Seduction of the Innocent by Max Allan Collins Read Free Book Online Page B

I’ll meet you over at your office.”
    He grinned in relief and leaned over and offered me a hand to shake, which I did, as he said, “Thanks, Jack. Thanks, man.”
    Price seemed about to rise when Maggie asked a question: “Did you see the broadcast from the Strip Joint Sunday night?”
    “You bet I did. I try not to miss any appearance by Frederick or his puppet, that clown Lehman. Talk about hypocrites! That Lehman’s a pornographer!”
    “People in glass houses,” I said, “shouldn’t throw horse apples. Your pop and the major co-published plenty of sleaze in their day.”
    Price patted the air. “Okay, okay. No argument.” He smiled at Maggie. “Look, I really appreciate the way you stuck up for us comic book guys. Not a popular position.”
    Maggie nodded a curt thanks, then said, “I wanted to ask you about this boy, Will Allison. I was afraid things might come to blows between him and Harry and that Lehman character the other night. I have a feeling only his natural shyness, once on camera, prevented a really unpleasant scene.”
    Price was nodding. “Will’s an impulsive kid. Something of a hothead, frankly. But what a talent. He could be the next Hal Foster.”
    “I’ve seen his work,” Maggie said, her tone appreciative. “I’d like to keep an eye on him for the future. But if he’s not stable ....”
    Price waved that off. “He’s just young and kind of... fragile. Handsome kid but out of step. I’ve tried to help him out. I’m even paying for sessions with my shrink.”
    “What?” I said. “With Dr. Frederick?”
    “Yeah, right! Naw, with a great little gal down in the Village, Sylvia Winters. She’s tops and you’d like her, Jack. Cross between Kim Novak and Grace Kelly.”
    That sounded promising. Maybe I could whip up a neurosis.
    Price rose, thanked us both, told me he’d call with details about tomorrow, shook our hands, and went out.
    I was getting up, too, thinking this session was over, when Maggie said, “I want you to look this Dr. Winters up. She’s probably in the book.”
    “Probably. Why?”
    “I’m a little worried about Bob.”
    “You mean, he looks like he hasn’t slept for days, yet is feeling no pain? Like popping pills, maybe?”
    “He’s high-strung all right. See what Dr. Winters’ opinion is about him testifying.”
    “She’s a doctor. There are privacy issues.”
    “She’s a woman. And you’re a charming devil.”
    Was that sarcasm? I couldn’t always tell with her.
    “And while you’re at it,” she was saying, “see if she’ll provide any insights about Will Allison. I’d like to know if he’s got problems that would preclude us hiring him on to do some work.”
    “You have something in mind for him?”
    She nodded. “Thinking about developing a science-fiction strip. You know, the Allison boy draws like a young Ray Alexander.”
    Alexander created Crash Landon, the top sci-fi strip, or it had been till he quit to draw a private eye feature called Nick Steele. Some said I’d been Alexander’s inspiration for the latter.
    Maybe that would impress this Winters dame. You know, when I was charming her.
    I rose. “This is just a plan to get me next to a psychiatrist, isn’t it?”
    “With your ego,” she said pleasantly, “a little head shrinking couldn’t hurt. Now run along.”
    As long as I can remember, Greenwich Village—that fabled artsy section belting the city below 14th Street—has been home to cafes, coffee houses and hideaways, and even the occasional actual nightclub. Seemed all it took to open up a Village spot was a vacant storefront or cellar, a few thrift-shop tables, some empty bottles to stick candles in, some filled bottles of wine, an espresso machine, and a beat-up piano (preferably in tune).
    Considered by some the hippest cabaret in all New York City, the Village Gateway on Thompson took up a hotel basement just off Bleecker Street. Soon a crowd would be lined up to get in—this was jazz night (folk