasure. It had been a long time since I'd kissed a woman—or a girl, either, for that matter. Three months, to be exact. When I learned I was getting none of the eighty to a hundred million my father wanted to leave me, the bottom dropped out of my world. And that included a few debutantes and married socialites with whom I'd carried on affairs of varying intimacy. 

Her mouth was warm and wet, her tongue flavored with coffee royale and Manta Sting. When I bit it gently she moaned and rubbed her full bodice against me. Sliding my palm under her organza dress I moved it up past the garter clasp onto soft, smooth thigh flesh. I gripped her hard, then began stroking her skin. 

"David, David," she gasped, head back and eyes closed. She was actually trembling. “It's been so long, so long. Oh, I haven't felt this way in years. In years. Every part of me is alive. I just can't get over the fact that I only met you a couple of hours ago." 

I took away my hand and let her go back to normal breathing. The play was up to her, actually. She had paid out good money for an evening of togetherness and it was her right to call the shots. Right now I was hoping she wanted the same thing I did. Frankly, it had been a while since I'd felt so alive, myself. 

She was sitting with her head on the seatback, eyes closed, her ripe mouth a little open. Her hands rested on her thighs, balled into tiny fists. Every so often they would jerk spasmodically. 

"You wanted to go dancing," I reminded her. 

"I know," she whispered. "I still do. Just give me a few minutes to pull myself together. Please?" Her eyes opened to study me. "How many women have you played escort to, David ?” 

I shook my head. "To none, for money." 

My brutality made her wince. She sighed and looked down at her fists, slowly opening her fingers and working them together. "Miami Beach could be a gold mine for you. You know that, don't you?” It was her turn to be brutal. 

Her slim fingers went to her black hair, faintly streaked with gray, pulling down the car mirror and switching on the courtesy lamp so that she might study herself in its polished surface. Fingertips pushed and patted for a few seconds until she had her wave bouffant where she wanted it. 

She smiled brightly. "I mean it, you know. Have you any idea how many women come down here to Florida during the winter season? The widows? The divorcees? I'm sure you do." 

"In a vague way. I've never thought about it.” 

She looked at me steadily. "No, you haven't, have you? You're telling the truth, I can tell. Really, David, you're wasting your talents chauffeuring Continentals. You have a flair for this sort of thing—taking lonely women out and showing them a good time. I honestly mean it." 

I let her lash out at me with words. Maybe she was flaying herself with them at the same time. There was no meanness in what she told me, no animosity; only a kind of surprise as if she'd struck pay dirt in a mountain stream. 

"You give a woman the little attentions she loves. You order a meal with a deftness which tells her she'll enjoy it. Your eyes flatter her. Your hands go just so far, leaving it up to the woman herself as to how much farther she wants you to put them." 

"I should say thanks, I suppose." 

Her hand caught mine, squeezing the fingers. Concern made her face turn grave. "Oh, David—please don't misunderstand me. I love being with you. I do. I'm so happy we bumped into each other. You don't mind my talking like this, not really. Do you?" 

I gave her a slow, friendly smile. "Not really." 

Nor did I. I pride myself on being realist enough to accept the fact that two and two add up to four. What this woman was telling me was true enough—I did have a flair for the social graces. All my life I'd been practicing them as Randolph Mason Horne's only child. Never until tonight had I realized I might make money from them. 

And I needed money. Oh, how I needed it. 

Listening to her talk was bringing an idea to blossom inside my head. Earlier, she'd given me five hundred dollars. I would spend maybe fifty, sixty dollars of that on her. I could keep the rest. It beat babying Mark Continentals all the way from New York. 

Rhoda Travis would be in Miami for the next week. If she was as prodigal with money every night as she'd been this evening, by the time she went back to Westport I ought to have myself a nice bankroll. 

Earlier, I'd informed her I wasn't a gigolo. At the time I hadn't been a paid escort. Now, after becoming one, she was telling me how good I was at this game, how very much she enjoyed being with me, letting me show her the town. If I was that good, I ought to make it my business, I thought. 

All my life I'd been to the most expensive resorts, backed by the Horne millions. I knew the right foods to order and what wines went with them. I could speak French fluently and was fairly conversant with Italian. I was young and strong, standing six feet one inch and weighing in the neighborhood of a hundred and seventy pounds. My blond hair was crew cut. I looked like an Ivy League college boy, the kind most women go for in a big way. I wore clothes as if they were a part of me. 

These were my assets for this kind of business. I was a natural for the game. 

The fact that I might have a weak character never entered my head. I was merely taking the line of least resistance to the money I had to have if I wanted to go on living in the manner to which my adoptive father had accustomed me. An athlete sold his body to a baseball or a football team, just as a prizefighter did his to a promoter. Bright young men traded their bodies to business corporations in exchange for cash. I would be selling mine to women. 

It was that simple. To me, it made sense. 

I became aware that Rhoda had gone right on talking while my mind had wandered. 

“You know how a woman feels when a young man treats her this way. It just melts her inside. She wants to be grateful. The only way she can show her gratitude is with money." 

“Yes, of course with money," I murmured. 

"An older woman can't flatter herself that her charms alone will be payment enough for these services," she was saying slowly, staring straight ahead. The thought came to me that she was arguing with herself and had forgotten all about my being in the car. "She wants to be loved yes, and to give love. But she has to tip the scales in her favor with hard cash." 

“You make me sound like meat in a butcher shop." 

She went on as if I hadn't said a word. "A lot of older women have money to burn. That's why you see so many of them down here in Florida. And they're lonely. Oh God, are they lonely! Their husbands are dead or have left them. Sometimes they get so hard up for companionship they feel like climbing walls.” 

She glanced at me from the corners of her eyes. She knew I was with her, all right. "A man is different. He can pick up girls, pretty girls, in bars and such. An older woman is different. Too many men want the young stuff. The older you get, the tougher it is to wangle yourself a date the kind of date you want to go out on, that is. Most any male will be happy to crawl between the sheets with you for a quickie, but I'm not talking about that.. 

"It's this other thing you have, this flair. You talked to me as an equal, not as if you were doing me a favor by being seen out in public with me. You took over completely. You made me feel as if I were your date, some fluffy young thing you were trying to impress. Oh, it wasn't put on. I mean, you weren't giving me an act. You were perfectly natural about it. A woman can tell. 

"You didn't patronize me. You enjoyed my company. As a result, you gave me back my youth. You made me feel young and desirable." 

I said in amusement, "This is quite a pitch you're giving me. You make me think I ought to make it my life's work." 

"You could do worse, David. Do you know how many women there are in America who are single, divorced or widowed? Over twenty million. A lot of them are well-heeled and willing to pay for services rendered. You have a ready-made market any time you want to have business cards printed." 

“ 'Have fun, will travel, ” I paraphrased. "Something like that, yes," she commented wryly. 

We sat in silence for a few minutes. I was thinking that maybe Rhoda Travis really had hold of something. Unwilling to handle a regular job for one thing, the kind of job I could do wouldn't pay me the kind of money I needed—this other deal would be right up my alley. I wondered what she was thinking. 

She told me, "Or maybe I'm just justifying myself, talking like this. I'm having such a good time, I can't believe it. I even feel guilty about it. Isn't that ridiculous? I'm trying to make myself better than I am by running you down. David, I'm sorry." 

"For what? For telling the truth? You're perfectly right. I've been listening to you, agreeing with everything you've had to say. I'm not fitted to do any other work. I'm no engineer, no architect. I'm not even good at mathematics. Or at anything else which would earn me what I consider a decent salary. So why should you apologize?” 

I kept my voice level, not showing anger or hurt. As a matter of fact, I wasn't quite sure whether I felt any emotion at all. Mrs. Travis stirred beside me, reaching out for my hand, bringing it between her palms. 

"Why don't you hate me, David? I said unforgivable things just now. You're a very pleasant, handsome young man. Is it your fault you didn't inherit the millions you'd been led to believe you would?” 

"No, I suppose not. Still, if there was good strong stuff in me I'd be working for the Horne Corporation. I've had it in the back of my mind to apply for some sort of job with Dad's holding company. I haven't so far because I've been afraid of the job they'd give me. Menial stuff, maybe. Bottom of the ladder and all that. I could take that if Dad were still alive I'd know I would be moving up that ladder damn soon." 

"I could get you a good job in New York," she said hesitantly, watching me carefully. "I have friends, connections." 

"I might take you up on that,” I told her, laughing. "Oh, please do, David. It would be wonderful." 

My eyebrows arched. “These friends of yours would like that, wouldn't they? You come back from Florida with a—shall we say, a protégé?—a young man who takes you out to dinner, to the theater and night-clubs. What would your Westport friends say about you then?” 

“That would be my problem." 

"And mine," I said, putting the key in the ignition slot. "I'll think about it, Rhoda. Maybe we could work something out." 

She murmured plaintively, "I feel as if I've spoiled the evening. And I was enjoying myself so much." 

"On the contrary. We've grown to know each other better. You aren't a stranger anymore. You've become an individual." 

Her smile was tight. “You even say the right things." 

The big Fleetwood flowed through the parking lot and out onto the street. I drove mechanically. My mind was busy with other matters. 

Finally I said, "Trouble is, you're fighting yourself. You want a good time but you don't think you should. It's an American attitude. Your Frenchman or Italian isn't bothered by puritanism. When he sets out to paint a town red he does it in spades, without fretting, without worry." 

"You've been to Europe?" 

"Half a dozen times—London, the Riviera, Capri, Venice with its canals—I spent three whole summers there during my college years." 

We talked lightly, casually. Both of us were glad to get away from the past few minutes, which had left a bad taste in our mouths. Rhoda chattered on the way women will do while closing their minds to unpleasantness. I was her sounding board, letting her throw words at me and tossing them back at her. By the time we were on the Dixie Highway she was sitting over against me with her head on my shoulder. 

"Where are we going, David?" she wondered suddenly. “Little place I know. The Reef in Coral Gables."

"Do they have an orchestra?"

"A five-piece combo that vibrates."

"I haven't danced in such a long time." 

"You leave everything to me, Rhoda. Don't worry about a thing. A man who knows how to lead properly can make any woman follow him.” 

"This I have to see," she cried and clapped her hands together. I glanced sideways. The laughter was back in her eyes and, for a while, she'd forgotten her guilt feelings. 

To my pleasant surprise, she turned out to be a good dancer, with natural rhythm and graceful movements. Though she protested her lack of knowledge of the steps, I took her through a rhumba and then a cha-cha with such ease that when we were walking back to the table a couple of merrymakers applauded us. 

"You're a miracle man," she sighed, sipping her rum and tonic. "An absolute twenty-two karat miracle man. I don't know what I'm doing out there but you make me go about it so easily, my feet perform without my even being aware of them." 

"A man dances with his hands, too, you know. He must know how to guide his partner this way and that, turning her at the right moment, bringing her along with him." 

The Reef serves good rum. One drink inevitably leads to a second and then a third. By that time you're way out, man, and eager for more. I had to stay sober, so I slacked off. Mrs. Travis drank as if it were going out of style. After her fifth, I told her she was coming apart at the seams. 

Her earlier muscular co-ordination was gone. Rather than follow my lead, she showed a tendency to cling. In a way, it added to her attractiveness, for her moving thighs came soft and warm against me, stirring me pleasantly. After a while we moved around the dance floor in a mist of Chanel and controlled desire. 

At one o'clock I decided it was time to pick up the tab and say good night. I urged Rhoda out into the cool night air and the starlight, my arm about her middle. As we walked she caught my hand and lifted it up to her brassiere. I found her breast to be firm and heavy. 

Twenty feet from the Fleetwood she turned to me, arms going around my neck as she mashed her lips on mine. "We've been teasing each other long enough," she breathed. "Come on, you handsome young bastard—kiss me." 

We stood in the middle of the parking lot, highlighted by the full moon. I don't know whether anybody was looking at us but I kissed her the way she hungered to be kissed, listening to her whimper deep in her throat. Oh, I was a natural at this sort of thing, all right. I had her steaming before I turned and half carried her to the big Cadillac. 

"You want to pick out the motel?” I asked when we were moving along the Coral Way. She was having hand trouble and breathing harshly. 

"Hurry up. Just hurry up, David."

"Yeah," I agreed wryly. "I'd better do that." 

I signed us in as husband and wife. I used my own name. Why not? I was single and without entanglements. I knew it was a misdemeanor in New York to sign a hotel or motel register with a false name; I wasn't sure about the Florida law, so I played it safe. 

I closed and locked the door behind us. Mrs. Travis was lifting her blue organza dress as I switched on the electricity. Hidden bulbs made the bedroom bright as day, giving me a good look at her legs in blue nylons, her slightly tanned thighs and black girdle. 

The dress was off. She tossed it on a chair and held out her arms. Above the black satin girdle she was wearing a brassiere, black with lace inserts to show the pallor of the firm flesh crowding its C cups. She was erotica in three dimensions, having pushed her guilt feeling away into some remote corner of her mind. 

I caught her against me and began kissing her big red mouth. My lips moved to her throat, to her plump shoulders, to the quivering flesh of her upper breasts. My hands inched under the black girdle and gripped smooth, naked buttocks. I took my time, not hurrying, wanting her half out of her mind with need before I satisfied her. 

In a little while she was absolutely helpless. She undressed me with shaking hands. She kissed my body, begging for my love, promising me money—all kinds of money—if only I'd do what she wanted so desperately to have me do. 

After a while I gave myself to her. 

We woke up twice during the night. The concealed lighting was still on and the bed-covers were down around the foot-boards She was in her forties but her body was wildly alive, demanding, striving blindly and hungrily to make up for the long years of her widowhood. She lived seven empty years in five hours. 

It was ten o'clock the next morning when we woke the third time. She stretched, arms high over her head. Then she lay there and let me look at her. 

"Marry me, David," she said softly. 

I shook my head but leaned over to kiss her. "I'm not the marrying kind, Rhoda. Besides, when you get back to Westport you don't want me around. This is your vacation. You're out to enjoy yourself. Don't get entangled in a way you'll be sorry for later on." 

"I wouldn't be sorry." 

"Yes, you would. Not right now, not for a year or even two years maybe, but eventually you would." 

She considered that thoughtfully and nodded. "You may be right. You probably are." Rhoda swung her legs off the bed and padded, naked, her fleshy buttocks jiggling slightly, to where her black satin girdle lay wrapped around her blue nylons. Bending, she picked them up. Her buttocks were white and full. She came padding back to the bed and sat on its edge to undo garter clasps and unravel the stockings. 

"Breakfast together?” I asked. 

She turned her head to smile down at me brightly. "Of course. And after that a swim in the ocean. Then lunch together—wherever you say." 

I grinned. “Aren't you wasting money at the Eden Roc? Why don't you just move in with me?” 

Her eyes lighted up. “Would you mind, David?"

"I want you to. At least we can play at being married." She leaned toward me, her big white breasts swinging outward to rest on my chest as she kissed me. I stroked her naked back. When she began to breathe faster I dragged her down on the rumpled sheets. I told myself my customer might as well get her money's worth... 

We ate pancakes smeared with maple syrup, and drank hot coffee at a sweet shoppe. I drove Rhoda to the Eden Roc and waited while she packed her things, then brought her to the parking lot where I'd left my Alfa-Romeo. 

Now that I had a bankroll I could fill my convertible with oil and gas. I picked up a picnic basket and a thermos at a drugstore. There are some lonely spots on Key Biscayne where a man and a woman can laze around in the Miami sun. I figured that if we liked it enough, we wouldn't have to come back to the motel until after dark. 

I loaded the wicker hamper with sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs. I filled the thermos with coffee. When I showed Rhoda what I'd done she clapped her hands like a little girl. 

"I feel as if I were going on a date, the way I used to back in Westport before I got married," she said with a pleased laugh. 

"Well, you are going on a date," I said. 

To my amazement she blushed and ran into the bathroom to change into her swimsuit, a Tiktiner bikini with cardigan to match, made of stretch nylon. It clung to her with indecent honesty. She'd never have dared wear it at a public beach. 

I slipped into my trunks while she checked the picnic lunch. I put on a beach jacket with pockets to hold the car keys and my wallet. I decided to use the Alfa-Romeo. It would be unfamiliar to her and would add a sense of newness. 

I took the Rickenbacker Causeway to Key Biscayne. 

The day was perfect for the beach. The sun was hot but the air was dry and pleasant. Rhoda bubbled with laughter, with carefree merriment. Bare legs stretched out as much as the Alfa would allow, she prattled on about her Westport neighbors, its country club, her golf game, and how she hated to think of going back. 

I hunted a more or less private strip of beach. When I found it I carried the hamper and the thermos, a beach blanket and two bottles of suntan lotion. All Rhoda had to burden herself with was her transistor radio. 

We lay in the sun for hours, listening to music. Alone like this, Rhoda could let down her halter while I rubbed Coppertone on her back. Lying on her front, she got a good tan from her shoulders to her middle. After a while she fell asleep. 

I did a little dozing myself. What with one thing and another I hadn't had too much rest the night before. When I wasn't sleeping, I was planning. Everything was working out just right for me. I figured that if I was going into this escort business, I'd better learn all about it. Rhoda Travis liked to sun-bathe. Maybe she'd like to play a little golf tomorrow. My membership dues at the Miami Country Club were paid up, thanks to my father. The day after that, we might charter a boat and run out into the Gulf Stream. The main thing was, keep the customer happy. 

My next client might like horse racing. For her there would be Hialeah Park at the end of N.W. 79th Street. Or if she wanted to get in some shopping, the Lincoln Road stores were waiting. My tactics called for a visit to a number of places to see what sort of deal I might work out. After all, if I brought in business I was entitled to a cut of the profits. 

It was almost dark when she stirred, rolling over on her back, an arm flung across her eyes. Her breasts were big and white, with thick brown nipples, soft now and relaxed, but they could get hard and swollen with passion. One thing I had to remember, I told myself: these widows and divorcees came to Miami for a good time. If what they were after included some bed calisthenics, that would be a part of my trade, too. 

With Rhoda Travis, it had been easy. 

There would be others, though, who might be difficult to take. I'd seen enough lonely women during the traveling years with my adoptive father to recognize the signs when they came up flashing. Fat women, thin women, pretty women and plain, all kinds came to the vacation resorts, and a lot of them had a gnawing hunger. If I contracted to slake those hungers, I'd have to live up to my bargain. 

"David! Why didn't you tell me?" 

She was sitting up, lifting the striped halter to cover herself, glancing at me sideways. I grinned and winked. “The scenery was too good to spoil." 

Rhoda was like any other woman; she enjoyed flattery. I could see her hiding a smile even as she chided me. When the halter was in place I poured the rest of the coffee in a cup and handed it to her. 

"To warm you up," I explained. 

Over the paper rim her eyes regarded me. "What's on the program for tonight? The Sea Chest again?” 

"Not twice in a row, love. We go stepping this evening. A gown for you, a dinner jacket for me." 

"Ooooh, it sounds like fun. Where?” 

"You'll see.” I grinned and, getting to my feet, helped her up. I did the menial work, folding the blanket, re-packing the hamper. Rhoda Travis was on her vacation. I wanted her to know it every minute we were together. 

She held my hand, walking back to the car. That night, for the first time, she would tell me about Felicia Marr.