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night to sit in with the finest guys in the business for a last jam session. And so they’d decided to call the album the Ghost Album .
    The driving, tortured notes of the clarinet solo hammered at Johnny’s ears. He suddenly took the album off the girl’s lap and flung it across the room. It tumbled end over end in a fluttering melee like a wounded bird and scattered bits of smashed records when it hit the far wall. Then he ripped the platter off the turntable and threw it after the wreckage.
    He stood looking at the shambles and a sob wrenched from his throat. “Hell,” he choked, “I’m going as far off my rocker as the spook who painted the damned thing!
    Jean touched his hand and pulled him down beside her. She began to stroke his hand gently. “You gotta let off steam, Johnny,” she said softly. “I guess it hit you pretty hard, losing two guys like Miff and Zack.”
    He didn’t want to think about it any more. He just sat numbly, not thinking about anything. Slowly his aching body relaxed. The girl talked on in a soothing, meaningless whisper, stroking his hand. Then she trailed her finger tips around his ear and over his lips. She shivered a little when she touched the little hard spot made by his trumpet mouthpiece.
    â€œYou remember what I said, Johnny?” she whispered thickly, “about maybe it wouldn’t cost you anything...?”
    She moved close to him and her body writhed with a sudden involuntary movement.
    Johnny hadn’t been close to a woman since Christine left him, six months ago. He had felt no need or interest. Now, for the first time since then, he became aware of a familiar quickening of his heartbeat. Jean was a damned good-looking woman, if you didn’t allow yourself to think of the hundreds of other men, some fat and sloppy, who had a definite place in her life—and in her arms.
    He wondered how many times she had gone through the practiced route of movement and exclamations and moans—and what she thought about as she rented herself out for a price.
    â€œI like you, Johnny,” she murmured thickly. “I like you a hell of a lot. You’re damned attractive in a big, rough, dissipated sort of way.”
    She leaned over and her blue-black hair brushed his cheek. The silky black satin of her dress fell away from the flawless full curves. It made him wonder how white her skin would be under the dress and if she really were such a brunette.
    Johnny reached up and pulled the light chain on the floor lamp. The room was suddenly dark and soft moonlight filtered through the windows.
    She snuggled against him. Johnny trailed his fingers along the white curve of her throat. He felt the hot, rapid tempo of a pulse there. This time it was no practiced routine with her, a job to be done skillfully, satisfyingly, but a job to be gotten over with all the same. This time it was different—it was something she wanted—it was her desire to feel his arms around her, his warmth enveloping her—the way every other woman desires her man.
    Her fingers and mouth were trembling, exploring, searching. Then she hesitated.
    â€œJohnny...I—please wait a minute,” she panted. “I...have to tell you something first. This isn’t like the others with me. Please...believe me. Not like this....” She was crying softly.
    A guy who knocked around as much as Johnny wasn’t accustomed to gentleness. But he kissed her and said softly, “It’s okay, baby. I believe you.”
    Then there was no more room for words, only quick, demanding movements, and fiery passionate embrace.
    He had wondered about the trickery in her brassiere that had given such a saucy, natural uprightness to her lovely figure. And now he knew. There was no trickery, no illusion. Her dress, he discovered, came apart with the simple opening of a clasp in front. It slid away from her wonderful body like a robe and there was nothing under