Lust Is No Lady by Michael Avallone

Author:Michael Avallone [Avallone, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Story Merchant Books
Published: 2013-09-24T22:00:00+00:00

11

P. J. was someone a team of psychiatrists would have to unwind. The survey of the place where he had slept and lived would have been enough to confound Aristotle, Plato and Darwin. No telling what Kinsey would have made of him. It was amazing how much junk there was lying around and tacked up on the four wooden walls. It was even more amazing that I hadn’t noticed that junk on my first entrance before the lamp was turned off.

The walls caught me first. Helter-skelter and with absolutely no sense of arrangement or design, he had covered every available bit of wall space with posters, charts, calendars and souvenirs. The posters and calendars were dated; the cheesecake kind you can find in any barber shop in America. But a pornographic artist had been at work in P.J. He had sketched in details the photographers and artists had been modest about in the original models. The next thing that caught the eye were the souvenirs. A black bra, a purple net stocking, panties, and bits of lingerie were stuck haphazardly like pennants on every wall with everything from thumb tacks to nails. None of this was too good for a starter but closer examination of the charts were worse.

The charts were rendered in big, scrawly print. He had listed women according to blondes, brunettes and redheads. There was a long list of names running lengthwise on the charts with check marks and descriptions of evenings-with-them that read like something out of the Satyricon or a payboy’s private diary.

There was more. Much more. But there was a lot more 70 to see and try to understand. Another chart, hanging alongside the door, was pasted full of pages torn from some cheap man’s magazine. I scanned them briefly. The usual bold guides on HOW TO MAKE MARY, SIX WAYS TO LOVE A BLONDE and HOW TO TRIP THE LADIES ON YOUR BOUDOIR FLOOR. Before I could think that all P.J. thought about was girls, I found another chart. This one featured riddles printed in his own hand, probably, which looked like the hen-tracks of a seven year old boy: What has four wheels and flies! A GARBAGE TRUCK. Where was the Declaration of Independence signed? ON THE BOTTOM. When is a door not a door? WHEN IT’S AJAR. What do they call a man who doesn’t believe in Birth Control? DADDY. You know, stuff like that. Clever riddles but in the hands of a P.J., what did they mean as a key to his kind of brain?

I turned away from the walls and studied the floor by the window. P.J. had more sides than an octagon.

Scattered about in wild confusion and looking read and reread ninety times over were back-number issues of Mad, Popular Mechanix and Science Illustrated. Score one for Mrs. P.J. but it was kind of contradictory. I thumbed through the science mags. P.J. seemed to have paid particular attention to the inventions and do-it-yourself innovations by amateurs all over the world.

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