Too Sweet to Die by Ron Goulart, Llc Ebook Architects

VW next to a brand new gray Mercedes 220S which had three green snakes painted on its hood. A naked four-year-old little girl with tangled blonde curls and spots of orange soda on her chubby face was asleep sitting up against the front tire of the Mercedes.
    Easy heard music, sitars, and electric violins at the moment, and noticed loudspeakers hanging here and there around Constance’s twenty-room house.
    A forty-year-old black man wearing only a pair of orange overalls came riding a motor scooter down the drive from behind Easy. “Out of the way, mother,” he suggested as he passed close.
    At the rear of the big house was an enormous swimming pool, at least twice Olympic size and lined with turquoise mosaic tile. Beyond that stretched an acre of green lawn and then came woodland.
    On the high board a black man was making love to a fifteen-year-old blonde girl. As they bounced together they inched closer to the edge of the board. Only two or three of the twenty people in and around the pool were watching.
    At the far side of the pool, sitting in a high back rattan chair, was a bald man with a bristly mustache. He held a 16-millimeter movie camera aimed at the loving couple. He wore a black turtleneck sweater, black bell-bottom pants. The cuff of his right trouser leg was twisted in the bright metal of his leg brace.
    The blonde on the high board dug her fingers into the black man’s back, crying, “Oh Jesus, oh Jesus!”
    They both went toppling off the diving board.
    While they were in midair, still coupled, the man with the camera exclaimed, “Right on. Beautiful. Tremendous.”
    The couple separated on hitting the water. The girl capsized a Chinese faggot who’d been floating on an inflated lime-green seahorse.
    The four-year-old girl who’d been sleeping against the Mercedes was at Easy’s side now. “Did you see that mother?” She giggled, then leaped into the pool. Easy stepped around a smiling unconscious young man in knee-length striped trunks who smelled sweetly of fruit wine and made his way to the man he figured to be Dean Constance.
    The bald mustached man was kneeling at the pool edge, his right leg held out stiff. “Beautiful,” he said, his camera pointed at the Chinese faggot, who appeared to be drowning. “You ain’t doing a number on me, are you, Chen?”
    “I’m not jiving,” gasped Chen.
    Without looking back Constance said, “Nick and Nora.”
    Two nearly identical red-haired girls, both twenty and slender and bare-breasted, had been sitting on the tiles beside the rattan chair. “Yeah?” said one.
    “Save that poor drowning mother.”
    “Why?”
    “Off your ox,” ordered the filmmaker. “I don’t want any drowned fags in my waters. It makes for pollution.”
    Nick and Nora shrugged bare shoulders, stood up in unison, dived into the pool.
    “Who are you, brother?” Constance asked.
    “You’re Dean Constance?”
    “Right, brother.” Constance got himself back into his chair, resting the movie camera in his lap. “You come for the party?”
    Easy shook his head. “My name’s John Easy. I’m a private investigator from Los Angeles.”
    “No jive?”
    From his wallet Easy withdrew a card, handed it to Constance.
    “Easy Rider, Private Pig,” said Constance, pretending to read the card close to his face. He scratched the stubble of his shaved head with the rolled-up card. “I’m getting bad vibes from you, brother.”
    “I’m looking for a girl named Jill Jeffers.”
    “Different people are into different things.”
    “She was here Saturday night, with Mitzi Levin.”
    A tall pretty Negro girl in a two-piece scarlet suit had climbed out of the pool near them and was sitting on the edge, hugging her knees and quietly watching Easy.
    “So?” said Constance.
    “Nobody has seen Jill Jeffers since.”
    “Again, so?”
    “I’ve been hired to find her.”
    “Don’t let me impede your progress, brother.”
    Easy took a step nearer the bald man. “The police are