The Girl in the Cockpit by Michael Avallone

Author:Michael Avallone [Avallone, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Story Merchant Books
Published: 2015-12-09T22:00:00+00:00

SWINGER

Inside, Terry Ricco's lair proved to be the latest in deluxe apartments. Excellent taste had carpeted the wide floor, superb interior decoration had decreed that a curving staircase, without a railing of any kind, would look like a magic red carpet rising to a mysterious upper level that was probably a bedroom area. It was hard to tell. The whole damn apartment was a stage for seduction. A setting for a satyr or a nymphomaniac or any other oddball, male or female, who wants all the reddest, thickest rugs, the weirdest, most formless chairs and room accessories, and lighting that would have been better for the dance floor of a discotheque or Roseland. Crimson drapes, floor-length and curling outward along the street side of the apartment, closed off the outside world. I could barely make out the shapely lady herself, squatting on the floor in the heart of the room, Yoga-fashion, tinkling some ice in the tall glass she held between her slim fingers. The walls were a madhouse of murals, great, scrawled graffiti slogans of the times and some really way-out Oriental designs. I saw the Peace symbol, etched in yellow daubs of paint, another War Is Unhealthy for Children and Other Living Things poster, and a dazzling variety of occult characters and shapes, like the warlock's pentagram, that five-pointed star encased in a circle. As I measured all the nutty and screwball features of the place, Terry Ricco remained where she was on the floor, shapely knees together in a criss-cross of beauty, the transparent folds of the silken karate-kind of half-robe she was almost wearing, revealing every blessed, beautiful curve and crest of her bountiful young body. The long, golden hair hung loose and the dim outline of her face in the pale, diffused red lighting was eerie.

An invisible Hi-Fi was playing low, throbbing, four-four rock music, filtering from all sides of the main room of the apartment. It sounded like some of the stuff from Jesus Christ, Superstar, or maybe Hair. It was hard to tell. It all sounds the same to me, who went deaf with Beethoven, worshiped Gershwin and Raymond Scott and got along just fine with Swing and the later geniuses of movie sound tracks.

I stared down at the creature in the center of the room.

The silence between us was heavier than the atom bomb.

"So, Terry," I said. I was right about her feet. They were bare.

"So, Ed," she murmured, her face wreathed with quiet laughter.

"Where do I sign in; or do I just take my shoes off, lie down and roll over and howl like a dog."

"You do your own thing," she said, more seriously. "That's what it's all about, baby. I have."

"Obviously."

"You know it."

I sat down on the floor without taking my shoes off. It was like floating into a bed of feathers. I was about five feet away from Terry Ricco. We were two squatting figures in the center of a wild and wacky pad, which had blended money, good

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