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Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

I guess it should be obvious to just about everyone simply by having a look at an atlas, but it came as something of a surprise to me, to realise how big America actually is, and we were only travelling from North to South down the Eastern United States. Almost every single one of America’s states is bigger than England, and some are bigger than France or Germany, but when you travel across Europe you know for sure when you’ve left one country and entered another. In America the differences are more like those between English counties. To an American one state doesn’t much resemble another at all, but it seemed like a whole lot of pretty much the same thing to me. Diners. Motels. Malls. Gas stations. And countless Stars and Stripes.

The drive from New York State to South Carolina was too much for us to do it all in just one day and yet on the map it seemed like we’d hardly travelled any distance at all. The real American South of New Orleans, the Mississippi, the Florida Everglades and Texan cowboys was still way out of reach. And there was a whole lot of America to the West—the Rocky Mountains, the Nevada Desert and the West Coast—that was even more distant. I’ve travelled many times to California since Crystal Passion’s fateful American Tour and visited places like Monterey, the Big Sur, Tijuana and the East Ocean Boulevard that I’d always dreamed of visiting when I was listening to Brian Wilson, Dick Dale and Eden Ahbez as a teenager in my London Suburban family home. But nothing we’d seen on our tour of the United States could seem more remote from the beaches, the sunshine and the surf of the America that I’d imagined.

“So, another shitty motel,” moaned Jacquie at a band conference in a diner somewhere vaguely in the vicinity of the States of Maryland, Virginia and West Virginia.

“Any better ideas?” asked the Harlot, who was one of today’s designated drivers, fingering the point on the fold-up freeway map where the motel was positioned. “This one’s just about the right distance for today. If we drive into one of these other towns marked on the map, like Roanoke and Barren Springs, it’ll be a long detour and there mightn’t be anywhere better to stay.”

The Crystal Passion band was split between the two vehicles we were hiring—the Chevrolet and the VW Camper van—and for reasons of fairness we equally divided the time each of us spent in one or other vehicle. So, five of us would travel a leg of the journey in the relevant comfort of the Chevrolet and the remaining eight in the Camper Van. I’d earlier been enjoying the Chevy’s front seat on the journey from a diner just outside Winchester, Virginia, (which couldn’t have been more different from the original Winchester in Hampshire, England) during which Jenny Alpha was driving and Philippa was squeezed between Jane and Jacquie on the back seats. And now we all bundled into the Camper Van while another five could at last enjoy the car’s relative luxury: this time driven by Judy Dildo who, along with her other talents, was one of the few of us who could drive and willing to do so on the right hand side of the road. And according to the complex formula that we’d agreed on earlier, Judy would this time be accompanied by Andrea, Jenny, Olivia and Tomiko.

So, for this leg at least, I’d be reunited with Crystal and not need to worry about Judy monopolising her attention.

However, once we set off along Interstate 81 away from the Burgers and Fries of the Myrrh Cross Diner towards the Burgers, Fries and double bedrooms of the King’s Cavalry Motel, Crystal was uncharacteristically reticent and any conversation with her was terse and to the point. She was obviously distressed by how much attitudes towards her had changed over the few days of the Sisterhood Women’s Music Festival. Although Ariel Golgotha paid us in full for the two gigs, she was noticeably less talkative while she counted out the dollar bills than she’d been on the first day of the festival. And we were taunted in a most unsisterly manner by a small group of women as our Camper Van trundled over the grass, out of the field and onto the main road. Indeed, as we weaved along Interstate 81 from New York State through Pennsylvania towards Maryland and beyond, Crystal didn’t cheer up at all. I guess this was the first time she’d had to confront the kind of hostility we were now experiencing in America.

It was several hours later that we arrived at the King’s Cavalry Motel which was pretty much identical to all the others we’d already passed. But then what were we expecting? A motel is what it is: a budget roadside hotel with a whole load of rooms and lots of parking spaces. And the King’s Cavalry Motel was designed the same as every other motel, with each room facing towards its own parking space and each room faithfully providing what was advertised at exactly the stated price.

Normally there was plenty of space whenever we pulled into a motel but when Bertha steered the VW Camper Van into the car park, it was obvious that there weren’t many spare rooms available. In fact, almost every motel room had a car parked in front of it. And when we bundled out of the van, eager to stretch our legs and have a smoke, we were met by Judy Dildo and Andrea who’d been sitting on a bench and waiting for us just by a soda vending machine.

“Hey guys!” said Judy. “It’s not good news. There’s a business convention or something near here, so almost all the rooms are taken already. In fact, there are only four rooms left and they’re all double beds.”

“So that’s enough for just eight of us,” said Crystal.

“Yeah, you’re right,” said Judy. “You eight. We’ve already booked the rooms for you: we didn’t want to risk losing them. Then me and the rest of us will drive on. There’s another motel about fifty miles ahead. The Silver Noose Motel it’s called…”

“So we’ll have to stay the night in two different motels,” said Crystal betraying more than just polite regret in her voice. “The Crystal Passion band will be split up for the first time on the tour.”

“Well, since we arrived at JFK,” remarked Tomiko.

“Don’t worry about it, Crystal,” said Judy. “It’s only fair. You need the rest more than we do. I’m sure the Silver Noose will be more than good enough for us.”

Crystal could see the sense in this arrangement, so she and I walked with Judy to the motel’s check-in desk where Olivia was waiting for us while she sipped from a can of fizzy soda. The middle-aged and overweight motel receptionist was squeezed behind the desk and busy handling the concerns of an equally obese guest.

“Phew! You guys are really hot and sweaty!” Olivia said pointing at the vending machine in the motel foyer. “You better have a can of something.”

We agreed and slotted in our quarters for ice-cold cans of carbonated drinks with exotic names that none of us had ever come across before. I selected a can of Myrtle’s Malt and Crystal chose Top Gaul.

“God! It tastes foul!” I exclaimed.

“Yeah, it’s really vinegary,” said Olivia. “It’s cold though.”

“It might be cold,” said Crystal after a sip of Top Gaul, “but it’s not exactly refreshing. Can we swap drinks, Pebbles? I don’t think I can drink any more of this.”

We swapped drinks and I could identify no discernible difference between Myrtle’s Malt and Top Gaul. They were both sugary and both disgusting.

“Does anyone else want to drink this stuff?” Crystal asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever drunk anything so horrible in my life!”

“Yes ma’am!” said the receptionist as the hotel guest she’d been dealing with waddled off. “I’d be thrilled to drink a can of Myrtle’s. It’s locally brewed and I for one am proud of our local beverages.”

“You’re welcome to it,” said Crystal with a winning smile as she handed it over to the receptionist who greedily guzzled down three long draughts.

The receptionist regarded all four of us—and especially me—with a hostile expression she didn’t bother to disguise. She didn’t like the fact that my head was shaven any more than she liked Judy Dildo’s rock chick uniform of denim, leather, jangling jewellery and tattoos.

“Ain’t you that lezbo punk rock group from England I’ve heard tell about on the radio?” she asked. “Bristol Fashion or summat?”

“Crystal Passion,” I automatically corrected her. “And we’re not a punk rock group.”

“You ain’t?” she said sceptically. “Well, all that din all sounds the same to me. I’m a Country Music gal and you freaky druggies are all punks as far as I’m concerned. And I’ll tell you this now so’s there’s no misunderstanding, here at King’s Cavalry we have a 100% anti-drugs policy and we don’t listen to no excuses.”

I was so stunned to hear someone pronounce ‘anti’ as ‘ant eye’ that I wasn’t sure how to respond, but as always Crystal was diplomatic and non-confrontational.

“I can assure you that not one of us will consume illegal drugs while we’re here,” she said. “But I’m sure we might be tempted by the beer you sell in the bar.”

“I don’t think Jake’d take kindly to young gals entering his bar unaccompanied,” the receptionist said. “He runs a civilised business as we all do here. And no decent Christian gal would be drinking liquor by herself, would she now?”

“Of course not,” said Crystal. “I imagine you’d like to see our passports before you give us our room keys.”

She handed over a set of eight British passports in which Her Britannic Majesty's Secretary of State requested and required all those whom it may concern to allow the bearer to pass freely without let or hindrance.

“So you’re this Christine Fashion?” the receptionist said when she looked at Crystal’s photographs. “Least it ain’t the mouthful of your real name. Eye-talian ain’t it? And I’ll remind you again. This is a Christian establishment. No drug-taking. No loud parties. And no bugging our paying guests with your Rock & Roll tomfoolery.”

After this chastisement, we carried our bags to the rooms we were allocated, after first seeing Judy set off with Jenny Alpha, Olivia, Tomiko and my sister.

“Fuck knows what that cow in reception would’ve made of Tomiko’s passport,” Judy snarled as she gripped the steering wheel in anticipation of the drive ahead. “A Japanese girl with an Irish passport and the poshest accent this side of Windsor Castle. She’d really be freaked out.”

Crystal restrained herself from her usual conciliatory remarks as she knew this would only encourage Judy to be further outspoken. “Drive safely,” she said after kissing Judy tenderly on her lips.

This show of affection inevitably attracted the unwelcome attention of some of the denim-clad men hanging around outside the bar, clutching bottles of beer and puffing on cigarettes.

“Dykes!” yelled one of them as we strolled back to the motel room where I’d be sharing a double bed with Thelma that night. “Lezzie Carpet Munchers!”

“Suck my dick, girls!” chimed in his friend. “You don’t know… You might actually like it!”

“Whyn’tcha screw a real man, ladies?” yelled another. “Or ain’tcha got the balls?”

“They ain’t got no balls,” taunted the first man. “And they ain’t got no tits neither!”

“I don’t think I’ll be going to the bar after all,” Crystal commented as she pushed open the door to the motel room she was sharing with Philippa.

Despite what these men expected, I don’t think any of us were in the mood at that time for lesbian sex. Or for any drug-related activity. I’d exhausted my personal stash supply at the Sisterhood Women’s Music Festival and I hadn’t yet found a reliable source on our time on tour. In fact, the only thing I was in the mood to do was slump on the bed, dog-tired in the unaccustomed heat, holding the television remote while skipping through the dozens of television channels in the hope of finding one that wasn’t showing a commercial. It seemed that as soon as I found a channel that was showing anything halfway decent—perhaps an episode of Friends or Star Trek: The Next Generation—then without warning the drama would be interrupted by the naffest TV ad imaginable. I even had to sit through a 30 second ad extolling the virtues of Top Gaul, the memory of which was still rumbling uncomfortably inside my guts.

However, when Thelma and I nestled against each other and tried to fall asleep we were kept awake by the constant commotion from the bar where the jukebox was playing unnecessarily loud Country & Western and from the incessant shouting and loud conversation of other guests obscured by the evening shadows. A handful of men congregated outside our bedroom door for some ten or fifteen minutes during which time they constantly hollered and swore at each other. There was also the echo of yelling in the near distance from an American woman in which I couldn’t tell apart a single individual word but I’m sure several were neither decent nor Christian.

“Fuck knows what convention those guys are going to,” Thelma commented. “But it sure isn’t to sell Bibles.”

“Or maybe it is,” I said ruefully, recalling the ecstatic bawling I’d briefly witnessed on one of the Christian TV channels I’d skimmed through earlier that evening. Americans didn’t worship God in the same restrained manner as the Church of England does. Rather, it was conducted at a loud volume with high theatre and buckets of perspiration dripping from the preacher’s brow and nose.

After more than an hour of this commotion and some disconcerting screams, thumps and bangs, a general atmosphere of night-time silence finally descended on the motel. And now we could hear more clearly the roar of traffic on Interstate 81. Thelma and I wrapped ourselves in each other’s arms under the poly cotton sheet and rested our heads on the hard pillows.

I was hopeful that the blessed relief of a welcome night’s sleep would soon be upon me.

But as it happened, this wasn’t to be.

All of a sudden my near slumbers were rudely interrupted by a violent and insistent banging on the bedroom door.

“What the fuck?” Thelma exclaimed.

The bangs on the door were repeated and this time I could hear words: “Po-lice! Open up, ladies!”

“Fuck!” I exclaimed, as I hastily jumped out of bed and pulled on a baggy shirt and some jeans.

Thelma was up on her feet well before me, dressed in a simple dress she’d squeezed into far more rapidly than I ever could. She opened the door and addressed the two police officers who were standing on the other side with an accent almost as posh as Tomiko’s and totally devoid of her habitual glottal stops.

“How can we help you, officer?” she asked.

“We’ve heard reports of illegal activity, ma’am,” said one of the policemen. “Drug-taking and other misdemeanours. We’ll have to ask you and the rest of your pop group to accompany us to the Sheriff’s Department for questioning.”

“Of course, officer,” said Thelma. “But I hope you won’t mind if you were to let my friend and I get dressed in more decent attire.”

“Of course not, ma’am,” said the police officer.

For me, the following few hours passed by in a disconnected haze. I remember it more as a series of incidents during which I was constantly fighting against an overpowering need for sleep. Five of us were bundled together into the back of a police van, including Bertha who was by far the least cooperative of us and who Jane and Jacquie made the most effort to calm down. Crystal, Thelma and I sat in the back of the police car which was the most outrageously large car I’d ever sat in. And there was still only space for five people including the police officer who sat beside the driver, who I guessed was the titular Sheriff.

And he wasn’t the kind of Sheriff I expected to see after having watched movies like High Noon and Blazing Saddles. He looked much more like John Candy than he did Gary Cooper or John Wayne.

“So, you’re this Crystal they been talkin’ about?” the Sheriff asked, turning his head round to look at me. “The lead singer of Crystal and the Passions?”

“No she’s not, sir,” said Crystal. “That would be me.”

“You sure don’t look like no punk rock chick,” the Sheriff said with a hint of disappointment in his voice. “Ain’t you the one that’s gonna burn down all the temples and build them again in three days?”

“That doesn’t sound like me at all, sir,” said Crystal.

“Are you sure you ain’t?” said the policeman driving the car. “That ain’t what I heard about you Godless punk rockers on the radio. I heard you’d come here to America to really shake things up. That you lot think you’re the new Kings of Rock!”

“That’s just not true, sir,” said Crystal.

“So, you ain’t the new Elvis Presley or Dave Matthews?” the driver taunted.

“We aren’t even the new Michael Jackson or Madonna, sir,” said Crystal.

“I darned well hope not!” said the Sheriff. “Just one of them scum is one too many for me!”

The taunting didn’t stop even when we arrived after an indeterminable distance from the motel at the Sheriff’s Office.

“We’ve got the new King of Rock here, Maud,” announced the Sheriff to a stout middle-aged female police officer who was sitting at a desk dominated by a vast electric typewriter. “Or maybe the Queen of Punk Rock. It’s that Crystal from the pop group the Passions that ol’ Rush has been yakking about.”

“Well she can’t be as bad as these two punks,” said Maud, indicating the two young men sitting opposite her. They seemed implausibly sheepish for tough-looking men adorned in ill-fitting faded denim and countless crude tattoos. Whatever drugs they regularly took, they were no advertisement for its long-term health benefits.

“We ain’t bad,” protested one of them. “We’re just wasted, is all.”

“Talk for yourself, Diz,” said the other. “I ain’t wasted. I ain’t smoked nothin’. I ain’t had nothin’ but Bourbon. I’m clean.”

“Yeah sure, Tyler,” said Diz. He stared at Crystal who appeared very much out of place at the Sheriff’s Office in the floral skirt and blouse she put on when she agreed to accompany the police for questioning. “You seem like a sweet chick. You’ll put in a word for us, won’tcha? You can see we’re the sort who ain’t gonna mess up a guy just for the sake of a wrap.”

“Don’t fuckin’ bother the lady, Diz,” said Tyler. “She ain’t no crackhead.”

“That’s where you couldn’t be more wrong, boys,” said the policeman who’d driven us there. “This here young lady is Crystal from the English Punk Rock group the Passions. We’ve apprehended her on a drug bust just like we have you boys.”

“Motherfuck!” Tyler exclaimed.

“She don’t look like no crackhead to me,” Diz sniffed. “And I wouldn’t want her to be one, neither. Look at the fuckin’ mess my old lady is. And she ain’t even twenty-five yet.”

“Just shows how looks can deceive, boys,” said the Sheriff.

We were escorted to a room at the rear of the Sheriff’s Office which I imagined was most often used for interrogating suspects, though I don’t think many of the criminals arrested here were likely to be guilty of especially serious criminal offences.

“Could you tell me please, Sheriff,” said Crystal in a measured voice while Jane, Jacquie and the others were escorted into the premises, “just why we’ve been apprehended and of what crime we’re supposed to be guilty?”

“Drugs,” said the Sheriff. “Pure and simple. The good people at the King’s Cavalry Motel have it on good authority that you ladies are in possession of illegal drugs and we don’t tolerate no drug abuse in this here county. And so it is my duty to inform you that we’re gonna search you ladies for drug possession.”

“And an excellent policy that is too, Sheriff,” said Crystal diplomatically. “But I can categorically affirm that not one of us is guilty of possessing illegal drugs and I am also certain that the only reason you wish to search us for drugs in the Sheriff’s Office is that when you searched our bedrooms at the hotel for incriminating evidence of narcotic use you didn’t find any there either.”

The Sheriff was visibly put out by this evidence of Crystal’s understanding of the situation. “That as may be, ma’am,” he said. “But I’m sure you understand that we, as law enforcement officers, are duty-bound to investigate all and every report of illegal drug-taking. You must have been aware that there was a real ruckus at the King’s Cavalry Motel earlier this evening.”

“And none of that was any of my doing, Sheriff,” said Crystal. “Nor was it of any of the members of my ensemble.”

“On some?” sniggered one of the police officers who’d driven the police van. “On some what, ladies? Where’d you hide your ‘stash’, as you call it? Or your ‘gear’? Or d’you call it something else back in England?”

Crystal ignored the mocking. “Please just complete your investigation, Sheriff,” she said. “I’d be grateful if you could just get it over with so that we can return to the motel, get some sleep and drive on to the concert we’re due to perform in Rock Hill, South Carolina.”

“Is that where you’re playing next, ladies?” said the Sheriff. “Raising hell in the Carolinas. There’s gonna be a few Tar Heels who won’t be well pleased to see a van-load of hippy punk dykes tear up their town…”

“Even if they do call themselves the new Kings and Queens of Rock & Roll,” sniggered one of the other police officers.

“Or just Queens of the ‘Ensemble’”, chortled another police officer.

Needless to say, the interrogation and search that followed discovered no drugs on any of us: however much Maud patted us down and our pockets were turned inside out. Because Crystal was the band leader and therefore the one most likely to secrete drugs on her person, Maud escorted her to the women’s toilet for special treatment. I guess that as a woman police officer working in an all-male office, Maud had to work especially hard to be accepted (especially as her physical appearance would attract unflattering remarks when she was out of earshot). Consequently, her body searches were extremely thorough. Although, unlike Crystal, I didn’t have to remove my clothes, Maud was expert at identifying exactly those places—in between the arse cheeks, in the seams of the jeans or under the collar—where a girl might hide her stash. But it was Crystal who suffered the most thorough search of all.

Polly describes Maud’s interrogation in great detail and with total dismay. How dare Crystal be humiliated in this way? She was stripped of her clothes (though I doubt whether Crystal was much bothered about this) and Maud’s hands sheathed in clear plastic gloves were thrust into both Crystal’s vagina and anus: something which, in very different circumstances, Crystal might even have enjoyed. But there was nothing pleasurable about this kind of intrusive interrogation. As Polly makes clear, the whole episode was deeply humiliating and absurdly so because, of all of us, Crystal was the one least likely to possess drugs or hide them anywhere on her body.

Crystal never criticised the rest of us for our various drug habits, but when she told the Sheriff that there should be no place for drugs in a person’s life, I don’t think she was being a hypocrite. As a general rule, she didn’t take drugs. She didn’t smoke. She very rarely drank alcohol. And she didn’t even drink much coffee.

“Thank the fuck it was you lot that got the third degree rather than us!” exclaimed Judy Dildo the following day when we at last arrived at the Silver Noose: many hours later than we’d intended. “If we’d been the ones hauled in last night rather than you then we’d have been busted for sure. And by now we’d either all be in chains or on the first plane home.”

“Why’s that?” Crystal asked as we stood around in the car park of a truly insalubrious and rundown motel. “Is there something we should know about?”

“I didn’t tell you guys ’cos I wasn’t sure how to break it,” Judy confessed with no hint of remorse in her voice, “but while we were at that Fucking Feminazi Sisterhood Festival, I scored a quarter weight of some real classy Tijuana shit. I wanted to keep it hidden till we got to Rock Hill. It was gonna be a kind of surprise for everyone after the long drive. So, if those pigs had bust us last night, we’d have definitely gone down. We’d be down and we’d be out!”

“Are you saying that you’re carrying enough dope for us to be done not for possession but for dealing?” Andrea asked aghast.

“How much did you say you’ve got, lover girl?” asked a delighted Olivia. “And I thought I was gonna have to survive on nothing but fucking booze.”

“Way to go!” echoed the Harlot. “A fucking quarter weight. We’re loaded!”

“And soon we’ll be wasted,” said Jenny Alpha supportively.

“Can we try some of it out now?” Tomiko wondered. “I could really do with a toke right away.”

I could see that Andrea’s appalled reaction, which I almost shared, was pretty much in the minority amongst the Crystal Passion band. Judy Dildo was now the hero of the moment even though it was only by a very slim chance that she’d not been one of those hauled off to the Sheriff’s Office and given a thoroughly invasive shake-down.

And if that had happened, the tour would have ended rather sooner and amongst other things the Crystal Passion band would now have a criminal record and a Rock & Roll reputation like that of the Happy Mondays, Keith Richards and Iggy Pop.

This would have appalled Polly Tarantella, although there was a time in her life when she’d have had a much more sympathetic attitude towards the drug-taking that Judy and most of the band indulged in. From what I’ve heard from those who knew Polly in her early years as a Rock Music Journalist, she was a woman who’d swallow, snort, sniff and even inject whatever there was available when it was available and as much as she could while remaining conscious. But that wasn’t the Polly Tarantella who interviewed me and the one who still keeps in touch. Instead, she’s now very much the reformed ex-Junkie. Mineral water, red wine and fruit juice is all I’ve ever seen her imbibe. And whatever scars she may once have had along her arms or between her toes have all healed now. But she still has sucked-in cheeks, the occasional hundred yard stare and an impossibly straight nose that’s been ravaged and rebuilt.

It is Polly’s born-again sobriety more than a sympathy for the excesses of youth that now governs her attitude towards what she describes as Judy Dildo’s criminal irresponsibility and unrepentant recklessness. The very fact that Judy was weighed down with enough dope to keep the Crystal Passion band high until the very end of our tour was a sin close to treachery given that Crystal herself was the one member of the band who wouldn’t normally toke on a joint when it was passed around. And it antagonised Polly even more to learn that Judy was intending to sell the hash in quarter ounce quantities to the other band members, as if this small-scale dealing was the sin for which she should be most damned.

Is there no crime for which Judy Dildo wasn’t guilty?

I’ve even argued with Polly on Judy’s behalf, even though at the time I was by far the least sympathetic person in the band towards her. In fact, I’d have probably been secretly pleased if matters had gone the other way round and Judy had been busted in our stead. At least I wouldn’t have had to suffer the indignity and shame of having Maud pat down my trousers and Crystal wouldn’t have had Maud’s latex-covered hand thrust into her most private orifices. And, of course, with Judy Dildo out of the way, at long last I’d have had Crystal all to myself.

Polly’s account of the interrogation at the Sheriff’s Office is one of the most lurid chapters in her biography. The details she’s obtained may well be true but they don’t figure very highly in my memory of the event. I was almost always just within a heartbeat of falling asleep during the whole ordeal. I was so exhausted that I didn’t take in a whole lot of what was happening. Nevertheless, I’m pretty sure that Crystal was the only one who was strip-searched. I think Jane and Jacquie would have told me if they’d also been searched in such an intrusive manner. Although I’m sure the police officers did have unreconstructed opinions about black women (or, for that matter, bald women, homosexual women or just plain ordinary women), they didn’t express more than the most general and, to be honest, completely predictable disrespect. I have no memory of the policemen playing cards and placing bets on who’d take custody of Crystal’s elegant summer hat, dress and sandals if she were found to be in possession of illegal drugs. Nor did I see any evidence of the statement that was reputed to have already been typed up and ready for her to sign. And allegedly this was a complete confession of her habitual drug abuse.

But I do remember the joke that was repeated far more often than it was ever funny that Crystal had claimed to be the King of Pop. Indeed, the main dispute was whether she should be referred to as the ‘New King of Pop’ or simply ‘The English Girl Who Claims to be the New King of Pop’. Not surprisingly, the shorter phrase was the one settled on, though of course this designation became totally irrelevant when the Sheriff admitted there was no substantial or even circumstantial evidence of drug possession of any kind whatsoever. And that we would be allowed to go free.

“And we’ll see what them boys down in South Carolina make of you gals,” he said ruefully. “You better take good care of yourselves is my advice, is all.”

Chapter Nine

Chapter Eleven