A BOLD EXPOSE OF TWISTED AND TORMENTED YOUNG LIVES!
THIS is the shockingly frank story of two young women-damned by their unnatural love for each other-torn by violent tragedy-used and abused by the ruthless lusts of men already sunk in the depths of vice.
Sandra and Mavis are whipped from the twilight world of lesbianism into the hopeless torment of prostitution ... a path that leads to their ultimate destruction!
CHAPTER ONE
Spring had come early to Camden, New Jersey, along the broad Delaware River. Where only weeks before March ice had lined the banks, small boys now skipped fiat scalers across the scum-streaked torrent. The chattering of pneumatic hammers sounded on the breeze blowing from the direction of the Philadelphia Navy Yard.
Winter was past. Along South Park Drive, caged forsythia burgeoned into spears of floral yellow flame behind barriers of link wire fencing.
Ugly colliers, their rusted hulls freshly daubed with uneven patches of red lead, steamed slowly in apparently endless procession past the airport on Petty's Island.
At the corner of Haddon and Kaighn avenues a young cop stood idly studying a racing sheet he had picked out of the gutter. It was early evening. The town was quiet, sleepy. A big Ford turned into Park Boulevard off Euclid Street, braked at the entry to the Harleigh Cemetery. A fat woman squirmed out, revealing a generous expanse of fleshy thigh and grunting with the effort of heaving her bulk off the protesting upholstery. A skinny character handed her a bunch of flowers, their pink coloring matching the flush in her flabby cheeks. Her enormous buttocks quivered as she waddled slowly towards the boneyard.
Along Brasher Street in Auburn Township, the door of 1205 opened quickly to admit a young girl, pretty, tall, very dark and with a good figure, full haunches and trim legs. She stepped inside, smiling. Just a kid, not more than eighteen. But the proud thrust of her breasts filled out the front of her dress. Her physical development was exceptional. She was vitally alive with the eager exuberance of restless youth. It showed in the impulsive way she gripped the freckled arms of the girl who opened the door.
The other girl was shorter, plumpish, with natural ash blonde hair worn long. Her bust was smaller but well formed, her buttocks prominent. The expression on her round face as she almost dragged the dark girl inside indicated a secretive, cunning disposition.
"Mavis!" she blurted, "I thought you'd never come. Darling! I've been waiting for hours . .
"Oh, Sandra-I'm less than half an hour late. Aunt Drucilla was particularly difficult...."
The blonde girl kissed her quickly on the lips, closed the door. Barely nineteen, Sandra Mathis looked much older. She was shy, a moody, temperamental girl, passionately Lesbian since her fourteenth birthday, easily exited and prone to hysterics. Mavis Preed was, in many ways, her direct opposite, oversexed, nymphomania apparent in her every movement, in her conversation, in the smoldering boldness of her dark, insolent eyes. Since the early awakening of adolescent sex consciousness she had indulged freely in intimate relations. Her parents were dead and she lived with a prim maiden aunt who thought butter wouldn't melt in Mavis's sweet mouth.
Mavis was impetuous, very strong-willed, but not a bad girl in the sense that she was deliberately out to cause trouble. She was one of those girls whose sex appeal and personality invariably make them the center of attraction wherever they go and whatever they do. And Mavis was driven by a vital, possessive urge stronger than mere ambition, the desire, a need, to get ahead, to be somebody....
She and Sandra Mathis had been friends all through childhood, had completed high school together. Now, Mavis looked after her hard-faced bitch of an aunt-Sandra held down a part-time job in the Smithfield Avenue Library.
She had just bathed. Beneath a pale blue robe her body was bare, and the soft material clung to her damp flesh, was moulded to the fullness of her exaggerated buttocks as she started up the stairs ahead of Mavis, her slipper-shod feet slapping noisily on each thinly carpetted tread.
"The whole house is empty," she told Mavis, "The Ellisdons are away. Mother had another stinking row with my step-father and he threw her out, then went downtown...."
"Boozing again?"
"What else? How I loathe that man, Mavis-he's a coarse, degenerate brute, a filthy beast! I'll never know why mother stays with him."
"I could tell you."
"You could? Well, why then? Oh! That!"
Her voice crackled with contempt. Mavis smirked. In some ways Sandra was so dumb....
"I don't expect either of them back till late," Sandra said, pushing wide the partly open door of apartment 3c.
"How's Hilda?"
"Fine, I guess."
Mavis removed her coat, then her hat, shook out her dark curls. Sandra went through into her bedroom, seated herself at the dresser and picked up a comb. She began to run it through her damp tangle using slow, awkward strokes. Mavis came in, closed the door, turned the key in the lock, took the comb from Sandra and began to draw it gently but firmly through her friend's long, silky blnde hair. Sandra relaxed. She watched Mavis's reflection in the mirror, especially her facial expression, and for a while neither of them spoke, as if the ritual of the combing was expression enough and needed no words. Presently, when Mavis reached over Sandra's shoulder to put down the comb, the blonde girl grabbed her by the wrist, turned her hand palm up, and pressed moist lips almost reverently to Mavis's fingers.
Sandra's eyes were shining, unnaturally bright. There was a fierce longing in their lucid depths, a hunger, an urgent need, as she conveyed Mavis's hand inside the robe and placed it between her warm breasts. Mavis sighed. She responded, stroked the smooth flesh, fingered the girl's hardening nipples. Impulsively Sandra twisted round, clasped Mavis in her arms and buried her face against her friend's yielding bosom.
"Oh, darling!" she whispered, "I thought you'd never come. My God-but I want you! I need you, dearest, so bad."
She reached up, pulled Mavis's head down, sought her lips, clamped her mouth to them avidly. And Mavis returned the wild, demanding kiss, let her tongue probe into Sandra's yearning mouth, darting swiftly, tantalising, provoking ... Sandra moaned, went wild. Abruptly Sandra jumped up, tore open her robe, let it fall, stood naked in front of her flushed friend. She cupped her hands under her breasts, lifted them, squeezed their budding ripeness.
With a low cry she clutched at Mavis, pushed her, and they fell together onto the bed. Mavis' dress hiked up. She lay there, allowing Sandra to remove her brief under garments, only mildly exited but content to make love for Sandra's sake. Since she learned what it was like to make love with a man, physical contact with Sandra had lost its appeal for Mavis. What she did, what Sandra did, seemed almost meaningless, no longer stimulating, yet causing her no actual revulsion. At first it had all been a novelty, something new, forbidden ... Now Sandra's kind of sex was something to be tolerated, for Sandra's sake, an outlet the strange girl had to have, a safety valve for her unhealthy emotions.
Yet all the while Sandra was fumbling, Mavis' thoughts were elsewhere, her mind recalling her movements the previous night, the thrilling hours spent with Jimmy Leach, who was a nice boy and a man in fact in every way that mattered to her.
A door slammed. Feet blundered up the stairs. A drunken voice blared snatches of a ribald tune. Mavis gasped, tried to sit up.
"Somebody's coming!" she exclaimed hoarsely, "Sandra! For God's sake let me up!"
But Sandra, deaf and oblivious to all save her own immediate need, clung like a burr, and of the two girls she was by far the stronger. The shuffling footsteps came closer, paused outside the apartment door. Mavis heard the door open, slam shut, sounds of someone lurching into the parlor, feet scuffling. A chair scraped loudly. Then she heard two distinct thuds as of shoes being kicked off, followed by a heavy sigh and a loud belch. A raucous voice called out thickly:-
"Sandra! Where the hell is that girl? Sandra...."
And now Sandra also was aware of the intruders presence. She tensed. A tremor passed through her body. Her mouth gaped slackly and terror gleamed in her eyes, flickered like the glimmer of a shark's belly in the murky green deep and was gone, was replaced by cunning. But still she didn't remove her weight from Mavis.
"It's him!" she muttered, "Mavis-it's Eddie. He's home-and he's drunk...."
The bedroom door handle turned, was rattled violently. A hard, powerful fist pounded on the panels.
"Open up, Sandra," the man demanded angrily, "I know you're in there."
"Go away!" she called, "I'm ... lying down. I don't want to see you or talk to you in-in that condition...."
He swore, pounded on the door again.
"What condition you talkin' about?" he shouted, "Listen to me, girl-I'm your father and I'm tellin' you...."
"You're not my father. Leave me alone-you drunken pig!"
The door panels shuddered under a deluge of heavy blows.
"Open up or I'll break it in!" Sandra's step-father threatened.
"Who you got in there-some fella? I'll throw the bastard out oft his ass if I find you got some young punk in there. You gonna open this door?"
Mavis made another, more determined effort to get up but still couldn't dislodge the meatier girl. She desisted, lay back breathing heavily with effort, her heart pounding. She listened, suddenly terribly afraid.
"It's only Mavis," Sandra cried out frantically, "Please go away-you frighten me when you've been drinking ... Please, father...."
Outside the locked door Eddie Mathis stood scowling darkly, teetering unsteadily and glowering at the panels. He was a big man, running to fat and bulky round the belly, but still muscular and extremely powerful. His hair was close-cropped and he had a hard face made even more unpleasant by an old bottle scar that puckered the whole left cheek from jawbone to temple. His eyes were red-rimmed, their expression mean. He needed a shave badly.
Since the flare-up with Millie Mathis earlier that evening be had been in a foul temper. Instead of riding downtown to Francetti's like he usually did when on a blind he stopped in at Mac's Bar just three blocks from the apartment and slaved there, drinking steadily, becoming sourer and meaner with every drink. At forty-two, Eddie Mathis was a failure, a punk insurance salesman without prospects or ambition-a moron, drunk or sober, and not overburdened with brains at the best of times. He was the sort of useless, loud-mouthed slob who can't keep any job for long-or a woman, except perhaps some weak creature, like Millie, as worthless as himself, without the courage to leave him even though she hated his guts. It was less than six months since Sandra's widowed mother was fool enough to marry him. When Carl Branch, her first husband, was killed in a railroad pile-up, Millie Branch went all to pieces. In a few short months she aged years. Now, at forty, she was an old woman, haggard, without interest or any appreciation of responsibility even where her daughter was concerned. She had always liked a drink-that's how she happened to meet Ed Mathis in the first place. After her husband's death she really took to the bottle. But she kept her figure, and Ed Mathis, hot for her, tried his damndest but eventually had to accept the fact that the only way to make Millie Branch was to marry her. At the time it seemed a good idea.
Eddie could be quite pleasant when he had a mind to be, and when he was sober. Even so, it hit Sandra like a club between the eyes when her mother announced her intention of marrying him. Sandra detested her step-father from the start, and it quickly became obvious that he had no interest in her as a daughter. His only interest concerning her mother was sex, and when Millie's appeal ceased to arouse the same response he had experienced earlier on, Eddie Mathis began to cast lustful glances in Sandra's direction.
She was a strange girl. Even as a child she kept to herself and had few friends. She cried at the slightest thing, and when she grew older sought the company of her own sex, never boys. If her mother considered this inclination strange she never commented on it, neither did she do anything to combat the unhealthy trend that to any mother more interested in her daughter's welfare should have been increasingly obvious. Even when, much later, she was forced to accept the truth-that there was a stronger than usual association between Sandra and Mavis Preed she dismissed the idea of anything 'wrong' as absurd. The girls were just-'friends,' she maintained, and if Sandra seemed a little-strange ... she would undoubtedly grow out of it. Sandra's true father was no saint. Although she entertained a certain affection for him she never really loved her real father, neither could she respect him or her mother.
Sandra received no sex education other than what her own inquisitive eyes and ears taught her. Consequently her early impressions of sexual relations between her father and mother aroused curiosity, at first
-after that only disgust developing into actual revulsion. She grew up firmly convinced that sex, from a masculine viewpoint, was an ugly, sordid business. Subconsciously she harboured a deep-rooted resentment towards her father and his 'abuse' of her mother's body, and, regarding her mother's eager submission as 'betrayal'-the female acknowledging inferiority, being possessed by the brutal, dominant male, subjected constantly to his will.
What Sandra saw and was openly allowed to see of her mother's sex life following marriage to Eddie Mathis was even less calculated to correct misconceived tendencies and induce normal reasoning and behaviour in the mind of a young, highly emotional, and impressionable girl. Their mutual animal lust and drunken mauling merely confirmed and intensified the shuddering fears and disgust simmering in her confused mind and alienating her virgin body.
Eddie Mathis was quick to define Sandra's phobia. He promptly labeled her a 'queer,' and thereafter made her life a hell with his taunts and leering suggestiveness every time he had a few drinks. And on several occasions he went further, and tried sneaking into bed with her. The second time Millie caught him interfering with Sandra there was one hell of a row. Millie was as drunk, perhaps worse, than Eddie. The ruckus ended with her losing a couple of teeth, shedding maudlin tears, and finally performing a strip-tease in the middle of the bedroom floor and offering herself, naked, to her man who, with his clothing already open, grabbed her and fell across her on the bed chuckling and cursing alternately while Sandra looked on, shocked yet fascinated, with her wide eyes following every gesture, every movement, absorbing every stark detail.
Some of this was running through her distressed mind as her step-father continued to bang on the door. Eddie Matliis recalled the incident often, and sudden desire welled up into his loins, flushing his face more and tightening his belly muscles, as he thought of the two girls and what they were up to behind that locked door....
Raising a foot he smashed it against the door near the latch. Wood splintered. The door ripped free of the frame and slammed back against the bedroom wall. Eddie Mathis lurched into the room, tripped, and fell to his knees. He remained like that with his weight on his knuckles. His eyes widened and he sucked in his breath sharply.
The girls were still on the bed, clasped in each other's arms. Mavis was lying on her back with her knees drawn up and her dress pulled high. Her panties had been removed, and she had no secrets from Eddie's searching eyes. Her dress was unbuttoned from throat to waist so that the flushed globes of her bared breasts protruded, their nipples still wet from Sandra's kisses. Sandra, sprawled on top of the dark-haired girl, was completely naked. Her rounded buttocks were towards Eddie, and her thighs were apart-
Eddie Mathis pursed his lips in a silent whistle. He clambered to his feet and lurched towards the bed, fumbling at his clothing and mouthing exitable oaths. But in the moment when she felt his rough hands on her flesh Sandra screamed and twisted from under Mavis like an eel, rolled over, and fell to the floor. Eddie Mathis, overbalancing, sprawled across Mavis as she jerked erect, free of Sandra's weight at last, and flattened her against the sheets. Instantly he grabbed her ... Slobbering, he buried his face between her breasts, and the smell of her flesh almost drove him crazy. He thrust her back with one hand and cupped one proud breast with the other, fondling, squeezing, bruising her. She felt his touch between her thighs, and a thrill of responsive passion displaced some of her mounting fear and tension.
Suddenly she was no longer afraid. Desires awakened by Mavis' caresses flamed under Eddie's masculine touch. His liquor-reeking breath wafted in her nostrils as he raised his head and sought her mouth and she felt a spasm of nausea. But when his lips crushed hers nothing else seemed to matter, and she responded, unable to help herself, to fight against the flood of passion surging through her quivering body. This was the kind of love she could understand....
When Eddie Mathis felt the quick fluttering of her tongue between his lips the very unexpectedness of it momentarily unnerved him and he hesitated, confused and suspicious. In that instant Sandra, cowering in the grip of blind, abject terror coupled with hysteria, experienced a wave of berserk fury prompted by absolute panic and came cat-like to her feet with face convulsed and her eyes glaring like those of a mad woman. She grabbed the handiest object, in this instance a heavy bronze book-end, and with a hoarse cry brought it down with all her strength against the back of her step-father's tousled head....
Bone cracked. Blood poured. Eddie Mathis uttered a choked cry, went limp. His gross bulk slumped sideways off the girl, flopped heavily to the floor. Blood rapidly formed a pol, spreading from the roots of his greying hair, soaking into the carpet, filling his nostrils and his mouth pressed against the pile....
Sandra stood gripping the bloody book-end, her free hand pressed against her mouth so tightly that her teeth dug deeply into hr knuckles. Mavis, ashen-faced, got up slowly from the crumpled bed. Eddie Mathis didn't move. His eyes were open, the pupils fixed in a horrible, glassy stare.
"Oh, my God!" Sandra whispered hoarsely, "What have I done?"
The book-end dropped with a thud at her feet. Mavis backed away until the wall stopped her.
"You've-you've ... killed ... him, I think---", she said vacantly.
"I don't care," Sandra shouted defiantly, fighting against her terror and a desire to scream incessantly, "The filthy, drunken swine...!"
* * *
"You fool!" Mavis said, "You bloody fool!"
She felt suddenly cold. Her limbs trembled with shock.
"But-I had to do ... what ... I did," Sandra said falteringly.
"When I saw what he-he was trying to do I-"
"Did you hear me complaining?"
Sandra stared, uncomprehending. Mavis sighed. Some of her composure was returning. Her mind was busy. She stepped away from the wall, gestured impatiently.
"Forget it," she said, "Sure, I know you hit him-because of me, but you needn't have ... It's done now. Sandra-what are we going to do?"
"Do?"
"Yes, DO. Sandra, for crying out loud! Don't you understand? Don't you realise what you've done? You've killed a-a man ... Your own father!"
"I-I didn't mean to. I couldn't help it. I had to do something-don't you see? Oh, Mavis...."
She sank down onto the bed edge and buried her face in her hands. Her fingers were bloodless, like marble. She jerked her head erect suddenly.
"He wasn't my father," she protested vehemently, "He was vile-a drunken beast. They can't do anything to me."
"The Police? Perhaps not. But suppose it all comes out? About us, I mean."
"Let it. We weren't doing anything wrong. We can say we were in my room, talking, when he broke in and tried to-to seduce me, and you. It's the truth, isn't it?"
"Yes-but who's going to believe it? That your own father...?"
"Don't keep saying that. He isn't-wasn't my father."
Youth is resilient. Already Sandra's hysteria was giving way to cunning. Eddie Mathis had tried to rape Mavis, therefore whatever she, Sandra, had done to him was justified.
"Step-father then," Mavis said, "What does it matter? Do you imagine for one moment your mother won't speak up? That she'll keep quiet-to protect you? All right-don't look so indignant. Maybe they did fight all the time. For all that they were closer than you think, and she's going to hate you for this, Sandra...."
"She hates me already---"
"I wouldn't argue about that. I know her, better than you do, perhaps. She's never been much of a mother to you, not since your father died. She's no good, like Eddie there. They're deserving of each other. She'll blame you, not him. What happened last time? Don't say you can't remember. The last time he tried to get into bed with you and your mother caught him with nothing on except his socks, in your room. What did she do? I know. You've told me often enough. It was funny to her, to both of them. A big joke. Well, now the joke's on her, but it'll be on us, too. if we stay around here. Likely well get into trouble, real bad trouble."
Sandra, still bewildered, shook her head.
"You mean we ought to run away?" she asked.
Mavis nodded. Her lips were dry and she passed her tongue over them a few times. She looked towards the huddled shape, and shuddered.
"What else? My aunt will turn me out anyway once she finds out about-us. And she will find out. You know what your mother's like when she gets a few drinks. Worse than him. She'll shoot off her mouth, tell everybody. I couldn't stand that, Sandra."
"I'm not ashamed. Darling, we...."
"Other people don't see it the way we do. I'd just die if people started pointing and whispering."
"They do already, at you," Sandra declared resentfully, "Because you go with boys. Once it used to be just you and me, nobody else. Then that awful Jimmy Leach...."
"Oh, God, Sandra-don't start that again. I've tried to be a good friend to you. This is serious."
"Well-Look, Mavis-suppose we said we came in and found him lying there. They'd think he fell and hit his head when he was drunk-"
"Would they? What on? Darling, be sensible. His skull is-is fractured, smashed in. They'll know he couldn't have done that in a fall, not in here. They'll know somebody must have hit him with something. Even if we hide the book-end and they. Oh, it's no use. We've got to get away from here, now, while we've got the chance."
"But if we run away they'll think we murdered him. I feel faint. I think I'm going to be sick. Mavis-I didn't mean to kill him. I'm sure if we explain the police, and mother, will understand."
She clutched at Mavis, laid her face against the dark-haired girl's stomach and held on tightly. Suddenly her defiance and forced courage drained away and she began to sob. Mavis stroked her soft hair.
"It's all right, Sandra," she comforted, "It's all right. Of course they'll believe you. I'm being silly, and selfish, wanting to get away. Of course nobody but us knows what we were doing when he came in. We're acting like children."
She started to extricate herself from Sandra's clutch, but the plump blonde clung all the tighter.
"Where are you going?" she demanded tearfully. Mavis indicated the telephone.
"We'll have to call the police and report this," she said. Sandra nodded miserably, got up from her knees beside the bed and bent to pick up her bathrobe.
Mavis, with the telephone receiver in her hand, suddenly screamed and pointed frantically. The 'corpse' was moving, heaving up like a great, shaggy ape with slack mouth agape, drooling saliva, eyes staring, bulging horribly, tongue protruding ... The supposedly dead man was trying to speak but his straining throat only managed to utter muter, incoherent sounds. His arms lifted, reached up, got a grip on the dresser. He began to pull himself up from the floor. Blood was congealing in dark gobs down his unshaven cheek and in his hair roots. There was more blood, sticky and glistening dully, extending from his hairline to the sweat stained collar of his striped shirt. The triangular gash at the back of his head was deep, a ghastly wound from which sprinters of white bone protruded.
Sandra gaped in silent, frozen horror. Mavis, after her initial shriek, stood as if petrified. Eddie Mathis's thick fingers clamped on the wood quivered with effort. He moaned. Abruptly the last vestiges of strength left his limbs and he flopped face down and lay wheezing, breathing heavily into the stained carpet.
"Dear God!" Sandra croaked, "He's alive-"
Mavis whirled, snatched up the phone, put through an emergency call to the Cooper Hospital. She babbled incoherently for a few moments before she could control her speech. She replaced the receiver and leaned against the wall.
"They're sending an ambulance," she said tonelessly, "It won't be long."
"What about the police?"
Mavis shrugged. "I suppose we'd best call them too."
"Do we have to now?"
"We must. There's no way out. We'll have to tell our story, just the way it happened."
"I shall die of shame. If the newspapers get hold of it they'll-My own step-father, Mavis! The disgrace of it. I'll never be able to look my friends in the face."
"What friends?" Mavis said bluntly. "Why should you feel ashamed-he's the one who'll have to face the music. It's him they'll look down on."
"Mud clings. You know how people talk. They can be-beastly. You were right, Mavis-we'll have to leave here, go away somewhere, slip away together. Nobody wants us here anyway. I hate this town...."
"We can't leave, not right away."
"But you said-"
"I was confused. Of course we'll have to go now. If he recovers there's no telling what he'll do, and in any case we'll neither of us be safe, you especially. But we must wait and see what happens, not lose our heads. Later we'll make plans."
Sandra gripped her arm so tightly that Mavis winced.
"Tell me you'll always stick by me, darling," the blonde girl asked desperately, almost pleading. "Always, whatever happens."
"Of course I will." Mavis looked surprised.
"Promise me ... Dear Mavis-I couldn't go on without you, if I thought you didn't love me. Promise me you'll never leave me-never...."
"But."
"Promise!"
"All right, I promise. Now you'd better get some clothes on before the ambulance arrives."
CHAPTER TWO
It was cold on the station platform. A chill wind blew bitter along the gleaming tracks and fluttered the clothing of the two, dim, girlish figures huddled in the shadows.
"Gee!" Mavis Preed complained, "I'm frozen. Wish I had a cigarette."
"Have a sweet."
"Sweet be damned! Honestly, Sandra. I want a smoke or a drink. Or both. What time's that train?"
"Another few minutes."
They withdrew further into the shadows as a group of people, three men and a young women, approached.
"That Charlie," they heard the girl say, "What a nerve! Came straight out with it, he did-knocked on my door at two in the morning and stands there grinning like a goddam ape. Then he says: 'You've been waggling your ass at me long enough, Delia, honey. I aim to lay you, sweet stuff, right now ... ' With that he starts taking my clothes off, right there in the hall. 'Sam's home, you fool!' I tell him, but he goes right on stripping mo. 'Shit to Sam!' he tells me. Honestly, Jeff, if I hadn't had the presence of mind to clobber him with a handy vase the bum would have stripped me stark naked."
The group moved away, laughing, Sandra Mathis moved closer to Mavis. The past few days had been hell for them both. Eddie Mathis, flat on his back in the Cooper Hospital, recovered sufficiently to do some talking, and what he said, most of it prompted by bitterness and spite, was seized on by the newspapers and blown up, distorted and exaggerated out of all proportion, with special emphasis on the lesbian angle. The papers really got their teeth into that. Within twenty-four hours the whole revolting story was plastered all over the front pages of three dailies, with pictures.
Sandra's mother, pasty-faced and puffy-eyed, more from a king-size hangover than from grief or loss of sleep, took one look at the headlines and promptly hocked everything of value, packed a bag, and caught the next train out of Auburn Township without even bothering to say goodbye to her hysterical laughter. Mavis' puritan aunt almost shrivelled up when the police called to question Mavis. Later, when she saw the papers, she got so steamed up over the sordid account she suffered a stroke. A few hours later she was laid out cold and stiff in the undertaker's parlor.
Mavis was never over-fond of her aunt, but having the old lady die on top of everything else affected her and gave her a feeling of guilt that preyed on her mind worse than actual grief.
Most people believed him, and sympathized with him. His own step-daughter with that brazen Preed girl ... Always knew she was deep, that Mavis. But that sort of girl. Eddie Mathis grinned, gloating with satisfaction, when he saw the newspapers, especially the local rag.
"That's fixed their hash," he muttered. "That'll teach them. Maybe I should have let 'em think Sandra done it-I reckon the other one would have taken it all right if that simpering bitch hadn't swung at me. Yeah, she seemed to like it even. The little cow! I always figured her for the quiet, hands-off type. Wait till I get outa here...."
His head hurt and he stopped grinning. But he'd sown the seeds and the poison was spreading. Inside the space of a few short hours everybody in Auburn Township who wasn't deaf, blind, and dumb knew about Eddie Mathis (poor man) catching his stepdaughter (who'd have thought it?) with a lesbian (that Preed girl-always said she was no good). By the time word got around Mavis was worse than no good. She was a vicious degenerate, a potential murderess who ought to be locked up.
Wherever the girls went, whatever they did, they could not escape the sneers, the pointing fingers and obscene gestures. The police were inclined to believe their story, and no legal action was taken against them. But it wasn't on account of Eddie Mathis' injuries the girls were judged, and condemned, by the small community. The night that Mavis' aunt died Mavis decided she'd had enough. Sandra was close to the breaking point. They left town under the cover of darkness, taking with them only the barest essentials. That's how they came to be waiting for the last train to New York while the greater majority of Auburn Township folk was sleeping.
The girls had only a few dollars between them above their train fares. Their plans were vague, they had nowhere to go, no knowledge of New York. But finally the train pulled into the gloomy depot and they clambered aboard, their relief was almost overpowering in its intensity, exhausting, leaving their bodies limp and their minds throbbing with tension as the shuddering metal monster nosed once more into the night.
CHAPTER THREE
It was after two a.m. when Mavis Preed dropped her fare token into a subway turnstile slot and moved ahead of Sandra Mathis onto the seemingly deserted platform. Trains at this hour were few and far between, and the girls faced a long wait. As Mavis sauntered along the platform towards a seat her cheap skirt clung snugly to her softly rounded hips. She dropped a coin into a slot machine, got a package of cigarettes, lit one and drew thankfully at it. Her breasts beneath her tight sweater quivered as she exhaled.
"Gee!" Mavis said with profound feeling. "That's good. Want one?"
Sandra shook her head. "Are you sure you know where to go?" she asked nervously. Mavis nodded, seated herself.
"First we need a room," she said. "Something cheap but not too crummy. Then after we get settled in we'll decide what to do. I suppose we'll have to find jobs. Maybe I'll get a break in show business."
"You still harping on that? Honestly, Mavis."
Mavis ran her hands over her breasts, straightened her back to add still more prominence to her bust. She inspected her legs. "Why not?" she demanded, "I've got the shape for it and I'm willing to try anything. I'll get by. We'll both get by."
"I could never act or dance or anything like that. I can't even sing. Who'd want me?"
"Quiet!" Mavis said tersely. She was watching, listening intently, peering into the gloom.
"Somebody's there!" she whispered.
Hulking shapes were emerging from the deeper shadows, invading the platform. Slouching youths, five .of them, swaggering teen-age punks dressed in tight fitting jeans and leather jackets. None of them wore hats. Two were tall, muscular, a third short but massive, ape-like. The others were stocky and fat. One of the flabby characters wore his hair close cropped, and his sallow face was covered with blotches and pimples. The others had long hair trimmed duck tail style.
Quickly they surrounded the two girls. Sandra looked frightened. Mavis eyed the smirking gang disdainfully, badly scared in spite of her bold front and apparent calm, but resolved not to show it.
"Want something?" she asked, trying to appear casual. One of the tall youths grinned, exposing uneven, discolored teeth.
"You can say that again, doll," he told her. His pals sniggered.
"Tell her, Rube," one says, "Tell her what we want. I reckon we'll have ourselves quite a time with these two, man...."
"Like crazy, dad. Dig that shape. Cool."
Rube reached out, thrust his insolent hand inside Mavis' coat and closed his fingers on her left breast. The broad, thick-set punk stepped toward Sandra, grinning.
"Don't you touch me!" she squealed, backing away. "Keep away!"
"Leave her alone,' Mavis snapped with a defiance she didn't feel, "She isn't well. Get lost, you creeps."
She pushed the youth's hand away. He laughed and slapped her across the mouth, knocking her sprawling off her seat. Her skirt hiked up around her smooth thighs, and Rube chuckled obscenely.
"Grab em!" he ordered. He stooped, gripped Mavis' arm, dragged her up. His hard palm clapped over her mouth effectively checking her outcry. Sandra screamed once before the muscle-bound punk kicked her legs from under her and a dirty rag stifled her cries. A girmy hand groped. Other hands ripped her clothing, tore aside her bra, exposing soft, white flesh. The powerful youth and the two fat slobs piled onto her. One held her down, pinning her arms. Another jerked her legs apart. She felt her undergarment tear, slide down, give again as it was pulled completely free. The young punk leering down into her terrified face stank, and his breath was foul.
Rube had Mavis' sweater up while his pal held her, and was grunting like an animal with his spotty face against her bared breasts as he wrenched impatiently at her clothing. Some of the thing she had heard about New York's teenage hoodlums were passing through Mavis' mind, undermining her bolt front. Her courage evaporated quickly, and fear swiftly dispersed the mild excitement aroused by the savage assault and the big youth's coarse embrace. Sex, normally, was enjoyment. But this was different, and she struggled violently. Sandra, close to strangulation with fat fingers gripping her thoat, went limp under the broad youth's weight.
Fingers pressed against Mavis' neck restricted her breathing too. Her mouth was bleeding and the strength was fast draining from her limbs. Eventually she couldn't resist any more and lay still, panting.
What did it matter anyway? Just get it over with, she thought. Suddenly authorative voices were calling, threatening, demanding. A torch beam stabbed the dark and a gunshot roared, reverberating hollowly.
Instantly the youths were up and running, scattering, cursing, disappearing like ghosts into the shadows. Footsteps clattered on stone and receded. Somewhere a metal gate clanged and two forms materialized. Police. A torch played its rays over Mavis' face then her half naked body, switched to Sandra's prone form. Compared to the dim platform lighting the torch beam seemed brilliant, blinding. Mavis sat up, gasping. The cop holding the torch was young, around thirty, tall, and tough-looking. Not handsome but ruggedly interesting. The officer with him was older, powerfully built with long arms and massive shoulders.
"Take a look at the other one, Brady," the tall cop said, "You all right, Miss?"
Mavis nodded. For the moment she couldn't speak.
"This one's out cold," Brady said. He holstered his smoking thirty-eight special.
"Fainted, poor kid," the tall cop said. "Damn those sneaking bastards! What the hell's this country comin' to, Brady?"
Brady shrugged.
"Who are you, girls?" he asked Mavis, "Who are you and what are you doing here? Where were you going this time of the mornin'?"
He helped her to her feet.
"Just a coupla kids," he muttered, "You get a good look at any of them punks?"
Mavis shook her head.
"Where you from?"
"Out of town."
"That's for sure. You run away from home maybe?"
"No, nothing like that," Mavis lied. "Just visiting. We got in on a late train, later than we expected."
"You're askin' for trouble roaming around these platforms at two in the morning," the tall cop said, "Where are you making for?"
"Broadway," Mavis said without hesitation. He consulted his watch.
"There's an IRT local due any minute," he told her, "I'll ride with you as far as seventy-second street. She okay, Brady?"
The thick-set cop, on his knees beside Sandra, nodded as her eyelids flickered and she moaned.
"She's coming round," he said, "I'll put a call to the station, Davis. I've an idea that tall punk was Bart Nolan's kid."
"The others called him Rube," Mavis offered. The cops exchanged glances. Davis nodded. A dull rumbling heralded the train's approach.
"See you at Court Square," Davis told Brady. "Okay. C'mon, kid."
Brady lifted Sandra to her feet and supported her. She shrank away until she recognized his uniform, then clung to him and started to cry., "It's okay, kid," he said, feeling awkward, "They won't bother you any more. Davis here will ride right along with you. Here's your train now."
He helped her along the platform.
"Next time," he cautioned, "travel before dark, before punks like them get on the prowl. There's a hell of a lot of subway in this city, kid. We can't be everywhere. Watch it, huh?"
Mavis boarded the train with the tall cop. Sandra slumped onto a seat. Brady, watching the IRT pull out, shook his head and rubbed his craggy jaw thoughtfully. He shrugged, spat onto the rails, and walked towards the trunstiles.
CHAPTER FOUR
The driver hunched over the wheel of his cab parked out front of the subway at 72nd and Broadway knuckled his eyes and peered blearily at the youthful brunette standing hip-shot beside his vehicle. In the background, the cop, Davis, stood in the station entry watching the supple movement of Sandra's haunches and looking thoughtful, undecided, as if unable to make up his mind whether or not he ought to let the girls go their way without further guidance. On the ride down he hadn't got much out of either one of them. There was something phony about their story, a furtiveness in their reticence and general attitude. It wasn't fear but rather indecision, a vagueness of purpose.
Davis decided it was none of his business, and watched them climb into the cab and exchange a few words with the driver. He watched them drive away. Some months later he was to look back on that pleasant Spring morning with self-condemnation and regret.
The cab rolled for two blocks only and then stopped outside a gloomy all-night cafe.
"I could use my usual cuppa coffee," the driver said, yawning. "You kids want something? Bite to eat, maybe? You look kinda tuckered out."
Mavis nodded. She got out and Sandra followed, moving automatically, half asleep. Apart from some ragged bum hunched in a corner the cafe was deserted. The cab driver ordered ham on rye and coffee all round, and speculated a few dimes on a pin-ball machine while he waited.
"How you like it?" the fat character behind the counter asked Mavis.
"Right now, black. And plenty of relish on the ham."
He nodded. "You girls just hit town?"
"You might say that. We want a room. Nothing flashy."
"Goin' into business?" He laughed, exposing yellow teeth.
The cab driver grinned. Mavis didn't answer.
"You could try Bale's place on sixty-sixth street," the cafe owner said, "Right, Phil?"
"Maybe. Matter of fact that's where I was takin' 'em, Baldy. But now I ain't so sure. I reckon even Bale's would come a bit too high for these kids."
"Ain't they got any dough?"
"Not much," Mavis told him, "It'll have to be cheap."
Baldy grinned. He looked appreciatively at the amount of leg Mavis was unintentionally showing, and sucked at his foul snags.
"I gotta room upstairs you can have if you ain't too particular," he offered, "And seems to me you can't afford to be choosey. Ten bucks a week and ten per cent of the take. And of course there's a coupla conditions...."
"We couldn't take your room," Sanda said innocently, "Where would you sleep?"
Baldy laughed raucously. "Well now," he said, "That's one of the conditions, girlie. I don't move out-you girls just move in. I got a right sizeable bed. Comfortable too."
Just thinking of what it would be like brought a switf thrill to his groin. He licked his fleshy lips.
"No thanks," Mavis said drily.
"Kiddin' aside, Baldy," the cab driver began, "I reckon...."
"Who's kiddin?
"If you ain't you oughta be with that face," Phil retorted bluntly, "Forget it, you slob! I know a few places we can try, girls, providing you've got cab fare...."
They ate up and drank their coffee. Baldy, watching from the doorway as the girls clambered into the cab, couldn't shift his gaze from the plump contours of Sandra's prominent buttocks as she leaned forward. She stood for a moment with one foot in the cab and the other on the ground, and the provocative sight remained with Baldy long after the cab had turned off....
Phil, the driver tried several places unsuccessfull, and finally pulled into the curb.
"This ain't the best district for cheap rooms," he said, "You'd likely do better around forty-sixth."
"So let's go," Mavis muttered wearily. She was tired, mentally and physically, and the way she felt any place that would get her off the streets was right with her.
"You're piling up cab fare," Phil pointed out. "Tell you what. Why don't you shack up at my place till morning? No sense ridin' round half the night. Look, kids, I ain't a bad guy. I'll treat you right. Tomorrow, after a good rest, you'll feel-"
"No" Sandra said firmly, "All we want is to find a room. We can pay. Take us to forty-sixth street."
"Don't rightly know if I've got enough gas."
"Look!" Mavis said irritably, "Don't mind her. I'll agree to anything just so I can get some sleep. Don't get me wrong, mister, I may be green but I'm not stupid. I've been with a man before. You fix us up and I'll be, er, nice to you. But only for tonight, or what's left of it."
"Mavis! You can't...." Sandra protested.
"Shut up! Don't be silly. This is New York. Sandra is, well, different, mister. You've got to understand that. She's got a thing about men. Me, I'm not bothered that way."
Phil wasn't a young man but not bad looking in a dark sort of way, and there was nothing senile about the way his virility responded to girls' appeal and the soft fragrances of their young bodies that had tantalised his nostrils ever since they got into his cab. Somehow he'd figured the blonde for the hot one, and was mildly surprised.
"You got me real restless, kids," he answered, "What's your names?"
She told him. He let in the clutch. Sandra pulled away from Mavis. When the brunette placed her arm affectionately round her shoulders Sandra shrugged it off angrily. Mavis sighed.
"Look!" she exclaimed patiently, "It's just for tonight, just this once. We can't roam the strets all night. I'm worn out. It won't mean anything. It won't make any difference at all to us. Sandra, don't be stubborn."
The sulky blonde didn't answer. Mavis shrugged and settled back. Presently she felt a warm hand groping for hers, the clasp of Sandra's possessive fingers, and realized that she was forgiven.
The apartment Phil Benton took them to was small, just two rooms, a kitchen, and bedroom with one double bed. Sandra flopped, fully dressed, onto the bed, too exhausted for further argument or discussion. Phil put on a pot for coffee, lit two cigarettes, gave one to Mavis. Despite her fatigue she experienced a certain excitement, a mounting anticipation. She had never made love with a man before, only with boys, never an adult, mature man. The prospect was almost frightening. She wondered what it would be like, and trembled at the Uiought of it. Phil Benton was husky, powerfully built. She knew from the way he looked at her that he had been ready for her for some time.
She could hardly keep her eyes open, and yet the animal needs of her young body were stronger, more persistent than the mere longing for sleep. Sex dominated her flesh. She not only wanted a man's love, she needed it to relax her mind and her body, to settle her nerves. It had always been like that, a need rather than mere lustful pleasure. It was the outlet she needed now for pent-up emotions and fears, for jangled nerves and self-reproach. She tried to appear calm and masterful, but could hardly control her eagerness. When Phil placed a hand on her arm she looked up into his face and smiled in a way that brought a hot flush to his cheeks and a lustful gleam to his eyes.
She held his gaze, and he swore. Suddenly he felt self-conscious. Mavis was somehow different from any other girl, or woman, he'd ever had. He wanted her body, yet he felt drawn to her in other ways, wanted to protect her. She seemed such a child, and yet ... Phil sighed.
"I'll make the coffee," he said huskily. Mavis removed her coat. Phil went into the small kitchen. Mavis peeled off her sweater, unzippered her skirt and let it fall. She stepped out of it, moved to the window and drew one of the faded curtains aside. She stared down. The street below was quiet, deserted. A painfully thin cat sat on a low wall licking its paws and eyeing a mangy tabby thoughtfully.
Standing there wearing only brief black panties and bra, Mavis experienced a sudden spasm of apprehension, a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her mouth was sore where the teenage punk who's attacked her on the subway platform had slapped her. It was as if she tottered on the brink of a precipice, unable to help herself, knowing she had to fall one way or the other. She shivered.
Phil Benton, coming back into the room, put down the steaming coffee cups and stood staring intently at the girl. She heard the sharp intake of his breath but didn't turn even when she knew he was crossing the room towards her. He had removed his coat and his shirt sleeves were rolled up exposing thick, muscular arms black with coarse hair. He approached close and stood directly behind Mavis. A muscle in his neck twitched. For the moment he didn't touch her.
Sandra lay unmoving, her eyes closed, breasts heaving gently. "Your friend's out to the wide," Phil remarked softly. "I made the coffee...."
He reached out slowly, put his arms around her waist. She felt the tenseness of his body, the surging strength in his tightening embrace. The rancid smell of his sweat was strong in her quivering nostrils, yet it wasn't an unpleasant odor, exciting rather than repellant. His breath beat hotly on the back of her neck. His hands touched her body, groped, slid over her hips past her waist to her breasts, freed the pulsing flesh, closed over each warm mound, and squeezed painfully.
Mavis moaned, and with a horse cry Phil lost all restraint. He kissed her neck, her shoulders, her back, straining against her until she twisted round, her eyes bright, lips gently parted, and locked her fingers behind his corded neck. She pulled his head down, fastened her moist mouth on his and clung like a wild, demented creature, a panting animal suddenly freed from the leash, tearing at his clothing, moaning, sobbing. Her tongue darted in and out of his mouth, lashing him to frenzy. She thrust herself against him fiercely. Gently, almost reverently, he pulled her briefs down, pushed them over her hips, let them drop. He caressed her taut buttocks then dug his fingers deep into her firm, intimate flesh in a paroxysm of unbridled passion.
"Darling!" Mavis whispered hoarsely. "Love me! I want you ... God, how I want you! Yes, oh! Yes. Oh, darling, I can't stand it ... Dear, sweetie man, love me ... Now Darling, do it now ... Please!"
He swept her up from the floor and fell with her onto the bed. The lamp on the bedside table toppled with a crash but Sandra didn't waken. They were oblivious to her presence as they clung together, flesh to sweating flesh, oblivious to everything save the sweet ecstasy, the urgency, of their union.
CHAPTER FIVE
When Mavis opened her eyes, Phil Benton had gone and daylight speared through chinks in the curtains. Outside the street was busy with traffic. Sandra still slept. Phil had left a note: "Last night was wonderful, kid. If you thought so too, be here when I get back."
Looking down at Sandra, Mavis felt almost inclined to accept Phil's offer and stay on. But common sense overcame her impulse. She had to be practical. The past was behind. She had to make some sort of a future for herself, and she had a certain obligation towards Sandra. There was no future in becoming a cab driver's mistress, however pleasurable. She wanted a good time, the bright lights and above all money. Success and fame weren't important. Money was the key to everything she craved.
Back home she had never been allowed much money. She had stolen more from her aunt than the woman had given freely. Thinking of her aunt, Mavis frowned. It seemed unreal, incredible that the old lady was actually dead and buried. Everything had happened so quickly. There had been no time to plan anything carefully. Where would it all end? Of one thing Mavis was quite certain-she would never go back to Camden, even though the property in Brasher Street was hers, unless her aunt had altered her will before she died, which was doubtful. It was best forgotten. Later, she could dispose of it secretly. She would never dare go back. Auburn Township had-branded her and Sandra. The town and Eddie Mathis. There was no turning back.
Now she had to make her own way, and being of the nature she was she didn't greatly care how she made the grade so long as she could make money one way or another. The idea of prostitution hadn't occured to her. Sex was enjoyment, and she had never thought of it on a commercial basis. She'd always had a hankering for show business, and all she wanted now was a chance to show what she could do.
She wasn't sure how Sandra would fit in or what to do about their intimate relationship. Sandra lacked push. She despised men and was pretty much of a broken reed on her own. There was no possibility of her ever being anything except what she was, not even the remotest chance that she would ever emerge from the dark, strange world in which she existed. She needed careful handling, and probably the arrangement wouldn't work out. But for the present there was no practical alternative.
Mavis sighed. She stood up, naked, and paused beside the rumpled bed, unaware that Sandra was awake until she felt the girl's gentle touch on her buttocks. She turned then to find Sandra gazing avidly at her nakedness. When the blonde drew her down onto the bed she protested but complied despite the irritation she felt. She allowed Sandra to embrace her, to kiss her lips, then her nipples, to fondle her body. She lay there, relaxed, wondering how Sandra would react if she was suddenly reminded of those other, masculine hands that had caressed that same yielding flesh only a few hours before ... Presently the soothing gentleness of the soft hands stroking her stomach aroused a mild response, and she experienced a feeling of warmth and tenderness coupled with mild satisfaction.
Abruptly, as if suddenly realizing where she was and the circumstances of her being there, Sandra thrust herself to a sitting position.
"That man!" she exclaimed, "There was a man. Where is he? What happened last night? Why are we here? Mavis!"
"Don't get alarmed. We're in Phil's apartment. He put us up for the rest of the night after we'd been driving round."
'Who's Phil?"
"Phil Benton, the cab driver who picked us up at the station. Surely you remember? It was too late to do anything else. He brought us here."
"Where is he now?"
"Gone. To work I guess." She didn't mention the note. She got off the bed, went to the window and drew the drapes.
"Nice day," she remarked. "Let's freshen up and get out of here, have something to eat. I'm starving. After that we'll look for a room. Phil gave me some addresses."
"Was he here all night?"
"Well, yes. But what of it? After all, it is his apartment, darling. He did us a favor."
"But you didn't?" Sandra persisted. "I mean, he didn't sleep with us? You wouldn't, do that-not with a man?" There was positive disgust in her tone.
"Of course not, silly," Mavis lied, "Oh, I let him kiss me a few times. Well, I let him touch me once or twice. But it didn't mean anything. He's nice, really."
"I couldn't bear it if I thought you didn't love me any more, that you let a man do those awful things mother and...."
"Sandra, I told you. Nothing happened. Nothing bad ... Maybe he slept on the sofa, or perhaps he didn't get any sleep at all. All I know is when I woke up he was gone."
"But in the cab you encouraged him ... And, Mavis, he must have seen you get undressed!"
"Stop it! You'll have to get used to the idea that you can't have me all to yourself all the time, Sandra. If you love me, trust me. He saw no more of me than I wanted him to, believe me. No man will ever do anything to me that I don't want him to. Now shut up and get off the bed. We've got a busy day ahead."
The way she said it was convincing. The double meaning escaped Sandra completely. She smiled.
"I'll always trust you, darling," she said, "and love you. It's wonderful to be free."
Poor Sandra, Mavis thought. She could make things very difficult. Mavis wished she'd started out alone. The former passionate association between her and Sandra had little meaning now. After being mauled by inexperienced boys Mavis had often experienced a thrill making love with Sandra. But what she had known with Phil Benton was real, completely satisfying at least for a while, and she knew that from then on there would be other men, that what Sandra had to offer was no longer adequate.
Mavis sighed. She could go further alone, and faster. But she wouldn't desert Sandra. Neither would she deny herself the attention her body craved. If Sandra learned the truth and broke up their friendship so much the better. But things might work out, and ordinarily Sandra was good company.
They bathed, tidied the place, then left quietly, latching the door. They ate breakfast at a dingy cafe a block from the apartment. Mavis bought some cigarettes. The stares of a beady eyes character sitting across the room put Sandra off her food, and she was pleased to get out of the place. Looks never bothered Mavis. She had a healthy appetite that nothing short of serious illness could diminish.
They walked to the first address Phil Benton had given her. As he had said, it was a bad district for cheap rooms. By mid-day they had spent two dollars on cab fare without finding what they were looking for. Finally they got a break when Sandra spoke to a well-dressed woman in a powder room near Times Square.
The woman had a cousin over on 46th Street who rented apartments to approved tenants. She favored the girls with a significant searching look when she used the word "approved!" Perhaps, she said, her cousin might have a room if they told him she'd sent them.
They flagged a cruising cab and rode right on over. The cab dropped them at the corner of 46th Street.
He was wheezing somewhat when eventually he halted outside an unpainted door numbered 4c. He coughed, dropped the cigar stub, ground it under his shoe heel, thrust open the door and stood back to make way for the girls. Tire hinges squealed protestingly. Al groped for the light switch, and a pale yellow glow illuminated the room. As he'd warned them, it wasn't fancy. The walls were bare, their only decoration being strips of wallpaper hanging loosely here and there. What meager furniture the gloomy lay-out boasted was badly knocked about and riddled with woodworm. But the coverings on the large double bed seemed reasonably clean.
"Kitchen's through here," Al said, pointing. "Bathroom's on the floor below."
He flipped the kitchen light on, and a dozen or more fat cockroaches scuttled from the pool of light into shadowy corners. Several more on the table top moved around with long feelers questing, as if uncertain whether to run or stay put. When Al gave the table leg a heavy kick they scattered quickly enough.
"Ain't nothin' to worry about," Al assured the girls, grinning at the expressions on their faces. "You get used to them. Every place in town is plagued with the damn things. I'll put down some more killin' powder."
He stared at the swell of Mavis' breasts, fascinated by the proud display. Abruptly he switched his impudent stare to Sandra's prominent behind, licked his lips like a moulting mountain lion about to spring on a prime young fawn doe.
"You girls got class he remarked. "Should do pretty good around here if you keep your noses clean. If you want the room it's fourteen dollars a week in advance. Come and go as you like, and no rules about visitors. Okay?"
"I don't know," Sandra began, "It isn't...."
"We'll take it," Mavis cut in, "Thanks, Al. We are close to Broadway here, aren't we?"
"Broadway? Hell, it's no more'n a fairish walk east. C'mere. See that? That's the Empire State building. You can see the top few floors from here. Few blocks east is Broadway. You figurin' to crash into some strip joint or somethin'?"
"If you mean a revue, a legit show, yes. We do need jobs."
"Jobs? You mean as a front? I'd say you got talent, that's for sure."
Mavis paid him with three fives.
"You girls are kinda different to the usual run we get around here," Al said. "You're green but you'll learn okay. Ain't got change. I'll bring it up later. Anything you want, anything at all, just let me know."
"We'll do that."
At the door Al paused with one hand on the knob. He grinned, and winked at Mavis.
"Wouldn't mind being your first customer," he said pointedly. "Might even made a deal about the rent." He went out chuckling. Sandra frowned.
"What did he mean, our first customer?" she demanded. "What does he think we are?"
"Whores likely."
"What?!"
"Prostitutes. It's pretty obvious that's the type of a girl he's used to renting rooms to. If he'd stared much harder at your backside he'd have lost his eyeballs altogether. But it doesn't matter what he thinks. The main thing is we've got a room, such as it is. I'll do till we can look around for something better. The important thing is to get jobs."
"Yes, you're right, of course. Oh, Mavis, I feel so excited. It's wonderful to be free, with everything just the way I've always wanted it, just you and me, together...."
She flung herself onto the protesting bed and lay kicking her shapely legs in the air. Her dress rucked up above her waist, and she was like that when Al Grant tapped lightly on the door and then came right on into the room.
"Brought your change, girlie," he explained. "Phew! Now that's what I call a well stacked chassis. Oh, brother!"
He extended his hand with the money towards Mavis but kept looking hard at Sandra, who, with surprising candor, for her, rolled off the bed, turned er back on him, then bent over and deliberately flipped up her dress to exposed her thinly covered buttocks., "There," she said coldly, facing him again, "you've got your eyeful. Now get lost!"
Al laughed, but he was visibly shaken. "Don't ever let me catch you in that position, honey," he told Sandra, "unless you crave some action."
He ducked out just in time to avoid the shoe she hurled at his head. "Cheeky swine!" Sandra yelled after him.
CHAPTER SIX
The girls returned to their room that evening little impressed by the locality. Sandra had landed a temporary job in a small library on East 26th Street. Mavis, aiming higher, invested in new stockings and the sort of dress calculated to arouse and maintain the interest of any theatrical agent in full possession of his faculties. She had few inhibitions, if any, only ambition. She knew what she wanted and where she hoped to get. It only remained to establish the quicket and easiest way of getting there, and she was on her way.
Shadows were lengthening when the girls turned into 46th Street off Portman Boulevard, and it was evident, even to Sandra's limited acceptanre of the facts of life, that they had moved into a notorious neighborhood. Mavis especially began to understand fully the implications behind Al Grant's suggestive remarks. He obviously had taken them for a couple of young whores fresh from small town activities. They had taken a room in one of New York's worst vice spots. By the time they reached the hotel both of them had got the message.
From 22nd Street to 46th Street was like a vast warren harboring every type of lecherous sadist, pervert, dope addict, pimp, and prostitute, of every color. Right away, thanks to Al's helpful cousin, the girls had hit the jackpot, the rotten, festering core itself. They couldn't have landed in a lousier district if they'd planned it that way. Even that early every doorway held one or more prostitutes, cold-eyed whores of all shapes and sizes, black, brown, yellow, and white.
Leering men openly accosted Mavis and her friend. Once a staggering drunk exposed himself to them, cursing when they avoided him and hurried on. Furtive figures occupied every nook. On a corner, two queers stood talking, making effeminte gestures. Both wore high-heeled shoes and tight-fitting slacks, and make-up. A woman with close-cropped hair and wearing a man's suit sidled up to Sandra, caught hold of her arm and whispered something. Sandra would have lingered but Mavis pulled her away, and the language the woman hurled after them would have blistered the ears of a 'Frisco wharf-rat.
Two blocks west of Grant's Hotel an enormous Negress suddenly loomed like a bloated monstrosity from a narrow alley and blocked the sidewalk.
"What's yo' hurry, white gals?" she demanded truculently. "Ah doan recall seein' youse round dis beat before. How long yo' bin workin' dis avenue? Youse two of Blanche's new gals, mebbe?"
"We aren't what you think," Mavis said coldly. "Let us pass."
"Doan take dat high-handed tone wid me, yo' trash. Ah asked where youse from an' how long yo' bin in de neighborhood. It doan pay to get smart wid me."
"Honest," Mavis said desperately. "We aren't what you think. We only arrived in New York last night. We've got a room two blocks up, in Grant's Hotel. We're not looking for men."
"Al's place? Dat crap joint? Lordy! If youse really ain't on de game yo' sho' nuff done pick a bad flophouse for decent gals. Shucks! Wid dem shapes youse oughta be on de street. Me now, ah'm all blubber, but ah gets by. Tell me, white gal, if youse ain't open for business what yo' doin' in a place like Al's?"
"For heaven's sake!" Mavis flared, suddenly angry. "It is a hotel, isnt it? We needed a room while we look around for something suitable."
"Yo' mean like work under cover, huh? Yeah, but dat...."
"Nothing like that. We're respectable."
"Meanin' ah ain't? Skip it. Yo' is so right. Ain't hard to tell youse is from outa town."
"What of it?"
"Nuthin', honey. Only if things get kinda tough an' youse decide yo'd like to go to work on de Avenue, youse jest come see ol' Phoebe, huh? Ah'll sho nuff set yo' right. Lady ah works for is mighty generous, honey. But she doan like strangers musclin' in."
"You mean you do this for somebody else?" Mavis asked, restraining Sandra's nervous tugging at her arm. She felt a spark of genuine interest coupled with curiosity. Phoebe laughed. Her huge breasts joggled and her flabby belly quivered uncontrollably.
"Lordy, honey!" she explained, "All us gals works for somebody 'cepting ourselves. How else yo' gwine get by? In dis game yo' gotta have somebody to look out for yo', somebody to sweeten de cops and look after you' iffen youse is sick or somethin'. Hey dere! Mister! Youse lookin' for a nice, well-built gal mebbe-none of dat skinny stuff?"
She thrust Mavis roughly aside and strutted-or perhaps waddled is a better word, towards a lanky drunk wearing Navy whites.
"Please!" Sandra begged. "Let's get away from here. I've seen enough. We can't stay here, Mavis. I knew from the start it was a mistake."
"Oh, stop bleating. We can't afford not to stay. Come on."
A short distance ahead a grotesque, horribly deformed figure scuttled like a giant crab from one patch of shadow into another, emerged again to stare at the girls. They avoided clutching hands and ran the last few yards. Sandra sighed with relief when the door of their room closed behind her. She kicked off her shoes and flopped onto the bed.
"I'll never be able to stay on here," she said firmly. "It's awful, disgusting. Trust us to pick the worst spot possible."
"Oh, it isn't all that bad. All right, so we don't like the locality or what goes on. I don't expect we'll be here very long, only until we get a few dollars together. Everything here is different from back home. You'll have to get used to it, Sandra."
"There are some things I'll never get used to. You're different. I wish I had your disposition."
One of the things they both would have to get used to, and which they didn't discover until they got to bed, was just another something Al had neglected to mention. Bugs ... Not so many compared to the cockroaches, but enough to dampen Sandra's homosexual tendencies for that night at any rate. Both she and Mavis spent a miserable night. Morning found them hollow-eyed and irritable. Sandra was apprehensive about her new job. After breakfast she took off leaving Mavis to her own devices.
It was as Mavis emerged from the bathroom with its drab, flaking paint and faulty shower that she bumped into Al. Most likely be arranged it that way but didn't count on such a solid impact. The outcome was that Al sustained a minor nose bleed and Mavis fell heavily on her rump. Her robe flew open, and she was naked underneath, a fact Al was quick to appreciate. Helping her up he contrived 'to touch just about every portion of her body that mattered, smiling disarmingly all the while, and she experienced something akin to the delicious thrill Phil Benton's caresses had aroused in her flesh.
"You did that on prrpose," she accused. Al nodded.
"Yeah," he admitted. "Mebbe I did. But I didn't figure on almost bustin' my nose. I thought it was about time we sorta got better acquained, doll. You had breakfast yet?"
She nodded. "An hour ago."
"You can use another cuppa coffee...."
"In your room, of course?"
"Naturally. Relax, babe, I won't bite you."
"That's more than I can say for the bugs we found crawling all over our bed. Why didn't you tell us about the bugs?"
"Bugs? What bugs? Hell! You don't call them little fellas bugs. They're just small fry. Got no teeth."
"No? Look at these."
Mavis pulled her robe aside and exposed her pinkwhite hip, its former perfection marred now by several angry red blotches.
"They didn't make those marks just sucking," she said. "You'll have to do something about them, Al."
"The bugs-or the bites?"
He grabbed her suddenly and pulled her against him. The look in her eyes encouraged him. She made no move to stop him when he slid a hand inside her robe and imprisoned one sweetly rounded breast. The breath hissed sharply between her teeth and Al knew she was all his. He began to remove the robe completely, but she clung to it.
"Not here!" she protested, "We'll go to our room. It's nearest."
She went ahead of him up the stairs, and desire flayed him with every. step, every movement of her vibrant young body. He was breating heavily when he followed Mavis into the apartment, but it was not from exertion. She was barely across the threshold before he kicked the door shut and snatched the robe from her. He fondled her nakedness, muttering crude vulgarities, and she uttered a cry of pleasure when he dropped to his knees and pressed his lips to the bug bites on her hip.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Thereafter, Al was a regular visitor to apartment 4c whenever Sandra was out of the way. Meanwhile Mavis spent much of her time making the rounds of theatrical agents and producers, and her education progressed speedily and considerably. There was, she discovered, no shortage of men willing and able to advance her Broadway aspirations and set her up for a career-for certain inducements and considerations. Talent, apparently, was a secondary requirement. What mattered most was a girl's shape, her personality, and of course, her willingness to cooperate....
The most important item of furniture in the majority of agents' offices was, Mavis learned, the sofa, and while she didn't object to mixing business with pleasure, there was a limit, even to her capacity for indulgence. Some of the agents she met were genuinely interested in booking new talent, and put her name in their books at face value. But she had no stage experience beyond small parts in a couple of high school plays, and if she'd been as quick to exercise her brains as she was her fanny she would have seen that most of the plum jobs that were dangled so temptingly before her existed only in the agile imagination of the character whose interest in her went no further than the couch.
She almost wore out a pair of shoes among other things far more essential, before she got wise to the phonies and became selective and more discriminating in her choice of agencies. Thereafter she lied about her background and her experience or lack of it. She promised much but gave virtually nothing except provocation calculated to maintain interest, and assurances that she was available-once she had secured the job in question.
This strategy proved more successful, and by holding out she eventually landed a minor part in a new comedy. The job lasted exactly two nights. During the next six weeks she was given eleven other parts ranging from straight acting to stooging for a Chinese magician, and failed miserably in all of them.
Ultimately even she had to face facts and admit that she was no actress and had no talent whatsoever insofar as legitimate theatre was concerned. But there were other angles.
The morning she walked into Cash Morgan's office she knew she'd found just the niche for her. The basic decor motif in Moran's layout was comprised of glamour photographs and pin-ups, mostly nudes that left little to the imagination. Mavis realized right away that she had been fishing in the wrong pond. Here was an opening for the special kind of talent she did possess and knew how to exploit.
Half an hour after entering Morgan's office she straightened her clothing, repaired her make-up job, and swaggered out with a signed copy of a six month contract in her bag and her arm linked with Moran's. Over an expensive lunch he explained some of the finer points and detail connected with her 'star" billing. She didn't have to act, or sing, or do anything except look attractive-and take off her clothes twice nightly for the benefit of the jaded customers patronizing a sleazy night-spot named, appropriately, the Jive Dive. The job paid a hundred and fifty dollars a week with the promise of a further fifty if she made a hit, rising to five hundred a week if she really drew the customers.
The fact that Cash Moran was impotent bothered Mavis not at all after the disappointment of the initial discovery. She knew other ways, and what she hadn't already learned from Phil Benton and Al Grant she picked up from Moran himself. What Cash Moran lacked Al amply compensated for....
So far as Sandra knew to the contrary, Mavis worked nights in the chorus of a sparking reveue, though somehow there was always some reason why Sandra couldn't take in the show and see Mavis go through her dance routine. The break, Mavis figured, would come soon enough, and for all Sandra's faults Mavis knew that she would miss her if the unpredictable blonde walked out as she was quite likely to do if she found out that her friend and lover was performing a twice nightly strip for gaping men.
Sandra meanwhile was getting ahead in her library job, and liking it. There was, she speedily discovered, a woman named Phyllis Maxwell working in the reference department who had similar tastes and peculiarities of her own, a fact disclosed to Sandra one afternoon when they both chanced to visit the powder-room at the same time. Sandra, torn between loyalty to Mavis-who had been neglecting her of late, and her need for self-expression and an outlet for dark, turbulent desires, tried to resist the compelling forces. But she was weak-the older woman very persuasive. Phyllis Maxwell had a good figure, and no scruples. When she took the initiative, Sandra was lost.
Afterwards, she felt a deep sense of guilt and shame that preyed on her mind until she looked, and felt, positively ill. Eventually she couldn't endure it any onlger and asked to be allowed to leave early, having made up her mind to confess her lapse to Mavis and beg her forgiveness. Shortly after the lunch hour she arrived back at the delapidated apartment building. In her present agitated state of mind the place was even more depressing than usual. Her footsteps echoed hollowly on the worn stairs. When she reached the third landing her leg muscles were aching and she paused for a while before tackling the final flight. Leaning against the wall, she heard sounds of what appeared to be scuffling from upstairs on the next floor. At least, she thought, Mavis was home.
Then she heard a series of heavy thurhping noises followed by a scraping sound and a low cry. Alarmed, she ran up the remaining treads, taking them two at a time, and flung open the apartment door, blurting Mavis name. She hauled up then, suddenly, as if she'd run slap into a stone wall, and stood staring blankly, stunned, shocked, transfixed by the sight of Mavis sprawled on the bed in the clutching arms of a naked man....
Mavis was still partly dressed but her bra was displaced, baring her firm, large breasts, and her raised skirt exposed her eager limbs and the quivering of her leg muscles. It was Al Grant, grunting, sweating, gasping, hairy buttocks taut with effort. His face was pressed firmly into the hollow between Mavis' breasts, and with every impassioned movement she moaned with animal pleasure and dug her long, slender fingers deeper into his hard back. Her legs were crossed over his hips, her knees clamped around his ribs.
Sandra, horrified, betrayed, stood as if petrified, unable to move. A crazy desire to laugh struggled for mastery over the tears that welled into her wide, accusing eyes. In that moment her whole flimsy world toppled. The meaning went from her young, distorted life, all trust, love, and reason. The shuddering pain, her anguish and cm el disillusionment, poured out in a wild, pitiful cry: "NO! MAVIS! Oh, God-no!"
If Mavis heard she gave no sign. Al swore. Startled, he twisted his head round with some difficulty and favored Sandra with a savage glare.
"Get the hell outa here!" he yelled. His eyes were bloodshot, horrible, inflamed with passion. When Sandra didn't move he paused in his violent love making just long enough to snatch up a heavy glass ashtray from the bedside table and throw it at her. His aim was bad. The missile shattered against the wall and the sound of it breaking snapped Sandra out of her trance.
Her brain seemed numb.
A red haze clouded her reasoning, and she saw things through a mist of brimming tears. As Mavis, vaguely aware of something wrong and irritated by Al's faltering response, half raised herself so that her breasts were flattened against his shoulder, Sandra whirled round and stumbled blindly from the room. Mavis caught only a fleeting glimpse of the distressed figure. She wasn't certain whether or not she had heard Sandra shouting, but now, brief though the glimpse of her friend's plump shape was, she realized instantly what had happened and she called to her by name, at the same time trying to push Al away. But he would not be denied.
Mavis heard Sandra's feet pattering on the landing, then a sudden splintering of wood followed by a ghastly shriek that tailed off and ended abruptly with a soggy thumping sound ... Fear stabbed through Mavis. An ice-cold fist seemed to clamp around her thudding heart. With strength prompted by desperation she flung Al's bulk off and ran out onto the landing, and almost spilled through the gap in the rails where a large section of the rotten woodwork had broken away, permitting a sheer drop to the ground floor....
Sandra Mathis lay sprawled out like a disjointed doll on the hallway floor, her limbs bent at grotesque angles, tongue protruding, swollen, bitten almost thought. Her head was bleeding, and her staring eyeballs bulged horribly....Mavis screamed.
A fat, bedraggled blonde woman emerged cautiously from a doorway across the hall and stood staring down at the broken body. The faded robe she wore hung open to reveal a flabby stomach that bulged over the tight waistband of soiled blue panties. Her enormous breasts were bare, blue-veined, sagging. Her feet were thrust into scuffed mules. Her tousled hair looked as if it hadn't been combed for a week.
A big man, balding, unshaven, pushed past her demanding to know what the hell was going on. Seeing the still corpse he shut his loose mouth and gaped. The dead girl's clothing had hiked up sufficiently for him to see the contours of her trimly covered buttocks, and the intimate exposure fascinated him. He swore when the meaty blonde swung him round and thrust him back inside the room. She slammed the door.
Al came down the stairs scowling, adjusting his clothing. He hadn't bothered to tuck in his shirt or put on his shoes.
"What's the idea runnin' out on-" he started, then saw the broken rails and the huddled shape, and came the rest of the way down fast.
"Great day in the morning!" he exclaimed. "What's with her? She jump or somethin'?"
Mavis, crouched beside Sandra's limp body, looked up. Her eyes were brimming over with tears.
"She fell," she said brokenly. "She saw us-like ... that and she ran out. She must have fallen against those rotten railings. Oh, Al! She's dead...!"
Al swore, finished buttoning his pants. "Take it easy, kid," he said gruffly. "It was an accident. Why the hell should she act up like that just because she finds you in a clinch? She abnormal or somethin'?"
Mavis nodded miserably, fighting the panic that threatened to engulf her.
""We had a sort of-of understanding," she said. "We were sort of close. In a way I was all she had."
"You mean she was queer? I should have known."
Mavis winced. "Don't use that revolting word," she said angrily. "All right-so she was a lesbian. It's just the way she was, no worse than some of the slimy bastards propping up doorways less than a block from here most any time of the night or day. Poor Sandra. She deserved better than this. Where are you going?"
"I'm gonna call the cops. What else? And we'd best get our story straight for when they show up. Hey! Don't touch her."
Mavis ignored him and raised Sandra's bloody head. She tried to turn the body over onto its back but lacked the strength. Reaction suddenly set in and she desisted, uttered a hoarse cry, and flung herself across the inert figure and sprawled there, sobbing convulsively. Al, frowning, sighed.
"Screwy dames," he muttered. "Wacky, all of 'em." He went to the wall phone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
One of the cops who arrived within a few minutes of Al's call was Sam Davis, the young officer who had broken up the subway incident a few weeks back. When he turned the corpse over and recognized Sandra Mathis, he swore. Mavis was up in her room, packing.
"Is she dead?" another cop asked. Davis nodded. "Dead as she'll ever be."
"She's just a kid."
"I know. It's no more'n a couple of weeks since me and Brady pulled a bunch of teen-age punks off her and her friend on the subway."
"The hell you say!"
"It's her all right. I felt bad at the time letting the pair of them go off that time of night. They said they were visiting, that they had somewhere to go."
He looked around and scowled at the peeling walls. He grimaced. "I should have know they were just a couple of pilgrims on the loose," he said wearily. "Of all the dumps they would wind up here. Hey All Where's the other one?"
Al gestured toward the stairs with a horny thumb.
"She's getting ready to blow."
"What do you know about this?"
"Not much. Heard a yell. Came out and found her lyin' right there. Her pal says she fell through the rails-musta had a queer turn or somethin'."
"What were they doing here, Al?"
"Doing? All I know is they come here asking for a room, so I rented 'em 4c. I don't ask a lotta questions that ain't any of my business, Davis. They wanted a room and I rented 'em one."
"There'll be hell to pay over this. The whole crummy joint's falling apart. Seems I recall Mosher telling you to get those rails fixed."
"Aw, shucks, Davis, a guy can't remember everything. Besides, repairs cost money."
"And rotten woodwork costs lives, you punk!" Davis told him angrily. "Jim-I'm going up to see the other girl. Call the wagon, huh?"
Jim, rangy, red-haired, nodded. Davis started up the creaking stairs. "She's in 4c," Al called.
"I heard you the first time," Davis said drily. Al Grant was no stranger to the police. They had pulled him in on numerous occasions on suspicion of pushing dope but had never been able to pin anything on him-yet. The district was listed as one of the city's worst vice areas. Ask any cab driver where to tie onto some action and nine times out of ten he'd head straight for the East 40s. Cathouse Road, they called 46th Street. And this was where those two green lads had wound up. Davis sighed. Whoever had steered them into that crummy section ought to have their asses kicked up around their lousy ears. Some dame likely, procuring for one of the whorehouses madams.
Maybe, Davis thought, the girls weren't as green as they lokoed. They didn't look the type, especially the dead girl. But then how many of the countless whores he'd encountered on the game did look the part, at least before their looks began to depreciate? Davis swore. When the girl didn't answer his knock he went on in. Mavis was standing by the window with her back, towards him, staring down into the street.
"Remember me?" he asked. She turned slowly. Recognition glimmered in her dark-ringed eyes. She looked older. Just two short weeks seemed to have wrought a change. She didn't answer immediately.
"You'd best sit down and tell me exactly what happened," Davis told her. "I suppose you know your friend is dead?"
Mavis nodded. Her eyes were reddened from crying. She twisted her fingers together nervously.
"There isn't much to tell," she said hesitantly. "Yes, I remember you. You're one of the policemen who helped us on the station that night. You needn't look at me like that. Sure, we lied to you about having somewhere to go. Things weren't so good back home so we came here to try and make something out of ourselves, but not the way you think."
"Where's home?"
"I'd rather not say. It isn't at all like you're thinking. There was a-well, a scandal. We had to get away. It wasn't so much what we did as what people said we tried to do. Oh, it's a long, complicated story. All we wanted was to be left alone."
"So you decided to strike out in New York and you just naturally came right along to Al's place?"
"We didn't know this wasn't a nice district. We just wanted a room so that we could look around for suitable jobs. Some woman directed us here. Mr. Grant's cousin. We...."
"His cousin? Yeah, she would. I'm wise to that bitch. I'll bet she didn't tell you what sort of place Al runs here or what her line of business is? If you'd told me how things were maybe I could have helped."
"We just wanted to be left alone. We were glad to get any sort of a room for a start. We planned to move out just as soon as we saved a bit of money. Sandra already had a job in a library on 26th Street, and I'm being considered for a part in-in a revue."
She didn't tell him about the strip show or Cash Moran.
"What happened to your friend?"
Mavis shook her head resignedly. "I can only guess," she said. "She'd only come home, earlier than usual. She seemed excited about something, and she went out in a hurry and-."
"Excited? About what?"
"I don't know. All I do know is she almost ran out of here. I heard her start down the stairs, then a sound of wood breaking and then an awful scream. When I came out she was lying down there on the floor. It was horrible...."
She felt surprised at her calmness. Hen panic had gone. Now that it was all over and she had adjusted herself to the shock the whole incident seemed unreal, and relatively unimportant. It was as if she was only just beginning to know her true self. She actually felt a mild form of relief. There was, she realized, a hard, ruthless streak in her nature that she had not hitherto suspected. Standing there, letting her mind dwell on it, she knew suddenly that her grief was superficial, that deep down she didn't really care a damn about Sandra.
In a way the tragedy was an escape, and she accepted it as such, a regrettable but opportune incident that left her perfectly free to follow her own inclinations. Her own callousness momentarily appalled her, but it was there and there was no use denying it. She realized that Davis was speaking to her. She sighed. Now that the first numbing shock had worn off she just wanted to get out of there. The last thing she wanted was to get involved with the police.
"Got any plans?" Davis asked her. "Apart from this revue set-up. About where you're gonna stay, I mean?"
"I'll find something. I can't stay here, and I can't go home. I'm all packed now. The trouble is until I get settled I don't have much money and...."
"Yeah, yeah," he cut in tonelessly. "I know how it is. I've seen kids like you before. Listen. I dunno how old you are or why you left home. But I do know that if you hang around joints like this and mix with guys like Al, sooner or later you'll wind up like your friend-on a slab in Fordham morgue or else by being sent down by some judge or taking sick with something you can't get rid of. I ought to take you in and find out more about you, and if I take you downtown they'll damn soon ship you back where you came from."
"I won't go!"
"Don't interrupt. Listen. You look like a nice kid, and I'm willing to help you, especially after what's happened here. So I'll tell you what I'll do. I've got a sister lives out on Grand Concourse. Her name's Vernice. She's married, and they've got one kid about eight months old. I think you'd like Vern and Travis, her husband. And I happen to know they'd give their eyeteeth for a regular baby-sitter who'd...."
"Baby-sitter!"
"Hear me out! If I have a word with Vern I reckon it would be okay for you to move in there, just until you see how things are going to work out. You'd have your room and key, and nobody would pry. You could help out with the baby such times as you're free, and living there wouldn't cost you half what you're paying for this lousy pad. And I'll be able to keep track of you."
"Why are you so interested?"
"I'm not, personally. Don't get me wrong. But I am a cop and what happens to you is my concern. It's everybody's business. So I'm telling you, either you move in with my sister and get out of this muck or I'll see to it that you're sent back where you came from whether you like it or not."
"You can't force me."
"You wanna bet? Listen, kid. You're pretty and you've got guts. But this city's crawling with guys, and dames just itching for a chance to take advantage of you. I've more than a sneaking suspicion you're under age, so that makes you our responsibility. Just how old are you?"
"Old enough to know what I'm doing. Why can't you just leave me alone. I haven't done anything wrong. I haven't any family so you see that makes me....
"Still our responsibility, so don't give me a bad time. Make up your mind what it's gonna be. Mavis, isn't it? Okay. It's for your own good, kid "
She nodded. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "I know I should be grateful. I am really. It's just the shock and-everything...."
"Sure, I understand. That's settled then. I'll fix things with Vern. Meanwhile you'd best check into some decent hotel for tonight. Look, here's five bucks."
"No. Thank you, but I couldn't take your money. I'll be all right here, just for one more night. It all happened so quickly, about Sandra, I mean. I felt scared and just wanted to get away from here. But I'm all right now, really."
Mavis was thinking about her new job, her place in the downtown chorus line. She couldn't afford to miss out on a performance and perhaps get into Cash Moran's black books.
"Well, okay then, if you're sure. I'll call you sometime tomorrow. Oh, and I shall want a few details about your friend. Where she's from and who to notify. Look, Mavis, you'll have to tell me. The girl's dead, somebody has to know. If you force me to take you downtown, they'll soon get it out of you, believe me. If you want me to help you, you'll have to trust me. Okay?"
Mavis nodded. They would, she knew, find out anyway, and the prospect of being shipped back to Camden appalled her. She told Davis what he needed to know.
"But they're no good," she added. "Her step father is a filthy, drunken beast. It was because of him and what he tried to-to do to her, yes, and to me, that we had to clear out. Her mother is almost as bad. She just doesn't care about Sandra, never did. Now that she's dead she won't even feel sorry. I knew her. So now you know why we left Camden. Don't make me tell you the details, please. But it was because of Sandra's step father. You must know what I mean."
"Sure. It figures. I'll take it from here. You just sit tight until you hear from me. Okay?"
Mavis agreed. She followed him out onto the landing. She hadn't heard the ambulance arrive, but Sandra's body had gone along with the cop named Jim. Davis went downstairs, gave Mavis a 'thumbs-up' sign, and went out. From the window of her lonely room Mavis watched him climb into a patrol car and drive away.
She felt a sudden flood of resentment. Who was Davis to tell her what to do? She'd had enough of people trying to run her life. He was treating her like a child. She could have undersood it if he'd propositioned her. That was her kind of situation, and she wouldn't have resented that at all, might even have enjoyed it, even though he was a cop. He seemed a lot of man, really rugged. But she didn't like the whip-cracking bit.
She was tempted to finish packing and try to lose herself. But she knew that the police had an uncanny knack of finding people, and the idea of being sent back to Camden was unthinkable. It didn't enter her mind to doubt Davis' threat or the police department's ability and powers to back it up. She wasn't sure what age she had to be to come outside their jurisdiction, and, for the moment, it hadn't occurred to her to ask. She had a good thing lined up with Cash Moran, and it would, she decided, be foolish to throw it all away by defying Davis. She would, for a while, fall in with his wishes. Perhaps for all his denial of a personal motive he was interested in her from a purely physical point of view but he wanted to play it cagy.
All right, she would play it his way. It would be nice to live decent again. And if matters came to the worst there was always one way by which she could rid herself of interference from Davis or anybody else. She could get married, or pretend to. Once she could produce a marriage license nobody could touch her. A drastic step, but one that need not prove a drawback if she played her cards right.
All sorts of wild, impractical thoughts passed through her disordered mind as she got ready to go downtown to the Jive Dive. On the way she put in a telephone call to Cash Moran. That night she didn't return to the cheap apartment room. Al Grant, waiting confidently for her to show, decided by eleven-thirty that she wasn't coming, by which time he had worked himself into such a state of anticipation that he had to have a woman, any woman. He needed woman's flesh with an urgency that overruled all else. By midnight he was in the arms of a bored red-head who lived on the ground floor, and who was out-of-pocket to the tune of a week's rent....
After the show Mavis went out to dinner with Cash Moran. She seemed distracted and nervous. When Moran commented on it she told him there'd been some trouble at the apartment building where she roomed. She didn't say what. Moran's reaction was exactly what she expected.
"So blow the crummy joint and move in with me, why don'tcha?" he asked. "You and me, we got a lot in common, baby."
His hand found her knee under the table and moved up along her thigh.
"Mebbe I ain't the best lookin' guy in the world, honey," he added, "but we get along okay, and I ain't mean."
"I wouldn't want to be pinned down, Cash."
"Hell! I wouldn't expect to monopolize you, kid. I just figured if you was on the spot we could get together...."
"That's sweet of you, Cash. I'll think about it. Okay?"
"Okay. But don't take too long, huh? You got plans for tonight?"
She had, but as they included him Moran quit chewing his cigar and looking aggressive, and ordered another bottle. Mavis' experience with the male hadn't yet run into anyone like Cash Moran. He did things to her that were different, and as thrilling in their own special, interesting way as the real thing. And last time they made love Moran had managed to overcome his deficiency to a certain extent, sufficiently to re-establish his self-esteem and complete his general satisfaction, and hers....
He gave her breakfast before putting her into a cab. Back at 46th Street she encountered Al out front studying a racing sheet. He scowled darkly.
"What happened to you last night?" he demanded curtly. "I expected you back-waited all night."
"Hell, Al. After what happened I didn't feel like coming back here. I went to a hotel. I felt you'd understand."
"Sure, lad, I understand. It's just that I'd been looking forward to takin' up where we left off. Kept hopin' you'd come."
"What was she like, Al?"
"Eh? Who?"
"The girl you slept with last night." She reached out and picked a long, copper-colored hair off his shirt collar, held it up to the light, smiling in a way that irritated Al.
"Okay," he growled. "Don't look so damned superior. So I didn't wait all night. I sure enough waited for you till midnight. I hope you know you cost me ten dollars."
"Aren't I worth it?"
"Yeah, well, mebbe. But she wasn't. You had breakfast?" She nodded.
"That cop call yet?" she asked.
"Davis? No. Bit early yet. You wanna watch out for that snoopin' bastard. Don't pay to trust cops. Ain't hard to see what he's after. Want some coffee?"
She did. They went inside. The fat blonde was stooping outside her door picking up a bottle of milk. Al slid his hand over her enormous rump and slapped her buttocks. She swore, but when he looked back she was smirking.
"When's that lazy bum of a husband of yours gonna come up with some rent?" he asked. "It's three weeks now."
"Charlie ain't workin', Al. You know how it is."
"Yeah, damned right I know. The day Charlie gets a job I'll start takin' in laundry. Come Friday I'm letting die room."
Her small eyes gleamed malice, but she adopted a wheedling tone. "I ain't bin well, Al. Things are get-tin' tougher on the street and I ain't so young."
"Twenty bucks by Friday or out."
"Twenty dollars! Why, you miserable slob!"
Al paused, leaned over the rail, remembered its rottenness and eased his weight off it. He grinned.
"Trouble with you is you're as lazy as Charlie," he accused. "You ain't' out in any time all week."
"I told you. I bin sick."
"Sick hell! You got it. Use it."
"Like later on mebbe, when you ain't so busy?" she came back quickly.
"You propositionin' me? Listen, I can't live on tail. Seems like everybody around here wants to pay me with everything except money.
"I'll be waitin', Al. Any time."
"Yeah? You'll have a hell of a long wait then. Twenty dollars by Friday I said, or I'm lettin' the room."
The blonde went inside and slammed the door.
Sam Davis rang Al's phone around ten-thirty. Everything was arranged, he told Mavis. She could move in right away. She'd have her own room, and Vern was loking forward to having her. Listening to him, Mavis felt again a strong resentment. She wanted neither his help nor his protection. But for the time being she didn't have much choice, at least she believed she hadn't, and at the back of her mind was the notion that maybe it wouldn't be too bad at least for a short while, to live among normal surroundings with decent people.
After all, she wasn't a whore. She just liked men, and a good time. Soner or later her real break would come, perhaps not as she had planned, in movies or show business, but something that would put money in her hand. And, she thought, there was always Cash Moran who made plenty of money and was a good spender, should she become too bored.
CHAPTER NINE
Vernice Branch was not at all as Mavis had expected her to be. The woman who answered the bell and opened the door of the neat house on Grand Concourse was about thirty, well dressed. Her figure was mature, high-breasted, her hips broad but proportionate, her legs long and shapely. Her hair style was attractive, and her face, though not beautiful-her mouth was too wide and her forehead too narrow-denoted character and firmness. When she smiled her best features were emphasized. The expression in her soft brown eyes indicated a warm and generous disposition coupled with a passionate nature.
She welcomed Mavis in a manner that instantly set the girl at ease and banished some of her gnawing doubts.
"So you're Mavis," she greeted. "Do come in. Watch the green paint. It's not quite dry. You're younger than I expected. Sam rather gave us the impression of a much more, er-sophisticated girl."
Not knowing the full meaning of the word Mavis was lost for a suitable reply. She smiled and stepped inside, her eyes busy. The place was well furnished, comfortable. It conveyed an atmosphere of staid respectability the girl could almost feel, like an tangible thing, pulsating and alive, and vaguely frightening.
"Sam's told us all about you," Vernice Branch confided. "I hope you'll be happy here."
"I'm sure I shall, Mrs. Branch."
"Please! Call me Vern. Everybody does. My husband gets home around five-thirty, at least that's when I expect him today. He travels, you know. Gets around a lot. You'll like George."
Mavis nodded. "Sam, your brother. He's nice," she said. "I hope my being here won't put you out."
"Definitely not. Were glad to have you. I suppose Sam told you about the baby?"
"Oh, yes. I'll be pleased to help out. But I work, you know. Three nights a week, sometimes four, evenings that is. I'm in show business."
"I know. Sam told me. We don't got out often. George is away from home a lot. Come, I'll show you your room."
The room was spacious, well furnished and tastefully decorated, a very different layout to the broken down flea-trap Mavis had shared back at Al's flophouse.
"It's lovely," she said, genuinely impressed.
"It was my mother's room. She died last fall. I think you'll find it comfortable."
"You're very kind, Mrs. Branch-Vern."
"Nonsense. I'll be glad of your company. I seldom see George except weekends. Would you like to see the baby?"
Mavis wasn't wildly enthusiastic but managed to put on a convincing act. Sight of the gurgling infant failed to rouse any dormant maternal instincts within her youthful breast. She viewed the red-faced mite with calm indifference. Something was obviously expected of her, so she smiled.
"She's cute," she said.
"He, dear," Vern corrected. "Gordon. Not a bit of trouble really. Oh, my! Look at the time. Soon as! you've freshened up, I'll serve lunch. Hungry?"
"Famished."
"Good. We're having pork chops with pie for s dessert. Sam said he might come over if he can make it." j. She laid a hand on Mavis' arm. "My dear," she said, g we're so very sorry about your friend. Perhaps I j-j shouldn't mention it but, well, I wanted you to know we sympathize."
The doorbell shrilled, saving Mavis further embarrassment. "That's probably Sam now," Vern said. "I'll get it."
It was Sam Davis. "Hello," he greeted Mavis. "I see you got here okay. Reckon you'll like it here?" He kissed his sister lightly.
"We're getting on just fine, Sam," she told him. "I hoped you'd make it. Lunch will be ready in a few minutes."
He lit a cigarette, offered the pack to Mavis. Vern didn't smoke.
"I'll have to eat and then blow right away," he informed them. "Some trouble out Central Park way. Jim's dropping by for me."
He seated himself, blew a series of smoke rings. "By the way," he said, looking at Mavis, "we pulled in that Rube Nolan punk-one of the hoodlums who jumped you that night. The tall slob. Remember? We'll need you to identify him."
"Me? But I only caught a glimpse of him. The lighting was bad. I remember he was tall, and he had a spotty face. But...."
"The Lieutenant wants you to look in anyway. You working this evening?"
"Yes, but I don't see."
"It won't be out of your way, then. It's in your own interests to see young punks like him put where they belong, isn't it?"
"I suppose so...."
"Okay. You have to pass the Court Square Police Station. Ask for Lieutenant Crawley. He won't keep you long. Hey! How about something to eat, Vern?"
"Coming right up, Sam."
By the end of the first week Mavis found herself liking Vern Branch more each day. Vern brought out the best in her, but her restlessness persisted, and she went in constant fear that Sam Davis would find out the true nature of her downtown night spot act and whom she was mixed up with. She had told Cash Moran about Davis and the baby-sitting setup, and he had okayed her working just three or four nights instead of every night as previously agreed. Moran didn't want any trouble with the cops over Mavis.
Vern treated her like an adult, helped her in numerous ways, gave her clothes, and acted more like a devoted elder sister than a stranger. But Mavis couldn't settle. She was soon bored. She felt cramped, hemmed in, and having to be home nights after the show didn't suit her or Moran, who was becoming increasingly insistent that she move in with him. Even . working three nights a week Mavis was making good money. But Moran wanted her full time. She was popular, quick to learn, and had a fresh, amateurish style different from the usual routine. It went down well with the jaded types who frequented the sleazy dive.
Living as she was, in two different worlds, with a foot on the fringe of each, was demoralizing. She had to pretend all the time to Vern, be continually on her guard against betraying herself. Yet she couldn't bring herself to make the break. A part of her accepted and was grateful for the sort of life Vern Branch offered. But the rest of her pulled strongly towards promiscuity and Cash Moran's glittering setup.
Sam Davis affected her intensely. During the first week he came by often, and she felt drawn to him physically. Yet she hesitated to openly declare her interst. In a way she was afraid of him, of what he represented, and she contrived to restrain her natural impulses where he was concerned in the hope that he would react to her sly hints and carefully planned overtures, and would take the initiative. More than once she had Sam all steamed up, but being as yet ignorant of her true nature and not realizing that her manoeuvres were intentional, he was careful to conceal the fact from her, thereby depriving himself of what could have been his for the asking.
Late on the Saturday night Vern's husband arrived home. Mavis had just got back from the strip joint and was taking a bath. Vern had gone to visit her cousin on Staten Island, taking the baby. She had said she'd be home by eleven. When Mavis heard the street door open and close she naturally assumed it was Vern coming in and walked out of the bathroom just as she was, stark naked, towelling her hair.
"You're just in time for a cup of coffee," she said, "had a good day? OH!"
She made a half-hearted attempt to cover herself, but the damage was done. George Branch was tall, lean, and the handsomest man Mavis had encountered since leaving Camden. With his high forehead and dark, unruly hair he reminded her vividly of Jimmy Leach, one of the boys she had played around with back home. George stood there with his hat tipped to the back of his head and regarded her with a look of blank astonishment.
A broad, appreciative grin curved his lips and put creases in his tanned cheeks.
"Excuse me," Mavis blurted. "I thought you were Vern...."
"Oh? For a moment you had me worried. I figured maybe I'd gotten into the wrong house. I thought I knew all Vern's friends."
"I'm not a friend. I mean, I am, in a way. Well, I live here...."
"The hell you do?"
His gaze seemed to penetrate clear through the bath towel. Mavis, her confidence restored, smiled. Covering one intimate area she contrived to expose another even more intimate. She adjusted the towel, but not too quickly. George Branch, quick to glimpse and appreciate the show of ripe breast and sleek thigh, began to peel off his light raincoat but didn't look away.
"It might be a good idea if you slipped on a robe or something," he suggested. "Not that I'm the bashful type, you understand. But if Vern should come in just about now she could get the wrong impression. Where is she, anyway?"
Mavis told him. Her surprise over, she turned and went back into the bathroom, treating George to an exciting view of smooth bare back and softly rounded buttocks all pink and glowing from the shower's steamy heat. When she returned, wearing a loosely tied robe, Vern's husband was raking around in the icebox for something to eat.
"This better?" Mavis asked.
"No, but its less disturbing," he told her. "You say you live here?"
She explained, briefly but adequately, while preparing coffee. George meanwhile fashioned himself a king-size sandwich and chewed thoughtfully.
"The arrangement suits me," he said presently. 'What do you think of the baby?"
"He's cute, and a lot of fun. Vern says you move around a lot. Are you staying long?"
"Until Tuesday, then I have to drive to Illinois. You're not a New Yorker?"
"Just a country girl. Actually I'm in show business."
The way she said it sounded impressive. He raised an eyebrow. Mavis poured coffee, leaned over to set the steaming cup in front of him. Her robe fell open and he could see into the deep valley between her breast. The warm, fresh smell of her youthful body was strong and provocating in his nostrils. He experienced a wild urge to thrust his hand inside the robe, and only the sound of a key turning in the latch of the street door checked his sudden impulse. Vern seemed surprised to see him.
"Darling!" she greeted. "If I'd known you were coming today I wouldn't have gone to Edith's. I see you've met Mavis...."
A trace of a frown clouded her face as she noticed the casual way in which Mavis' robe was held together. She went through the kitchen to the main bedroom and laid the sleeping baby in his cot.
"I'm just out of the shower," Mavis called. "The coffee's fresh if you'd like some."
"Thanks, I would. What a journey! Been in long, George?'
"About twenty minutes. Thought I was in the wrong apartment when I found Mavis here. Lucky I was sober."
Vern laughed. She closed the bedroom door, came up behind George and placed her arms around his neck.
"Miss me?" she asked. He reached for her, drew her around in front of him and kissed her.
"You know damn well I have," he said. "Gordon okay?"
"Fine. I see you've found the chicken. That's tomorrow's lunch I hope you know."
"So? You want I should starve?" Mavis rose to her feet.
"Gordon will need changing," she said. "I'll tend to that, then I'll say goodnight. I'm all about in. Thank God I can rest tomorrow."
"I'll see to baby presently," Vern said. "You run along. Did I tell you he's gained two pounds, George?"
"That so? Let's take a look."
"Well," Mavis said, "if you're sure there's nothing I can do I'll say goodnight...."
When she'd gone, Vern sipped her coffee for a while. "I hope it's all right," she said presently, "about Mavis, I mean. I didn't think you'd mind, and she's a nice girl, and very helpful."
"Anything you do is okay by me," he told her. He pulled her onto his knee and kissed her again, on the lips and then repeatedly on the neck and in the hollow of her throat, until a flush spread from her cheeks to her hair roots. He fondled her bosom, slid a hand up her clothing, ignoring her mild protests.
"Darling! Mavis might come back."
"Who cares? It's been over a week, honey."
"George!"
He laughed, stood up, swung her off her feet and carried her through into their bedroom. He heeled the door shut, set her down, took her in his arms. She stood on tip-toe with her arms around his neck and he lifted her clothing, gripped her taut buttocks through the flimsy nylon of her underwear, pulled her to him. "Hell!" he exclaimed hoarsely, "I've wanted you all week, Vern. But not like tonight."
She squirmed, pushing against him.
"So what are we standing here for?" she demanded softly.
CHAPTER TEN
George Branch saw a lot of Mavis Preed over that weekend, and not altogether accidentally. It wasn't that Mavis was consciously out to cause trouble, she just couldn't help herself, and from the moment she saw George, she kept imagining what it would be like to he in his arms. She concentrated considerable effort and ingenuity towards finding out, without any thought of the possible effect on Vern, or on George himself. All Marvis recognized was her own primitive passion, desires that were at best only temporarily lulled, never completely satisfied. George Branch was a man and therefore fair game. She saw nothing wrong in wanting him, nothing wrong in openly provoking him, dangling her allure before his eyes.
Vern, happy, patient, good-natured did not suspect. To her, Mavis was just a sweet, willing kid, a little headstrong perhaps, but extremely pleasant. A nice girl....Mavis was certainly pleasant....George Branch would have been the first to admit it. She was young, vital. She stimulated his libido, bolstered his male ego with her obvious interest in him. But he loved his wife. Since their marriage he had been loyal to her despite sundry temptations. But he shared the same views as any virile man, the same appreciation of the female form and the same mental trend towards the sexual conquest of women in general. He was faithful to Vern through self discipline, not because of lack of interest in other women. The sight of Mavis standing naked fresh from the shower, scattering droplets of bath water from her long hair onto the carpet, remained with him. Even then, at their very first meeting, he had suspected something different about Mavis Preed. In the same way that a woman can usually tell what is in a man's mind by merely talking to him and watching the expression in his eyes, so George knew that Mavis' smiling 'innocence' concealed hidden, shouldering fires, a tempestuous nature, and a restlessness that spelled trouble.
George got around. He knew a lot of women even though he didn't play the field any more, and there were no rules against mental seduction. He recognized Mavis for what she was right away, and derived considerable amusement from her too obvious pattern of behavior. At that stage she was merely feeling him out and the weekend passed without incident. But when on Tuesday George Branch sat behind the wheel of his 1959 Oldsmobile heading out along the coastal highway with the dirty Hudson River on his right, he found his thoughts turning continually to Mavis rather than to his wife and baby.
At first the recurring thoughts annoyed and irritated him. But after a while he gave free rein to his imagination and allowed his active mind full scope. He doubted that Mavis would remain long with Vern. He had sensed the resdessness and torrid impulses driving her, and knew that she would find little expression for her turbulent nature in such conservative surroundings. She had, he also knew, made a bold and deliberate play for him over the weekend. Any repetition of it could lead to misunderstanding with Vern, and that was the last thing he wanted. He sighed. Damn the girl, he thought. Most probably she wouldn't be around when next he got home. He couldn't see her staying long, and wondered why she'd moved out to the Bronx in the first place if, as she said, she was in show business. There was a lot about her he couldn't understand.
He imagined her thinking about him, analyzing him in her mind as he was musing over her. But in this respect he was dead wrong. Ten minutes after he left the apartment Mavis dismissed him from her mind. She already had another objective for her talents, a big, blonde truck driver with an easy laugh and tolerance written all over his face who lived in the house next door. Mavis had met him a few times, and his wife, a real sour grape.
Roley Martin was the husky type, but scared as hell of his wife. Mavis found him interesting. From her bedroom window she could see into the Martin's apartment, and on several occasions she had noticed Roley Martin staring across into .her room, which wasn't surprising considering that she seldom bothered to draw the drapes.
Vern Branch received her first insight into Mavis' true character the time Estiier Martin came around to complain about what she called 'that girl's shameful exhibitionism." Esther Martin was a thin, bony female with untidy yellow hair and a formidable manner. She had a narrow, pimply face and eyes that combined shrewdness with near-sightedness.
"I felt I just had to say something, Vernice," she said, obviously relishing every utterance and its effect on Vern Branch. "It's about that girl, Mavis. You know I'm not one to complain without cause, but...."
"Perhaps if you tell me what's wrong," Vern told her wearily.
"I will. You'd best tell that girl to draw her drapes before she gets undressed. Three times this week I've seen her parading about stark naked in front of her window. Deliberately flaunting herself it looked like. Not a stitch on, the brazen hussy. Roley saw her too...."
I'll bet he did, Vernice thought, curbing a smile. She nodded. "I'll speak to her," she promised. "Mavis is from out of town. She's not used to...."
"She can be decent."
"All right! I said I'd speak to her. Goodbye, Mrs. Martin."
When the woman had gone Vern thought no more about what she'd said until Mavis came down for breakfast, and even then it didn't occur to her that Mavis' alleged exposure was anything but innocent forgetfulness. Vernice Branch wasn't the sort of person to think bad of anybody and hesitated to approach the girl on the subject at all.
"Mavis," she said finally, hesitantly,"
"I don't hardly know how to say this. Esther Martin's been around complaining about you."
"About me?" The innocence in the girl's eyes would have fooled a saint.
"Yes, dear. Oh, it isn't anything much-just that, well, she says you don't draw your curtains and that she-and Roley, her husband-can see you undressing. It's embarrassing for her, she says, and for Roley. So, if you could be a little more careful dear."
Mavis stared at her with that frank, open look she always adopted when faced with criticism.
"I'm sorry," she faltered. "Really I am. I never gave it a though. Back home my room faced onto a vacant lot, you know. I never needed to draw the drapes."
At such times she confounded the critics who'd said she's never make an actress. Vern nodded, glad to have gotten over it. "Just so long as you remember in the future," she said. "We don't want to get a bad name, do we?"
We, Mavis thought, or me? She felt amused but feigned repentance. She had, she felt, set the snare with her strip routine. Now she had only to wait and let the pot simmer.
Two nights later when Vernice was taking in a movie with another neighbor and Mavis was keeping an eye on the baby, Roley Martin came over. His wife, Mavis knew, was visiting her sister in Queens. The big trucker had been drinking, not a lot but enough to fuddle his judgment and banish, at least for the time being, his fear of his wife's evil temper and acid tongue.
He felt pretty good when he rang the Branch's door bell. He knew exactly what he wanted and how he intended to go about getting it. His excuse for calling had been carefully rehearsed, the images of Mavis he carried impressed on his mind were enlarged by the liquor, their significance emphasized by his own inclinations. He knew that the girl's repeated exposures had been deliberate. Several times she had seen him watching her and she had waved to him and had revealed even more intimate glimpses calculated to arouse him. For days he had tried to raise the courage to tackle her about it. But there'd always been Esther.
He grinned at his own thoughts. Mavis, wearing dght fitting slacks and lightweight shirtwaist, opened the door and stood for a while smiling up at him before inviting him inside. He knew she was alone or her would never had dared to come. And from the moment he thumbed the bell push he never had a chance. Whatever notions he entertained about himself in the role of a masterful seducer was mere wishful thinking, expression of his male ego. It was Mavis who took the initiative. She who dominated the incident, who had engineered it so skillfully and now proposed to exploit it to the full.
All that evening she had been agitated, unable to settle, and had Sam Davis dropped by that evening she would have thrown caution to the winds. Roley Martin was the answer to a nympho's prayer. She had known he would come but hadn't expected it to be so soon. She almost dragged him into the house. Instead of having to grope for excuses, using guile and having to be persuasive, Roley found the girls soft mouth pressed firmly against his lips, her fingers fumbling at his clothing. She practically had him undressed ever before his faltering steps got him past the bedroom door. Mavis was like an animal, She scared Roley. He had never seen a woman act that way before. But he responded to the urgency of her need, and presently forgot what few inhibitions the liquor hadn't already deprived him of.
When Vernice returned home everything seemed normal. The baby was sleeping. Mavis was curled up on the sofa munching candy. But next door in the Martin's home things were never quite the same after that night....Esther Martin discovered a marked and abrupt change in Roley. Hitherto her constant nagging had failed to evoke any really spirited revolt. But that night when she began to shoot off her mouth Boley quieted her with the back of his meaty hand, a thing he had never done before in all their twenty years of matrimonial dischord. Mavis had resurrected his masculinity and his dormant ego....
The following weekend George Branch arrived from Chicago early on the Saturday, and experienced mild disappointment when he learned that Mavis was working. She had made a marked impression on him despite the unconvincing attitude of mental indifference he had adopted. He'd been looking forward to seeing her again, but only-he tried to tell himself, to prove that his self-discipline was as firm as hitherto.
Somebody had foisted two tickets for a Broadway show on George but Vern wasn't feeling too well, and when Ed Briggs, a wartime buddy, stopped by, Vern insisted that he take in the show with Ed rather than waste the tickets. As the show promised a few kicks Ed okayed the arrangement, brt on the way downtown they dropped into a bar for a few drinks, and when finally a cab dumped them near Broadway subway they were both unsteady on their feet.
George dragged Ed, protesting,, along the street, and into the first handy doorway, which chanced to he the entry to Cash Moran's night spot, the Jive Dive. George got Ed planted in a seat and ordered drinks from the rat-faced waiter who came scurrying from the shadows with rheumatism in his spindly legs and larceny in his calculating eyes. The lights were low and the large room was hazy with tobacco smoke. The band was making with a pagan rhythm, and on a high stage at the far end of the room a young girl was performing a crude strip routine.
She looked familiar to George Branch, so familiar that he left the table and weaved forward to get a closer look, whereon two bouncers grabbed him and trailed him back to his chair. But not before he'd recognized Mavis Preed. She was down to her last wisp of clothing, and even before he saw her face he recognized and remembered the peculiar birthmark like a crescent moon that showed plainly against the white flesh of her thigh emphasized even more by the glaring spotlight. The glare dazzled Mavis. All she could see was a vague blur of gaping mouths and leering faces.
George collapsed into his chair and shook with uncontrollable laughter until Ed Briggs grabbed him and almost shook the liver out of him, demanding to know what the hell was so funny. George didn't enlighten him. When the drapes came down on Mavis' act George clambered to his feet and made for the exit. Ed followed, protesting.
"Somebody in there knows me," he explained tersely. "If they'd seen me I'd catch hell from Vern. Let's find this bastard show."
"Aw, what the hell, George, just when things were getting interesting."
"Haven't you seen enough fanny in your time? C'mon, Ed, I don't wanna be seen."
George hailed a cruising cab, and he and Ed piled in, the latter still grumbling. They were, they discovered, still early for the show. The lights of a nearby bar drew them like moths to a candle flame, and at ten p.m. they were still drinking. By eleven Ed had passed out cold and George was giving a cabbie confusing directions that resulted in them being dumped out three blocks from home. It was after two a.m. before George got rid of Ed, who had recovered sufficiently to become argumentative, and staggered up the steps to his front entry. Trying to be quiet only resulted in him making enough noise to waken the dead, but Vern had taken sleeping pills and was out to the wide.
He let himself in and blundered through into the kitchen. His hat fell off as he yanked at the icebox door, and he trampled the felt without even knowing. Biting into a wedge of cold pie, he peeled off his raincoat awkwardly, divesting his packet along with it, and let both drop to the floor. He slackened his tie and ran lean fingers through his untidy hair, gaping stupidly and grinnding at his reflection in the hall mirror as he lurched towards the bathroom.
Passing Mavis' room, he noticed a crack of light under the door. He knelt, applied his eye to the keyhole, chuckled when he saw Mavis lying stretched out on the bed wearing just a nylon shortie that came no lower than her hips. She appeared to be sleeping, but when he overbalanced and fell heavily against the door, the. bumping of his head contacting the wood brought her head up and she looked towards the door. Travis swore aloud, and instantly a smile replaced the startled expression on Mavis' face. Deliberately she drew her knees up then swung her legs off the bed. Sitting thus, she had no secrets whatever from George. As he stared, sweating, she slipped the brief gown up over her head and threw it on the bed, then stood up and turned her back to the door.
His mouth was suddenly dry. Some of the liquor induced fog cleared from his brain. "The bitch!" he muttered. "The tantalizing, twofaced little bitch! Show business, she said. Stripper in a low-life beat dive . .
But there was more admiration than criticism in his tone. And despite the fuddling effects of drink he felt a hot flush of passion. Seeing Mavis like that helped to sober him and he came clumsily to his feet with a vague notion crossing his mind that what he was doing was wrong, sordid, disloyal to Vern and cheapening to himself. But as he turned away the door opened quietly and Mavis stood framed in the opening, naked, wanton, throbbing with desire and intensely appealing, with a mocking look in her smoldering eyes.
"I knew you were there," she said. "Don't go."
He hesitated, staring at her, drinking in her loveliness, her absorbing nudity.
"Damn you!" he muttered, "I'm drunk, but I'm wise to you. What the hell are you trying to do? My wife...."
She caught hold of his arm, and the strength of her grip surprised him. Her lips were moistened, slightly Darted, the appeal in her shining eyes undeniable.
"Forget your wife," sre whispered. "Come. Don't I interest you? You aren't so drunk you can't see what I'm offering."
He shook his head, but allowed her to draw him closer. "You little whore!" he breathed. "I ought to break your neck. If it wasn't for Vern I'd-"
"She need never know, George. I need you. You're young, strong, like me. Loving is for the young. Don't waste precious time."
She clutched at him.
"No!" he blurted stubbornly. "Vern's been good to you. She trusts you and me. We can't."
He tried to pull back, but he was wavering, weakening, and Mavis know it. She lifted his hand, placed it against her bare breast, drew him still closer, into the room, Triumph gleamed momentarily in her dark eyes as she closed the door.
"Forget Vern," she said. "Why should she have you all to herself? Oh, George. Darling....I don't want to hurt her, or you. I don't want to cause trouble. But I can't help myself. Please help me. Understand. I can't fight this thing. It's bigger than me, or Vern, or any of us. I only know I want you, need you, desperately, completely, now. Oh, God, what's the matter with you?"
He sighed heavily. His resolve was almost gone. She pulled his head down despite his mild resistance, and with the touch of her lips against his, his will collapsed. With a low cry he enfolded her in his arms and pulled her soft nakedness against him. His mouth explored her yielding flesh, roamed avidly over her young body, whipping her passions to feverish intensity.
They fell together to the floor, impervious to bumps and bruises, and rolled back on the thick carpet until the legs of the bed were hard against the girl's padded ribs. She clutched George convulsively, moaning, entreating.
"Come to me, darling!" she demanded hoarsely. "Love me-oh, love me!"
Afterwards, lying in her arms, George felt guilty, dirty. But he made no move to get up. Her breast moved gently against his palm.
"I saw you tonight," he said after a while, "at the downtown dive where you do your act."
That shook her. He heard her sharp intake of breath. "You were in the club?" she asked.
"Quite unintentionally, yes. It struck me as being funny, actually. Not really a surprise though. I knew from the first you were different, Mavis. But I don't profess to understand it, why you're really here, or what makes you tick."
She was silent for a while. "You must have heard it all from Sam,'J she said. "I'm not here from choice. What I do is my business. I didn't ask to come here. I want to lead my own life.
She smoothed damp hair back from his forehead.
"You won't tell Vern?" she asked haltingly.
"Are you crazy? Don't be a damn fool! Look, Mavis. This may seem like a funny time to bring it up, but I love my wife. I really do, so help me. I didn't plan this. I didn't want to go through with it. I've thought about you, sure, since-that night when I came home and found you standing there. But I've fought it, tried to do the decent thing. I should have known I couldn't win. Okay, so I was weak, and the liquor didn't help. Right now I ought to feel good but instead I feel like a lousy, two-timing rat."
"But George...."
"Let me finish. I've got a good life, Mavis. A good marriage. I don't intend to see it broken up. I know your sort, head in the clouds, stars in your eyes, and over-sexed as hell. You don't fool anybody except yourself, and perhaps good-natured saps like Vern.
I don't blame you. You've had your fun, and I enjoyed it too. It was wonderful. You're a nice lay, kid. You've got what it takes but you're no damn good and you'll come to a bad end. Personally I don't give a dam, but I don't want to get involved. So, I think it will be best all around if you aren't here when next I come home."
"You're asking me to leave?"
"I'm telling you. It's the only way. I don't mind seeing you once in a while if that's what you want to keep you happy. But not here."
"But Sam said if I leave he'll have me sent back home. I couldn't face that."
"I don't give a damn what Sam Davis says, you can't stay here."
She sat up, her face flushed. The warm smell of her flesh rose up into his nostrils and rekindled lukewarm passions. When she touched him intimately he swore, but with pleasure mingled with irritation.
"I won't go," she said. "You can't make me. If you try I'll-I'll tell Vern you made love to me."
She was caressing him, coaxing him, making him ready again. Angrily he grabbed her, pulled her close, made violent love to her until they both fell back, exhausted, sweating. In that moment he wasn't sure whether he hated her or loved her. Sex with Vern never thrilled him like that.
Presently he pushed Mavis away and got to his feet, suddenly angry with her and with himself.
"You tramp!" he gritted. "I believe you would tell her....All right, stay. But from now on keep away from me, at least in the house or maybe I'll have a word with Sam...."
He dressed quickly, damning himself for a weak fool. It was absolutely stupid, plain crazy, to play right into Mavis' hands the way he had. The little phony! She had him over a barrel now. Sprawled there, naked, deliberately exposed, she watched him, deriving pleasure from his obvious embarrassment, supremely confident, her body all aglow, satisfied for the time being. She didn't speak. There was nothing more to say.
George went out quietly, and breathed a deep sigh of profound relief when he reached the bathroom without disturbing Vernice. His head buzzed and his cheeks were flushed, but after a shower he felt better. When he got into bed Vern stirred. Sh turned over, muttering in her sleep. Lying beside his wife, he was thankful that she was not sufficiently awake to make physical demands of him. He felt like a criminal. But after a while his natural buoyancy of spirit asserted itself, and he relaxed and let his mind wander back over his lapse with Mavis, going over every delightful detail, each clandestine moment.
Finally he went to sleep thinking-what the hell, what Vern didn't know wouldn't hurt her, and salving his conscience with the thought that for all he knew she had herself a man or two when he was away doing his job.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Three weeks passed before George Branch showed up in New York again. To Mavis it seemed as if he was deliberately prolonging his trip in the hope that she might decide to leave before he got home. She stayed put. Seeing her calmly sitting beside his wife at dinner, smiling as if at some secret joke, George entertained mixed feelings towards her. Since that hectic night he had thought of her often. Her violent love making had left its indelible mark on him and he knew that given half a chance he world take her again whether at home or elsewhere, despite his genuine love and respect for Vern.
He hade hoped that Mavis would have packed up and left. He recognized and accepted his weakness where she was concerned. During the past few weeks he had relived that night over and over in his vivid imagination, had promised himself that if Mavis that he was strong enough. Yet he knew that he was still there when he got home he'd put her out, wasn't strong enough, and that the initiative would have to come from her. His main objection to committing adultery was the nagging fear that Vern might find out rather than condemnation of the act itself.
He kissed his wife, and forced himself to meet Mavis' mocking gaze calmly.
"This has been a rough trip," he told Vern. I expected to be back ten days ago. Missed me, honey?"
"Need you ask, darling? I was beginning to think you'd run out on me...."
"I see you've still got your soul-mate."
"Mavis? Of course. Why not? I don't know what I'd do without her."
Vernice placed her hand affectionately on Mavis' arm. George fished two flat packages from his coat pocket, held them out, one to his wife, the other to the girl.
"Presents!" Vern exclaimed, starry-eyed. "And you remembered Mavis too...."
"Sure," George said, a trifle sarcastically, Mavis thought. "How could I forget her?"
His gaze locked with Mavis', and a slight flush spread into her cheeks.
"You're making the poor girl blush," Vern rebuked.
"Oh, George! It's lovely!"
The powder compacts were identical, and expensive. Mavis regarded her gift with mixed feelings, thinking that George must have felt pretty certain that she would still be there to bring her a present.
"You shouldn't have, really," she protested, smiling at him.
"It's by way of a bribe," he said. "So you'll look after baby tomorrow while I take Vern out some place. Fancy a run out to Coney Island, Vern?"
"Why yes, I'd love it. But I wouldn't want to spoil any plans Mavis might have. We could take Gordon with us so that Mavis can come too...."
"That's all right, Vern. I don't mind."
"Are you sure? It wouldn't be an imposition? You've been so good lately."
"Of course not. I wasn't going out anyway."
"All right," George said. "Coney Island it is then. Do you realize how long it is since we had a day out together, Vern?"
"Too long. Sam's off duty tomorrow, Mavis. I'll ask him over-he'll be company for you."
Mavis nodded. She longed to draw Sam Davis out, but up to now he had been afraid of perhaps making a fool of herself. Sam was a man, but he was also a cop, and if he once conceived a notion that she wasn't all he supposed her to be he might make trouble. And yet, she thought, it might be the very excuse she needed to break away. She had become more sure of herself over the past few weeks, smarter in her outlook. She was almost nineteen. Now that her aunt was dead she had no one. She hadn't done anything criminal. Suppose the police did run rer out of town. What was to prevent her coming back? They might take her or send her back to Auburn Township but they couldn't make her stay there. She wished now that she had accepted Cash Moran's offer instead of letting Sam Davis talk her into accepting his ultimatum. Perhaps it wasn't too late.
She wished she knew more about the law, what age she had to be to be able to please herself. She had meant to find out but somehow had never gotten around to it. And, she thought, supposing she threw herself at Sam Davis in an attempt to embarrass him and cause a breach, and he came right back for more? Then she'd be hard put to get rid of him, and he'd ride her harder than ever. No, she had to shake herself free of the whole situation for good, free from Vernice Branch and her cop brother, and George, too.
Seeing the confusion in George's eyes she suddenly knew the answer, and it was so simple she wondered why she hadn't thought of it before. She had been allowing sentiment to sway her. All she had to do was to provoke Vernice, to work on George and let his wife catch them at it. Then she'd be out quickly enough, Vern would see to that, and she could put the blame on George to keep Sam Davis from coming down on her. She did not doubt that Sam, being a man and therefore, like all men, a fool where women were concerned, would believe her.
"I'd like to see Sam again," she lied. "It's been almost a week now."
"I do believe you're sweet on him," Vern teased. T wish he would settle down, get married. Are you quite sure you won't mind looking after baby?"
"Quite sure. I'll be all right with Sam." George shot her a keen glance. Sam Davis might be a tough cop but an afternoon with Mavis could prove an experience far beyond anything he had encountered in the normal line of duty. He grinned. He wondered what Vernice would say if she knew that their baby-sitter was a night club stripper.
Vernice glanced at the clock, got up, switched on the television. George fetched cold beer from the ice-box. Mavis, watching them sitting close together on the sofa, felt like an intruder. Vern wouldn't be so loving, she thought, if she knew what was going on in her husband's mind. Mavis wondered why she should feel so bitter towards Vernice Branch who had shown her nothing but kindness and generosity.
"I'll make a few sandwiches," she said to hide her confusion.
Sunlight streaming in through the bedroom window was warm on Vernice Branch's back as she stood naked in front of the wardrobe mirror and critically appraised her figure. She smoothed her broad hips, turned sideways to view her breasts in profile.
"Don't you think I'm putting on weight, George?" she asked, frowning.
"Worried about it?"
"Beast! I hoped you'd reassure me."
George, studying the smooth lines of her hips and the fullness of her buttocks, reached for a cigarette.
Last night her nudity had excited him, driven him almost frantic. Now, in the light of a new day, it didn't mean a thing. He looked her over dispassionately, deriving a certain satisfaction from the realization that she was still a lovely woman.
"On you it looks good," he told her. His thoughts flitted back to a night three weeks ago, and suddenly it wasn't his wife standing there but Mavis, and there was a tightening in his bowels.
"Vern," he called softly. "Here, Vern---!"
She turned. Her eyebrows lifted. She stared, fascinated. "Darling," she said, "Not again. You're impossible."
"Better than being impotent--"
She laughed. "Get up," she insisted, "We're going out-remember?"
He grabbed for her but she avoided him, snatching her robe off the bed and ducked out of the room, almost knocking Mavis down. "Men!" she exclaimed, struggling into the robe, "Sorry, dear!"
Mavis opened her mouth to express complete agreement then thought better of it.
"It's a lovely day for your run out," she said instead.
"Yes. I wish you were coming."
"There'll be other times. I put on the pot for coffee. Is the baby awake?"
"Since six o'clock. If you'll just prepare his feed while I take my shower."
Sam Davis showed up around ten-thirty. George was getting the car out front. The phone rang as Sam peeled off his coat.
"I'll get it," he volunteered. He lifted the receiver, listened, said "yes" a couple of times, then "hold on." He covered the mouthpiece.
"Vern," he called. "It's for George, his office."
I'll take it." She took the receiver.
"Hello. Yes, George is home. Who? Mr. Avis? Yes. What's that? Oh, no. Not today. Can't it wait? But ... We'd planned to go. Well, if it's that important. Yes, I'll tell him. Goodbye!"
She hung up. "Damn Jasper J. Avis," she said vehemently.
"Whose Avis?"
"Some important buyer apparently. Seems he's passing through and only has a couple of hours to spare before flying on to San Francisco. George's office wants him to contact Avis at Idlewood."
"Who was that on the phone? Ben Jarvis?"
"No, just some assistant."
"Too bad. Should mean a bonus though."
"Damn the bonus! I haven't seen George for three weeks."
George came in. "Hiyuh, Sam," he greeted. "I thought I heard the phone."
"You did. Your office called. They want you to meet some buyer named Avis at Idlewood. He's arriving from Miami about three-thirty."
"The hell he is. You said we were going out, Vern?"
She nodded. "They said it was very important. I said you'd go. Will you?"
"I suppose I'll have to."
"What about Coney Island?"
Travis shrugged. "I'm sorry, honey. But what can I do?"
"Why don't you go to Coney Island with Sam?" Mavis suggested.
"I don't mind staying here alone."
There was always Roley Martin to fall back on.
"Thanks, dear, but it wouldn't be the same without George."
"Crap!" George protested, "You need a break. No sense in all of us being miserable. We're lucky to have somebody to look after the kid. Enjoy yourself while you've got the chance."
"But it wouldn't be fair to drag Sam away," Vernice said, "I'm sure he and Mavis...."
"It's all right, really," Mavis put in quickly, smiling disarmingly at Sam Davis, "It isn't as if we really have anything to talk about."
She broke off, but Sam got the message. So did George. He'd never seen a neater brush-off. Sam Davis laughed to cover his embarrassment. George looked at his wristwatch.
"I'll have to go," he said, "Don't expect I'll be late. Go ahead and enjoy yourselves. I'll make it up to Mavis."
He kissed his wife, grabbed his hat and briefcase, and went out. They heard him drive away.
"Well," Sam remarked, looking awkward. "I suppose we'd best get going, Vern. Sure you don't mind being left, Mavis?"
"I'd prefer it really. Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded."
"That's okay. I understand."
In a way he felt relieved. Mavis bothered him in more ways than one, but he was afraid to make a pass at her in case she thought he was taking advantage of her. He avoided her gaze, straightened his neck-tie. Vernice came through shrugging into her coat.
"You won't forget Gordon's two o'clock feed?" she reminded. Mavis reassured her, and Vernice went out. Sam Davis looked at Mavis, started to say something, changed his mind and followed his sister out to his parked Ford. Mavis closed the door and breathed a sigh of relief.
The morning passed slowly for her. The baby was troublesome but quieted after its mid-day feed. Around three o'clock Mavis, engrossed in a television program, was surprised to hear a key inserted in the street door lock. Not Vern back already, she thought, frowning.
"That you, Vern?" she called, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. It was George Branch who answered. He entered, tossed his briefcase onto a chair, crossed to the wall cabinet and poured himself a drink.
"Want one?" he asked. He sounded strange, tensed. "No thanks. I've just finished a coke. You're back early."
"Yes. The flight schedule was rearranged. Avis couldn't wait. I've had a lousy ride for nothing. How long's Vern been gone?"
She got off the sofa, moved towards him, stood behind his neat figure and slid her arms around his waist. She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, like a sleek cat craving favors. George could almost hear her purr ... He walked away, tossed off his drink, set his glass down. Mavis followed him. When he flopped into a deep armchair she sat on the chair arm, half onto his lap, molding her body against him, letting her long hair brush against his face. The fragrance of it was disturbing.
"Now look here, Mavis," he said firmly. "You've got to cut this out. I told you, and I meant what I said."
He looked really annoyed, but his voice lacked conviction. He tried to get up but was prevented from doing so by Mavis' clinging posture. In a mirror across the room he could see her reflection, the tightness of her ice-blue slacks hugging her figure, the long curve of her hip. He swore.
"I need another drink," he said.
"And I need a man."
She placed a soft arm round his neck, ran long, slim fingers though his hair, loosened his neck-tie.
"Relax," she told him. "We're alone."
Her mouth, smiling, seductive, was only inches from his. Her lips were parted, her pink tongue poised, protruding slightly. With a great effort of will George threw her off and vacated the chair.
"Damn you!" he blurted. "Keep away from me. You're nothing but trouble. You must see this is crazy, Mavis. It can only lead to a mess."
She crossed the room, and he watched the slinky movement of her hips, the play of her buttocks. Words formed on his lips but remained unspoken. Mavis poured a drink, added ice, approached him with a mocking glint in her eyes.
"Here," she said. "You do need it. You said you'd make it up to me, remember? For having to stay home."
"Hell! I didn't mean this!"
"No? You know what I think? I think you arranged this whole thing. I don't believe there was any buyer. You just wanted Vern out of the way, and Sam, so you cooked up this yarn with some woman at the office."
"For crying out loud! Listen! You've got it all wrong. I didn't plan this . .
"You knew I'd be here, alone. Darling, why fight it? We're good for each other. You know that. Okay, so let's have fun."
Her gaze met his, searched deep. George gulped the drink, turned away, lit a cigarette. His hand was far from steady. When he turned back she'd unzip-pered her slacks and they were sliding down around her ankles. She stepped free of them and came towards him with arms outstretched, a vision of loveliness and physical perfection emphasized by shell pink briefs and high-heeled black suede shoes. Startled, George retreated until the wall at his back prevented his escape. He stared like a bird hypnotized by a . snake, passing his tongue continually round his lips.
Then Mavis was pressed against him and the smell of her perfumed body was ousting reason, undermining his last remaining shreds of will power. He had known she'd be there, alone. Yet even while trying to convince himself that he had the moral strength to resist her, that he wanted to remain true to Vern, his foot had been tramping the gas pedal, and he had forgotten his wasted trip to the airport in his eagerness to get back home.
Since that first seduction, his seduction by Mavis, he hadn't been able to get her out of his mind. The memory of her physical contact burned like a fever in his blood. Driving back from Idlewood he had kidded himself that it was Vern he was hurrying back to be with, that perhaps he'd drive out to Coney Island and maybe run into her with Sam. But he knew the moment he entered the house that he'd been lying to himself, trying to still his conscience.
Suddenly he was angry, furious at his weakness, at the injustice of it all, and with Mavis as the unrepentant cause. But the instant her mouth clamped over his and her body touched him his anger yielded, melted, was oblitered in a storm of desire.
Vernice Branch finished the hot-dog, wiped mustard from her fingers, and smiled at her brother.
"It's no use, Sam," she said, "I can't enjoy myself for thinking about George. And I don't feel right about leaving Mavis by herself. She's been so sweet lately. Suppose we go back. You and she can take in a movie or something? She'd like that. I think she's interested in you, Sam. No, really. It wasn't right to drop her, for me."
"She didn't seem very keen to have me stay."
"She's shy, that's all."
"Think so? I think she's a lot deeper than she makes out. There's something about her, Vern, that I can't quite figure. Anyway, I don't want to get involved."
"Sam, She's a perfect lamb."
"Okay, so maybe she is a good kid, maybe not. I'd want to know a lot more about her before I get involved."
"Can't you ever forget you're a cop?"
"I will if you'll quit trying to saddle me with more responsibilities than I can handle. You sure you want to go home. It's barely three-fifteen...."
"I'd feel better. You might stop by Romano's on the way and I'll pick up some fresh fruit."
"Okay."
Davis shrugged. He slid behind the Ford's wheel, started the motor, held the opposite door open for Vernice. It was in his mind that perhaps an evening at the movies with Mavis might prove more of an embarrassment than a pleasure the way he kept thinking about her. The drive home was uneventful. When they entered the house everything was quiet, unnaturally so. The television was switched on, but no one was in the room. Vernice called:-
"Mavis!"
No answer. Alarmed, Vernice went through into her bedroom. Her baby was sleeping peacefully.
"Perhaps she's lying down," Sam suggested, "I'll take a look."
"No, I'll go."
Vernice started towards the door of Mavis' room, then paused and frowned. She stooped, picked up a pair of pale blue slacks. Her brother indicated George's briefcase lying on a chair.
"George is home," he said, 'They can't have gone out. His hat and coat's here. What gives?"
"It isn't like Mavis to go off and leave the baby," Vernice said, "Something must have happened."
She took another step towards the girl's room, then paused again when a laugh sounded from beyond the door. A cold chill passed through Vernice. She shook her head, refusing to accept the too obvious implications.
"That's George's laugh," her brother said grimly. "He's in there with her...."
"No!" Vern whispered, "NO! He couldn't!"
George laughed again. They heard a muffled cry, Mavis' voice. George answered. Vernice heard his impassioned words, thick with desire, each utterance branding its coarse vulgarity deep into her stunned, bewildered brain. Then Mavis giggled, and they heard her reply. The color drained from Vernice's cheeks. She uttered a gasping cry and stumbled forward, paused yet again with her hand gripping the door knob. Her knuckles gleamed white with tension. She looked at Sam Davis, mute appeal in her eyes, nerving herself to open the door.
With one swift movement she turned the knob and flung the door wide, then stood frozen on the threshold, clutching at the door frame. In that instant her whole world was shattered and came crashing in crumbling ruins about her. Her love for George Branch withered, shrivelled, died, and was swept away on a surging torrent of self pity, blinding fury, and murderous hate.
She felt herself falling, her knees giving way, and saw as through a dense fog her husband and the girl she had trusted lying together on the bed, clasped in a passionate embrace, their bodies moving together ... Sam Davis was just in time to catch her and ease her weight to the floor as she slumped in a dead faint.
Things happened fast then. George Branch swore, rolled over, came off the bed fast-and ran his flushed face smack into Davis's hard fist as the big cop swung a savage right-hand punch. Blood spurted. George shrieked, sprawled across the bed, screamed again when boot leather aimed at his groin drove high into his hairy stomach. Sam's quick grab for Mavis missed. He managed to lay his hard hand across her bare bottom as she darted past him like a startled fawn. She hurdled Vernice's prone form and ducked into the other bedroom, slammed the door. Sam heard the scrape of a chair as she wedged it under the door handle.
Vernice was coming round, moaning. Sam helped her up. George writhed on Mavis's bed with his hands covering his broken nose. Sam led his sister to the bathroom, bathed her face, made her drink a glass of water. She moved as if in a trance, staring at him hollow-eyed. She seemed years older in the space of those few minutes. But no tears came. Later perhaps. Right now she was too shocked to cry, too bitter even to feel grief. Her immediate reaction following the shock was anger.
Footsteps pattered. They glimpsed Mavis running back into her own room. Her door closed. Sam took a step that way but Vernice restrained him.
"Don't leave me," she begged, "Not yet. I'll be all right in a minute."
He brought her a stiff drink, made her drain it. The fiery liquor made her cough, but some of the pallor left her face. Sounds of hasty movement came from Mavis's room. Presently her door opened a crack. She emerged, suitcase in hand, and ran past them to the street door. Sam would have gone after her, but Vernice again prevented him.
"Let her go," she commanded harshly. "Let the ratten little tramp go. Oh, Sam! I trusted her, liked her, gave her a home, everything. Why this? WHY? How could she? And George! I don't understand."
"Because I had to get soft," her brother said angrily. "That's why. Because I figured she was just a nice kid who needed protection. I brought the bitch here. And because we've both of us got more sentiment than sense, I suppose. As for George....
"Don't blame him too much."
"Blame him! I'll kill the bastard!"
"No! Oh, Sam, please. It was her. I should have known, should have seen through her. The dirty little whore, that's all she is. I should have guessed, when Esther Martin complained. But George. How could he?"
"I can see how, but why takes some figuring. I always thought George was straight. He knew what he was doing, so you can't put all the blame on her. The damn fool! One thing's for sure, I'll put a halter on that filly."
"Why bother, Sam? Let her go her own way. Perhaps if you'd left her alone in the first place none of this would have happened. It couldn't have happened. It was a mistake bringing her here. I see that now. She's cheap, Sam. All false. Let her go her own way. She'll achieve her own damnation. What's it to you, Sam?"
"Nothing, now. She sure had me fooled. I should have left her to rot in Al Grant's flop-house. It's a bit late now to say I'm sorry, Vern."
"Forget it, Sam. She fooled me too. I still can't believe it, how anyone so young, so lovely. She seemed so sweet, so absolutely charming. Sam, I'll never be able to trust anyone again as long as I live."
He nodded. "What about him?" he asked. Vernice shrugged. She shook her head dumbly. It was some time before she could speak.
"I don't know," she said then. "I'll have to decide-later. Right now I can t think. I m so ashamed. I just want to crawl away somewhere and ... Oh, Sam...."
The tears that previously wouldn't flow came suddenly, as if to drown the pain in her shadowed eyes.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Cash Moran regarded the flaccid cause of his acute embarrassment and inner torment with utter disgust, and wondered by what cruel whim of unpredictable nature any man could remain impotent when faced with such delights of the flesh as lay in the delectable, voluptuous form and presence of Mavis Preed, sq close to him that he could feel the warmth from her sleeping body. He sighed, regretting the excesses of his younger days. Not that he was, he told himself, old. He was only fifty-four.
He heaved his bulk off the bed, slid his feet into soft leather slippers, and headed for the bathroom, leaving the door open. Sounds of running water woke Mavis. She stirred, yawned, stretched, idly pushed the covers further off the bed with her feet. She was not yet fully awake, couldn't quite compose the pattern of events. After a while her mind focused, took in her surroundings. It had been a rough night. She had vague recollections of Moran's valiant struggles to assert his masculinity. Sometimes his efforts were not entirely futile, but last night ... Mavis sat up. There were compensations. Moran had money, and he was generous.
Almost a month had passed since the flare-up at the Branch house in the Bronx. During the first week she had fully expected Sam Davis to seek her out. When he didn't her confidence returned, and now the incident was, to her, just a bad memory. She thought of Vernice Branch, when she thought of her at all, with some regret. Towards George Branch she was completely indifferent. The affair was a closed book. If he had nosed her out, she would have accepted the animal comfort of his strong male body gratefully. But otherwise the Brandts lived in a different world. They would, she decided, lick their wounds, maybe cry a little, even bawl each other out. Finally they would make up and be all the more loving and dull. She doubted if she would ever see George Branch again, unless by sheer accident.
Mavis looked towards the open door connecting with the bathroom. Moran, wearing just pyjama pants, was holding something up to the light. It was a syringe, a hypodermic! She saw him push down his pants, select a spot on his wrinkled flesh, carefully insert the needle. She heard him swear as the keen point drove home and he pressed the plunger. With his flabby torso bared he looked like some great ape, the orangutang she had once seen at the Bronx Zoo.
So, Cash was a drug addict. Mavis wondered why she had never realized before, why she hadn't recognized the significance of the needle marks on hi thigh. She had read about such things without paying much attention to detail. She was familiar with the slang expressions used to describe peddlers and users of narcotics, and had some idea of the reactions of various drugs and-according to vivid accounts gleaned from lurid magazines, of the ultimate fate of junkies and peddlers alike. They were, she knew the lowest dregs of humanity on the last painful stretch of the road to hell. Yet Cash Moran seemed normal enough. Perhaps, she thought, he was a diabetic. The thought brought her a strange relief. Somehow, ignorant as she was of its full, evil potentialities, the mere idea of dope was sordid and frightening.
Moran swabbed the slight prick wound, cleaned and put away the hypo. He was whistling softly when he came back into the bedroom. Mavis pretended she had seen nothing unusual. Since moving into Cash Moran's apartment she had quit the strip show, mainly because she thought that if Sam Davis wormed the information out of George Branch that she worked there it was among the first places he would visit if he was looking for her. In any case, with Moran looking out for her she had no need of a job. But after a while she became bored.
She was, Moran noticed, drinking a lot lately, taking to it gradually so that she herself didn't realize what a firm hold liquor was getting on her. Cash Moran, getting a continual kick from her company and intimate proximity, was reluctant to provoke her and so kept silent on the subject.
One Friday afternoon Mavis returned from a movie to find a large, middle-aged woman in Moran's apartment, a hard-faced female, all buttock and no bust, that Moran introduced as 'Frenchie' Blaine. She was a coarse, uncouth creature, gimlet-eyed, with raven black hair, obviously dyed. And he was, Mavis decided, no more French than was Brooklyn Bridge ... Mavis disliked her on sight, especially the woman's clammy hand clasp. There was something in the way 'Frenchie' Blaine looked at her that reminded Mavis of Sandra Mathis-the same penetrating, calculating stare, the sullen, sultry mouth, the expression, bold and inviting. But with 'Frenchie' Blaine the lesbian inclination was even more obvious.
Mavis recalled hearing Moran mention the woman on several occasions. After the introduction the big woman seated herself on the edge of Moran's desk with her skirt hiked up above her enormous knees, and studied Mavis continually through a haze of cigarette smoke.
"Cash and myself are old friends," she told Mavis. "I run a place not far from here, on 42nd Street. You ever get stuck for a few bucks, kid, you look me up. I could use a Rood-looker like you. You got class, honey."
"I don't think...." Mavis began.
"I look after my girls good, ain't that right, Cash? Real good. Nice clothes, plenty of spending money, regular medical, everything."
She leaned forward as far as her flabby stomach would permit. "A smart girl can make herself real money with me," she confided.
"Two-three hundred dollars a night if she's keen. You think about it."
"I don't need to. I've got security right her, with Cash."
The big woman laughed raucously. She got to her feet, grunting with effort.
"I've got to go," she said, "Just remember what I said, honey. You call living with that tight-wad security? You come and see me any time. So-long, Cash. I'll stop by with another fix about Tuesday. And it'll cost you an extra five bucks."
Moran scowled. "What's this, another shake-down?" he demanded. "Never mind-I can't discuss it now. I'll see you later."
He gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head in Mavis's direction. Frenchie Blaine mangled her cigarette stub, nodded. She went out, moving quickly despite her ponderous bulk. Two weeks passed before Mavis saw her again, during which short time a lot happened to influence Mavis's future.
Still foremost in her mind despite sundry set-backs and, according to those in a position to know, a total lack of acting ability, was the idea that if she could once get to Californa and show herself off around the Hollywood studios, she could make her mark. She was sceptical of everything she had been told about her lack of talent, and she reasoned that with her looks and figure she didn't need to be much of an actress anyway to get a start. She followed the same train of thought responsible for the downfall of literally thousands of her irresponsible kind, and clung to the fallacy they all shared-that she was different ... It might happen to them, to other girls. But not to her. She, Mavis repeatedly told herself, was somebody special, and she would, eventually, make the grade. But as yet Hollywood was a long way off. She needed clothes, expensive outfits, and money in the bank. And, she was smart enough to know, she would need publicity, some gimmick to attract the moguls.
Meanwhile Cash Moran was a meal ticket. He gave her a generous spending allowance, but it was never enough, and so far she hadn't managed to save a dime. Cash Moran, on his part, was becoming fed up with her moodiness, her drinking, and her continual demands sexual and otherwise. She did no more for him than any one of Frenchie's girls would do for considerably less expense and none of the come-back.
Mavis wasn't the first young girl to share his apartment and his bed. Nor would she be the last. He had a soft spot for her, but he was a practical man, and most of the girls who passed through Moran's bedroom via his office and the strip finished up in Frenchie Blaine's whorehouse, with Moran raking off a percentage of each girl's take. Ho didn't force any girl into the game. Like Mavis, they knew what they wanted, or thought they did. So far Mavis hasn't responded to Frenchie's blandishments and Moran's hints. He proposed to give her just a while longer to decide. Then, if she still didn't co-operate-out!
He hoped she'd see reason. She could, with her capacity for men, prove a real asset both to Frenchie and himself.
Mavis Preed's independence ended abruptly the day she came in and found Cash Moran, hypo in hand, lying dead on the bathroom floor.
At first she was terrified. He sprawled there with his mouth wide open, his dentures displaced, eyes staring horribly. Mavis, as if rooted to the spot, watched a fly crawl across one red-veined eyeball....
Suddenly the tension left her limbs and she staggered to a chair and flopped into it. After a while she got up and mixed herself a drink, downed it, poured another. Twice she picked up the telephone and replaced it again, uncertain what to do, dreading becoming involved with the Police-and, inevitably, Sam Davis.
Finally she remembered Frenchie Blaine and called her. The big woman came right over without asking stupid questions. She took in the situation at a glance, and promptly reached for the phone.
"You toss your things into a bag and get over to my place," she told Mavis. "Don't argue, honey. You can't afford to get mixed up in this. I suppose you know that Cash was a junkie. Been taking the stuff for years. No question about what killed him, but the cops are gonna ask questions. So get out of here and let me handle it. Okay? You'll be all right with me, honey."
Mavis, glad to get away from the flaccid corpse with its protruding tongue and glassy stare, wasted no more time. She heard Frenchie speaking over the phone. Who she called Mavis never knew, but from what little she overheard she guessed it wasn't the Police. Inside ten minutes she was packed and on her way.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The house on 42nd Street was spacious and comfortable. When Mavis arrived the place was quiet. The ground floor front was taken up by a florists' shop-an obvious blind for the more profitable establishment upstairs. Above the shop were five floors each with two apartments partitioned off to form self-contained bedrooms with adjoining kitchen. There was a bathroom on each floor. Frenchie Blaine lived in the basement.
The only entry was through the shop. A woman, middle-aged but still pretty, was in charge. Her manner indicated nothing of her association with what went on upstairs, yet her shrewd inspection of Mavis overlooked no detail.
"Frenchie sent me," Mavis said casually. She sniffed at a freshly sprinkled rose.
"Are you Mavis?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
"Frenchie phoned, how else, You're to wait downstairs in her apartment."
Mavis noticed a slight emphasis on word 'her' . Evidently there was no love lost between Frenchie and the florist. The woman looked Mavis over again and puckered her lips.
"I'll say one thing for Frenchie," she declared, "She can certainly pick 'em. How old are you?"
"Nineteen. But I know what day of the week it is."
"Don't get me wrong, honey, I admire her taste. At this game the younger you start the more time you've got to make your stack. Go on through. Frenchie has the basement layout. Make yourself comfortable, and she'll be along presently."
Beyond a curtained archway was a short hall with steps leading down to Mavis's left and a staircase on her right. On the first floor landing a scantily clothed Negress leaned over the rails, her jaws busy on a wad of gum. She eyed Mavis speculatively.
"Hi," she drawled. "You movin' in?"
"I guess so."
"Keep yo' nose clean and you'll like it here. Just wrong wid Frenchie. She sho' nuff can get awful take a tip from me, honey, and don't never get in mean. I'se Kitty Jamison. See yo' around."
Mavis nodded. She passed down the steps and through a doorway into a luxurious lounge, thickly carpeted, softly lighted. The decor was colorful, matching Frenchie's flambuoyant temperament. Everything about the place reflected her vulgarity, ornaments and pictures especially. Mavis found a cabinet laden with bottles of liquor and expensive glasses. She settled herself on a low sofa and was just finishing her third drink when Frenchie arrived. A warm glow suffused Mavis, and the big woman didn't seem quite so monstrous or repulsive to her.
"Gee!" Frenchie declared, "I'm pooped ... I see you made it okay. Go easy with the booze."
She flopped onto the sofa and placed a fleshy arm around Mavis, drew her close.
"Well," she said, "what do you think of the place?"
"Impressive. Very. Must have cost a small fortune. Do I call you Frenchie?"
"Sure, honey. Everybody does. Yeah, this lot cost me plenty. But what I say is-what's the good of makin' it if you don't spend it?"
She laughed, slapped Mavis's thigh, squeezed her firm flesh.
"Tonight you can stay with me, honey," she said. "Don't worry, I took care of everything. From now on you're working for me. Okay?"
"I-er, suppose so. If you think I can cope, that is. I don't have any money, nothing except a few clothes. I've never done anything quite like-this, I mean I get on well with men but...."
"Stick with me and you'll do all right. Some of my girls make three hundred dollars a night. I'll put you in with Elsie. Shell soon set you straight. Meanwhile let me see what you've got to offer."
"Huh?"
"Undress, honey. I wanna see if you've really got what the customers want."
Mavis shrugged. She felt a tingle of excitement, the same sort of thrill she had sometimes experienced with Sandra Mathis, a sort of anticipation. The liquor had put her in a receptive mood, and Frenchie's coarse eagerness was contagious. The big woman helped remove Mavis's last remaining garment, making peculiar grimaces as she fondled Mavis's breasts, turned her round and probed her flesh. Suddenly she lay back and raised her clothing.
It was like that during most of that night. Mavis had known what it would be. By morning she was exhausted. Frenchie lay snoring like a fat sow. looking at the gross figure Mavis felt strangely affectionate, and marvelled at her own unpredictable nature that caused her to revolt against something and yet accept and enjoy that same thing simply because she'd had a few drinks.
She was, she knew, definitely abnormal, an extremist in her relations with either sex. At that moment she felt actual physical attraction for the woman lying beside her. A short while ago the most important thing in her life had been George Branch, before him Roley Martin, Al Grant and Sandra Mathis. An inexplicable, non-conformative pattern that even she herself didn't understand.
She got up, bathed, dressed, and switched on the radio in time to hear the news. There was an item about Cash Moran. A cleaning woman had found his body just as Mavis had last seen it lying on the bathroom floor. Evidently whomever Frenchie had telephoned had advised her to leave everything just the way it was. Some doctor had diagnosed heart failure brought on by an overdose of self-injected heroin....
The morning papers carried a short piece about the dead man and his activities. Frenchie Blaine refused to comment on it. Once out of bed she became the practical, shrewd business woman, no more emotional than a hard-boiled egg. She made no reference to what had passed between Mavis and herself. Her attitude was brusque, unresponsive.
"I've got business downtown," she told Mavis. "You're okay, honey. After breakfast I'll take you upstairs, and you can get acquainted. And remember, I don't allow any of my girls down here unless I invite them, understand. And I don't play any favorites. Get me?"
Mavis nodded. The abrupt change in attitudes confused her. For a while she had thought that Frenchie intended her to remain in the basement apartment and contribute to her own personal pleasure. Mavis wouldn't have objected to such an arrangement providing it meant money comparable to what could be earned upstairs, and freedom to select male friends of her own choosing. Obviously Frenchie was subject to conflicting whims and impulses. But at least she appreciated good food. The breakfast she had sent in from the restaurant next door proved that.
Mavis didn't have a lot of time to enjoy it, however, before being escorted upstairs to the second floor.
Elsie was a red-head, big built, with whore written all over her, figuratively speaking, in her easy, insolent smile, her posture, her sexy walk. She had a bust measurement of forty-eight inches, and had been on the game since she was seventeen ... She was now twenty-two, looked thirty, and spoke from experience and with an easy familiarity that endeared her to Mavis from the start. Elsie Hoffman was what she was because she enjoyed it. She said so quite frankly. There was no dark skeleton in her closet that had driven her to evil ways and moral destruction. She liked men and she liked money, and the two went together very well. It was a simple philosophy that Mavis could understand and appreciate, for it was her own exactly.
"You're okay, kid." Elsie told her within ten minutes of Frenchie leaving them together. "I can see you're wise to the drill. Ain't much you can learn from me, girlie."
"I don't know, Elsie. I've been around some, and I've known a few men. I'm game for anything. But I'm new to this."
"Nothing to it. Just act natural. What you charge is up to you, but Frenchie'll expect ten bucks a flip, thirty-five for an all-night caper. What's over is yours. But make sure you collect in advance. Later on, if you're popular, she'll probably take you off the streets and put you on call."
"On call?"
"The phone. Exclusive. A guy calls the shop downstairs, orders flowers. Carmen knows by what he says whether it's really flowers he's after or something else, and how much he's prepared to pay. Frenchie's smart. She has all the angles figured, uses a special code system to describe a girl like she was referring to flowers. And she can smell a cop a mile away. For that kind of business you pull in fifty or sixty dollars a throw, maybe a hundred, without even setting foot outside. If you like men it can be fun. Sometimes you get a queer bastard who wants it different, but anything goes within reason, and those who like it with trimmings pay extra, naturally. You fix the price."
Mavis did some quite figuring. Even at twenty dollars a time she could make an easy fifty dollars a night. And later---
"Are you on call?" she asked. "Sure. I'm Frenchie's prize package. Bit of a comedown for me showing you round, kid, but Frenchie'll make it good."
She let her negligee fall open, cupped her huge but firm breasts with obvious pride. Under the flimsy garment she was completely nude.
"Men like these," she bragged. "You'd be surprised at some of the things I'm asked to do because of these beauties-but then again maybe you wouldn't. Big, huh? And still developing. A damned nuisance though, sometimes."
"They're certainly large. Rather frightening. When do I start?"
"Tonight, honey. I'll take a turn with you. Towards the park is your best bet. One point to remember-never go home with a guy. Make them come here. You'll meet some rough characters around this district. Some of them would slit your throat for a dime. You've got to be tough, kid. No scruples. If a man wants it right there, it saves time, just so long as he pays first."
"On the street?"
"Why not? It's quicker. Some of them don't have much time. But watch out for the cops."
Mavis felt bewildered. She had no scruples, only a natural apprehension of something new, untried. She forced herself to keep thinking about the money. In a few short months she could save enough to take her anywhere, to be really independent. Her heart pounded as she followed Elsie onto the street around seven-thirty. She could have had five men in the first five minutes had she known how to approach them. Elsie took over, and by seven-fifty Mavis was mounting the stairs with a short, dark man, stinking drunk, clinging to her arm while Elsie escorted a tall Marine.
That first time Elsie stayed with her in the same room. The men didn't object, in fact each enjoyed the unexpected exhibition afforded by die other. The moment the door closed Mavis was at ease, in her element, handling the simpering customer like a veteran. He was clumsy, but once he got started he brought sweat to her brow and sheer joy to her pagan soul. Within the next hour she entertained three more men on her own, and realized just how easy it was.
After that she had no further fears. Men were fools, playthings to mould to her whims, gratifying her pleasures while pursuing their own. And for all their brag most of the men she took to her room became shy, almost reserved, when the time came. Some had to be coaxed, others were too nervous to do anything.
When she herself was completely satisfied it was difficult for her at first to feign interest with a man. But after a few days, when she'd earned close on five hundred dollars for herself, she realized that at last she had found her own special niche doing what she was best adapted for, and her dreams of Hollywood seemed less important.
She was, Frenchie told her, a natural. On that occasion the big woman was feeling amorous again. She had the old familiar look in her eyes.
"Didn't I tell you, you'd do well?" she said. She slapped Mavis's bottom, let her hand linger.
"Come down and see me tonight, honey," she requested. "Any time after you get through, huh? I'll be looking out for you."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The telephone rang. Mavis answered.
"Can you handle a special hundred dollar assignment around eight?" Carmen's toneless voice asked. "Name of Troop. Used to ask for Elsie. Somebody recommended you so take it from there. This one's a regular, so if you play it right...."
"All right," Mavis said irritably, "No need to draw me a picture-I know the score. I'm free. Send him up about eight, not before."
She hung up. She was bored. It was six months since she first walked into Frenchie Blaine's establishment, just a green kid with hot pants and a yen for excitement and money. Already she looked five years older. There were harsh lines on her face, around her mouth. Her eyes had a hard, calculating look, and there was a sort of hopelessness in their expression, mingling with a mercenary gleam.
Big Elsie was dead, run down by a drunken driver only six weeks after Mavis met her. Now Mavis was queen in her chosen profession, raking in up to five hundred dollars a night, selecting her clients. She had her own apartment-a luxury layout in a brown-stone building on 77th Street. Technically she still worked for Frenchie. The big woman owned the apartment, but the big, new Lincoln Mavis drove around in was her own and paid for, and her closets held more expensive clothing than Frenchie Blaine's. Mavis also owned, body and soul, a handsome pimp named Harry Savourne whom she kept around strictly for personal reason, but had no more genuine affection for him than for the general run of her extensive clientele.
Mavis had changed. She was hard, shrewder, dollar wise, utterly unscrupulous. She had proved an apt pupil. She still spent an occasional night with Frenchie. So long as Frenchie had the contacts it was in Mavis's best interests to reciprocate, and there were times after that first night with Frenchie, when she actually enjoyed intimacy.
She poured herself a drink, glanced at her watch, shrugged. "Time to get lost, Harry," she said. "I've got company in fifteen minutes."
The long-haired young man detached himself from the sofa and stood up, yawning. Apart from his physical equipment he had little to recommend him to any woman.
"I think I'll go shoot a little pool," he said. "Might take in a movie."
"Got any money?"
"Coupla dollars."
She opened her bag, threw him a couple of crumpled tens. He caught the bills adroitly, flicked them with a long forefinger, went out without a word.
"Bastard!" Mavis muttered. She got ready, watching the time. When the doorbell rang she was finishing her fourth drink of the evening.
It was too good to last. But another three months elapsed before Mavis saw the writing on the wall. It began with a slight discharge, facial blemishes that developed into unsightly sores, flaking skin, listlessness and vomiting. Mavis consulted a doctor. Since leaving the apartment on 42nd Street she had neglected the periodical check-up Frenchie had always been so insistent about.
The doctor confirmed what she herself suspected. That meant treatment, time lost from business. But the alternative wasn't pleasant. So Mavis followed her doctor's advice. She was away six weeks, at the end of which time she had lost an estimated seven thousand dollars worth of business, a score of her best customers, and twenty pounds of body weight ... And the second night after her return to the 77th Street apartment Harry Savoume came back into her life, but with a difference and in a manner that terrified her.
She was resting when he arrived. She had spoken with Frenchie over the phone, and Frenchie had given her a verbal beating that still washed over her weary mind like a restless, surging tide.
Harry Savoume had a key and he came straight in, quietly. The first she knew of his presence was when she opened her eyes to find him leaning over her gripping a long-bladed flick-knife. His face was no longer handsome, covered as it was with festering sores and convulsed in a fiendish expression of hate and fury. That, and the murder gleaming stark and terrible in his bloodshot eyes, wrested a shocked cry from Mavis before his free hand gripped her throat and choked the sounds to a hoarse whisper.
"You rotten, filthy whore!" Savourne raved. "You lousy, stinking bitch. I hoped you'd be back. I've waited, thinking every day that you'd come. Now I'm gonna give it to you. I'm gonna pay you back for what you done to me, you hear? I'm gonna cut you, real bad."
She struggled desperately, managed to speak.
"For God's sake, Harry," she pleaded, "Have you gone completely mad? What did I ever do to you?"
He indicated his face with a trembling finger.
"This!" he shouted, "This is what you done, this and the rest. You rotten cow! You must have known and yet you let me go.
His control snapped. Savagely he whipped the knife blade across her face, slashed again almost before her restricted throat could produce a scream. When she did start she kept right on, and all the time the demented pimp was cutting her, laying open her face, slicing her arms when she crossed them to shield her bleeding features, hacking at her breasts ... She rolled, fell shrieking to the floor. And Harry Savourne kicked her, viciously, methodically, in the stomach, in the groin, the kidney region, her ribs, until she lay silent and still against the wall and he was too exhausted to swing his punishing foot any more.
Some measure of sanity returned to him. He ran long fingers through his lank hair, spat deliberately at the huddled figure, wiped the knife blade clean on the bed cover, and went out.
The surgeon who saved Mavis Preed's life would have been kinder had he let her die. When, after seven weeks of pain, she was able to see herself without bandages, she took one look in the mirror and promptly went into raving hysterics. Harry Savoume had done a thorough job. Her broken ribs had mended, and the scars on her arms were trivial, of small consequence. But her breasts were puckered horrors, her face a nightmarish pattern of criss-crossing scar ridges, one eye corner drawn down to reveal horribly bloodshot flesh.
At the hospital they quieted her with an injection. The doctor in charge of the case consulted an eminent plastic surgeon who spent exactly ten minutes of his valuable time inspecting Mavis's injuries and then shook his head decisively.
"I can try," he said. "Perhaps I can do something-I don't know. Some of those ridges, and that eye! What inhuman swine was responsible for a thing like this? Was he mad?"
"At the time, yes. The Police pulled him in over a month ago, but he wouldn't talk, and he's remained silent ever since. He was rotten with syphilis. They've got him in an insolation ward in C-Block, right here. Maybe that had something to do with it, if he caught it from her. She won't talk. We haven't been able to extract any information from her, no reason or explanation. You think there's some hope?"
"Some, perhaps. I wouldn't like to commit myself at this stage. And, of course, there'll be the question of fees."
"Yes. Well, I'll call you when I've had a chance to talk to her. We know who she is, of course. And she has money, there's no question about that, otherwise I wouldn't have called you in."
The doctor's talk with Mavis was not particularly successful. For some she refused to believe that plastic surgery might help her at all. She lay like a corpse, silent, unseeing, rating everyone and everything. But when finally the doctor was able to make her comprehend and partially accept his explanations, she cut short his spiel with two short, abrupt words:-
"How much?"
"In your case," he told her, "I'd say about ten thousand dollars."
"Tell him to go ahead."
"I should warn you that there's no guarantee it will prove successful. You must be prepared...."
"All right. I'd rather be dead than like this. If there's a chance, any chance at all, I want it and I don't care what it costs."
It meant another eight weeks in hospital, at fourteen dollars a day. And a series of complicated operations. Most of the time Mavis didn't know whether it was night or day, or even what day of the week it was. She didn't greatly care. Sam Davis, reading a brief account of some West Side whore being carved up by a former pimp, turned the page without connecting the incident in any way with the young tramp who almost a year ago had almost caused the break-up of his sister's marriage. He'd seen, and read about, scores of similar incidents since Mavis Preed slammed out of the Branch house that fateful afternoon.
It was just one week before Christmas when Doctor Julian Ebercore snipped the bandages from Mavis's breasts and discovered that the skin grafts had taken well. Apart from faint scars her bosom was restored, as firmly moulded and as beautiful as before. He decided to allow her face a few more days in which to heal, days that seemed like an eternity to Mavis.
When next he came she was sitting up in bed listening to the radio. She was able to get up and move around, but each afternoon they insisted that she rest for a couple of hours. Over the radio a choir was rendering carols. In a few hours it would be Christmas Eve. Outside, snow lay thick over everything and drifted in huge, fluffy flakes against the window panes.
The scissors were cold against Mavis's cheek, cutting, snipping, while her heart trumped and her fingers clutched the bed covers tightly. Bandages fell away. Doctor Ebercore smiled, and snipped some more.
"This is the moment we've been waiting for, my dear," he said confidently. "I pray to God we've been as successful as before. Nurse.
Gently he removed the gauze. He looked, and for an instant his face twisted in an expression of horror and disgust. Swiftly he banished the look, but Mavis had seen. Before he could prevent her she snatched the mirror held by the nurse standing close by. The thing Mavis saw in that mirror was blood-red, formless, hideous. It bore no resemblance to a human face. Her mouth, opening as she screamed, was a drooling, twisted monstrosity.
Sounds came, awful, mournings that began as a throaty chuckle and mounted swiftly to a shrieking crescendo that reverberated through the quiet building.
Doctor Julian Ebercore gaping, white faced, and shuddered. "My God!" he muttered.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
No one knew exactly how or when Mavis Preed escaped from the mental hospital that crisp winter night wearing only a coat over her thin nightgown, or how she managed to sneak off the premises undetected. It must have been some time between ten o'clock, when the night staff took over, and midnight. Most of the staff were being entertained at a New Year's Eve party given by the student body. The first anyone knew of Mavis' disappearance was when a night nurse, checking her room around five after twelve, following routine, found the bed unoccupied and the room in disorder.
Although her clothes had hung in the closet, apart from coat and shoes Mavis hadn't bothered to dress. She had just walked out into the night and disappeared.
The general opinion was that she couldn't have gone far. The Police were notified. Naturally, the authorities took every precaution to keep any information from the newspapers, as yet. The search continued all that night and throughout the next day. But the deranged woman seemed to have crawled into a hole and vanished. On the third day they had to release news of the missing patient when some astute reporter got wind of the search, and the public was asked to co-operate.
But it was the Police who found Mavis Preed, on the fourth day just as dawn was breaking, chill and grey, over the mist shrouded East River.
Snow was falling, sifting onto the dark, oily water. Floating ice formed a thin skin here and there that cracked open with the wash created by passing barges and other craft, and reformed as the swell flattened.
Two patrolling cops found the body. Ironically, one of them was Sam Davis, recently transferred from subway duty. Sean Casey, the cop with Davis, paused in his slow pacing and stood for a while in the shelter offered by the angle of a loading shed wall. He removed his gloves and chafed his chilled hands.
"Shure 'tis cold enough to freeze the marrow in a man's bones," he complained. "Will we no' be after droppin' on me auld friend, Murpry, for a...."
. He broke off, stared hard towards a spot Davis was indicating with pointing arm. Something bobbed there in the scummy shallows under the wharf piles, dragging on the ice-bound shingle like a bundle of old rags.
Casey sighed. "Another one," he growled. "Shure that makes the fourth stiff this week. Be Jazus, Sam 'tis a hell iv a way to be startin' the New Year...."
They made for the steps leading down to the river. The stone was treacherous, slippery with frozen slime. Sam Davis clamped a big hand round Casey's belt and held him firmly while the raw-boned Irish cop leaned far forward with long arm reaching out. "Gimme that piece of busted pole," he demanded. With the wood he was able to poke at the floating body and angle it round towards the steps until he could take hold of the sodden clothing. Davis helped him and together they dragged the corpse up the steps and let it flop onto the wharf, face down.
"Another woman," Casey remarked. "Been in the water a couple of days or more." He sighed again.
"You reckon it's murder or another suicide?"
"Suicide's more likely, her being half-dressed the way she is, nightgown and all. Every year about this time, it's the same."
"It is that, Sam. Shure, if I had a dollar for every stiff I've seen on this beat these past ten years I'd be able to retire an' go home to the aukl country, that I would. Let's take a look at her."
He turned the body over. Casey was a tough cop, hardened by more than twenty years on the waterfront. To him, a corpse, faceless or not, was just a corpse. Sam Davis was no rookie, but his stomach heaved when he saw the horror that had once been a woman's face. Neither he or Casey spoke for a while.
I'll be after callin' the wagon," Casey said at length, tonelessly, "God rest her soul-'tis a shockin' waste an' a cryin' shame so it is, an' herself little more than a girl by the look iv her...."
Sam Davis nodded. He stooped, tugged at the shapeless coat until he got it off. He spread it over the horribly scarred, unrecognisable features, the lank, trailing hair, and the pallid breasts....
"Poor little bitch," he said gruffly, "I wonder who she was?"
Across the water a tug hooted mournfully, loomed like a grey ghost through the wreathing murk. A gull, perched on the bow rail, peered, as if brooding, into the swirling flood. Casey spat into the settling snow, pulled his coat collar higher.
"I'll be after lookin' in on Murphy," he said. Sam Davis nodded.
"And tell the fat slob to put something in the coffee to keep out the cold," he instructed. "I'll be along presently."
He stood staring down at the still form. Large, sifting snowflakcs clung to the freezing clothing, the stark limbs. Davis scowled. Suddenly he was reminded of another youthful figure, of flesh flushed with health and vitality, not fish belly white and water wrinkled, of a girl with mocking eyes and inviting, provocating lips whose voluptuous loveliness was etched indelibly in his memory. What, he wondered, as he had wondered a thousand times since Mavis Preed ran from his sister's home, had become of her?
He swore. This was a hell of time to be thinking of her, harping on the same old theme-if only he'd known, if he'd guessed what sort of girl she really was, if he'd allowed his instincts to take over instead of trying to play the guardian angel....
The old, old story. If! And yet he thought of her still. He couldn't seem to shake her from his mind. Maybe some day, somewhere, he'd bump into her again.
He shivered as snow sifted down his neck. Where the hell was the wagon? Angrily he kicked at a half buried billet of wood.
"Damn this lousy, stinking job!" he muttered sav-avely. "Damn the cold, damn everything!"
He fished a cigarette from an inside pocket, found a match, scraped it against the solid grip of his night-stick, blew smoke into the air.
The glimmer of daylight increased, fanning over the bleak terrain. Another hour and Davis would be home, enjoying a hot meal. Home....
He glanced again at the silent corpse. She'd taken the long way, but she was already home. Maybe, he thought, she was better off. WhaT the hell was there in life anyway? A rat-race all the way, nothing but grief and disappointments, with death the only certainty in the whole stinking set-up.
Davis sighed. He needed a shot of Murphy's laced coffee-he was getting maudlin. He heard a laboring motor, flung his cigarette into the water, and turned slowly.
He watched them load the body into the vehicle, drive away, and with the corpse out of sight his morbid thoughts left him. Ten minutes and two cups of hot coffee later he finished drafting a report and put his notebook in his pocket. Another day, another stiff. That was the way it went. That was life. Drinking his third cup of coffee, Davis realized he was bored, choked to the saturation point. Even the coffee seemed tasteless.
"Sean," he said decisively, banging down the cup, "Tonight I'm gonna get blind, stinking drunk. You want to know why?"
"Is it a reason you need to get drunk? Shure an' 'tis meself will be right along with yez, Sam, an' for no other reason but that I like the drink an' 'tis the start of a new year."
"I can't forget that girl. Her face...."
The big cop placed a hand on Davis's knee. "Divil take the corpse," he said. "Shure an' there'll be a round dozen or more afore the middle iv next week. It don't mean a thing when you're dead, Sam. They come an' they go, an' divil take the hindmost. Drink up, boy. Shure the world's a dreary place at best but life's for the livin', am I not right, Murphy? Then let's have a drop more iv whiskey. Shure I'm that cold me pants are nigh frozen to me...."
The snowfall thickened, covered the spot where the corpse had lain, and the tire tracks leading away.
