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Herbert Lincoln Jefferson stared disgustedly at his wife Marge. She sprawled on a couch in front of the television, legs apart, displaying fat white thighs, eating an orange so that the juice dribbled down her chin, and holding a beer can from which she took occasional swigs. She was wearing a blue cotton dress which was so tight that it had split under one arm. Her huge bosom hung in a dirty white bra which peeked through the split. A stranger seeing her would have found it hard to judge her age, and perhaps assessed her as ten years older than she was. Actually she was thirty-five.
"I'm going," Herbert announced.
Marge didn't shift her eyes from the TV set. She crammed some more orange into her mouth and mumbled, "O.K., Hon."
Herbert left the faded pink house, one in a row of many faded houses. He kicked viciously at Marge's cat which wandered under his feet, and started the walk to the bus stop. It was early evening and particularly hot. Herbert felt enraged that he had no car. Everyone had a car in Los Angeles. Last week he'd had a beautiful shiny gray Chevrolet, but they had taken it away as he hadn't kept up the payments.
Herbert was of medium height, a thin man, with brown hair and sharp features. He wasn't good-looking, he wasn't ugly, he was just perfectly ordinary-looking. He was the sort of man you never remembered, that is unless he stared at you with his oblique brown eyes, and then suddenly you would get an odd sort of feeling. His eyes were mean and cruel and grabbing.
There was a young Mexican girl at thebus stop in front of him, and he appraised her quickly. Too skinny and too young, but a virgin, he was sure of that. He pressed up against her as they boarded the bus, and she turned around and gave him a startled look. He ignored her and took a seat next to a plump matron, probably some rich movie star's housekeeper. No, if she was, she would have her own car.
There was a musty smell of dried sweat in the bus, and Herbert wrinkled up his nose in disgust. He had taken a shower before coming out. Sometimes he showered four or five times a day. The man he really admired was Tiny Tim, because he had read somewhere that he showered every time he took a leak. Herbert admired such cleanliness.
The plump matron shifted in her seat. She didn't like the pressure of Herbert's leg beside her. But he stared straight ahead with his ordinary face, and she was sure he couldn't be doing it purposely.
The old bag's wearing suspenders, Herbert thought. One of them was digging into him. He moved his arm so that it nudged against the side of her bosom. She squashed nearer to the window, and Herbert stared impassively forward.
At the next stop the woman got out, and Herbert shifted his knees so that she had to squeeze past him He felt the outline of her big buttocks against his knees, and he laughed silently. Old cow, give her a thrill. They all loved a thrill, even the old ones.
He thought lovingly about the letter he had sent to sexy red-headed film star, Angela Carter. He had mailed it the previous evening, and she had probably read it by now. He had managed to get her home address; that was the advantage of the job he was in now. They had a file in the office of most of the film stars' addresses. He was working for a chauffeur service employed by Radiant Productions. It was most important when writing to people that you were surethey would open letter themselves. That was the whole point.
To Angela he had written lovingly in glowing and explicit terms about what he would like to do to her. No detail had been spared and he'd enclosed a small plastic bag into which he had proudly masturbated.
It was one of his better literary efforts, and he hoped that Miss Angela Carter appreciated it.
The bus arrived at his stop and he walked the short distance to the Supreme Chauffeur Company.Sinners. Copyright © by Jackie Collins. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.