Free Ordeal by Linda Lovelace Page A

my will, she seemed sympathetic.
    “I think that’s terrible,” she said. “I don’t think anyone should have to do anything.”
    One of Kitty’s private customers was a seventy-five-year-old retired druggist named Albert who lived with his sister in an apartment not far from the beach. Whenever his sister went away for a visit, Albert would get on the phone to Kitty. This time he asked Kitty whether she could bring “a second girl” and Chuck decided this would be an assignment for me.
    Whenever I went to a new apartment building or hotel, I mentally charted the possible escape routes. This was a two-story, U-shaped building with only a single entranceway. You walked through a set of arches, then about fifteen feet into a lobby, then up one flight of stairs to the apartment. As Chuck parked the car in front of the building, I realized that I would be out of his range of vision for several moments both coming and going.
    Sudden panic. I needed time, time to figure out a plan, but there was no time. There was only now. Kitty and I walked from the car toward the arches framing the entrance. I didn’t want anything to come as a surprise to Kitty.
    “Kitty, you know I don’t want to do any of this. There’s only one reason I’m doing it at all—if I weren’t doing this, I’d be dead. Chuck says he’ll kill me if I ever try to get away but I’ve got to try anyway. If this keeps up, I’m going to be dead anyway.”
    “What can I do?”
    “Nothing,” I said. “It’s just that I wanted to warn you. I’m going to try and get away here, and I don’t want you to be too surprised by anything that happens.”
    “Oh, Chuck’s really going to be pissed,” she said.
    By this time we were up at the top of the stairs and Albert was waving us into his apartment. He was a short man, thin with a protruding pot belly. His bald head was rimmed with black hair. Albert was wearing an undershirt and a pair of shapeless old-man trousers. His apartment reminded me of the set of an old movie. The lamps were covered with heavy fabric shades, and the overstuffed sofa had white doilies on the arm rests. The stink of cologne was everywhere: on Albert, on the furniture and in the air.
    As we walked through the living room toward the bedroom, my eyes were darting everywhere looking for an exit. We followed Albert into his bedroom and he turned his back on us and lifted his undershirt over his head.
    “The money’s on the bureau,” he said. “You girls just help yourself.”
    “Just a minute,” I said. “Just a minute, Albert, I’ve got to speak to you.”
    “No, you don’t,” Kitty tried to interrupt me. “Not now. We don’t have to say anything at all, not yet. We just have to make nice to my sweetie here.”
    “No . . .”
    “What’s the trouble, bubala?” Albert asked.
    “I’m not a hooker.” I realized how absurd that sounded even as I said it. “There’s a guy out there in the car who has been forcing me to do these things. You’ve got to help me escape.”
    “What’re you saying?” He turned to Kitty. “What’s this young girl saying?”
    “Don’t mind her,” Kitty said. “She’s just kidding.”
    “I’m not kidding,” I said.
    “She’s not kidding,” Albert informed Kitty.
    “This is the truth,” I went on. “I’m a prisoner and I’m pleading with you to help me. There’s a man sitting out there right now, waiting for me, and he’s a killer. Is there a back way out of here?”
    “Better you should use the front door,” Albert said. “Better you should use the front door right now.”
    Kitty was glancing at the envelope of money left on top of the bureau. Should she or shouldn’t she? She knew as well as I did what Chuck would do if we came down without the money.
    “I’m going to use your telephone,” I said. “I’m going to call the police.”
    Albert moved pretty well for a senior citizen. I managed to dial 0 for Operator and then his hand came crushing down on the