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She was hurrying past the field on her way home when the man stepped out from behind a tree and stood spraddle-legged in her path. Ginny Lee was uncommonly pretty, a small girl with unusually long legs for someone her size, good legs with finely molded ankles; and her breasts above the rounded hips and very thin waist were large and full, not in a way that gave her a top-heavy look, but a proud, feminine look. Ginny Lee was happy about her looks except for one thing: she needed glasses. She stood there blinking and squinting, trying to recognize the man who stood there so menacingly. "Who are you" she asked, suddenly frightened. He laughed, took her roughly, and threw her down.
There were two Charlie Gibsons. One rode the 5:45 to Westport and was met at the station by his charming wife who dressed in impeccable tweeds and mixed a wicked martini. He also had a long-legged, lovely daughter whom he admired. He was second in command of a vast publishing house and, what's more, he got there without being a hatchet man. Everybody had respect for him; almost everybody liked him. That was one side of Charlie Gibson. The unhappy side. One spent every spare minute in the apartment of Marge Mann. She was beautiful and flamboyant and she loved Charlie with passion. It was she who gave him the ideas that took him to the top of the publishing world - although Charlie never realized it. Every minute he spent with her was like being under the influence of a strong drug. He was addicted to Marge and didn't want to break the habit. That was the other side of Charlie Gibson. The happy side.
On their first night Carrie had been nervous, and Slater had tried to think of some way to make it easier for her, to show her how fine and free it could be. But the moment they'd stepped into the cabin, she had undressed, matter-of-factly, a cigarette dangling from her lips. Her body was white and incredibly lovely, and Slater had felt desire engulf him. He had held her, hungrily, and hardly listed to the one thing she'd said. ''I don't think I'll be much good at this.'' She had been so cruelly right. And that, in a way, was what had killed her. That, and a beautiful woman named Jenny.
He was sixteen the summer he killed the girl - a brown-haired boy painfully aware of beauty and in search of it.The trouble was, he had a kind of adoration for Jill Latham's cool beauty and her mysticism. So when she revealed to him her secret and terrible life, it shattered him.It was as if by killing her, he restored his shattered goddess to himself.
It is the story of the strange, private world built by a man of many faces and as many distorted passions, and of the women who dared enter that world.
Paradise, Georgia, USA where black and white have lived together, and in secret loved together for three hundred years; where the white man knows that the dark-skinned man is his blood brother and hates him for it; where the white woman looks on the dark-skinned man with secret lust and longing . . . Out of this shared and silent intimacy, compounded of fear, hatred, sexual guilt and carnal knowledge, springs this starting novel which lays bare the secrets behind the violent deeds of the South.
It all started innocently enough in New York's Gramercy Park district. Archie Gamble, a Gemini, is writing a TV special on astrology under the expert but irritating tutelage of Anna Muckermann. The show's success depends on Archie's finding a set of astro-twins - two persons born at the same moment in approximately the same vicinity.So far, no luck and no astro-twins. The studio deadline is scorching Archie's neck, and, as Ms. Muckermann kindly explains to his wife, the fault is in Archie's stars. His signs are bad. Nothing but trouble can be anticipated.As unpredictable Gemini would have it, Archie's own astro-twin steps forth in the shape of a mild-mannered psychologist, Neal Dana. Actually, Neal doesn't step forward. He's pushed, by his very attractive wife, who has her own personal reasons for wanting him out of the house a couple of nights a week.And what Neal and Archie are thrust into is a star-crossed pattern of events - and their violent and intertwined destinies will send panicked readers scurrying after their own horoscopes.Don't Rely on Gemini is one of the eeriest spellbinders in many a full moon.
An exhilarating story from the author who mainstreamed lesbian pulp fiction The moment of truth. . . Mary Drew knelt down on the rug. She leaned forward, her mouth within an inch of Martha's. "l love you," she said. "I've loved you from the very moment we met. But I won't kiss you. I'm so close my lips are almost on yours, but I won't kiss you. " Martha looked deeply into the other girl's eyes for a very long time. "l love you, too," she said. Then hungrily they fed on each other's lips. Martha grasped Mary Drew's hand. "Love me, will you? Not just kisses. Not any more. "
The book that damned an entire townFERN FULTON: ''I'm the only friend Gloria Wealdon has in this town. How could she write those dreadful things about me and my husband and our daughter?''VIRGINIA FULTON, age 15: ''Mrs Wealdon's a stinker and I'd like to murder her and write a sequel to her book. I'd call it Population 12,359.''DR. JAY MANNERHEIM, psychologist: ''Gloria Wealdon has simply touched off unpleasantries that in many cases would have exploded sooner or later anyway.''MILO WEALDON: ''I never realized my wife had such contempt, such loathing for me until I read her book.''MIN STEWART: ''My family has been here for generations. I consider Gloria Wealdon so vulgar as to be quite beneath contempt.''GLORIA WEALDON: ''The hell with everybody in this snotty town. They made my life miserable. Now we're even.''
A MURDER BEGINS AND ENDS this story of scandal and tragedy in a college town. You'll meet some memorable characters here - most of them hair-raising - as novelist Vin Packer spins out a sinister excursion with the cool, campy kids of Far Point College, New York.It's a wild, wild joyride - from Thunderbird to Bluebird, from classroom to Cheetah, with stops on the way at rent-by-the-hour motel rooms. You'll watch in horror as the Pucci-Plantagenet crowd burns up the roads, heading for that sickening, inevitable crash . . . that jolting confrontation with the reality they can't escape . . . with THE HARE IN MARCH.
Somehow he'd ended up with someone else's coat . . . and that act could end Robert Bowser's life before it started.His hand trembled as he answered the phone.''Mr. Bowser?''''Yes.''''Mr. Bowser, my name is Harvey Plangman.''''Yes, Mr. Plangman. I have your wallet, and jacket, too, I believe.''''And I have yours.''''Why don't you drive over here? I could offer you a drink and we could reclaim our things.''''Mr. Bowser, were you planning on going to Brazil?''Was this really how the world ended?''You don't have anything to be afraid of, Mr. Bowser.''''I'd better come there.''''Yes, I think it would be better if you came here. You'll know who I am all right, Mr. Bowser. I'm wearing your coat . . .
Joseph Meaker was a shy, dedicated scholar. To his brash wife, Maggie, and her advertising friends, he was a cipher, easily dismissed. But behind his gentle façade he carried the seeds of violence, subtle and understated. Until the day his pet cat was accidentally killed by a neighbor's car.Joseph's desire for revenge became an obsession that could only be satisfied by a ''punishment'' so gruesome it makes the skin crawl.
The Lesson - According to Kicks . . .Heine pointed the knife at her. ''O.K., Lady Godiva, take off the blouse.''She stood motionless, unable to answer or move.''Go ahead,'' Heine said. ''Take that piece-of-nothing off.''The boy's shoulders slumped and he began to groan. ''Brace, mister!'' Bar shouted. He put a fist in the boy's gut, and the boy sank to his knees in the dirt, weeping helplessly. ''O.K., green-belly,'' Bar said. ''Stay there. Your turn comes next.''Dazedly the girl undid her blouse. Heine reached and yanked it off her shoulders. She stood there quivering, her pink slip plain and worn. Behind them, Manny began to cough. Johnny stood rooted to the place from where he watched.''Let the straps down,'' Heine said to the girl.''Please. Please . . .''''Do what I tell you.'' Heine held the knife menacingly. The boy began to pray softly in Spanish.She raised trembling fingers to her bare shoulders and slipped the straps over them. The top of her slip and her bra fell to her waist.''Let her go,'' Manny whispered. ''You ought to let her go now. Huh?''''Let her go!'' Bar shouted. ''What are you worried about, mister? We're just teaching these two juvenile delinquents a lesson. Don't you understand that, mister? We're going to teach these two juvenile delinquents a lesson they're never, never going to forget.'' He drew his foot back violently and kicked the boy in the groin. ''Isn't that right, green-belly?''The boy's scream of pain rent the air of the summer night.
WHY DID THEY KILL?These were nice kids, model kids. They didn't wear leather jackets and roam the streets in "wolf packs"; they didn't steal and mug for dope. For kids, they were well mannered and quiet. They were attractive and nicely dressed. You'd have welcomed them as next-door neighbors.Yet...one rapedone murderedone killed by fireWhat got into them? What dark thoughts tormented them when they were alone at night?
Gober Gonzalves is the leader of a teenage gang known as the 'Kings of the Earth.' This week he is planning to rumble over a girl he no longer cares for. Red Eyes de Jarro is a member of the gang, as is Tea Bag Perrez. Red Eyes writes song lyrics and dreams of a better life. Tea Bag shoots heroin and just dreams. They are Gober's lieutenants, ready to follow him anywhere. Flat Head Pontiac is the leader of a rival gang called the Jungles. Flat Head has a dream as well, a dream of glory. He's the one who has forced the rumble on Gober, giving him no choice - you don't punk out when someone makes a pass at your girl, whether you care about her or not. She's yours. Everyone understands that. If only Gober could make Dolores, the girl he really loves, understand as well. If only they could walk away from it - if only it were that easy.
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