The Guilty Are Afraid

Начало книги

The first thing that attracted my attention as I came out of St. Raphael City station was a blonde doll in a bikini swim suit, a straw hat as big as a cartwheel and dough-nut sized sun goggles. Her skin — and you could see a lot of it — was a golden satin, and she had a shape on her that Mr. Varga himself would have been proud to have designed.

She was getting into a hard-top Cadillac, taking her time while the unattached males feasted their eyes on her.

I feasted my eyes too.

She settled herself behind the driving-wheel and surveyed her male kingdom with lifted eyebrows. As she drove off she sneered in my direction.

The red cap with my baggage nudged me.

“If that makes your eyes pop, brother,” he said, “you’re in for a rare time when you get to the beach. Do you want a cab?”

“Are there more like her?” I asked, slightly dazed. “If a girl showed that much of herself where I come from, she’d land in jail.”

Читать дальше →