Sin In Their Blood | Page 5

only thing missing on him was a strait
jacket.
Miss O'Brien said, "Yes, sir, Mr. Austin," and Mr. Austin actually
backed out of the office, his eyes, distorted by the powerful glasses,
giving me a clumsy once-over. He sure looked like a nut or a hophead
who needed a shot in a big hurry.
I glanced through several magazines I'd never heard of before, all of
them full of super-patriotic junk, eager to explain what had gone wrong
in Korea, and all of them had an article either called, "What MUST Be
Done," or, "Wake Up, America!" I tossed the magazines back on the
end tables next to the smart brown leather couch I was sitting on. I
knew damn well Harry was alone, giving me the waiting treatment to
show his importance. I was about to ask the receptionist if she had the
daily paper, so I could start looking for a room, when the door opened
and I smelled the perfume before I heard, "Matt!" and she threw herself
on my lap, her red mouth over mine. I pushed Flo aside, and jumped up,
said, "Damn it, don't kiss me!"
The months hadn't hurt Flo. She still had the fluffy blond hair, the
sensuous mouth, and her chic dress proved beyond any doubt she had a
full figure and wasn't wearing a bra. Her firm full breasts seemed to be
held at the nipples, like two jack-in-the-boxes, waiting to spring over
the low-cut dress. But I really wasn't looking at her fleshy bosom or the
long shapely legs and the bit of round thigh that showed as she
sprawled on the couch--I was only watching that over-red mouth, afraid

of it. I'd thought a lot about Flo... she'd been the logical candidate to
give me the bug: Flo and her sloppy soul kisses, ramming her sharp
darting tongue down my throat.
Flo bounded to her feet as Miss O'Brien watched with respect and
disapproval, hugged me, and fortunately her mouth only reached my
shoulder, smearing my shirt. She was wearing high platforms--her lips
used to come about halfway up my chest, she got her kicks biting the
hair there. She said, in the gushy way she had of talking, "Ah, Matt,
Matt, it's so damn good to see you! How you, honey?" She pushed me
away, looked me over with delight. "You still look so... oh... rough and
big. Matt, I've missed you so goddamn much."
"I can see that," I said, glancing at the silver fox scarf, the rings and
bracelets--all real stones. Flo spent a lot of time dressing herself, and if
her taste was a little on the loud side, she never wore cheap stuff. It
used to amaze me how she spent hours dressing--to be able to undress
in seconds.
She giggled. "Hell, Matt, I had to do something, or go to work--for
peanuts. It don't mean a thing, you're the only stud for me. You know
that. Why the very sight of you sent a hot..."
There was a cough from Miss O'Brien and Flo muttered a female word
under her breath--which was the last thing you'd think about the faded
Miss O'Brien. Flo whispered, "Hon, I'll wait downstairs. Be in the
yellow Packard roadster--it's mine. And don't pay no mind to whatever
Harry tells you, you know where you really stand with me--and any
time."
"Well... I don't know how long I'll be with Harry...."
"Hon, I'll wait."
Miss O'Brien said crisply, "Mr. Loughlin will see you now."
Flo winked, said, "Don't forget, I'll be waiting."

The receptionist began, "Mr. Loughlin is waiting...
I pushed Flo away, my hand touching a lot of soft cool skin and Flo
looked at Miss O'Brien and repeated the four-letter word--loudly--and
the woman blushed a deep red as she buzzed the door for me.
I went through a small room, a kind of foyer, lined with big metal filing
cabinets, the fireproof expensive ones, with a thick lock on each cabinet.
There was also a desk with a bronze nameplate: Thatcher Austin, Jr.
The creep came complete. On the wall behind the desk there was a
small American flag with a scale model sub-machine gun hung under it.
It was a good model and I was about to stop and examine it, when
Harry opened the door of his office.
He hadn't changed: wiry, dapper, the thin-featured face all clean-shaven
and with a trace of powder and nice smelling after-shave lotion. He had
the same small hands, soft and well manicured, as always. Sometimes
when he was on a real good binge, he'd paint his nails a mild pink.
"You big thug, you look fine!"
I said, "That's what everybody has been trying to sell me."
He sat down behind his big metal and dark mahogany desk and