The Lonely Lady by Harold Robbins

fighting. He took one step and kicked Joe in the side of his head, lifting him from the ground and tumbling him backward onto the concrete walk. Walt was trying to get to his feet, but Fred never gave him a chance. Slashing viciously with his fist, he caught Walt flush on the nose and mouth, and felt the crunch of bone and teeth against his knuckles. Walt fell back as if he had been hit by an ax.
    Fred knelt beside JeriLee, pillowing her head in his arms. She was crying in pain. “Don’t hurt me, please, don’t hurt me.” Her eyes were tightly shut.
    “It’s okay, honey,” he said softly. “Nobody’s gonna hurt you now.”
    “Fred!” Bernie’s voice was sharp.
    He turned to see another boy coming toward him and started to get up. But Bernie caught the boy from behind in a tackle and they fell to the ground, rolling over and over. Joe was coming back toward him now and there was something in his hand that looked like a rock.
    He rose quickly, his hand making a lightning move under his trouser leg. The knife came to his fingers and at the same time he pressed the switch and the blade flashed forward. He held the knife flat in his hand before him. “One move, white boy,” he said quietly, “an’ I’ll cut your balls off.”
    Joe froze, staring at him, his hand still in the air. It wasn’t a rock that had been in his hand, it was a portable radio.
    Fred stepped back on catlike feet so that he could see them all. “Get something to cover her up,” he said to Bernie. “And let’s get her out of here.”
    He heard a sound from across the pool. Marian was coming around the walk, staggering drunkenly, a bottle of rum in her hand.
    “What’s happenin’ to the party?” she asked.
    “The party’s over, honey,” he said, his voice filled with contempt.
    They managed to cover JeriLee with the remnants of her dress and a towel and get her to the car. She sat between them shivering and crying and moaning in pain, her head against Fred’s chest, while Bernie drove. She was still crying as the car pulled up in front of her house.
    When Fred tried to help her out of the car, she wouldn’t move. “I’m afraid,” she whispered.
    “There’s nothing to be afraid of now, JeriLee,” he said soothingly. “You’re safe now. You’re home.”
    But an instinct told her that this was only the beginning of the horror. And she was right.

Chapter 11
    The letters were scrawled in black crayon on the white picket fence:
    JERILEE FUCKS. JERILEE SUCKS.
    John stared silently at the words. Next to him, Bobby was still holding the wet bloody handkerchief against his nose, although the heavy bleeding had stopped. “I saw them doing it when I came around the corner, Daddy.”
    “Who was it?” John asked, a sick feeling inside him.
    “They were big boys,” the twelve-year-old replied. “I never saw them before. When I went to stop them, they hit me.”
    John turned to his son. “There’s a can of white paint in the garage,” he said. “Get it. Maybe we can paint it over before your mother and JeriLee get home from shopping.”
    “Okay, Dad. But why do they say things like that about my sister?”
    “Some people are just sick, Bobby. They’re stupid.”
    “It’s an awful thing to do. I wanted to kill them.”
    John looked at his son. The child’s face was grim. “Get the paint,” John said gently.
    The boy ran across the lawn toward the garage and John turned to look down the street. There was no one in sight. He fished in his pocket for a cigarette. It had been less than a month since that night. The night he had opened the door to find the two boys holding a frightened, beaten JeriLee between them.
    ***
    The late show was almost over when the doorbell rang. He rose from the chair in front of the television set where he had been dozing and glanced at his wristwatch. It was one o’clock. “It must be JeriLee,” he said. “She probably forgot her key.
    Veronica was absorbed in the film. “Tell her not to be