Walt Evans had an idea-an idea as old as civilization-to satisfy the lusting desires of company men on a convention spree. He enlisted most of the female staff of the convention hotel, where he worked as night clerk, to make themselves available to the pleasure-seeking guests. The plan worked AND HOW! But then Madge Cross, a night maid in love with Walt, blew the whistle when she found herself succumbing to his sweet talk that she, too, become a woman-for-sale. But not even the guests had the slightest inkling of the fantastic "horsing-around" several of the hotel's girls indulged in privately.
CHAPTER ONE
HER NAME WAS MADGE. His name was Walt.
She was a girl, he was a boy, and at the moment they were engaged in proving the differences between their sexes.
The bed they shared was on the second floor of the Oakwood Arms Hotel, in a room that was only one of many reserved for the use of the hotel staff. A few of these rooms contained beds, but most contained cleaning apparatus, fresh linen, carts for room service, folding stands for suitcases, and miscellaneous items without which a well-run hotel couldn't operate.
The bed on which Madge and Walt were tangling wasn't very large, nor was it particularly comfortable, but neither of them minded these shortcomings. They were too wrapped up in each other to pay any attention to the furniture. If either thought at all of the bed, it was to note the ungodly noise it made, the tell-tale creaking of the frame, and the way the headboard knocked against the wall.
There were many things wrong with the bed and the room and the little time available to them. The scene wasn't nearly as idyllic as they would have liked.
But what the hell-it was better than nothing. Lots better.
They made it do. "Walt," she said.
He was leaning over her. He was naked, his chest crisped with hair and plated with solid muscle. That huge masculine chest came down, crushing the twin mounds of her nude breasts.
"Walt...."
First the nipples-pale, coral flowers, little coins of sensation, feeling the inexorable hardness of his body, tasting with their small tongue-like tips the electric touch of his flesh. Then, the nipples crushed, pushed into the yielding softness of her breasts.
"God-Walt...."
Then the breasts themselves-squeezed out of shape, robbed of their thrusting roundness by his pressure, spreading against her heaving ribs like honey-filled bladders.
"Oh, Walt...."
She felt his hands clasp her waist, then slowly, sensuously drift down to her flanks. His fingers slipped under her, and she raised her pelvis slightly, allowing his fingers to curl tenderly around the smooth globing of her buttocks.
"Walt-ahh...."
His hips wedged themselves deeper, and as he thrust forward, his hands cupped her, raised her, lifted her hips and belly.
"Walt-Walt-Walt. . . "
There.
Something parted. A glide; a tingle, a friction of velvet, a warmth, a sudden thrill.
Her thighs quivered against his hips. Her calves twitched upward onto his back,' locking around him, drawing him deeper. Her arms lifted, her fingers grabbed at his shoulders, drawing the hardness of his body painfully against her swollen breasts.
She tried to call his name again, but her voice was gone.
For Madge, it was always that way with Walt.
Gentle Walt. Tender Walt. Soft and hard, slow and furious and fantastic Walt. For her, there wasn't another man in the whole goddam world besides Walt.
She had only a moment to think these things. For just a few seconds they remained like that; unmoving, linked, lying male and female together.
Then he started.
A gasp rose in Madge's throat and burst from her lips. Her eyes squeezed shut, her red lips curled back from her white teeth as if in pain. Her nostrils flared with the effort of her sudden harsh breathing.
His masculine assault began.
Madge felt herself driven in a pounding rhythm away from reality and into a warm, sweet darkness. The thrashing of his body echoed the rhythm of her pulsing heart.
His fingers released her buttocks, but it didn't matter. Her body had learned the rhythm and needed no hands to guide it. As he rose, she dropped against the bed. As he descended, she heaved upward to meet him.
His hands now were under her arms. He rested on, his knees and elbows, his face next to hers. She felt his hot breath roaring in her ear. She wriggled her shoulders, pushed against him with her hands. With his torso slightly raised, the hemispheres of her breasts returned to their natural shape. She could sense the rosy tips growing hard as rocks.
His hands slipped across her throat, drifted down, his fingers curling as they followed the rising curves of her breasts, climbing the ripe mounds until they nestled in his warm palms. Her nipples poked upward in his hands.
Her breasts trembled under his caressing fingers. Her breathing grew faster and faster, surpassing the rhythm of his caress, the rhythm of his attack, and finding a totally new cadence.
The rhythm of release.
Now it was about to happen. She could feel it beginning, somewhere deep inside her, deep down in the sweet darkness of her soul, down there where only Walt could reach. He was driving for it-he was there, at the point of ecstasy.
And that was all Madge needed. It happened.
Not all at once, of course-but gradually, in waves, in spasms of pleasure and delight. Even before it had become anything more than a promise, she knew it was going to be heaven. She could feel its power almost before the first twinge of savage delight shot across her trembling being.
But it was always so with Walt. That was what made Walt so special. That was why Madge gave herself to Walt any old time he asked for it-day or night, on lunch-hour or coffee-break, or even at a time like this: late at night, at the end of her shift, with only a few minutes to spare for pleasure before Walt went downstairs and took up his duties as night-clerk. Anytime at all-he could just name it and he could have it, on his own terms, exactly the way he wanted it.
It was a big favor to do for a man, and Madge was well aware of it. But in exchange, Walt made it happen. There couldn't be any fairer exchange than that.
The cresting waves of delight were building up inside her now. As their thunder filled her, she felt her mind coming adrift, felt herself losing contact with reality. Slowly her body was turning into a concentration of pleasure-drowned throes, and all her senses focused on the single-minded appreciation of what was happening.
Pictures drifted through her brain. She saw herself, naked, reclining on beds much like this one, saw her spread thighs welcoming different men, saw her breasts grabbed and her buttocks squeezed and her body kissed by every male who had ever been important in her life.
She remembered what those men had been like. She recalled the boys in high school, with their rabbity pounding and their bony clutching hands-she remembered the men in that diner where she'd worked, who smelled of beer and lived in cheap rooming houses and groveled out their lust like pigs snorting at a feeding trough.
That's what men had been like for her. They'd been either too bony and quick, or too hard and brutal. They took all she had to offer, without ever giving anything in return.
Until Walt. Walt made it happen, and none of the others could do that. Walt made it happen the first time they had sex together. Walt drew her out with the right mixture of tenderness and fire, of sweet caresses and driving power. Walt made her sing, Walt made her thrill.
Walt made it happen every time. And each time, it was better than the last.
As it happened now, she thought: Do it, Walt-do it for me, honey-make it good for me, and I'll always make it good for you-anytime you want me, I'll be ready and waiting to give you a good time, as good as you're giving me.
Great honey-pourings of pleasure filled her. Dimly, she felt the spasmodic grasp of his hands on her breasts as the thrill engulfed him. It was happening to them together, their separate delights ripening at the same instant and blending into one great thrill.
In the split second of mental coherence remaining to her, Madge thought:
Always be here, Walt, close to me, taking your kicks from me, giving me my kicks the way only you can do. Never leave me, Walt. If you go anywhere, take me with you. I'll go with you. I'll go any place on earth just to be with you. I'd even go to hell and smile about it all the way down if I was going there with you.
You're the only man in the world, Walt. I'd do anything for you, Walt.
Anything.
* * *
Not far from where Walt and Madge were mixing it up was another second-floor staff room; a much larger one, filled with rows of lockers and long wooden benches. A door at the end of this room opened into a set of shower stalls.
There were more than fifty lockers lining the walls, and room enough on the benches for as many people. But at the moment, only five girls were there-two out of sight in the shower room, the other three sitting in a row in front of their opened lockers.
The three girls were about the same age; and although their hair and skin coloring differed, as did the general structure of their bodies, they shared several features in common.
For one thing, none of the three wore more than bra and panties. For another, the freshly starched and ironed uniforms hung in their lockers were identical. For a third, the tone and volume of their voices seemed exactly the same.
But the highest mark of similarity was in their faces-not the features so much as the expression. Each seemed veneered with a hardness, as if her face had been shellacked to hide her personality, to conceal the worldly knowledge she possessed.
But the varnish hid nothing. It might cover their features, but it couldn't cover their eyes, and one look into those three sets of wise and cynical eyes told all one needed to know about the girls.
"Right on the butt," said Libby, a peroxide-bottle blonde. "That's where he got me, the bastard. My
God, who'd have thought such an old crump'd have such strength in his fingers?"
Hester, whose red hair-came from a different bottle, brayed with laughter. "Libby, how many times I got to tell you-it's the old ones you got to watch. Listen, when some young guy gets a chance to pinch a cheek, he's just doing it to build up to a throw. Young guys get their nature up that way-and they figure to get your nature up, too. Although how they figure a fanny pinch is going to turn a gal on, I'll never understand."
Libby drew on her cigarette, then picked a speck of tobacco from her tongue. "Yeah. So?"
"So when they get old like that, there ain't nothing left for them to do but pinch. They ain't got it anymore, and even if they had, they don't have the go to use it. You swing fanny for some old crud, right away he remembers how it was when he was young, remembers them days is gone forever. But he still-likes to pinch. And he gives it all he's got, because that's all there's going to be. Understand?"
"Sure," said Libby. "That's a real classy piece of thinking. You really got a great head on your shoulders. How come you don't charge money for all your advice?"
Hester snorted. "Okay, be a snot-nose. I don't give a damn. You want black and blue fingerprints all over your behind, it's all right by me."
The third girl smiled at them. Her teeth were dazzling in contrast to the ebony black of her skin. Her hair color was her own, but the soft waves in which it was arranged were the result of some thick applications of pomade. Her name was Kit.
"Come on-we just starting to work. What the hell you guys want to fight for right off the bat?"
Libby glanced at her coolly. "Who's fighting? We ain't fighting, are we, Hes?"
"Nah." Hester waved a hand. "You take things too serious, Kit. Libby and me just like to bitch at each other, that's all."
Kit nodded. "So do. If that's your kick, who am I to say it ain't?"
Libby puffed on her cigarette. "What the hell time is it?"
"Quarter to midnight," said Hester, squinting at her watch.
"I guess we better start dragging tail out of here and get to work." She sighed, then peered toward the shower room. From beyond the door came the rush and splash of water. "What's taking them two broads so long in there? I swear to God, I ain't never heard of anybody who can make a production out of a goddamm shower the way they can."
Hester glanced at Kit, and the two girls exchanged smiles.
"Yeah, Libby," Hester said. "It is kind of peculiar, now that you mention it. I mean, them staying in the shower so long. How about you go in there and hurry them up?"
Libby blinked her eyes. "Go in there? While they're-hell, I wouldn't do that."
"You wouldn't?" asked Kit.
"Of course not. Would you?"
"Oh, well-I might if I was in enough of a hurry to shower up myself. It ain't right them hogging it the way they do. If I was in a real hurry, I think maybe I might."
Libby looked puzzled. "I wouldn't," she said.
"Why not?" asked Hester.
"It-it ain't polite."
Hester barked a laugh. "Polite? What the hell you worrying about being polite for? They're the ones who ain't polite. You got every right to just go in there and tell them to haul tail and let somebody else get wet for a change."
"Sure," said Kit. "Hes's got the right idea."
"It aint' polite," Libby said again. "You know what I mean."
"No sir," said Kit. "I don't have no notion what you talking about." She tossed a wink at Hester.
"Privacy," Libby said. "That's what I mean. They're entitled to privacy."
Hester snorted. "Patsy and Liz? Entitled to privacy? God's sake, Lib-they don't give two hoots about privacy. Where'd you ever get such a dumb idea as that?"
Libby's voice rose slightly in anger. "There ain't nothing silly about it. When a gal takes a shower, she should have privacy. It just ain't right for people to barge in on her when she's..."
"Nudesville?" asked Kit. "That what you mean, Libby?"
"Well-yeah."
"Don't like nobody looking at you when you're stripped, huh, Lib?" Hester's voice was edged with laughter.
"Hell, no. Don't that bother you, Hes?"
"Not no more. When I was a kid, maybe-but not now. I showed myself in the buff to some crowd of people in my time."
"Men, you mean?" asked Libby.
"Mostly."
"Well, that's different."
Kit inclined her head. "Different? How's it different? You know, you'd kind of think a gal'd show herself in the skin to another gal a lot faster than she would for a man. Ain't that so, Hes?"
"Sure. Show it off to a man, right away you got to either give or haul quick out of reach. But you got no worries on that score with another gal. What's the sweat in having somebody looking at you, so long as they don't touch?"
Libby looked puzzled again. "I don't know," she said.
Kit tapped her arm. "Hey, Lib you had guys look at you before, ain't you?"
"Sure. Of course I have. What the hell do you think?"
"All right, honey I was only asking. I just wondered, that's all."
"Wondered why? You think maybe I never had a man? Do I look to you like a gal who never had any? Libby's voice was defensive.
"No, sir," Kit said. "You look like you been around: Same as me. Hes, too."
"Right," Libby said. "I been around just as much as either of you."
"Okay," said Hester. "So you do give a damn when a guy looks at you peeled?"
Libby drew on her cigarette. "I guess not," she said. "I mean-that's for a reason. When I strip for a guy and let him look me over, I'm doing that for a reason."
"You're going to get loved," Kit said.
"Yeas, right. That's why."
"But, honey like Hes says, with a gal looking, it ain't for no reason at all. You ain't going to get loved. You ain't going to get felt. It's just you bare and some gal looking at you. How come that sweats you?"
"It don't sweat me. I just don't like it, is all. I strip when sex-time comes, but the rest of the time, I like to be by myself. I'm taking a shower, I don't want no nosy broad coming in and looking me over. It ain't right. It ain't decent."
Hester smiled. "It ain't decent, Libby?"
"That's what I said."
"So you don't think any of us should go inside and tell Patsy and Liz to haul it because it ain't decent for one gal to go look at another gal when she's all in the nude? Is that what you're saying?"
"Yeah." Libby puffed once more on her cigarette, then dropped it to the floor and ground it out.
"But they're already in there together, ain't they? They're in there showering and nude all over, ain't that so?"
Libby chewed her lip, then looked at the shower doorway. "Yeah-I guess that's right."
"So they ain't going to care if you go in and say hello."
"Sure, honey," said Kit. "They already nudesville with each other, so another gal ain't going to shake them none."
Libby nodded. "Maybe not."
"There you are," said Hester. "Now there ain't no reason for you not to go in and shake them up a little. So why don't you?"
Libby stood up quickly and took her uniform from the locker. "Why don't you?" she said.
Kit and Hester laughed.
"What the hell's funny?" Libby didn't look at them as she shrugged into her maid's uniform. "How come you two are laughing? Did I say something funny?"
"Ain't you going to take a shower, honey?"
"Yeah, Lib don't you want to be all clean for the dirty old men?"
"The hell with it. I'm clean enough to go to work. The hell with the shower."
"Hey, Lib?" Kit's smile was white as fresh snow.
"What?"
"Ain't you going to show us where that old bird got you? Ain't you going to let us see the mark?"
Libby finished buttoning her uniform and she smoothed the bodice over her pert breasts. "You're crazy," she said. "The both of you. Crazy."
They laughed again.
"We sure would like to see that mark," said Hester. "After all, we heard so much about it."
"I'm going to work," said Libby. "You two crazies can sit here all night if you want to, but I got a job."
"Hey, Lib?"
Libby was halfway to the door, but stopped at the sound of Hester's voice. "What?"
"I think maybe you better watch out for them old women, too. like, some of them got pretty strong fingers."
Kit and Hester both fell into gales of laughter.
Libby stared at them for a moment, her hands on her hips. "You two are really nuts,'" she said.
Kit and Hester continued laughing after Libby left. Finally, Hester said, "What you think about that girl, Kit? Is that Libby a lacy-pants virgin or am I going blind?"
"She fresh fruit, all right," said Kit, wiping her eyes with the back of a hand. "Whoo I ain't laughed so hard since I don't recall when."
"We should fix her up."
"Who with? Liz and Patsy?"
Hester laughed again. "Nah you know what I mean. We ought to get her some stud. She needs it."
"Sweetie, ain't it hard enough getting good stud for ourselves without we start playing Salvation Army and handing it out?"
"Yeah, that's a fact."
"You don't worry about that Libby. She going to get some sooner or later, and probably sooner. She got the bait for it. She got the figure, she got the face she got what it takes to get it."
"Well, I wish to hell she'd hurry up about it.
She's a nice kid and all, but it's against my principles to associate with any goddam virgin."
Kit cuckled. "What time's it now?"
"Crap look at that. It's midnight, straight up. We're on duty."
"Oh, now we ain't. I ain't going on no duty till I get me a shower bath."
Hester shrugged. "I guess we got to go in there and break old Patsy and Liz up."
Kit smiled. "I guess so."
"I tell you what why don't you and me just strip right down and go in there bare? I mean, we got to peel to take our showers anyway-and when Liz and Patsy see us coming in nude like that, they'll really get shook."
Kit nodded slowly, still smiling. "Why don't we do just that?"
She stood up and reached her brown arms behind her, searching for her bra clasp.
"Boy," said Hester, licking her lips. "Them two kooks are going to go right through the goddam ceiling when they see us coming."
"They sure will." The clasp opened, and Kit's bra dropped down her arms, freeing her heavy chocolate breasts. "They're a pair of sillies showering together and feeling and kissing and horsing around like they do. I just can't understand a thing like that, not at all. How hard up is a gal got to get when she's got to go looking to another gal for some kicks? Can you figure that, Hes?"
Hester didn't answer.
Her eyes were fixed on Kit's taut-nippled breasts.
Downstairs in the lobby of the Oakwood Arms, Mr. Fisk waited impatiently behind the check-in desk. Now and then he would glance at his watch, then check its accuracy against the large clock above the elevator. Both time-pieces showed it was just past midnight.
Mr. Fisk was a small man in a gray suit. If the suit had been a shade or two lighter, it would have matched the gray of his skin. Mr. Fisk's hair was a closer match to his complexion it was thinning, combed tight to his skull, and from a distance of a few feet gave the impression of total gray-pated baldness.
One of the elevator doors opened, and Mr. Fisk saw Walt Evans emerge and cross the lobby toward the desk. Once more, Mr. Fisk glanced pointedly at both clock dials.
'"You're late, Evans."
"Sorry, sir. I was unavoidably detained." Walt lifted the counter-leaf and stepped in beside his boss. His features were arranged in what he hoped was an expression of humble apology.
"Detained? Detained how, Evans?"
"I had to go to the toilet," Walt said.
"Oh. Well of course, if that were the case ... But it seems to me, Evans, that one might plan one's that is, when one knows working time is approaching, one should be table to-"
"I'll plan ahead from now on, sir. It won't happen again."
"Yes. Very good. See that you do, Evans. Remember, the convention arrives tomorrow, and the staff must be on their toes."
Mr. Fisk glanced up at the banner which had been strung across the lobby. It read: WELCOME EIGHTEENTH ANNUAL CONVENTION PRECISION TOOL AND DIE CO.
"Don't worry about it, Mr. Fisk. The whole staff is anxiously awaiting their arrival. We'll all do our best to make the Oakwood the best convention hotel they ever visited."
Mr. Fisk smiled. His teeth were false, and nearly as gray as his skin. "I'm sure you will. I know I can depend on my staff."
After Mr. Fisk left, Walt flipped open the register book and checked the arrivals preceding his shift. He compared the entries with the keys remaining on the hook-board. Satisfied, he drew up the high stool and hitched his lean frame onto it.
With a scratch pad in front of him, he took a ballpoint pen from its holder and began jotting figures in long columns. He became completely absorbed in his calculations.
Walt was thinking about the convention. He was thinking about the fact that the Oakwood Arms had never played host to a company convention before. He was thinking also of the rumors he'd heard about Precision Tool's last convention, and how the grapevine spoke of trouble with the hotel management. Nobody seemed to know just what the trouble had been, but Precision Tool had been forced to change the locale for this year's bash.
This added up to something to Walt.
To that, he added Madge Cross. The warmth of her delight still lingered in his loins, and the round firmness of her breasts was still fresh in his memory.
He put it all together, and he began to get an idea.
Mr. Fisk wouldn't have liked it.
* * *
Outside, the bells of the city were tolling midnight.
Nice time midnight. It signals the death of a day, sure but it also marks the birth of a new one. It tells you the days are still coming, flowing from one calendar page to the next, and as long as that continues, you really have nothing to worry about.
Midnight tells you time has flown, but it reminds you of more time on the way. Midnight taps you on the shoulder and informs you that today is dead; and with it all of today's hopes and fears and desires and fulfillments. Maybe the day just past wasn't such a good one; maybe it cuts you with the realization that twenty-four hours out of your precious life just went down the drain.
Midnight can make you feel that, and it's not at all pleasant.
But Midnight's brought you something else besides bad news. Midnight's brought you a present. It's a day.
A bright new unused day.
Forget about today. Today isn't today any more; it's yesterday now. Another spin of the earth has ground up a day into dust, letting it rain down out of the present into the gray bone yard of the past.
As for tomorrow well, you're holding that in your hands. That's Midnight's gift to you. That's Midnight's way of making up for your loss. Tomorrow has ripened into today.
And today is the most precious thing in the world.
Today is now the immediate moment of existence. Today is your heart beating, your brain thinking, your voice speaking, all your senses sensing.
You might have dreamed the past none of it might ever have happened.
And the future doesn't really come into being until you get to it. For all you know, it could be a myth after all, nobody's ever been there.
But today now is right here where you can see it. And seeing it, you can see the reality of yourself. Today is you functioning, pulsing, alive.
It's only now that counts. Now, with you standing right in the middle of it. It's fresh, it's new, it's possibilities are limitless and it's all yours.
Hear those bells tolling?
Midnight, pal they're telling you it's Midnight. And Midnight is a real nice time.
CHAPTER TWO
FRIDAY. IT HAD BEEN FRIDAY for over five hours, but the new day didn't really seem official until the sun lifted its edge over the horizon. The sky brightened slowly, from a cool pearl to a warming orange, washing the blackness out of the city's streets and making the tired buildings look as delicate as egg-shells in the morning light.
A pencil-thin beam of light pierced through a dusty window into the basement of the Oakwood. It lanced the dark air and came to rest on a spot the size of a silver dollar right at the old man's feet. He didn't notice it. He was sound asleep.
The little coin of dawn waited patiently for him to open his eyes, waited beside the empty bottle of cheap wine which lay near it on the floor.
The man was called Pop. Just Pop; never anything else. If he had any other name, no one had ever heard it. Nor did anyone care. The name Pop fitted him precisely, like a well-worn shoe might fit a knobbed and bony foot.
Pop's breath blew moistly through his lips, stirring his white moustache. The bouquet of that breath left no doubt as to what had become of the contents of the wine bottle. But fortunately for Pop, there was no one around to smell it.
Pop was alone in his chair by the furnace, with only the little disc of sunlight to keep him company.
In a while, he would wake up. He would feel terrible at first his back stiff, his mouth tasting of cellar murk and soot, his head pounding with the throb of stale wine.
Then he would see the bit of dawn-shine on the floor and that would blow the staleness and discomfort away. Looking at it, he would begin to feel just fine.
No Pop wasn't a poet. He wasn't the kind to go into rhapsodies over sunbeams. In fact, it could be said his appreciation of nature was limited to the wonderful things men could do with grapes.
But the sunlight would please him anyway. It will tell him his all-night vigil was ended, that only one last check-out of the furnace was required before he could ride the elevator up to his room in the second floor staff area, lay his tired body onto a real bed, crack a fresh bottle of wine, and rest the way a man should.
Most important of all, it would tell him there was a new day at hand and he had survived to see it.
For Pop, that tiny sunny coin could buy a lot.
On the other side of town, a train pulled into
Civic Center Station. It eased on screeching wheels along the last few yards of track, bumped gently against the spring-loaded cushion at the track's end, then subsided in a hissing of air brakes.
The doors slid open, red-capped porters lowered the steps to the platform, and one by one the passengers began disembarking. In no time at all, the quiet of the station platform gave way to a clatter of baggage and a humming of voices.
The train, a noisy beast, had spawned a litter of the same species.
* * *
Roger Linden came down the steps stiffly, his knee joints protesting with a grating of bones. He picked his footing carefully the circulation was only beginning to return to his legs, and the pins-and-needles reawakening of his muscles made balance a bit chancy.
He reached the platform and crossed to a pillar. He turned and watched the other passengers leaving the train. He lit a cigarette, and drew a harsh mouthful of smoke into his lungs. It tasted terrible, but it helped to wake him.
It was a relief to stand again. Roger had been sitting for the past thirty-six hours on that damned train and his rump muscles were gripped by a fatigue that was unlike any other. He felt every clattering, lurching mile of the trip imprinted on his buttocks and the backs of his legs. He sensed his feet were swollen from disuse; the insteps of his shoes pinched uncomfortably. Well, the trip was over now, and there was no point in lingering on it. The next few days will make the trip worth while, make all the discomforts a small price to pay for the pleasures awaiting him.
He was a man of medium build. His suit was of good quality, although wrinkled at the moment. Looking at him, one would assume him to be a man of some affluence not rich, necessarily, but certainly well-off. He seemed to be the sort who would hold a semi-executive position, live in the suburbs, be married to a woman cast from the same mold conservative, self-contained, just a cut above normal.
That's what Roger looked like.
In actuality, only some of these impressions were true. Roger did work for the sort of firm you'd expect The Precision Tool and Die Company. And while his position was not particularly exalted, he was far enough up the ladder to rub shoulders with the executive element. His home was indeed in the suburbs, and just as cozy, pretty and normal as any middle-class home could be.
Roger's wife fitted this picture as precisely as all the other elements. She was a tall woman, somewhat regal of feature and bearing. Although she was forty-one, four years younger than Roger himself, she had a youthful figure. Her body was slim and tight without being dried out; her breasts were small, but rode high and well-separated on her slender torso, and the only trace of wrinkles to be found in them was in the berry-colored puckers of the nipples; her legs were smooth and shapely, tapering from thigh to calf to ankle with the grace of a teenager's limbs; her rump was round and neat, like her breasts.
In all respects, she was a perfect wife. Even her name Louise was altogether suitable. In some respects from the standpoint of physical grace and symmetry, for example she was a bit more wife than a man like Roger deserved.
When you came right down to it, there was only one thing wrong with Louise as Roger Linden's wife.
She wasn't his wife. Not any more.
He puffed clouds of cigarette smoke, as if smoking were the most important thing in the world, but his eyes were not on the present. They were unfocusing, turning inward to look at his personal memories. He was conscious of the process, and a bit annoyed it was happening. Going over things as they used to be could only bring pain and annoyance; it would have been far better if he could have just forgotten the whole thing.
But his mind refused to let the memories die. Whenever Roger wasn't completely occupied with something or other, his treacherous brain would fling those images up behind his eyes, and when that had happened the only way to rid himself of them was through the long, irritating process of examining them in detail, one by one.
He remembered marrying Louise. That was picture number one; yellowed by time, but not at all faded. He remembered deciding he loved her, deciding he wanted her by his side all the years of his life.
He remembered their wedding night. They'd practiced an elaborate ritual of decency all during their courtship, limiting their caresses to innocent stroking of the face and arms, and when they kissed their tongues never met.
But all that changed with a vengeance on their wedding night. He recalled vividly the shock of lust which grabbed at him when he saw her undress, watched her reveal her limber and lovely body to him. He remembered the passion which clouded his vision when he cupped his hand over her breast, when he felt her fingers on his body, when he felt the tensed buttons of her nipples spread and rise against his lips.
He remembered the feeling of her vibrant body under his, the clenching of her thighs as her virginity gave way to womanhood, the way her face clouded with the stab of pain, then suddenly filled with the sunlight of pleasure. He remembered her nails digging into his back, her saying wonderful obscene bedroom endearments, her firm body rising to meet his.
It had been a wonderful wedding night, and a wonderful beginning.
More pictures. Other times he and Louise had shared sexual pleasure-other nights and other beds; a parade of them, seemingly endless. After all, a man and woman in love can spend a lot of time in bed together over a period of twenty years.
And he recalled smaller, less memorable things: Louise in a bathing suit, in a negligee, standing in front of her dresser mirror wearing only a bra and high heels, lounging in a bathtub with blobs of suds clinging to the curves of her breasts. Things like that-unimportant, but vivid-crowded across his mind.
He remembered too the sorrow he'd experienced when Louise told him they could never have a child. He remembered how they made love that same night, and how he'd thrown himself into it, discarding any ideas of his own pleasure, and giving her every shuddering delight he could devise in a long, delicious sexual session. He remembered hoping at the time that she would be reassured, that she would realize he loved her, barren or fertile, sick or well, every moment of his life.
He really did love her, and just that way.
But something happened.
Roger still didn't understand it. The incident was too recent for perspective. Perhaps, after a few years, he might get a glimmer of understanding, but now all he felt was pain.
Home early one afternoon from Precision Tool, his throat a little sore, his temperature up slightly. Into the house through the kitchen door; no sign of Louise. His throat too sore to yell, he climbed the stairs to the bedroom.
And there she was.
Nude. Hair unbound and spread on the pillow. Arms flat at her sides with curled fingers digging into the sheets. Knees raised and spread tensely, and the thrashing hips of a stranger.
He remembered the man holding the erected points of her nipples, pulling and twisting at the tender flesh as she rolled her head on the pillow in utter delight. That was something she never allowed him to do, because she said her flesh was too sensitive there for such a caress.
Seeing the stranger above her, teasing her breasts that way and giving her pleasure, Roger suddenly realized that his wife too was a stranger.
That had ended it. The memory pictures stopped there. Beyond that point, beyond that moment of revelation, there was nothing but a blur: The arguments, the tears, the wrenching sorrow-and the divorce.
Now it was all over, all part of the dead past.
He lifted his eyes back to the present and scanned the station platform. This was a new city, one he'd never before visited, but that didn't make much difference. The annual convention, which he always attended, had been held in many cities over the years, but they all might have been the same. Even now, standing on the platform and looking past the train at the city skyline, Roger wouldn't bet he hadn't been here before, though reason told him differently.
The hotel too would be the same as the others. It would be old, faded, once-luxurious, but now out of style and silly looking. The service would be adequate, the accommodations comfortable enough, the room decorated to look homey, and failing.
As for the convention itself-well, that had never varied. It was always the same sort of idiot's holiday, and there was no reason to expect it would break any new ground this time.
Everything was exactly as it had always been, except for Roger himself. He wasn't a married man any more. He no longer owed allegiance to the wife of his home and hearth, because that wife had ceased to exist.
Suddenly, at age forty-five, Roger was a bachelor again.
It would make a difference.
The train had emptied almost completely now, and the platform was filled with stiff, sleepy people, who, like Roger, had spent the night trying to rest in the hard reclining seats. People bustled about, claiming luggage, asking red-caps for directions, in general going about their business. Last to leave the train was a group of men-twenty of them, all looking enough like Roger to be members of his family.
The Eastern contingent of Precision Tool had arrived.
Nat Barth, whose position as vice-president made him more or less leader of the group, craned his neck around and counted noses. He came up one short, and pivoted his head until he caught sight of Roger off to one side.
"There you are," he yelled. His voice was as thick as his square head. "We been looking for you, Linden."
Roger smiled shallowly as Nat crossed the platform toward him. "Just taking the air, Nat. Too much sitting in one spot-you know. A man gets stiff."
"Sure, sure," said Nat. "None of use getting any younger, Linden."
"Yes," Roger said.
"Well-" Nat looked around once more. "That takes care of everybody. I guess we better be moving."
"Nat? What's the name of this hotel we're going to?"
"Huh?" Nat stroked his chin. "Something with oak in it. Oakville-Oakmere-some name like that. Why'd you ask?"
"Just wondered," said Roger. "You know anything about the place?"
"Nope. Never laid eyes on it in my life. Far's I know, none of us have."
Roger nodded. "I see."
"It's probably the same sort of place as always," Nat said. He lit a cigarette and watched Roger with calculating eyes. "Old-quiet-you know. The only kind of action'll be the action we make ourselves."
"Action?" Roger said.
"That's what you're asking about, isn't it."
"Perhaps."
"Look, Rog." Nat put his arm chummily around Roger's shoulders. It was the first time in Roger's recollection that Nat had called him by his first name. "I know how it is. You don't have to beat around the bush with me. You want to join the club, you're welcome to. We'll all see you have a good time."
"I don't follow you, Nat."
"Well-you know. All the other conventions aways worked out the same way. There'd be this one crowd of guys who came to talk business, and then there'd be the other mob who showed up just to have some fun. Now at all the past conventions you always stuck with the business mob. Am I right?"
"You're right," said Roger.
"Of course, there's nothing wrong with that-if that's what you want."
"Nat-what makes you think I'd want anything different this time?"
"Well-" He paused and mouthed his cigarette. He looked momentarily embarrassed, then hid behind a smile. "I figured-since you don't have responsibility any more-you might have changed your mind about getting in on some convention fun."
"Responsibility," said Roger. "You mean the responsibility of being married?"
"Yeah. Look, Rog-I don't want to remind you about it, because I figure you probably feel bad enough as it is. But you're a bachelor now. You got to realize, you're free to do any damn thing you want."
"You're married, aren't you, Nat?"
"Sure. Twenty-two years married."
"Are you free to do anything you want?"
Nat laughed and patted Roger heavily on the back. "Damn right I am, pal. Having a wife doesn't hold me down one little bit. Oh, sure-I have a lot of feeling for the little woman-but raising some hell at convention time doesn't change that. What she doesn't know won't hurt her, or me either."
"Don't you love your wife, Nat?"
"Of course I love her. God's sake, I been married to her long enough, haven't I? I love her just the way she-likes it-maybe not as much as you loved..."
Nat ground to a sudden halt, and bit his lip.
"That's all right, Nat."
"Listen, Rog-I'm really sorry. That was a crap-head thing to say."
"No, really-I don't mind at all, Nat. In fact, you're absolutely right. I loved Louise more than you love your woman. That's where I made my mistake. I loved her too much. I loved her more than she loved me."
"I think you're entided to enjoy yourself a little, Rog. It's time for you to have a fling. Make it good, and it'll wash the bad taste out of your mouth."
"I'm forty-five, Nat."
"So what? I'm fifty. A man's only as old as what he's feeling." Nat burst into laughter.
"We'll see," Roger said smiling.
"Put yourself in my hands. Will you do that, Rog? You let me take care of things, let me line up your fun, you just sit back and enjoy it. I'll bring it to you. Will you do that, pal?"
"It's damned nice of you to care that much about me, Nat."
"Horse-wind, Rog. It's not charity. Me and the boys-well, we just like plenty of company. The more the merrier, as the saying goes."
"Okay, Nat. Thanks."
"You with us?"
"As far as I can go."
"I think maybe you're going to be surprised just how far that is, Rog." He dropped his hand from Roger's shoulders and inhaled the morning air deeply. "Pal-we're going to have a goddamm orgy in this here town."
Roger followed his gaze toward the dawn-lit skyline.
"I hope so," he said.
* * *
Madge Cross turned the corner and hurried down the block toward the Oakwood. She was a little late, and it worried her. Mr. Fisk would yell if he caught her, and Miss Beamer, the bull-necked matron in charge of the day-maid staff, would be sure to bellow like a bison.
The displeasure of her superiors didn't really worry her that much, however. They could yell and threaten and make noise, but when you came right down to it, they couldn't do anything worse than fire her.
Madge was worried because she was afraid she'd miss Walt.
Of course, he was responsible for her being late in the first place. When her shift ended last night, she should have gone right home, like all the day-girls had. Everyone was working extra shifts this weekend because of the convention, and Madge had been unlucky enough to draw one which began at six A.M. Friday morning. She knew last night that even if she left the hotel and went straight home at the end of her shift, she would have only about five hours' sleep before reporting for work again.
The way things had worked out, she'd gotten only three hours' sleep.
That was because of Walt.
That was because he'd met her in the hall as her shift was ending and his was starting, because he had that look in his eyes, that look which turned her mind to jelly, her head to mush, her insides to hot liquid.
Walt wanted her. And when he wanted her, nothing else mattered. Sleep, rest, being on time for her job-the hell with things like that.
When Walt wanted her, Walt got her.
And, oh-had it ever been worth it!
As she approached the marquee of the Oakwood, she could still feel the tingle of his love-making deep in her loins. She could almost feel the touch of his hands on her dancing breasts. She definitely felt the sweet ache where his strong lingers had gripped her buttocks.
It happened at midnight last night, almost six hours ago, but her senses were still feeling it. That's how good it had been.
He was just about due to go off-shift, and she wanted very much to see him. Just look at him, let her thoughts show in her eyes so he'd know how she felt, so he'd realize she was still conscious of the pleasure he'd given her. If they didn't have a chance to speak, or touch hands, or even come close to each other, she wouldn't care; just so long as she could see him, and let him see her.
She turned into the lobby and pushed through the revolving doors. Her eyes went quickly to the check-in desk, but there was no one behind it. For a moment, she felt a bitter disappointment.
Then, she saw him and the disappointment gave way to pleasure. He had been in the small room behind the check-in desk, and when he came out, he saw her and smiled. His smile did things to her, even across the distance between them.
"Hi, sugar," he said as she came up to the desk. He glanced around, noted that the lobby was empty, then leaned over the counter and kissed her firmly on the lips. Their tongues snaked out to greet each other.
"How's my honey this morning?" Walt asked. "You look a little beat."
"Who wouldn't be?" said Madge. "After the time you gave me last night, tiger-I'll be a week getting over that one."
"I hope not," said Walt.
"Huh?"
"Get over it quicker than that, and we can have another one."
She laughed and crossed her arms, squeezing her breasts high and round against her blouse. "If we got to wait till I'm over it before we can have more fun, then I'm over it right now."
He looked at her sensuous figure frankly. "I guess maybe you are."
"I got to go to work now, Walt. Old Beamer will be wetting her pants if I don't get upstairs quick."
"Sure, run along. Listen-what time do you break for lunch?"
"Lunch? I don't know. This overtime shift is nutty. Eleven o'clock, probably. Why."
"I want to see you."
Her face melted in a smile of pure slavery. She felt it happening, but she couldn't do a thing about it. No matter how much time she spent with Walt, no matter how often she shared the delights of bed with him, no matter how many times she looked into her mirror at home and saw she was a lush-bodied and beautiful girl, she could never get used to the idea that Walt Evans was her man; that, out of all the women in the world, he had picked her.
"All right, Walt," she said, feeling a little tingle of anticipation along her spine. "Second-floor room again, like last time?"
He laughed and reached out to cup her chin. "Uh-uh, sugar. No sex this time. I just want to talk to you."
"Oh. Okay. Can we have lunch together?"
"Sure. That'll give us plenty of time to talk."
"Walt?"
"Yeah, honey?"
"What do you want to talk about?"
He smiled. "I'll tell you when we have some time, sugar. It's a surprise."
She found it difficult to keep her voice even. "A surprise? What kind of surprise?"
"Something big," he said. "Something really great. It's an idea I have."
"Won't you even give me a hint?"
"Lunch-time, baby. I'll tell you at lunch-time."
She lifted her face again to be kissed, and he obliged.. Then she went quickly across the lobby to the service stairs. She didn't look back. She didn't trust herself to look back.
A surprise. Something really great. A big idea.
What could it be?
As she mounted the stairs to the second floor, she was aware of her left hand sliding along the banister.
How would that hand feel with a ring on its third finger?
CHAPTER THREE
PRECISION TOOL AND DIE was a large company.
In addition to their central plant in Akron, Ohio, the firm had branches scattered about the country; in Louisiana, Washington State, Colorado, and North Dakota. These were the factory subsidiaries, equipped to turn out the same sort of merchandise as the Ohio plant.
In addition, Precision Tool maintained sales offices in over twenty cities, through which local customers could purchase without the necessity of dealing directly with the factories. The arrangement made for speedy service, large profits, and a reputation for courtesy and reliability.
But the arrangement also made for a personnel roster as big as a small-town telephone directory. When you added all the people working in the five plants, plus those who maintained the local sales offices, you got a list running into thousands of names.
Many of these individuals, of course, were merely workmen-skilled machinists and metal-workers who didn't care a damn who they worked for as long as they got paid. Men like that would no more think of attending a company convention than they would a literary tea.
But Precision Tool was a firm that gloried in a huge executive staff-at last count, there had been an executive or semi-executive for every five common workmen. So, even after eliminating all sub-official personnel, you still had a list that could choke a horse.
Or a hotel.
The convention hit the Oakwood just before noon that Friday. The first group to arrive was the delegation from the Western district-large, red-faced men for the most part, who talked with equal enthusiasm about tools and Texas, dies and Dallas. They poured into the lobby with stamping feet and banging luggage, and Mr. Fisk, who had taken over the check-in desk for this special occasion, was hard-put to straighten out their reservations and aim them at their rooms. Before the lobby emptied, Mr. Fisk's smile became somewhat more artificial than usual.
But that was only the beginning. Within five minutes, another assault struck, this time from the South. The accents were different, the faces and builds not as overbearing, but the noise and confusion were the same.
In quick succession, the delegations from the North and East arrived, bringing more racket, more banging luggage, and more headaches for Mr. Fisk. The gray little manager began losing track of how many guests were arriving, how many reservations were still unclaimed, how long this madness would continue before things settled down to normal. Indeed, Mr. Fisk started having trouble remembering the name of his hotel. None of the arrivals seemed sure of it, and kept asking him if it was the Oakland, Oakville, Oakie, or what the hell is the name of this place anyway?
After a while, Mr. Fisk had to glance at a piece of hotel letterhead before he could tell them.
It was a mess. But then, company conventions usually are. When the members of a particular firm set aside a time each year for getting together, you can't expect sanity and order. After all, they're in a strange city, miles from their wives, homes, and responsibilities, and the effect that has on a man is well-known. Then too they're mixing and meeting with strangers, people employed by the same firm, people with whom they have things in common, but never met before. In a situation like that, a man tends to be loud, to laugh a lot, shake hands, slap backs and in general be a regular fellow. In addition, there are regional rivalries-with a firm as large and diverse as Precision Tool, it's natural for widely-separated branches to compete with each other, and that makes for friction.
Noise, laughter, artificial camarderie, barely-concealed tempers, not-quite-friendly arguments over unimportant things-these are elements that make up a company convention.
Plus one other.
You take a crowd of men-and every individual attending Precision Tool's convention was a maleyou drop them into strange surroundings, put them in competition with strangers in a race to see who can have the biggest time, drink the most booze, prove himself the most regular fellow-stir all these elements together, and you get another:
Sex.
If you want a good time, sex is obviously the best there is. If you want to impress somebody you've just met, there's no better way to prove your masculinity than with a display of sexual prowess. If you're trying to really celebrate the fact that wife and children and hearth are so far away they don't exist, you couldn't find a more satisfying method than a quick fling with some brass-bottomed little chippie.
Sex, under circumstances like that, enables a man to revive old dreams, to air his mind of reality and take up old pretenses of adolescence. It's easy to pretend when you're on top of a tart-imagine you're a lumberjack, a longshoreman, a jet ace, or whatever pleases you. Trollops don't know or care who you are as long as you have money, and they're willing to go along with any gags. A really good hooker will believe every word you say, and if you're stupid or drunk enough to believe every word she says, you'll find your masculinity and self-respect inflated as they haven't been since your first time out.
All this is part of the male intellect. Men go through life armed with a sword, a weapon which could only be worn by a warrior. So naturally they have to use it. At home with their wives, that weapon is beaten into a plowshare and used for peace-but give a man a chance to go into battle, to compete with other men, to pillage a maiden of her imagined chastity just like the knights of old ...
Give a man that sort of opportunity, and he's going to take it.
He has to.
He wouldn't be a man if he passed it up.
* * *
Libby's feet were killing her.
like Madge, she drew an extra shift which followed her normal one almost immediately. She had only an hour's sleep, and her feet, which had been sore to start with, were now protesting almost loud enough to be heard.
If it wasn't a lousy enough deal working two shifts in a row, Libby just realized this second shift was going to be equivalent to at least five normal ones. The convention had filled the hotel to the rafters, and where Libby would ordinarily work a floor with as many unoccupied rooms as occupied, she now was faced with her entire area at capacity. There wasn't a room that didn't have at least one man, and more often two or three. They were all new arrivals, noisy bastards, and every last one of them the sort of man who thinks there is nothing quite so amusing as pinching a maid's behind.
Slowly but surely, Libby's buttocks were becoming as sore as her feet.
She hurried down the seventh floor hall, balancing a pile of fresh bedding on her aching arms. The door to 701 stood open, so she turned in there. For all she knew, she had already serviced that room, but her mind was in such a whirl that the only way she could tell was by looking.
There were three men in 701, looking like all other men on the seventh floor. And they looked at her exactly the same way.
Libby tried to minimize the roundness of her rump as she entered the room. She managed a smile.
"Fresh sheets, gentlemen."
"Won't be fresh long," said one.
"Har, har, George-now you really said something. Won't be fresh long-that's rich."
Libby's smile was rigid as she whipped the sheets onto the bed. She had to bend over as she worked, and tried to angle her body so she wouldn't present the curve of her rump to their clutching fingers.
"Yes, sir," said one. "New town, new convention, new year-we're going to be having us some new fun. Them there sheets aren't going to stay fresh any longer than tonight."
"Any longer than tonight," said another. "George, you are a real card."
"Hey, little lady." The one named George eased across the room toward her. Libby casually swung her backside out of range.
"May I help you, sir?" she asked.
"If we get any lipstick on these here sheets, you won't tell on us, will you?"
The other two men laughed raucously.
Libby's smile was painful to maintain. "I don't pay any attention to things like that, sir. It's none of my concern."
"Don't pay attention, huh? I guess maybe you're a pretty broad-minded little gal."
"Yes, sir. More or less."
"That's great. Listen, little lady, you and me and Clyde and Charlie here-we're all going to get along just fine."
"I'm sure we are, sir." Libby yanked the last wrinkle out of the spread, and smoothed down the sides.
"And you know why? I'll tell you why. Because you're a broad-minded gal, and us three are broad-minded gentlemen. Am I right, men?"
"Sure, George. Right as rain."
"There-see that? Real broad-minded. I tell you, little lady-that's just about all we think of."
Libby glanced up, puzzled. "What?"
"Broads."
Their explosive laughter had a zoo-like quality.
Libby straightened up and looked from one to the other. "Yes, sir-I see what you mean. That's very amusing."
"Har, har," said George. "The little lady thinks it's amusing."
"Yes," Libby said. "But I think you and I have different ideas about what broad-minded means."
"Oh, now-little lady, I was just making a poke. Don't get huffy-I didn't mean no harm."
"Oh, I'm not mad about anything, sir. I just wanted to tell you-I'm not broad-minded the way you say. I don't think about broads all the time. Don't you see what a silly idea that is?"
Clyde laughed. "She's got you there, George."
George seemed annoyed for some reason. "Well-it was only a joke, you know."
"Sure," said Libby. "But it don't make any sense-the way you said it. I mean, shouldn't jokes make sense?"
George fished in his pocket and came up with a coin. "Here-you just take this for your trouble and go do your work, little lady."
"Why, thank you, sir." Libby took the coin. As she did, she made the mistake of coming within range of George. A sharp bite of pain lanced into the flesh of one buttock.
It took all her control to keep from opening his cheek with her nails.
"You care to stop around later on this evening, little lady, maybe we all can find out just how broad-minded you are."
Libby turned quickly, picked up the pile of sheets, and left the room.
As she hurried down the hall, she wondered why she'd bothered to get into conversation with them at all. There had been no need to speak, no need to answer their questions. There was a lot of work to be done, and she had only wasted her time in 701.
She remembered the conversation she'd had last night with Hester and Kit about those two kooks, Liz and Patsy. She recalled Kit making some remark about whether she'd ever shown herself nude to a man, or even had a man. She also recalled the odd tone of Kit's and Hester's remarks concerning the two girls in the shower, the fact that they were nude together, and how it wasn't supposed to make any difference when one female appeared naked in front of another.
Libby was too damned tired to think straight. When this shift was over, if it ever ended, she would sit down and thrash this thing out.
All right-so she didn't like to show her body to another girl.
So she had never slept with a man in her life.
So she was a virgin, and a little shy about nudity and the sexual implications of being unclothed before someone.
Was there anything so terrible about that? Her life was her own, and she was entitled to live it as she damn well pleased.
But she couldn't help wondering why Kit and Hester had questioned her so closely about her feelings regarding nudity, and other girls, and the strange way Liz and Patsy stayed in the shower together tor long periods of time.
And she couldn't help wondering why she had reacted so strongly to that man's statement about her being broad-minded.
Libby wasn't broad-minded. Libby didn't spend her time thinking about girls. Only men did that. And Libby wasn't a man.
The whole idea was very silly, and she couldn't understand why she was unable to stop thinking about it.
* * *
In his room, Pop woke bleary-eyed.
Despite his sti:ness and fatigue, in spite of the new wine he poured into himself on top of the old, in spite of his age and the general fogging of his brain and senses, the noise finally got through to him.
And what a noise it was.
It seemed to be coming from everywhere-a commotion which had taken over the entire hotel. He couldn't recall the Oakwood ever having sounded like that, not even on big holiday weekends, not even during the wars when the place had been filled with soldiers and their wives and their hookers.
The racket reminded Pop of something, but it took quite a bit of effort to make the memory emerge from the wine-soaked mass of his brain. The '39 World's Fair--was that it? No-farther back than that-1933 in Chicago-that's what it was.
A Century of Progress they called that Fair, but the name hadn't fooled anybody. It was hard to talk convincingly of progress when the country was smack dab in the middle of the worst depression in its history. It was hard to imagine the meaning of such a concept when the only progress some people could make was to move up a few places on the bread-line.
Pop had worked at that fair. He could remember it well. He could remember the sleek whiteness of the buildings and the colored lights that turned the place into a fairyland at night. He could recall the crowds swirling along the sidewalks, gaping at the promise of the future, the shape of this thing called progress, and wondering if any of it would ever come to pass.
Most of all, Pop remembered the sound of the fair-or rather, the sound of the people who visited it. The fair grounds weren't part of reality, and that helped. Walking along those paths, staring at those wild modernistic buildings, one could almost imagine things were really going to be all right-maybe even convince himself that they already were straightened out, that the magic hand which had raised this fairyland was also at work outside it in the real world, performing the same tricks on the sour face of reality.
Those people had really wanted to believe-they wanted to know progress was not a myth, they wanted to know their lives were worth something, held some promise, held the joy and contentment they needed so badly.
They really tried. They laughed and shouted and spent what little money they had on foolishness and fun. While the money held out, they could live in the magic world of the fair, and pretend there were no sorrow and reality awaiting them beyond its gates.
Pop remembered the sound of that. Thousands and thousands of people, all pretending the same thing at the same time-it made this noise, which was more than just the noise of a crowd.
It was the noise of people hoping, pretending, wanting. It was the sound of a million flights of imagine beating their wings simultaneously. It was the saddest thing Pop had ever heard.
He was hearing it again now.
Pop's contact with reality was tenuous these days, and he searched his mind through long patches of emptiness before he figured out where the noise was coming from. A convention-some sort of company get-together-hadn't Dino the elevator operator told him something about that a few nights ago? Sure-now Pop was remembering more clearly. A convention was to be held over the weekend; the first one in the history of the Oakwood Arms.
That had to be what he was hearing now.
But why did it sound the way it did? Why was he hearing that same desperate multiple attempt to deny reality? Why should a group of businessmen make such a noise? If Pop remembered correctly, times were pretty good; there was no reason to moan over a lack of money or opportunity these days. And progress, that unbelievable aspiration which had motivated the '33 fair, had been working full tilt since the end of the war.
He couldn't quite understand the reason behind the noise, but he knew its nature as surely as he knew his own name. And gradually, an idea came to him.
Progress isn't really an idea all to itself-progress is part of a larger concept.
The concept of time.
For those at the Chicago fair, time hadn't been passing quickly enough. The future seemed always out of reach, too far away to be anything but a dream.
But these convention men had a different idea about time and the progress of the years. The longer Pop listened, the more convinced he became he was right.
They were afraid of time.
For them, the years were passing too fast, the future was roaring up on them before they could prepare for it. They were frightened of time, frightened of the way each day subtracted from the future and added to the past.
Unlike the people in Chicago, these men weren't trying to pretend the present didn't exist. They were seeking to convince themselves that the present-right now-was everything. They were pretending there was no future, because the future held decay; they were pretending there was no past, because the years gone by only reminded them of how few there were left.
Pop lifted himself painfully from the bed and crossed to a bureau. There was a cracked mirror above it, and he leaned forward, hands on the bureau-top, taking a long look at himself.
His face was old, seamed, dried and used-up; his moustache, once the black-haired pride of his youth, was now dirty white and bristly. His eyes were dim inside pouchy lids, his lips cracked and dry as scabs.
He gazed at himself for several minutes, examining every line of his decaying visage.
That's what they're afraid of, he thought. That's why they're pretending so hard. They're businessmen, they're not kids any longer. But they're not old men, either. Not yet. Not quite.
But soon. The years are catching up to them, and they're beginning to feel it. Every time they look into the future, they see a face like mine-only it's their own face they see.
They're on their way right to where I am, and they're trying to pretend they won't ever get here.
Pop shivered. His reflection told of age and of death, but this was not what disturbed him. Pop discovered years ago how easy it was to grow old. For a young man, old age seemed as incomprehensible as adulthood seemed to a grammar school child, but the years passed whether you wanted them to or not, and eventually you were old. And eventually, you died. It happened. You had no control over it. And once you became old enough, once you dropped the proud youthful pretense of controlling your own destiny and realized that time owned you-once you saw things as they truly were; well, that was the point where your life became a progression of peaceful and contented days.
There came a time when you no longer had to prove anything to anybody, not even to yourself, and that in its way was the best time in a man's entire life.
Pop went to the table beside his bed, uncorked his latest bottle of wine, and tipped it back. His adam's apple bobbed rhythmically under the chicken-skin of his wrinkled throat.
He wiped his hand across his mouth, and looked longingly at the bed. It would be nice to just crawl back into the sack and sleep some more, sleep until it was time to return to his duties at the furnace. But that was out of the question.
He listened again to the sound. .
They were pretending too hard out there. They were trying too vigorously. When men started rejecting reality on that scale, there always was trouble. If enough of them did it simultaneously, the trouble could get big enough to swallow them all.
Pop felt it in the air. Trouble was on the way.
And that meant he had work to do.
* * *
There was a coffee shop just off the lobby of the Oakwood, but only guests were foolish enough to patronize it. The food was terrible, the prices ridiculous, the seats uncomfortable, the service slow and incompetent. It was a lousy restaurant.
A far better one could be found only three doors east of the hotel-a cozy little place with soft-cushioned booths, clean formica counters and tables, and prices that bore some relation to the value of the food served.
The staff of the Oakwood used the place constantly.
At the moment, Walt and Madge were using it.
They sat across each other in a booth near the back. The remains of cheeseburgers were on plates in front of them, and the ashtray already was half-filled with their cigarettes. Their coffee had grown cold and developed a skin on its surface, as coffee will when no attention is given to it.
They were talking. That is, Walt was talking, and Madge was listening. It had been like that for over a half-hour, and Walt had yet to come to the point.
"So you understand what I mean about conventions, sugar? Take it from me, I know how men think, and I have a feeling this crowd of guys isn't going to act any different."
"Sure, Walt. I understand."
"Do you, sugar? Do you really? When a big bunch of men get together in a hotel and start looking for a good time-and remember what I told you about those rumors, about how the convention got booted out of the last hotel-can you see what that adds up to?"
"I guess."
Walt smiled. "You don't have to guess. I'll tell you. Sex."
"Sex?"
"Sure. That's what a man wants when he's looking for a good time. Guys at conventions are always on the make for women. If this mob doesn't think the same way, I'll eat my hat."
"You mean, they'll be looking for girls?"
"They sure as hell will, sugar. Only not actually girls-what they'll be looking for is prostitutes. After all, when you're in a strange city for only a weekend, you don't have time to pick up just any old female and try to make out. You might connect, and you might not. When time is short, a man who wants a fling goes where he's sure he can get it. Those Precision Toolers are going to be out on the town tonight, asking cab drivers where the action is, dragging every hooker within reach back to their rooms."
Madge smiled. "Well, I hope they enjoy themselves. They're entitled to it, I guess."
"Sure, they are. Why not? They're men-they're entitled to whatever they want. But listen to this, sugar, and try to picture it: You have a whole hotel filled with men who are going to be looking for lady-friends-professional lady-friends. Gals like that cost money, and those guys know it. So they must be willing to pay for it. Am I right?"
Madge leaned her chin into a cupped palm, and stared at him adoringly. "Makes sense, Walt."
"Right. So here's these guys, and here's all this money. They're staying at the Oakwood, they're paying their money for rooms, and food-they're paying to have liquor and ice sent up-they're paying for room service, and getting just about everything they want. In other words, the Oakwood is supplying these characters with all the comforts and pleasures their little hearts desire-except for one."
"Sex," said Madge.
"Right, honey. Sex. They can pick up the phone, call down to the desk, and get almost anything in the world sent right up to their rooms. Except sex."
"I follow you, Walt. What about it?"
"Suppose they could?"
"Huh?"
"Suppose any one of those men could just pick up the house phone and have a gal sent up to his room. Suppose they knew they didn't have to go searching for it, didn't have to tip any hackies for giving them a lead, didn't have to spend any time in the cheap sections of town. Suppose they knew they could simply sit in their rooms and have it come to them. Baby-just think what they'd be willing to pay for room service like that."
Madge scowled thoughtfully. "A lot, I guess. That would really be something."
"You're telling me," said Walt. "They're in town prepared to spend money anyway, and with a thing like that-with a service like that-you could really gouge them out of a wad."
Madge blinked. "Who could?"
Walt smiled and leaned back. He lit a fresh cigarette, blew a long stream of smoke, and paused for several seconds before answering.
"We could," he said.
"We? You mean-you and me?"
"Yes, honey. That's just what I mean."
"Walt I don't understand what you're saying. You're way ahead of me again. What do you and I have to do with prostitutes, or-or anything?"
"I didn't say anything about prostitutes. All I said was those conventioneers would be looking for female company-guaranteed sociable female company-but that doesn't mean they necessarily want prostitutes. They just want girls."
"I still don't get it, Walt."
"Girls," he said slowly. "Like you, for instance."
Madge didn't say a word. Her face seemed to freeze, and her eyes went blank. She stared at Walt without really seeing him.
"Look, sweetie," he said, leaning forward again, sliding his hands across the table and holding hers. "What I'm saying is that it would be a chance to make some money-some big money-some quick money. A deal like that could only work at night anyway, because that's when those guys will really have the urge, so that means they'd be calling the desk during my shift. We wouldn't have any worries about Fisk or any of the big-wigs tipping to the scheme because I'd be there to take all the calls. Right?"
Madge only nodded. Her expression didn't change. "I take the order, I make a note of the room number, and then all you have to do is..."
"Me?" said Madge quietly.
He squeezed her hands. "Why not, sugar? Oh, we'll get the other night-staff girls in on it too, if we can-but none of them could make the loot you could. Did I ever tell you what a beautiful broad you are?"
"Yes, Walt."
"That's what I mean. And it would only be a couple of times-you know, just for the weekend, just until the convention was over. I swear, if we really got this thing going, you and I could make a real pile. We could make a stake."
"A stake?"
He smiled. "Sure. Money enough to take us somewhere. You don't want to be a hotel maid all your lite, do you? Of course not, no more than I want to spend the rest of my days behind that cruddy desk. Look-with a pile of money like that scheme'll make us, you and I could really go places together."
"Together?"
"Together, baby." He squeezed her hands again. "How else would it be?"
'Walt-" She wet her lips. "I don't want-I don't like the idea of some guy-some stranger...."
"Just for the weekend, sweetheart. I know it's asking a lot, but it'll be over before you know it. And think of the good it would do us."
"Us?"
"Us, honey. You and I. A team."
"Walt-"
"Would you do it for us, baby? Would you do it for me?"
Madge heard herself answering him, and a corner of her mind marveled at the words she uttered. "I'd do anything for you, Walt. Anything."
CHAPTER FOUR rpHE SUN INCHED ACROSS ITS ZENITH and headed westward. It was a calm afternoon, but clouds lay on the sunset horizon, and when the sun dipped among them the rim of the world suddenly lit up in a fantastic display of color and light.
Friday was turning into Friday night, and the western horizon was doing its damnedest to make sure everybody knew it.
The Oakwood was jumping. Downstairs, in a series of large rooms off the lobby-rooms that had never really been used for anything much before-Precision Tool's convention was in full swing. The halls had been converted into lecture rooms, and company representatives had been busy all afternoon setting up sales-charts, profit-graphs, samples of new company lines, and various other gung-ho paraphernalia designed to gladden the heart of the true company man. Speeches, at about the same level of interest, also were in progress in several of the halls.
Oddly enough, the halls were mostly filled. There was much laughter and talking, and few paid any attention to the words of the speakers, but they at least were there, available to applaud on signal, and what more could a speaker at a stag company convention ask?
There was a good deal of bottle-passing; quite a bit of expensive liquor slopped into the Oakwood's floor as the bottles were handed back and forth under the seats, but much more was slopping into the appreciative mouths of laughing men.
All things considered, Precision Tool's get-together was taking on a healthy glow. The speeches were scheduled to last until about eight-thirty, and there seemed little doubt that by that time, the men of the convention would be thoroughly oiled and ready to go.
The evening showed all the earmarks of a four-star rouser.
* * *
On the second floor, the room with the bed was in use again.
Just last night it had been groaning under the weight of Walt and Madge, and their wild session had certainly entitled the poor bed to a little rest. But a bed in a room which doesn't belong to anybody and known to be available just about any time of day or night, which is simply there, comfortable, secluded, waiting to be used-such a piece of furniture can't expect much rest.
At least, not as long as there are men and women within range of it.
Or sometimes just women.
Patsy and Liz were horsing around. That was the term they had agreed upon for their mutual pleasure. There were other words for it, of course-some fairly polite, and some not at all polite-but the girls didn't care to use any of them. The way they saw it the relationship they shared could be best described as horsing around.
When one girl squeezes another girl's breast-when one girl kisses another girl-when one girl removes her blouse and her bra so that the lips of the other girl can taste her nipple-when one girl fondles the thighs of the other girl-When two girls strip bone-naked and lie down together on the same bed and come into each other's arms and kiss and stroke and feel and squeeze-That was horsing around. What else could you call it?
Liz was a short girl. She had a round pert-nosed face and a small mouth, which gave her the look of a young child. Her hair-black, cut in shaggy bangs-only added to this effect.
But the childish look was confined strictly to her face. By no stretch of the imagination could her body have ever been considered childish. Small as her frame was, the fruity masses of plump curves told the world Liz was a mature female, in no uncertain terms. Her breasts were enormous; almost as big as her face; and they were capped with large pink nipples the size of glass coasters. From the centers of these rosy circles lifted a pair of soft tips as thick through as lead pencils.
Liz' hips and buttocks were molded the same way; her hips flowed out massively from her small waist and rounded into a sweetly-curved frame for her pillowy belly. Behind, her buttocks jutted, ripe and taut, blending smoothly into heavy thighs and solid little calves.
Liz looked like a tall well-developed woman who had somehow undergone a compression which had squeezed a set of full-scale assets into a space barely large enough to hold them. She was soft, cuddly, fleshy without being fat, and every inch a female.
Patsy couldn't have contrasted with her more. Her hair was brown, and she wore it in a single long pigtail down her back when she was standing clear to the cleft of her buttocks. Her face was long, a little too thin-nosed for real beauty, but her mouth helped make up for it, being generously wide and soft.
Patsy was tall. Her figure presented a sleek lithe appearance, almost like a ballet dancer. Her breasts were round and hard, set so wide apart there was no cleavage. At the tips of these firm hemispheres were ripe-strawberry nipples, no wider across than bottle caps. Her torso was coltish and a bit adolescent; the framework of her pelvis could be seen at her loins, and the neat cheeks of her buttocks were as smooth and resilient as rubber balls. Patsy had long, slender legs, beautifully formed. Her skin was pale and flawless. The patch of brown beneath her abdomen formed a perfect arrowhead pointing in crisp invitation to the meeting-place of her thighs.
like Liz, Patsy was every inch a woman.
Physically.
Mentally-well, that was another story. "Liz-I want to ask you something."
"Hmmm?" Liz' mouth brushed Patsy's left breast. "You know that gal named Libby? One of the daygirls? You know her?"
"Hmmm." Liz nodded slightly. Patsy's breast shifted against her lips.
"I got an idea about her."
"Hm?"
"Yeah. Maybe I'm crazy-but I got this idea."
Liz lifted her face. "What idea?"
"Hey-you stopped. Listen-I'll tell you. You don't have to say anything. Don't stop. Come on-do it some more while I tell you."
Liz smiled. "All right." Her mouth made an O.
"I think maybe-oh, that's nice, Liz."
"Hmmm!"
"Yeah-all right; I'll get to the point. That Libby-I think she's the kind who'd like to do some horsing around."
"Hmmm?"
"Yeah. I don't know why I think that-after all, she hangs out with them two bitches all the time-that Hester and Kit-but I still think Libby's the horsing around type."
"Mmmmmm."
"The thing is, I have the idea she ain't never had a fella."
"Hmmm?"
"She looks that way to me. She walks like a virgin, she talks like a virgin, she swings it around like she ain't really sure it's hers. You know what I mean?"
"Mmmmmm."
"Oh, nice. Go just like that-oh, that's real nice."
"Mmmmmm."
"So anyway-even if she does spend so much time with them two cruds, I still think she's fresh. I don't think no man's ever got to her."
"Hmmmm?"
"So what? That what you mean, Liz."
"Mm."
"Well-listen, here's so what. She's a pretty little piece, right? And she ain't exactly a kid, or anything, right? She's got the. build and the face-so if she ain't ever had any, then it must be she don't have the inclination. Right?"
"Mmmmmm."
"And if she don't have the inclination to get it from a man, then where would she want to get it from?"
"Mmmmm."
"Yeah. That's the way I see it. I think maybe you and me ought to start getting friendly with that Libby."
"Hmm?"
"Well, because she's a nice little gal, that's why. I don't know about you, but I can see myself having a real good time with that. I think once she got the idea, once she stopped being scared-she'd start horsing around real nice. Wouldn't you like some of that, Liz?"
"Mm."
"Sure, you would. I know you. You'd like that real fine, just the same as me."
"Mmmmmm."
"Oh, boy-you're really going to town tonight, ain't you, Liz."
"M-m-m-mm."
"Hah-that feels funny."
"M-m-m-M."
"Listen-don't you think that's a good idea? I mean, about asking Libby? I think it would be lots of fun, don't you? I think maybe we ought to invite that Libby into the club."
"Mmmmmm."
"Okay, then. Long's I know you're with me on it. I wouldn't do it if you wasn't with me, you know. You and me-we stick together."
"Mmmmm."
"Liz?"
"Hm?"
"Lift up a second. I want to look at you."
"What for, Patsy?" 'Your lipstick's all smeared."
"Smeared all over you, Patsy."
"I like that. I like to see that-when you get lipstick on me." Liz smiled.
"Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm," she said.
* * *
Walt was spending more time around the hotel than usual this Friday evening. Normally, when his job didn't require his presence, Walt wouldn't have set foot into the Oakwood. like any sensible person on his time off, Walt preferred to enjoy himself either resting in his small apartment or out on the town with some willing female, such as Madge. For Walt to be at the hotel hours before his shift-and on a Friday night at that-was as unheard of as a union electrician working free overtime.
Yet, there he was.
Dino saw him coming across the lobby, looking from side to side and smiling happily about something. A person who didn't know Walt worked for the Oakwood might have suspected he was one of the conventioneers; his face was that lit up with pleasure.
"Hey, Walt-buddy," Dino called, leaning out of his elevator and waving a hand.
Walt pivoted, saw him, and changed course towards the elevator. "What say, Dino? How they treating you?"
"I can't complain," Dino said smiling. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Me? I work here, pal. Remember?" ' "No, you don't. Not until midnight. I never seen you around here before unless it was working hours. What's with you, Walt-buddy? Going gung-ho on us?"
"Relax, for Pete's sake. I haven't turned traitor yet. I have some business here tonight."
"Hotel business?"
"Nope. Business of my own."
"Oh, well-that's different. For a second there, I thought maybe Fisk had brainwashed you, or something. What kind business you got going, Walt-buddy?"
Walt looked at him for a moment, and Dino could swear he was being sized-up. It was the same look Dino received from the men of the tenth floor crap game when he occasionally tried to barge in.
"It's pretty big, Dino," said Walt. "I don't know as I should let anybody in on it yet."
"Oh, hell-what kind of way is that to talk? Ain't
I your pal, Walt-buddy? Don't we scratch each other when we itch? You don't want to hold out on me--God's sake, I'm your buddy, Walt-buddy."
"I don't know, Dino. Too many cooks-you know the saying."
"Crap on sayings. You got something working for you-I can smell it. Come on, now; tell me what gives."
Walt glanced around, then stepped into the car. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Before I say anything, let me ask you a question, Dino."
"Shoot."
"You had any rumbles from this convention mob yet-hooker rumbles?"
Dino shook his head, puzzled. "Hell, no. They only been here a few hours. They ain't looking for that yet."
"How about the bellhops? You'd hear from them if anybody was asking around, wouldn't you?"
"Eventually, I guess. Walt-buddy, what're you leading up to? What's all this tart-talk. You sound like a man with a connection."
"That's me," said Walt.
Dino's eyebrows went up. "You got some?"
"Uh-huh."
"For these guys? You going to peddle it to the Tool people."
"That's the idea."
"Walt-buddy-you flipped, or something. You're the goddamm night-clerk. You can't sell no prostitutes around here."
"Why not? Is there anybody who'd mind, except maybe Fisk? Why not sell it here, right from the desk?"
"From the desk?"
"Sure. Once the word gets around, any guy in this place who wants a gal can just call me at the desk and have one sent right up to his room."
"That's crazy."
"Is it?"
Dino smiled slowly. "No. Maybe it ain't so crazy after all." He chewed his lip for a moment. "Walt-buddy, you mean to tell mo you got enough lined up to take care of all these Tool people?"
"Well, not all at once, no-but spread out through the night, I think I can handle the trade."
Dino whistled softly. "That sounds like loot."
"It does indeed," said Walt.
"You want me to spread the word-that it, Walt-buddy?"
"Yes. Spread it around-don't spread it too thin, but spread it. We don't want any hungry customers looking for it outside just because they don't know they can get it from room service."
"Room service," Dino repeated. "That's rich. What a cockeyed idea."
"It's a money idea, pal, and you know it."
Dino shook his head. "I still ain't really following this. Where the hell'd you get all these hookers? How'd you organize this thing so fast? You sure you ain't dreaming, Walt-buddy?"
"I'm not dreaming, Dino. I'm on the level, and I can deliver. As for the rest-well, where I got the girls is my business, don't you think?"
"Oh, sure, sure," Dino said. His tone was vague, as if he were in deep thought. "I wasn't trying to horn in, or nothing. I just wondered."
"It's all set and ready to go, Dino. All we need now is some advertising." Walt leaned a little closer. "Now you know most of the hops on the night-staff, right?"
"Sure, Walt-buddy. So do you."
"No-you'd know them better than I would. There isn't a hop in the world who'd level with a desk-man, and you know it. But they'd talk to an elevator pilot-and they'd listen to him, too."
Dino nodded again. "That's so."
"So you spread it around among the hops. Tell them it's ready starting midnight, when I come on shift. All the mark has to do is pick up the house phone."
"What's in it for them, Walt-buddy?" Dino's eyes were shrewd.
Walt laughed. "Two skins per turn, pal, straight down the line."
"Two bucks? Son-of-a-bitch, that's going to kill your profit."
"I'll worry about that."
"Walt-buddy-how about old Dino here? I get a spoonful of any of this gravy?"
"That depends, pal. If you can really mastermind this end of it-spread it where it counts-make sure the word reaches every potential customer in this place-well, that just about makes you a full partner, doesn't it?"
"You might say that."
"How does five per strike you? Nickel on a dollar?"
"That gross, Walt-buddy, or after the bellhop cut?"
Walt threw back his head and laughed. "Gouge, gouge. What a bastard!"
Dino laughed with him. "Us executives are all like that. How about it?"
"Gross. Straight off the top, Dino. Aim the business the right way, and you can skim off the cream."-
Dino smiled broadly. "Walt-buddy-that is a deal."
Walt glanced at his watch. "I have to run-there's plenty to do yet. Start broadcasting the first chance you get. And remember-no orders to the desk until after midnight. I don't want anybody calling Fisk and asking room service to send up a woman."
"I got it," Dino said. "Leave it to me. God, Walt-buddy-we could clean up on this thing."
"We will." He patted Dino on the arm, then turned to leave.
"Oh, listen-one thing. How you going to get these girls in and out of here?"
Walt stopped and looked back at him. "What do you mean?"
"You just going to have them walking across the lobby, or coming in through the basement, or what? How you going to keep Fisk and his mob from seeing what's going on?"
Walt smiled what Dino considered a peculiar smile. "That's another secret of the trade, pal. Sorry."
Dino watched him cross the lobby and blend into the crowd surrounding the meeting halls. Slowly, Dino's smile gave way to a perplexed expression.
There was something odd-ball about this whole bit, he thought-not just the basic idea, but the way it was being handled. The more he pondered it, the more impossible it sounded; and yet, Walt wasn't the kind of guy who would pull such a thing without being sure it would work.
A guest entered the car, and Dino filed away his observations for further study.
* * *
On the sixth floor, in Room 634, Roger Linden was getting quietly drunk.
He knew he should be downstairs with the rest, listening to the speeches and following the company's bright predictions for the future. But he also knew he couldn't stand more than five minutes of that. Let Nat Barth and the rest of them handle that end of it; Roger had no stomach for business-talk this time. All Roger wanted was a good time.
When Nat finished downstairs and came up to the room, Roger would be drunk enough to be ready for anything. That was the reason for his solitary drinking. He knew the kind of evening Nat planned; he knew just the sort of places Nat intended to take him to and the sort of women Nat intended him to meet. And while he was looking forward to it, he knew just the sort of places Nat intended to take he was a bit gassed.
Well, there was nothing so shameful about that. After all, hadn't he spent the last twenty years being a faithful husband to Louise? It was inevitable that his social apparatus should grow a little rusty from disuse, especially where women were concerned.
Funny about that. Now that he thought of it, he remembered that the first woman he had ever had was a professional. Back home, that was-on Quincy Street, where the bars served rot-gut and the movie houses showed bump-and-grind strip films.
He could still remember what she had looked like. She was a blonde-pure peroxide, which seemed even more phony after she stripped and revealed her true hair color. But Roger didn't mind that. In a way, he got a kick out of it.
He remembered the sensation of awakening manhood when he saw her naked; saw her pert, dancing breasts, her sweet-fleshed thighs, the lustful jut of her bottom and the round hill of her belly, all bared for his eyes.
And he recalled the feel of her, too-the wonderful springy way her breasts responded to his hands, the clenching of her thighs around his young hips, the flick of her wet tongue in his ear.
Most vivid of all, he remembered the moment he finally found his manhood-that moment when the bottled-up pleasure inside him had burst, taking him over the brink into the adult world. That had been a blast which remained unsurpassed until his wedding night with Louise...
No, goddammit-forget about Louise. She was probably off somewhere right now with her lover, the bastard, and they were no doubt having all the fun Roger was dreaming about.
Forget Louise and concentrate on the present. Concentrate on chippies. Yes-that was the ticket. Remember that hard-bottomed little slut who'd been the first. Keep her image strong, and try to reconstruct that youthful frame of mind which made her seem the most beautiful woman in the world.
Concentrate on youth. You're not dead yet, Roger. There's still enough push in you to take care of a peroxide-blonde chippie. Drink up and work on building the mood.
He lifted his glass in a toast to thin air, and smiled foolishly.
We're going to bag a blonde hooker tonight, Roger. Just like the old days.
* * *
Hester and Kit sat with their mouths open, their bodies limp with shock. Madge got the feeling that a feather's push would topple both off the bench into the metal lockers.
Ordinarily, their reaction would have amused her. But she didn't feel in a humorous mood tonight, for some reason.
"You got to be kidding," Kit said at last. "Tell me you're kidding, Madge."
"I'm not," she said.
Hester too snapped out of her reverie and looked at Madge unbelievably. "Who's idea is this? Walt's."
"Yes." said Madge.
Kit nodded. "That figures, Hes. If there was ever a wheeler-and-dealer kind of man anywhere, it's that Walt fella."
"He wants us to play hooker right here in the hotel? He must be off his goddamm nut. We couldn't get away with a thing like that."
Madge sighed. She felt very tired; the lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with her. "He's got it all worked out, girls. It's perfectly safe-and there's money in it for everybody. I think you'd be silly to pass up a chance like this."
Hester's eyes narrowed. "What gave you the idea we'd go for it, Madge?"
"Yeah," said Kit. "How about that? You got some notion Hes and me are hookers?"
"Stop screwing around," Madge said loudly. "If you're going to start with this prima-donna crap. . . " She stopped and passed a hand over her eyes. "Look, girls-there's no insult intended. There's no reason for you to get your backs up; for God's sake, I'm in on this thing myself."
"You are?" Hester's eyes went wide. "You're going to sell it around the hotel tonight?"
"Yes," Madge said. "We're going to try to get as many of the staff girls as we can in on this deal. The more girls there are, the more money in the till. Come on-make up your minds. Yes or no-which it it?"
Kit smiled. "You keep saying we, honey. Who's this we you're talking about? You mean you and Walt."
"That's right," said Madge.
"Whooo-you must really have it bad for your man to go this far out. He must really be worth something to you if he can just up and tell you to , . . "
"That's none of your goddamm business," Madge shouted. "I don't have time to stand here playing around with you all night. Give me a straight answer-you gals want a slice of the pie or not?"
"What you think, Hes?"
"It sounds like easy loot," Hester said. "What the hell, I've sold it before."
"Oh, me too," Kit said. "But I don't know ... " She looked up again at Madge. "Honey, are you real sure this here deal is safe? Nobody ain't going to catch us at it?"
"Safe as houses," said Madge. "Stop worrying about it."
"Well-if it ain't chancy-what about it, Hes? Are we in?"
Hester smiled. "Why the hell not?"
"Good." Madge relaxed a little. She reached that stage of fatigue where her muscles pulled achingly against each other, and she longed to sit down. But she knew if she ever let herself go, she'd never make it to her feet again. "I'm going to line up some of the others-the ones on duty upstairs. If you see any of them before I do, pass the word."
"Hey, Madge," Hester said. "You ain't talked money yet. What's our cut out of this big deal?" , "Fifty percent of what the traffic will bear. The price will depend on the customer, and what he wants." Madge smiled shallowly. "You girls aren't going to balk if any of them want something unusual, are you?"
Kit chuckled richly. "Honey-if there's a man in this here hotel who can ask me for anything I ain't never heard of or done before-I swear, I'll let him have it free."
Hester brayed with laughter.
"All right," said Madge. "Then it's all settled. Walt's working on spreading the word around with the convention people. The calls should start coming in just after midnight. Make sure you stay in touch with the desk. If I hear anything else, I'll pass it along."
"Okay, Madge." Hester smiled and shook her head. "Still sounds crazy to me-but who am I to out-think a big deal like that Walt?"
"Yeah," said Kit. "He's a big deal, all right. I wouldn't mind selling some to a big deal like that myself."
"He's not buying," said Madge quickly. 'He ain't, huh? Why not."
"He can have it from me anytime."
"Honey-don't you ask for nothing back."
"No," Madge said.
"Oh, honey-baby-what the hell kind of way is that to act with a man? You in love with the bastard, or what?"
"I have to go now," said Madge. "Keep in touch with the desk."
She crossed the locker room quickly and pushed through the door, leaving Kit and Hester staring at each other. The second-floor service hall was dark, but Madge knew her way to the stairs well enough without any light.
If she'd turned her head, she might have caught a glimpse of a small patch of white moving in the shadows. But she didn't look in that direction, so she didn't see Pop's bristly moustache, or the slow rhythmic shaking of his head.
But Pop saw her.
And now Pop knew where the trouble was coming from.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE OFFICIAL BUSINESS OF the convention finished at 8:45 that Friday evening.
For a few minutes the lecture halls echoed with applause, but it wasn't so much for the speakers as for the fact their speeches were over. The men of Precision Tool had discharged their duty to the company for this evening at least-starting now, they were on their own.
George, Clyde, and Charlie had been sitting together all through the talks, and they left the hall and rode up in the elevator, with George in the middle and Charlie and Clyde on either side of him, like Siamese triplets.
The three men were unit managers at the Colorado plant, but George had seniority over the others by virtue of his years with the firm. When convention time rolled around, the three always attended together-usually shared the same room-and somehow the relationship they maintained on the job carried over into the carnival atmosphere of the annual get-together.
George had seniority, so George was their leader. And since George was a brassy self-confident man capable of almost anything when he had a few drinks in him; and since his taste for pleasure was matched only by his ability to locate it, Clyde and Charlie were quite willing to follow in his wake. George's leadership had never failed them at any of the past conventions, and they were both certain it wouldn't now.
"Well," said Clyde, as George unlocked the door of 701 and switched on the lights. "That's that for the time being, George. No more speeches for a while."
"Right," said Charlie. "I swear to God, them speeches bored me stiff."
George entered the room without answering. He seemed unusually quiet-in fact, he'd been that way since early morning when the girl had come in to change the sheets. Neither Charlie or Clyde remembered the girl particularly and it never occurred to them that she might be somehow responsible for George's uncommunicative mood.
"Let's see now," said Charlie. "What all are us three going to do tonight?"
"Yeah-how about that, George? You got anything planned?"
"Sure he has, Clyde. George always has something on the fire. Ain't that so, George?"
George had crossed the room and seated himself on the bed. He still didn't answer.
George shook his head slowly. His face was abstracted, his eyes remote; he had the thumb and index-finger of one hand between his lips, and was nibbling on them absently.
Charlie and Clyde looked at him, then at each other. Charlie shrugged, and Clyde nodded.
"Well," said Charlie, "I guess it's time for us to start howling. We got a whole beautiful evening waiting out there for us, so we better get a move on and start using it."
Clyde laughed. "Sure. Time's a-wasting, George. How about we start rolling?"
"I'm thinking," said George.
"Yeah? What about?"
Once again George shook his head and didn't reply. He still nibbled at the ends of his fingers.
"Hey, Clyde," said Charlie, snapping his fingers. "I bet I know what old George's thinking."
"What?"
"I'll bet you he's got something lined up already."
"Think so?"
"Sure. Look at that expression on his face there. You know as well's I do what it means when George looks like that. Means he's working on something, thinking something out. He's figured a place for us to go, some gals for us to meet, and now he's just Working out the details."
"Sure," said Clyde. "That's what he's doing. Now you mention it, I recollect he wore that same look last year when he was planning out that bash with all them Chinese broads. Lord, Charlie-remember that?"
"Do I ever. We ain't neither of us going to forget that one in a hurry." Charlie glanced sidelong at George. "Of course, it wouldn't never have happened without old George here. We got him to thank for that good time-when you come right down to it, we got him to thank for just about every good time we have."
"You are so right, Charlie. That George-he is a genuine wonder."
They turned to look at George, but their dialogue hadn't had any effect. The man was still sitting in the same position, still chewing at his finger-ends, still lost in some incomprehensible thought.
Both Charlie and Clyde felt a little chill pass through the room. It wasn't like George to be this silent, especially at convention time. For him to sit there and pay no attention to their compliments, for him to remain unmoved by their tribute to his knowledge and skill-why, that was simply unheard of. That wasn't George at all; not the old George they knew so well.
Gradually, the feeling came over them that something was wrong. And when something could be wrong enough to shut off old George that way, then the something must be wrong indeed.
Clyde cleared his throat noisily. "Well-time to get started, I guess."
Charlie looked at him, baffled.
"We got to start off this evening before it just passes us right by-don't we?"
"Sure," said Charlie, still not following his train of thought.
"Now first off," Clyde went on, rubbing his hands, "I think we ought to get a little bit oiled-you know, get some lubrication in the wheels so we can really roll when it comes time to move."
"Oiled?" A light of comprehension grew in Charlie's face. He glanced again at the glum figure, then looked back at Clyde and nodded vigorously. "That's the ticket, Clyde. You have hit that there old nail square on the head, Clyde."
"How about I just call down to room service and have them send up a fifth and some ice? Bourbon, you think, Charlie? Jack Daniels?"
Charlie was studying George. "Make it Jack, Black Label," he said. "That's ninety proof-the regular label's only eighty."
Clyde scowled. "Black Label Jack's expensive goodies, Charlie. What the hell do we need ninety proof...."
He looked from Charlie to George.
"Black Label," Charlie said.
"Yeah. I guess maybe you're right, old Charlie."
While Clyde was placing the order, Charlie came over to the bed and sat down beside George. The man's position hadn't changed at all, nor had he shown any sign of life since his statement that he was thinking.
Charlie didn't like it. If George didn't snap out of this crazy mood pretty soon, the evening would be a bust. Neither he nor Clyde had the know-how or confidence to seek out the kind of evening they wanted on their own; they had been relying on George for so many years now that their natural abilities, which had never been very great, had atrophied completely. If George were to suddenly drop dead, it was probable that Charlie and Clyde would spend the rest of their lives celibate, stuck with the inclination, but forever lacking the nerve to follow it.
Charlie tried to talk to George, but he didn't succeed in making any impression by the time the knock sounded on their door. Clyde went to answer it, greeting the bell-hop expansively, forcing him into the room with vigorous slaps on the back and artificially bright laughter.
Charlie picked up the mood instantly and joined in.
George never stirred an eyelash.
"Man," said Clyde to the hop. "That is what I call fast service. I think maybe this boy here deserves a little something for his speed-what about that, Charlie?"
"Sure, sure-how about a drink, boy? You like a belt?"
The hop's quiet, servile manner dropped from him completely. He grinned. "Why not? Of course, I'm not supposed to drink on duty-but so long as none of you fine gentlemen squeal on me..."
"Son, you don't have nothing to worry about. The day we call a man down for taking a drink; well, that day they can just take up and feed us to the die press. Right, Clyde?"
"Right. They can just take us and stamp us into bastard files, 'cause bastards is just what we'll be."
The hop seemed a trifle confused over their technical humor, but he laughed with them anyway. Clyde poured three drinks. Charlie and the hop took them eagerly.
The trio glanced once at George, who still wasn't with them, then drank.
"Oh, man-" said Charlie, exhaling hoarsely. "That there is the real stuff."
"Yes, sir," said the hop: "That's good liquor, all right. I wish I could afford liquor like that."
"Oh, say-here; let's give this boy the price of a fifth. What you say to that, Charlie? It don't do for a man to go around with a thirst for the good stuff and no way of getting it."
"Why, sure," Charlie replied, digging a bill out of his pocket. "When Precision Tool's in town everybody has a good time."
The hop took the bill and smiled broadly. "Thank you, sirs."
"Don't mention it, son. Just don't spend it on nothing but fun-that's all we ask."
The hop looked at them with a calculating expression. "Are you gentlemen having a good time?"
"Well-" Clyde chuckled ruefully. "Not yet, we ain't. Let's just say we're working up to one."
"You have something planned, then, sirs?"
"Sort of. You know-God's sake, boy, what does a gentleman do when he's looking for some sport, besides that one thing?"
"You mean girls, don't you, sir?"
Clyde laughed. "That's what we mean, all right."
The hop nodded. I might be able to help you out on that, sirs," he said.
George came up off the bed in a single motion. "What's that?"
The hop looked suddenly frightened. "Now, wait a minute, mister-these guys here were asking me ... I mean, there ain't nothing wrong with..."
George crossed the room quickly and shoved Clyde out of the way. His face was tense, but he patted the hop on the shoulder chummily. "Relax, son. Nobody's mad. I just want to hear what you have to say. What about girls? You can get girls?"
"Well-" The hop licked his lips nervously. "Not exactly-but I can put you in touch with somebody who can see to it that you..."
"Stop running off and get to the point, boy," commanded George. "Whereabouts are these here girls from? Who we supposed to talk to about it?"
The hop managed a shallow smile. "Room service," he said.
"Room service?" Clyde goggled at him. "You mean, this here hotel's got. . . "
"The hotel has nothing to do with it, sirs. It's a private thing."
"Well, I should hope so," said Charlie.
"But-if you gentlemen would like a girl or two-or three-why, all you have to do is put in a call to the desk."
George leaned forward intently. "What girls are these, son? They girls from the hotel here, or what?"
"Oh, no, sir. At least-I don't think ... No, they're not from the hotel."
"You sure about that?"
The hop shook his head. "I don't really know how it works, sir. We've never done it before while I was working here. All I know is that you can get a girl just by calling down to the desk-oh, and that has to be after midnight. That's very important. There'd be a lot of trouble if you called before midnight."
George nodded thoughtfully. His attention seemed to be receding again. The hop took the opening and stepped back toward the door. He looked from Charlie to Clyde as he pulled it open. "Thank you for your generosity, sirs. I hope you have that good time you're looking for."
Nobody answered him. He shrugged and closed the door behind him.
Clyde and Charlie were both watching George. His face was slowly lighting up with an expression of delight.
"George-what is it? What kind of bug you got in your butt?"
"Yeah, George-spill it. What's happening?"
"Girls," George said. "Girls available from the desk-just put in a call to room-service, and you get a girl."
"Yeah. Ain't that the berries, George?"
"They're from the hotel," George said.
"Who? The girls? What makes you say that?"
"They have to be. You couldn't troop hookers in and out of a hotel like this and get away with it. They got to be already here."
Charlie nodded. "I guess so. Maybe there's just this pack of tarts moved in and took rooms for the weekend to catch the convention business."
"Pig-slop," George said. "Hookers wouldn't do that. Rooms come too high in this place-hookers can't pay these prices and still turn a profit."
"I suppose that's so," Charlie said. "But-well, if they ain't coming in from outside, and if they ain't staying here-then where in hell are they from?"
George grinned, and reached out for the bottle of bourbon. He put it to his lips and upended it, taking a long bubbling swallow. He set the bottle back on the table with a thump.
"They work here," he said.
"You mean-" Charlie frowned. "Like chambermaids, or something?"
George nodded, grinning. "Gentleman," he said. "I think maybe you and me are going to have our sheets changed again pretty soon."
Neither Charlie nor Clyde caught the reference, but they were too happy to see George normal again to worry about it. They had both forgotten about the peroxide-blonde maid who had quipped with them earlier.
But George hadn't.
Not by a long shot.
* * *
Libby was trapped.
It was her own fault, really. She was tired, she allowed her mind to wander, she hadn't been paying attention to anything besides the simple physical process of moving her feet from one hall to the next-and before she had any chance to prepare herself or duck out of the way, she ran smack into Patsy.
Crazy Patsy-who spent such a long mysterious time in the shower with her friend Liz at the end of every shift.
Libby was frightened of her, although she couldn't quite tell why. There was something about the women, something-threatening? Was dmt the word?
"Hi Libby. Can I talk to you for a minute?"
"I got a lot of work to do, Patsy." Libby shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. She hardly knew the woman, except as the butt of Hester's and Kit's strange jokes, and she couldn't understand why Patsy would have anything to say to her.
"Just a minute, Libby. That's all I ask. Come onthere's an empty room over here where we can talk."
"Well-" Libby examined Patsy's face, and found nothing in it but open friendliness. The prospect of sitting down for a few minutes and chatting with somebody-even a nut like Patsy-was appealing. Libby reached the point where she really needed a bit of rest.
"Okay, Patsy. I don't guess a couple minutes are going to make any difference."
"Sure-that's right, Libby. You look dead on your feet anyway. Taking a load off will do you good. Come on."
She led Libby across the hall and pushed open a door. The room was clean and made up with fresh linen, but was unoccupied. Libby came inside and went toward the bed while Patsy closed the door and switched on the lights. She wasn't certain of it, but she though she heard the sound of the lock clicking shut.
Now why on earth would Patsy lock the door? Libby decided she was mistaken. Besides, the soft freshly-made bed looked so inviting there was no room in her mind for speculation on locks, or on anything but rest.
She slid onto the bed and stretched her limbs gratefully. She had time to take only one deep breath before Patsy appeared and sat on the bed besides her. "You poor kid," she said. "You really are shot, ain't you?"
"It's been a long shift. You got a cigarette, Patsy?"
"Oh, sure." The girl took a pack out of her skirt pocket and lit one for each of them. Libby took it and dragged deeply. It tasted wonderful; she could feel the stiff muscles of her legs and back beginning to relax.
Patsy moved the ashtray on the night table where they could both use it, then smiled down at Libby. "Sore, honey?"
"All over," Libby said. "Too much walking-too much bendingtoo much goddamm pinching."
"Pinching? Customers been after your butt, Libby?"
"Butt, butt, nothing else but. I been pinched so much, I'm probably blue-black all over, like a goddamm plum."
Patsy laughed. "Listen-while we're talking, how about I give you a little rub?"
"A who?"
"Rub. You know-work on your back and shoulders-massage, like."
"Oh." Libby puffed her cigarette. She was having a little trouble keeping her eyes open. "I don't know about that, Patsy. I think it'd just put me to sleep."
"So what if it does? Forty winks'd be the best thing for you anyway. Besides, I wouldn't let you doze long enough to get in no trouble."
"That's nice of you Patsy."
"Big deal-it's just a rub. What say?"
"All right."
Patsy smiled. "Fine. I tell you what-you roll over onto your belly and get real comfortable, and I'll get all the stiffness out of them shoulders of yours."
Libby lifted her cigarette. "What do I do with this?"
"I'll take it," Patsy said, plucking it from her fingers. It's be right here on the ashtray-you want a drag, you tell me."
"Okay Thanks again."
"Stop thanking me and roll over so we can get started."
Libby hitched her body over onto her stomach and crossed her hands under her cheek. Since she could now see nothing but the bedspread, there seemed little point in keeping her eyes open. So she closed them.
A moment later, Patsy's hands touched her shoulders.
Patsy was good. Her hands were strong, and seemed to have an uncommon knowledge of muscle location and structure. Before a minute had passed, most of the weariness in Libby's shoulders was replaced by a feeling of warm stimulation.
"That's nice," she said.
"Anybody ever do this to you before, Libby."
"Uh-uh."
"Good. I'm glad."
"Glad about what."
"Glad I'm the first," Patsy said. Libby pursed her lips. "Patsy? What'd you want to talk about?"
"Oh, forget it. I was going to ask you what you were doing tonight, but that can wait. Besides, this is just as good."
"As good as what? You're talking in circles, Patsy."
"Relax, kid. Come on, honey-just relax and enjoy it. Ain't I doing good?"
"Yeah, You sure are."
"Listen, Libby? Can I unzip your back here?"
"Unzip me? What in hell for?"
"Well, a massage ain't really very good unless you do it on bare skin. You know-clothes get in the way. All I want to do is just unzip the back of your dress here."
"Well-" A delightful lethargy was stealing over Libby's body, smothering her mind. She had an idea there was a good reason for not letting Patsy open her clothing, but she couldn't remember what it was. "All right. I guess you know best."
"Sure, I do, honey. You leave everything to me-I'll make you feel just swell."
The zipper went zzzipp. Libby felt the touch of cold air, followed by the warmth of Patsy's hands on her skin. Just as the girl promised, it felt very nice. Very nice indeed.
"Just relax," Patsy said from behind her. The voice came from a growing distance away. "Just let yourself go, and I'll make you feel real nice. You'll see, honey-you'll see how nice it'll be."
Something odd happened. The familiar pressure. across Libby's breasts and ribs suddenly eased. Then she felt Patsy's hands glide down her back, and realized the girl had unhooked her bra. It seemed a peculiar thing to do, but she was too relaxed to bother commenting on it.
Patsy's hands were all over her back and shoulders. Now and again, they'd slip under the edge of her dress and urge the material open wider: then Libby felt the cool teeth of the zipper brushing her shoulders. Her back had been bared completely, from her neck all the way down to the elastic band of her panties.
Now Patsy's hands began discovering new territory. The fingers worked across her shoulder blades, down either side around her ribs, until the tips of those fingers were gently stroking the outer edges of Libby's breasts.
Funny about that, really-her breasts weren't at all tired or sore; and yet, the touch of Patsy's fingers was wonderfully soothing. Now why was that?
Something brushed the backs of Libby's thighs. Was Patsy pulling up the hem of her skirt? Why, sure-that's just what she was doing. Pulling the skirt up and up, baring the tops of her nylons and the clasps of her garter belt and the black lace edges of her panties.
Libby felt momentarily troubled, and came within an ace of turning over and speaking, but Patsy's hands suddenly found a place on her thighs and began to work the flesh delightfully. The warmth was spreading outward from those hands, suffusing Libby's entire body with a sweet glow, and as long as that sensation lasted Libby didn't care if Patsy stripped her nude.
What a strange thought that was. She didn't know
Patsy at all-in fact, she had always been a bit frightened of meeting her because of the odd way Hester and Kit talked about her. And she had always been frightened of the idea of nudity, of baring her flesh to the eyes or hands of another human being.
And yet, that's just what was happening. It was happening now, here in this bed, with no warning, no danger signals or sirens to disturb the pleasure of it. And it was a pleasure-such a tremendous pleasure that Libby couldn't remember the shape of her original objections. It all seemed so natural and right-and so very pleasurable...
Her panties were down. She realized she must have dozed for a few seconds, because she didn't remember feeling it happen. But there was no doubt about it. Her panties had been pulled off her hips and down all the way to her feet. There-they were off her feet. There-Patsy's clever hands were climbing up the backs of her nylon-sheathed legs, up past the stocking-tops, up onto the bare flesh of the thigh, up all the way to the mounded cheeks of her bottom. The hands moved softly, fingers curled to follow the curvature of the flesh, and the stroking caress soothed away all the soreness left behind by the pinching she had endured.
A honey-sweet delight spread through Libby's loins. She had never felt anything like it before, and it filled her mind so with its wonder that she didn't question or resist when Patsy slipped an arm under her shoulders and eased her over onto her back. Nor did she speak, or even open her eyes, as Patsy drew the front of her dress down to join the crumpled skirt at her waist, as Patsy's cool fingers plucked the bra straps from her shoulders, picked the cups away from her breasts, slid the garment off entirely down her arms.
Dimly, Libby realized she was naked. Her skirt and bodice were bunched up around her belly, her brassiere was gone, her panties were gone. Except for the useless mass of the dress, the garter belt, and the nylons clipped to it, she wasn't wearing a stitch. The most secret parts of her body were revealed-revealed for just about the first time in her life-revealed to somebody she hardly knew.
The thought didn't bother her a bit.
Patsy's hands didn't bother her either.
They were-touching her breasts? Could that be possible? Yes-that's what they were doing; the palms cupped, the fingers curved, the hands fitting themselves around the lolling breasts, lifting them, drawing them together, moving and manipulating the flesh of them in gentle circles against her rib cage.
It felt nice. It felt so very nice. It felt just wonderful, and the longer it went on, the better it began to feel. Eventually, it reached the point where the fondling of her breasts was almost too nice, too sweet and exciting.
Then Patsy removed a hand from one of them, caught it along the outer edge, forced it to lift fleshily against her urging fingers, squeezed it deftly until the hard berry of the tip was standing ripe and taut.
Patsy kissed it. Her breath blew warmly on the tender circle, and then her lips were there, sealed around it, heating it, wetting it, sending shivers of rich delight deep into the yielding flesh. Her tongue-tip flicked, her lips worked against the pebbled coral of the aureole, and her hands-One of them held the breast she was kissing. The other was moving, gliding down Libby's bared torso, moving quickly over the bunched-up cloth at the waist and finding a place on the belly. Palm down, fingers spreading, the hand moved on, leaving a trail of fantastic sensation behind it as it descended toward the thighs.
There-there, where Libby wasn't a blonde-the hand was there. Fingers coming together, the thrilling, loving, unbelievable hand.
Libby's nylons swished against the bedspread.
The hand held her.
The mouth kissed her, the fingers busy, the fingers and lips and warm palms teased cascades of pleasure in places she never knew existed.
Patsy's lips were kissing her belly.
Patsy's lips were...
Patsy's lips...
Ahhh ...
* * * Word was spreading.
The news was in the air everywhere at the Oak-wood Arms. It sped along the staff grapevine with lightning speed, turning rapidly from a rumor and a speculation to a cold fact:
There were girls in the hotel to take care of the convention trade. They could be ordered through the desk at any time after midnight. Nobody seemed to know where the girls would be coming from, but that was a small matter compared to the size of the evening's pie, and the number of fingers which could profitably dip into it.
Of course, there were some staff members who knew the identities of the girls-they were the girls themselves. Beneath the level of the normal grapevine, another message-system was in operation, quietly spreading the facts to virtually every female on the Oakwood's staff.
Most agreed it was a good idea, but not all were willing to join in. Those who wouldn't were given the same work as the bell-hops, and the same cut of the profits; an arrangement which satisfied all concerned.
By ten o'clock, there was hardly a soul in the Oak-wood's employ who hadn't been roped into the scheme. The few who weren't in the know included Mr. Fisk and his front-office associates; Libby and Patsy, who were still very busy; and Pop.
No one had told Pop what was going on. No one had even thought to tell him. Everybody knew Pop was a wine-soaked old souse, dim of eye and fogged of brain, and what the hell use could he be to a scheme like this? If the staff thought of him at all, it was only to wonder if he'd even understand the situation.
But Pop knew. And Pop understood. A number of people would have been surprised at Pop's keen evaluation of developing events.
It was coming time for his shift, and Pop wasn't looking forward to it at all. He was tired, for one thing, since he'd spent the last few hours eavesdropping around the hotel, piecing together the rumors and fragments of conversation until everything was clear in his mind. He hadn't touched a drop of wine during those hours; he was beginning to sober up, and that made things worse for him. His old body ached to return to his room, stretch itself out, and marinate in wine until shift-time. But that was out of the question.
Pop's work had only just begun.
He came down the service stairs and through the door into the lobby. The sound of the convention-that dangerous, desperate noise which had originally alerted him-had grown louder now. It was making itself heard even in the lobby; but that was to be expected. After all, the hotel staff had joined the conventioneers in their worship of the present, and their combined effort to deny the future was making a sound that would continue to grow through the night.
Pop saw Mr. Fisk behind the check-in desk, smiling fixedly at the men who passed across the lobby. None were paying him any attention, but he smiled anyway. The smile was so frozen-muscled by this time that Mr. Fisk would probably be wearing it for days after the convention ended.
Pop made his way through the lobby and up to the desk. Mr. Fisk smiled at him-or rather, continued to smile at nothing.
"Howdy, Mr. Fisk," Pop said. "Some crowds, wouldn't you say?"
"Yes. Yes, indeed." Somehow, Mr. Fisk managed to talk without dropping the smile. It reminded Pop of a ventriloquist he'd seen at that Chicago fair.
"I guess business's going to be pretty good this weekend, hey, Mr. Fisk?"
The smile remained, but Mr. Fisk's eyes began looking slightly puzzled. "You're-"
"Pop. From the furnace-room, Mr. Fisk."
"Oh, of course. With all the excitement, I forgot momentarily. You've been with us for some time, haven't you?"
"Sure have, Mr. Fisk. A lot of years."
"I like to hear that, Pop. It's gratifying to have a staff with experience-devoted employees upon whom the management can rely. It makes for smooth operation."
"That it does, Mr. Fisk." Pop's head was beginning to throb from both the noise and his growing hangover, but he forced his voice to stay placid and even. "Speaking of the operation, Mr. Fisk-how are these convention boys behaving themselves?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Well-you know, Mr. Fisk-when a bunch of men get together like this-in a strange town and ail-sometimes they feel like raising some hell, making a little noise-that sort of thing."
"Not in the Oakwood they don't," said Mr. Fisk.
"No trouble, huh?"
"Certainly not. The Oakwood is a respectable establishment; we have always maintained high standards of dignity and deportment. In an atmosphere such as that-well, a gentleman responds in kind. Dignity breeds dignity."
"Sure, Mr. Fisk. Sure, it does. I didn't really think otherwise."
"Of course you didn't. Having been with us so long, you must certainly be aware of the high plane on which we conduct our operation. And you also must know that where courtesy, respect, and honor prevail-as they do at the Oakwood-the baser elements of human behavior simply cannot find a place. Er-that was what you meant when you asked if our guests were behaving, was it not?"
"Yes, sir. And I see just exactly what you mean, Mr. Fisk, sir. There couldn't be no trouble around such a nice place as this."
"Positively not," said Mr. Fisk.
A guest came to the desk, and Mr. Fisk turned his smiling attention to him. Pop took the opportunity to slip away and merge into the crowd.
Fisk hadn't felt it. He was probably too bone-headed to ever sense something as subtle as an atmosphere. If so, a major threat was eliminated.
It wasn't much-actually, only a short step in the right direction. But Pop satisfied himself with it.
CHAPTER SIX
THINGS HAD BEEN WORKING OUT beautifully.
At last report, everything was set-the girls were alerted and willing, the hops had done a beautiful job spreading the word, the potential customers were no doubt champing at the bit to place their orders.
Walt was very pleased, except for one small thing.
Madge.
They were standing near the dark end of the second-floor service hall. Madge was in his arms. She was crying.
"Honey-now come on. Cut it out, for God's sake. Either tell me what's wrong, or stop crying."
"I don't know what's wrong. There isn't anything wrong."
"Then what the hell are you crying about?"
"I don't know." She pressed her face against his chest, and Walt felt the wetness of her tears through his shirt.
"Look, baby-"
"Please, Walt-just let me cry. Just for a minute. Please!"
He stroked her head tenderly. "You scared, Madge?"
She didn't answer.
"Babyt I can understand if you're scared--but there's really nothing to be scared about. You know how safe this thing is. We've got it all worked out."
"I don't-" Madge sobbed. "That's not what's wrong."
Walt made an exasperated sound. "Then what is it? How am I supposed to calm you down if you don't...."
"Don't you care?"
"Care? About what?"
"Doesn't it mean anything to you that I'm going to be selling-selling myself to a bunch of-doesn't that mean anything?"
Walt inhaled deeply. "Baby-"
"Don't you see, Walt? I'm going to be-doing it-what we do together-but with a bunch of strangers. For money. I never did it for money in my whole life before."
"Honey-"
"Don't you care about that? Don't you mind that your girl is a whore?"
He slipped his hand under her chin, and lifted her tear-streaked face. "Don't say that-don't call yourself that."
"What else am I?" Behind the tears, her eyes flashed fire.
Walt spoke quietly. "Remember what I said about a stake for us, Madge."
"Sure, I do-but. . . "
"If these convention men wanted to buy me instead of you-don't you think I'd do the same thing you're going to do, if I knew it would help us?"
"Walt...."
"I would, honey. You know that. At least-I hope you know it."
She nodded shakily. "Yes, Walt. It's the same with me. I'd do anything in the world for you."
"But this isn't just for me, honey. This is for us."
"For us," Madge said.
"You know it, sweetheart."
She nodded again. "I'm sorry. Give me a minute-I'll be all right."
"Don't be sorry, baby. I know you feel kind of lousy about this-I feel the same way myself. Do you think I like the idea of these Tool people playing around with my little Madge? The hell I do."
"I'm sorry, Walt."
"It's just for now, sweetheart. Just for this one weekend. Think about all the money we'll have when it's over. Think how far that dough can take us. Keep that idea right in your mind where you can see it-that's going to make the whole thing worthwhile."
"Yes, Walt. I'll remember that. I really will."
He glanced at his watch. "Almost twelve, baby. I have to get moving. Look-I'll tell you what: I can work it so maybe you don't have to take on any customers, Madge. After all, we have the whole female staff lined up, or most of it anyway; and if business isn't too heavy, maybe you won't have to..."
"I want to do it," Madge said.
"Are you sure, baby?"
"Yes, Walt. I want to do it. For you."
"For us."
"Yes-that's right. For us."
He bent and kissed her swiftly on the lips. His hand brushed one of her breasts, then slid down behind to cup a buttock. "You're my girl, Madge."
"Yes."
He smiled, then turned and hurried off down the steps toward the lobby door. Madge watched him go, the touch of his hands lingering on her flesh, the warmth of his kiss still imprinted on her lips.
For us? she thought. No-not really. For you, Walt. It's all for you. There isn't any us without you.
There isn't any me without you.
She stood in the darkness, and the tears came again.
* * *
Roger was pretty drunk.
He wasn't accustomed to alcohol-Louise hadn't been much of a drinker, and they seldom drank much at parties-so Roger's system was quite vulnerable to the effects of even a few drinks.
And diis evening, Roger consumed a lot more than a few drinks.
As a consequence, he was drunk. He was having trouble understanding what Nat was saying.
Nat Barth returned from the lecture downstairs just before nine o'clock. Roger already was well on his way to alcoholic unconsciousness; he could recall Nat speaking about good times, about the promise he made to Roger at the station, about taking Roger and leading him to the pleasure he wanted.
But Roger wasn't listening closely. Roger's mind was filled with alcohol, and the memory of that little blonde hooker-the first; the girl who'd taken his virginity so many years ago.
Roger didn't know it, but he'd talked out loud about that hooker while Nat was there in the room. And Nat, friend that he was, had listened carefully.
After that, Roger remembered, Nat had left.
Now he was back, and talking happily about something.
"Li'l blonde hooker," said Roger, trying hard to bring Nat into focus.
"Right," Nat said. "Little blonde hooker it is, Rog."
"What is?"
"It is." Nat leaned over Roger and patted him on the shoulder. "I got one for you, Rog. A little blonde hooker, just like you said."
"Maybe you don't remember, pal-but you said it all right. You talked my ear off about that gal-described her like a goddamm poet. like a goddamm hot-pants poet."
Roger scratched his head. "I don't rememmer," he said.
"That's okay, pal. I'm going to get you one anyway."
"One what?"
"A little blonde hooker, Rog. Just like the old days."
"The ole days?"
"Exacdy like 'em," Nat said.
"The ole days," said Roger, half to himself. "Notha's not right."
"How do you mean, pal?"
"Nat-pal-" Roger leaned forward and grabbed
Nat's lapels. "Not like the ole days-like the young days."
"Huh?"
"These here," Roger said, "These are the goddamm ole days."
"Like the young days," Nat said. "You know, Rog-you might make a poet after all."
"Don wanna make no poet," said Roger. "I wanna make a li'l blonde hooker!"
* * *
Patsy was excited.
She bustled down the hall toward the locker room, walking so quickly her hard breasts bounced around inside her bra. With every move they made, memory-shivers of sensation tingled through her-after-throbs of the pleasures just past.
Patsy could hardly wait to see Liz and tell her what a gold mine of fun that Libby turned out to be. Holy God-who would have thought an inexperienced virgin like Libby would have gone so wild first time out? Patsy felt her enthusiasm would make her description sound fantastic; Liz probably wouldn't believe a word she said.
But that didn't matter, Patsy could prove her story. Libby was real; and she was here in the hotel, and Patsy could take Liz to her any time. After the way Libby had gone into orbit, Patsy was sure she'd have no trouble talking the girl into more of the same.
And with the three of them-with herself and Liz and Libby all mixing it up in the same bed-now that was what Patsy called thoroughbred horsing around.
She pushed through the dressing room door. Liz was there, as she expected. However, Patsy's smile of greeting was brief. Hester and Kit also were there.
"Well, what do you know?" said Hester. "Here's the other one."
"Come on in, honey, and join the party," Kit grinned.
"What party?" Patsy didn't care for the expression on Liz' face. The girl was seated between the other two, and looked as if she'd had a long lecture. Patsy couldn't imagine what Hester and Kit had to say to her, and her uneasiness grew. "What's going on here? Liz? You okay?"
"She's fine, honey," said Kit. "Don't you worry about your little gal friend-we all getting along just fine."
Patsy moved to face them. "What the hell makes you think me or Liz wants to get along with you two. How about you just haul tail and leave us be?"
"Aw, now," Hester said. "That's no way to act. We got a big deal to tell you about. We already told Liz about it, and she thinks it's just great. Don't you, kid?"
Liz hung her head, her fingers fidgeting in her lap.
"What've these bitches been doing to you, Liz?" Patsy reached out a hand toward the girl, then looked at the others and thought better of it. "If they've been nasty, or-or bitchy..."
"Now why the hell don't you just simmer down, Patsy, old kid? There's no trouble here. All we want to do is tell you about the big deal."
"What big deal?"
Hester turned to Kit. "There-I told you she wouldn't know about it. Same as Liz."
"Honey," said Kit. "Word's all over the hotel about it. Wait'll you hear..."
"I don't want to hear nothing from you," Patsy said angrily. "And neither does Liz. We got our own business to attend to-we ain't got no time for bitches!"
"Just you hold on a goddamm second," Hester said. "We ain't got no fight with you, Patsy-but you better watch your language before it gets you in trouble. You hear me?"
"Yeah-I hear you. I hear a scab-ass pair of bitches barking, that's what I hear!"
Kit spoke quietly. "Lessie-shut up."
Patsy froze. Nobody said a word. It seemed forever before Patsy could thaw her throat sufficiently to speak.
"What-what did you call me?"
Kit smiled. "Lessie," she said. "Case you don't know, that's short for lesbian."
Hester laughed.
"How-" Pasty licked her lips. "What the hell you call me that for?" Her eyes shifted from Hester to Kit. "That's a rotten thing to say, even if I did get you mad."
"I calls 'em as I sees 'em," said Kit cheerfully. "I ain't no lessie?" Patsy was startled at the volume of her own voice. "Ain't you, honey?"
"No-I ain't! What ever gave you such a-a rotten, lousy idea as that? You two-you're-" Patsy strangled on her rage.
"All right," said Hester. "Kit was mad, that's all. You called us a lousy name yourself. Let's just drop it."
"I ain't no lesbian," said Patsy.
"Okay-if you say you ain't, you ain't. Now let me tell you about this here..."
"I want to know where you got the idea I was," Patsy said. "Who told you that?"
"Patsy-for God's sake, will you drop it? Kit didn't mean nothing."
"The hell she didn't! She called me a dirty name, and I want to know why!"
Hester blew up. "Well, what are you if you ain't a dyke-you and this Liz here? What the crap are you two except goddamm lessies?" Hester's voice rose to a screech on the last word, her teeth bared in a snarl.
"Shut up!" Patsy yelled. "Don't you say that!"
"I'll say what I please," Hester shouted back. "It's the truth."
"It is not!"
"No, huh?" Hester narrowed her eyes. "Well, what would you call it."
"Call what?"
"That horsing around you and Liz do in the shower-and all the time you spend in the room down the hall-yeah; we know about that. My God, practically every girl on duty knows all about that."
"It's-" Patsy's face was blank. Her hands trembled, and she twisted her fingers together so they wouldn't see.
Kit was smiling again. "Let's hear it, Patsy, honey. Tell us all about it."
"We-we just kid."
"Kid?"
"Yeah-you know. Liz and me-we like to kid around sometimes-we..."
"We horse around," said Liz.
They looked at her. Slowly, Liz' head came up. She gazed at Patsy expressionless.
"Horsing around," she said. "That's all it is."
Kit nodded. "Oh, I get it. Well, now-don't seem like there's anything so terrible about a little horsing around, does there, Hes?"
"I wouldn't think so. Long's that's all it was-long's it wasn't lessie-style playing."
"It never is," said Patsy. "Nothing like it."
"Nothing like it," repeated Liz.
"Funny," Kit said. "Me and Hes-we had the idea you two was lessies."
"What a crazy idea, said Patsy.
"I'm pleased to know you ain't."
Liz managed a smile. "You girls just made a mistake, that's all."
"Sure," Hester said. "We didn't know the difference between dyke-fooling and horsing around. Now you told us, we can see they're different."
"Sure," said Patsy.
Hester nodded. "Long's we have that straight, we can tell you about the big idea. Kit and me weren't sure you'd go for it-but that was before we found out you wasn't dykes. Now I don't suppose there's any reason for you not to get in on the fun."
Patsy smiled nervously. "What big deal? What's this fun you're talking about?"
"We're all going to make money hooking for the convention crowd," Hester said.
Patsy's jaw dropped. She looked at Liz, but the girl didn't meet her eyes. "Hooking?"
"Yep," said Kit. "Selling our fra-jile butts to them Tool men. Everybody's going to make herself a pile."
"Who is?" Patsy moved her hands. "Who's everybody?"
Hester grinned. "The staff gals," she said. "Just about all of them are in on it."
"But...."
"All the regular ones, that is."
"Yeah," said Kit. "Every last regular gal around."
"So," said Hester, "now that you told us how it is with you two-how you and Liz are regular gals-well, Kit and me figure maybe you might want to join up."
Patsy stared at them for a long moment without speaking. She closed her eyes briefly; when she opened them again, all the life seemed drained from her gaze.
"Count us in," she said.
Liz looked up quickly, ready to speak, but decided against it when she saw Patsy's face. She hunched her shoulders and shivered a little.
Kit. was watching her. "What say, Liz? You too?"
Liz nodded once. "Me too," she said. a o a
The desk phone rang at five past midnight. Walt let it ring three times before answering. "May I help you?"
"Hi, there," said a cheerful voice. Walt had a mental picture of a red-faced westerner. "How's everything going down there?"
"Fine, sir-thank you. Is there something I can do for you?"
"Well-now that depends, son. You don't mind if I call you son, do you?"
Walt grinned. "No, sir. What is it you wish?"
"Well, son-there's this here rumor going around-I don't know as you heard about it. ... Listen, are you the fella takes care of the desk after midnight?"
"Yes, sir. And I know everything that goes on in this hotel, sir."
"Oh. Well, that's just fine. I'm really pleased to hear that, son."
"Sir-if you'd tell me what it is you wanted..."
"It's like this, son. There's this rumor maybe that's all it is, or maybe it's on the square but I hear that..."
"That what, sir?"
The voice paused and seemed to gather courage for a single go-for-broke attempt. "Son-can you all get us a woman up here?"
Walt was enjoying the man's discomfort too much to answer directly. He took a drag on his cigarette before speaking.
"Yes, sir."
"Yes? Did you say yes to that, son? Did I hear you right?"
"Yes, sir. What sort of woman did you have in mind?"
"He says yes," proclaimed the voice away from the mouthpiece. "Can you tie that."
"Sir? Are you there?"
"I sure am, son. And let me say; this here is one fine hotel. This here's a gentleman's hotel."
"I asked what sort of woman you wanted, sir."
"Oh-that's easy, son. We want us a big one. Nice big round kind of woman-know what I'm saying, son?"
"Yes, sir." Walt made a note on his pad, his smile growing wider. "Any preference as to hair color, or age?"
"Well-we want a young one. Not one of them old crocks, or anything."
"She'll be young, sir."
"And as for the hair-" The voice paused and chuckled. "Well-them gals never have the same color hair all over anyway, so there's no point worrying about that, now is there?"
Walt returned his laughter. "You're absolutely right, sir."
"We got it all straight now, son? That all there is to it?"
"Just a few things more, sir. Could I have your room number please?"
"Oh, sure. 812's the number, son. That's on the eighth floor."
"Yes, sir." Walt wrote it down. "When would you want the lady?"
"My God-soon as possible, son. What do you think?"
"How long would you require her services?"
"Well-seeing as how there's six of us up here-I'd say two or three hours. At least."
"The fee for that, sir, will be one hundred dollars."
"Fifteen a head, boys," called the voice. "That sound good to you?"
Walt heard an enthusiastic murmur of approval in the background.
"The boys like it, son. What do we do about this here hundred dollars-you putting it on our bill, or what?"
"You pay the lady, sir."
"Oh. Well, fine. Just fine and dandy. Son, we sure do thank you for your kind attention."
"Don't mention it, sir. I'll see the lady gets up to you as soon as possible."
"Thanks again, son. You're a real straight fella-I tell you, there ought to be more like you."
"Thank you," Walt said. "Enjoy yourself, sir."
He hung up before the voice could heap any more compliments on him. He sat several moments grinning into space and shaking his head. Finally, he picked up the house phone, and dialed a number.
From his place of concealment behind a potted palm, Pop listened closely to what Walt said.
"Who's this-Shirley? Hi. Is Barbara up there? Good-put her on, will you?"
Another pause. Then:
"Hi, Bobbi. Huh? That's right, kid-congratulations. You're the first. Room 701 wants a gal just like you...."
Pop was no longer listening. His present sober condition was fogging his head far worse than the wine ever had-his mind screamed for the familiar alcoholic fumes. Thoughts whirled around-bunches of them-more than Pop could recall having in his head at any one time before.
And one of them-one of them was a big thought. An important thought.
He couldn't catch it. It spun past with all the others, remaining just out of reach.
The time had come to begin his shift, and Pop eased himself away from the plant and headed across the lobby toward the basement door. Walt did not notice him go, he was too bound up in the operation of his scheme.
Walt's scheme, thought Pop. Something was wrong with it. There was a flaw in that young man's plans somewhere. What the hell could it be?"
Pop couldn't identify it, but it was there, all the same.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE ROOM NUMBER WAS 517.
Madge stood in front of the door, staring at the number. It was the number Walt gave her when she'd called the desk; this was the room from which the order had come. Madge searched her mind for some reason not to knock at the door and get started; but she couldn't think of any.
So she knocked.
It opened immediately.
"Hello, there," he said.
He was of average height and medium build. He was good-looking, but not remarkable. His hair was black, but the scalp-line receded, which meant he was neither young nor old, but in between.
He looked like all other conventioneers-average, prosperous, and horny.
"Are you my gal?" he asked, with a twinkle in his eye.
"Yes, sir." She stepped past him without waiting for an invitation and entered the room. "You'd better close the door, sir. Someone might see us."
"Oh, sure." He shut the door and locked it carefully. "How about the shades? Should I pull the shades?"
"No-this is the west side of the hotel. There aren't any buildings near this side."
"Okay. If you say so." He came away from the door and walked toward Madge. She stood facing him silently. Something about her stance seemed to disturb him. He veered and walked past her.
She turned and saw he was at the bureau, pouring himself a drink.
"Like a snort, honey?" he asked with false casualness.
"No, thank you."
"Don't mind if I have one, do you."
"Go right ahead."
He poured himself about four fingers of rye, and threw it off in one gulp. He pouted his lips, then blew out a long alcoholic breath. "That's good stuff," he said.
"Sir?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't you think it's time we got started?"
His face underwent a series of remarkable changes. The first expression was one of mild shock; it was followed immediately by a hungry look in his eyes; then, the hunger transmitted itself to his mouth, and his eyes became calculating.
Madge had seen that look before. Just like the men who hung around the diner where she once worked-they were truck drivers mostly, and construction men, and ditch diggers. Uneducated men, not at all like this fellow here.
But the look was the same. From garbage-picker to Wall Street executive, that look never changed.
"Youer-you sure you wouldn't like a little drink before we-beforehand?"
"No, thank you. I think we should begin now."
"Yeah-sure. All right. That's all right with me, honey."
He was drunk. Madge knew the signs. He probably had been drinking quite a while before getting enough nerve to place the order, and he'd been drinking continuously since.
Madge took a deep breath, and started to undress.
That was the trouble with men, she thought-or most men, anyway. The drinking, the coarse leers, silly jokes, dirty words-they made sex seem filthy, made the act seem like relief of some bodily waste, rather than for finding and sharing pleasure. They could never take a woman simply for what she was-a human female, a creature of flesh and blood, a mortal like themselves. Maybe that was because they didn't want to think of themselves as mortals. That could be it. Maybe as long as they pretended to act out a page from a dirty book, as long as they could hold off the reality of having sex and turn it into something of myth-like importance-maybe that kind of pretending was more important to them than sex itself.
Madge had her dress off and began on her under-things. She wasn't looking at the man, but she could sense his eyes on her. She felt he was watching her so intendy, he forgot how to speak.
That was another thing-the way these men clammed up in front of a stripping woman, as if she was an image on a movie screen or a photo in a deck of French playing cards; as if she wasn't even in the room with them; as if she had been put on earth just for their pleasure, and nothing else.
With a man like this, Madge had trouble retaining her identity. If only he would look at her-not just at her body, but at her-if only he would give some sign that he recognized her as a real person...
But he didn't. He wouldn't. None of them ever would. Except Walt. And, perhaps most of all, that was what made Walt so precious to her.
I'm doing this for you Walt, she thought. I wouldn't do it for anybody else.
Her bra came off.
She felt the weight of her breasts spill away from her, heard the man's gasp of pleasure as he saw them. The room was cool, and the chill touch of the air made her nipples rise. She felt it, and knew the man would think she was excited. It wouldn't occur to him that a girl found nothing exciting about just taking off her clothes. He'd never think a girl might have to be teased and coaxed into excitement.
She was his hooker, his fantasy, bought and paid for. She was born excited; she had been created expressly to serve him, and so the lustful look of his eye or the fumbling '.ouch of his hand was all she could expect in the way of tribute.
She reached inside her panties and unhooked the garter belt. Then she opened the snaps which held her stockings and stripped the nylons from her shapely legs. As she bent to do this, her breasts hung gourd-like from her torso, swaying and knocking softly together with every motion.
The nylons gone, she pulled the garter belt up out of her panties, then, slipping her thumbs into the elastic band, she drew them down, baring her hips, her belly, her vulnerable loins.
The man's eyes popped. His breath wheezed between his moistened lips.
She smiled, put her hands on her hips and cocked her body at him, angling her pelvis one way, her shoulders another, displaying every naked inch of herself to his bug-eyed gaze.
He just stood there, didn't do a thing. He was excited-one glance at him told her that-but he wasn't excited enough to move.
She slid her hands on her belly, then slipped them up until she was cupping her breasts. She squeezed the luscious spheres, aiming the roughened tips at him. Slowly, suggestively, she moved her legs, rubbing her thighs together cricket-fashion.
"How about it?" she said. The conversational tone of the truck drivers came back to her. "What do you say. big boy? You like these? You man enough? Let's see, big boy-let's get this show on the road."
His hands went slowly to his waist and undid the belt buckle. Madge watched him impatiently. At the rate he was going, she would be in this room an hour before he finally got ready for action, and that would never do. The hotel was filled with customers, and the more she could accommodate, the more money she and Walt could make.
She closed her eyes a moment. She tried to do what he asked her; tried to hang out the mental picture of the two of them together-she and Walt, with money, with time to spend it, time to relax and be with each other, time to give and get pleasure and affection-maybe even time to become man and wife ... Maybe.
She snapped her eyes open. The two ends of the man's belt hung free, but that was all he'd managed to accomplish.
Madge moved quickly, breasts dancing, and knelt before him. Her fingers found the zipper tab, and before the man knew what was happening, his trousers slid down his legs to the floor.
His shorts followed.
"Let's go, sport," Madge said, chanting the words in an erotic sing-song. "Let's get together-let's peel it off and come on the way we both want it-we got us some loving to do, big boy, and the sooner we get started, the more honey we're going to get-you with me, big boy?"
She lifted her eyes to his face. He was looking at her, at the position of her head. She saw the direction of his gaze, and the direction of his thoughts.
"That'll cost you five extra, honey," she said, surprised at her calmness and competence. You on?"
He nodded.
She smiled her hottest smile, settled back comfortably on her haunches.
Madge really told Walt the truth earlier-she had never sold her body or her skills for money. But now that she thought about it, she realized she had been selling herself-not for cash, perhaps, but for other things: clothing, liquor, good times. Madge always considered herself a cut above the common prostitute; when she gave herself to a man, it was always for some consideration, some gift, some bit of thoughtfulness.
Never money.
But did she have an edge on the professional prostitute? Was there much difference between herself and a street-walker? Did the reward for the act change the nature of the act itself?
Boiled down, wasn't her willingness to give herself to Walt any time he desired her, also founded on payment for services rendered? Of course it was. She would never have gotten so totally involved with Walt if it weren't for his skill in summoning the ultimate pleasure for her. If he were any less a man, if his technique hadn't hit the deepest pleasure-point inside her when they shared each other-if it hadn't been that way, would she have any more affection for Walt than she had for this groaning, twitching, foolish stranger?
Probably not, and the idea chilled her. It seemed to point up a vast flaw in her thinking and the pattern of her life-but this was no time to think it out.
Now was the time to take care of her customer, to give him what he wanted, bring him to the edge of his delight with moving lips and finger-tip caresses, make herself a vessel of pleasure, and draw from him that last howling throb of delight.
That's what she did.
And she did it, to her own surprise and the man's delight, with uncommon skill. She gave herself to him just the way he wanted her to-she played the role of sex machine, and did nothing to remind him of the cold breath of reality.
And while they thrashed on the bed and while he sobbed and slobbered all over her breasts, she wondered:
Is it really any different with Walt?
Is his way of paying me the only difference?
Am I a whore after all?
* * *
Nat was a little worried about Roger. It wasn't good that old Rog got himself bombed. Nat knew Rog didn't have much capacity for the stuff, and a man not used to drinking can make a troublesome drunk.
Not that Rog was making any trouble, or showing any signs of it. At the moment, he seemed closer to passing out than anything else.
But, damn it-that wasn't good either. Nat made a promise to him that morning, and intended to keep it whether Roger wanted him to or not.
Nat Barth wasn't what you would call a charitable man. He had a hard business head, and his success was founded on a simple axiom "Horray for me, and screw you." Nat contributed to a worldly cause, it was for tax purposes; if he helped a palsied old lady across the street, it was to display his gallantry to a ripe young lady across the street. Nat worshipped the idea of never doing anything without purpose, never giving unless he could receive."
But Nat had a soft spot. In his carefully-armored character, it was the only flaw.
Sex.
As Nat saw it, sex was something every man should have. In Nat's mind, marriage didn't necessarily guarantee a man sex-marriage and sex were different things. A man with a wife might not have the smoking drives of a bachelor, since there was a woman available to him for fun and games, but Nat felt a man was entitled to more than a single woman in his lifetime. As long as his vigor lasted, a man should have as many women as he could lay hands on. It was his right.
Nat spent most of his life living up to this image, and did pretty well. If his wife suspected his true nature, she never let on; Nat kept her satisfied, and used her to satisfy his own urgent pressures.
When the opportunity presented itself, however, Nat was ready to hop into bed with some female other than his wife-for that matter, any female, as long as she was fairly good-looking and didn't represent an undue risk or expense. That was the only way for a man to live, and he felt so strongly about it that he was sometimes willing to break his basic rule, by doing something for nothing to help a fellow male connect with what he wanted.
To Nat, Roger Linden was a sad case. The poor bastard had thrown away twenty precious years being faithful to a solitary female-and if that wasn't bad enough, the bitch turned out unfaithful herself. All those misspent years, and what did he have to show for it? Not a thing. Not a goddamm thing.
The thought brought a lump into Nat's throat.
Well, the time had come to do something about it.
Old Rog had babbled all evening about some blondie he'd had during his flaming youth; Nat got the impression the gal had been the first. However it was, Rog couldn't stop talking about tiiat gal-about the size and heft of her breasts, about the swivel-hipped sleigh ride she'd given him. He just sat there, swilling the booze, and talking about that blondie in such glowing terms you'd think she'd been the only woman in the world.
Nat was determined. If a gal like that-a gal who reminded him of that other gal-was what old Rog wanted, he would see to it that Rog got her. The description was clear in his mind, and it wouldn't be hard to find a gal who'd fit it. And when he tagged her, he'd bring her back her to Rog and give him his taste of the good old days, just the way he asked for it.
Or the good young days.
Nat smiled over that one. Drunks said the damndest things. Usually, they made no sense; but when they did, they often made better sense than the considered words of a sober man.
Nat left Roger still drinking, still tottering on the edge of passing out. There was a chance Roger might be completely shot when Nat brought back the hooker. If so-well, he and the gal would just have to wake the poor bastard up. Roger was going to have his fling tonight if it killed him.
Nat punched the elevator button. "Lobby," he said, stepping inside.
Nat was a man of experience. He had connected with female companionship in hotels many times, and he could spot people in the know just by looking at their faces. Nat took a chance asking bellhops about available girls more times than he could count, and he had yet to draw a blank.
He looked at the elevator operator. The man looked back.
And right off the bat, Nat knew he connected.
"Whereabouts can a man find a woman in this place, pal?" he asked.
* * *
Charlie was the only man in Room 701 at the moment.
Clyde was downstairs waiting at the bar for his turn. George was off somewhere, but Charlie didn't know where. George sure was acting peculiar. He kept talking about some maid he wanted, some little blonde he was aching to bag. It wasn't like him to go ape over one particular girl-after all, the hotel was filled with girls.
But if that was the way George wanted to play it, Charlie was content to let him be.
He was the only man in Room 701, but he wasn't alone.
"My name's Hester," she said, as she pulled up her skirt. "What's yours?" 'Charlie, ma'am."
"Oh, now-what the hell you want to be so formal about? I ain't no ma'am. I'm a miss. Anyhow, call me Hester."
"Okay, Hester." Charlie grinned. "You're quite a hunk, Hester-you know that?"
"I've heard." Her dress slithered to the floor. Her slip went after it. She drew her bra straps down, popped her breasts free, then skinned off her panties in a single swift motion.
"And you are fast," said Charlie appreciatively. "I never seen a gal who could get out of her clothes as quick as that."
"That's nothing," Hester said. She snapped her fingers at him. "Come on, sweetie-get them clothes off, and I'll really show you something."
Charlie set somewhat of a record himself. When the last of his clothing was gone, he slid across the bed and patted the space beside him. "Come over here when I can get you, Hester."
She smiled and sidled over with a voluptuous roll of her hips.
When she was within reach, Charlie's hands shot out and imprisoned her buttocks. He dragged her onto the bed beside him with such force that Hester lost her balance and had to fling out her arms to catch herself.
The arms landed on either side of Charlie's head. Her breasts dangled invitingly scant inches from his face.
"Brute," she said, laughing. The breasts shivered. "You're a big strong brute, you know that?"
"Fruit," said Charlie. "You got some fruit on you, Hester. This brute-likes your fruit, you know that?"
She laughed again, making the pendulous shapes sway. "Go ahead show me how much you like 'em. Only don't be too brutal about it, will you?"
He grabbed the undersides of her breasts in both hands and drew them toward his lips. The solid tips were like small beckoning fingers. They didn't have to beckon Charlie more than once.
He caught one ripe berry in his mouth. Hester grunted with an expectation of pain, then sighed as pleasure welled up into her.
"Hey, brute, she said softly. "You're my kind of brute."
Holding the breasts firmly, he shifted his kiss from one to the other, then back again.
Hester inhaled deeply and snuggled her breasts up against his face. Her hand sought down his abdomen, found him, gripped him. She could feel the bolt of excitement which fired him against her breasts.
He wasn't a hell of a lot of man, she though; but he'd do-he'd surely do. It was a while since she'd gotten the business from a stud like this. He really was hungry for it, he wanted to make it count, and that's what gave it that little extra twist. Making it with some guy at your apartment, or steady with one particular fellow-that was all right in its way, but it couldn't hold a candle to a workout like this.
Hester never enjoyed the same man twice anyway. She liked her men fresh and new, and raring for action. Now that she knew the score, she'd have to keep convention people in mind, even after this year's bash was over. The hotel had a lot of traveling men from time to time, and if they were all as hungry for it as this Charlie was, Hester could see a great future in front of her.
Charlie finished with her breasts and urged her into a new position. Charlie wanted to play turnabout.
Well, that was just fine with Hester.
They settled onto each other, and as their hands and lips sought and found and sealed the arrangement, Hester's mind drifted. Turnabout was something she always enjoyed. It didn't require any effort, and the pleasure she gave matched and surpassed the pleasure she got. She liked to lie like that, cuddling her breasts to some guy's belly, giving him the business and being given the same business in return.
While her body twitched and shivered in growing response, Hester dreamed.
She remembered there was another guy staying in this room a guy who called the desk and expressed a preference for dark flesh. Kit was going to take that turn as soon as Hester and Charlie were through.
She imagined what Kit would look like with her man.
Would she do the same things to him Hester was doing? Or did she have even fancier ideas? It could be that Kit knew about things Hester had never heard of the way Kit talked sometimes, you felt her knowledge and experience were pretty unique. Yeah and pretty mysterious, too.
The more Hester thought about it, the more powerful became her desire to watch Kit in action. To sit-in while Kit stripped bare and gave a man the works to see her swinging that dark body around-
Man! Wouldn't that be something?
* * *
When she was a little girl, Libby had seen a movie. She could no longer remember what it was about but she remembered a single scene.
This girl had been knocked unconscious with a blow on the head. And the hero had come in with some other people, and found her and they'd worked like hell to bring her out of it.
When the girl finally awakened, opened her eyes and looked around, she asked this crazy question: "Where am I?"
The question had frightened Libby. She knew it was only a movie, but it never occurred to her that one might find themselves in such a position. Long after Libby had left the theatre, she was unable to shake the fear that it might someday happen to her that she might awaken suddenly out of a sleep srie didn't remember taking, and not know where she was.
Many years passed before Libby forgot about that childhood fear.
Now it came back to claim her.
Physically, she knew where she was. She was on a bed in an unoccupied room of the Oakwood Arms Hotel. The same bed had recently sagged under the combined weight of herself and a girl named Patsy. She was naked; she could remember why she was naked, and how she got that way, and the relationship between her nakedness and what Patsy had done to her.
And what she had done to Patsy.
That part was simple enough.
But it wasn't her physical location that bothered Libby. She knew where her body was. But where on earth was her mind?
Lying on the bed, feeling the cool breezes blowing across her nude flesh, she bent her strength into locating her mind.
Where am I? she wondered. What's that stuff that's really me the stuff that looks out through my. eyes and thinks my thoughts and plans my decisions what happened to I?
It was a crazy feeling. She remembered her name, the things she had done and the places she had been, but they didn't mean anything. A body wasn't I, anymore than a name. A body was just a container for an I, and giving a name to it just made it easier to talk to other people.
Without the essential I, a body with a name wasn't anything at all. It was a corpse. If it twitched and felt and breathed, that didn't make it any more than a corpse-without the I.
She had to find herself. She could sense how important that was. Something had happened, and she had to locate her identity before she could evaluate it.
Try as she might, she couldn't find it.
After a while, she got up and dressed. Her motions were automatic. Some basic animal part of her still felt the tingle of sensations just past, but she had no apparatus with which to examine them.
Dressed, she left the room and stepped into the hall. Not a soul was in sight. She walked toward the elevators.
Patsy. Being naked. On a bed. Doing things. Hands. Lips. Legs. Arms clutching. Fingers feeling. Tongues tasting.
A wealth of memories a treasure trove but lacking the I, Libby simply couldn't put them together.
She reached the elevator, and was about to push the button when the doors slid open. A girl stood in the car; one of the night-maids. Libby didn't remember her name.
"Hey," said the girl. "You Libby?"
"Yes."
"My God they've been looking all over for you. Come on down to the staff floor, and I'll call Walt."
Libby stepped into the car, and watched blankly as the doors closed.
"You got a customer, honey," said the girl.
"I do?"'
"Sure." The girl looked at her curiously. "You feeling okay."
"Yes."
"You act I don't know. Funny." Im sorry.
The girl chuckled to herself. "Man has Walt ever been trying to locate you. Nobody seemed to know where the hell you were at."
"I'm sorry," Libby said again.
"Libby? You know the score, don't you? Somebody told you about this convention deal, didn't they."
"Convention deal?"
"Sure about the room service booking. You must have heard about that."
"Yes," Libby said. It seemed the answer the girl wanted. But Libby hadn't the faintest idea what she was talking about.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WALT WAS HAVING PROBLEMS.
The orders had been coming in at a pace exceeding his wildest expectations. Quite a few men drifted down to the lobby, acting as if they expected to see girls standing around the main desk waiting to be chosen. Walt had to explain to them that the deal could be worked by phone only, and would they please go back upstairs before Fisk or one of the other bigwigs noticed the crowds and wondered what was going on.
Under threat of fouling up the operation which was to provide their evening's entertainment, the men went meekly back to their rooms and placed their orders by phone. At least, most of them did.
But there were two still standing at the desk, arguing over the same damned thing, refusing to leave the lobby until it was settled.
Walt thought of them as the easterner and the westerner. The easterner had a harsh nasal accent, but seemed to be a fairly regular guy. The westerner, was loud, nasty, red faced and black of disposition, and refused to pay any attention to Walt's pleas for quiet. He refused to pay any attention to anything but getting the girl he wanted.
Walt kept trying to tell him the easterner had been first. He came down to the lobby some minutes before the other and started negotiating with Walt for a particular kind of girl-a little blonde hooker, he said, with breasts just so, and hips with this much swing, and legs about yea long, and what else? Oh, yes-she should be blonde only on her head. That was very important. That's what the easterner's friend-some guy named Rog-wanted.
The description hit Walt right away; the obvious choice was Libby. Walt described Libby to the man, who seemed quite enthusiastic and Walt put in a call to the service floor. Libby didn't show up right away, however the girls were having trouble locating her. While waiting, Walt and the easterner began working out the details of a deal involving the entire night.
That's when the westerner showed up.
He came to the desk, shouldered the easterner aside, and identified himself as one of the men in 701. Walt recalled there already had been two orders from that room; Hester was finished, and Kit had a turn to do.
He asked the westerner what he wanted.
And the westerner told him what he wanted. No, by God, what he was going to get was that snotty little blonde gal who made up his seventh floor room that morning. He didn't know her name, he said, but he described her accurately.
The westerner also wanted Libby. And he too wanted her for the entire night. Impasse.
"Son, there's two hundred dollars riding on this here deal two fat century notes. That's what I'm willing to pay to get my hands on that little maid."
"I was here first, mister. That gal's reserved for the exclusive use of my friend Rog."
"I don't give two toots about your friend Rog, or about you neither! Now you stop butting in your goddam nose, pal, or you're going to get. .
"Gentlemen please-"
"Son, you tell this bastard here to butt his nose out of my business and his friend's nose too! I got two hundred dollars says I'm getting that gal."
"Oh, yeah? Well, I got two-fifty says my pal Rog is getting here now what do you think about that?"
"Three hundred! Cash on the barrelhead!"
"Three-fifty."
"God damn you four!"
"Gentlemen shut up!" It took Walt a few seconds to recognize this yelling voice as his own. He looked nervously about, but the argument hadn't attracted any attention. Not yet.
"Look, men there's no point arguing about this. Obviously the only thing is for one of you to take a different girl. There are all kinds of girls available and I'm sure there'd be no difficulty in finding one of you a suitable substitute..."
"No, sir!" The westerner slapped his palm on the desk. "No substitutes. Either I get what I ask for, or I don't buy anything!"
"That's just the way I feel about it," said the easterner. "And I was here first, damn it!"
Walt took a deep breath. "You can't both have her," he said. "Not both for the night."
"We know that," said the westerner. "Come on now
which one of us gets the gal?"
Walt glanced from one to the other, chewing his lip in concentration. It was a shame this had to happen. No matter how he decided, he would make an enemy of one of these men, and it wasn't good to have enemies in this sort of operation. Nevertheless, a decision had to be made.
He shook his head at the westerner. "Sorry, sir in the interests of fair play, there's only one answer I can give you. This other gentlemen was first."
For a few seconds, the westerner didn't reply. When he spoke again, his voice took on an odd tone. "Sure you won't change your mind, son?" Sorry, sir.
"I could make it worth your while, son."
"Sir I'm sorry. The answer is no."
"Then again," said the westerner, "I might be able to make you wish you had changed your mind."
Walt frowned at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Forget it, son." The westerner smiled. "Just forget it. Forget I said anything at all."
Before Walt could reply, the man turned on his heel and strode off toward the elevators.
"Relax," said the easterner.
"Huh?"
"Don't let that blowhard bother you, friend. I've been to a lot of these conventions before, and that crowd from the west always makes a lot of noise, gets into fights. It never means anything. They're just letting off steam."
"I hope you're right, sir."
"I know I am."
"Maybe," said Walt, still looking in the direction of the elevators. "After all have you ever attended a convention before where room service could send you up a woman?"
* * *
For Patsy and Liz, the time had come.
Word went out from the desk about fifteen minutes ago a man on the tenth floor wanted two girls, for some specialized antics which he refused to describe. However, he was willing to pay the price, whatever it might be.
Few of the girls liked the sound of it. The buck was deftly passed from one girl to the other, until Patsy and Liz found themselves holding it, dead center in the spotlight with all the girls watching. The problem of maintaining their pretense that they were, as Hester described it, regular girls had boiled down to this single decision.
So they volunteered.
Now they stood outside the door of Room 1010, holding each other's hand, gritting their teeth, preparing for the worst.
Patsy knocked.
He was a tiny man, as colorless as a mouse. His voice was soft, but high-pitched, and neither of the girls was reassured by the insane gleam in his eye.
"Hello," he whispered. "Are you...? "
"Yes," said Patsy. "Let us in."
She pulled Liz with her into the room. They had worked it out before as long as this terrible business lasted, neither was going to endure the caresses of a male unless the other was also. They hadn't suspected they'd be working together, but this new situation made their original bargain more important. Patsy was determined to hold up her end and she was going to make sure Liz did the same.
The man closed the door and came toward them. The girls braced themselves for whatever he had in mind. He didn't appear to have anything in mind, however; he walked by them, and seated himself in an easy chair facing the bed. When they turned to look at him, he was smiling shyly.
"I don't know if you ladies will go for this," he said. His voice whispered and purred obscenely. "It's er rather unusual."
Patsy set her jaw. "Tell us what you want, mister. Just tell us, and we'll do it for you."
"Really?" He seemed genuinely surprised. "Anything at all?"
"Anything," said Patsy. "You paid for it, so you can name it."
"Oh all right." He licked his lips. "First of all if you don't mind would you be so kind as to get undressed? Both of you, that is."
Slowly, the two girls obeyed. They'd undressed under similar circumstances many times before; at the beginnings of countless horsing-around evenings together; and they were reminded of the pleasure they took in baring their bodies. The fact that there was no pleasure in this moment made the ordeal harder to bear.
They were both neat girls, and folded their dresses and underwear carefully on top of the room's bureau. Then, hand in hand, they walked naked to the center of the room and let the old man look at them.
Look at them he did. Intently. His eyes scanned the jutting mounds of their breasts, the tight discs of their nipples, the creamy flesh of their thighs, the goateed expanse of their bellies. He seemed pleased with what he saw; gradually, the look of shyness gave way to an expression of mild enjoyment. However, he made no move to get up out of his chair.
"You're very lovely girls," he said. "Very different, of course-but both very lovely. My, my what a study in contrasts you make standing there like that."
Patsy shivered a little. The room wasn't cold, but she could feel her skin tightening as if the temperature was below zero. "Tell us what you want," she said. "Let's get it over with."
"Well-" The man paused and ran a nervous finger over his lips. "Would you what's your name."
"Patsy."
"Ah. And your friend?" 'Liz. Mister, will you please tell us . "
"Patsy," he said. "Very good. Now, Patsy if you are sure you don't mind . "
"Go on."
"Would you hold your friend's breast? One of them, that is."
Patsy stared at him. "Hold her you mean, Liz here?"
"Yes. I hope I haven't er well, after all, you did say you'd do whatever I asked you to, did you not?"
Patsy nodded. "Sure. Is that what you want? For me to hold Liz' boob?"
"Ah-yes. That's right. Would you do that?"
Patsy shrugged. "Okay." She looked at Liz, and saw the girl was watching the man with a baffled expression. Patsy's hand slid under Liz' near breast, her fingers curling to hold it.
The effect this had on the man was tremendous. His face went slack, as if all the muscles had been cut, and his mouth hung open, glistening with moisture, like his eyes.
"Lift it," he whispered, his eyes riveted on Liz's breast. "Heft it. Make it bounce."
Patsy did what he asked. This was a familiar caress for her, and she went through the motions without giving any thought to them. She watched the man, and hs reactons became stranger every second.
"Like this?" she asked, holding the fleshy globe in her palm.
"Would you go around behind her now? Then you could hold both of them at once. Would you do that?"
"Sure." Patsy sidled behind Liz and slipped her hands under the girl's arms. This also was a familiar caress, and Liz obliged by leaning back against Patsy and taking a deep breath so that the lush spheres rose tightly in Patsy's cupped palms. Patsy found the red tips with her fingers, and drew on them gently, the way she knew Liz liked.
The man seemed to like it almost as much as Liz. He twitched and sweated, his hips shifting in the seat, his eyes bulging.
Patsy was beginning to enjoy herself. As long as the little man stayed put in his seat, there was no reason to sweat. So far, all he asked her to do were things she normally did for her own amusement; as she thought of that, she too became excited.
"Kiss them now," said the man. "Come around front turn sideways, so I can see you both and kiss them."
Liz allowed Patsy to turn her into position. Patsy bent over, angled her head, and planted a brief moist kiss on the tip of each breast in turn. Then she straightened up.
"What's wrong?" asked the man. "Is there something wrong?"
"The angle's no good. I'm too tall and she's too short. You know it would be a lot better if we could lie on the bed and do this."
"Yes, yes," said the man eagerly. "That would be fine. That would be wonderful. Go lie on the bed together, and I'll tell you what to do."
As they took their positions on the soft mattress, Patsy noticed the ripe tension of Liz's breast-tips, and realized the girl had been excited by her caresses. Then she felt Liz's hand over one of her own firm breasts, and sensed the jut of her nipple rising against the girl's caress.
Patsy and Liz were both pretty excited. And, under the circumstances, it was odd indeed.
But neither was nearly as aroused as the man.
"Good that's it feel her you, Liz you kiss Patsy this time kiss her right there-there that's the way..."
Patsy and Liz, being old hands at this sort of thing, were going him one better. They shifted their bodies gracefully, presenting each other's breasts to each other's lips. Hands on one, lips covering the other, they mutually took possession of all the breasts in sight.
The man urged them on, but it was unnecessary. The two girls were rolling now in a well-worn groove; their movements became automatic, their excitement more intense and genuine, as passion took them. They slid their bodies together, holding each other's buttocks with spasmodically clenching fingers, rubbing their upper torsos so that their breasts flattened and shifted against one another. Their legs wound, and locked, drawing their bellies into voluptuous contact.
"Now-" said the man, voice dropping to a barely-intelligible whisper. "Put your hands there that's the way hold each other oh, that's fine and now, if you could kiss yes, just that way do it now, and yes and move your yes, yes and if you could just put your fingers oh, yes, yes, yes yes..."
The two girls had become a single mass of heaving twitching flesh.
"That's what I wanted," said the man, almost to himself. "I always wanted to see lesbians doing all my life, I've wanted to watch lesbians just watch not even do anything except..
He cleared his throat and spoke more loudly. "Ladies you've been very kind no, don't stop just keep right on with what you're doing but I would like to ask a little favor of you ... You see there's something I have to take care of over here something I have to do and I would certainly appreciate it if you would just ignore me while I pay no attention to me ... It's just a little private thing I want to take care of I'm sure you understand..."
Whether Patsy and Liz understood was no longer important.
Both girls had completely forgotten his existence.
* * *
Hester finished with Charlie.
She left him fighting for breath and smiling like am imbecile on the bed, still naked, still vibrating, dry of all his senses.
Charlie was finished.
But Hester was only getting started.
Before leaving the room, she called the second floor and had the signal passed along to Kit. It was time for the next turn in this room, and Hester wanted to make sure it took place on schedule. Her fidelity to the timetable was not based on a desire to keep things running smoothly a far more potent desire was working on her.
She left the room and stood in the hall, waiting. After a few minutes, the elevator door opened and a man stepped out. He started down the hall in the direction of Room 701, then spied Hester and stopped.
"You next?" she called.
He nodded, then walked up to her. "Yeah that's right. But I ordered a colored gal I thought the guy downstairs said I could have-"
"Take it easy, sport. You're going to get your dark girl. I'm just left over from the last one." She leaned forward, rubbing a breast up against his arm. "I tell you what, sugar why don't you go in there and rouse your pal. After all, the sooner you get him off that bed, the sooner you can climb into it yourself."
"Charlie? He still in there?"
Hester chuckled. "Yep."
The man smiled uncertainly, then eased around her and opened the door.
A few moments later, Charlie appeared at the door. He was dressed, and still wearing the same sated smile. Hester grabbed his arm and pulled him into the hall, shutting the door after him.
"You look like you could use a drink, Charlie. Why don't you run downstairs and sit at the bar for a while? If I get a chance, maybe I'll drop by and say hello later on. Would you like that?"
Charlie nodded. "Go take the elevator now, and be a good boy." She turned him around, aimed him at the end of the hall, and shoved him off. He stumbled in the proper direction, but didn't seem to have any control over his movements. He would have crashed head on into the elevator doors if they hadn't opened at just that moment.
Kit was in the car. She watched Charlie sail by her and come to a halt with a hollow bong against the back wall.
"Send him to the lobby," Hester called. "Your trick's waiting in the room here."
Kit grinned, punched the button, and stepped out of the car just ahead of the closing doors. She came up, still grinning. "You see him yet, Hes?"
"Your turn? Yeah, I seen him."
'What's he like?"
"Like the one you just saw. They all look the same you know."
"I need me some real loving," Kit said, "I really got my nature up tonight. I going to give him everything I got, and I sure do hope he's man enough."
"Kit?"
"Yeah, honey?"
"Listen before you go in there, I want to ask you something."
"Why, sure, Hes. What all's on your mind."
"Kit I been thinking."
"About what?"
'About well, you. And this guy."
Kit looked puzzled. "How you mean, Hes?" 'You and me we're friends. Ain't we, Kit?"
"Sure, we are. Hes what's eating on you?"
"We're friends," Hester said again. "Only we don't really know a hell out of a lot about each other."
Kit was shaking her head. "I ain't following you at all, Hes. What you talking about?"
"I mean we work together, and we talk and joke around a lot, but we don't know each other very well. Seems to me we ought to get better acquainted
oh, not like that Patsy and Liz, you understand, but.... She stopped, and seemed suddenly embarrassed at her own words.
Kit's expression changed from puzzlement to a look of dawning comprehension. "Maybe," she said. "Could be you and me don't know nothing about each other at all."
'You know I was only thinking..."
Kit smiled. "What is it, Hes, honey? Tell Kit what's on your mind."
Hester struggled with her mouth for a moment, then managed to shape the words. "I want to see you," she said.
"See me? Honey, you're seeing me right now."
"With this guy," said Hester. After a long pause, Kit said, "Ahh."
"Kit listen now I don't want you to think like, it's only because I ain't never seen a...."
"You want to watch a colored gal with a white man
that it, Hes?"
Hester attempted a smile. "Yeah. Right. I never saw that. In fact, I never saw a colored gal nude, either. Not altogether, anyway."
Kit's grin grew broader. "You seen my knockers, honey."
"Yeah," Hester said. "I sure did. That's some nice pair you got, Kit"
"Why, thank you, honey. Real kind of you to say so.
"But I ain't never seen your backside or your belly or the rest. You know what I mean, Kit."
"I know exactly what you mean, honey. You want to see if colored gals is any different from white ones."
"Yeah sort of."
"You want to see what a colored gal does when she's with a man."
"Yeah that too."
"Honey, tell me now is it just that you want to get a good long look at me? Is that the idea?" Hester nodded.
"Well," said Kit. "If the John don't mind you watching us, it sure ain't going to bother me none."
"You sure, Kit? Would it be okay?"
"Course it would honey. God I don't mind who's watching, long's it ain't the law. Besides-" There was a twinkle in her eye. "I think maybe I'd kind of like to have you watching me."
"Yeah?"
"Sure. That'd be nice. That'd add that little extra flip to all the fun."
"Just watch," said Hester. "Understand all I want to do is watch. Not like Liz and Patsy..."
Kit looked at her mildly. "Liz and Patsy? What they got to do with it?"
"Nothing," said Hester. "Nothing at all."
"Come on, honey. Let's us go inside and see if we can't talk the John into giving you a bleacher seat for this here game."
* * *
Pop almost had it.
Ever since he'd gone on duty in the furnace room, he'd been thinking, thinking, trying to pin down the elusive thought which troubled him. There was a hole in the scheme somewhere-Walt had left an important element out of his planning-and Pop was certain that unless this was taken care of, the whole business could come toppling down on that young man's head.
Pop didn't want to take the drink, but the bottle was waiting for him on the floor beside his chair. He stalled as long as he could, knowing that a drink would only make thinking harder, make the train of his thought dimmer and blurred. But it was too much for him.
He was on the verge of solving the question when he lifted the bottle and pulled a long swallow out of it.
A moment later, the answer was gone. Too bad, Pop thought. Too bad about that. Pity, really-it had been so damned close. He finished the bottle.
* * *
The man's name was Nat, or so he said. But he wasn't the important one. The important one was a man Libby hadn't seen yet-Roger, his name was.
Names, names-what did they mean?
Where am I? wondered Libby.
"Here we are, little lady," said Nat, leading her to the door of Room 634. Hold on for just a second, and I'll check to see if he's alive." Nat opened the door and stepped into the room, leaving Libby alone in the corridor.
She thought: Doing things naked with a woman. No-just doing things naked. Just being naked when there was somebody to watch. Naked and doing things and sex.
That kind of thinking led to a special place in her head, but the place was in darkness so she couldn't discern the nature of it. Women and naked and sex-those things tied together some way. She wished she could figure out how, that might tell her where she was.
Naked. Sex. Women. And-men?
Men? Didn't that make a difference? Add up naked-sex-women and you got one thing. But substitute men for women in that trio, and you got what?
Something different.
If I knew where I was, she thought, I'd be afraid.
Nat came back out. "He's okay. He isn't much with it, but you ought to be able to straighten that out." He looked her over admirably. "Boy-you are perfect. You're just what poor old Rog wants."
"Yes, sir," said Libby.
"Go in there now, and give that man a good time. Give him the best goddamm time he's ever had. I laid out a lot of money for my pal Rog to have a good time, and I want to make sure he gets my money's worth. You follow?"
"Yes, sir."
"Sure, you do, honey. You'll be fine." He stepped back and held the door open for her. "Step right in, little lady. Maybe I'll see you in the morning, huh?"
She smiled, because she thought it was expected of her, and walked into the room. Nat closed the door quietly.
Naked, she thought. That was important. And sex-that also was important. And a man?
Like the one sitting in the chair?
CHAPTER NINE
MADGE TOOK CARE OF HER MAN.
Afterwards, she collected the fee, plus the extra five dollars, and went downstairs to the second floor.
There was another order waiting for her.
So she went to the fifth floor, and to another customer.
This guy wanted different things. He wanted to fit himself between her breasts. Madge charged him extra for that. Madge allowed him to kiss and fondle her body for a while.
Once again, she collected the fee, plus the extra, and went downstairs to the second floor.
A third order was awaiting her.
He was on the fourteenth floor, and he had peculiar ideas. He wanted to fondle her standing up. He also wanted to position Madge and himself so they could see their reflections in the bureau mirror. Madge saw no reason to refuse him, and decided not to charge anything over and above the usual fee.
The man put his hands over her body, palming and stroking her breasts, gripping her hips, turning her around so he could watch himself holding her buttocks and the backs of her thighs.
She did similar things. She touched him softly, she held him tightly and tenderly. She used every skill she possessed, every bit of know-how, to draw the deepest pleasure from his aroused masculinity.
At no time did he look at her, or even speak except to give her instructions. He amused himself, with his eyes fixed on the mirror the entire time.
It was over. She collected her fee, and went downstairs to the second floor.
A fourth order awaited her.
And then a fifth.
And a sixth.
Madge's fatigue was no longer a physical state-it invaded her mind as wellas her body. She lost track of the number of men she visited, how many doors she passed through, how many beds she felt under her, how many male bodies she supported with her arms and thighs. The hands of all these men blended into a single pair, clutching her breasts, squeezing her buttocks, spreading her legs. The mouths became one mouth, pulling painfully at her nipples forcing their alcohol-breathed kisses harshly against her lips.
All the men merged together until they were one.
And when Madge thought back to other times, and other men-when she thought back to the days when she'd worked at that diner and the hard-bodied coarse-mouthed males she'd entertained in the past-she discovered they were all the same man, too.
The same lustful lurch against her womanhood, the same brutal aching thrusts, the same hoarse breathing and tacky body sweats-all the same. They took her, they used her, they paid and discarded her, and not once did any ever acknowledge the fact that she was a human being.
None ever had.
Not even Walt.
Walt wasn't really different from any of the men in her past, or from the men she entertained tonight. His soft words, his tender looks, his sensuously drifting hands, his warm kisses-these were just part of his style. There were a lot of men in the world who used such techniques on a girl not out of consideration for her pleasure, but because they themselves preferred it that way.
The difference had been with Madge. Walt's style had fooled her, blinded her to the fact that he was just another man, like all men, who couldn't even care about a woman such as Madge. His interest in her had been only a means of gratifying his own pleasure.
She had been dreaming. She had conned herself into believing in love. With that belief planted in her brain, her body responded to his caresses, up to the limit of her ability to respond. It happened with him, but not because of him. It happened only because of Madge's dream.
She was with a man as she thought this-customer number eight, was he? Or number nine? She couldn't be sure. Anyway, he was a customer, and he was fondling her at the moment in a style very much like Walt's. His mouth was at her breast, his palm warming the other, his hips were gliding between her thighs in an even, gentle motion. Just like Walt-just the way he did. She lifted her head and glanced down at him, and saw he had the same color hair as Walt. And the way he had his lips pursed around the tip of her breast-that was Walt's way.
He was doing everything she liked, but she wasn't responding. It wasn't happening. It wasn't even going to start happening.
Why?
Because the man didn't love her, didn't care about her. He was a customer.
Walt didn't love her, either. She thought he did, but she had been mistaken. And now that she knew her error, she knew also it could never happen again with him. She had been robbed of her dream-pleasure by the cold reality of truth, and that hurt.
He really didn't love her.
If he did, he wouldn't have sold her to these men, this man-the one rotten man, the ultimate male who was the distillation of all males, the one who took and took from a woman, and never gave in return the only thing that mattered.
* * *
Clyde got his dark gal.
He was happy with it. He tasted it, he felt it, flung himself onto it and groveled in it. He had a wild time; he really let himself go.
Kit also let herself go. She enjoyed being with Clyde. She got a kick out of his climbing all over her, grabbing, pinching, nipping her with his teeth. And she got a bigger kick out of doing the same to him, pinning him to the bed and just taking him over, popping her mouth from one point of his anatomy to another, driving him crazy with her soft lips and flickering tongue.
But Hester, in her way, was getting the biggest kick of all.
She and Kit had worked it out neatly. When Kit had gone into the room, she had left the door slightly ajar. Hester listened to the conversation, heard the sound of rustling clothing, then heard the unmistakable creak of the bedsprings.
That was the signal she'd been waiting for. She slipped into the room silently, easing the door shut without a sound. To her right was the door to the bathroom, and beyond the angle made by the bathroom wall was the bed. Hester couldn't see the bed, nor could the pair on the bed see her. What Hester could see was the bureau across the room on the left. It was set at an angle against the wall, and its mirror framed the scene on the bed.
Just like watching a movie, she though. Only better, of course.
Her station by the door was in darkness, so she knew Clyde could not see her, even if he did happen to glance in the mirror. He Wasn't-likely to look in that direction, anyway-he seemed to be occupied with the full-scale appreciation of Kit
Hester watched it all. As she did, a strange dryness invaded her mouth, and she felt a twisting in her bowls that was altogether new to her.
Kit was a study in soft shifting chocolate.
Her round brown breasts were heavy but firm, and capped with oval nipples the color of light coffee. Her torso was sleek, and gleamed with moist highlights as she worked up a sweat over her man. Her waist was solid, her buttocks twin solid mounds, her thighs and calves were oddly angular and limber.
There was a patch of tight wool beneath her belly that bore no relation at all to the pomaded hair on her head.
She was the goddamnedest animal Hester had ever seen.
That was the only word for her-animal. As she slid around on the bed, gripping and mouthing her turn savagely, Hester was reminded of a panther devouring its prey. She kept expecting to see blood, but she didn't.
All she could see was raw sex.
Kit spread her body prone on Clyde, and was wriggling, letting him feel the yielding masses of her fleshy torso. Her hands stroked his chest, and inched downward, slipping her knees between his open thighs and easing back until she was kneeling. She slid her palms onto his abdomen and leaned her body forward. The dark pendulous forms of her breasts squeezed down against his loins.
"Hey," he said, surprised.
"You like this, honey?"
"Yeah-I guess so."
"You going to like it even more before I get through."
She shimmied her shoulders, and her breasts danced and heaved beneath his abdomen. Her hands slipped down around her breasts and disappeared between his thighs.
He stiffened. His whole body went straight as a board. His lips curled back from his teeth in a half-smile, half-grimace, and gulps of air seethed between his lips.
Still holding him with her hands, engulfing him with her breasts, Kit dropped her face and kissed him on the abdomen. She was doubled over completely, and dark muscle raced beneath her skin in a total caress; she spread her feet, and her toes flexed against Clyde's straining calves.
Inch by inch, she continued to slide down. Her breasts slid away from his loins and came to rest briefly in her own cupped palms. Her body moved suddenly, and she flung a brown thigh over one of his legs, straddling it, letting herself down upon it, fitting it between her thighs and her breasts.
Her body was still wriggling, still moving downward, when she finally stopped moving. She had his foot trapped between her thighs, and the chocolate globes of her breasts were pressing into him just above his knee.
Her face was just above his groaning loins.
"Now you really going to get something," Kit said, her voice as dark as her skip.
Clyde made a sound. It might have been speech-it might have been something more like a death-rattle. Clyde was reaching the limit of his endurance.
Kit's hands moved. One set of fingers cupped, the other set curled. A weird snarl boiled out of her throat. Then the sound died off into a lascivious liquid hummmmm...
Hester could almost feel it. Of course., she knew Kit could never kiss her quite that way. But that didn't mean Kit couldn't kiss her with the same fervor, the same growling enjoyment. Watching, Hester could imagine the fierce touch of those lips on her own body, and the fantastic feeling they could produce. She could picture herself in Clyde's place, spread out naked and helpless beneath that assault of that lithe brown animal-she could almost feel her ankle scissored between Kit's chocolate-fleshed thighs, and the voluptuous weights of Kit's breasts hanging against either side of her knee. All that-Kit's insane devouring mouth-Hester envisioned it happening to her.
But that-that was crazy. That was a crazy idea.
She didn't want to really do such a thing with a girl
-even a girl like Kit-Did she?
It was a crazy idea. Wasn't it?
Kit made good her promise. Clyde was absolutely drunk with lust; his eyes were half open, but they didn't see a thing. His chest heaved and there were little bubbles of spittle clustered at the corners of his mouth. He had his hands on Kit's shoulders, and moved them absently back and forth across her rich ebony skin.
There was only one thing Clyde wanted; but he was too far gone to ask for it.
Fortunately for him, Kit didn't have to be asked.
Up she came, releasing her manual possession of him in a single lurch. She heaved back onto her haunches, lifted upward, and came to rest with her thighs straddling his knees. like a woman on horseback, she urged herself forward, rocking upward toward his hips. The motion made her breasts shiver.
The sight of it made Hester shiver.
Kit reached her saddle. She lifted her hips and suspended them over him. Her hand sought down between them, found him, positioned him. With a smile of raw molten lust on her face. She took her seat.
The bedsprings howled. The slap of Kit's rump filled the room with its rhythm. She arched her back, reached her hands out behind her to grip his knees, and flung herself into a full gallop. Her thighs tensed and quivered with muscle-motion. The brown hill of her belly throbbed like a naked heart. The candy-tipped spheres of her ripe breasts swung and heaved, flinging wall-eyed one moment, beating softly together the next.
Her chin was lifted high over her pulsing throat, her mouth was open, her eyes stared glassily at nothing, her windpipe sighed and moaned like the pipe of an organ. The sound was as basic as the act she was performing, as basic as the sobbing of jungle cats in rut.
Hester watched it, felt it. Hester's body hummed with sexual electricity, drawing it from the scene in the mirror in sizzling bolts of pleasure. Hester's eyes gobbled it up, and fed her glands until they felt like bursting.
In the midst of it, she felt hands on her breasts. A moment later, she realized they were her own. She held herself, crushed herself, lifted the globes almost clear out of her bra, clutching her own tender flesh in spasm after spasm of desire.
Oh, Kit, she thought-oh, Kit, Kit, Kit-you black sexy hunk-oh, I'm, I'm going to get it from you-am I ever going to let you gobble me up-oh, baby ...
Hester was finally beginning to understand what Patsy and Liz did in the shower together.
* * *
Little blonde hooker.
God-it was like the years since that time hadn't ever happened, like he'd never grown out of boyhood, never married Louise, never spent all that time pretending to be an adult. The burden of life-already-lived rolled off his shoulders when he saw her, and it was the good young days again.
He spoke to her. He said words, strung them into sentences, but none meant anything. He had no more idea what he was saying than he had of what she was answering. All he could see was her standing there, slim and pretty and young, with phony blonde hair and round breasts and broad flaring hips and sweetly-tapering legs flowing from under her dress down to the delicate bones of her little ankles.
He said more words to her, and she took off her clothes. He trembled as her garments fell away one by one, as she bared her slender body to him. His mouth hungered to kiss the firm hemispheres which rose so invitingly, his tongue ached to taste the luscious coins which tipped them. His hands lusted for her flanks, heft the calves of her tender rump, cup and warm the soft triangle of darkness which gave the lie to her long blonde hair.
It had been a long time since Roger had felt anything even remotely like the sensations which assailed him at that moment. A youthful sap bubbled in his veins; deeply hidden stores of desire poured forth their juices, filling his body with the awful tension of young manhood. Looking at her, seeing her nude body and what the sight of it was doing to him, Roger could hardly believe he'd ever had a woman before.
It was the first time all over again.
Somehow, he found himself undressed. Somehow, he was out of his chair, taking her in his arms, drawing her slim nakedness up flush with his body. Her tight young breasts snuggled against him; her coltish loins seemed to melt into his own. His hands found her bottom and lifted her up onto her toes. His knees bent slightly. Her breasts and belly slipped along him and her slender thighs opened in instinctive welcome.
Fingers biting deep into the yielding rump-flesh, he lifted her and carried her still pressed full-length against him to the bed. He let her down onto it, and she reclined with a smooth-limbed grace that brought his heart leaping into his throat.
Just like the first time, he thought. When you come to take your first woman, she's the only woman in the world.
He found his place beside her. He caught one of her breasts in both hands and lifted the tip into his lips. They trembled as he felt the delicate flesh pebble and spread in response to his kiss.
First one-then the other-God, they were so soft-a girl's breasts-how often does a young man dream of a girl's breasts, of holding them, tasting them, nourishing his untried lusts at the naked breast of a young girl? It's part of the dream of adolescence, part of the terrible mysterious awakening of desire, and its first pounding fulfillment. It's part of the dream of flesh, which is every young man's burden.
But Roger wasn't a young man-Roger wasn't a virgin kid-Roger was a man who'd been married twenty years, who'd tasted the delights of many women before settling down to concentrate on one.
Roger wasn't a kid, recognized the fact.
But that didn't change anything. He kissed her breasts all over, from upper curve to lower, holding and manipulating the resiliant globes as if they were newly-discovered wonders.
He kissed her on the mouth. Her lips were unresponsive at first, but he wormed his tongue past them and buried it in the wet hollow of her mouth. When she began to respond, she didn't do it with much fire, but his own passion helped make up for it.
Roger moved into position between her lovely thighs. Those thighs came up hesitantly, as if unsure of their role in the proceedings, but rose far enough to tip her upward at the proper angle. He suspended himself over her, supported by his elbows; then slowly, blindly, he probed forward.
Just like the first time?
No-it wasn't like the first time at all.
In the space of a heartbeat, the confusion of alcohol and lust blew out of Roger's brain. He blinked his eyes until his vision cleared, then took a long hard look at the face of the girl beneath him.
She was much younger than he had suspected. She was very pretty and soft-looking; where he expected the hardness of an experienced slut, he saw only innocence. And there was something else in her face, too-a question, it seemed; an uncertainty over what was happening, and the reasons why.
She stared up at him, and the look in her eyes told him the truth more forcibly than the unexpected barricade he had run into a moment earlier.
"You're a virgin," he said.
"Yes."
"But-why didn't you tell me?'
"I don't know. Should I have told you?"
"Well-sure. I mean-tarts aren't virgins. That's impossible."
"I'm sorry," she said.
He looked at her closely. The question was still printed on her face, and he was beginning to under stand what that question was.
"Don't you know anything at all? I mean, about sex?"
"Not very much."
Hasn't a boy ever-well, done things to you? like I was doing?"
"No..." The girl's eyes shifted. "A girl did, though."
"What?"
"A girl-a girl from the hotel here. She did those things to me. And other things, too."
"I see." Roger shook his head. "Well, I hope she gave you what you wanted. It's your privilege, I suppose-"
"Wanted?" said the girl. "I didn't want nothing. It was her idea. She told me she was going to rub my back, and she didfor a while, anyway. But she kept taking off my clothes a piece at a time and before I knew it, I was all naked, and she wasn't rubbing my back any more. She was doing things."
Roger's mind was still foggy with drink. He wasn't at all sure he was following the girl's train of thought. "Now let me get this straight you're saying some girl stripped you and played with you and--and that wasn't what you wanted?"
"That's right. All I wanted was my back rubbed."
"Isn't this girl a friend of yours, or anything?"
"Oh, no. I hardly know her. In fact, I always thought she was a little crazy. She had this friend, see, and I think they do funny things together-"
"Lesbians," said Roger softly. "Huh?" said the girl.
Roger took a deep breath. "Look you're too young to be doing something like this. You don't have any experience. You can't know what you're involved in."
"You're talking about sex, ain't you."
"That' right."
"I want to know about sex. Show me. Please."
"I . ... "
"Don't you see? All I know now is what Patsy did to me. It was so so crazy, it has me all turned around. I don't know where I am any more."
"Miss...."
"You've got to show me, or else how am I going to know? I want you to show me. Please show me."
Roger was silent for a few seconds. "Are you sure you want that?"
"Yes. I got to have it, so I can figure things out. Please."
"It's going to hurt in the beginning."
"That's all right. If that's part of it, then I got to know about that, too."
So Roger showed her.
It wasn't hard. The last defense of her immaturity fell easily, almost on the first attempt. He heard her gasp, and searched her face for a clue as to what she was feeling. Her eyes were clenched shut, her mouth was distorted, her nostrils flared around a shuddering breath.
And then, all at once, her face changed. The straining muscles relaxed, and color flooded into her cheeks. Her mouth went slack, and when she opened her eyes they were sparkling with wonder.
"Oh" she breathed. "It's so oh-you're oh!"
"Shh," Roger said softly. "Don't say anything. This is just the start. Let yourself go, sweetheart. Let it happen."
She let herself go. It happened.
And while it happened, a funny thought crossed Roger's mind. A woman, he thought, wasn't a woman until she stopped being a girl. A woman didn't reach the full flower of her maturity until her virginity was gone only then could a human female properly put on the cloak of womanhood.
He realized that men created women. It took a man to give a woman her adulthood. It took this act this sharing of pleasure to rupture the cocoon called little girl and set free the butterfly called woman. Only a man could do it.
Roger was a man, and was doing it.
Youth didn't mean anything after all. It was nice to be young, but it wasn't important enough to mourn over when youth had gone. You had manhood to compensate for your loss, and manhood was the most wonderful thing in the world.
Slowly, tenderly and near the end, violently Roger made a woman out of Libby. He used all the power of his masculinity to give her the answer she craved he taught her what it was like to be a woman. And in the process, he learned anew what it was like to be a man.
Roger was a man. As long as that was so, there was no reason to ever shed a tear over the loss of anything else.
* * *
In his dream, Pop saw a corridor.
It was one of the hotel halls, and there were doors ranked down the walls on either side. They were open, but from where he was standing he couldn't see into them.
There were girls going in and out of those rooms day-maids and night-maids, bustling from door to door on various errands. Some carried piles of fresh bedding, some carried pitchers of water, some suitcases and overnight bags.
There were others-mixed in the crowd of girls performing their normal hotel duties and these strolled from room to room with their skirts hitched up about their waists, wearing nothing below but high-heeled shoes. No panties. No garter belts. No stockings. Nothing.
They were dressed at least, those parts of them that were dressed in standard maid's uniforms. But they pretended they were something else. As they sauntered up and down the corridor, buttocks working, long legs flexing, hands holding their skirts high in a brazen display of their loins, Pop realized they were trying to pretend they were prostitutes; not just maids turned prostitute, but professionals. The girls were trying to convince the men in the rooms that they were full-time bookers.
But they weren't fooling anybody. With all the wanton hip-twitching and the come-hither smiles, none of the men believed the girls' pretense. They knew they were maids.
The uniforms they wore were a dead giveaway.
Pop came out of his dream with a wrench that almost stopped his heart. For a few seconds, he could not imagine where he was; his mind's eye was still filled with that dream.
But gradually the shuddering of his heart slowed, and he found himself slumped in a chair beside the purring bulk of the hotel furnace. There wasn't any corridor. There weren't any girls. It had all been a dream.
No wait a minute. Something was fitting into place inside Pop's head; something about the dream, and the goings-on at the hotel tonight. Girls in the corridors girls dressed in the unmistakable uniforms of hotel maids...
And then he had it.
He remembered an incident from his childhood God, how clear the memory was, even after all these years. He and a group of other boys had been planning a small larceny. One group was to go into this neighborhood five-and-ten store and raise a ruckus; and while the attention of the management was fo-cussed on that, a second group would slip into the store, grab everything they could, and run like hell.
They had been all ready to try out their plan, but an older boy had talked them out of it. There was a flaw in the scheme, he said; a simple flaw, but a big one.
They were too close to home.
The store was in their neighborhood. Each and every one was known around the area. How hard would it be to track down local kids who lived so near the scene of the crime? Even if they got away with it, none could ever run the risk of walking on that block again, or going into the store, for fear of being recognized.
Don't do it, the boy told them. If you have to pull a fast one, try it somewhere where they don't know you. But never, never in your own back yard, never against a background people associate with you.
That's madness. That's like a bird crapping in his own nest.
Pop lurched up from the chair. He heard his wine bottle topple over and shatter on the floor, but he didn't care about that. Time was running out; he had to get up to the lobby quickly, had to warn that young fool Walt-
My God, he thought he's selling girls from this very hotel, making no attempt to disguise the fact that they were members of the staff. He hasn't provided any way to defend himself against bad luck he's laid himself wide open. The evidence is right here on the premises, along with God knows how many witnesses.
Make only one enemy, Walt, and you've had
Pop staggered toward the elevator as fast as old legs could carry him.
CHAPTER TEN
THERE WERE POLICEMEN IN THE LOBBY.
Also in the lobby were Mr. Fisk, Walt, and several other members of the staff, including a few of the night-maids. The hotel personnel clustered around the check-in desk, the policemen stood opposite them.
In between those two groups stood George.
He was raving drunk. "I tell you, officers this here hotel's been selling women all night. It's a god-damn disgrace, that's what it is, and I demand that you guys put a stop to it. Arrest these people all of them!"
"Ridiculous," said Mr. Fisk. His voice was calm, his face a mask of iron. "Surely you officers must know the reputation of this hotel. Such a thing could not possibly happen at the Oakwood."
"Horse-wind," shouted George. "It happened, all right. That young guy there the one behind the desk he's the mastermind."
Mr. Fisk shook his head. "Nonsense. Walt Evans has worked for this establishment several years now. He's a trusted employee. I think I know my staff well enough to say with certainty that-"
"All right now just hold on a minute. The policeman glared everybody into silence. "We got a call at the station house saying there were prostitutes for sale in this hotel. Anybody know who made that call?"
"I did," said George, drawing himself up with drunken pride. "I'm the one who called you."
"Fine. Now you say there's prostitutes here. What makes you think that?"
George blinked his eyes several times. "What makes me why, I seen them, officers. They been all over the place tonight."
"Did you have anything to do with them?" asked the policeman mildly.
"Me? Well well, no. I wouldn't-"
"Are you one of the people here for this convention, mister?"
"Yes, that's right, officer."
"What is it? Your boys trying to buy a good time around here? That the kind of convention you're having?"
George licked his lips. "I never said we were trying to buy nothing-I said these here hotel people were selling."
"That's very interesting," said the policeman. "But if we can't find anybody who bought, there doesn't seem to be much of a case."
"Certainly not," chimed in Mr. Fisk. "The man's out of his head. He's drunk."
George whirled on him. "Sure I'm drunk, he yelled. "I got a right to be drunk if I want to. But that don't change what I saw, and what I heard."
"What did you see?" asked the policeman.
"Prostitutes," said George.
"Did you see any of them doing anything? Did you see them sell themselves to anybody?"
"Well-no."
"All right-how about this? Do you know if any of the people from your company were buying? Did any of your business associates entertain a prostitute-or the other way around?"
George started to open his mouth, but a voice interrupted him. A group of men had come from the elevators across the lobby to join the crowd at the desk.
"Might I ask what seems to be the trouble here, officer?"
The policeman turned. "Now who the hell are you?"
"My name is Quincy, officer. I'm the home-office representative of Precision Tool and Die-I'm more or less in charge of this convention. If there's any difficulty here involving one of our men, I'm sure I can help straighten it out."
Mr. Fisk said, "This man here-this drunken individual-has told the police there were-" He paused and twisted his mouth sourly. "Prostitutes. For sale. In this hotel."
Quincy looked at him. "Are there?"
"Of course not. Why, in the whole history of this establishment, there's never been-"
The cop interrupted him and turned to Quincy. "Seems to me if there were any girls for sale around here, they'd be working the convention trade. What about that?"
"That's utter foolishness," said Quincy. "Precision Tool and Die is an established and respected firm.
When we hold our annual convention, it is for business purposes, not for the gratification of such base whims. For heaven's sake, officer-we're all family men here."
"Family men can be the worst kind," said the cop.
"Be that as it may," said Quincy. "You're free to question any Precision employee staying here tonight. You'll find that we have all been behaving ourselves, in accordance with the tradition of our firm."
The cop nodded at George. "What about him?"
"Well-" Quincy scratched his nose. "Some of us have a greater weakness for drink than some others-as well as more active imaginations. Allow me to apologize for the trouble our man has caused."
"Now, wait just a goddamm minute," George shouted.
"No, you wait a minute." Quincy's voice was edged with ice. "This crazy story of yours has gone far enough. It isn't funny any more. If you have any consideration for your firm, mister-or if you want your firm to have any consideration for you-I suggest you shut up."
George's face went slack in defeat. After a moment, he said, "Yes, Mr. Quincy."
"Well," said Quincy. "I imagine that settles it. I'm sure it was nothing but a drunken prank."
"Are you?" asked the policeman.
Mr. Fisk said, "It couldn't be anything else, officer. It's just one of those unfortunate things-a bit of alcoholic high-spirits."
Quincy smiled at Mr. Fisk. "My most humble apologies, sir, for the trouble our employee has caused. He'll be admonished, I assure you-as soon as he's sobered up."
"Think nothing of it," said Mr. Fisk. "I know full well that-"
The elevator doors opened again and a group of policemen emerged. "Find anything?" asked the officer in charge.
"Nothing, sir. Place is quiet as a tomb. We woke up a few people, checked with the hops and the maid staff-looks clean to me, sir."
"Well," said Mr. Fisk. "At the Oakwood Arms, one could hardly expect less."
The officer in charge looked around the group of faces slowly. His eyes were shrewd. "I suppose so." His gaze alighted finally on Walt. "How about you, son? You have anything to say?"
"Me? Why-no, sir. Except to echo what Mr. Fisk told you. The whole idea is ridiculous."
"According to this fellow here," said the officer, nodding at George, "you were the man behind all this. Can you think of any reason for him to say a thing like that?"
"No, sir." Walt's smile was forced. "I can't imagine."
"I can," said a voice. Everybody turned.
Madge elbowed her way to the center of the group. Walt stared at her numbly as she turned to face the policeman.
"Who are you?" asked the officer.
"Madge Cross. I work on the night-maid staff."
"You know something about this?"
"Yes," she said. "I was in on it."
"Un-huh." The officer's voice was deceptively calm and matter-of-fact. "What's the story?"
"This gentleman here," she said, inclining her head to indicate George, "was mistaken. There wasn't any organization of prostitutes at the hotel tonight. And if the men of the convention bought any female company, they didn't do it on the premises.
"How do you know that?"
"I'm on the staff, officer. We girls know everything that goes on in this hotel."
I see.
"But there was prostitution going on here," said Madge.
Mr. Fisk gasped. Walt didn't make a sound. "In what way?" asked the officer gently.
"There was a girl working here tonight-and there was a man working with her. He was arranging deals with people from the street, just passers-by, and he was sending them up to a vacant room in the hotel where the girl was waiting. That's what really happened."
"Who is this fellow you're talking about, Miss?"
Madge turned and looked at Walt. "Him," she said.
"And the girl?"
"Me," she said.
* * *
Quincy and his associates got George up to his room, locked the door, and proceeded to give him the threshing of his life.
"Not too hard, boys," said Quincy. "We don't want to be gangsters about this thing. Just make sure he remembers it, that's all."
Charlie and Clyde had awakened, and were sitting up in bed together like frightened children. "Why, Mr. Quincy," said Clyde. "What seems to be the trouble?"
"Your crap-head friend George here blew the whistle on us, that's the trouble. He called the cops and told them about the girls."
Charlie's jaw fell. "George did that? What the hell ever made George do a thing like that?"
"Who knows?" said Quincy. "I'll tell you this, though-he won't do it again."
"My God," said Clyde. "The cops are coming! Listen, Charlie-we better-"
"Relax, you two," Quincy said. "The law has been and gone. The convention's clean."
"It is?"
"Funniest thing," Quincy went on. "I got a call-just in time, too. Some old guy, wouldn't say who he was, told me there was trouble coming. Matter of fact, I had a gal with me at the time. He told me to get rid of her, and spread the word fast, before the police arrived."
"Was he one of us?" asked Charlie.
"No, I don't think so. He was just this old man. Whoever he was, I'm sure glad he called when he did. We just barely made it."
Charlie cleared his throat. "I guess we all better watch our step for the rest of the convention, huh, Mr. Quincy?"
Quincy nodded. "We have a new rule for conventions, men. Don't lay any girls who work for the hotel. That can get entirely too goddamm complicated."
Charlie and Clyde agreed.
* * *
Pop had done all he could. It hadn't been much, but it helped a little. If it hadn't been for that girl "Madge cross, probably nobody would have been hurt.
Pop cracked a fresh bottle of wine and resumed his station by the furnace. As he drank, he wondered what on earth had ever made Madge tell the police such a thing. It was stupid for a variety of reasons.
For one thing, it wasn't true. Pop was certain Madge had been in on the deal with Walt from the start, and she certainly must have known the score. And yet, she had gone out of her way to implicate Walt and herself at the same time she was letting everyone else off the hook. Why?
It bothered Pop. After all the trouble he'd gone to-first, calling up that company fellow and warning him of trouble ahead, then calling the staff floor and telling the girls to stop taking orders and return to their regular work why, he'd even gone up to see Walt, and explained to the young idiot what he had done.
Pop's judgment had been borne-out completely. One of the conventioneers had gotten mad at Walt, and had been calling the cops around the same time Pop was warning the staff. As it was, the scramble to straighten things out and erase the evidence had been completed only moments before the police arrived.
To have Madge spoil it like that it really cut
Pop deeply. Oh, well maybe she had some kind of personal grudge against Walt. Pop thought back to earlier that evening when he had listened outside the locker room door as Madge explained the setup to Hester and Kit. Hadn't she said something about Walt being her man? And hadn't Kit asked her what she was getting from him in return for her favors?
Yes Pop remembered now. And he also remembered what Kit had said to her: "Honey, baby what the hell kind of way is that to act with a man? You in love with the bastard, or what?"
It was a good question, but Madge hadn't answered it.
Or had she?
Young men do stupid things sometimes, especially in regard to young women. Young men are egoists, and occasionally their ego blinds them to the fact that their girl friends are not just playthings, sex-toys designed for their amusement, but human beings much like themselves. Quite often a young man will make the mistake of thinking he owns a girl, thinking of himself as the master and her as the dutiful slave. Sometimes a young man could push a girl too far, and lose her.
Of course, if that girl was more to him than just a friend if, for instance, she thought he loved her then the moment of disillusionment was going to come as a deadly blow.
Maybe Madge had loved him. If so, her love couldn't have lasted very long after he started selling her body to other men. And maybe it was the destruction of that dream which had prompted her to drag them both down together.
Well, Madge had done what she wanted, and that was the end of it. She had her revenge, and she was probably finding just how empty revenge could be. And she was also receiving her punishment for being a fool, which was probably something she desired even more than revenge. Young girls were like that. People in general were like that. Pop hoped sincerely she was satisfied.
People, he thought. Damn people anyway. All the lousy burdens endured by the human race could be traced back directly to that same human race, and the crazy mental flaw everybody seemed to share:
Saying one thing, doing another.
Men wanted women, and vice-versa, but they were all afraid to admit it. Even though they knew almost everybody in the world shared the same basic wants and needs, they tried to pretend it wasn't so. They enacted laws proclaiming sexual pleasure illegal outside of marriage. They made it a crime for a woman to sell herself to a man, even if she was what the man needed. They made it against the law for people to follow their instincts, instincts the law-makers shared themselves.
People could be so goddamm stupid.
Those conventioneers hadn't wanted anything so of new Opportunities for fun. If they wanted to bag a woman or two, it wasn't going to hurt anybody, except maybe their wives. For that matter, if their wives were treating them right, the men wouldn't terrible. This weekend had been their annual break from the routine; a new city, some new faces, a lot have any need of other women.
It was just a thing a man had to decide for himself.
And the same held true for the girls involved. Selling female companionship to a hungry male was a profession almost as old as sex itself. A lot of civilizations had tried to wipe it out, and failed. Here and there through history it had been temporarily legalized, and people had been surprised to discover how easy it was to live with.
People never seemed to learn the basic lesson. The harder you make it for a person to get what he wants, the more trouble he's going to cause trying to get it. And when the thing he wants is a thing everybody else also wants. . .
The law, Pop thought. The law was people trying to convince themselves they weren't human. The law was a mask of righteousness for ugly humanity to hide behind. Of course, humanity in the raw wasn't really ugly at all. But it thought it was, and that made all the difference.
The law could define and punish crime, sure but people had to decide their sins for themselves.
Now that he thought back, Pop realized that was the reason he had quit the police force. It was all right to be a guardian of legality but no man could take charge of anybody's morality except his own.
Oh, well it had been none of his business while he was in uniform, and it was none of his business now. Best thing to do was drink the wine, fall asleep, and forget about it. The older you became, the more years were piled on your shoulders, and eventually that became a burden you'd be happy to get rid of.
Pretty soon, Pop thought. I can't last much longer.
The idea pleased him.
* * *
"Hester you was there in the lobby when it happened. Can you figure out why she did it?" Patsy's voice was bright with fascination.
Hester shrugged. "I don't know. She was mad at Walt, I guess. God, you should have seen the expression on her face like she was dead, or something. like everything had been taken out of her. It gave me the shivers."
"Poor gal," said Kit. "I told her she was on the wrong foot with that man. She was giving without getting, and that the worst thing a gal can do."
"Anyway, she got us off the hook. I guess we should be happy about that."
"Oh, sure, Hes she did us all a good turn. But still I just hate to see a nice little gal like that go down the drain for no reason."
"Walt too," said Hester. "Remember, Kit, none of us ever did get any from him."
"Yeah. It's a real shame."
Liz cleared her throat. "We got to go to work soon, don't we?"
Hester looked at her watch. "Yeah about a half hour. We got time for a shower, anyway."
"A shower?" said Patsy.
'Sure. I tell you what why don't we all go and take that shower together?"
Kit grinned. "Why don't we? That there's a pretty good idea, Hes."
Patsy looked at them. "The four of us? Are you sure. . . "
"Sure, honey," said Kit. "All four of us, all bare and soapy. Wouldn't that be nice? Why, I think that would be a right fine way for us to get a little better acquainted."
Patsy smiled hesitantly.
"Maybe," said Hester, "you and Liz could show us a little of that horsing around you told us about You think?"
Patsv and Liz exchanged glances.
"You know," said Patsy, smiling, "I think maybe that'd work out just fine."
* * *
He said goodbye to her on the station platform
All the other men of his company already were aboard the train, and now there were just the two of them, standing on the platform, holding hands, looking silently at each other.
Libby tried to smile. "Well so long now."
"So long," said Roger.
"I don't guess I'll see you again."
"Who knows? I live pretty far away from here, but well, who knows?"
"I won't forget what you did for me, though. I won't never forget you."
Roger smiled. "Yes, you will. You'll forget all about me in no time, Libby. There's nothing special about me."
"Nothing special? Why-"
"No, Libby. I'm just a man, that's all. And a man was all you needed. A man is all any woman really needs. There are plenty of men in the world you'll see."
"Maybe," she said. "You been right about everything else, so maybe you're right about that, too. But I still ain't going to forget you. Not ever, not as long as I live."
Roger squeezed her arm. "It was the first time, Libby. People always remember the first time."
"I wish I could come with you," she said.
He shook his head. "I don't think that would be a good idea. Look, Libby you've only just learned what it's like to be a woman. You're going to have to work at it for a while before you know which way you're going. Don't commit the mistake of making a snap judgment, not about something as important as that. Go out mix around meet people find out just what it is you want. And when you know beyond any shadow of a doubt what your goal is then go there. Do you understand?"
"Sure," she said. "I'll do just what you tell me."
The train whistle blew a long mournful note. "That's for me," said Roger. "I have to go now."
For just an instant, they stood facing each other without moving. Then Libby's mouth came up, Roger's head lowered, and they kissed passionately. She molded her body up against his, leaving the impression of her young flesh stamped against his own.
He stepped back out of the embrace quickly, took an envelope from his inside pocket and pressed it into her hand. "Maybe this'll help you," he said.
Before she could answer, he turned, crossed the platform, and climbed into the train. A moment later, the doors slammed down the length of the train, and it wheezed slowly out of the station.
Libby watched as it picked up speed, then squealed around a curve out of sight. Only when it was gone did she open the envelope.
There was money in it quite a bit of it. And a note.
Libby, it said. This should help you find what you're looking for. It's not in payment for anything, because I couldn't pay you for what you gave me. I performed a man's duty by making you into a woman, and I don't want to leave you without knowing you're equipped to carry on by yourself.
It was signed, Roger.
Underneath the signature was a post-script:
When you know what you want to do, and when things work out for you, I'd like to hear about it. You can always get a letter to me through the company. Or maybe some day you might want to drop around and say hello.
A smile spread slowly across Libby's face.
Maybe, she thought. Maybe I would. We'll just have to see about that.
She looked up. Across the tracks, the skyline of the city reared up against a calm blue morning. The sun was warm, the breeze was fresh, and during the night the world had been made new again. It was going to be a fine day.
