It was morning, and in his Hillsdale clinic office, Dr. Arnold Freeberg was awaiting the arrival of Dr. Max Quarrie, a medical colleague and psychoanalyst from Los Angeles.
Earlier that morning, after breakfast and before leaving for his clinic, Freeberg had received the unexpected phone call from Dr. Quarrie.
Following brief social amenities, Dr. Quarrie had settled down to something more professional. "Got your letter, Arnold," he had said. "So you're in business?"
"I'm in business," Freeberg had agreed, wondering.
"Well, I may have someone for you. It all depends. Do you have a trained male sex surrogate on your staff?"
"I do. I have one. Fully trained. A competent one, I believe."
"I was remembering the little talk we had at that sexual dysfunction seminar in Buffalo, and you were saying trained male surrogates weren't easy to come by."
"Because there's so little demand for them, Max. Lots of women with problems could use them, but as we agreed then, most women are understandably reluctant to have contact with a male stranger these days. However, from recent inquiries I've had from other doctors, I know that more and more women are accepting the idea, provided there is no risk involved. So I took on a male surrogate, and now he's fully trained. You have a case in mind?"
"I do, Arnold. A case referred to me by an M.D. friend. This young lady has a problem. I feel it can be dealt with. Not by me, I decided, and not by a gynecologist. I've tried that, too. But maybe by somebody like you. I think I'd like to see you, the sooner the better. When can I come over?"
"Why, right now, if you wish. I'll be free in an hour."
"I'll be there in an hour. Then you can decide if anything can be done. I'll bring the case history."
"Sure thing, Max. Be glad to see you."
Now Freeberg was in his office, behind his desk, and myopic, pudgy Dr. Max Quarrie was seated in a chair opposite, holding a blue folder in his lap.
With his free hand, he extracted a handkerchief and mopped his brow. "Damn humid out, and it's not a short drive." He pushed the handkerchief back in a pocket and held the blue folder in both hands. "Her name's Nan Whitcomb. Single. Never been married but not inexperienced either. In her late thirties. Plain. Physically sound. She was orphaned in her early teens, then taken in by an elderly aunt who looked after her. The aunt never had much money. About three months ago the aunt died, and Nan was left alone. When she'd almost used up the small amount of money she'd inherited, Nan realized she would have to find a job to subsist. She also needed companionship. She had a few male friends, but they came to nothing. Her female friends are all married and have families."
"So she needed a job and a home?"
"Yes, Arnold. She'd never held a real job before, except filling in as a cashier in various stores during every Christmas holiday season. She's good at figures. Anyway, she began to read the want ads for an opening as a cashier, found several but no luck. Then about two months ago she saw an ad for an experienced cashier in the main Hillsdale restaurant of a chain of eateries owned by a man named Tony Zecca. I've never met him. But I gather from Nan he's a Vietnam veteran, forty-five years old, a rough character whom Nan suspects has organized crime connections—a minor cog, but I'd guess those outsiders financed his restaurant chain. Anyway, Nan applied for the cashier's job at Hillsdale Mall, and late one afternoon Zecca himself interviewed her in his office. He's a short, bull-shouldered man, with hooded eyes, I gather. It was a long interview, mostly routine questions, and throughout it, Zecca kept staring at her.
"The way Nan tells it, at one point Zecca suddenly sat up, still staring, then shook his head and said, 'This is really weird.' Somewhat confused, Nan said, 'What is, Mr. Zecca?' He said, 'You. The way you look and sound like a girl I used to know. That was just before the army. Her name was Crystal. I was just getting to know her, nothing intimate yet, and kind of thinking I really liked her, when I got grabbed up for Vietnam. I got her promise to wait for me until I was discharged—then maybe we'd get married. She promised to wait. But she didn't.' She sent Zecca one of those Dear John letters, or whatever they're called now, saying she was sorry, but she'd met some other man, and they were getting married and moving to the East. Zecca was understandably bitter. He swore never to trust another woman. And then Nan came into his life. 'What's weird,' he told Nan, 'is that you're so much like Crystal. I can't believe it. It's sort of like she came back to me.' I think Nan said, 'I'm flattered you think I resemble someone you cared for.'
"Anyway, by that time it was getting dark, and near the dinner hour, so Zecca asked Nan if he could continue the interview while they dined in a corner of his restaurant. She was happy to do so." Abruptly, Dr. Quarrie handed the blue folder across the desk to Freeberg. "The rest is in there. At least the highlights. You can see for yourself. Take your time." Dr. Quarrie stuck two pieces of gum in his mouth. "Mind if I wander around, have a look at your facility while you read?"
"Please do."
Alone, Freeberg rocked back in his swivel chair, opened the case history of someone named Miss Nan Whitcomb—and presumably, Mt. Tony Zecca—and began to skim through the neatly typed double-space pages. Here and there he lingered to read and reread more carefully.
It was Freeberg's habit, whenever he studied a written case history, to recreate it as he suspected it had actually happened in life. He went back to an earlier section, the part recounting Nan's extended job interview and dinner with Tony Zecca in the corner of his restaurant. Reading it once more, Freeberg began to recreate it . . .
Seated in their booth, Zecca was uninterested in his food. He was interested in his drinks. Nan nursed one drink but observed nervously that Zecca was on his fourth Scotch. His questions about her job qualifications were beginning to repeat themselves, and his voice was starting to slur slightly. He became less and less communicative, and he stared at her more and more, at her nervous countenance, at her rising and falling bosom.
Suddenly, breaking another silence, Zecca leaned forward, his eyes fixed on her, lowered his voice, and said, "Hey, lady, are you a virgin?"
She tried to make light of it. "Is anyone over fourteen a virgin these days?"
"Yeah, sure. Ever have any serious affairs?"
"No."
"I mean, ever fall for anyone in a big way?"
"Not—not yet," she said more nervously but a bit provocatively. She wanted that job. She needed it.
"Okay." Long pause. "Think you could fall for me?"
She was uncertain about how to handle this. "Maybe. It depends."
"Depends on what?"
"Well, what you're after, Mr. Zecca."
"Tell you what I'm after." He was pressing closer against the table so that it now separated them by less space. She could see that he had a broad face, pugilist's nose, and that his arms and chest were very large for a short man. Absently, he finished his fourth drink, and she could smell the alcohol on his breath. "Lemme be frank with you. I don't believe in holding things back. I like to come straight to the point. That's how I got where I am—nice large house in Sherman Park, five restaurants, plenty of cash in the bank. By being frank. You be frank with me the same way, and we'll get along. You understand?"
"I think I do."
"Awright. Here's my proposition to you. I need a cashier —sure, a smart one, honest one, sure—but I also need a live-in friend. Somebody nice to keep me company. I'll take care of her if she takes care of me. Know what I mean? But there's one rule. She's got to be faithful to me one hundred percent. No fucking around. No cheating. Think you can take care of me like that?"
Nan was a little afraid and more than a little mixed up. She wasn't sure how much she really liked him—or if she liked him at all. He was crude, rough, maybe even mean, but maybe not. He was, in his way, being kind, too. He was offering her everything in the world she needed. He was offering security, safety, companionship, a home. He was also telling her he liked her and wanted her to belong only to him. There were virtues there.
"Whatdoya think, kid?" he was asking.
"I—I think I can take care of you the way you want."
His face broke into a satisfied grin. His teeth were yellow and uneven. "Good girl. Then you got nothing more to worry about. You got a home. You got a job. You got a boyfriend. You can move in tomorrow."
"I—I appreciate that, Mr. Zecca."
"Tony, from now on."
"Tony."
"What was your name?"
"Nan."
"Okay, and you better know you got yourself a real loverboy, Nan."
Rereading this meeting, trying to make it come alive in his head, Freeberg turned a page of Nan Whitcomb's case history and was arrested by the report of her initial sexual encounter with Zecca.
Nan had moved into Zecca's ten-room, two-story house with her few effects and been shown to her room by the housekeeper, whose name was Hilda.
It had been exciting, all this luxury, this wonderful cocoon that was now partially her own. She wanted to hold on to it and be as attractive as possible for her first dinner here.
Zecca had come home at seven forty-five, greeted her with a wave, seemed to be pleased with her well-worn tight-fitting jersey dress and long legs. He told her to be ready to eat at eight sharp.
Zecca had two drinks at the outset of the meal and buried himself in a newspaper. Except for a few words to inquire if she was settled and satisfied, he did not speak.
During the dessert, she wondered what would be next, what was expected of her.
After dinner, he beckoned her to follow him into the gaudily decorated modern living room. Settling down into an upholstered easy chair, he patted the footstool nearby for Nan to sit on, then aimed his remote control at the television set.
"There're two one-hour programs I got to watch every night—great action stuff. You'll like them."
She hated them. The violence was unremitting. Between shows, he ordered Scotches for her and himself. He finished his drink and called to Hilda, the housekeeper, for another. Nan made an effort to drink but couldn't. He paid no attention.
As the second show ended, her apprehension grew. What next?
He swallowed his last drink, stood up, stretched. "Okay, kiddo, let's get down to it. Time for bed. I don't like staying up late. Come on, Nanny girl."
She knew that this was it. First payment on security and comfort. She trailed him to his darkened bedroom.
She had expected him to kiss her, caress her a little, get her ready. He didn't bother.
As he began to remove his shirt, he called over his shoulder. "What are you waiting for? Get out of your things. We're getting into the sack."
Hesitantly, she kicked off her pumps and began to unzip her dress. "Should I—should I put on a nightgown?"
"Naw." He snorted. "Who needs that kind of stuff? I like my ladies bare ass."
As she slipped out of her dress she turned to see him walking toward the king-size bed. At the edge of the bed, he stopped to throw back the blanket. He was naked, and she had her first real look at the man she would live with. He was muscular, all right—and not leastwise in the genital area. She couldn't make out if he was soft or hard yet. It looked like he was hard, but she guessed it was still soft and only looked the other way.
He crawled into bed, peered at her, then snapped, "What's holding you, baby? Let's get going."
With fumbling fingers, she unhooked her bra.
She heard his voice. "Not bad in the tit department."
Almost breathless, she pulled down her cheap nylon panties and pushed them aside with her foot. She had a large thatch of pubic hair and wished that it would cover everything, but it wouldn't and she knew that soon he would see the pink folds below. With wooden legs, she made for the bed.
He was on an elbow, his eyes riveted on her private parts. "Nice gash," he grunted. "Maybe I guessed right. Okay, let's find out."
She pushed herself up on the bed and wriggled toward him.
"Better, that's better," he said.
Momentarily, she closed her eyes, waiting for his kiss, his hug, his hands, the beginnings of foreplay. But opening her eyes, she could see there would be no foreplay.
"Tony," she implored, "put out the lamp."
"No way. I like to see what I'm doing. I like my money's worth."
She sighed, embarrassed, as he knelt over her, his hairy hands yanking her knees apart.
He had her legs wide apart, and she could not take her eyes off what was pointing at her. Now he had a hard-on. It resembled a blunt instrument.
As he came down between her legs, she prayed that it might be good, after all.
It wasn't.
His entry stunned her. She was still dry, but he shoved it in hard and brutally. He shoved it deeper and then began his thrusts. The pain made her try to pull away, avoid the pain, but he mistook her movement as cooperation. The thrusting became more savage and relentless. He was going on like an automatic pile driver. Her insides ached. Her thin buttocks ached.
It was endless, the punishment, and she thought it would never stop. Later, in the bathroom, she tried to tell herself that his mindless performance was due to his intense excitement. After this time, in other times to follow, he would be aware of her and considerate, and possibly in his manner a bit more gentle.
Reading the scene in Dr. Quarrie's case history, animating it in his own mind, Freeberg had found it not entirely unfamiliar. There were human beings in the world, and there were human beings who were still animals.
Freeberg resumed his reading of the case history, then Dr. Quarrie's summation of what followed.
This went on, the same Pattern, for six weeks. Not only was Zecca insatiable in his desire for intercourse, but in each episode that came after the first, he was as thoughtless as before and increasingly brutal. According to Nan, the pain suffered during these couplings was almost unbearable. As the couplings grew longer, as they inevitably would, Nan was forced to bite her lip to smother protests, and she bit her lip until it bled. Finally, during each coupling, she began to scream. Given Zecca's utter insensitivity, he misinterpreted her screams for sounds of arousal, and he was as pleased as a child receiving a gift. He showed his pleasure by giving Nan a modest raise in salary, and after a month, he gave her an imitation gold necklace.
Recently, according to Nan, after finishing with her, he lay back puffing and mused aloud to her, "I like you. I sure do. I'm going to keep you for good. I wouldn't want you messing around with anyone else. None of that. I mean, if you did, I'd find out. I could easily kill you. I killed plenty of gooks in Nam. Killing is easy if someone tries to do you in. If I was ever double-crossed, I'd kill again. So you just behave."
Nan claims she said, "Of course, I'll behave. I'm with you, Tony. I'm yours."
He said, "Good girl."
Reading this, Freeberg reached out on his desk for his box of cigarillos, managed to free one, and lighted it. Smoking, he read on, waiting to come across the scene that he was sure would happen. Then he found it. He read and reread it. He dramatized it in his mind . . .
Two weeks ago, less than two weeks ago, it happened.
They were in bed together at night. He tore her legs apart, and without any preliminaries, he drove his rigid instrument at her, ready to go into her as usual—only this time it didn't go in.
Shoving as strongly as he could, he tried to enter her. No luck.
"Hey, now, what the fuck's going on?" he wanted to know. "What's wrong there? I got it in the right place, ain't I?"
"Yes, yes, go ahead, Tony . . . Please, go ahead."
Once more he tried, and again he was unable to enter her. He swore at his frustration. "You're locked up like a steel vault down there. What's going on?"
"I don't know. I'm not doing anything. I'm trying like always."
Determined, for the fourth time, he rammed himself between her legs. No luck.
"Lemme see what's going on," he muttered. He lifted her pelvis, his hands clenched under her buttocks, high toward him. He took one hand and dug three fingers into her. "Seems okay now. Let's find out."
He dropped her on the bed and tried for a fifth time to force his way into her. He couldn't enter beyond an inch. "Something is sure haywire. How does it feel?"
"It feels tight, real tight. And it hurts a little. Maybe it's something organic."
"Something what?"
"Organic. Physical. Anyway, something is wrong with me. Maybe I can go see a doctor tomorrow."
"You got a doctor?"
"A gynecologist in town. He'd know."
Zecca humored her. "Yeah, baby, you do that. Find out what's ailing you. Get it set right." He looked down at his drooping instrument. "Now, what about tonight?"
"I—I can still make you happy."
"Yeah, you do that."
She reached out between his legs, to get hold of that thing and make him happy. But before she could take hold, one of his hands reached up behind her head and pushed it down between his legs.
Shutting her eyes, she opened her mouth and went ahead.
Finishing the page, reliving this scene from Nan Whitcomb's case history, Freeberg murmured to himself, "Poor woman."
He completed reading the last of the case history and put the blue folder on his desk to await Dr. Max Quarrie's return. To his surprise, Dr. Quarrie had already returned and was seated opposite him.
"Well, Arnold," said Dr. Quarrie, "what do you think?"
"Definitely a case of vaginismus, in an extreme form. I doubt if she's phobic about coitus. She's getting muscular spasms in the region to avoid any more intercourse with him."
"Confirms my own diagnosis and the gynecologist's," said Dr. Quarrie. "Question is, Think you can do something about it? I can't talk her into getting better. I suspect it will take more."
"Yes," Freeberg agreed. He thought of his one male sex surrogate, Paul Brandon, awaiting his first patient. Now he would have her. Freeberg nodded. "It's made to order for us, for a surrogate and myself working with her. I'm sure we can help. When can I see her?"
"Right now," said Dr. Quarrie, rising. "She's waiting in my car. I'll send her up."
Chet Hunter had been unable to get an appointment to see Otto Ferguson, editor in chief of the Hillsdale Chronicle, until late this morning. Ever since Suzy's great tip last night, the big story—and big break—had been forming in Hunter's mind, and he was eager to pitch it to Ferguson. Bland as Ferguson seemed, cynical and negative as he was, Hunter was positive he would go for this news lead.
After cooling his heels outside Ferguson's glass-enclosed office, Hunter was finally shown in.
He could see Ferguson's bald pate as he bent over some copy, marking it, and at last he lifted his head and focused his baggy St. Bernard eyes on his visitor.
Nervously, Hunter had set himself on the edge of the straight chair across from Ferguson.
"Well, Chet," said the editor, "what brings you here this time? Want to sell us an exclusive lead from your police friends? Or the Reverend Scrafield? Or on a poll you've been taking?"
"I don't want to sell you any research," said Hunter. "This time, I want to sell you a story, a complete story."
"It had better be something bigger than the stuff you've been feeding us so far."
Hunter was emphatic. "It is bigger—this is bigger than anything I've ever had. It's the biggest."
"Oh, yeah?" Ferguson's mask of skepticism remained. "All right, young man. Go ahead. I'm from Missouri." Hunter braced himself, then raised his voice as if it were a boldface headline. "Exclusive in the Chronicle: SEX SURROGATE OPERATION TAKES OVER HILLSDALE!"
"What?"
"Exactly. Found out about it last night. Unimpeachable source. Trained sex surrogates from around the country have gone to work today for a new sex clinic that just opened in our fair city. You know what sex surrogates are?"
"Knew about them while you were still wetting your pants." A flicker of interest had crossed the editor's face. It was as if he were talking to himself. "Sex surrogates in L.A., Chicago, New York, to be expected. In pure little Hillsdale, never. Are you sure you're sure?"
"I'm positive, Otto. And I can prove it."
"Tell me about it."
Excitedly, without revealing Suzy Edwards's name or position, Hunter told him about it, told Ferguson about the new Freeberg Clinic, Dr. Arnold Freeberg, the six sex surrogates from around the country who had gathered here and been assigned to work. "Right now in Hillsdale. They're loose in Hillsdale. I say that's not a lead—that's a super story."
"Could be," Ferguson conceded, "could very well be. Depends. How would you go about getting such a story?"
"From the inside, by joining up. Becoming a patient. Rapping with Dr. Freeberg as a patient. And rolling in the hay with one of his paid female sex surrogates. Then I'd expose the whole mess. You'd have headlines for weeks."
"A sting operation," said Ferguson, half to himself. "Yes, that would be the way to do it. It could be big, no question." He considered it, then frowned. "Only I see some problems . . . one in particular. If you applied as a patient, a professional therapist like Freeberg would see right through you. You'd never get away with it if you faked it." He narrowed his eyes on Hunter. "Or would you be faking it? Maybe you know you'd qualify for treatments?"
Hunter's cheeks reddened ever so slightly. "Never mind about that, Otto. Don't make me spell it out for you. Let's say I could qualify. But frankly, I don't have the ready cash to ante up and get treatments from a sex surrogate."
"What are we talking about, Chet?"
"Five thousand dollars on the line."
"That's a hefty amount for a fuck," said Ferguson.
"It's for our story, Otto. HIGHEST-PAID PROSTITUTES IN COUNTRY NOW IN HILLSDALE! How does that sound?"
"Anyway, money isn't an issue when there's a really big story."
"Well, then, let's go."
But Ferguson was hesitant. He fell back against the slats of his chair, thinking. "There's one more thing—another problem . . ." he began. "You know, Chet, that's a pretty raunchy story for a family newspaper like ours . . . unless—"
"Unless what?"
"—unless we could turn this from a smirking expose into a newspaper's civic duty—a political issue and crusade to clean up fair Hillsdale." He mused aloud. "Prostitution is the world's oldest profession. Now we have the world's newest profession, the sex surrogate, who is also paid to give a piece of ass in the guise of a cure. If we could just make this into a community campaign. Maybe get your friend the Reverend Josh Scrafield interested, part of his ongoing cleanup campaign . . ."
"I could get Scrafield for you in a minute, Otto. Once he learns about this, he'll grab it and run with it."
"And then there's one more element, the wrap-up element that would make it possible for us to print this. If you could get Scrafield to storm in on the district attorney, Hoyt Lewis, and have him reveal the whole secret operation, and get the D.A.'s office to indict this Dr. Freeberg for illegal pandering under state law and grab one of his female surrogates for practicing illegal prostitution under existing state law—and then put them on trial—we could run with it from there. We'd have a criminal story, a political story, a virtuous civic story. Copies of every edition would race off the newsstands. But first, Chet, you've got to get Scrafield and Lewis behind you . . . and behind us. Then you've got to infiltrate that Freeberg operation and get the goods firsthand. Think you can do all that?"
Hunter was on his feet, pumping Ferguson's hand. "Can I? Otto, watch me do it. Faster than a speeding bullet. Watch me move. And start setting my byline in type!"
Not until early this afternoon, as he listened to Chet Hunter in the computerized office at the rear of his Church of the Resurrection, had the Reverend Josh Scrafield looked upon his part-time researcher with any real respect.
Until this afternoon, Scrafield had always regarded Chet Hunter with mild contempt, something of a frail grub and intellectual nerd, sallow and frightened of life.
About a year ago, when Scrafield had been planning to undertake his campaign against the insidious sex education then invading the public schools, Darlene had discovered Hunter and advised Scrafield that the young researcher might be useful in digging up facts. Reluctantly, Scrafield had taken on the library mole, the ferret.
But early this afternoon Scrafield had heard and seen another side of the grub. For Hunter, in revealing his knowledge of the pandering Dr. Freeberg and the sluts he sent out to corrupt the purity of Hillsdale, had shown a human side to himself. Like Scrafield himself, young Hunter had shown some understanding of lust and how it might come to destroy paradise.
Once he had understood what Hunter had in mind, and what his own role might be, Scrafield had been quick to arrange a meeting for both of them with Hoyt Lewis, Hillsdale's clever district attorney.
Now, towering over his informant, Scrafield led Hunter into District Attorney Hoyt Lewis's impressive office in the marble-floored city hall. Scrafield felt comfortable about this meeting. For one thing, the district attorney was a smart and perceptive man in his late thirties, as smart and perceptive as Scrafield himself. Despite his scraggly sandy-colored mustache and his tendency toward obesity, emphasized by his habit of locking his hands across his spreading paunch, Lewis was a man above the crowd and a man who was going places. In fact, he was self-assured enough to wear a black string tie. Lewis came from one of the better families in Hillsdale (they were said to have second and third homes in Malibu and Palm Springs), and he possessed a real comprehension of the needs and wants of the masses. Not unlike Scrafield, the district attorney could communicate with the peasants and was popular with them.
Hoyt Lewis had come to his feet, to shake hands with Scrafield and Hunter after they had entered his vast office, and was gesturing them to a button-backed leather sofa near his desk. After they had been seated, Lewis had drawn up a leather chair on casters and lowered himself into it, filling it to overflowing.
"Good to see you, gentlemen," Lewis was saying. His mustache rose to reveal his even white teeth, and he was as cordial as a host at a dinner party. "Well, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?"
While Hunter seemed to cringe inwardly, Scrafield was pleased with the thoughtful formality.
Scrafield glanced at Hunter, then at Lewis. "Let me kick this off, Hoyt. It's an important matter that, I perceive, requires your immediate attention." He jerked a thumb at his companion. "Chet Hunter here, he's an expert researcher, you know. I've seen his work firsthand. He came to me originally, out of civic duty, with the most appalling information about programs the liberals were instigating to infect our school system. This information proved to be accurate and has been something I've been able to employ effectively on my weekly television shows."
Hoyt Lewis bobbed his head. "My wife and I are regular watchers of your shows. They have done much to assist our office in keeping the community clean."
"Thank you, Hoyt. But now our enterprising Mr. Hunter has come up with something far more insidious and dangerous to our fair community. My fight against indecent sex education in the schools absolutely pales beside the foul pollution that Chet Hunter has uncovered."
Hoyt Lewis's curiosity was evident. "I'm eager to hear what you're talking about, Reverend Scrafield. Please go ahead and tell me about it."
The Reverend Scrafield nodded. "I think I would rather have Chet here tell it to you exactly as he told it to me. Go ahead, Chet. You have the floor. Don't hold anything back."
Hunter appeared to gird himself, determined to do it right with so much at stake. "What this is about is the recently opened Freeberg Clinic, about a half mile from here. Do you know about it?"
"I'm aware that it exists," said Lewis. "The latest medical building."
"But different," Hunter said emphatically, "different from any other medical building in our community. You see, Dr. Arnold Freeberg is a sex therapist. There's nothing inherently wrong about that . . . except Dr. Freeberg employs female sex surrogates as his assistants."
Hunter knew that he had the district attorney's full attention now, and he related what he knew, omitting no detail. Hunter had learned that Dr. Freeberg had been forced to leave Arizona for breaking the law and had seen free-wheeling California as a fertile field for his questionable practices. Freeberg had hired five women and one man, according to a reliable informant inside his clinic, to try to rehabilitate persons with sex problems through use of their bodies, ultimately offering sexual intercourse.
Somewhat breathless, Hunter concluded his lurid account while Hoyt Lewis listened with obvious surprise and fascination.
The moment Hunter had concluded his report, the Reverend Scrafield jumped into the breach as if to underline it. "Hoyt, what has come to Hillsdale is out-and-out pandering and prostitution, under the disguise of therapy, and what Freeberg is practicing every day with his brothel ladies is totally in defiance of our state laws. If you promise to prosecute this outrage, once you have the goods—"
"How do I get the goods?" Lewis interrupted.
"Through me," said Hunter hastily. "I can get it for you. I could enlist in Dr. Freeberg's surrogate program as a patient—"
"Would you qualify?" asked Lewis.
"No question," said Hunter. "Trust me. I could get in and observe and participate, and keep a running record of it, which I'd turn over to you. I could be your star witness."
"My star witness?" Lewis wrinkled his nose. "I don't know. Normally, this would require an undercover police investigation. We'd wire someone and put him in with one of those women, and then—"
"Mr. Lewis, I'm a bona fide member of the Hillsdale Police Force—I'm a reservist."
"He joined and trained to fulfill a civic duty," Scrafield said pontifically.
"And to help with my research," added Hunter openly.
"Police reserve," said Lewis, pushing himself out of his chair. "Let me see." He walked to his desk, shuffled through a few folders, found the one he wanted, and opened it. "When you and the Reverend Scrafield here made this appointment to see me, I didn't know anything about you. I decided to see if we had any kind of file on you. We did. I skimmed it, but I must have missed the police reserve aspect. Yes, I see it now—right here. You are, indeed, a de facto member of our law enforcement apparatus. Yes, as a reserve officer, with three years training, you could qualify to support us on any charges we made. You could be the key prosecution witness."
He tossed the folder back on his desk and returned to his chair. He sat lost in thought a few moments. "Before any criminal complaint and arrest warrant, I'd have to do a little research of my own through this office. This kind of matter is not new in California. I've read of sex surrogates being used throughout the state." He paused. "I wonder why they've never been challenged before?"
Scrafield snorted. "Because they mask themselves as legitimate aides to legitimate therapists. No one wants to get caught in that quagmire. Everyone's been afraid to tackle them. But there's no question in my mind that they should be arrested, booked, arraigned on misdemeanor and felony counts, and put on trial for defying the California Penal Code."
"Still, it's a little tricky," said the district attorney cautiously. "We wouldn't be dealing with a straight open-and-shut criminal case. We would have to redefine, reinterpret legally, both 'pandering' and 'prostitution,' maybe set a precedent in establishing a new point of law. Yet, it seems possible to do so. Even then, if I were convinced that this is a criminal offense, I'd want to put Dr. Freeberg on notice before acting further, give him an opportunity to cease and desist in his practice, once I had the necessary evidence."
Hunter refused to have his enthusiasm dampened by the district attorney's compromise statement. "In either instance," said Hunter, "if Freeberg gives up, it would be a victory for your office. If he refused to quit, you'd have a legitimate reason to take him to trial. All I can say is that if you do decide to proceed with criminal charges, I can get you all the evidence you need and stand up as key witness for the prosecution."
"Very generous of you," said Lewis. "Let me consider this a little longer before we proceed."
The Reverend Scrafield turned to Hunter. "Thanks, Chet. Do you mind stepping out into the corridor a moment? I want to talk to Mr. Lewis a few minutes alone. A private matter. I'll join you right away."
Hunter cast Scrafield a covert, hopeful glance, nodded agreeably, and hastened to leave the room.
After waiting for the door to shut, assured that the two of them were alone, Scrafield came to his feet and took the chair beside the district attorney.
"Hoyt," he began, "this is something I wanted to discuss with you in confidence. I hope you have a moment or two to spare."
"I'm at your service, Reverend Scrafield," Lewis said, leaning forward attentively.
"Hoyt, I wanted to speak to you about your future. I've always felt—and others of some importance in this community agree with me—that you are simply too big a man for this job you hold. I'm not denigrating your office, but you are overqualified for it. There are more important political jobs that could be yours for the asking."
"I appreciate that," said the district attorney with quiet modesty, "but I assure you that I've never given a moment's thought to another job—or more important job, as you put it."
"Then you should, you should, Hoyt," said Scrafield urgently. "Hillsdale is a fine place to succeed. But the state of California is a finer one, and inevitably a larger role in California might give you a real role in the nation. Let me repeat, something bigger and better in the state could be yours for the asking."
"Suppose I were to be interested in something bigger and better. I hardly think it could be mine for the asking. I'm a local figure, almost unknown outside this relatively small community."
Scrafield tilted forward in his chair. "Exactly my point, Hoyt. Exactly. You're in a position to make yourself known, overnight, the length and breadth of this state. You could have the electorate at your feet."
Hoyt Lewis was genuinely puzzled. "How?"
"By getting behind Chet Hunter, getting behind what he's offered you and I've offered you," said Scrafield earnestly. "He's handed you a dynamite issue . . . no, even more—a public bombshell. The sex surrogate matter. Prostitutes disguising themselves as healers to invade insidiously and to undermine our society, young and old."
The district attorney had been listening intently. "You really think the public would give it that much attention?"
"Hoyt, take my word, trust my knowledge of the public out there. I know the raw nerve issues. I know what counts. I have an instinct for public concerns. That's why my audience grows larger every week, and my viewer ratings go up every month. Believe me."
"Oh, I do believe you, Reverend Scrafield," Lewis said quickly.
"Once Hunter gets the green light to go for the evidence, and gets it to you and the press, once I air the scandal on television, you can prosecute and you can't lose. We'll arouse the public in this community. Your name will be on everyone's lips. You'll have unanimous public support and widespread attention. This is not some murky, incomprehensible matter like tax deficits or budgets or some minor corporate crime. This is sex surrogates—sex sluts—threatening every wife, mother, and girlfriend for as far as the eye can see. This is the stuff of headlines and the six o'clock news, Hoyt. This is the road to the big time."
"You're sure of that?"
"If I know what it can do for me, I'm twice as positive I know what it can do for you. I've always seen you as a future state attorney, and after that, governor, once you have the springboard to catapult your presence to the capitol, and the surrogate issue would do it. A vigorous prosecution of those whores, and their medical pimp, has star quality written all over it. Think of it, Hoyt. You'd have me on the air supporting you. You'd have Ferguson at the Chronicle with his front pages backing you. And you'd have Chet Hunter as your Trojan horse inside the enemy's bordello, getting you the facts firsthand. And, Hoyt, I'll be at your side all the way. Do you understand me?"
The district attorney sat silently a moment, absently staring down at the carpet with an air of gravity. He raised his head, directing his gaze at the clergyman. "You can be very persuasive, Reverend."
Scrafield's lips curled. "It's my business, Mr. D.A." He added softly, "I know my business. I can't ever afford to be wrong."
"Neither can I," said Hoyt Lewis, half to himself. Abruptly, he rose to his feet. "Okay, Reverend Scrafield, I stand convinced. I do believe, given all-out support and with public sentiment on my side, we could prosecute and win this one. I agree, it could be a big one." He stuck out his hand, and Scrafield, also on his feet, grabbed it. "It's a deal," said the district attorney. "You go out into the hall there and tell Chet Hunter to get the evidence, firsthand, and as soon as possible. Once I know I have it, you can leave the rest to me."